Brotherly Love

New York City was in ruins. Most tall buildings lay fragmented on the ground, and those that still stood were abandoned and ready to fall, cracks webbing the foundation and chunks of concrete had been simply ripped away from the walls, by time and by war. The streets were mostly silent, save for the odd screams of some poor lost soul, or the moans of a damned walking corpse that searched eternally for some respite from its eternal hunger and thirst. Black clouds hung heavy in the sky, alternating between raining and spewing snow. A deathly frozen wind blew through the city, bringing frost and vengeful tearing zephyrs upon all in its path.

However, a few buildings still stood, most notably, a cathedral atop a hill, untouched by the apocalyptic calamity that raged around it. A great steeple pierced the heavens and split the clouds, allowing thin beams of sunlight to shine upon the starved and frozen world beneath, wreathing the church in light, and two dreary belfries stood alongside it, equal to one another, but not to the steeple. No ash touched this building, a thin blanket of snow glistening in its halo.

Flying buttresses connected the three towers, and great stained glass windows were contained by numerous arches. The church was made entirely of white marble. Each tower and corner of the building displayed a french cross.

A sorrowful statue of Saint Sebastian depicting his brutal demise stood on one side of the door, with Saint Cassian of Imola on the other. Both look down upon any passers by with great sorrow, as if they knew something like this was going to happen.

Above the doors, was an inscription in latin, the words "Eius Passio Est Nostra Absolutio" were carved into the marble. The translation was provided beneath it, reading "His Suffering is Our Absolution".

Finally, a dozen statues sat upon the edge of the roof, stone men huddled in a ball, wings wrapped around their bodies, as if to keep them safe from the cold. They covered their eyes with their hands, as if crying for the lost souls doubtlessly churning throughout the city.

A staggering man struggled up the hill and slammed his broken and frostbitten hands against the great doors. He was heavy set, his clothes were torn and his skin was swollen and red from the cold. Snow and frost clung to him like armor. He screamed and pounded, begging to be given sanctuary. The building's doors were vast oak things, with depictions with the life of Christ carved into it, with great focus being brought to his painful sacrifice.

"Let me in! I'm dying out here!" He shouted, desperation clearly echoing in his voice. The church was silent. The wind howled behind him, hiding the approach of a shambling dead man.

"Please! It's freezing…" The man's voice trailed off. He knew they weren't going to open the doors. Why would they? He was just another frost bitten victim of this calamity, just as much on death's door as he was on theirs. He'd never been a religious man to begin with. No one in their right minds would open the doors to a lost cause like him. He sighed and turned around, and screamed as the walking corpse grabbed him by the throat, digging its rotten fingers into his frozen flesh.

It squeezed harder, silencing him within a second. His skin split like a seam, hot blood spurting from the wound. He gurgled out an agonizing cry, one that not even a crushed windpipe could hold back. The corpse twisted his wrist, and snapped the man's neck with such force that the head came with it. It began to devour the head, lapping up the blood as a beverage. Once all the easily accessible meat was gone, it began to work on the body, devouring as fast as it could.

The saints stared down at the gruesome fate of the man, and began to cry, tears leaking from their stone eye sockets, only to freeze shortly after touching the air.

Within the church, a priest stood at the pulpit, preaching to the congregation. He was a rather large man, with rapidly thinning hair and a kind smile. He wore a pair of rounded glasses, and his piercing emerald gaze captivated his congregation like no other.

"Brothers and Sisters, when you hear the cries of one in need, do you not help them? Is it not our duty as children of Christ to express good will to our fellows? Especially in our world now, with what is most likely the end of times upon us, should we not be more vigilant to those less fortunate than ourselves, now more than ever? Remember, your lives here are less than a blink of the eye to our savior, whose suffering saved us. What did we do with it? We threw it back in his face! Murder, wars, abuse, lies and sins so depraved I cannot mention them in this building! But he is ever merciful. He's given us a chance, a chance to be saved again, but this time we must take our fair share of the punishment mankind has earned!"

He paused, and surveyed the crowd. They hung on his every word, waiting with baited breath for his next sentence. The priest smiled, and pulled a long knife with a jewel encrusted hilt from a sheath hidden by his chasuble. He held it high, its great, curved blade shimmering in the candle light.

"Those willing to carry out our savior's wishes, come forward.-" He gestured to two altar boys with his other hand, and they scurried off and returned quickly, wheeling a great golden basin on an ornamental cart between them.

"-As Christ spilled his blood, you shall as well. Don't worry my lambs, we simply need a few drops from each of you to offer to him." The priest came down from the pulpit, and pressed the knife to his palm over the basin, and cut a gash in his palm with surgical precision. He then squeezed his hand over the basin, letting his crimson blood pour into it and splatter against the bottom. This sound broke the mounting silence that had been growing since he stepped up to the basin.

Every single person in the congregation, be they man, woman or child lined up to spill a drop of blood for Christ. There was a quick cut, and a small trickle of blood for all five hundred people in that chapel. By the time they'd all returned to their seats, the basin was a quarter full.

The priest stood over it and mumbled something under his breath, perhaps a prayer or a blessing, and then cut his hand again, and dripped blood into the basin, moving his hand in the shape of a cross, still muttering under his breath.

He gestured towards the altar boys again, and they took the basin and wheeled it away, back to the dark room it came from. He climbed back onto the pulpit and laid the bloody knife on the surface.

"I am your shepherd, and you are my herd. Follow me, and I will not lead you astray. Go in peace." The priest said, dismissing the congregation, all of whom rose and left the room with robotic precision, going to their different quarters.

The priest crossed himself, and turned to the altar and genuflected before it, offering up a small prayer to the giant cross that was mounted above him, a metal effigy of the Son grafted to it. The priest left the chapel, following the basin into the dark room. He shut the door behind him, failing to hear the sound of a single drop of liquid splattering on the floor.

The Son was crying bloody tears.