"Taylor!" The deep voice booms, stiffening every spine in the room, Lieutenant Simone Taylor's included. "Do you mind if I do my fucking job!? Or should we all just wait here while you get in your morning cat nap?"

"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again." She barely chokes out the words, slinking back into her chair. She hadn't had a proper night's sleep in weeks. She wished she could blame it on the stress of the job, the bitterly cold winter, even her aging mattress that left her back and neck stiff every morning. But no, her cold reality is that she slipped up. She never slips up, she never allows herself to even be in the position to do so. But she did, and she knew the next 9 months were going to be hell. Unwed unless the job counted, she struggled to function like a real adult. How the hell was she going to take care something completely reliant on her. Summoning what little mettle her exhausted body had left, she straightened up to focus on the large man pacing in front of the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this one is...something. Goes by 'Deacon,' 'Father Qayyu,' and bunch of other prophetic bullshit. Believes he's some character pulled from Moroccan folklore, which who the fuck even knew they had? Thinks he's the groom of some evil African genie or some shit, I don't know. But, I can tell you what we do know: Guy is a certified fucking psychopath. His arrest record is thicker than the bible and twice as violent. He slipped our radar last year and frankly we hoped he overdosed on that red mist shit he peddles. But--"

The large man holds up a picture of a smiling woman. "Cara Lynch" he says with a snarl while tossing the picture to the floor.

He holds up another. "Andrea Lipinski" he barely can finish the name before the picture hits the ground.

"And as of 5:35 this morning, Lindsey Horner. Somebody paying more attention than Taylor please enlighten me, what do these women all have in common?"

"They were all kidnapped." A voice comes from the crowd. "And they're all pregnant."

And that's what made her heart race. The one thing in this world Taylor had was the job, and now this thing growing inside her without her permission was putting that in jeopardy. She hadn't told her superiors, she'd be sat at a desk taking phone calls about damaged traffic equipment and roadkill needing to be picked up. She wasn't going to let that happen, she was going to find this sick bastard and put a bullet in his head. She's seen what he's capable of, and the fact that a technicality was the only reason he wasn't rotting with a vein full of potassium chloride. That wasn't happening this time, though. No cuffs, no protocol, no courtrooms. Just him, a hole between his eyes, and hopefully 3 women returned safely to their homes.

"And if our information is correct, all being held in that roach motel that Qayyu and his band of merry psychopaths call home. Not gonna lie guys, I don't love the idea of making a house call to this place. It's huge, the interior is impossible to map and frankly we don't know how many people Qayyu has sold on his African fairy tales. But if those women are in there, time is a luxury that we just don't have. If we don't move now they could be halfway across the country tomorrow, drugged outta their fuckin' minds playing slap and tickle with the assistant manager of an Arby's. Get your shit together people. We hit it at sundown, let's not give them the opportunity to see the whites of our asses. Dismissed."

Taylor's heart races, her entire being on fire with anticipation. She's finally going to end him.



Pitch black.


"She comes." The words escape with a hiss from the twisted smile.


"Go! Go! Go! Go!" The whisper from the large man is forceful yet gentle, directing the group of armor-clad officers into a large steel door. Taylor and her partner, Frank Tupelo, enter behind them. Beams of light dance around the dilapidated room as the officers attempt to get their bearings. Every footstep sounds thunderous amidst the deafening silence in the abandoned building.

Taylor's chest heaves. Her anticipation has been stripped away by a creeping fear, leaving her breathing labored and her movements erratic. Frank knows something's wrong. He attempts to comfort her by placing a hand on her shoulder, but is met with a quiet gasp and a forceful shrug. Taylor turns back to him, her terrified face barely illuminated by Frank's aimed flashlight.

"Easy slugger. I got your back." He says with less-than-believable confidence. He knew this was different, and she could read him like a book.

They sweep floors one-by-one for what feels like an eternity, each room containing nothing but dust, rats, or broken furniture. They move up each flight of stairs as quietly as possible, grouped tightly to avoid any blindspots. Taylor and Frank wearily follow behind them, their thoroughness leaving them with frayed nerves and sore legs. Every empty room and unoccupied hall is like a sucker punch to their morale. Was he even here? Were they even here? Taylor's creeping doubt raced through her mind--If they weren't there then this was all for naught, and those poor women could be one heartbeat closer to their last with every wasted footstep.

As they rounded the corner from the stairwell, Taylor's light shone on the plaque next to the door: 6th floor. The 6 was ominously followed by two smaller ones, one appeared etched into the plaque with a blade. The other looked like blood. And the 6th floor was where everything changes.





"She's here." The menacing voice whispers.





"C'mon man. We'd have something by now. All I've seen is rat shit and cobwebs, they ain't here." An agitated Frank mutters under his breath. Taylor's eye roll is stopped by a glimpse of something at the end of the hallway.

"Light!" The large man calls back, raising his gun and quickening his pace. Everyone but Taylor follows suit. "Hurry up!" Frank prods, not bothering to look back. Taylor gathers herself with a quick inhale and quickly catches up to Frank as the team makes it to the door where a dull crimson light pulsates from beneath. Frank pushes his way past the rest of the team and holds his ear against the door, where muffled screams and a growing boom begin to fill the silence. "Sounds like a fucking nightclub in there."

"Open it." Frank suddenly barks as he draws his weapon. The door bursts open, sending wood splinters into the abyss that is the fog-covered dance floor. A loud, yet dull pulse booms from the large tower speakers on either side of the abandoned DJ booth on the far end of the room. In the middle of the dance floor stands a podium with a large metal pole jutting from it. The officers raise their weapons and point them in the direction of the pole when the dust settles and the figure in front of them begins to move.

She glides slowly and effortlessly, down the pole. Wearing nothing but a seductive smile, the only thing that touches her ebony skin are the frantically dancing beams of red laser lights--their erratic movement makes it seem that even they know to avoid her, but just like the slowly approaching officers, they can't seem to help but be drawn in. She reaches the base of pole and elegantly lurches forward, catching herself at the last moment with an outstretched arm behind her; her other stretching out towards the officers as she beckons them closer with a slow and exaggerated wave of her finger. "Fan out" Taylor calls out to the rest of the unit who immediately break from their pattern and begin to search the dark corners of the room. Taylor and Frank slowly approach the woman, now slowly spinning around the pole, keeping her gaze locked on Frank every moment they face each other.

"You've come for them?"

"Them who?" Taylor sharply retorts. The woman ignores the question and stops her dance. She locks her gaze on Frank and slowly leans in towards him.

"He won't give them to you." She says softly, reaching towards him with an open hand.

"Are they here!?" Taylor persists. No answer from the woman, who seems enamored with Frank. Frank lowers his weapon and steps toward her, to Taylor's visible surpise. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He turns and smirks, "I think she likes me." When he turns his head back toward the woman their noses are nearly pressed against each other. "He needs them," she softly whispers to him.

"He needs us all." Her forehead presses against for a brief moment before turning to Taylor as a look of anguish suddenly takes over. "But you, he needs you most." Before Taylor can question her, the woman opens her mouth wide to reveal a set of sharpened and jagged teeth. She lunges for Frank and in an instant, her talon-like teeth tear through the flesh of his unprotected neck. Frank's eyes widen as he feels the veins and arteries in his throat tear and rupture, spatters of warm crimson violently evacuated his gaping woman, showering the woman's naked body--much to her apparent delight. Frank attempts to call out; for help? To warn the others? Simply his death throes? He didn't quite know what he wanted to scream, but his final thoughts were how horrified he was by the gurgling of blood that had replaced his speech. His eyes rolls back as the woman locks his esophagus in a vice-like grip between her teeth and pulls it from his defenseless body.

As Frank's mutilated body drops to the group, the bloodsoaked woman turns toward Taylor with a satisfied smile. "Fr--FRANK!" Taylor cries out, her trembling hands barely able to steady her raised weapon. Flashlights from around the room all fixate on the woman, eyes closed and head dropped to her chest. The woman manages to let out an eery, childlike laughter before the hail of bullets nearly separate her in half. Upon falling to the ground the music stops. The lights die. The shuffling of feet as the men attempt to regroup around Taylor is halted by a noise that Taylor will never forget:

A bark. Not like a Pit, Doberman, Dane, or Rottweiler. She's dealt with thugs like this for years and know the 'pets' they like to keep around to keep the police at bay. This wasn't one of them. This was primal, it was malicious, it was evil, but the most terrifying thought she had in the darkness? It was human. Her heart nearly beat out of her chest as the frantic barking gave way to horrified screams from the men around her. They all fell so fast, not a single bullet was fired in retaliation. All that training, all that bravado, the weaponry--and they were cut down like weeds in the path of trimmer line. Taylor fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she waited to feel her life violently ripped from her like the rest of her partners. And there she knelt for what felt like an eternity, contemplating not giving these fuckers the satisfaction and pushing the barrel of her gun into her mouth--but her hands were too shaky, her jaw was clenched, her entire being was overcome with a fear she never knew possible. The sound of swift footsteps and that horrific barking surrounded her, every bark made her spine tingle so hard she thought it was snap itself into tiny pieces.

The footsteps stop.

The barking ceases.

And there she kneels.

A single light shines on a man, seated atop a bright red throne. He stares expressionless into the void between them. Where she trembles, he is stoic. Her chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, his is as still as a corpse. Her voice is hoarse and cracks as she mutters to herself, his words are clear and his voice resonates across the room, as if he spoke for God himself.


-Deacon-
"Welcome home."

(To be continued)

The camera circles Deacon, who finally takes notice. His expressionless gaze turns into a contorts into one of annoyance.

"Jake Avery..." Deacon snarls. "Your gods have forgotten about you."

He leans back, disappearing back into the void.

"Pray to them that I do the same."