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Only one of them was silent. The detective, Jack Vincent. He wasn't looking at the zombies. He was staring at the giant, cyclopean eye that had replaced the moon. The Shadow Man had promised them truth. He had given them a world of lies.
The music kicked in. The trap was set. The cycle began again.
When the light faded, the Shadow Man was gone. But so was most of Vincent. He was kneeling, his skin turning gray, his eyes bleeding shadow. The Key was fused to his palm.
As the last item touched the circle, the sky screamed. A massive, arachnid beast—the Parasite's mother—skittered down the side of a skyscraper. It wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter.
As they raised their weapons for the thousandth time, Nero looked up at the bleeding sky and whispered the only truth that remained in this corrupted, looping hell.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered, his voice losing its showman's lilt. "I just wanted to make my wife disappear. Permanently."
He laughed, a wet, tearing sound. Then he pulled a pistol from his holster, put the barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
He just whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Some stage," rumbled Floyd Campbell, the heavyweight boxer. He cracked his knuckles, each pop sounding like a gunshot. A swarm of Parasites dove at him; he swatted two out of the air like flies and stomped a third. "The promoter said this fight was fixed. He didn't say the other guy was Cthulhu."
They fought their way through the burnt-out remains of the Canals. Nero, using his sword's arcane energy, carved a summoning circle into the cobblestones. Jessica laid out the trophies: a cop's badge (Vincent flinched), a boxer's glove, a magician's wand, and her own compact mirror.
His companions were scattered across the junction. Jessica Rose, the fallen femme fatale, was busy sliding a ritual dagger between the ribs of a Crawler. Her designer dress was now a crimson rag. "Stop whining, Nero," she called out, flipping her blood-matted hair. "You got your spotlight. World stage."
Vincent finally snapped. He charged, not at the Shadow Man, but at the Summoning Key. He grabbed it.
"Complete the rituals," a voice slithered into their minds. Not the Shadow Man. Another. Older. The one in the Summoning Key. "Purge the corruption. Or become it."
"Beautiful," Nero laughed, hysterical. "We're the engine of the apocalypse."
When the beast collapsed, its body dissolved into a pool of shimmering, purple wine. They drank. The liquid burned—not with alcohol, but with revelation. For a single, terrible second, they saw the truth.
Only one of them was silent. The detective, Jack Vincent. He wasn't looking at the zombies. He was staring at the giant, cyclopean eye that had replaced the moon. The Shadow Man had promised them truth. He had given them a world of lies.
The music kicked in. The trap was set. The cycle began again.
When the light faded, the Shadow Man was gone. But so was most of Vincent. He was kneeling, his skin turning gray, his eyes bleeding shadow. The Key was fused to his palm.
As the last item touched the circle, the sky screamed. A massive, arachnid beast—the Parasite's mother—skittered down the side of a skyscraper. It wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter.
As they raised their weapons for the thousandth time, Nero looked up at the bleeding sky and whispered the only truth that remained in this corrupted, looping hell.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered, his voice losing its showman's lilt. "I just wanted to make my wife disappear. Permanently."
He laughed, a wet, tearing sound. Then he pulled a pistol from his holster, put the barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
He just whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Some stage," rumbled Floyd Campbell, the heavyweight boxer. He cracked his knuckles, each pop sounding like a gunshot. A swarm of Parasites dove at him; he swatted two out of the air like flies and stomped a third. "The promoter said this fight was fixed. He didn't say the other guy was Cthulhu."
They fought their way through the burnt-out remains of the Canals. Nero, using his sword's arcane energy, carved a summoning circle into the cobblestones. Jessica laid out the trophies: a cop's badge (Vincent flinched), a boxer's glove, a magician's wand, and her own compact mirror.
His companions were scattered across the junction. Jessica Rose, the fallen femme fatale, was busy sliding a ritual dagger between the ribs of a Crawler. Her designer dress was now a crimson rag. "Stop whining, Nero," she called out, flipping her blood-matted hair. "You got your spotlight. World stage."
Vincent finally snapped. He charged, not at the Shadow Man, but at the Summoning Key. He grabbed it.
"Complete the rituals," a voice slithered into their minds. Not the Shadow Man. Another. Older. The one in the Summoning Key. "Purge the corruption. Or become it."
"Beautiful," Nero laughed, hysterical. "We're the engine of the apocalypse."
When the beast collapsed, its body dissolved into a pool of shimmering, purple wine. They drank. The liquid burned—not with alcohol, but with revelation. For a single, terrible second, they saw the truth.
