THE BROADCAST
Paul breathed unevenly as his eyes darted around the dim, stone-walled tomb house. I'm safe. I'm safe. I'm safe… He repeated to himself, the words an anchor.
The walls, once closing in like a cage, seemed to breathe again. His heart rate slowed, but his fingers still trembled, and a cold sheen of sweat clung to his back
"What the hell was that?" he muttered, half-expecting the shadows to answer. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, trying to steady his breath. Clarity crept in like a sunlight after a storm – slow, reluctant, and uncertain.
Those figures… They were unlike anything he'd ever seen. Their cloaks moved like smoke, but their steps were deliberate, calculated. Their very presence pressed on his lungs, turning every breath into a battle. When was the last time I was this scared? Fifteen years ago when he'd sat trembling in the wreckage of a shattered car, his mum's blood warm on his hands. That had been confusion and fear, pure and raw. This… this was worse.
He staggered through the tunnels, boots crunching on gravel, the damp air clinging to his skin like sweat-soaked cloth. What were those cloaked things? Why the survivors – why now? And those people… did any of them even make it?
The silence of the world gnawed at him – like the calm after a funeral, stretched too long. He'd grown up reading the Bible – Revelation had always felt like a distant warning. Now, it read more like a script. And the world was following it to the letter.
When he finally reached the house, the clock read 6:35 p.m. Grace was pacing the porch in tight, agitated loops, arms folded, muttering under her breath. The sight of her – waiting – hit him like oxygen. For the first time all day, he felt relaxed.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, running over to embrace him. "I was so worried, dummy." She clung to him tightly, her relief bleeding into frustration. She hadn't called him "dummy" since they were kids – but somehow, it still worked.
"I'm back now," he said softly, returning her hug.
Her grip loosened.
He barely had time to exhale before her fist slammed into his gut. "And that's for coming home late," she said, a smug little smirk tugging at her lips. He doubled over with a grunt, clutching his stomach. For someone her size, she hit like a gorilla.
"Was that necessary?" he groaned, rubbing the spot where her fist landed.
She paused at the door and turned, the teasing gone from her face. "Why were you late, anyway?"
"I'll tell you on the couch," he replied, masking his unease with a grin. "But don't you think I need to sit down first? That gorilla punch nearly took out a kidney"
Her eyes lingered on him – sharp, skeptical, but faintly amused – before she rolled them and turned away. "Fine," she muttered, already heading inside. "But you'd better tell me everything." Paul allowed himself a faint smile. Same old Grace.
He followed her in, his gaze drifting to the living room. The red glow that filled the space was mesmerizing – something he hadn't appreciated the night before. Moonlight filtered through the open windows, refracting off the gemstones their parents had arranged strategically around the room. The effect was hypnotic, the light dancing and bouncing like living art.
"You coming, or what?" Grace's voice pulled him back to the present.
He nodded and joined her on the couch, where she sat cross-legged, arms resting on her knees. She left enough space for him to sit in the same position.
"Dad isn't back yet, right?" Paul asked as he sat.
"You say that like you know something I don't," she replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Only as much as you do," he said, reaching for an apple from the table.
"Then why do you sound like you know he won't come back?" she pressed.
"Intuition," he replied, his voice heavy.
Her face fell, so he quickly added, "He's probably fine. I mean, who could really hurt him?"
Grace's expression brightened slightly. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She reached over and snatched the apple from his hand before he could take a bite. After taking a bite herself, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "So, what happened outside?"
Paul told her everything—how the ghosts had vanished everywhere, the group of survivors he'd seen, and the cloaked figures.
"There are actually people still out there?" she asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and disbelief.
"With the way the cloaked figures tried to encircle them, I'm not so sure anymore," he said with a sigh.
"But you escaped, right? So couldn't they?" she pressed, her voice laced with fragile optimism.
"I don't know, Grace," he replied, then asked cautiously, "Why do you want to know?"
"Shouldn't we try to meet them?" she said eagerly.
"Grace, absolutely not." His tone was firm. "We don't know who they are or what they might want."
He leaned over and switched on the radio.
"It hasn't been working. Just static since you left—"
Her words were cut short as a voice crackled through the speakers. The transmission was faint, distorted – but unmistakable. The chilling tone sent shivers down Paul's spine. It was the same voice in the pizza house.
They exchanged a look. Her earlier enthusiasm vanished, replaced by dread.
---
"Good evening, my beloved listeners — the discarded and forgotten; the forsaken." The voice crackled through the radio, sharp and grating like nails dragged across a chalkboard. It sent an involuntary shiver down both their spines.
"It has come to the notice of… well, everyone… the state of the world now," the man continued, followed by a burst of unsettling, sadistic laughter.
Grace froze. Her left hand hovered near the radio, as though touching it might bring the voice closer.
"FYI," the man added, his tone dripping with condescension, "this broadcast is also on every TV channel. So… feel free to turn on your TVs too."
There was a pause. As if he expected his listeners to do exactly that.
"I'll give you some time to do that — if you still have a roof over your heads."
Grace instinctively looked at Paul, then at the TV set across the room. Her wide eyes asked the question without words.
"You can turn it on," he said, nodding toward the television. "Let's see what he has for us."
She hesitated, then reached for the remote on the center table. With a click, the screen came to life — and there he was.
A man. Maybe.
His beauty was unnatural, teetering between masculine and feminine. His face was flawless, his complexion glowing beneath the harsh studio lights. And yet, something about him was deeply wrong — like his perfection was a mask stretched too tightly over something monstrous.
His smile was smug and arrogant, the kind that belonged to someone who'd never been told "no." His gestures were exaggerated, his movements cartoonish. If not for the chills he sent crawling down their backs, he might have looked like a pop star — or a villain from a children's show gone horribly wrong.
"I think that should have been enough time to, you know… get ready," he said, waving dramatically before bowing like a stage actor.
Straightening, he added, "Oh, I am your Eminence — Bishop Paul Stevens — and I am the acting overseer of District C02. Formerly known as Nigeria."
He twirled, his long coat flaring like a cape. "The change may seem sudden. Even terrifying. You may all still be confused… distraught… over your missing loved ones. But one thing is certain—"
He paused, his smile widening.
"We've all been abandoned."
The words hung in the air like a curse — heavy and suffocating.
He placed a hand on his chest, his voice rising with mock despair.
"Oh, the horror! The betrayal! How my heart aches — pounding like a river mercilessly breaking against a dam!"
Then, just as quickly, he shrugged and smirked.
"But really… who cares? The hell does it matter anyway?"
He paused for effect, then added with a twisted grin:
"Get it? I said the HELL does it matter!"
He burst into laughter — high-pitched, manic, and unnerving — reverberating through the room.
Grace glanced at Paul nervously. Paul clenched his fists, trying to maintain composure.
The laughter dragged on far too long before his face abruptly shifted — serious, cold.
"The world will never be the same again," he said, voice now deliberate and slow. "We all have to play our part as the forsaken… to survive the war to come. For the first time since Babel, humanity is under the leadership of a single force. Together, we can accomplish anything."
His voice dropped to a reverent hush.
"We are the Church of the Beast. And we serve a god who will never forsake us."
His eyes glittered with malice as he leaned closer to the camera.
"Join us… or face unending suffering."
Grace inhaled sharply beside him. Paul's stomach churned. He resisted the urge to turn off the screen.
The man snapped back into his exaggerated persona.
"After all, every forsaken is a member of the Church. Desertion… will not be tolerated.
And have you seen our acolytes?"
He gestured off-screen as if something vile were lurking just beyond view.
"The men in the black hoods — you can't miss them."
Paul's heart dropped. He didn't need a description. He'd seen them. He could still feel their presence — cold and oppressive.
"You have been warned," the man said softly, menace laced through every syllable.
Then, with one last unnatural grin:
"Welcome to living hell."
The broadcast cut out. Static returned.
Grace and Paul sat in silence. The room was heavy with unspoken fear.
That smile…
Paul couldn't get it out of his head.
"What the hell was that?" Grace whispered.
"I don't know," he said, still staring at the static-filled screen. His voice was strained.
The world had changed. And this — whatever this was — was only the beginning.
…
"Paul, I'm scared," Grace whispered. Her voice trembled, barely audible over the low hiss of static that still leaked from the radio.
Me too, he thought. But saying it out loud would only stoke the flames of her fear — or so he believed.
"You're not scared? Not even in the least?" she pressed, her wide eyes searching his face. It wasn't just a question — it was a plea for permission to feel afraid.
He hesitated. The truth sat on his tongue, bitter and heavy. But instead, he defaulted to the programming their father had instilled in them like gospel.
"I understand you're scared. You have the right to be," he said at last.
But the words came out stiff — hollow. Like a line from a script.
Grace's expression darkened.
"Why do you always do that?" Her voice rose. "Even when you're clearly frightened out of your wits, you bottle it up! You act like you're the only one who can handle anything — like you don't trust the rest of us to carry anything real."
Paul felt the heat rise in his chest. He stood as she did, anger beginning to surface.
"Is it so hard to just — not be an asshole about this?" he snapped, the frustration spilling over.
"Oh, so I'm the asshole now?" she shot back, her voice cracking.
The look in her eyes stopped him cold. All at once, the anger drained from his body.
"I… I'm sorry." He sank back onto the couch, deflated. "You're right. I'm terrified."
His voice came softer now, a confession more than a statement.
"Mum's gone. I don't know if Dad's coming back. And now… this."
He stared down at his hands, clenching them on his knees as the words poured out.
"I'm just blindly following the instructions Dad left, but even then, I feel like I'm stumbling in the dark. And the worst part is... I don't even know when I'll lose you too."
Grace stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
"Feel any better?" she asked gently.
He didn't respond. Just leaned into the hug, grateful for the warmth.
She pulled back and offered a small, teasing smile. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He gave her a faint look. "Yes. Yes, it was."
Grace rolled her eyes. Dummy, she thought fondly. Her oaf of a brother wouldn't change easily. So instead, she changed the subject.
"About our situation…" she began. "I'm going with you tomorrow to scout."
Paul straightened. "Grace, no. That's not happening."
"You can't keep me locked up here forever! What if something happens while you're gone?"
"Nothing will happen. We're probably in the safest place possible," he replied — though even he wasn't sure he believed that anymore.
Grace crossed her arms. "Paul, we're both stuck in this world together. Whether you like it or not, I have to learn how to survive too. And don't forget — I'm just as good in combat as you. Dad made sure of that."
He sighed. The weight of her words settled on his shoulders like a cloak soaked in rain.
"I'll think about it," he said at last. "But for now, let's just get some sleep."
Grace gave a dramatic pout.
"Look at you," he teased, ruffling her hair. "Claiming to be a martial arts expert and still sulking like a child."
"Hey! Quit it!" she swatted his hand away, scowling — but the tension between them had lifted.
Smiling despite himself, Paul turned and started up the stairs.
Grace watched her brother's frame retreat into the shadows of the hallway, her arms folded and eyes thoughtful.
…
That particular night was cold and eerily still. No crickets chirped, no owls hooted. Just the slow, mechanical clicking of the wall clock across from Paul's bed filled the darkness, each second landing with unnatural weight.
And yet, not even the quiet could bring him peace.
His eyes were shut, but his thoughts spun relentlessly. The images from the broadcast gnawed at his mind — the Bishop's voice, the cloaked Acolytes, that unholy laughter still echoing in his head.
How are we supposed to survive in a world like this? Their supplies wouldn't last forever. The food would run out. Power, medicine, maybe even water. What happens when everything we depend on crumbles?
Sleep eluded him until the clock blinked 12:00 AM.
Once, superstition might've crept in. Folklore said this was the hour when spirits roamed free — when curses stirred and doors to dark worlds cracked open. But those old tales now felt like children's stories. Fiction compared to the horror breathing down their necks.
All he wanted now was sleep — a brief escape. But it refused him.
With a sigh, Paul got out of bed and crossed the room to the window.
At first glance, the world outside looked calm. Moonlight painted the trees in pale crimson hues. But smoke still curled into the air from the far-off ruins — a constant reminder of the city's downfall.
He thought of Cynthia, Precious, and John.
People he hadn't even had the time to worry about.
"What kind of friend am I?" he whispered to himself.
He didn't expect an answer. All he could do was hope they were safe.
Suddenly, his watch — the same one from the control room — gave a single sharp beep.
Paul's stomach clenched.
Beeping meant trouble.
Gone was the fog of exhaustion. In a heartbeat, he was racing barefoot into the control room, fingers flying across the console.
The northwest quadrant camera flickered to life.
There, on the screen — Acolytes.
Masked. Hooded. Silent.
Chasing someone.
A woman in a dark tracksuit moved like lightning across the broken terrain. She was lean and agile, the fabric of her outfit catching glimpses of the blood-red moonlight as she vaulted over rubble, scaling obstacles with raw desperation.
She was headed straight for the outer perimeter of the hideout.
Too close. Far too close.
Paul's heart pounded as he silently begged her to change direction — or even for the Acolytes to catch her before she led them here. The thought made bile rise in his throat, but survival demanded hard choices.
The woman stumbled as the Acolytes surrounded her.
Her scream — raw and piercing — filled the control room speakers and sent shivers crawling down Paul's spine.
Then something changed.
With a fierce cry, she slipped a glinting silver fan from somewhere beneath her sleeve. The weapon gleamed unnaturally in the red moonlight.
She swung hard — the fan's edge slicing the arm of the nearest Acolyte. The figure screeched, inhuman, and staggered back.
Then she hurled the fan.
It spun through the air in a graceful arc — almost alive — and in one swift motion, it severed the necks of five Acolytes.
Their heads hit the ground in eerie unison.
And as if obeying a master's call, the fan curved midair and returned to her hand.
Paul inhaled sharply. His fear was momentarily eclipsed by awe.
Who is she?
But before the thought could take root, a voice rang through the feed — deep, commanding, almost inhuman.
"Stop."
The word struck like a hammer.
The woman froze. Her muscles tensed, her breath grew shallow, but her body would not move.
Paul leaned in. The screen flickered, lines of static warping the edges of the image.
Then, he appeared.
An old man in a black cassock stepped into view, the cloth swirling around him like it moved on its own. His hair was dyed bone-white, falling to his shoulders. The very air around him shimmered — as though reality itself recoiled from his presence.
Even the camera struggled to hold his form. Distortion rippled with every movement.
But his authority was undeniable.
Paul's breath caught.
The man spoke again — not in English, but in an ancient tongue Paul recognized immediately. Their father had drilled it into them growing up. A sacred language. A dangerous one.
His words weren't for the woman. They were for the thing trailing behind him.
A demon.
Its form twisted and writhed behind the man, always just slightly out of focus. But Paul didn't need the camera to show it clearly.
He felt it.
A presence soaked in malice. One that bent the air around it like heat rising from asphalt. A walking nightmare.
The man turned to the woman, who by now was drenched in sweat.
"Oh, child," he said, his voice soft and mocking. "Why resist so much?"
The woman spat blood onto the ground, glaring. "You abandoned our faith… abandoned God… for the worship of a beast doomed to fail."
The man's eyes narrowed. "He abandoned us, not the other way around," he snapped, his calm cracking. But with effort, he composed himself. "Why continue serving a God who left you to rot?"
"I always choose the winning side," she sneered, blood trailing from her lips.
"Insolent!" the man bellowed. Then, turning to the demon, he commanded in the old tongue:
"Severus, yandu rama."
The creature lunged.
It moved with terrifying speed, blurring as it struck. Its blackened form drove straight through the woman's stomach like a spear of shadow.
She gasped, pain radiating across her face.
The man stepped forward. "You still won't give up their location?"
"Never… old fool," she hissed.
The demon paused, awaiting its master's signal.
With a slight nod, the man gave it.
The creature tore her body in half.
The sound of ripping flesh filled the room. Paul gagged, turning his face away as bile threatened to rise. He forced himself to look back as the demon gathered her remains into its arms.
She was still alive in that state. Both halves of her body writhed on the earth like worms.
"Let's go, you fools!" the man barked at the Acolytes, who — impossibly — were already reattaching their severed heads and limbs. They picked her up and became one with the shadows.
But then the man stopped.
He turned.
And for one horrifying moment, it felt like he was staring directly into the surveillance camera.
Directly at Paul.
Paul went still.
His lungs forgot to breathe. His heart threatened to stop.
One second. Two.
Then the man turned away, disappearing into the shadows without another word.
Paul sat there long after they were gone, staring at the frozen image on the screen. His body refused to move.
What did I just witness?