Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

340 :: JOHN R. MABRY
But Terry had already seen, and his crowbar slipped from
his hand to the floor with a ringing clang that guaranteed
they would not escape detection.
One by one, the others disobeyed Richard’s instruction,
stepping out around the corner and halting, either dropping
their jaws, wetting themselves, or both.
Richard felt his flesh crawl under his cassock. The temperature
had fallen to below zero, and breath issued forth
from his mouth in a frosty haze that obscured the terrible
scene before him.
He blinked and struggled to take it in. The massive dining
room, which could easily accommodate nearly a hundred
diners, was filled to standing capacity with a grand assortment
of demonic hosts.
Moving his eyes from left to right, he took them in: Brush
demons, with their sandy, scaly skin, flicking their tongues,
observing him with their multiple stalked eyes; Howler
demons, like a host of tall explosions frozen in time, leering
down at him and screaming; Painter demons, capable of
shooting streams of inky blue poison hundreds of feet from
glands on their gilled necks; Gunthers, diminutive imps that
were about as intelligent as dogs, but far more antisocial and
dangerous, named for the 18th century German occultist
that had first summoned them from the pit and set them
loose upon the world of men. These and many other species
too numerous to catalog, faced him, barring his entrance to
the Great Hall, heralding the end of his sad, sorry struggle to
survive.
“Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner...” Richard
began, as the front line of the demonic horde, composed
mainly of Howlers, began to close the meager yards that separated
them.
Richard, panicked, spun his head to one side and then the
other, looking for an exit. He could always turn and run