"Jesus Christ!"
The scream tore through the factory.
Scar-face was leading a patrol through the settlement area when he heard it.
"The hell was that?" One of his men looked toward the perimeter.
"Guard post," Scar-face said. He spat into the dirt and started walking, his three men falling in behind him. "Probably Frank falling asleep again."
But Frank was not asleep. Frank was dead.
The guard who had found him was on the ground, back pressed against the booth's metal frame, pants dark with piss, one shaking hand pointing at the wall.
"I... I just... he was just..."
"Shut up." Scar-face pushed past him.
Frank lay in the dirt at the base of the booth, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. The hole in his forehead was small and perfectly centered between his eyebrows. The back of his skull was another story. The exit wound had taken a chunk of bone and brain with it, decorating the ground behind him in a spray pattern that suggested the shot had come from directly ahead.
Which meant Frank had been looking right at whoever killed him. And he had not gotten off a single shot.
He looked up at the wall of the guard booth, where someone had been busy with Frank's blood.
JUDGMENT HAS COME.
The kid with the acne scars was hovering at his shoulder. "What's that mean? Is it the Shepherd? Is he testing us?"
"I said shut up."
Scar-face studied the message.
Frank had been good. For someone to walk up to him, shoot him in the face, and then stick around long enough to paint a message on the wall... That took balls.
"It's just psychological warfare."
"Then we should tell the Shepherd! He needs to know there's an enemy inside the—"
Scar-face's hand shot out and grabbed the kid by the throat, slamming him back against the booth.
"Tell him what? That you pissed yourself over some blood on a wall? That you can't even guard a fucking gate without losing your shit?" He tightened his grip. "You want to go explain to the Shepherd why you failed? Because I can arrange that meeting right now."
The kid's face was turning purple. He shook his head frantically.
Scar-face released him and stepped back, running a hand over his scarred face.
"We handle this ourselves. Lock down this area and search every building. Whoever did this is still here, and when we find them..." He pulled his pistol and chambered a round. "We make an example."
The men nodded, though he could see the fear in their eyes.
---
The maintenance corridor was a tight space.
Water damage had left puddles on the floor, mixing with leaked oil to create slick patches that reflected the single work light hanging from the ceiling.
Scar-face led the way. His three remaining men spread out behind him. The kid with acne scars was at the rear, still looking like he might bolt at any moment.
"Switch the lights on."
A big man named Curtis stepped forward, grumbling under his breath. "Fucking breakers always trip in this section. Piece of shit wiring..."
He moved toward the wall switch, boots splashing through a puddle.
What none of them noticed was the severed electrical wire hanging from the ceiling just above the switch. The insulation had been stripped away, leaving bare copper exposed. Every few seconds, a spark jumped from the wire to the metal conduit it dangled against.
Curtis reached for the switch.
His boot hit the puddle wrong. The water was deeper than it looked, spreading out from the corner in a thin sheet that caught the light. His foot slipped sideways.
"Shit!"
He windmilled his arms, trying to catch his balance. His hand shot out, grabbing for the wall.
Instead, his fingers closed around the bare wire.
"AAAHHH!"
His back arched, muscles contracting so hard that tendons stood out like cables under his skin. And his eyes bulged from their sockets. Foam bubbled from his mouth. His clothes started to smoke. The puddle beneath him hissed and steamed.
"Get him off!" someone screamed.
Scar-face grabbed the kid. "Kick his feet! Don't touch him with your hands!"
The kid tried. He got close enough to swing his boot at Curtis' leg, but the shock traveled through the water and struck him instead. He yelped as the current threw him backward.
It took maybe ten seconds for Curtis to die, though it felt longer.
When it was over, he collapsed into the puddle. The skin on his hands and face was charred black, cracked open to show red meat underneath. His eyes were boiled white in their sockets.
The corridor was silent except for someone's harsh breathing... Scar-face realized it was his own.
"How..." The third man, a short guy named Davis, was staring at the wire. "How the hell did that get there? That wasn't... it was secured this morning. I checked this corridor myself."
"It doesn't matter." Scar-face forced himself to move forward and crouch beside Curtis' body. The heat coming off the corpse was intense. "He grabbed it like an idiot. He should have been more careful."
But even as he said it, his eyes were drawn to the floor beside the body.
The puddle was receding, leaving a dark mark on the floor.
At first it looked like a stain.
Then the truth became clear.
It was blood.
Blood seeped from Curtis's nose, ears, and mouth. It leaked from the ruptured vessels in his eyes and from the cracks in his charred skin. Instead of spreading across the ground as it should have, the blood began to gather together.
Slowly, the liquid shaped itself into letters.
JUDGMENT HAS COME.
"No," Davis whispered. He took a step back, then another. "No, no, that's not... that's not possible."
"It's tricks!" Scar-face barked. "They are trying to scare us!"
"This is divine judgment!" The kid was hyperventilating now. "We did something wrong and God is punishing us!"
"There is no..." Scar-face spun on him. "This is just some sinner playing tricks with blood and..."
His boot came down on the message, smearing it across the concrete. He kept stomping until the letters were just a dark smudge.
"Keep moving. Whoever's doing this is close."
The two remaining men didn't look convinced, but they followed.
---
The warehouse was a maze of broken shelving and forgotten supplies.
Rust-eaten metal racks towered overhead, loaded with months of accumulated junk. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. Scar-face could feel his stomach churning. The canned meat from dinner was sitting heavy in his gut, and his head felt fuzzy.
Davis was looking rough too.
"I don't feel so good."
"Suck it up." Scar-face didn't have the patience for this. "You can puke after we find whoever's doing this."
Crash!
The kid at the front of their formation had been moving between the racks when his foot caught on something. He stumbled forward, arms pinwheeling, and slammed into one of the loaded shelves.
The impact sent boxes tumbling. One hit him in the shoulder and another clipped his head.
"You clumsy piece of..."
The groan of stressed metal cut Scar-face off.
The shelf the kid had hit was old. The bolts holding it to the wall had been rusting for years, and the sudden impact was too much.
It started to tilt, then momentum took over.
"MOVE!" Scar-face grabbed Davis and threw himself backward.
The kid tried to run. He managed three steps before a rolling pipe shot across the floor and caught his ankle.
His foot went out from under him. He hit the ground.
The shelf came down on top of him like a guillotine.
Boom!
Scar-face picked himself up, ears ringing. Dust hung thick in the air, making him cough.
The kid was buried under the wreckage. One arm stuck out from beneath a support beam, fingers still twitching. Blood was spreading out from under the pile.
"Ah! My leg!"
Scar-face spun.
Davis was on the ground, clutching his calf. When the shelf had come down, it had launched debris in all directions. One piece had shot across the warehouse like a spear. It had gone clean through his leg just below the knee, entering from the side and emerging on the other side to pin him to the floor.
His hands were slick with blood as he tried to pull it free.
Scar-face watched the blood pouring from Davis' leg. It spread slowly across the concrete and gathered into a dark pool.
JUDGMENT HAS COME.
"Demon," Davis sobbed. He stared at the blood-written message. "This is a demon. Lord help us. Shepherd help us. We must have done something wrong, we must have sinned somehow—"
"Stop talking."
But Davis was beyond listening. "Maybe it was the raid? Or when we took those supplies from the refugees? Or when we—"
"I SAID STOP!"
Scar-face grabbed Davis under the arms and started dragging him toward the exit. The pipe came with them, scraping across the concrete and leaving a red trail.
They made it to the control room at the back of the warehouse.
He slammed the fire door behind them and threw the deadbolt. For a moment, he just stood there, trying to think through the fog in his head.
They were safe now.
He turned to check on Davis and froze.
Davis was slumped against the wall. The pipe was still lodged through his leg, and blood had pooled across the floor around him.
et his eyes were fixed on the control panel across the room. It was sparking.
"No," Scar-face said. "No, no, no—"
The lights went out.
For a single heartbeat, there was only darkness and the sound of Davis' panicked breathing.
Then the sparks found the diesel.
A five-gallon fuel container sat in the corner, left there for the generator. Its cap hadn't been tightened properly.
Fumes had been building inside the room all day.
When the electrical spark touched them, the air ignited.
WHOOOM.
Blue flames roared up the wall. The diesel container went up like a bomb, spraying burning fuel across the room.
Davis started screaming.
Scar-face lunged for the door, fingers scrabbling at the deadbolt.
It was locked.
"OPEN IT!" Davis was trying to crawl, the pipe still pinning him down, his clothes catching fire. "PLEASE! OPEN THE DOOR!"
But Scar-face wasn't at the door anymore.
He had spotted the ventilation duct on the opposite wall, partially hidden behind a filing cabinet. His survival instinct had kicked in.
He shoved the cabinet aside and tore the vent cover off with his bare hands. The opening was small, but he didn't care.
Behind him, Davis' screams had turned into something inhuman.
Scar-face crawled into the duct and didn't look back.
---
When he finally crawled out of the ventilation system on the far side of the factory, his clothes were scorched and his hands were covered in blisters.
The remaining cultists were in complete panic. Some knelt and prayed. Others argued loudly with one another. A woman sat in the corner rocking back and forth while whispering to herself.
"We are cursed!" someone wailed. "The Lord has abandoned us!"
"Where is the Shepherd? Why hasn't he come?"
Suddenly a thin man with wild, bloodshot eyes pulled a pistol from his belt. His hands trembled as he pressed the barrel against his temple, tears running down his face.
"I can't take this anymore!"
He closed his eyes. Then he pulled the trigger.
Click.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
The man froze. His eyes opened, staring at nothing, as the reality of what had just happened sank in.
"I... I am alive!"
He threw the gun away and lifted both hands toward the ceiling. Tears streamed down his face as he began to laugh.
"I AM ALIVE! The Lord has spared me!"
His laughter echoed through the hall.