Revelations End: Abaddon

Kane

Book 1

Abaddon

"...and though we are not now that strength

which in olden times moved earth and heaven,

that which we are, we are.

One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate,

but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield...."

Ulysses, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Chapter 1

"How are you thinking of teaching the peasant? Through his ass? You want to tear his ass out, but such anger will grow in his head."

Rasputin

The dust danced slowly in the light falling through the broken roof; languid motes waltzing to the screams piercing the broken window frame. Kane, blinking heavily, was caught mesmerised by the movement, still stupefied by his exit from a brief sleep. The wan, diluted light that marked the day had replaced the deep black of night, and with it the screams, which had dulled to sobs in the quiet midnight streets, had ramped back up in intensity and horror.

The room was dark and small, the penthouse of an old tenement block, lit only by the shafts of half-light peeking through the imperfections of a tired and dying roof and squeezing through the boards over the windows. What remained of the floorboards were warped and dusty with yawning, precarious gaps in some places where they had been ripped up in the past, no doubt laid on a fire for warmth.

A hunt for fresh meat had brought him to this place, far outside his normal territory, completely over estimating his speed and under estimating the route. As such, night had been falling as he entered the area and the sounds of the approaching group had let him know he was in trouble, chilling him to the bone. Half frantic he had run, stumbling and cursing himself, into this block of flats to wait out the night. The screams had followed soon after, but what had been the screams of a few were now the cries of only one.

He knelt silently by the window, wiping the old rifle sight with a chamois before lifting it with a shrug to his eye, blinking the outside world into focus through the gap in the boards.

"Fuck it!", a short whispered prayer against the despair always threatening to bear him down.

From outside, the screams, scratching at his composure, seemed to be deliberately squeezing their way through the broken board as if amplified by the small gap. With a deep soothing breath to concentrate, and a moment's adjustment and slow pan, he brought his nightmare into view.