"I'm bored."
"So?"
"So? Let's do something..."
Sigh, "I saw the Princes are at it again."
"Ugggghh... Something different!"
"No no... it's Xelebub and Krath'zenor. I haven't seen those two go at it in.."
"Half a millennia. Seriously, it's been 500 years. And again, 500 years before that. It's not exciting, it's routine!"
"Oh come now darling, they have a pair of very impressive champions prepared to bash it out on the Field."
Waving her class dismissively, she retorts, "I really could not even begin to care. I've seen it literally a thousand times."
"Well then what would you like? Surely you wouldn't debase yourself so much as to bring something up here to do personally."
She gives another deep sigh and a frustrated growl, "No no No NO! I just want something new! Something different! How many times must we sit and pretend to enjoy watching the same xorlings bash each other's brains out before we admit this repetition is absolutely awful?"
"Come now dear, what would you rather do? Care to go plane hopping again? Rumors have it the waters of Slugbed are lovely this time of year."
Her snarl would send shivers down the spine of the hardiest kin, "You can't just buy me off with a trip to the beach once a year! I've been there! A hundred times! It's no different than it's ever been!"
"Well then what do you want to do darling?"
She gives it a thoughtful sigh, tapping a blackened claw on a yellowed tusk, giving the question a moment's pause, "You know, we haven't seen an incursion in some time…"
His mouth gaps open, clearly shocked at the suggestion, "You can't be serious!"
"Why not?"
"Come now sister! You know good and well why not! Pazunia is still uninhabitable since it was flooded with holy water, and the leaks spread nearly everywhere!"
"So?"
"So?! SO!? Are you listening to yourself?!"
"Of course I am. Pazunia is still traversal. It's merely uncomfortable."
"For us, of course! The rest would not fare so well - you know this!"
"I don't care. At least it would be interesting."
"Interesting?! You would risk the loss of another plane just because you're bored?"
She rests her charred black chin on the palm of her claw and fixes her brother with a deadpan stare, "In a heartbeat."
Elsewhere in the cosmos...
In a small town wedged in the gut of the Bible Belt, an old man and his wife enjoy another quiet morning routine. Yellow trim surrounds aging tan tile in her kitchen where she does dishes and prepares dinner while her not-quite-ninety-year-old husband sits on their porch swing and sips on his wife's "world famous iced sweet tea" - or more accurately, his daily contribution to a worsening case of undiagnosed diabetes. The weather is hot, typical of an Indiana summer, yet pleasant enough that he can enjoy the warm breeze wafting across his porch.
He doesn't notice the creaking of wood from his barn because it sounds an awful lot like his old swing. Might need to oil that chain soon though.
He doesn't notice the small pile of dirt slowly pushing the old red building upward, tossing the tools from the wall into messy heaps on the dirt floor. She ought to be more careful clanking those dishes around; might scratch the good plates.
He doesn't notice the slight rumble underfoot since he just uses his toes to push himself gently back and forth, but she does as she lets out a shriek as her favorite casserole dish jumps off the top shelf of her antique cabinet her mother left her and shatters on the hardwood floor, followed by a few other personally priceless pieces of glassware.
The old man groans to his feet unsteadily as ever, calling for his wife and asking with a mix of sarcasm and concern, "My lord, hon! What happened this time?" She fell a couple years back and broke a hip, and he didn't want to see her go through that mess again. Hobbling across the painted blue porch, he idly notes that he ought to have his grandson stop by and fix those loose boards as his four-tennis-balled walking cane catches on a few spots again.
By the time he manages to get the screen door open and clamber through, she's already got the big pieces picked up and is working on sweeping the small bits into a pile. "I don't know what happened," she began. "I was just putting the roast in and mother's old Cuisinart jumped right off the shelf."
"Well," He stops for a moment, slowly contemplating what might've caused something like that to happen, figuring it might be a rodent again, but that would be an awful big mouse, when a dark figure takes shape in the drapes behind his wife. She notices his sudden look of confusion past her and turns in time to discover the source of most of her God-fearing habits as it smashes through the window over the sink and quickly tries to crawl through the too-small gap.
The demonic creature on the other side probably had a name once, most of them did anyway, but it now no longer remembers - however, those that rule it's kind refer to them as dretches. They are entirely worthless creatures, right at the bottom of the food chain as far as the heirarchy of the Abyss is concerned. However, to a poor old woman standing in her kitchen with little more than a block of chef's knives at her defense, they are easily the most horrifying thing she's ever seen in her nine decades of existence.
The old man, however, has seen plenty of monsters before. Not real monsters, mind you, but more than enough monsters in men, and it takes a little more than a split second for the adrenaline to start pumping through his veins, kicking old army muscle memory into gear. He immediately recalls there is a double barrel shotgun next to the front door, no more than six inches from his hand. He knows it's loaded with a pair of slugs, just in case, and a handful of spare shells are kept in the basket on the shelf right above the coat pegs.
With reaction times that belie his age, a burst of fire and smoke fills the room, temporarily blinding and deafening both its occupants, while the two chunks of metal slug rip through the atmosphere between the soldier and his target. Bright green ichor splashes the wall as the arm is torn from its shoulder, followed instantly by a second burst of lime colored blood behind, where the late-arriving shell delivers it's payload directly to the front of the demon's skull, exploding out the back, and wedging itself in the tall wood post that makes up one end of the clothesline outside.
Fumbling with the catch, he pops the chambers open and reloads from the basket, before hobbling forward at the ready, his cane utterly forgotten in the process. The arm rests on his wife's countertop like a butcher preparing a gruesome meal. The slug smashed half a dozen tiles after slicing through the muscle and bone, punching a hole clean through the wall behind. The man's wife's hands cover her mouth as she stands frozen in terror in the middle of her kitchen.
"Betty... Betty!" She finally breaks from her shock long enough to register his unusually calm and confident voice. "Call nine-one-one, honey." Her muscles struggle to react, but she manages to move enough to grab the old, corded receiver hanging on the wall and punch in the digits with numb fingers.
Elsewhere in the cosmos...
Operator: "Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
Caller: "Oh, hello? We, oh my goodness, we were just attacked!"
Operator: "What happened?"
Caller: "Oh god, Earl, there's blood everywhere!" quieter, male voice "Talk to the people on the phone Betty, I've got this under control."
Operator: "Ma'am, can you tell me what happened? Is the attacker still there?"
Caller: "Yes, Earl, he, he, he just shot it. The arm is off! I think it's dead outside."
Operator: "It? Were you attacked by some kind of an animal, ma'am? Do we need to send animal control?"
Caller: "Yes, well, no, I don't know! I, I've never seen it before! Oh my window, oh god!" other male voice "Betty, get the police out here!" female voice "Can, can you send the sheriff, please?"
Operator: "Yes ma'am, police units have been dispatched. Has anyone other than the animal been injured?"
Caller: "No, no just the... Oh god, Earl! Look outside! There's more outside Earl!" male voice, louder "Damnit, what the hell?!" gunshot, gunshot, female screams
Operator: "Ma'am! Ma'am! Stay with me ma'am, police are on the way!"
Caller: gunshot, window crashing, receiver hitting the floor with a clatter, wood breaking, gunshot, another scream
Operator: "Ma'am! Are you still there! Stay with me ma'am!"
Caller: male voice "Die you bastards!" another window shatters, female scream, two more gunshots "Betty? Nooo!" two more gunshots, male scream, unknown growl
Operator: "Hello? Ma'am? Ma'am? Sir? Hello?"
Caller: unknown growl
Operator: "Hello?"
Caller: unknown growl, call disconnects
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
The Dutton house wasn't in nearly the condition it was the last time Bill had been out there some ten years back, but the sheriff wasn't one to judge. The gutters were drooping precariously, the place could use a power wash and repainting to get rid of that annoying green mold that was everywhere, and the couple of big dogs lying around weren't helping appearances in the least as he reached the end of the half-mile gravel driveway between a pair of tall cornfields. The old red Chevy pickup Earl drove looked like it had a window busted out, one of the clothesline masts was broken in the middle and leaning off to one side, and frankly it looked like the big red barn the old man was once so proud that he had built by hand was about to fall down.
Apparently, about ten minutes ago, Earl's wife Betty had called in saying there was some kind of animal outside, and the sheriff had been right down the road, so he took the call. Dispatch said the old man had managed to shoot one of them in the shoulder, but they were still harassing the couple when the call disconnected. Now, Bill had seen his fair share of animal complaints. You never know when you're going to come up on someone with a poorly trained Pit Bull or Saint Bernard or, God forbid, managing to get themselves an actual wolf or tiger and let it get loose. Based on Dispatch's report, the Duttons were pretty worked up when the call dropped, but Bill knew the old couple were both getting up there in the years, so he had suggested that the hospital send over an ambulance just in case.
As he pulls up, Bill radios dispatch and reports his arrival. He mentally notes the dogs outside weren't moving, assuming they were possibly the target of the Dutton's frustrations. Wild dogs weren't tremendously common in central Indiana, but it happened. Coyotes were the most frequent issue of farmers and country folk when it came to wild dogs. They liked to run off with chickens and cats and small dogs and the like. Definitely wasn't unheard of, but these pups didn't look like coyotes. Hell, if anything, they looked like the size of small horses and had fur that was black as night.
Looking past the obvious distractions, Bill notices the screen door is closed, but the middle bar is snapped inward, and the screen has been ripped from top to bottom - not something an intruder would do, but certainly within the realm of possibilities of a large, aggressive animal. The sheriff steps out of his car with his pistol drawn and gives a loud shout out,
"Hey Mister and Misses Dutton!"
The lack of response sends an unwelcome chill down his spine as climbs out of his gold SUV and approaches the nearest 'animal'.
"Earl! Betty! You alright in there?" he shouts again.
He examines a creature as he passes, quickly coming to the conclusion these were no normal dogs or even animals he knew of for that matter. Frankly, they looked like a mix between an ape and a snake and a... he didn't even know. Their exceedingly fat, primate-like bodies were covered in ashen black fur, but where skin should have been, small black scales covered every inch instead. The teeth were all wrong too - dozens of sharp fangs stuck out at seemingly random angles and protruded from both the top and the bottom of the mouth. Each of the things were still oozing bright green blood from significant gunshot wounds.
Quickly radioing in what he could of the situation, he continues up onto the porch, noting the deep claw marks all over the blue painted porch floor and walls. He steps over another corpse, the floorboards visible through the gaping hole in its torso.
"Hello?" he shouts again, "This is the police! I'm coming in!"
It was the smell that hit him first - burnt flesh, one of those you never really forget - filled the air and nearly choked him. The scene in the entry hallway matched the odor that permeated his nose. What was left of the house was filled with an uncomfortable silence aside from the occasional drip drip drip of oozing green goop. Two more of the creatures - he still didn't know what to call them - were splattered against one wall, opposite the entrance into the mess in the dining room. Inside, more of the creatures had been killed, their bodies sprayed against whatever surface was behind them at the time.
It looked like the Dutton's put up one hell of a fight when he finally came across the elderly pair in the middle of the kitchen. Earl - Mister Dutton - was resting against one counter, eyes closed, sweat drenching his wrinkled face and red cardigan, with a very pale Mrs. Dutton on his chest. Her wounds were... extensive, and a trail of blood led from one of the corpses to the old man's lap. Next to the pair rested his apparent weapon of choice - a double barreled shotgun - its breech open and empty shells scattered all over the floor, as well as an old Colt revolver.
Four more of the creatures lay in a heap within a couple feet of the pair, two more limply blocking the windows, wounds to what was left of their skulls telling a dramatic story of what clearly happened only a few minutes before he entered the house. The corded wall phone still hung from its receiver; its handset smashed into a hundred pieces on the other side of the room.
"Dispatch, its Bill up at the Dutton's place. This one is definitely over all our pay grades."
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
"So, I see your little adventure went well..."
"Of course it did. The dretches made a perfectly adequate bridge through the floodwaters to the Prime. Even now the spawn are constructing something more permanent over their bodies."
"Indeed. Have the Princes been made aware?"
"Not yet, but I doubt it will take them long to find out."
"And what of the other side? I heard a clawful of the dretches actually made it through. Those stick wielding neanderthals will die in droves as soon as the kin find one of their tribes."
"We shall see. I expect my scryers to provide visibility soon."
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
Two more local police cruisers pulled up, bringing the total now to seven cruisers and an ambulance. Betty Dutton was gone when they arrived, and Earl had a pulse that was so weak it took them a couple tries to verify it was even there. They rushed him off to the hospital within minutes of their arrival. The man didn't have a scratch on him, so Bill figured the old man had had a heart attack while defending his wife or something. Almost hoped poor Earl didn't wake up. He sure didn't want to be the one to remind him that his wife was dead and this was the state of his home.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Bill let the police take over inside while he headed back out for some fresh air. It really didn't help a whole lot as the sun was really starting to beat down on the bodies in the yard, cooking them like rotten meat on a grill. He naturally followed the corpses, counting as he went. He couldn't help but pay attention to the claw marks in the dirt, holes in the walls where the slugs had ripped right through everything in their path, and the weird green blood trails - they were everywhere he looked.
Reaching the other side of the house - he could tell by the number of exit holes he was near the kitchen - he noticed the trail veered off, leading back toward the old barn that was well on its way to collapsing. That struck a nerve with him, because he knew Earl had just finished that barn the last time he was out here, and a decade wasn't near enough time for a barn to just collapse onto itself. Hell, one side was still standing on its own well enough, but the other end looked like it had almost sunk right into the dirt.
With alarm bells going off in the sheriff's head, he once again drew his pistol and approached the structure, giving a shout to the officers inside the house, "Hey Jefferson! I'm going to check out the barn!"
A muffled reply wormed its way through the bodies that still filled the kitchen windows, "Ten-four Bill!"
The building was nice when it was first built. The sheriff remembered Earl had said he had a bunch of Amish help him, which was usually a testament to quality of both materials and workmanship in the bible belt, and he could attest to that himself having seen numerous examples over the years. If those Amish did work, they did it right, usually, and Earl's barn was no exception.
Glancing around the exterior, Bill noticed the building was structurally sound except for that one corner, toward the rear. Earl had never had livestock, but he rented out the fields around his house and always had plenty of storage for tractors and trucks.
Something just didn't feel right here. He couldn't put his finger on it, but every hair on his neck was suddenly standing on end, he had chills going down his back, goosebumps up and down his arms. Frankly, he felt like he had a rapid onset of the flu as his hand touched the door handle. He didn't hear anything inside, so bringing his weapon to bear just in case, he quickly threw open the door and swept the large, open room.
Swinging left and right across the large interior with his flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other, all he can see is a pair of large farm tractors and a mess of tools - exactly what he hoped to find, but for some reason the pit of his stomach didn't expect.
A faint scratching sound comes from the corner of the barn that was trying to collapse on itself, like a big dog with a similarly big itch.
Following protocol, the sheriff quietly radios in, "Need assistance in the barn, sounds toward the rear, investigating," before slowly pressing inward and shouting "Hello? Anyone there?!"
The growls that respond fill the sheriff with an instant dread, and he immediately begins backpedaling toward the door. A shape takes form from behind one of the large tractors, teeth and claws and black fur in his light beam, stepping toward him with an unsteady, gorilla-like gait.
His brain told him it was pointless, but he had to say it, "Stop or I'll shoot!" The creature, walking on two stubby legs and half-climbing with the too-long arms across anything in its path between the sheriff and itself appeared to have no interest in considering a lawful order from a police officer, and pressed onward, entirely heedless of the weapon drawn on it. More claw sounds from somewhere in the back of the barn told Bill that it wasn't alone.
It was only a few feet to the door - Bill could see the light pouring in from outside, but it didn't make him feel any better in the least. Knowing the scene in the yard, the sheriff pulled the trigger, BANG! The creature didn't even flinch as the bullet buried itself in its chest and continued its approach. BANG BANG Three more steps backwards, two more shots center-mass, and the creature was still coming. Adjusting his tactics based on the bodies in the kitchen, and doing something he knows he's never supposed to do, he aims for the head. BANG!
The creature finally drops to the dirt floor, splattering the tools and workbench behind it with green ichor from its exploding skull. More growls from somewhere give Bill all the reminder he needs to get out of there, and he does. The barn creaks and trembles and he burst out the open door and into the sunlight, continuing toward the officers that are quickly approaching the red building, weapons at the ready.
"Head! Head! Aim for the head!" he shouts to the handful of concerned policemen.
A second ticks by as the growls increase in intensity before the first creature bursts through the door, instantly acquiring two new holes in its head, followed immediately by a second beast, then a third, then a fourth. Each one is dropped as soon as it mindlessly exits the artificial bottleneck, but Bill's mind is reeling. He knows there wasn't enough room in that building for that many of those things to be piled up in there without him noticing.
"Where are they coming from!?" Jefferson yells out, clearly thinking along the same lines as the sheriff.
BANG "I have no idea! There was only" BANG "one in there a second ago!"
More of the monstrous creatures flood out the exit of the structure, dying one by one. The sounds of others banging on the hard wood walls and large barn doors can be heard, though, and Bill shouts out an order, "Fall back to the cars! Fall back!"
The small line of police quickly group up and begin the process of retreat, even as the rest of the officers converge on the back yard and offer fire support when the barn door gives way suddenly, falling outward in an explosion of dust and wood, half a dozen of the creatures landing atop it in their violent egress. The swarm pays no heed to the bullets as the creatures drop one by one, but it isn't fast enough to keep up with the sheer volume of bodies.
The group continues backing toward the squad cars and SUVs. Even after killing dozens of the creatures, there are simply too many of them. With dwindling numbers as officers are picked off one by one by one by a seemingly endless supply of the creatures from the barn, Bill screams out an order, "Run! Get to the cars!"
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
A mic keys up, a growling roar in the background, with an officer screaming in agony, "Ahhhhh! Help! Help me, please!"
Another radio, "Officer down! Officer down! Need ba-agggh!" another growling snarl fills the airwaves.
Sheriff Bill's radio continues rattling what he can, the man clearly out of breath as he continues running, "...unknown attackers, unknown numbers! We are falling back to the vehicles!"
The more composed voice of dispatch comes across, "State support is en route and additional local supp..." James "Jimbo" Bonny turns the police scanner down, a technically illegal piece of equipment to have these days, and turns to his brother, "What the hell you thinksis goin' on over there Bubba?"
"I ain't fer sure," William "Bubba" Bonny drawls to his brother, getting up and heading over to a safe the size of a small car, "but I's sure as hells gonna find out."
The man's hands work with a deft efficacy as he spins the dial on the door, opening it with a loud thunk, and revealing an arsenal of shotguns, rifles, pistols, and automatic weapons that could adequately arm a small militia. He turns back to his brother, "You'a comin?"
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
A projected image flickers on the wall showing a top down view of the Dutton farm, its government-funded clarity revealing details corporate competitors only dream of having. Normally, this is a boon, but today it reveals a gruesome scene. Black bodies are strewn everywhere, green blood splattered across the yard. More of the black creatures crawl out of the half-collapsed barn, possibly attempting to escape its imminent collapse. Two men stare at the image in a dark room, contemplating what it all means.
"Are these the latest images we have?"
"Yes sir. Sat-Com sent them over six minutes ago."
"What exactly are we looking at here?"
"Shortly before five pm eastern standard time, the local nine-one-one dispatch reported a call about some sort of wild animals attacking a farmstead in Central Indiana. Responding officers were similarly attacked and forced to withdraw. Several were killed. Currently state and local police have cordoned off access to the farm and are holding position, but there are only a handful of officers immediately available and no perimeter to speak of."
"I assume there aren't any indigenous animals to Indiana that merit this kind of response, so what are we dealing with? Terrorists?"
"We aren't sure, sir."
"What do you mean not sure? Do we have a report from the officers on scene?"
"Not yet sir, but we do have an analysis based on the current radio and imagery data." The man shuffles through the short stack of papers and manila folders, finds the one he's looking for, and hands it to the Director.
"This doesn't make any sense. The sheriff, Bill Burns, says that the creatures were coming from the barn there, but his body cam doesn't give us many features on his attackers. Are these people breeding some kind of wild animals? Bears perhaps? His description leaves too much to the imagination for my liking."
"That I do not know, sir, but we'll look into it."
A man knocks twice and opens the door without waiting for a response, holding out a tablet with a video feed pulled up.
"What is it Jenkins?"
"Sir, you should see this..."
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
"You got that camera set up yet?"
"Yeah, I think we're streamin' now. Hey ya'll! This here's Jimbo and Bubba from Jimbo's Funhouse again, bringin' it to yas fer real from right down home. Now, I know ya'll are expectin' my daily dose of guns and ammo, but I got somethin' special for ya here today."
"So, 'bout half'n hour ago, we's listenin' on the po-lice scanner like we's always does, and damned if there wudn't a ruckus right next door. Ol' Earl got himself some kind of animal problem, an being the right friendly kin'na neighbors we are, we hopped on the quads'n headed over to the stand we gots that puts a good eye over his field. Apparently, whatever the beasty he gots is got the po-lice all worked up and they's runned off with their tails tucked, so we's is gonna take us a gander and see whats we can see. Now, I know ya'll love this new scope cam Bubba got for the AR, but today this sumbitch is gon' pay fer itself. Check this shit out." The image suddenly switches from Jimbo's cell camera to Bubba's gun sight looking out over the field.
The camera slowly moves across the cornfield until a red barn and a house appear in the image. "Ar'right, here we go. Where's the house at...? There it is... Jesus fuckin' christ! Jimbo, you seein' this?"
Dozens of fat, black creatures swarm over the farm, tearing the structures apart with their bare hands. "What the hell...?"
"What the fuck are those things?"
"I ain't gotta clue, man. Hey, toggle it in a little there ta yer right." The image zooms in suddenly, revealing the limp body of an elderly woman, still wearing her bloodied blue sundress, chained and hanging from a wooden X built from timbers from the house or barn. "Oh fuck... that's Mizz Dutton."
The camera slowly pans to the side where several more 'X'es have been erected by the fat black creatures, each one hosting another body. "Damn. Them's must be the cops."
"What's left of 'em."
POP POP POP POP POP POP BOOMF POP POP BOOMF POP Numerous gunshots suddenly fill the background and the image pans to find the source, stopping on a collection of police cruisers and SUVs. A swarm of the black creatures barrel down on the makeshift barricade at the end of the long driveway, the officers’ weapons picking the creatures off as they approach over the hill separating the road from the Dutton farmstead. "Hey, look here. Cops is shootin' at em down on the road there."
"Damn. They's is fucked. Look at all of those things. There must be a hunnerd of'em."
"Hey man, we could help em. We know these's good around half-mile, easy."
"Fuck. We ain't 'sposed ta get involved in police stuff like that. You know what happened last time."
"I ain't just gonna sit with my thumb up my ass an' watch those boys die to some corpse lovin' monster. Fuck that shit."
"Yeah... yeah. Let's do this. Folks at home, ya'll wanna see what AR-15s can really do? Watch this."
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
"I repeat, we cannot hold this position! Copy?" The cacophony of pistols and shotguns being rapidly unloaded prevents most of the response from making it to the sheriff's ears, "...-hold pos-... -wat tea-... -two min-..." He throws the mic down in frustration. "Fuck!"
Getting out of the SUV and grabbing a box of shells, he falls back into a defensive position next to the other officers. Dozens of the black creatures half-gallop over the hill at the end of the Dutton's driveway, completely oblivious to the losses they take as they throw themselves into a hailstorm of bullets. However, each time an officer stops to reload, they get a little bit closer.
They weren't trained for extended engagements really, that was military type stuff. They probably had enough ammo between the cars to hold out for a good while, but a handful of pistols and shotguns just weren't going to cut it against an unending horde of mindless monsters.
He shouts to the officers nearby, "Dispatch says we got help on the way! Just have to hold out a few more minutes!"
In the back of his mind, he knew they didn't have a few more minutes. The things were falling left and right, but for every one that was killed, two more took its place and pressed on. The things were piling up on the road now, their corpses smashing onto the fiberglass with a crunch or a thump as they impacted the car bodies. The creatures surged forward again, bolstered by their growing numbers and closing the distance between themselves and the police. Bill could probably have counted over a hundred now - they were spreading out and beginning to surround the endangered officers.
CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK The distinctive sound of semiautomatic rifles fills the air as an entire row of monsters collapse in puffs of green mist. If the situation weren't already so dire, they would have cheered. Bill shouts out, "Keep at it boys! Somebody's looking out fer us!"
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
"Ahh, there we are."
"Hmm, what's that?"
"The dretches have finally cleared away enough debris for a scryer to make its way through."
"Oh it's about time. I do enjoy watching, even if it is a bit smaller in scale than our normal engagements."
"No one cares about the destruction of the armies of pit fiends and princes when they can just summon a few thousand more tomorrow and go at it again."
"Yes, yes, so you've mentioned. There we are. It's going through now."
"What is this?"
"The pathetic tribesmen appear to have killed some of your spawn with sticks and arrows. Well done!"
"Hmm, good for them. Not that it matters. There are millions more where those came from."
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
Sucking in a huge breath, super heating the air with its infernal flame, and slowly floating higher in the atmosphere, the scryer finally emerges from the gateway. Dozens of long stalks swivel around its spherical white body at random, each terminating in another, smaller eyeball, all simultaneously taking in every possible sight around the core body that holds the single primary eye.
"By the Depths, what is that smell?" The massive thing takes in another deep breath, tasting everything it can through seven rows of razor sharp teeth filling the mouth that's half the size of its head on a tongue that wouldn't be misplaced in the mouth of a large dinosaur. Its gravelly voice somehow manages to project clearly in spite of its lack of proper lips, "Fresh meat?!"
Dozens of eyes scan the walls of the hole as it rises slowly from the glowing underground portal. All around the edges of the ever-widening portal are the bodies of the low spawn - technically known as dretches - but they aren't what the scryer senses through its long tongue. No, it could taste the man-meat in the air as soon as its olfactory organs crossed the border between the Abyss and the Prime.
Moments later, the first of the smaller eye stalks finally clear the rim of the hole, scanning the horizon, and revealing the source of the ever-intensifying flavors. Several pyres of still-cooking bodies - unfortunately already deceased - encircle the gap leading down to the Abyssal entrance. A deep regret washes over the scryer's ichor-muscle for not being able to enjoy his well-earned portion of the victory, but the scryer knows its purpose is without equal.
Finally rising a few meters over the surface grants the giant demon a clearer picture of the events unfolding nearby, and a tremendously uncommon feeling of excitement transmits down its short spine, through the black iron ring, and into the demonically enchanted tether, anchoring the enormous creature to its homeland rather than allowing it to ever enter the realm fully beyond.
"More prey!"
Elsewhere in the cosmos…
The briefing room had suddenly become a hub of activity as men and women in formal business suits come and go, bringing paperwork and computers into the room while trying to avoid disrupting each other's flow. A dozen different people work around the Director and Jenkins, both absorbing every detail they can between the overhead view and the stream from Jimbo's Funhouse.
Using a laser pointer to guide the Director's attention, Jenkins indicates the brother's activities, pointing to their camouflaged tree stand based on the thermal overlay some distance from the action, "Sir, this Jimbo and his brother appear to be aiding the officers in their defense down on the road here. Based on what we're seeing, it appears the enemy has minimal situational awareness and looks to be doing little more that overwhelming the police with sheer numbers."
"I see that. Why are the officers there still trying to stand off with those things? Surely they can see they're vastly outnumbered."
"Local dispatch gave them orders to cordon off the area around the farm until backup arrives. It looks like there are numerous vehicles in route."
"Those orders are only going to get them killed. Get back on the horn with the local dispatch and get those people out of there. Send out a local broadcast to begin evacuating civilians within ten miles. What do we have as far as assets in the area?"
Jenkins looks to another laptop screen and clicks the mouse a few times, responding seconds later, "I see a pair of Global Hawks outside Cincinnati that can have eyes-on within twenty minutes, as well as armed Predators from Grissom Air Force Base available in the hour."
"That will have to do. Reroute what we can within..." A sudden burst of colorful language cuts the Director's order short, causing a momentarily pause in the near-constant barrage of gunfire from the pair, and prompting the Director to resume the painful process of watching the brother's misadventures with their nearly banned weaponry. On the wall, the live feed from the overhead projector rolls on, closely monitoring the iridescent purple circle that slowly grows wider as the numerous black creatures swarm over it, digging with their claws to unearth more and more of the portal apparently buried below the surface.
The image on the tablet slides to the side, toward where the large red barn stood proudly only an hour ago. Everyone in the room watches in horror as a new creature, one vastly larger than the previous several hundred, slowly emerges from what has been tentatively termed 'The Gate'.
"Holy moley! What the hells'is that?!"
"Dayum! That's a biggun!"
"Good. Less chance'a missin' it." CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK CRCRACK
According to the scale overlay on the feed, the hole is now around thirty feet across, and the strange white creature fills nearly all of that on its own. Whatever the little wriggling arms are don't appear to be aiding the thing with its movement, and as the image shifts from one satellite to another, the group watches as the creature slowly lifts upward, increasing its altitude a few feet per second, despite the apparent barrage from nearby which it appears to be ignoring entirely.
"What's the problem here Jimmy? Ya'ain't hittin it!"
"Dammit, I done shot the thing half a dozen times!" CRCRACK
"The hell you have."
"I'm tellin ya," CRCRACK "it ain't even blinkin!"
CRCRACK "And what I'm tellin ya is if ya shot it, it'd done blinked!" CRCRACK
"It's the size of a durn barn!" CRCRACK "I couldn't'na missed it if I'as blin'folded!"
"Okay people, I need to know exactly what the hell is going on out there!" He discards the tablet, which clatters on the table, its government-funded durability preventing the screen from even the slightest hiccup as it bounces across the fake-wood surface before sliding over the edge and tumbling to the hard tile floor with a crack that has every person in the room instinctively cringing in the hope of preventing a cracked screen through willpower alone. Jenkins dives to catch his tablet, but only ends up on the floor next to it with a thud.
The Director turns back to the projection screen and points with his entire hand, "First a thousand mutant bears and now some kind of weather balloon that can't pop?!"
A groan from the floor responds to the rhetorical question, "I haven't the slightest idea, sir."
"Get the president on the line, now!" - seven words even someone with Jenkins' clearance never wants to hear, let alone while using that tone. "Local police aren't going to be able to keep a handle on this."
Carefully checking his discarded tablet for obvious damage, Jenkins quickly returns to his feet, "But sir, he's golfing in Florida. Are you sure you want to inter..."
"Jenkins, we are already fifteen minutes into an invasion from God-knows-where by God-knows-who that we didn't know about was even in the works and that's literally our only God damned job! Heads are going to roll and I sure as hell don't want it to be mine! Get him on the line!"