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She had to make herself an altar.
Her body, a burning brazier, fed by a river of blood, ever boiling. Her mind was a kneeling priest, genuflecting before that which would grant her aid in her conquest. Always listening. Always heeding the invisible words, so that one day she might be at peace. To achieve her perfect altar, more work was to be done. But she knew that she was on the right path.
She knew those not worthy would follow the same path it had laid, back to its altar. Back to her. She hated them. The zealous, the cannibals, the thieves. She was thankful for the coals, keeping the fire in her body ever burning. Soon its words would no longer be invisible. Soon she could hear it, see it, and she would serve, and be of service. And her conquest would be done, she would be on the right path. The altar was almost finished.
Chicago. An abandoned building. Set for demolition soon. We had the place to ourselves, since no one would check here until it was time to go. The guys will be here with the stuff soon. I was looking at the sullen walls. It felt like it was built only for this, like it served no purpose other than to fall down. The rich waste money like we don't exist. Why do they have everything? Is it wrong to have just a taste? A semblance of what they throw away on a whim? I don’t think so. That taste of what we deserve is close now. There are new Catalysts popping up, and people are starting to get the power to actually do something. The guys are bringing one of the new ones here. We might be able to actually do something, and it made me sad that instead of doing that we were doing… this. But a fella’s gotta live, and we need to take some baby steps. I start to hear footsteps across the concrete floor and turn my attention to them. The rest of the guys are back. I spot the new guy immediately, a shorter young man who looked slightly out of place surrounded by masked men with guns. One of the guys slams a huge cooler onto the table and says “Mission success. Kid’s not half bad.”. I looked at the new kid. Martin, a fresh out college architect. Didn't really have a chance to break out in the industry though, since he started to develop his power. The cops would have picked him up if we didn't get to him, and the ones the cops pick up don't come back, not since the Krauber ban. Apparently the kid can see through walls. Some kinda night vision heat seeking thing. Of course it's not that simple, but in effect it is.
Martin flinched as a gun clattered onto the table. He hoped no one noticed his sign of weakness, which led his eyes to mine. Poor kid. “You okay?” He looks away from me and scratches his head. “Yeah.” “Hey don't worry, those things aren't even loaded anyway, just a scare tactic.” I was lying. It would make him feel better, better about working for us. Just until we can do the heavy lifting without him. He cautiously observes the rest of the bland building, trying to find something he can look at without seeming awkward. He eventually settles on the cooler. “Stuff will help a lot kid, trust me, you did good.” I say, turning to the cooler as well. Inside was the good stuff, Generalized Superior Strength Mutation, or GSSM. Primo strength blood. The kind of stuff they give to construction workers and movers, and of course, cops. “This is the start of a whole lot more, and you’ll get your share too.” The kid looked more nervous than anything. “What's up?” “Oh nothing, just not a big fan of needles is all.” He looked squeamish, presumably at the thought of it entering his veins through the long metal straw. One of the guys chimed in: “Hey, I heard it sometimes works better for people who drink it. Maybe it doesn't taste too bad.”. “Don’t give him any ideas, don’t want the merchandise to come back up the chute.” The guys laughed. Martin laughed too, calmed enough to stop staring at the cooler like it was a cursed object. “You hear about the freaks who take it off of bodies? I don't get how they don’t puke.” One if the guys added from behind the table. “I hear it's stronger that way. Even stronger than the people who got the transfusion. That's why the cops haven't been able to stop those super freaks. Hear they eat people for sport. Apparently there's boat loads of 'em now, enough to compete with each other for the shit. As long as they aren't eatin’ me, I’m not complainin’.”
“Hey. knock it off.” I said, authoritatively. Didn’t want the kid even more freaked out before taking the stuff. “We have time for ghost stories after we get to somewhere more comfortable, yeah? So let's just take the stuff, then ditch this joint.” I looked around at the guys, making sure they were all on the same page. They seemed to agree with my point in brevity. Martin however, was not looking at me at all, and was instead looking at the ceiling. “Martin. You good?” “Yeah, yeah… does this place have heating?” I tried to follow his eyes up but the ceiling was high and shadowy at the top. I looked back at him and said “I don't follow. You want a blanket or something?”. “No just… in the floor plan I don’t remember a heating unit right there.” I looked again, still not seeing whatever he could. Then it hit me. I stood up slowly, eyes locked on the ceiling with him. “What are you seeing?” I asked seriously. “I don't know, it looks like heat I think, I can't tell exactly what it is from here.” Before anyone else even had a chance to direct their attention skyward, our question was answered swiftly and painfully. There was an unlatching noise, like the sound of a climbing piton being removed to find a new hold. Then, a shape dropped from the darkness roughly three stories down until it landed in a roll. A roll which started on the shoulders of the guy behind the table, somehow causing him to be flung into it, splintering it into pieces. There was a small second of pure shock as I stared at a friend of mine in the broken wood, spine now angled in a direction not conducive to staying alive. The figure unsheathed a machete from their back, and my eyes turned to them. I recognized the figure. Fuck.
I heard the sound of metal leaving a concrete surface as what I can only assume is one of my guys picks up a crowbar near the cooler, and rushes the figure. My eyes are still locked on them. They are draped in tattered red cloth, hood pulled over a face they clearly mean to conceal. We just had to bring up the fucking ghost stories. Fuck. I watched, paralyzed in fear, as the crowbar was blocked by the machete, which is quickly moved to the curved end of the crowbar, and used to wrench it out of my guy's hands. It hits the floor at about the same time the machete swings in the opposite direction, slicing through my accomplices' flesh like a fish darting through water. Blood spurts from his open chest wound as he collapses, and I feel as if time is moving at a nautious, sickening slow pace. My brain attempts to rationalize why this could be happening to us, to me. I fabricated whole scenarios, wondering if mentioning the cannibal freaks somehow cursed us to have one of the most efficient and notable ones cleaving through my friends like a farmer reaping planted wheat. I cursed what I was seeing in every way I knew how, everything in my vision moving like it was molases. Perhaps the adrenaline caught up to my brain all of a sudden, because I felt a sudden irrepressible urge to move. Time sped up, and the ruthless fight seemed to resume. One of the guys was fumbling at a holster for a sidearm, while the other waited for what the figure's next move was. They held their position, and started to shake their arm, quickly revealing an object attached to a rope in their off hand. Before the gun was even drawn the figure launched their hand forward, and a meathook attached to hemp rope launched at the poor fucker, lodging itself in the back of his cheek. I started to run, quickly grabbing Martin in some attempt to salvage anything, any fucking thing before booking it. I only observe a quick snap, as the hook is suddenly jerked back causing my guy to spew blood and teeth from a half of his face he was now missing, as he stumbles a few feet forward, only to be roundhouse kicked so hard, the remaining half his face joins the viscera on the ground. Martin is still staring in shock, but is making some half assed attempt to scramble away. The last guy besides me and Martin took this one opportunity to dive for a gun that was now on the floor. He was able to grab it, but the figure moved fast. He tried to swing his arms to where the figure was moving, but they moved erratically, quickly changing directions and zig zagging to avoid direct fire. At this point, my attention switched to grabbing Martin, and saying something to the effect of “Move your ass!”. Gunshots seemed to help Martin make up his mind, and now we were both in a full sprint towards the doors. We only heard a few, or maybe those were the only ones our brains wanted to process, before getting to the doors. They were closed, which was not how they were supposed to be. As me and Martin slammed against them in an attempt to push them open, we found that they did not move. Fuck. Of course they blocked the door. Fuck. At this point the curses might’ve been verbal, but I didn't notice. What I did notice, is that I was not hearing the sound of gunshots any more. Martin was already looking on in horror, as I saw the figure marching towards us at a casual pace, not a bullet wound in sight. My brain was finally starting to act without the shock factor, as I grabbed Martin by the shoulder to get his attention, and blurted out “Back way.”. We made a desperate sprint, hoping we were faster then the figure, and secretly just hoping I was faster then Martin. But they didn't speed up. Instead they started to swing their arm again, before making a full 360 spin and throwing their rope arm like they were backhanding someone. I heard a yelp of pain and had a sudden urge to worry, which distracted me from my own legs, which tripped over the rope now taught in between Martin and the rampaging figure. Martin and I hit the floor like a sack of bricks, and I still had enough wherewithal to notice the hook through Martin's calf. I had a sudden, huge and indescribable guilt at that moment. It was suddenly apparent to me that out of everyone, perhaps Martin deserved to die the least. He was going to though. I watched a tug drag Martin a few meters towards them, and another innocent yelp of pain etched its way into my mind. I couldn't move for some reason. Martin looked at me, tears forming in his eyes from sheer pain, and he said something odd. “Go! Save yourself! Run!” Before that moment, I had never seen someone say something and so forcefully mean the exact opposite. But I didn’t run. It took me a few seconds, but I stood up, and somehow mustered the will to say something. “Hey freak, leave the kid alone.” I sounded like I was going through puberty again. Fuck. I was filled with the most existential fear I have ever felt. The figure stopped dragging Martin closer. They stopped moving, perhaps surprised or shocked at whatever stunt I was apparently pulling right now. But then I watched them tug on the rope again, and this time the strength of the pull simply tore the hook from Martin's leg. He screamed. They calmly started to wrap the rope around their hand, before attaching the bloody hook to some kind of cloth holster or sheathe beneath their robe. Then they raised both hands, one still gripping the machete, into a kind of boxers stance. The machete rested on their shoulder, ready to be swung at a moment's notice, while the other hand was in front of their face, ready to jab or parry other blows. I quickly found myself squaring up, in what I also noticed was very much a copy of their stance. All of a sudden I began to feel very sick, while also not being aware of several of my body's faculties. I understood at that very moment that my life was over. Truly understood. I tried to recall memories, enact the trope I had become so familiar with, try to have my life flash before my eyes. But nothing came. Just the present moment. Silent, cold, and terrifying. They made a step towards me. And I towards them. When I did I could hear my instincts, like thousands of screaming voices telling me to run. My joints began to lock. I was sweating from every place I could imagine a human being could sweat from. They took another step forward. Something happened to me just then, something I would not have the time to infer was even a decision I made, but my left arm shot forward in an attempt to punch the figure. I had signed my obituary then. My arm was grabbed as they stepped in, mercilessly taking the machete and slitting it across the tendon in my armpit. Then they hacked into my side, forcing me to fall sideways. They looked like they could have kept going. It was useless though. I lay there waiting. The pain lapsing through my whole body, pulsing disjointedly like the rhythm of a guard dog barking. I looked up at the terrifying figure. My mind was a buzz of noise, but was somehow as quiet as the bottom of the sea. I muttered my last words. “The Red Death.”. And then I died.
The figure looked at the body with a kind of dull disappointment. They thought he would put up more of a fight. They were calling them “the Red Death”. The figure didn’t care what they were called, and the opinions, concerns or problems of the world outside of their own didn’t matter to them. A state of mind few can claim to have truly reached. The quivering body of the man known as Martin was still watching, as quietly as he could make himself. Too afraid to begin moving, and alert the figure from whatever silent introspection they were now in. But it passed, as all things do, and the figure turned back to him. He understood so truly little of why everything was happening the way it was. He barely even knew why he was here. He thought about pleading, but was perceptive enough to know that it would be in vain. The Red Death stood above him for a moment, before taking their blade, and silencing the pained quivers of the body who used to be called Martin. Then, they knelt down next to the body, grabbed its head and pulled it close. They opened the body's mouth, reached into it, and plucked a tooth from it. They stood, and inspected the tooth to make sure it was the correct size. It was. Then they opened their own mouth, and with one hand reached in, and pulled a tooth from their own mouth. Then the other hand moved in, and placed the new tooth firmly into the socket from which the old one was just relieved. It sat there dully, not fully attached, but somehow not coming loose. From under their hood you could barely see some of their chin, but some of the cheek was torn away, revealing a row of teeth that all looked mismatching, some white, some yellow, most covered in a film of gray coating. Blood filled their mouth, as they stood still for a moment. It tasted good to them, but not for its taste exactly, for its purpose. They had put another offering on the altar. The blood flowed into them as it was poured into the brazier of fire, burning offerings to their god. They stayed here, in this silent prayer for a while, accepting the new gift they had been bestowed. Her altar would be complete soon, and she would finally kill all the cannibals and thieves and cowards that stole and ate this sacred blood. She felt a new power, a new blessing course through her body. She took a breath. Yes, her altar was almost complete.