Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Jesus pointed to a row of six highly polished iron cranks bolted into the wall opposite the cages. “They reel us in to drain us. You must separate the head to give them peace.”

The creatures’s hollow eyes followed Peter’s every step, their skeletal hands clawing at the air with frantic, desperate motions. Their jaws snapped open and shut like brittle bones cracking under pressure, accompanied by wet squelches as saliva oozed from their mouths.

Peter trembled as he grasped the crank for the cage containing the most decrepit one. The gears clanked with each agonizing turn. The creature’s bony feet scraped against the cold stone floor, its form sliding backward with violent resistance. 

He wanted to look away, but his gaze remained fixed on the thing’s twisted, skeletal form. It fought with every fiber, but the neck restraint bit deeper, relentless.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to turn away. The crank clicked into place with a sharp, final snap.

“Press the button in the center,” Jesus whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Peter hesitated, staring at the small raised circle on the panel engraved with a chalice. His brain screamed to stop, but the twisted cries left him no choice. 

He pushed the spot. A deep, resonant hum pulsed from the back of the cage. Peter’s gaze jerked back to the creature. 

A metal cross raised a few inches out of the rear wall of the creature’s enclosure. The metal around its neck and thick ankle cuffs snapped against the vertical bar with a sickening thud, locking it in place. Then, as if raised by an invisible hand, the bracelet on each wrist slammed against the horizontal T, stretching its arms wide. The creature’s body struggled with an almost grotesque dignity, its limbs forced into a twisted parody of crucifixion.

A low, guttural growl came from the creature, its head jerking toward Peter. Its mouth swung open and shut in an uneven motion, tethered by the lone tendon. Its eyes burned with an insatiable hunger.

Grabbing the blade, he edged toward the now open cell door. 

Magnets? Peter pondered the genius of the contraption despite his horror. 

He hesitated as his sight caught on a rusted panel below the right lower side of the cross. He realized this must create a passageway to the other room.

He stepped closer, the stench of death and decay turning his stomach. He gazed into the creature’s eyes, devoid of humanity and filled with an intense need. Its few yellowed and broken teeth swung back and forth on its hanging jaw. 

A crack shattered the stillness. The creature’s wrist twisted, its brittle bones snapping like dried twigs. Peter flinched as the creature’s severed hand tumbled to the ground, trailing dark, viscous blood. The arm wrenched free from its restraint, clawing toward him. Peter jumped back.

Get this over with! his instinct screamed through the surrounding cacophony.

He edged closer, the blade quivering in his palms. The creature’s head swiveled toward him, jawing at the air.

“Father,” Jesus murmured behind him. “Forgive Apostle Peter this sin.”

Clenching his jaw, Peter pressed the sharp edge to the neck cuff. The creature’s fetid breath washed over him. The coldness of the steel against his hand was a comfort, grounding him in this moment.

Peter drew a shuddering inhale and swung. 

The blade sunk into rotting flesh with a sickening squelch. It caught on bone, grinding as he forced it through. Peter drove it forward, cleaving the neck with a wet, final snap. The head toppled to the floor. 

The creature’s body, still locked to the cross, twitched once before it fell still, its lifeless form hanging there like a grotesque puppet. Dark red streaks ran down the wall as blood pooled beneath it.

“Goodbye, my old friend,” Jesus whispered.

The sword slipped from Peter’s shaking hands, its clang drowned by the retch that tore from his throat. He stumbled back as bile erupted, mingling with the dark liquid spreading across the floor. He heaved again. 

Rotted, blackened fingers latched onto his tunic, yanking him toward the gaping maw of the nearest monster. He’d ventured too close, and now the putrid stench of its breath flooded his senses. He dug his heels against the slick stone, but his boots skidded uselessly, dragging him closer to the creature’s snapping jaws. The rancid stench of decayed flesh and bile choked him, burning the back of his raw throat.

With a desperate yank, he pulled his arm from his sleeve, the fabric bunching as the creature’s jagged teeth sank into the empty material. The monster thrashed, the cloth tearing as Peter stumbled backward. The tunic slipped from its grasp.

Peter staggered from the cell, gasping. He collapsed against the far wall, the cold rock biting into his back.

Peter shut his thoughts against the storm of terror threatening to consume him. He needed no internal judgement for the task at hand. 

This time, instead of leaving any free, he wrestled the two thrashing figures and James onto their metal crosses. Only Christian and Jesus remained untethered, their shadowed forms watching him from the dim recesses of the room.

The first two fell swiftly beneath his blade, their snarls silenced by the wet crunch of severed flesh. Then came the boy. Peter froze. 

This wasn’t the lad’s fault. He stared at James, his hollow eyes unseeing yet fixed on Peter. The blade quivered in Peter’s grasp under the unbearable burden of what he was about to do. 

What if I miss?

“Allow me,” Christian rasped from the gloom of his cage. “Swear to me, you’ll free me after. Take me away … where we can find a cure.”

“There is no cure,” echoed from the far end, as if the walls themselves whispered the truth.

Peter swallowed hard, pushing down the words that he feared were the truth. He turned to Christian. “How can you swing the blade?”

“The sacrifice room,” Christian murmured, nodding toward the panel at the back of the cage. “That’s where we release the creatures for feeding two days before bloodletting. Give me the sword and open the rear.”

Sacrifice room. Peter pictured the ropes dangling from the ceiling and the two rust-streaked platforms raised in the corners.

He gave a reluctant nod and passed the weapon to Christian. He released James from the cross and left through the heavy exterior door. 

Every instinct told him to run, to head out of the gloomy catacombs and this madness. The exit pulled him, but he stepped by to finish his task.

Peter hurried into the next chamber. He scaled the nearest platform, the rusted steps groaning beneath his weight, and hauled the stairs up behind him, forming a fragile barricade out of reach from those below. 

He placed his lantern on the rail, its flickering casting long shadows that danced like specters across the walls. He gripped the worn rope corresponding to the cages he wanted and pulled, sending a metallic screech through the chamber.

As the panels slid up, James lunged from the opening, a feral growl tearing from his throat as he scrambled toward the platform. Peter’s heart thundered as the boy’s clawed fingers stretched upward, just shy of the platform’s bottom. 

Christian stepped into the dim chamber. He strode forward, sharp edge out. James took no notice. 

As the priest advanced, his nostrils flared, and his face twisted into a grotesque mask. His gaze snapped to Peter, his pupils dilating like a predator honing in on prey. Stepping closer, he bared his teeth.

“Christian, control yourself!”

Christian paused, his body trembling as he shook his head, the feral haze lifting just enough for recognition to flicker in his eyes. He raised the weapon high, his knuckles white around the hilt. With a savage cry, he swung. The blade sliced clean through James’s neck, the boy’s head tumbling to the ground with a thud as his body crumpled in a heap, dark liquid seeping from the headless neck.

Christian staggered back. He clutched the blood-slick sword. His eyes, wild and tortured, locked onto Peter’s. A grim determination solidified in his hollow gaze.

“God forgive me,” Christian whispered, his voice laced with despair. 

He gripped the weapon in both hands and plunged the blade deep into his throat, then pulled it out again. A gurgle escaped as he collapsed. The weapon clattered to the floor, its hilt slick. A crimson arc sprayed across the wall, glistening in the dim light like a grotesque mural. 

Unsteady, Peter climbed down from his position, each step faltering beneath the strain of his horror. He approached Christian’s crumpled form. He bent down, unsure whether to offer last rites or a prayer. 

The priest’s hand lashed out, clamping around Peter’s ankle with an iron grip. Jagged fingernails dug into his skin, searing pain shooting up his leg. Peter yanked back, but the unrelenting grip tightened, dragging Christian’s snapping jaws closer, his teeth gnashing with feral desperation.

Peter’s eyes darted to the weapon lying just out of reach. Ignoring the fiery agony in his ankle, he threw himself forward, his palms clawing at the blade. Pain ripped through his hand as the sharp edge tore into his skin, warm blood slicking his grip as he tightened his hold.

With a grunt, he kicked backward, his heel colliding with Christian’s eye socket. A gruesome crunch erupted as the bone collapsed, but the grip on his leg didn’t falter. Peter slid his hand down to the hilt, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. With a hoarse, desperate cry, he swung in a wide arc, cleaving through the priest’s arm in a burst of arterial spray.

Christian slithered across the blood-slick floor towards him, his severed arm trailing a dark smear behind him. His movements had slowed, but his ravenous eyes, burning with an unnatural hunger, locked onto Peter. 

Peter scrambled backward, fumbling for the hilt. With a roar, he brought the blade down in a brutal arc. Christian’s head toppled from his shoulders, rolling to a stop as a thick pool of crimson spread beneath his twitching body.

Peter collapsed to his knees, his body shaking as tears streamed down his face. Sobs racked his chest, each one torn from the depths of his despair. 

If God existed, how could He allow this? The thought echoed, hollow and accusatory, in the suffocating silence.

He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him. He leaned on the sword, its tip grinding into the ground. Blood dripped from his torn skin as he hobbled back toward the platform. His limbs felt leaden, each step a battle against gravity. He climbed the stairs, leaving them open behind him with the monsters destroyed.

He gripped the rope for the farthest panel and tugged, clearing the way for Jesus.

“This cannot be the way.” Jesus’s voice wafted from the other side, carrying the burden of centuries of torment. “It must be the cross.”

“No, I’m getting you away from this cursed place.”

A sudden bang shattered the stillness, reverberating far down the corridor. Peter’s heart jumped.

Jesus stepped into the entry, his gaze piercing. “There’s no time. The opening of the panels triggered the alarm. The Sacred Rite are coming. Free me from this nightmare.”