Revelation

Revelation
D. Allan Jones

He passed unnoticed through the throng of revelers clogging the nightclub-dominated street. Invisible by choice rather than mysticism: unseen because he simply wished it, and in the wishing caused it to be so.

An occasional roving eye might blearily focus on him for the briefest of instances, register nothing and then with a blink move on, leaving the unaware observer with little more than a sudden inexplicable feathering of apprehension. A feeling often described by some as having had someone walk over one’s grave. An apt analogy this, not too far removed from the truth. Death walked amongst them this torpid summer’s eve, and brought with it a graveyard air.

He moved among them apathetically. Their existence was as always, of little relevance or consequence. Long had it been since they had held any significance to him other than as a source of sustenance. Long indeed had it been since last he’d felt any sense of wonder at how easily lead these creatures were, and longer still since he had derived any pleasure from the knowledge that he could do so.

There had been a time -once so very long ago when both he and the earth had been far more naive- when he had delighted in his ability to manipulate them, a time when he had marveled at the god-like powers which were his to control. Like a child with a wondrous new plaything he toyed with it -and them- with unbridled enthusiasm. Whole villages he laid waste to in that long ago. Or, rather, had caused to be ruined; turning one against the other until the cobbled streets were awash in a sea of blood and chaos. Husband against wife, mother against child, brother against brother. All succumbed to his will whilst he, giddily drunk with dark glory, in their midst, bathed in the gore and madness. And oh, how he had fed. A frenzied wolf among sheep, he raged amongst them until none were left standing and he all but immobilized with sated bloodlust.

So had it been those centuries long passed. He had swept across the lands as a ravening scythe through ripening wheat, and it had been glorious. He had basked in his infamy, reveled in insatiable hunger. However, as the eons fell behind him, as decade folded inexorably into decade, so too did his passion wane. It had been a slow insidious decay. A gradual slide into apathy and ennui that was centuries in the making. As the need to quench his ravenous thirst had dwindled, as the heady overpowering euphoria of being in possession of near omnipotent powers had slowly insidiously waned, as year bled into endless eternal year, so had he allowed himself to slip further and further into the shadows.

Tedium had overcome him, until finally sleep became his only surcease. Awakening rarely, feeding sporadically, the world had moved on around him until his name, his very existence, had all but been forgotten.

On this night, he would change that. He would change many things. He was tired of this peripheral existence, weary of the boredom. As a particularly colorful neon sign caught his eye, he set his plans in motion.

He passed through the restless crowd queued at the entrance of a gaudily appointed nightclub, the words ‘Hell Rave’ buzzing loudly in highly stylized lettering above the doorway washing all in morbid flickering tones of crimson. It was this name which had garnered his attention, as well as the garish garb of the expectant patrons.

Torn black leather, torn black cloth, tattoos, chains, piercings, and pancake makeup. It was a look, he had come to understand, which they termed ‘gothic’. He found their theatrically overstated affectations of the macabre humorous. What little these dimensionless creatures truly knew of the darkness. What little they knew of his world. But soon, very soon, they would know more than their limited intelligence could possibly imagine.

He crossed the threshold unseen, entering a world of strobe-distorted smoke, noise, and twisting gyrating flesh. The music, if such it could be called, an almost tangible wall of primal counter-rhythmic sound, hammering against him like a strong wind. It was disconcerting, even to him, in its volume and intensity. He took but a moment to survey the self-absorbed self-indulgent crowd, his selection process entirely arbitrary.

There.

Her.

Young, vibrant, intensely sexual as she turned slowly in place in the center of the dance floor, the focus of much attention as she swayed alone there with calculated sensuality. Ah, so young, so tender. So very innocent. She would be the catalyst.

He crossed to her, stood before her, and allowed them to see.

The young woman opened her eyes and looked at him, startled at first, then smiled coyly, for the briefest of moments believing him to be one of her own ilk. He smiled back and reached out, taking her by the throat and lifting her easily. He Watched with only mild interest as she stared deeply into his feral eyes, her expression shifting dramatically as she saw the darkly burning reality within. Her choking scream was lost to the raucous music.

Placing his fingertips just below her full heaving breast he drove his hand deep into her chest, quickly tearing the living heart out of her through the gysering wound. He released the twitching corpse to the now sopping floor and brought the still beating organ to his lips, draining what little sustenance remained within it.

Those dancers closest to him simply stopped, slapped into immobility by stunned disbelief. More and more took notice, an ever-widening shockwave of disbelief.

So it began.

He: the epicenter. They: the swirling detritus of a horror driven tornado.

With a dismissive wave of his hand he caused the security shutters to slam loudly into place over window and door, effectively barring all exits.

He, now the sole occupant of the dance floor, turned slowly, drawing some slight pleasure from the tidal wave of screaming humanity crashing ever so fruitlessly against the now impenetrable structure.

It was over quickly. With the strobes washing all in a surreal slow-motion nightmarish light, with the throbbing violent music pounding in ironic accompaniment, he raged through them like Armageddon unleashed, leaving none untouched and the room awash with their liquid essence.

Without a backward glance, painted from head to foot in the wetly glistening aftermath of his rampage, he turned to the door.




He strode out into the night. With but a thought causing the sweeping bank of windows behind him to explode outwards into the street, raining a shower of swirling slicing glass onto the unwitting passersby.

As stunned silence turned quickly to warbling screams and cries of pain and outrage, as all turned their dazed attention towards the scene of destruction so suddenly placed incomprehensibly before them,

They saw.

And in that seeing, the world changed irrevocably.

Disbelieving eyes focused on that which could not be. Screams of pain spiraled upwards into shrieks of horror. As the darkly visible nimbus swirled hungrily around him swelled and roiled in response to their fear, the thin veil of their reality shredded in the wind that was his existence. Panic took them. A groundswell of terror rippling outwards, him at its center encapsulated now in a writhing shimmering bloated aura of midnight black feeding deeply still of the souls newly released by his feasting.

A cacophony of sirens sliced through the scream laden summers air, their strident calls heavy with urgency. They would come. As was his intent.

Let them pray to their indolent god that they prove entertaining. Let them hope upon hope they provide him a challenge. Not that it would favor them. Many would perish by his hand in any event. This he would see to. Let them bring to bear their technologies, their bureaucracies, their ideologies. If it came to be that they proved victorious, then so be it. He had seen his time. But no matter the outcome, no matter the cost, they would know the name Vlad Tepes as they had never known it before. This he would see to as well.

The burgeoning shriek of insistent sirens echoed endlessly from building to building.

The screech of halting tires sounded.

Doors slammed and bullhorns blared, rounds clattered noisily into firing chambers. Safety latches whickered quietly into readiness. Glaring spotlights tried in vain to pierce the macabre aura spinning restlessly about him.

Smiling an anachronistic smile, he stepped down onto the street and stepped forever out of the realm of mythology.