This story was written in response to a writing prompt on r/writingprompts.
The writing prompt was:
When the Allen’s came, they swept our millitaries aside. What finally drove them away was the fact that their attack interfered with a secret war between countless cults across the world, cults who’s God’s were very real.
The ‘stone circle’ is made of the ruins of London’s square mile. It has been assembled outside the ruins of the Bank of England. Twelve pieces of rubble make the circle. Shard of glass, beams of steel, blocks of concrete. The five disciples drag the hog-tied alien to the centre. Four of them back away and one of them pulls out a long, ceremonial knife.
“No,” I say, emerging from behind a block of rubble. They are loyal but tired. They are making mistakes. Since the invasion they have seen things that they never expected to see.
“Who the fuck are you?” asks the one with the knife. I pull down my hood and he sees the markings on my skull. They match the markings on the belly of his knife. He kneels, weeping, exhausted. He as served me well and now is a time for mercy.
“Rise, child.” He stands but does not meet my eyes.
I move closer to the alien. Thin, frail, grey, weak and naked. A single member of his hive. Useless and alone. Afraid, but not afraid enough.
“Cover your ears,” I tell my followers. I hold a hand over the alien and it screeches its piercing, warbling, hive call. Others will now come, the hive call will compel them.
In only minutes a clean, white, pill-shaped ship comes over the horizon. It lowers until it is hovering only a meter above the ground outside the stone circle. It waits. I make the alien scream again. Four more aliens materialise in the stone circle. I smirk.
They speak with disgusting, wet, clicking sounds. Trying to tell me they just want to leave. But it’s too late. There must be vengeance for the followers or the religions will fall.
“Leave then,” I bellow, holding my hand above the hostage, torturing it further. But they won’t leave without all of their hive. They can’t leave until they recover it or know it’s dead.
One of them unleashes an attack scream. My followers fall to the ground, holding their ears. They will be deaf and traumatised now. The scream stops. The wet, clicking starts again. They are arguing while my children are writhing. Now vengeance.
I decide that the aliens should sink into the ground to their neck and the concrete obeys me, it swallow them. I take the ceremonial knife and slice their vocal chords, then I tend to my followers.
One at a time I place my hands over their ears and make the pain fade away. But the trauma and the visions will stay with them. I will tell them the visions are prophecies and that the Gods must sometimes appear as nightmares. They will hold positions of power in the cult, even if they lose the power of their minds.
“I must bring more,” I tell them, “there are still many here.” The followers nod and brace themselves again. I place my hand over the hostage and it screams.