Even her transparent, F-99 face mask's protection wasn't enough to keep the fungus' sickly sweet stench at bay. It was nauseating. Weirdly, it reminded her of me, specifically, the amount of sugar that I put in my tea. And on breakfast eggs. And everything else.

Once, as an act of protest, she'd refused to get any chocolate milk from the grocery store. In response, I'd purchased chocolate milk powder and put it in the milk, and mixed it in real good.

All the breakfast cereals that week tasted amazing, as Jules and Rayph could attest.

At the time, it had been amusingly frustrating. Now, Pel would have given an arm and a leg to get back to those good old days. The fungus' sweet tooth was like my own, only steroids. It made the air feel thick and impossibly dry, like chalk dust. The face mask kept out the particulates, but did nothing for the dryness or the smell.

Pel hurried as safely as she could. The quicker she was, the less she'd have to endure. She walked down the hallways, trying to retrace the route she'd taken the night before, when she'd stumbled on where the cult was storing their rations.

The wyrm-chatter grew louder and more boisterous. Pel wanted to take that as a good sign, but then, she heard the screams.

Human screams.

Pel slowed her steps, against the push of her racing heart. Keeping close to the wall, she stepped onto the Great Nave's upper floor.

"Holy Angel…" she muttered.

She brought her hand to her mouth in shock.

The Last Church had made one of the most beautiful places in all Lassedicy into a charnel house and an abattoir. Standing within the cloistered gallery as she was, Pel felt like a priestess in a pulpit, looking down on the sinful masses.

And their sins were terrible indeed.

A dark feast was underway. The cult wasn't even bothering to hide it anymore. Everything Jules and Rayph had told her about, now, they were doing it with impunity, out in the open. The changelings had coiled among the broken pews' splintered wreckage, where they gorged themselves on human beings.

Living, breathing human beings.

Somewhat unexpected was the abundance of fog. The stuff was unnaturally thick—viscous and billowing—and it was everywhere. Though the Melted Palace's grand doors were wide open, Pel couldn't see even the slightest outline of the city or its skyline, just a wall of fog. Turning toward the source of the loud hum rattling in the background, Pel spied large, industrial-size fans near the entrance, and—looking up and back—saw or heard others even higher up on the walkways overlooking the nave.

They were the fog-machines, like the kinds used on Cheldmas.

The fog was alive with a crowd of victims. People staggered in front of the entryway, barely half-aware of their surroundings, and one by one, the changelings grabbed them with their magic and levitated them into reach, a fresh meal, ripe for the taking. Sometimes bodies got ripped in half while en route, torn apart by competing forces. But there was no need to worry about getting shorted of their fair meal. The victims kept on coming, fueling an orgy of change as the monsters blossomed and ripened.

One wyrm reared up from the floor, raising its head and neck up one story tall, and then two. It blinked all six of its featureless golden eyes and then stared at Pel, but only for a moment.

The strangers entering the building were delirious. Many twirled around like demented ballerinas, raving about how they'd been cured.

They had to be from the crowds of worshippers outside.

One of the celebrants bent over and coughed, and then, shaking his head, looked up at the massive wyrm peering down from the upper reaches of the nave. The poor sod's eyes widened as he finally noticed all the death playing out around him. Instantly, he screamed and scuttled back, only to collide into someone else and fall onto his bottom.

A spat of gunfire percussed from one of the nave's upper levels in a short, controlled burst, making Pel flinch. Meanwhile, down below, the bullets tore through the screaming man's infected flesh, splitting his torso open like an egg, spilling mutilated viscera onto the polished stone floor.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" someone said.

Pel turned toward the voice.

Two of Verune's Innocents had come around the corner, wearing combat gear taken from fallen soldiers. The guns strapped to their chests were positively fearsome.

Pel made a note to try to get one of those on the way out.

It would come in handy.

She stepped as they made their approach, wracking her brain for what to say. "I… I was looking for the kitchen—food storage. We… I'm Margaret Revenel's daughter." She pressed her hand on her chest. "My kids are with me. We could use some food and water."

The two cultists looked at one another, and then at Pel.

"Sure," one said. "Come with us."

The two men walked up beside her and led her back the way she came, during which Pel tried to stay as calm as she could. They flanked her to either side, though neither of them reached out to touch her.

She'd have bitten off their fingers if they dared try.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

She clutched her purse, holding it against her stomach.

They moved down the hallway, away from the Great Nave. As they turned a corner, out of the corner of her eye, Pel noticed John Henrichy coming down the hallway. He looked about as distressed as Pel felt.

She cleared her throat.

"I don't remember where the food was being stored, exactly," she said, nervously addressing her escorts, "but… I'm pretty sure they weren't located wherever it is you're taking me."

She flashed an unfriendly glare.

"You don't need to worry, Ma'am," one said. "Your mother was looking for you. She asked us to bring you to her."

"My mother sent you?".

The other man nodded. "Yes." He looked at Pel with envy. "You're so lucky. Mrs. Revenel is ready to take you into Paradise."

The words were like a nail being hammered into Pel's heel. She stopped in her tracks. "W-What?"

"Yes," the cultist replied, "the time has finally come. His Holiness is raising a mighty host. Soon, the Norms will lead us to Paradise."

"Do you think it will hurt?" the other asked.

"Not if you've repented."

Though she couldn't be 100% sure, Pel was pretty confident that "taking her to Paradise" meant her mother was going to eat her.

She stepped back.

One of the cultists stopped. "What's wrong?"

"What about my children?".

"If they're worthy, the'll—"

—And then a bullet flew through the man's skull.

Startled, Pel staggered back and fell to the floor, landing on the rug. The other cultist yelled and unholster his gun, but then two more gunshots showed up and ruined his day. One hit his shoulder, while the other sliced clear through his neck. Black blood, hairy with fungal growth glopped out of the wound. The man clutched his hand at his neck as he stumbled, when a third bullet blasted his face apart.

A hand stuck out to help Pel to her feet as the corpse fell to the floor. Looking up, she found herself face to face with John Henrichy. Gunsmoke still wafted from the rifle in his other hand.

"What d'ya know?" he quipped, "all that time I spent with rednecks at gun ranges turned out to be worthwhile."

Pel pulled her hand free with an impolite glare.

Shouts and agitated wyrmsong rumbled through the hallway.

"Have you lost your mind!?" Pel hissed.

"Have you?" Henrichy rebutted. "Your mother wants to eat you! You should be getting the hell out of here!"

"That's what we're doing!"

"Would you mind if I join you?"

"As of now," Pel replied, "yes, very much so."

A slimy smile opened on the talk show host's face. It was only now that Pel noticed he was armed to the teeth, with several guns—pistols, for the most part—attached to various places on the body armor he now wore.

Henrichy pulled off one of the pistols and handed it to her.

"Great," he said, "lead the way."

At that moment, Pel found herself being deeply torn between two warring desires: the desire to beat the crap out of this asshole, and the desire not to sully herself through physical contact with this sniveling grub of a man.

She consoled herself with the thought that it was only a matter of time before one of the monsters made John their meal.

Pel grabbed the gun and turned it around in her hand, only to turn and see Henrichy picking the rifles up off the two dead cultists.

There wasn't enough time for her to complain about getting the short weapon—was Henrichy compensating for something?—but she could vent over that later. She picked up the pace, running back to the room as quickly as she could. John coughed profusely as he followed behind her, huffing and puffing.

Pel burst through the door.

"We're leaving!" she yelled. "Now!"

Jules gave John a viper's glare.

"Let me guess," she said, "kissing wyrm-ass didn't go so well?"

Henrichy scoffed at her. "People like you are everything that's wrong with this country. You know that?"

Jules stared at her mother. "Seriously, Mom?"

In the distance, someone yelled. "There! She's got blood on her dress! Stop them!"

Pel glanced down at her skirt. It was liberally stained with freshly spilt cultist.

Now she really wanted to punch that asshole.

"There's no time!" she said.

The four of them ran.

"Where to?" Henrichy asked, as they tromped down the hallway.

Pel heard roars echoing out from back the way they'd come.

"There…" Jules pointed to the left. "…ish."

Henrichy groaned.

"Guys…?" Rayph said.

Pel turned to look.

Shit.

She didn't know which part was worse: the fact that a half-wyrm was slithering down the hallway to their left—human above, snake below—or that he had a gun.

Snake-dragon-monster people didn't need guns. It was just too much.

Turning down the hallway at the right, Jules looked down and up the stairwell, and then muttered: "Fire alarm."

The wyrm raised his rifle and fired.

Mercifully, his aim was atrocious.

"Up the stairs!" Jules yelled. "Let's go!"

She ran up the steps. Pel and Rayph followed her, with John trailing behind.

"Agh!" John yelled. "My arm!" He yowled in pain.

Pel glanced back at him; it looked like he'd gotten shot in the shoulder.

She figured it was a good start.

Pel's world blurred as she clambered up the tightly spiraled staircase. The stained glass windows' depictions of the Hallowed Beast seemed to shift before her eyes. She was gasping for breath by the time they reached the at the top of the next flight, and the next thing she knew, shrill alarm bells started to rattle and scream up and down the Melted Palace. The din hit Pel's aching head like a kick to the face.

Henrichy screeched. "Did you just pull a fire alarm?!"

Jules reached down and pulled her mother to her feet, and then gave John another merciless glare.

"Yes, now, shut the fuck up!"

"Can snakes climb stairs?" Rayph asked.

Pel groaned. "I don't know! I'm not your father!"

"C'mon!" Jules yelled. Her words echoed through the hall. She pulled on her mother's arm.

They ran past paintings of past Lassedites and scenes from scripture. Pel struggled to keep up.

"I—I think those stairs should take us to the car!" She pointed at the staircase at the other end of the hallway when it came into view.

They started their descent. With a yell, Henrichy pointed his rifle toward the sky and fired up the stairwell.

It was probably some stupid masculine bullshit, not that Pel cared to learn the details.

Going down the stairs was easier than going up, but it still made Pel feel like she wanted to rip her own legs off just to make them stop hurting. As she reached the first floor landing, she saw one of Verune's human followers come running into the stairwell. Upsettingly, it was a fellow woman.

Jerks came in all genders.

Pel elbowed the lady in the gut and then gave her a nice, jagged scratch right over down her eyes and nose, striking a blow for mothers everywhere. The woman puked up black ooze and screamed. A great deal of her face had sloughed off onto Pel's fingers.

Pel didn't waste time to scream in disgust, she just smeared the vile gunk onto the wall, in John's general direction.

They kept going, all the way down to the ground floor. It wouldn't be much further now to the side entrance near which Pel had parked the Pirouette.

As Pel and the kids stepped onto the ground floor landing and moved out into the hallway, Henrichy tripped on one of the steps. He dropped his rifle as he slid forward, the extra guns on his body scraping along the floor. Pel grabbed Jules and Rayph and pulled them out of the way, ready for the rifle to go off as it hit the floor.

Thankfully it didn't.

John hobbled over and picked it up.

It looked like he'd injured his leg.

Yes, it was sinful to feel joy at another person's pain, but Pel was more than willing to pay for that when the time came.

She rushed over to the crossway up ahead.

Now we just need to turn down this next hallway, and the car should be—

"—Hello, sweetie."

Pel stopped dead in her tracks, as did Henrichy and the kids.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.