In less than half an hour, the entire bunker was evacuated. The alarm blared wildly, repeating itself and echoing throughout the structure in an extremely grating and disturbing way.
People immediately rushed toward the elevators—the very ones they had prayed to reach in order to save themselves. The crowd formed again. Where before people desperately tried to get inside the shelter, now they were trying to get out, because they had been deceived.
There was no salvation in that place. There never had been. The truth was, the people inside already knew it. They wanted to deceive themselves, to self-sabotage just to stop feeling fear. It didn't work. And yet, they all kept doing it.
A young girl stood apart from the others. She leaned against the filthy, mold-covered wall, sitting on the ground with her head resting on her raised knees. She hugged her legs tightly. Her head, pressed against the fabric of her pants, kept soaking them with tears without pause. Her sobs cut through the noise of the desperate crowd like blades, a crowd desperate to live. She, instead, was accepting her fate.
In her right hand, she held a crucifix, its lower end touching and trembling slightly against her leg with every sob, almost scraping against the fabric. The crucifix was fairly large. In contrast with the dark wood of the cross, Christ was entirely white, marble-like—pure, eternally illuminated in the dark chaos of the Earth.
"My Lord… I don't want to die. I want to go back to my daughter, please…"
Every word she spoke was broken by faint breaths, obstructed by the mucus clogging her nostrils. Her eyes were warm and red, completely soaked, along with strands of blonde hair that had fallen into her face.
Near the center of the room stood a man. Age had condemned him to look about twenty years older than he really was. With cracked, wrinkled eyes, he stared in terror at the mass of people before him.
"Dogs… you're all just dogs," his voice trembled. Pure rage toward those seeking salvation could be felt in it. His fists were clenched inside the warm pockets of his jacket. He was almost shaking, as if an earthquake were tearing through him from the inside. His eyes were glossy, the veins inside them swollen and pulsing, red as fire.
"What do you think you're doing?! Do you really think you'll find salvation? There is no salvation, just as there is no God…"
Despite his fury, he spoke with a disturbing clarity.
"True salvation is not of this world. We live knowing we've been abandoned, and we preach false rituals just to satisfy our need to feel falsely happy. The truth is, happiness doesn't exist. We are conditioned to feel it so we don't notice the death looming over us every day. We are distorted so we won't suffer. And yet… I am suffering. I suffer more than you dogs, desperate and hopeful for a bright future that will never come… you disgust me."
The man slowly turned toward the crying girl. Amid the desperate, loud crowd, he could hear her prayers—and they disgusted him. His enraged expression, his bulging eyes, the sweat, the drool slipping past his clenched teeth—this was only the beginning. He was already moving toward her, his steps heavy and fast.
She heard those steps. Lifting her gaze, she was terrified by the horrifying expression on the man's face, no different from a monster at that moment. His eyes were white, stained only by tiny black pupils like dots, and his smile was grotesque—mad, unconscious, filled with hatred.
The man snatched the crucifix from her hands, ripping it away and scratching her brutally with its edges, causing her immediate, intense pain.
He wasted no time throwing it to the ground, shattering the figure of Christ into a thousand pieces that scattered like bullets in every direction. The sight froze the girl. She stared in terror and sorrow at the cracked face of Christ on the ground, like a tear, as if it were looking directly at her.
"What's wrong?! Don't feel safe anymore?!" the man said, his tone mocking and clearly unhinged. "What was that statue supposed to do, huh? Come to life?!"
The girl remained silent.
Then she bowed her head again, returning to prayer. Even though she could no longer see him, she didn't avert her focus from him.
She began to pray—for the man's salvation, and for the forgiveness of his actions and his soul.
"Shut up, you bitch!" the man screamed, kicking her in the face and knocking out two of her front teeth, which hit the ground along with the blood that followed.
People turned to look. At first, no one did anything.
The girl trembled in pain, slumped against the wall. She made small sounds, like a frightened child, trying to close herself off to avoid looking the monster in the eyes.
After a few seconds, she began praying again.
"…Take into Your arms this suffering soul, clouded by the hands of Evil…"
"I told you to shut up!" the man grew even angrier. He began kicking her harder and harder, aiming at her face, which broke and deformed under the blows, spilling blood that stained his clothes.
The girl kept praying. Kick after kick. Wound after wound. Crying, suffering, under the eyes of those who had no courage to act. Every drop of blood was accompanied by a tear mixing into it. Every broken bone was accompanied by a more intense prayer, louder despite her fading voice.
"Now you've really pissed me off!"
The man roared like a beast, pulling out the gun he had been holding in his jacket the whole time. He immediately aimed it at the girl, who felt the cold metal against her skin, contrasting with the heat of the bullet that would soon pierce her skull. She kept praying. Her hands, broken but still clasped tighter than before, were the only strength she had left.
"Since you worship your God so much… give Him my regards."
He pulled the trigger. Not just once. A rain of bullets tore through every part of the girl's body, riddling her with holes as blood sprayed like waterfalls, splashing back onto the man, who watched the scene with satisfaction.
"So this is the true value of life?"
Then he continued kicking her. Harder. Again and again. He aimed for her head—there, he felt the most satisfaction. Each kick stronger than the last. Her face was completely destroyed. Her nose twisted and pouring blood, her cheeks torn and swollen, her lips split and ruined, her eyes—once blue—now gone.
The girl had died with the first shot. But it wasn't enough for him.
Not even after he finished beating the corpse did he feel satisfied. Instead, he was terrified. In an instant, his vision changed completely.
Still holding the smoking gun, he felt it more than anything else around him.
"What have I done…?"
He looked around slowly. No one spoke. Yet the silence was heavy. He could hear the girl still praying—but she wasn't asking for salvation. She was condemning him.
She stood up.
She approached him slowly, speaking words more abominable than his own actions. Graceful movements—slow, almost dancing—yet grotesque, unnatural.
Something that should not have existed, nor even been conceived. Yet, that was what the man's mind had become. It was dead.
His soul was the last on Earth. The first in Hell. The eternal promise of an inner destruction, made of a fragile chaos that reached out with its hand toward the golden light of the heavens, only to tear it apart in order to feel superior. Man was chaos. Man was the true monster.
The girl was not a monster. She was a condemnation. The rightful punishment for a corrupted soul, tormented by the madness that the light imposed upon it, forcing it to suffer every second of its infinite existence in a place of total solitude and decay.
All of this was symbolized by the embrace the girl gave to the man.
"I hope my daughter never learns of your existence."
By now, the man was completely gone. His screams had been silenced.
In a short time, he found himself beneath the gaze of Christ. He wanted forgiveness. He demanded salvation.
He did not deserve it. Or perhaps he did?
A shadow wrapped around him like a warm sheet. His mind would never find peace again. Perhaps it had never truly wanted to. In torment, he had made his home. He was aware that he was sick, and he preferred it that way. He was content with being twisted. He felt free from the falseness of order.
And so why was he afraid? Why did he fear the voices in his head? Or the girl, who, in his mind, continued to embrace him gently while filling him with heavy insults? Or the judgment of someone whose existence he didn't even believe in?
Why did he fear all of this? Why, in that very moment, was he afraid?
No one would ever know. With the last bullet in the gun, he blew himself apart. The final shot for the last good soul. Now, Hell truly began.
"This is a war without victory…" were his final whispered words.