The engine sputtered one last time. A dry, painful cough that echoed through the silence of the night. The Humvee lurched and stopped, the vibrations fading as the vehicle came to a halt. I was out of gas.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, my fingers still gripping it. My palms were sweaty. My heart raced, but not with urgency—just the kind of dread you feel when you know something is coming, and you can't stop it. The road had ended. The gas had ended.
I had no more choices.
My eyes drifted to the horizon. Far in the distance, there was a silhouette. A church, stark against the fading sky. It stood alone, dark and ominous in the dying light. Its steeple cut through the clouds like a spear, and something about it felt… inevitable.
I didn't know how I knew, but I did. I was drawn to it. My legs felt like they were made of lead, but they carried me toward it anyway. One step, then another, and before I knew it, I was at the door.
It creaked open, slow and heavy, and the scent of stale incense and old wood filled the air. Inside, it was quiet—eerily quiet. The church was bathed in a soft, unnatural light that seemed to emanate from the dome above. It pulsed, almost like a heartbeat, casting strange, elongated shadows that twisted across the stone floors.
I didn't know why I was here, or what I was meant to do. My feet moved on their own. I crossed the threshold, stepping into the light at the center of the room.
And then, the first trumpet blared.
It wasn't like the sound of any instrument I'd ever heard. It was a blast so loud, it shook my bones. It wasn't just noise—it was force. The sound of it rattled my skull, deafened my senses, and for a moment, I thought I might collapse from the sheer weight of it.
I stumbled backward, gasping for breath. My eyes darted around the room, trying to find something to hold onto. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.
Then I saw it. The small plant in the corner, barely noticeable before, now began to smolder. At first, a wisp of smoke curled upward, then—without warning—it erupted into flames, the heat radiating across the room, intensifying as it burned. The plant withered, consumed by the fire, and in seconds, there was nothing left but ash.
The trumpet's sound faded, but the air felt thick with the echo of it.
And then, another sound.
The second trumpet.
This time, the ground beneath me trembled. At first, it was just a slight quiver, but then the tremors grew stronger, as though the earth itself were shaking. I reached out, grabbing onto one of the pews for balance.
Water began to fall from the ceiling. But this wasn't rain. It wasn't clear. The water was… red. It poured down in thick, steady streams, splattering against the stone floors and pooling in the corners. Blood.
I stared, transfixed, my heart racing in my chest. The metallic scent was overwhelming. The blood flooded the church, soaking into the cracks in the floor, and all I could do was stand there, paralyzed by the terror I felt.
The trumpet blared again. The third time, and the earth trembled again, but this time I felt something else—a drop of the blood from the ceiling fell into my mouth. I instinctively jerked my head back, but it was too late.
The taste was unbearable. Bitter. Like copper, like iron. Like the taste of death itself.
I spat, but it was useless. The taste lingered, coating my tongue, burning the back of my throat.
A fourth trumpet sounded. This time, the sky above darkened.
I looked up, but it wasn't nightfall. It wasn't natural. The sun above was covered—not by clouds, but by the moon. Slowly, the moon slid in front of the sun, blocking its light and plunging the world into an unnatural darkness. The temperature dropped rapidly. I could feel the cold seeping into my skin, into my very bones.
Everything went black.
And then, as if summoned by the darkness itself, creatures began to stir outside the church windows. Twisted things. Shadowy figures that seemed to rise from the ground, their forms grotesque, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark. They moved toward the church, their steps deliberate, hungry.
The fifth trumpet echoed through the room.
This time, the sound was less like a trumpet and more like the beginning of a storm. The ground shook beneath me, and I looked down at the cracks that had appeared in the floor. More creatures. More shadows.
God's soldiers.
I saw them in the distance, moving with purpose. Tall, imposing figures cloaked in light, their eyes burning with a fury that sent a shiver down my spine. They marched across the earth, their steps steady and sure, their power undeniable.
I ducked behind a pew, trying to hide from their gaze. I had no weapons. No way to fight them. No way to survive. But there was nowhere to run.
And then came the sixth trumpet.
The light in the room flickered, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Time slowed.
And then a voice rang out, clear and cold, filling the church.
"The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Messiah, and He will reign forever and ever."
The words reverberated in my skull, in my chest, in the very air around me. The weight of them settled like a shroud over everything.
And then I blinked.
When I opened my eyes, he was there.
Uriel.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. His presence filled the room, filled the space, filled my very soul. His wings, vast and radiant, spread out behind him, casting a shadow over everything. His eyes were cold—too cold. There was no warmth in them. Just judgment.
I wanted to scream, to run, but I couldn't. My legs wouldn't work. My voice was caught in my throat.
And then, Uriel spoke. His voice was a low rumble, like thunder rolling over the horizon.
"John," he said, his gaze never leaving mine. "You know why you're here."
I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. His eyes bored into me, searching, judging.
"You've run," he continued, "You've hidden from your fate, from the responsibility that has been thrust upon you. You've rejected it time and time again. But you cannot escape it. None of us can. Your pride—your refusal to accept what you are—has led you here. To this moment."
I wanted to shout. I wanted to say something, anything, to deny it. But the words stuck in my throat, and all I could do was stand there, trembling.
"The last chosen one," Uriel said softly, his voice cutting through the air like a knife, "died because of his pride. You… You will not be the next. I will not let it happen again."
"I won't!" I finally found my voice, the words spilling out, raw and desperate. "I won't let you do this. I won't—"
"You have no choice, John," Uriel interrupted, his voice booming, shaking the very air around us. "The world ends, and so must you. You've made your choice, and now you must face it."
I backed away, my legs shaking beneath me. "No, please. Not like this. I didn't choose this. I never did."
Uriel's expression remained unchanged. "You never chose it, but you are it. The chosen one. The fate you've tried to run from is here. And now you will pay the price for your pride."
I fell to my knees, unable to look at him anymore. I didn't want to face it. Didn't want to face him. But there was no escaping it. I could feel the weight of the lance in the air, the inevitable conclusion drawing nearer.
And then it happened. Uriel raised his hand, and the Holy Lance appeared. The cold steel gleamed in the light, and I knew—I knew this was the end.
I opened my mouth to scream, to beg, but the words were gone.
And with one swift motion, Uriel thrust the lance into my chest.
The pain was unbearable. It was like the entire world was collapsing into my body. My vision blurred. My chest burned with the fire of judgment. I gasped, my hands reaching for the wound, but it was no use. The darkness swallowed me whole.
And then, everything went black.
THE END