Excommunicated, Not Exonerated

Times Square had it the worst. Piles of barely animated corpses churned about, consuming chunks of each other's flesh in the hope that it would fill them. Such hope was pointless. Long claws had torn hunks from the walls and buildings, leaving behind marks to match. The streets were cracked, glass windows of shops and screens shattered. All the TV screens were shattered, save for one. It played the same second of footage over and over again, featuring a simple black screen and a single phrase in Latin, "Voluntas Eius Fiat".

No translation was required, but the Excommunicator did not need one. He stopped walking, and turned to face a small squad of men, each wearing the same black habit with a crimson french cross embroidered on the center, all with their hoods up and masks covering their noses and mouths. The biting cold was nothing to robes as thick as these, and the horrors of this world didn't dare come close, lest they wished for a holy blade to the throat.

"My brothers. Voluntas Eius Fiat." Was all the Excommunicator had to say.

"His will be done!" They echoed, responding in English, as they had been trained to do. The monks all spread out, a group of three heading in each cardinal direction. The snow fell silently, dusting the ground and ruins, only to be blown away by an aggressive gust of wind.

The square itself was entirely silent. Too silent. The Excommunicator believed in silent nights, but he knew that such things ceased to exist a decade ago, when the world fell from grace. He readjusted his hood and pulled it tighter around his face. The stole around his neck whipped in the gale. Something was coming his way, but he did not know what.

The Excommunicator placed his hand upon the blades hidden in his sleeves, and scanned the area again. Whatever was out there knew he was aware of it, and simply just didn't care. Ever so slowly fog began to set in, slow enough to seem natural, but sudden enough to feel unnatural.

"Come out, creature, I know you're there!" The hooded monk called out, inching the blades closer to his palms, ready to attack on a moment's notice. There was no response, save for the moaning of the corpses. The fog continued to seep into the square, now having thickened enough to cloud the Excommunicator's vision.

Suddenly, a chorus of screams echoed behind him. He whirled around in the direction of the disruption. The sound of blades striking stone, or perhaps something else, played for a while, but was quickly shut down with the final scream.

Had the senior monk not fought for as long as he had, he would have rushed to try and help his men. But now, his years of experience told him that they were too far away, and that he was too slow to achieve anything. Instead, he pulled numerous blades from his sleeves, and awaited the creature's next move.

Again, more screams echoed in the air, this time from his left. He turned to face them again, and gritted his teeth as he heard his men die. Out of desperation and curiosity, he briefly considered hurling some of his blades down the obscured path, only to let the thought die like his troops, as he knew that it would achieve nothing.

The Excommunicator sighed and crossed himself, muttering a short prayer while he did, asking for strength, or perhaps some kind of help. He knew that he had two teams left, and he now vowed to do all in his power to save them.

Deathly silence fell over the square once more, and this time, the monk would not waste it. He got to his knees, and began to pray. Miracles were rare, and he'd been taught not to rely on them outside of dire situations, but at this point in time, he felt justified.

"My lord, My God, have mercy upon your humble servant. I beg for the power to smite this monster, wherever it may be. I am a shepherd, permit me to use my rod." The monk stood up and looked around himself again. The fog was starting to fade, retreating back to wherever it had come from.

And then, the screams began again. Closer this time. He whirled to see one of his troops sprinting from the street he and his comrades had entered. The man's hood had been torn from his head, and the mask had been ripped off entirely. He was limping, seemingly from a wound on his left leg.

The Excommunicator leapt into action, dashing to help his comrade with supernatural speed. It would seem that the miracle had been granted.

"Praise be to God!" He cried as he landed behind his brother in Christ, between him and whatever had attacked him.

What stood before him, was nothing like what he had expected. No dreadful monster, in appearance at least, but just as terrifying. A tall, hooded and ragged man, who wore a long and tattered coat shambled towards him. The hood was pulled far down over his face, so he could only see the man's pale mouth and chin. There was crimson blood, his men's blood, peppered on it.

This sight made his blood boil. A man dared raise his hand against the church? The very church that was saving this world through their own agony? How sickening. Without missing a beat, the Excommunicator hurled the blades from his right hand, the holy silver blades shimmering as they sped towards the shambler at dizzying speed.

A blink later, the tattered man was… gone? The monk looked around, and upon not seeing the man anywhere around him, he looked up. The Excommunicator's eyes widened in shock as he saw the tattered man in the air, seemingly having jumped to avoid his attack. That couldn't be, could it? No man could jump five meters in the air, even with a running start… unless.

Unless this man was not a man at all. The tattered "man" gave him no time to ponder this question any further, as a malnourished and boney arm shot out of the "man's" sleeve, the inky black limb striking like nightfall.

Were the Excommunicator not empowered by a miracle, he would have died at that very second. He leapt back and narrowly dodged the dark appendage's strike, which smashed a palm shaped mark into the ground. The arm disappeared as quick as it had come, melting back into the sleeve, immediately replaced by the man's pale hand, as if it had never been there.

The Excommunicator recovered and prepared to attack again in the blink of an eye, shifting himself into a defensive stance and arming each hand with a trio of daggers.

"What in Christ's name are you?" He snarled, gripping the blades tighter and staring his lanky foe down.

The tattered man said nothing, simply reaching into his open coat and pulling out a black and silver orb. He raised it and waved it at the monk, who ever so barely flinched. The "man" saw his reaction, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips. He shook the orb again, but this time, the monk didn't respond at all. The smile, no matter how faint it was, faded.

Tense silence filled the air again, as the fog began to set back in, unknown if brought by wind or by this creature. The wind howled, and the snow swirled between them.

The orb flew towards the monk like a silver bullet, spinning silently until a fraction of a second later, when a pair of curved, silvery blades popped out with a click, each ten centimeters long. The monk weaved around the flying blade with a hiss, retaliating by hurling his blades at a foe who was no longer there.

With his miraculous eyes, the Excommunicator saw the "man" rushing at him, one arm inside his coat, the other motionless beside him. More blades popped into the holy man's hands, and he swung at the shabby creature, who produced a rough and heavy black cleaver from his coat, the weapon's serrated edge seemingly coated in some kind of black liquid, which dripped from the blade menacingly.

The black blade met silver, and shattered them as if they were glass. The monk's eyes widened in shock and sudden pain as not only did the shards of his holy blades fly at his face and cut him, but the "man" struck him in the chest with a quick punch from his left hand.

"Damn You!" The Excommunicator cried, drawing more blades and striking again, this time landing a blow on the creature's outstretched arm. The blades sunk into his flesh, and black blood seeped from the wounds, wrapping itself around the knives and squeezing them.

He let go and jumped back, poised to move again, should his foe attack again. But the "Man" made no move. Instead, he stood still, and allowed his blood to shatter the blades, which clattered to the floor harmlessly.

The blood spat the shards to the ground, and slunk back into his body, closing the skin up after it, simply leaving three small scars where he'd been cut. The Excommunicator took a deep breath, and reached into his sleeve again, aiming to arm himself with a more… effective weapon.

But only then did he feel a breeze in his habit. There was a long tear in the sleeve, and all his weapons were gone. The Excommunicator mentally cursed and immediately asked for forgiveness. When did this happen?! He looked around the area, and saw a long silver blade on the ground, next to the Tattered "Man". It must have been when he was attacked earlier. He just didn't notice it until he had a second of down time.

He reached up the other sleeve, and drew out a blade that was as long as his forearm. A small paper tag hung from the edge, a scripture inscribed on it.

"No flesh shall be spared." He said, tearing off the tag and kissing it before it burst into holy blue flames. The church equipped its soldiers with holy blades and other similar weapons, but they seemingly lacked the ability to put down monsters such as this one. And so, every commanding officer was equipped with a set of Sacramental Blades.

These blades were very powerful, each more than capable of leveling a house, or vaporizing a person. With this much power in his hands, The Excommunicator stepped forwards, engaging in a practice he would often scold his men for.

"Deus Vult!" He shouted a holy battle cry, striking at his foe with an supernaturally fast overhead swing. The monster reacted the second the sword began to swing towards him, stepping backwards and raising his gnarled cleaver to block the strike.

This time, when the black and silver blades met, the very air around them exploded! Both combatants, monk and monster alike, were blasted backwards like a cannonball.

The Excommunicator landed awkwardly, with one foot and one knee on the ground, as if genuflecting. The Tattered "Man" landed on both feet, the concrete beneath his feet cracking from the force with which he landed.

The Sacramental Blade was cracked, a bright white light leaked from the cracks. Such power was difficult to contain, even in a metal as holy as silver. The Excommunicator got up again, and uttered another prayer, one of safety for his troops. Perhaps they could make it to safety.

The Tattered "Man" sighed and put his cleaver away, sheathing it inside his coat. It then stared at the monk, seemingly curious as to what he would do. The Monk's grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles were white. His eyes fell on his other Sacramental Blade, that lay on the ground, perhaps a dozen meters from where he was now.

Within the blink of an eye, the sword was gone, yanked towards the Tattered "Man" with such speed that even the monk's miraculous eyes barely noticed it. A black tendril slithered back into the man's coat, depositing the sword in his hand. He waved it at the Excommunicator, who shouted and rushed forwards, his blade poised to strike through the monster.

But the blade would do no such thing, as a barrage of tendrils blasted from the creature's coat, skewering the monk all over his body.

The Excommunicator fell to the ground, having failed to even get within striking range of this monster. What kind of creature could overpower a miracle? He shuddered at the thought of his brothers having to face this thing.

"God… will not… have mercy… on you… sinner." The Excommunicator gurgled, doing his best to condemn his killer.

The Sinner said nothing in response, simply dropping the other Sacramental Blade onto the monk's and walking away. The force of the collision caused the swords to detonate, bathing the dying man in white light, vaporizing him entirely.

The fog lifted, and the snow stopped. The corpses began to moan again, only to be joined by the screams of the remaining soldiers.

The Excommunicator had failed.