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Demonoid Phenomenon - Rob Zombie |
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Crackle...crackle...spark...
The tear pulsed like an open wound, widened by the passage of two unwitting individuals who'd been locked in combat when they crossed over. Electricity hummed around the gap, the occasional abortive bolt of greenish lightning escaping from it as it hovered it midair, an obscene sort of eye that peered from one world into the next. And somewhere underneath the snapping sparks, there was the sound of heavy, shambling footsteps. Shambling and yet rushed, as though whatever was approaching were trying to hurry.
Running for the door before it could close.
THUMP The rift bulged outwards, then snapped back into place. More lightning flashed, a brighter green this time. The sound of snuffling carried through the static, clogged breathing as the insane, mindless creature on the other side of the tear began to force its way out. A hairless arm appeared, the taloned hand on the end of it clawing at the air, looking for purchase and finding none. Chuff, snuffle. THUMP The metaphysical equivalent of a shoulder being slammed into a door, trying to break it down. The tear stretched, a womb giving birth to something unnatural.
Rancid drool puddled onto the sand as a malformed head sprang into view, snarling into the silence. An unfortunate scorpion was caught in the path of the saliva and dissolved within seconds. Wide shoulders followed suit as the thing began to struggle free of its prison, alternately growling and snuffling as the rest of it dropped from the short height onto the sand. It had neither name nor species, but it had ruled as a god since its escape seven years ago.
And it was hungry. Victims had been in short supply since the human race had found itself on its last legs, and a belly that size required a lot to fill it.
When it was finally free, it lay on its back in the dirt, flanks heaving from the expended effort. The moon blazed stark and white in the sky, and before the hulking thing heaved itself to its feet it let out a bone-chilling squall as if in greeting. Clawed feet dug into the sand as it took up that clumsy, shambling gait again, the hands-before-feet stride of a drunken gorilla. Free, it was free!
Free...and hungry.
The Berserker was written by Stargazer
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