Story 1227: Sacrifice Protocol

The altar was made of bone.

Not metaphorically—real femurs, ribs, and vertebrae, fused together with some kind of black resin. It stood in the center of a crumbling medical theater beneath the old Virex facility, now overtaken by the Cult of Decay. Candles flickered around it, casting long shadows across the chamber, while the smell of formaldehyde and burning flesh tainted the air.

Lena and Ward had followed the trail of missing survivors here. But they hadn’t expected a ritual in progress.

“Don't move,” whispered Ward, as robed figures surrounded the altar, humming low and guttural. In their center, a girl—barely twelve—lay strapped to the structure. Still breathing. Still conscious. Her eyes flicked toward Lena’s.

“She’s alive,” Lena hissed. “We’re not too late.”

From the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged—tall, skeletal, with his face hidden behind a mask of rotted wood carved into a permanent grin.