Rise Of The Nephilim

“We are so screwed,” Patel whined, sitting on the ground with his back pressed against the wall as if it could shield him from his anticipated death. “And what is that freaking stench?”

Something is watching. Light and shadow from the damp walls with flecks of precious stones and minerals played tricks on Father Phillipo eyes as he peered down the dark hallway before him; his hands wrapped tightly around the iron bars; his face crinkled, not only with age, but with worry, and the overpowering stench of Imps. “That, my boy, is the stench of death,” he mumbled.

“Shh . . . Do you hear that?” Patel asked.

“What?” Janine immediately stood up from the ground on which she’d been sitting—her eyes wide and filled with even more panic. “Hear what?”

“That!” Patel insisted. “Like something is clawing against the wall on the other side.

Pete breathed in deeply to steady his nerves as he drew closer to the wall with much hesitation. He gingerly placed an ear against the wall, grimacing from the cold, clammy wetness of the stones. He heard nothing, yet an unsettling feeling traveled through him.

They knew they were not alone. They felt the cold presence of some other and knew it was not friendly or sympathetic.

“If something doesn’t kill us in here, we’ll surely die of hunger—” Thompson complained.

“We haven’t eaten in hours,” Branson broke in.

Instinctively they slammed their hands to their ears to drown out the deafening sound of creatures screaming—first in unison and then in an undulating pattern, beginning with one, maybe a leader, followed by others.

The group of Goths huddled together around Father Magliano as if he could save them. The truth was he felt just as resigned to his death, though he tried to steel himself with prayer.

The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

“We’re dead . . . We’re dead!” Jake repeated as he fell to the ground, crying. He was not alone. Tears fell from all their eyes that day.

“Shit!” Cory yelled. “They’re trying to dig through the walls.”

“Don’t panic!” Father Magliano tried to be the voice of reason and composure. But his words fell on deaf ears.

The sound of digging and clawing had surrounded them. It seemed like it would go on forever, at least until whatever it was trying to get in, got in. But then, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun—just like the screaming.

Janine slammed herself down to the floor, her back against the wall. She sat staring steadily at the others as they went about their grief in their own way:Father sitting with his back against the bars with no fear of being grabbed from the other side, his eyes closed, lips moving, as if mumbling something; next to him, Morry, Pete, and Thompson—silently crying, trembling; Cory and Mike sitting in the middle of the cave, facing each other with their heads resting on their knees, their bodies trembling—intermittently. The others sat on the opposite side, facing Janine—their backs against the walls, and all resigned to the fact that they were going to die.

Then, without warning, as it was before, the screaming resumed, horrid and undulating.

They had all covered their ears to drown out the ear-splitting sound. Some had their eyes closed; others stared wildly as if they could have gone mad.

And without warning, a section of the wall behind Janine had given way. She fell back, screaming. Her screams were drowned out by the Imps’ horrid shrieking. While they attempted to drag her away, Mike, Branson, and Pete gripped her legs, even as they wiggled in painful desperation. They held on with all the strength they could muster.

“We got you . . . We got you!” Mike assured her. However, they were no match for the Imp.

Janine was completely dragged out of the cave, leaving the opening for the Imps to enter.

“No . . . shit! Janine!” cried, Stephanie. Others called her name. But it was too late. Janine was gone.

The Imps’ screams had stopped.

There were no cries for help from the other side of the wall. No pleading for mercy. Janine was silenced forever.

“They’re coming in!” Jake screamed, shaking Phillipo’s arm. “Father, do something!” he demanded as if Phillipo could pray the Imp away.

Their screams echoed through the hull of Babylonia, except Phillipo, who stood staring at the white, ape-like creature, trying desperately to come through the opening. He was in a state of shock. “I . . . I,” he tried to say something, but could not get the words out.

The iron gate had suddenly flung open, forcing Phillipo and the Goths to the farthest corner of the cave—away from the Imp coming through the opening, with others not far behind, and away from the Epochs entering the cave. “Mercy . . . Mercy!” Phillipo begged. He’d assumed that the Epochs were there to kill them. It was clear; the end was upon them.