The Blades of the South: An Unexpected Confederacy

[JasonVoorhees525]

The Blades of the South: An Unexpected Confederacy
Chapter One
---​

A mirror...dream of a mirror...

Pinhead, perhaps Leviathan's greatest Cenobite, walked up to the entity controlling the massive gate. It called itself "The Tall Man," though even the lowliest of humans could tell that this was no member of their species. It radiated an aura of pure death, and though he had spent barely a few seconds in its mind, Pinhead knew that the realm this creature came from was one of the living dead, of beasts that prowled the boneyards and collected fresh remains.

Another world...one among many, yet this one was unique...

"You have received the same vision as us," Pinhead slowly growled. The Tall Man stopped and turned to the Cenobite. Even though Pinhead himself was not small, he was nearly dwarfed by the bizarre being that wore the guise of a man. Pinhead, though, was not the least bit perturbed as he was blanketed by The Tall Man's nearly seven foot long shadow. "Why do you not desire to come with us? I certainly do not think you must be told of this world's weakness, how they would crumble before you like leaves in a storm. They would be such terrific prey for one such as you."

In the center of the Labyrinth...he was struck by this world, a world without the Configuration...

The Tall Man smirked at that. "We are more alike than different, Cenobite," he said. "How easily the two of us could transform such a world into our pleasure domes! What wonders we could show the people of that world! But where you and all the rest see opportunity in such an ignorant populace, I see only boredom. The game is simply not enjoyable if there are none to oppose you, none who have the skill and resolve to stand before you and even outmaneuver you. No, no, there is nothing for me in this world. I have agreed to help you, but that is where my service ends."

"My Child"..."I shall allow you to go to this world, for it is not connected to the Labyrinth, and I feel there is much to be gained from it..."

"If that is what you wish," Pinhead said. "I know what I shall do to the people of this world, though. To me, it matters not that they cannot fight back. What I have in mind, will keep them just as interested as myself."

He stood before the hulking beast of a man, his face obscured by a hockey mask as his machete ran red..."You have seen the same world as I," he explained...

"This gate is almost fully prepared to enter the other world," The Tall Man confirmed. "Everything is ready for you and your ragtag army here."

"I, too, have experienced this vision"...The legend made manifest shattered the mirror as it entered the physical plane, fully committed to spreading the terror of his name to all those ignorant humans...

Pinhead nodded and turned to face the so-called army he had gathered. Killers and madmen, every last one of them. None of them possessed any sophistication or intellect, most of them killed for almost wholly personal reasons, their petty vengeances having consumed them a while ago. They were brutes, plain and simple. Even those who possessed the abilities of the arcane used them for such base and ignoble purposes.

The average humans of this world had given them the designation of "slashers," referring to how most of them used bladed weapons to butcher their victims. To him, though, they were pure savages who denied the Labyrinth potential specimens, more humans to experiment the depths of pain and pleasure upon. Murder was all they were good at, making them unworthy of even being subjects to be tested by the children of Leviathan.

What connected Pinhead and these "slashers," though, was the vision. They had seen a world completely ruled by the mundane. It was not connected to the Labyrinth or any other realm, it had never been visited by any non-human entity, nor did the majority of the population believe such things. Their world was a defenseless one, with all of their killers being perfectly normal humans who posed no threat to society at large. In fact, to those people, the very idea of superhuman and non-human creatures was a fictitious one that served only to entertain them.

They knew they could not take this insult lying down. The existence of a world where entities such as they were mere fictional characters-and which was cut off from the Labyrinth no less-was a world that needed to be taught a lesson in complacency. With Leviathan's blessing, Pinhead had set out to find this world and show it the wonders of all that lay beyond the naked human eye. However, he had felt a brief connection between himself and all the others who had had the same vision; and if there was anything a Cenobite knew, it was how to make a situation interesting. That was why he had sought out all these slashers, for he knew they would want their share of blood, and if he could taste the horror of their victims as well as his own, then they could all gain something from this attack.

The gate was ready. He could feel the energies emanating from it, the rift between dimensions bursting apart without a sound. Now was the time. All they needed was a final bit of motivation.

"You all have your reasons for why you kill," Pinhead shouted, his monotone constant. "Some of you were wronged at some point in your lives. Some of you have been taught nothing but the way of the blade, of the bullet, of the claw. Some of you were driven beyond madness, to the point that you saw no reason to live but to murder. And some of you do it for personal gain."

"But even those of you who do not kill out of vengeance, surely, you know what it is like to be insulted! To be attacked with something that defies your very reality! And is this not what we all saw? A world where the populace need not live in fear of your bloodlust, where your abilities are laughed away as mere myth! What we saw was a world that issued a challenge to us: we do not fear you, we do not believe you exist!"

There was some shouting in response, some of the more talkative slashers spitting vile curses at this world. They were getting riled up, their blood beginning to boil. Good.

"What we saw a world that lived not in terror of us, but themselves! A world where the mundane human species was its own greatest fear! Think, though–what does that say about their ability to fight us? A world where no one has any idea as to how fight back against our abilities, how to run away from that which cannot die! It is a world begging to be taught the true meaning of fear itself!"

More and more of the slashers shouted in agreement. Even the silent, reserved ones nodded along, their weapons gripped tight. Pinhead could smell their growing enthusiasm, their pleasure.

"Look around you! A force of nearly a thousand, many of you beyond the normal human! Many of you not even human! Many would say that a force composed of all yourselves could not hope to function, that we would all devolve to infighting and backstabbing. And many of you, as I said, have your own reasons for butchery."

"But what has gathered us all together, pray tell? It is the vision of this world, which we have all received. We have all been insulted! We have seen a world that lives in ignorance of us! A world that is ripe for learning what it truly means to be prey, to live in perpetual terror of something far greater than them!"

By now, fully half the slashers were either cheering for blood or looking at Pinhead in silent approval. Even the mostly stoic Cenobite felt like giving a small smile. He almost immediately shot the idea of it down, though; the idea of what he would be able to do with this world's humans aroused him, no doubt, but he had no intention of making it seem like he indulged in the same base desires as the slashers. He knew he was far better than that.

"This entity behind me, The Tall Man, has also received these visions. Though he will not be joining us, he has programmed this gate for us that shall take us to this world. Before we make our way into this world, I will ask if any of you would like to leave right now, and if you believe there is no reason for us to attack this world." It was a pointless question, and he knew it. The only response it garnered was a great deal of laughing from the vocal slashers, a chilling sound akin to a pack of hyenas circling their prey.

"It is ready," The Tall Man told him, though his voice was loud enough for all to hear.

Pinhead nodded without looking at him. "Then let us go! Follow me, and we shall show this world what terror truly is!"

He turned and walked toward the gate. Two gleaming poles of an alien metal held an invisible portal, which could lead to whatever realm The Tall Man desired. The sound of stomping feet was not far behind him, the slashers eager to get their first kill in this defenseless world. With a final breath, Pinhead stepped through the portal, and into the pathways between dimensions.
---
The Tall Man simply looked upon the army of creatures called "slashers." Oh, they would have been so useful as servants of his; certainly far greater than the normal humans who became his undead soldiers. And especially those "slashers" who were not human...he couldn't even begin to imagine the power they would wield as his troops. Their skills and abilties would prove to be more than useful. Better that than let them continue be wasted in the pursuit of such primitive desires as vengeance.

Something burned him. It was like an icy cold rod coming down on his skin. He tried as much as he could to not recoil; his face soured, though. What was it? What had just happened? Did something psychically attack-

Wrong. Something had gone wrong with the gate. Horribly wrong. Somehow, the path had changed, drastically so. He knew for sure that the slashers would not find themselves where they thought they would go. As inconspicuously as possible, he strode over to one of the poles and placed his hand on the back of it.

The path was still that world they had been shown...but it was not the time period they had been shown. The gate would take them to that world as it had been over a century before. Details, they were coming faster and faster...the year was 1861. He saw it. A city known as Montgomery. The date, it was precise now.

April 15, 1861. One day after that human conflict known as the American Civil War had started. The same conflict that the one whose skin he was wearing, the one Jebediah Morningside, had participated in.

Smiling, The Tall Man stepped back and continued to watch the slashers run through the gate. Oh, how he wished he could see the result of this. He had no idea what could have interfered with his gate, especially not to this extent, but that would have to be an investigation for another time. All he knew was that the sheer death and carnage would be far beyond even what he could envision, though not how the slashers had thought.
---
In its realm of oblivion, the entity saw that its interference had gone off without a hitch. The entity was tall, taller than anything else in existence, though it cast no shadow. There was no scent in its realm, even though the entity was composed of the corpses and bones of every creature that had ever died. There was nothing. Only its creeping essence.

The coin of fate spun before its sight. Both sides fluctuated constantly, history having been shattered so utterly. All fates entered a realm of uncertainty, lives about to be changed greatly with no certain outcomes. Many who would have lived would now not exist, and many names and faces it had never heard or seen flashed by it. Its own plan was scattered before it, now needing to be wholly rewritten.

It could not see the final destination, not yet. But that creature that called itself the "Patron of Death" needed it after so long. That "Tall Man" had dared to call itself the ruler of his realm, when the world he lorded over was a mockery of all that it was. So what was the harm in teaching it a lesson? After all, it was inevitable; in due time, even The Tall Man would come to it.

All that was truly certain was there would be much loss of life in this changed world, far more than there would have been if history had not now been changed. It would be everywhere on all the battlefields; even it could not see how many of those there would be. Throughout its soundless realm, it laughed and laughed.
---
Montgomery, Alabama, Confederate States of America
April 15, 1861

Jacob Cooper stood outside the Lucas Tavern. Inside, there was a great deal of noise, as many of his comrades in the state militia continued to celebrate the events of yesterday. He had no intention of joining them, though; he was fighting for his country, he had had to have some honor and respect for himself. While he was quite relieved that South Carolina had taken what was rightfully theirs, the sheer excess and indulgence his fellow soldiers showed in their celebrations irritated him to no end.

He had joined Company F of the 3rd Infantry Regiment of Alabama early in April, when it seemed like things were really starting to move forward, closer and closer to war. All over Alabama, there was talk of what was going to be done about Fort Sumter, and he knew that the discussion had dominated the new country. Of course, now, it was certain that there would be war. It was simply inevitable. If those bastards in Washington had just let the states run their own institutions, maybe it would have never come to this. Maybe Jacob and so many other could still call themselves Americans, and proudly at that. Hell, they had specifically told them that Lincoln would be the straw that broke the camel's back. But they had all refused to listen to what Southerners like him said, and now look where it had gotten the country. Secession! War between the states! Jacob had heard his mother and father's shock at it, how they had said such a thing had been unthinkable for America. At only nineteen years of age, though, Jacob had known that some conflict would have to come between the North and South in his time.

It was only a little while ago that he'd heard some more news about that Lincoln mongrel. Bits and pieces of conversation had told him that, earlier today, Lincoln had asked every state still in the Union to send troops. He knew that Arkansas and Tennessee would likely not stand for this, and North Carolina...well, they should have joined their sister state from the start. Virginia and Kentucky, though, were the real points of interest. Virginia had been quite loud about its desire to stay neutral, but a demand for troops to fight their fellow Southerners...that would easily tip the scales, since such a demand outright said "with us or against us." And if Kentucky decided to join the Confederacy, that would give them the unbreakable edge in this growing war. Jacob was no idiot; he knew just how much land and food Kentucky had, how they had some of the finest horses, and if they could deprive the North of the Ohio River...

Jacob was snapped out of his thoughts by what sounded like a small explosion nearby. He spun toward the direction of the sound, and saw dust and dirt scattered in the air...along with a great deal of blood. Almost immediately after the explosion, screams and furious shouts came from the same area. Removing his P53 Enfield, he ran to where the explosion had been, the sound of his cheerful comrades in the tavern quickly dying down.

He shoved several people aside, a large crowd having come to a halt around the scene. Over a dozen people were on their knees, gagging and vomiting. Many more were either crying out of terror or were simply gaping at what had happened, their faces frozen in a silent scream. At last, Jacob made his way to the front, and saw the tragedy for himself. He nearly lost his breakfast and lunch as well.

Before him were two shining silver poles. Each pole was around five feet tall and two feet thick, both having truly burst from the ground. That wasn't what was so horrifying and awful, though. Next to each pole was a person, a person who had been at the exact wrong place at the wrong time, and had thus been skewered by the poles. They were both vertically torn in half, their heads and chests ruptured. Blood pooled out from beneath them, while shattered bone and muscle clung to the red earth. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a young boy and a woman. A mother and her child.

The crowd was pushed aside and moved back as Jacob's comrades joined him at the scene. Like many of the townspeople, a number of them vomited, unable to really process the grisly tragedy they had just seen. He could not blame them; he had felt the exact same way. It was like being hit by a horse at full gallop, when you never even knew that horse was there. One moment they had been celebrating their victory over those Union bastards, the next they were looking at the savaged remains of a mother and her child, all because of two poles that had suddenly burst hard enough from the ground to cause such devastation.

In fact, what were those two poles? Where had they even come from?

"All of you, level your guns at those damn things!" the commanding officer barked. "Whatever kind of evil they may be, we will make sure they won't be standing long! Those things are not just dangerous, but wicked and vile! I can feel it..."

Before he even finished, Jacob and the rest aimed at the poles, ready to tear them apart with their gunfire. Jacob did not doubt the man's words one bit; there was something wrong about those things. They should not have been there, they did not belong in this world. The mere sight of them filled him with revulsion, as if though they were a pair of nightmares screaming back at him from the void.

"FI-!"

The officer's command died the instant that...thing emerged from between the poles. It appeared to have just appeared from thin air, a ripple echoing behind it for a few seconds. Jacob looked around, and saw that everyone's jaw had dropped just as much as his. He looked back at the thing, and his eyes wanted to shriek.

It was beyond hideous. Oh yes, it had the general features of a man, but that was it. Its skin was pale, pale as a sheet. The only parts of its skin that were visible, though, were its head, face, and hands. Everything else was hidden by thick black leather, which glistened and seemed to cling to the thing's body. The leather outfit took the form of a robe; in fact, it reminded him of a cassock, though such a holy garb was perverted with this creature. It chest was covered in exposed slashes, all of them deep and thick, all of them appearing fresh. Perhaps the worst aspect of this thing, though, was its head. The head was covered in some intricate, carved pattern, through which black needles were inserted. He thought they were needles, at least. In spite of all this, though, the creature did not seem to be in pain. Rather, it had an expression of grim curiosity, looking around at all of them, like an animal sizing up its prey. It caught Jacob within its sight as it looked around, and their eyes met.

Dear God, those eyes, those pitch black eyes...

After several seconds of the creature looking around at them, and much silent confusion on their part, it stopped. It opened its ever dour mouth, clearly intending to say something. Whatever it would have said, they would never know, as someone fired at the thing once it opened its mouth. The bullet just bounced off the creature's neck, a small puff of dirt forming when the bullet dropped to the ground. Despite this, everyone opened fire on the damn thing, a volley of bullets crashing into it before they simply bounced off. The civilians around them were screaming again, terrified at the fruitless show of such force.

Jacob himself fired at the creature's chest; like all the rest, the bullet impacted but did absolutely nothing. He cursed, and nearly soiled himself when he saw the thing catch two bullets between its fingertips. One bullet was instantly crushed into a fine powder with a mere squeeze, while the other was flicked away. Its strength seemed to know no bounds, as the bullet flew with just as much speed and force as if it had been fired again. A cry came from within their ranks, and Jacob looked to see one of his comrades fall to the ground, a bullet hole near his heart.

God Almighty, what kind of evil has come upon us on this day? he wondered in complete terror. Is this the Devil himself? One of his demon cohorts? This must be the end of days! This can be nothing but the final judgment! My God-!

His thoughts were cut short as several more creatures burst out from between the poles. The first one looked at them, ignoring the bullets that were still hitting it, and then looked back to face the troops again. Without warning, black hooked chains appeared from thin air, sounding as if though they were being dragged even though they were flying through the air. The chains embedded themselves in one of his comrades, tearing his stomach wide open, before another pair appeared and ripped his sides apart. The commanding officer was next to be killed in such a gruesome manner, a pair appearing behind him and digging into his back. More and more of the demonic chains appeared, rapidly tearing into his comrades, and then ripping them apart. Entire limbs were ripped clean off, blood flying all over the place. Now the civilians behind them were in an utter panic, as they saw these chains butchering the men who were supposed to protect them with ease before they vanished just as instantly as they had appeared, the blood visible to everyone.

Dropping his rifle, Jacob backed into some of his comrades, and tried to push them away. There was no doubt about it now; this was the end of days, and they were under attack by the denizens of Hell itself. If he was going to die, he did not want it to be like this, having his body desecrated and his soul consumed by these demons, far more hideous were they than those he had seen in any illustration.

"What are you doing?! You can't just run away like some coward!" one of the soldiers said. "We have to kill this abomination, and if we all have to give our lives-!"

A chain tore all the way through his neck, before another burst out from within his torso. The other soldiers threw down their rifles and ran away. Jacob was paralyzed with fear, unable to take his eyes off the corpse. He heard chains appear right behind him, yet still he could not avert his horrified gaze. Only when a hard gust of air impacted the back of his neck did he turn around; he was immediately greeted with two hooked chains tearing into his throat. The chains split apart before they reached the back of his neck, exiting through the sides and leaving two thick wounds.

Jacob fell to his knees. His skin was warm as his blood ran down. So this is how it will end, he thought as he looked down and saw how red his shirt was becoming. He couldn't hear anything now. All was a blur before he fell forward and closed his eyes. Jacob's final thought before he died was, Forgive me, Lord. Have mercy, protect my country.

~~~~
So, this is an old TL I had originally posted/written on AH.com. Now, with Halloween on the horizon, I've decided to come back to this one. Still had the idea for this story kicking around in my head, so I just feel obligated to continue with this one. Will be posting the chapters I'd already written first, before actually continuing with the story.

 

[JasonVoorhees525]

Chapter Two
---​

This was not what Candyman had expected.

The cities in the modern world were like machines, factories. Huge ugly buildings, guzzling mechanical transports, the accumulative noise of all the people talking, the metal and stone walkways. That was what the world had become nary a century after Daniel Robitaille had died. Forests of concrete and machinery.

What he found himself in, however, reminded him much more of the world he had lived in. Dirt ground, wood buildings, horses and carriages, guns everywhere. The people looked much more like those from his original time as well, and all of them were white.

He had seen a number of the fools watching them as he had prepared to kill them, to punish them for thinking they could insult him. Stories like those of the theatre, but not on a stage. Rather, they were within some strange device or another, to be watched within the comfort of a confined space. A play captured in memory, like words on paper.

"Move-ees," they had called them. Moving pictures. Such fascinating things! How far humanity had advanced after his death! Yes, that was where they were now on that Earth. He and all the rest had arrived on a move-ee creation. Here these humans were, pretending to be people from an era like his, hoping to capture another memory safe from those direct prying eyes.

Such a shame it was, that this new art could now never come to life. He didn't hate art; how could he, when he could never escape it? But just like those who called his name and reminded him of his existence, they had to suffer. Why, these people probably mocked him and all the rest the most! This world needed to be taught a lesson. Blood would have to be shed.

And what was blood for, if not for shedding?

He vanished from the mass of the other murders, these "slashers," and reappeared on the real killing grounds. Two men with rifles instantly greeted him. They turned pale almost immediately, shouting terrified gibberish and raising their rifles at his chest. He merely smiled.

The two bullets tore through his chest, at the same time that the blazing lights illuminated him. It was only for a moment, but he knew that, in that moment, his legend in this world was born. He could hear the buzzing begin a second after the roars of their guns had died. Beneath his coat, his body started to shift. As he saw the actors' expressions change, he couldn't help but laugh. Even to him, it was like the din of Hell, a shuddering blackness. He couldn't care less, though, for what else could fit something like him? It was a laugh that would haunt the nightmares of these peoples' children for a century or more.

Just as fast as those bullets, his right arm lashed out. The hook tore one of their throats right open. A gust of red coated both his face and that of the man's companion. For a split second, the man flinched when the blood hit him, his eyes shutting in terror. A split second was all he needed to reappear behind him.

"What-?" the man gasped, right before he drove his hook into his head. Chunks of the skull exploded outward along with a stream of blood, forever smearing the ground in the tale of horrible murder. He stopped right before the hook could burst out of his forehead. Quickly, he tore his hook out out through the top of his head, splitting it wide open and revealing the ruins of his brain.

Something slid through his torso. Casually, he pressed his hook against the blade and jammed it back with what appeared to be total ease. The blade was immediately forced out, and a cry came from directly behind him. He swiftly turned to see a white boy with a rifle in his hands, and on that rifle, a bayonet. The boy didn't appear to be older than sixteen. So it was that the death of the youth would build so many disturbing stories to come.

"No! Please, don't-!" the boy tried to beg, as he walked up to him. It was no use; it never was. He placed his hook upon his lips, so as to tell him to be silent, for now, he would sleep. Like the merciless hand of God, Man's greatest creation, he dove forward and struck the boy. His hook carved through his stomach, revealing the secrets his body held within, and continued up to his sternum. With a shuddering wail, the boy shut his eyes and covered the wound with his hand, knowing that this was his end.

He saw a larger group of similarly armed men charge toward him. All of them were frantically shouting, but as if it were fate, one of their commands was carried directly to him by the wind.

"Put that brute down! Kill that n***** good!"

Memories of Daniel Robitaille swirled in his head. A mob; torture meant to deprive one of humanity; agony, pure and unending agony. And those words. How they had been shouted into the man's face, final insults as he died like a common criminal...

With a look of disapproval, he vanished and reappeared behind the group. For a few scant seconds, he basked in their confusion, cherishing their horror at his disappearance. Like a pack of wolves, he pounced on his prey. He made sure to carve through their backs and torsos, so he could hear them scream like swine as they were slaughtered. Blood, bone, and organs greeted him as he did so, embedding their final moments of terror in the fabric of this world. When there were three of them left, they fell to their knees and dropped their rifles. They sobbed, and they too begged. Clearly, they knew of the wrath they had incurred, and were perhaps at least expecting a damning speech before they were executed.

He would not grant them even the tiniest of such mercies. His hook tore their heads to pieces, moving like lightning as it created red storm clouds.

Several more bullets exited through his chest. Turning, he came to face an even larger regiment of these people. Fear was obviously written on their faces, within their eyes. Still, they stood their ground.

Now was the time for a new work of art.

He pulled open his heavy fur coat to reveal his chest and torso. Or at least, what was left of it. Bees clung to the ribs and spine, the withered bones caked in old blood. All of the men lowered their guns; their mouths hung wide open. A number of them turned and fled for their lives, and all around him, there was the sound of shrieking.

He closed his eyes just as he opened his mouth. Soon, the sound of buzzing overcame the sound of screaming, as an endless swarm of ethereal bees began to blanket the sun.
---
His day had been going quite swimmingly. Yes, Lincoln had made the war final with his call for troops, but that was simply the most obvious outcome. Just a few minutes earlier, he had been utterly elated, entertaining the likelihood of Arkansas, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia joining them in revolt. Yes, they would most certainly draw the line at Lincoln's further aggravations, but then there was the possibility of Kentucky and Missouri realizing that their heart beat the same rhythm as they. Oh, if they could gain such brothers! They would be unstoppable! They would be marching on Washington within a month, the war would practically be theirs to lose. The Northern bastards would not stand a fraction of a chance. Yes, his day had been going quite swimmingly.

Had.

Just like that, all possible plans were thrown into total disarray. Cries of fear had preceded the mass firing of guns, which had preceded the absolute chaos. Now, as Jefferson Davis rushed through the halls of the capitol building, he wished he already had six more states on his side. A million ideas ran through his head at the speed of lightning. Who was attacking? Was it Northern saboteurs? A pro-Union revolt? Bloodthirsty slaves on the rampage? Perhaps the Union had already build a sizable force in preparation, and Lincoln's demand was simply a ruse. If that were the case, then he sincerely hoped God would curse every man, woman, and child in Tennessee with pox and nausea for such a sin.

As he entered the main stair hall, Davis was suddenly blocked by LeRoy Pope Walker, his new nation's Secretary of War. Walker placed his hands upon the President's shoulders and gripped them as if he meant to crush him, and then gently, almost reassuringly, began to push him back.

"President Davis," Walker began to say, "I can assure you that, though there is a situation, it is under control. Now, you do not-"

"Under control?!" Davis barked. "People are screaming and shooting as if the Devil himself has come to this capitol! My capitol, the capitol of this new nation! This building's staff is running all over this place, and I have been told that a stagecoach is waiting for me! If this situation is under control, then why must I leave my capitol? Why does it seem like everyone here has gone made?!"

"President Davis, please," Walker said. His voice only then began to strain, as he spoke with heavier breathing, as if though he was becoming exhausted. "You must understand, we are quelling the crisis even as we speak! Our militia forces are repelling the enemy and taking back what little ground they had lost in the first place. There is-"

"There is what?! A difference between the situation being under control, which is what you had previously told me, and a situation being placed under control? Certainly, there is a difference! Even if the crisis is being lessened, why does that mean I must leave? Who is even attacking us? Remove your hands from me, and give me some answers!"

"A reasonable demand, Jefferson!" a certain voice growled. Alexander H. Stephens strode into the hall, his weak face almost comical in how outraged it appeared. Behind him was Postmaster General John Reagan and Secretary of the Treasury Christopher Memminger, all of them followed by several local militia soldiers.

"We have all been summoned to our stagecoaches, LeRoy," Stephens demanded, "so we believe it to be only fair that you tell us precisely what is happening here. Since you are the Secretary of War, I will ask you this question, a simple one. Who is attacking this city? Who are we fighting?" Walker looked at them as if though it should have been obvious, as if though he had no need to answer. He attempted to laugh for a second. Right from the start, though, they could see the desperation in his eyes. As he saw them stand there and wait for an answer, he realized that, even as chaos surrounded them, they would gladly die just to know that little piece of information. It was at that point that all pretenses of control vanished.

"I...I do not know," Walker meekly answered. "I wish we knew. But we do not. All we know is that our people are being slaughtered out there by...something."

"You...you do not know?" Davis slowly asked, his face frozen in shock as he crept toward Walker. "Our American capitol is under attack, on the same day the Union has declared war on us. The people of this city, decent Americans, are shedding their blood to such an extent that this government must abandon them! And here you are, telling me that you do not even know who we are fighting?!"

"Damn this, LeRoy!" Memminger roared. "Have you no dignity? Are you too afraid to go and see for yourself who this force is?"

"Who are you to accuse me of cowardice?!" Walker cried. "Do you never fear for your life, Christopher? I had already sent a number of men out to find the answer to that question! None of them have returned!" He then stopped to take a deep breath, his nostrils flared, before he continued. The terror was clear in his voice. "Mallory himself set out to find the answer, this one awful piece of information. I told him not to do it. I can only presume he has laid down his life for his country."

Stephens attempted to tackle Walker at that. Even though two of the militia troops easily restrained him, nothing could hold back his anger. "You bastard! You damned fool and coward! If I were you, I would have knocked him out cold! How could you simply allow the Secretary of our Navy to die like this?! You are easy to replace; Mallory was not!"

"I beg your pardon?" Walker raised his fists, ready to show Stephens why he held his position. He was only stopped when Davis ran over and gripped Walker's shoulders as firmly as he had his.

"Enough! All of you!" he yelled. "While this is a truly massive loss, it is as fate decided! Clearly, this is some hardy foe if we must abandon Montgomery. Perhaps, as we escape with what remains of our government, we can finally see who this force is. But it is now obvious that we must go! If only so our nation may continue living, even as so many out there die for us. Do you all understand that? Our people are placing themselves within harm's way so that, even as they perish, America may yet live! They ask nothing more from us, so we must not-"

"...What is that sound?" Reagan suddenly asked. "Does anyone else hear that? By God, it sounds just like-"

"...Bees," Memminger finished, with a hint of confusion. "The buzzing of bees. Sounds like thousands of them." The moment he said that, a mass of darkness suddenly attached itself to the windows, darkening the capitol building.

Just a few seconds later, the buzzing was joined by the sound of straining, cracking glass.
---
When it was not awake, it dreamed of bloodshed. Righteous bloodshed. The guilty were damned, and under its claws, they met their punishment. The guilty always screamed, begged for mercy, pleaded that they had done nothing wrong. But if it had been summoned to punish them, then how had they done nothing wrong? It never went after those who had lived their lives free of sin. It only wet its claws with the blood of those who deserved it, and so it knew that their tears and their pleading were naught but lies.

Sometimes, it would make those dreams come true. Someone somewhere scorned would come looking for it, demanding that their transgressors be punished. And it always obliged. It was only meant to kill, and it loved such an existence. It could not imagine having such a purpose and not enjoying it to the fullest. It was the executioner, nothing more, nothing less.

One day, however, as it hibernated, its dreams had been interrupted. Images, images of another world. A world where the guilty ran amok, the innocent unable to do anything but sob as they drowned in rivers of their own blood. Those who sinned against their neighbor were utterly free to do so, and those who were supposed to be in power were powerless to stop it. It was a world screaming for justice, even as justice was dying of a thousand cuts. It was a world where it did not exist.

Would that have been enough to awaken it on its own? It did not know, for as the nightmare subsided, he was awakened. Not by any wronged human, though, but by something else. A grotesque mockery of humanity, an exaggeration of their every last cursed desire. He still remembered the leather clad entity's greeting, as it rose from its long slumber:

"I know of what you have seen. I have laid my eyes upon it as well. There is a reason I have come for you. Arise, and bask in the blood of this world's foolishness."

It complied, of course, but not just because that creature had summoned it. It had found its opportunity to come to that dreadful world, and grind every last injustice into the dirt. Soon, it had found that they were not alone, that so many more had seen this den of sin. All of them hungered for its carcass, thirsted for its blood, but it that, above all others, it would enjoy this annihilation.

Now, as the people of this world prayed to some god that did not exist, the vengeful beast known as Pumpkinhead knew its time had arrived. It roared a challenge to the debased insects of this world, and charged straight ahead for the kill. For it was vengeance, it was justice, and nothing would stop it until every last human who had done wrong was smeared upon the canvas of the earth.
---
Thomas Marston was out of breath by the time they had made it to the town center. He had tripped several times on the way here, so fast they had been forced to run and so crowded were they. He cursed as he saw how filthy his clothes had become. Not even a uniform, but damn it, how could anyone take them seriously when they covered in dirt and grass?

Like the rest of the men in the 2nd Regiment, he had been at Fort Morgan when they had finished their training and organization. His company had come back to Montgomery just a day after news had broken out that Fort Sumter was under fire. Good, he had thought. Let 'em hear us scream when we show them who the real America is, on that battlefield.

Like most of the men from Company D, he was from Clarke County. The company had received orders to report to Montgomery, as it became clear that the Union and his nation would be at each others' throats. When they had arrived, they had been greeted with news of official war due to Lincoln's attempt at further meddling. The celebrations seemed like they could have gone on for days...

...Until the sound of gunfire and screaming had stopped everything dead. Their Captain, A.R. Lankford, had immediately ordered them to converge upon the town center, and with all haste. They had followed his orders without question, but Thomas knew they were all wondering the same questions. Who was attacking them? How had this enemy made it to Montgomery without any warning? Why now? All they knew was that, whoever it was, they would have to pay in their blood. That much was certain.

As they came upon the town center, though, he realized that his frustration with how dirty his clothes had become was rather selfish. All round them, buildings were burning, people were stampeding over each other, horses were crushing crowds to death, and people were dying in pools of their own blood. It was like a scene from Revelation, as they found themselves in the midst of complete chaos.

And there was also the laughter. Oh God, that laughter. It clawed at their ears, at the same time the fresh gusts of blood clawed at their eyes. It was the sound of unbridled madness. Pure, inhuman evil. He was sure that, if this was Revelation come to life, then that was the sound of Hell's numerous legions.

"Alright, you lot!" Captain Lankford barked over the din. "Form up, and make four firing lines! One prone, one squatting, one crouching, one standing! Now! Hurry up, get into those lines!" The company scrambled as it attempted to form a wall of four firing lines, all of them shoving each other aside as they tried to get into their learned positions. Making his way to the back where he would stand, Thomas saw...something make its way past the crowd of maddened citizens, casting aside several mutilated corpses. A long, slightly curved blade was tightly gripped within its right hand. Fitting, seeing as to how huge this thing was. It was absolutely massive, standing at far over six feet, its body rippling with unnatural muscle. As it moved toward them, its legs were like tree trunks, covered by some sort of odd pants and truly massive black boots. What really burned its image into Thomas' mind, though, was that head. The skin looked like it had decayed a long time ago, while the face was hidden by some kind of barbaric mask, a white disk covered in holes and three striking red scars. He shuddered to even think about what it might be hiding.

Captain Lankford raised his rifle, and aimed right at the thing's chest. "Go back to the Hell you came from, child of a hundred abominations!" he roared before firing directly into the thing's chest. It did not even flinch. In fact, if anything, it only quickened its pace. For the first time, they saw fear in Lankford's eyes, as he slowly backed away and tried to reload his gun as fast as he could. Thomas and the rest of the company stood frozen in terror, realizing that perhaps this was Revelation come to life, in more ways than just metaphor.

That was when they heard the roar. Everyone-even the masked thing, Thomas noticed-turned to where the roar had come from. Just behind the bank to the company's left. A shorter, weaker roar preceded the sound of exploding wood, as the whole bank shook. Now he was certain that the city was under attack by Hell itself, and if the rest of the demons were like that masked thing...

"REORIENT YOURSELVES! NOW!" Lankford cried. As the Captain turned his gun to the bank and desperately finished reloading it, Thomas saw that the masked thing had moved on, its focus now on other militia troops and citizens of the city. Why-

The front of the bank burst outward. They were all showered with splinters and nails to varying extents, but at the front of their mass, Thomas saw two men fall. One of them was bleeding profusely from a wound on his head, while the other had a large chunk of wood stuck in his throat. The moment they hit the ground, they were still.

Another massive roar. They were finally able to see just what had come for them next, and they regretted it with all their hearts. This demon was even taller than the previous one, taller than many smaller pines. Its skin was a deep, muddy brown, wrinkled and withered with the illusion of age. The monster was naked, but it was impossible to say if it was a man or woman demon. The four fingers and three toes ended in long, terrible claws, long as a huge knife and sharper. A tail extended from its lower back, and its shoulders were broad and downright alien, knotted bones bulging from where they met the arms. Its rib cage nearly jutted right out, and was almost the entire torso. Worst of all, however, was that head. It was elongated and bulbous, like a corpse bloated in the heat. Where there should have been a nose, there were only two thin slits. The eyes were milky white, and still they pierced the men through and through. Saliva flowed from its growling mouth, a mouth filled with bared fangs that would put even the most viscous wolf to shame.

The demon surged forward, killing two men within seconds of each other. The first had his entire face torn off his skull with a single swipe of its claws. The man next to him had his guts spilled with another swipe, before it ripped them out and snapped his neck with them.

"M-men...MEN! MEN IN THE F-FRONT! O-o...OPEN FIRE!"

The men in the front obliged their Captain, sending their bullets right into the demon's body. It simply grinned as the little chunks of metal bounced off its hide. Two more of Company D's troops fell. One had his entire head sent flying with a punch, like a broken red pumpkin sent soaring through the air. The other was also decapitated, his head removed when the demon spun faster than their eyes could keep up, its tail beheading him.

They had spend less than five minutes here, but Thomas already knew this was a hopeless battle. He had seen what they were up against; they had all seen! Demons, abominations that did not even notice their bullets. And how they killed! There was no way they could even hope to contain this foe, much less defeat them. They were no match for this.

I know when a fight ain't worth it, he thought. I agreed to fight men, not monsters. He looked around, and saw a young girl on her knees. She was sobbing, the tears mingling with the blood that clung to her. She was cradling something in her arms, and next to her were two dead, brutalized adults.

Someone had to do something. A child could not just be left to die here in this Hell, and Thomas had no intentions of giving his life on this hopeless butcher's battlefield. He knew what he had to do.

Shoving the other men aside with sharp elbows and the butt of his rifle, he ran to get the girl to some safety. Once he was free of the company, he strapped his rifle over his back again and broke into a sprint to get to the child before anyone or anything else could.

"MARSTON!" Lankford shouted. "YOU GET BACK OVER HERE! I SWEAR, I'LL HAVE YOU HANGED FROM THE HIGHEST TREE!"

Thomas only looked back once. In his head, he laughed and thought, No need for that. If I stayed, we would all be dead however this demon wants it.

He made it to where the little girl was. She screamed and fell back, bringing the thing in her arms to her chest. A new sobbing was heard, and he saw that she was carrying a mere baby.

"M-m-my, p-p-parents...th-they're, they're d-dead..." she tried to tell him.

"I know," he said, as softly as he could. He easily picked her up; the baby's sobs began to increase in intensity. "Come on, we are leaving. This place is not safe for you. For any of us."

"B-but, w-what about m-m-my b-brother?..."

"Someone will take good care of you and your brother, once we find somewhere far from here," he tried to assure her. "I promise."

He spotted a stagecoach just a few buildings over from the capitol building. Obviously, it was waiting for someone important. They would probably never come. Once they had made it, he pushed the girl and her baby brother toward the waiting guard.

"Get them in there," Thomas told him.

"Hey, now wait just a minute!" the guard growled. "You're not-!"

"I don't care who this is meant for!" Thomas shouted. "The three of us are leaving! You want to wait for a dead passenger, and die here yourself? Go ahead, but these children and I have no business here! Do you understand?"

The guard and the driver simply looked at him with bitter regret, before the former sat the girl inside with her brother. Thomas then climbed in, while the guard ran over to where the coach gun was.

"What destination do you have in mind?" the driver asked Thomas.

"Just take us far, far away from here," he told him. "If you have to take us to the damn Union to do so, fine by me." The driver nodded and began whipping the horses. As they took off, the screams and deranged laughter continued to echo behind them. Thomas hoped he was right that he could get these children to somewhere safe, if anywhere still was at this time...
---
This was not right.

When he had seen the images of that other world, Pinhead had seen something roughly equal to the technology of the humans of the Earth he knew. Devices such as automobiles, heavy repeating guns, tanks, and various flying machines. Not to mention that their clothing styles were similar in how casual and simple they were.

There was none of that here. Simplistic rifles that barely scratched the more powerful slashers (much less himself), the animals known as horses, wooden buildings, and heavy rustic clothing. Perhaps they had simply been sent to an isolated part of that world. That was his original thought. After all, they couldn't have seen everything that defenseless world had to offer, right?

As he sifted through the minds of these people, however, everything started to come apart. These humans still practiced a system of commerce dependent on agriculture by way of other human beings, those of black skin in contrast to their white. They all still believed that these black skinned humans were inferior to them, on a truly massive societal level that he'd noticed the humans of the other Earth did not. They did not know of any technology such as automobiles and airplanes; indeed, those words did not even exist within their minds. What struck him as most peculiar, however, was the nation state that these humans associated themselves with. They considered themselves the citizens of that polity known as the Confederate States of America, which had rebelled against the most powerful nation on the other Earth, the United States of America, over a century ago.

Pinhead knew that the humans had another invention, though. Something they called "films." Moving pictures on a screen. Could it be that this was just a new film being created by these humans? That was his next guess. Admittedly, it was strange that those associated with this film would be so deeply attached to their role that they would think like the character they were to portray, but then, some humans were harder to examine than others. He would certainly need time with these.

As the chains held the screaming man in place, Pinhead decided to put that theory to the test. He reached deep into his mind, finding it filled with such petty and selfish information, nothing but personal opinions and ideas of the self. It was certainly an interesting specimen.

Now come here, young lady. I have noticed you are the most studious of the house servants...If that Lincoln bastard wins, I'll pay for the revolution myself! Mark my words, I have enough money to do so!...No long-haired man is going to take my property from me! Would he like it if I came to take his house, his livestock, his wife and children?...Gentlemen, I would like to offer the year 1861 a toast! For now, as we-

1861.

He tore the man into eight pieces. His tongue wiped away the blood on his lips and jaw. Now, something was not just wrong. Something had gone wrong. Something in the Tall Man's process had malfunctioned. Somehow, they had been sent to the Earth they had seen, and yet, they had not. Rather than the present time of that world, they had been sent to how it had been in the year 1861, in that Confederate States of America.

Pinhead suddenly smiled. It was not what they had asked for, but he could not really argue with this. He already knew what the humans of the present were like. Why not study those of the past, though? Those of the year 1861? Oh, yes, this would be most interesting. And he knew right away that the slashers would appreciate the chance to slaughter those of another time, just to see how different the victims were.

Leviathan, blessed be your name. For only you could grant me such a blessed opportunity...

 

[JasonVoorhees525]

Chapter Three
---​

The boy's screams rapidly subsided into harsh grunts, as he dug the man's fingers into his eyes. From the man's nerves, he could feel the warm blood drenching the skin and nails, the soft brain as it was crushed inward by his strength.

He quickly tore the fingers out, removing chunks of the outer brain as well. Looking around, he saw several men looking at their old friend, their breath stilled and their guns trembling along with their hands. Slowly, he forced the man's body to smile, a lifeless expression that displayed only teeth. He brought the fingers up to his mouth and lecherously licked several of them dry, extending the man's tongue as much as it was possible. At the same time, he bit down on the ring finger and jerked his head back, giggling as he tore out the nail and some flesh.

The so-called "soldiers" fired not a moment afterward, filling their former friend's body with smoldering lead. Like a marionette, the man's vocal cords twisted and reeled as he laughed, before abandoning this sack of meat. He stole the biologically produced electricity within the man as he did so, leaving him well and truly dead. Like an eel, the strand of electricity he'd become zipped across the ground, too fast for any of these inbred morons to even notice. The ground burned beneath him, the smoke being the only indication of what was about to happen before he tore into the nearest one of them.

The weak bastard fell to a knee as he gasped, saliva immediately gushing out of his mouth. Men who were once comrades almost instantly turned on him, thrusting their bayonets through the chest and torso. Now in control, he made the body giggle with childish glee, blood flowing from the mouth and nose. He didn't stop, not even when one of them tried to put a bayonet through the head.

That wouldn't do, now would it?

He turned the body around and pulled the gun forward, before forcing it down and ramming the knife this one had carried into the fool's throat. Moving like electricity, he plunged the blade into some burly man's right genital and dragged it across, before twisting it out of the next. A scrawny specimen was carved open right down the middle, exposing his innards for all to see. The blade pierced the cheek of a heavily bearded man, ripping apart the flap of flesh before he drove it upward through the skull.

Leaving the knife in that corpse, he had the man turn to face the last of his fellows. He craved that look in his eyes, that emotion he'd seen so many times when he'd wiped out whole groups of them. Not just fear, terror. Primal, animal terror. With a pitiful gasp, he made one last stab at his old friend, or at least he tried. He thrust his bayonet maybe an inch forward before dropping his rifle and turning to run.

The laughable excuse for a person didn't make it too far. The moment his back was fully turned, Horace Pinker surged out of the wasted body and into the runner. Just to see his reaction, Pinker made sure to leave enough of that host's bodily functions running as he left. He let loose a loud gasp of pain, before falling over, croaking. The running boy seemed to have heard his buddy, over the cacophony that raged all over this warzone.

Priceless.

His eyes had one second to bulge before every last part of his essence was taken from him. The running body tripped, and briefly suffered a seizure on the ground before Pinker assumed full control. He made him scream, beg for help. He remembered his mother telling him about the sirens of myth, how it meant no one could ever be trusted. These morons, they trusted each other too much. Which was why they listened to what seemed like their friend screaming for help, and ran to him.

Horace. I have a plan for you, based on new information I have received.

The telepathic voice tore through Pinker's mind like a car through a wall. His entire being shuddered as he received Pinhead's message. The ugly thing had been quite convincing when it had asked him to join in this little crusade against the ignorant masses, but in truth, he knew right from the beginning that it wasn't going to be his master. Once the people of this Earth had been drowned in their own blood, he would discard Pinhead like he did everything else that was no longer useful. If any of the rest of these savages disagreed, he wouldn't have a problem grinding them into the dirt, either.

He quickly butchered the four men who came over to the current host. As he did so, Pinker listened to what Pinhead had to say, including this delightful new information. Oh yes, delightful indeed. Once the four husks were cut down, he immediately set about to his task.

Whatever Pinhead had to say for now, he would clench his teeth and nod. After this was over, this army would be taking orders from him, and there was no telling how many other unsuspecting worlds there were in the strands of reality...
---
One second, they seemed to be surrounded by the humming of a million insects. The next, those insects had broken through the windows, their sheer mass caving the glass in. As much as they possibly could, Jefferson Davis and several of his cabinet members sprinted to the House Chamber, several of their guards not too far behind them. As the buzzing of this unholy swarm of what appeared to be bees filled the building, it was slowly accompanied by the rising screams of those guards and servants who had no chance to escape the tide.

As the dark swarm surged forth, the guards quickly shut the doors and rushed to lock and bar them. A massive number of chairs were tossed forth to build a makeshift barricade, while the doors vibrated with the sound of the swarm. The leaders of the government looked around; there were several other politicians in the chamber, most of them Alabamians. In the midst of the chaos surrounding them, they seemed to think it was only right that they rage about their situation like petulant children. None of them seemed to even notice their President, too engaged were they in shouting about whose fault this mess was. Accusations flew just as much as the bullets outside did; everyone thought someone was responsible, save for themselves, and it seemed that those responsible were whoever was nearest to them.

Davis' face twisted into a snarl, almost animalistic in nature. His blood boiled with pure rage as he saw just what he had been left with during such a disaster. Not men who were willing to go out and lay their lives for their people. Not men who were so terrified, they had no choice but to flee. No, he was left with those in between, the worst of all men in government. He had been left with those who preferred to take shelter and bicker, for even as Rome burned, they had no real ideas. Perhaps they knew he was here, but they couldn't dare acknowledge him, for fear of having to admit their shortcomings. Well, if they couldn't do it themselves, then he would have to pry it out of them himself.

His face was red, and his fists shook as his knuckles turned white. A slow growl escaped his throat before he finally exploded at these imbeciles.

"Do none of you realize what is happening here?!" Davis screamed, as much as he could make his voice do so. "Why, it seems that you're all too stupid to have even noticed any of us! Now, I demand to know what you are all doing here, as this city burns all around us! Look at you, arguing like pathetic children! Too weak to run, too scared to fight!"

"Oh? And what are you and your lackies doing then, Davis?" Clement Clay asked. He went on, Davis' attempt to stare daggers into him having clearly failed. "Here you are, standing around in this chamber as your city burns. What are you doing to stop these invaders? Do you even have any information to share with us? No, you fled into the House just as soon as we did."

"There is a difference!" Davis shouted. "We were going to our escorts the moment we heard the first few shots, but in case you did not just notice, something quickly prevented us from doing so!"

"How little shame you have!" Clay spat, obviously shocked at this admission. "To think, this nation has elected an utter coward who proudly admits to running away! I would have sooner submitted to the Yankees than this!"

"That is quite enough!" Alexander Stephens cried. At that, everyone turned to him, none of them having expected their Vice President to be anything more than a suitable companion for Davis. By the look in his eyes, it was clear that his temper had replaced what had once been patience.

"Now, if you would all cease your disgustingly childish behavior, maybe we can figure out what to do here. Obviously, we cannot leave through the doors of this chamber due to that hellish swarm, and we do not have enough armed men to make much of a difference in the battle. But if we can hold these doors closed and keep the windows barricaded, we might be able to send a telegram to those of our fellow states-"

"And what good will that do us?" James Pugh asked. "It will take at least a whole day for the nearest state to receive it, much less Florida and Texas! We will all be dead by then!"

"I know that," Stephens said. "But if there is no other sacrifice we can make, then we must at least do that for this nation of-"

He stopped as the buzzing outside stopped. It did not die down, it did not fade away. It simply stopped, as if all those insects had never even been there. Everyone's attention shifted to the doors. Was it a trap? Had the whole thing been a ruse? Or did some miracle occur and give them a fighting chance now? The gunfire and screams went on outside.

"Should we open these doors?" John Reagan asked. "By God, what is the meaning of all this?"

At that, something knocked on the doors. It was a weak knocking, somewhat blocked out by the makeshift barricades, but it was unmistakable. It went on for a few more seconds before they heard a voice just outside.

"Let me in!" the male voice demanded. "If any of you are God-fearing Americans, you would let me in! Please, hurry before it's too late again!" Whoever it was, the man sounded hysterical, almost to the point of sobbing. Quickly, the politicians and guards moved to take away the materials blocking the doors. Once the final long bar was removed, the doors were unlocked. Slowly, cautiously, they pulled them open, and in stumbled a young man with a rifle and bayonet. He was likely a member of one of the militias, and to say that he was battered would be an understatement. Dirt and blood blended on his face to form some sort of gruesome piece of artwork. Long streams of blood soaked his shirt and pants; looking closer, they were able to see several deep gashes in his thigh and upper torso. As he rested on his knees, he took halting, wheezing breaths through his filthy lips. They could all be forgiven for believing him to be on death's door. However, with a clearly tremendous deal of strength, he was able to pick himself up and make his way into the House chamber, albeit with an obvious limp.

"Good God!" Davis gasped as he moved toward the young soldier. "What on Earth has happened to you? Who did this to you?"

The soldier took several seconds to breathe deeply after he had stopped walking. "Mr. President," he began, "we're all in big trouble now. There's nothing any of you can do to stop this."

"What is it, lad?" LeRoy Walker asked. "What force is out there, laying waste to this city and our people? What did you see?"

At that, the soldier bitterly chuckled. "I saw the legions of Hell itself, that's for sure. It ain't just me. They're killing everyone out there. Butchering them, like farm animals. I was lucky to make it here with just these wounds. They way they're killing us..."

"How did they get here?" Stephens demanded to know of him. "What does this enemy look like? How many of them, what arms do they bear?"

"Oh, I'm telling you, they came from Hell itself!" the soldier moaned, looking up at the ceiling, toward the heavens. "No matter what we do, how many bullets and cannons we fire, how much courage we have! It doesn't slow them down a bit! They just keep coming, leaving blood and broken bodies behind them! They're watering our country's soil with our blood! Our children's blood, our fathers' and mother's blood! Total monsters, all of them! They're not human! By the Lord, if they make it to Texas and get their hands on our good Governor Houston...!"

By that point, he was outright sobbing. Stephens moved in to grab the soldier by his shoulders and get him back to his senses. He shook the young man for a second.

"Son, you must listen to me! I will not lie to you; we will all likely die here. But we must not wallow in despair at times like these! We must give our last for this great nation. If there is one thing I can assure you with, it is that the traitor Sam Houston is not your state's governor. Of course, I understand that you are likely gripped with such terror-"

The soldier suddenly let loose a shriek. Everyone in the vicinity covered their ears, the horrible noise threatening to pierce their eardrums. That noise, however, did not last long. His shrieking morphed into what could best be described as mad cackling. They knew that the mad were still men, though. There was nothing human in that awful sound. Everyone's hair stood on end, their bodies suddenly feeling deathly cold as they heard that monstrous laughter. With the dirt and blood on his face, the soldier now truly looked like some savage beast, as if he were wearing a death-mask. Already shocked by the shriek, Stephens slowly stepped back. The soldier saw this; in an instant, the cackling became a quick, sharp war cry, as quick and sharp as the bayonet peering out of Stephens' back.

Two guards raced to meet the twisted being, who they now knew was no comrade of theirs. It swiftly made short work of them, blood flashing through the air. The politicians scrambled back, allowing the guards to begin firing into the thing. Once more, the chamber erupted into shouting.

Davis shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd, desperately making his way toward the telegraph. He should have sent that message the moment they came here. Yes, it was likely they would have died here, but they could have done it while doing everything they could for America. Stephens did not deserve to die like that. Cowards, the whole lot of this enemy! May they taste what we dread before they meet their ends!

The crowd of politicians behind him parted. One after the other, they all fell, torn apart by this demon that pretended to be one of their sons. Now, it suitably looked even less human, as it limped forward with over three dozen bullet holes in its body and countless bayonets having skewered it. It kept going, though. How? How does this monstrosity continue to live?

"Oh, Mr. President!" it laughed. "You don't know how much I wanna try your Southern flesh fried! I'll cook you like I did those nice little dogs!" A blue-white glow began to emit from the bayonet, as a crackling noise filled the air around them. With a giggle closer to that of a hyena than a human, it lunged forward, ready to impale Davis. He simply stood there, too terrified to even think of what was happening.

Just before the creature do so, Reagan leaped forward, his right hand extended and pushing Davis back. The glowing bayonet tore into him; a great aura of light burst out around them. Reagan was only able to emit a single brief, pained scream before the light subsided. His body fell at Davis' feet, smoldering beyond any recognition. The beast looked down at its kill and spat. He heard it growl "Fat fuck," a growl truly fitting of a wild animal.

"Davis, come on!" Walker shouted, pulling him away. "We need to get that telegram out and tell the rest of-!" His Secretary of War then loudly gasped. Walker clutched at his chest and sank to his knees. As he keeled over, Davis turned back and saw the ruined body of the thing, sprawled out over the floor. It did not move at all; indeed, past the blood, it was easy to see how pale its skin was.

Davis was torn away from his observation when a fist slammed into him. Before he even had a chance to hit the floor, a pair of hands grasped his collar. In the life and death situation, he was able to ignore the combined strike and his head hitting the floor so he could see who or what was doing this. It was none other than Walker himself, or it would be, were it not for the lifeless grin wrapped around his face.

"I would regret what I've been told to do, Mr. President," the creature masquerading as Walker sneered. "But damn it, I'm a patriotic American! I can't just let you no-good cousin-fuckers do as you please! We have to have some sense of morality, you know?" As this was said, Walker's body tried to wrap its hands around Davis' throat. He resisted with all his might, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

With one last desperate glance, he turned his head to see Memminger ahead with the politicians who were left. "Christopher!" he screamed, even as Walker's body grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head away. "Get to that telegraph! Send for help! From all the states, from the Union! These abominations must be stopped-!"

The demon in control of Walker twisted his head around. A loud crack echoed clearly through the chamber, and Jefferson Davis knew no more.
---
The small number of politicians remaining huddled closely around Christopher Memminger. As he began composing the telegram, Davis was cut short and an unmistakable crack was heard. The politicians wailed in horror and despair. Several of them angrily charged out to meet the abomination, only to be mercilessly cut down.

Of course, Memminger did not see any of this. He only heard it. He didn't dare look up from his work on the telegraph, working like a machine itself to get the message out. Sweat fell down his head like streams. It was more than likely that there were a number of spelling and grammar mistakes in the message, and he often ignored punctuation entirely. He didn't care; as long its receivers would be able to read it, it would do. The heat emanating from the politicians packed around him simply increased his sweating.

The monster made its way to them. Memminger heard a number of them attempt a last resistance, before they joined their Southern brethren. God, how he hoped their countrymen would honor them for such a last stand.

He needed to send this last telegram out. He'd already sent one to Mobile, and six others to their fellow states. As much he loathed doing it, the Union needed to know about this as well. If they could help his countrymen fight off these horrors, they might even recognize their nation and let them be free. He knew he would never live to see any of these wonders, but if any future of hope existed for America, he needed to send this final message. He would gladly give his life for that.

He had completed the last sentence when he heard a gun being cocked. With all the will he had left, Memminger sent that damn telegram to Washington. The telegraph exploded in his face as a loud gunshot rang through. Jumping back, he saw that he was truly alone with this entity, this thing wearing Walker's body as a suit. It looked at him; the pistol moved to where his head was. Memminger swallowed and glared at it in revulsion and defiance. His work was done. Let it finish him off.

The creature spoke, in a voice that was still Walker's, but was so thoroughly removed from humanity, it might as well have been from the Ninth Circle of Hell itself.

"It seems to me that you people enjoy dying for your country," it hissed, Walker's teeth fully visible in its grin. "Lucky for you, I enjoy killing you. Don't worry, I'll make this one quick. And then, once you're dead, I'll take my time with what's left of you..."

 

[JasonVoorhees525]

Chapter Four
---​

The cannons let loose into the two of them. One a hedonistic mockery of mankind, the other a gargantuan beast from the worst nightmares of that same species. The two of them had faced far worse than this; as such, they couldn't hide their disdain for the weakness of these humans' efforts. Though Pinhead had never been one for emotion, his face displayed a greater scowl than usual. Pumpkinhead, on the other hand, was absolutely grinning, its fangs bared in all their horrid glory. Saliva drooled down to its chest and some even made it all the way to the ground. There, the earth lost its life, so lethal was the sheer venom of pure vengeance.

Five of the cannon balls hit Pumpkinhead, while Pinhead allowed another three to collide with his body. He held the rest that had been aimed at him in the air as the smoke cleared, so that these Confederates could see just how pathetic their attempts at pain were. Once he took in their aghast expressions, he flung the rest of the cannon balls back at those who had fired them. The first five cannons and their crews were obliterated, only a few of them surviving, and barely at that. Their screams filled him with a brief, moderate sense of ecstasy, their destroyed limbs and torsos a decent morsel for the eyes. With his abilities, he created two smaller explosions in their dying midst, finally ending them and the sixth cannon and its operators.

The two cannons at the end of the row were torn to pieces before they even had a chance to process their situation, much less scream. As the chains swiftly flayed and dismembered them, Pumpkinhead roared its challenge to the remaining cannons, whose crews promptly screamed and tried to run away. The vengeance demon would give them no such chance. Like a wolf, it charged in for the kill. The cannons were like mere toys for it, shattering against its body while it seemed to barely even notice they had been in the way.

Pinhead had to admit, he admired the beast's style, as it pulled the soldiers apart like a human would a cooked animal. Their comrades' own bodies were used as weapons, beating them to death with the sheer unnatural strength of Pumpkinhead. Nary a victim was left in one piece; indeed, more than a few were reduced to smears on the ground.

It felled its last victim with a simple kick, tearing the man in half horizontally. The creature lifted its head and roared to the heavens, an unearthly sound that shook the bones of every mortal within the meager city. As it relished its kills, Pinhead calmly walked up to stand beside it. The front lines of this carnage had moved to just a few dozen feet of what was supposed to be these people's capital building.

"It must be said," Pinhead began to tell it, "that I am glad I was able to secure your presence in this fight. Your prowess is nigh unequaled, and your endurance is a potent weapon in and of itself. Were you a creature of base desire, you would make a fine servant of Leviathan." Pumpkinhead looked down at him and smiled again. Indeed, he seemed to have flattered it so well, it even chuckled a bit at his compliments.

"Hopefully, Horace is succeeding at his task" he said, referring to the murderer whose spirit lived on in the electrical current. "It should not be too hard for him to complete it, and once he does, this nation's collapse shall begin. Once it falls, so shall the rest of this world."

He felt the minds of others creeping up behind him, other "slashers." A child's body before a furnace, a shrine centered around a head, the pain of a severed limb and the pain of a lost love. Pinhead knew who they were before he even turned to face them. Unlike those slashers such as Pumpkinhead, he was also able to see their true forms, reflected in their souls. A clawed skeletal thing shrouded in fire, a corpse chained to its rage, a decaying painting on an increasingly rusting metal canvas surrounded by insects.

"Just our luck," Freddy Krueger spat. "We come to teach these weak morons a lesson, our first stop is a damn movie set!"

"Oh, it's more than that," Pinhead flatly remarked. Krueger simply further scowled.

"Definitely! What kind of movie uses actual cannons and guns?! Whoever is in charge of this thing is insane!"

"If this is truly what the modern world calls 'move-ees,' then they are more than willing to die for such," Candyman observed. "They seem to be so utterly absorbed by their craft, they are not only willing to throw their lives away for it, but also bait us with the most despicable of taunts. How typical, of those so weak."

"Definitely," Krueger snarled. "Some of these damn insects have the nerve to call me 'ugly!' They've got some guts, I'll give them that." Candyman glared at the horribly burned dream-stalker. Obviously, he had a problem with something in Krueger's complaining.

For his part, Pinhead just quickly shook his head. He didn't feel the need to tell them the truth, not just yet. Their feeble minds would need some time to process it, and it wouldn't do for them to handle such a mental task when there was still some work to accomplish.

As was usual, Jason Voorhees simply observed the conversation while remaining utterly silent. Pinhead could respect him for that at least. In fact, while many of the slashers were silent, Voorhees at least responded with comprehensible body language and didn't have such a bizarre mind to read, unlike others such as that Michael Myers figure. He felt like he could trust Voorhees.

A loud, ear-splitting horn roared across the battlefield. About five seconds later, the harsh grinding of wheels came to a halt, followed by the opening and slamming of a particularly heavy door. The five of them all looked in the direction of the jarring noise.

"Is that the ugly gargoyle asshole, with the stupid Stetson?" Krueger asked.

"It certainly appears to be so," Candyman answered. "His vehicle is particularly large; I can see it from here. Though, I would not call him a gargoyle, considering how much he differs from the actual statues."

"Right, I forgot! Big art school student, huh? Or were you self-taught?"

"Perhaps, now that he who refers to himself as 'The Creeper' is here," Pinhead growled, "it is a sign that this slaughter has reached its climax. Come, let us see what our friend Horace is doing." He knew that getting all the slashers to work together in this crusade would be like herding cats, but it was much too early. If they wanted to flex their egos, they would have to wait until the very end.

The three of them followed Pinhead and Pumpkinhead's lead. As they walked the steps of this Capitol Building, Krueger muttered something about how much money it might have cost to build such a huge "set piece."

Oh, what sights they all had yet to see...
---
He had a problem with that Cenobite creature. Why did he have to be the absolute last to come slaughter the weaker world? Yes, his truck was massive and quite modified in areas such as speed, but it was a stupid reason for needing to hold back until the very end. He could have simply sped through the gate and parked it on the corpses of this new prey, and it wouldn't have disturbed the flow of the others at all. But no, that humanoid abomination had to tell him where his place was in this "army," and apparently, it was far behind even the weakest of these murderers. He knew he could work just as well at the front as those Pumpkinhead and Horace things, his nature letting him soak up whatever damage these fools had to throw at him while protecting the weaker ones. Did the Cenobite seem him as a nuisance? Did it find his truck an inconvenience? Oh, when this was all over, he knew whose flesh he would be tasting first. He just wanted to know how good a fight that leather-clad freak was able to put up.

The Creeper burst through the gate and into the other Earth. As he did so, he made sure the truck's horn let loose a cry like an elephant from Hell itself. Almost immediately, he saw several pathetic humans in his way. With a grin full of savage glee, he sped up further and smeared them into the earth. The sound of their bones shattering into thousands of pieces beneath the wheels was more than audible. Waves of arousal washed over him. The Creeper stopped the truck and jumped out. He inspected the streak of blood on the wheels and just a bit further behind. All around him, he could smell the totality of these humans' fear.

Saliva began to bubble from his mouth.

A man wearing what used to be a fine suit ran into his line of sight. In a flash, the Creeper threw his knife into the man's back, the blade bursting out right before it penetrated the spine. With a loud gasp, the man fell, his eyes wide even as his life clearly faded away. The Creeper walked over to the corpse and tore the knife out, before quickly yet elegantly carving the left ear off. He took a great whiff before stuffing the appendage into his mouth. Loudly, he chewed upon it, his teeth making short work of the soft human member.

It felt like an arrow had shot through him.

He spun around to see several of these strangely dressed people attempting to open the doors into the back of his truck. Oh yes, they were not just frightened, they were terrified. Many were the culprits for this terror – murder, loss, starvation. Why, they probably thought his truck was full of food, of the sources of life! If that was the case, they were certainly surprised when they did pull the doors open. A spear burst out of the tailpipe and impaled the woman standing right in front of it; the sound of weaponry tearing through vertebrae never ceased to leave him in awe. As the rest of the group suddenly looked at the source of the noise, another trap activated. It was only for a split second, but a blink of an eye was all that was needed. A wall of spikes came down from a small slit at the top of the doorway. Just as quickly, it receded, leaving a teenager's arm severed just below the elbow.

The Creeper was a master of many art forms. Intimidation was one of them, one of the most important. Knowing how unprepared these humans were, he leaped into the air, higher than any human being could ever hope to. Right as he reached his peak, he unfurled his wings and dove right at the group. In that same moment, he heard a number of these drawling hominids gasp and scream like deranged monkeys. He grinned a bit at that, basking in the scent of fresh fear before he pounced on the amputated boy.

His wings retreated back into his body, while at the same time, his claws skewered several major organs. That child was dead before he could even utter a final shuddering breath. Still, the Creeper let nothing go to waste. He punched through the ribcage and removed a real delectable. A single lung went into his mouth, his taste buds instantly electrified as the particular muscle of that organ stirred waves of arousal.

Shrieking, running. The Creeper looked back up as he devoured the lung. The rest were running away! How pathetic! In the face of their fear, they chose to simply act upon it. Well, if they were such cowards, then he would let them die like such cowards. From one of his coat pockets, he produced a small disc. If one looked at it closely, it was clear what this object was made of-several teeth, stitched flaps of flesh, carefully carved chunks of all sorts of bone. The Creeper threw the item in the group's direction, in an almost lethargic manner. Such movement was a ruse. It sped toward them like an aircraft missile, true in its aim and clear in its intent.

A millisecond before it reached the first victim, four curved blades sprang from within the item. He knew that the victim would have felt the breeze of the shuriken revealing itself, were it not for it killing her a mere moment later. It tore through the back of her head in a whirlwind, grinding skull into brain. As if it had a mind of its own, the shuriken systematically mowed down the group, carving through them like an electric razor through warm butter. A total of three cries of pain came from the group, only three, that was how many he counted. The last of them fell once the shuriken had finished burrowing through his back and out his stomach. It raced back to the Creeper, all the blood and gore it had accumulated being shaken away as it sped through the air. It even looked like it could have torn through the Creeper's own head, had his hand not shot up in a blur and caught it while it was still spinning at such a lethal speed. His own arm and hand did not move an inch in response; the shuriken stopped dead. The blades retracted a second later, and the Creeper quickly shoved the weapon built of trophies back into the pocket.

He hadn't forgotten, though. He looked back at the woman who'd been impaled by the first of his truck's booby traps. Not a moment later, the spear snapped back into the tailpipe. The woman, whose body had slumped over while remaining on its feet, fell forward and crumpled in a heap. Even in death, the scent of nourishment was thick in her head, so exquisitely shaped it was. He couldn't let such a fantastic member go to waste. The Creeper went over to the back of the truck, its mutilated and mummified contents exposed to any who dared to glance within. Next to a brown shroud, his labrys stood perfectly straight against the wall. He was proud of the weapon. It had been a spurious creation, the result of a week spent forging something brand new. Ever since, he made sure to always carry it with him, for he knew it was perfect the moment he'd first looked at the finished product.

It was the finest weapon he'd ever used for decapitation. With a single swing, it could lop heads clean off, like Damascus steel perfectly bisecting ribbons in midair. The labrys had never failed at its task before, and it certainly didn't fail now, instantly severing the woman's head. What truly fascinated him was that the labrys seemed to capture its victims' essences every time it struck its target. There would always be one final cry of dread from them as it did its job, as if the labrys itself did not enjoy such an immediate fate, as if it wanted to drag their sentence out a little bit longer. Even in the case of this corpse, the Creeper heard a woman's whimper, all around him and yet nowhere at once. Loud, yet faint at the same time. None of his other weapons had any similar effect at all; they simply killed. He still had no idea why that was, or what might have happened while he'd been forging it. In all honestly, he didn't care much. His weapon did its job, and thus, he was always happy. Truly, they were the greatest of companions.

The Creeper picked up the head and began feasting upon it. Oh, there would be so much more of this, he knew it. He continued on his mission, the one he shared with all the rest of these butchers. Butchers, artists...what was the difference? Soon, he would no longer need to rest, and all of humanity would come to learn such wonderful expressions of that which screamed in the darkest corner of their mind.
---
"Do it, then. Go on and kill me, beast of Hell."

Christopher Memminger glared at the demon that wore LeRoy Walker's body. It had slaughtered every single other member of the Confederate apparatus, including President Davis himself. Everyone, save for him. That wouldn't last long, and he knew it. He didn't care. He had served his country dutifully one last time, having sent for help from the rest of the nation. Of course, he knew that Montgomery was most certainly lost, at least for now. But if the nation could arm itself and send every last man to stop this utterly alien foe, it would be worth it. So many lives lost, but he knew it would not be for nothing. His death would be nothing but spite for these creatures.

The thing laughed, slowly and disgustingly. "You sure you aren't scared of death, country boy? You don't want to feed me some poetic last words before I make a mess of your brains?"

Memminger gulped. "My death will complete my sacrifice. You may make it slow, or short. I do not care. I have done my duty."

It shrieked in laughter. "Not as impressive as I expected, but I admit, you've got some guts! Not like these weak bags of meat and bone you called your friends! They were filthy cowards, suitable traitors. The only thing left will be finding out just how large those guts really are!"

Its grin grew even larger, as it steadied its aim and squinted. Memminger inhaled one last time, before the abomination slowly drew the trigger back...

...And he was slammed into the wall right behind him. The air was torn out of him; it felt like his lungs had suddenly been filled with lead. His vision blurred and tilted for several seconds. During those seconds, however, he was able to see some sort of hook appear out of thin air. It tore off the left arm of Walker, allowing the gun to fire into the ceiling. The hook simply vanished, leaving the arm to tumble messily to the floor.

The creature's expression immediately morphed into a snarl. It turned its head and stepped aside, revealing several of what could only be its compatriots. Memminger wished his vision had completely struggled after he'd been thrown into the wall. By God, these monsters were so hideous. A figure whose features were so deformed it could never have passed for human, its mere clothing an insult to his eyes. A negro with a hook where his right hand should have been, his body wrapped in the most sumptuous of fur coats. A barbarian whose face spelled death, its expression silent and ridden with death as it looked on impassively at all that it would kill. And then there was that thing, that pure demon whose hulking mass filled the entire chamber with boiling blood. Its rage and hatred were so palpable, Memminger could legitimately feel it pressing itself against his skin, feel it trying to smother him.

Last but far from least, however, was the group's leader. He could tell that this creature was the one in charge, simply by looking at how it carried itself. Unlike the others, there was an air of esoterecism around the entity, an otherworldly sense of tactics and rationale. Were it not for its revolting dress, its ritual scarification and inhuman eyes, it could have fit in very well alongside the greatest of Western scholars and thinkers. No matter how much he wanted to look away, Memminger could not help but be transfixed by such a blatantly divine being.

Walker's body fell, now stiff and still. A humming filled the chamber, as a blue-white light appeared next to the corpse. Quickly, that humming turned into an ear piercing buzzing, corresponding to the light's own increase in size. Soon, the light shifted and became more than a simple mass of energy, as it began to take a coherent shape. A head and limbs formed, stout and burly. The main body became bright orange, while the chest became patterned with black and white squares. Soon, the head became more than a shape, human features coming into existence as the figure solidified. It was hideous, despite its borderline human appearance. Bloody wounds ran over the male figure's bald head; the skin was swarthy, like that of a dago. The face was like a dog's, crude and beastly in its appearance.

The figure glared at Memminger with hatred once more, blue-white crackles occasionally still dancing across its bulk. Then, with a growl, it turned back to the new arrivals.

"The fuck is the big idea?!" the figure shouted in a hoarse voice dripping with contempt for all but itself. "I was about to see just what shape this asshole's head would be! You cunts think you can have all the fun?"

"That is enough out of you, Horace," the pin-laden entity said. Its voice, by contrast, was simple yet almost regal. If its mannerism was not enough, its voice was more than enough to let Memminger know who was in charge. Horace-as the figure seemed to be named-instantly and visibly backed down. Even with the air of confidence surrounding it, however, the lead entity refused to let any sense of satisfaction show. It simply turned to face him next. Those eyes. How he wished he could turn away, or just close his own. At the same time, though, there was something about those black orbs that demanded ones full respect.

"Christopher Memminger," it stated, slowly walking up to him. "I have peered into your mind, in the deepest recesses of your being. You wish to build a glorious kingdom out of this new nation of yours, don't you? A kingdom of gold and jewel, fueled by the blood of those chained beneath you. And yet, you have come to recognize that this dream is already dead."

"No, no!" Memminger protested, still mortified by the idea of this creature seeing into his head. "I may die for my country, and I am willing to do so! But, with my death, this nation shall yet live! You cannot stop the people of these states!"

"Hey now, wait a minute!" the twisted thing said, its voice deep and closer to that of a demon than any man. "What are you people talking about? What's this new nation, these states?"

"Isn't it obvious, dumbass?" Horace cackled. "We're not where we're supposed to be! We've gone back in fuckin' time! To the damn 19th century!"

The leader looked at Horace with that same expression, and he quickly recoiled once more. It then turned to address the twisted thing and the rest of the abominations. "Yes, it seems that the Tall Man's gate malfunctioned in some way. We are on that same Earth, but this time is not the one we intended for. We are here in the year 1861, in a collection of states who have come to form a new sovereignty."

"The fucking Civil War?!" the twisted thing's face became even more twisted, now in pure shock. "Are you serious?! This-this can't possibly-!"

The leader ignored whatever it would have said next, refocusing on Memminger. "You say you are willing to die for this nation? That you would give your life so your dream may live on without you?"

Memminger tried to nod; it felt like moving with a massive weight chained around his neck. "Yes. I do not care how you may do it. You may torture me as long as you like, and break my body into a million inscrutable pieces. But I swear, you will not break my mind, and you will certainly never touch my soul! I will only let you have the bitter taste of that fruit known as defeat! May it satisfy you savages!"

"We will certainly take some satisfaction from how we kill you," the negro hissed, in a long, low voice. His face had become wrought with cold anger, ever since their leader had revealed their location to them. It seemed that they had been thrown off course, that this was not where they had intended to arrive. Even if Memminger had heard more details about their circumstances, however, he doubted he would understand any of it. These creatures' story appeared to be as downright alien as they themselves.

"Good," the leader said. "You are not the only one of your fellow politicians to survive. We shall present the remaining lot of you, and then your people may see what we will do to you. You might not break, in which case, we shall commend your corpse. But I am quite sure that these underlings of yours will have a far different reaction to what becomes of you."

"I sincerely doubt that," Memminger spat through gritted teeth. At that, he suddenly flew off the wall and directly toward the leader. His momentum stopped dead when the humanoid caught him and, barely a second later, lifted him by his neck. Such a thing should have been impossible, yet he did not dare to voice his outrage at this defiance of all reality. Indeed, Memminger was beginning to wonder if this even was reality anymore, or simply the most awful nightmare any human could ever experience.

"It's not a nightmare, Christopher," the leader slowly told him. Only then did he really feel its grip; he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming. It was as if iron frosted with pure ice had enveloped him. Every one of his nerves moaned in protest, every last drop of his blood had slowed to a crawl. His hairs shot up and stood straight, bristling with outrage at what could only be described as a total assault.

He heard several more individuals enter the chamber. The leader's grip was so tight, Memminger was unable to lift his head, and thus he could not see. It turned to address these newcomers, its tone remaining static.

"We have found what seems to be the last of them," it announced. "Gather the rest at the foot of this building. Herd whatever survivors you can still find. We shall be out shortly."

The leader then nodded to the massive monstrosity next to it. With what seemed to be a dreadful imitation of a laugh, the beast grabbed Memminger's right shoulder; where the leader's touch was as hellish ice, this demon's was like a steel chain endlessly wrapping around him, constantly threatening to crush him to death yet never reaching it.

Memminger was swiftly carried out by the two grotesque beings. Hoisted in the air, he could feel the hour of death growing nearer and nearer. Carried like a trophy, this leader's command to herd the survivors of this immediate attack...Montgomery would be literally slaughtered. And it would be his people who would be killed last; he knew that that meant their fate would be the most unpleasant.

Christopher Memminger had said he did not fear his death, and he had believed it. Now, however, he could not help but feel dread begin to fester in the back of his mind.
---
Freddy Krueger's only response was to stand aghast. That was all he was able to do.

1861? The American Civil War? The Confederacy? How could this be possible? Damn it! That pinheaded motherfucker told us that Tall Man was foolproof! he thought. This has to be some sort of mistake! What the hell are we supposed to do in the damn Confederacy?!

He tried to ask Pinhead, to demand more information from him. Their plan had been to attack the Earth they had all seen, to show those comfortable cattle in their malls and high-rise apartments what it meant to be the prey. This was not that Earth, and this was not their plan. Was there even any way they could get out? Had they just utterly torn the timeline a new one?

Pinhead saw Freddy begin to open his mouth, that much was obvious. Apparently, though, the Cenobite thought himself to be higher than any of the people he'd gathered for this trip. He instead turned his head without a care, and went right back to addressing this Christopher banker guy.

Freddy's jaw dropped. How dare he? How dare that leather bound creep just dismiss him like that? Who did Pinhead really think he was? Oh, he might have been the favorite of some distant god of freaks, but that gave him no right to treat any of them like his serfs. Did he think they owed him some respect just because he'd been able to bring them all together? If Pinhead hadn't been the one to gather them, they would have done this on their own. Neither Freddy nor any of the rest of them were stupid, they would be able to get to that Earth somehow. None of us would have screwed up as much, either! he told himself. What, does he think this is some fashionocracy? In which case, I could still beat him any day!

In Pinhead's and Horace's tones, disparate they might be, he'd detected something else that had riled him up. Even though Horace might have seen the thoughts of those he possessed, Pinhead had specifically sent him to this building first, and had told Candyman to take away his swarm to do so. Pinhead had known. He'd known, and he'd told that animal Horace Pinker, while leaving the rest of them in the dark until what he'd considered an appropriate time. The bastard! He knew this plan had gone to Hell, and he refused to let his goddamn army know! And to think, he trusted that Pinker fucker with this information!

He raised his glove as Pinhead and Pumpkinhead turned to walk away with their prisoner. His blood boiled, his heart beat like an oncoming scream of anger. There was nothing he wanted more than to gut Pinhead like a fish. Rip him open, see just what color his blood was. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that he would fail miserably at it. Most likely, his glove wouldn't even scratch Pinhead's skin in the slightest. Even if it could, Pinhead would be able to avoid such an attack and immediately retaliate, and Freddy knew that he would have no such defenses. Not to mention Pumpkinhead right next to him, who was like the Cenobite's absolutely huge attack dog.

The others filed out, following the two. Freddy remained in the massive room, though, seething. It seemed that Pinhead was able to utilize the same abilities as he had in their home reality. That didn't mean he really had a connection to his dimension, however. And what about Freddy himself? Would he still be able to manifest in people's dreams? To see if that was possible here, he needed to spread the word about himself. It was 1861, though. The fastest form of communication was the telegraph, and even that could take a variable amount of days. Plus, a telegram lacked the necessary impact of the spoken word, of the terrified survivor who had seen his sheer killing power. How could he possibly spread the legend of himself on a great enough scale to see if he still had access to his otherworldly powers? Even if they released a hundred survivors to tell the tale, it was out of his control after that. Starvation, dehydration, disease, not to mention people not believing or just not understanding their rantings. Pinhead had said that only a few of this world's humans would be spared, but this was not their intended destination. Freddy knew that that plan just wouldn't work in their context, at least not until they fully understood their current situation.

And if the old plan doesn't fit...

Like a train, a new idea suddenly slammed into him. If their situation was so different now, if they were in the year 1861, did they have to butcher this whole world's population? Obviously, Freddy had seen something in the people of this Earth as the vision had showed him, something that reminded him of the bastards he'd dealt with in his own life and afterlife. Of course, he had still killed a score of these Confederates when he'd come through the gate, but that was before this revelation had been so rudely dropped on him. Personally, he already felt so little for these people.

No, no, they didn't need to wipe out so many of these humans. What they-no, he, needed was a base of power. Was there really any easier way to spread the fear of him all over the world than to place it all under his thumb? Even if turned out that he no longer had access to the world of dreams, his own dream would be fulfilled. The whole world as his Elm Street, and every grown man and woman marching to the tune of his beat. And if they just so happened to not like that beat...

Freddy raised his glove again, this time with a grin spreading all over his warped face. There might not be any Elm Streets in every town yet, but that just meant he would have to be the one to create them all.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers? Well, they'll be hearing them soon!

 

[JasonVoorhees525]

Chapter Five
---​

Yellow oval Room, White House, Washington, D.C.
April 16, 1861, 9:38 PM

Abraham Lincoln mulled over the two telegrams sent by himself and Simon Cameron. Across from him were Cameron and his Vice President, Hannibal Hamlin. Lincoln rapped his fingers against the desk, his left hand clenched over his mouth.

"Do you wonder if such a declaration will cause any greater offense among the people?" Lincoln asked, not looking up. It was a simple question, so simple his worry was clear to both men immediately. Things were going to get worse, before they got any better.

"It is a just response, Mr. President" Cameron grumbled, before he took a sip from his glass of brandy. "The Southerners have declared war upon us first, what with their brazen declaration of separation, and their brattish bombardment. There is no need to be concerned over what they will think?"

"What of the rest, though?" Lincoln asked him. "What of Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas? I do not even want to think of Baltimore and Delaware deciding to throw in their lot with this Confederacy. Surely, you do not think they will simply stand by as we march upon their Southern brothers?"

Hamlin cleared his throat. "Your concern is commendable, sir. However, it is obvious that they cannot be neutral, either. Either they stick with us, or they must be crushed as well. There is a definite message that must be sent here: the states themselves are not sovereign. Only the government of these United States does. If we are not to allow the insurrection by this Confederacy, then it is just as simply not possible for any state to say it has no part in this. In this land, there is no middle ground."

Lincoln chuckled softly at that. "It is rare for such a statement to be so true," he said, shaking his head. "Yet, we still need them. If nothing else, we certainly cannot afford to lose Kentucky. Everyone in part of this country knows how much Kentucky means. That Confederacy might have been the first to declare war, but this? This might be us declaring war on the remaining slavers. If it keeps up like this, soon the entire nation will be upon Washington here, and they will concoct their own reasons for finding us in the wrong."

"Then we must stop acting like luck will be on our side," Hamlin responded. "If things must get worse before they get any better, then we will have to depend on those things that man has found most reliable through his whole history. Industry, numbers, a will of steel."

"I'm surprised you didn't say 'God'," Cameron snorted. "The Southerners certainly have that in spades, if nothing else. Well, that, and tenacity. Yes, they seem ready to dig in and hold out until the good aristocrats of Europe come and lend them a hand. Who knows if seventy five thousand will be enough to make them stand down."

Just a second after Cameron's last word was uttered, there was a heavy knock on the door. "Who is this?" the President's bodyguard, Ward Hill Lamon, called from within. The door opened, revealing the two servants standing just outside the room.

One of them leaned in to tell Lamon, "Someone is here to deliver the President a telegram." Lincoln's bodyguard looked behind him at the three men. From the look on his face, it was clear that Lincoln had not been expecting any telegrams, especially not at this time. Hesitantly, Lamon opened the door just a bit more and motioned for the messenger to come to him. The servant parted, allowing a scrawny boy of likely no more than sixteen years to hurry forward. Lamon took the paper from him, looked it over for a few good seconds, and looked back up. Though none of them could see his face, they knew that something was not right.

"Thank you," Lamon grimly told the messenger, before shutting the door. He then turned to face his President and friend; his face was white, and heavy with some sort of dread. Sighing, Lincoln could only ask, "Who is it from?"

"Christopher Memminger, Mr. President," Lamon answered. The three seated men looked at each other in further confusion.

"That Southern Treasurer?" Hamlin said. "What in the world does he want from us?"

"You better read us this telegram, Ward," Lincoln told his bodyguard, shaking his head. "Something...bizarre is afoot here."

Lamon nodded and cleared his throat. With that, he read to them:

"The government of the Confederacy is dead. I am the only one left. Davis is dead. Montgomery is under attack. Foe unknown. Requesting aid from all who receive this message. Situation is dire. Very soon, I will be dead as well. God have mercy."

The room was silent for a good minute. Every word hung in the air. As if he needed permission, Cameron turned to face Lincoln, who was staring at nothing in particular. He swallowed loudly.

"Mr. President...what are we supposed to do now?"

Lincoln continued staring into space, and pressed his lips. "I think," he began to say, "we should continue to fight the rebel states. At the same time, though, we must be cautious and see what this 'unknown foe' is like. If they are too dangerous, then we must pull back, for we gain nothing by also receiving their attention. If they are truly deadly...then we must fight the South, if only to protect them from this new enemy."

"Who could this foe possibly be, though?" Hamlin asked them all. However, neither he nor any of the other three really wanted to know the answer.
---
Executive Mansion, Richmond, Virginia
12:43 PM

"So, that is it, then?" John Letcher asked. "Our cousins in Montgomery are being killed by some unknown new enemy, while Lincoln also wants us to fight them?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

Letcher fumed and gripped his desk. How typical it would be of the Old Dominion, he thought, to stand alone as it did the right thing. What nobody else would do.

"War, then," Letcher nodded. "Virginia has no choice but to join our brothers and fathers in this new Confederacy. Let Lincoln know that we gave him enough chances! He wants us to kill our own? He will have to ask the groveling masses of the Abolitionists to do his dirty bidding. Some force is killing our people, and I will not stand by as it happens! Virginia will fight for the freedom of all good men, and from this moment forth, we will not shed our blood for those like Lincoln any longer! Starting tomorrow, we will march to fight for Montgomery; let us see how this new foe fares against the mettle of the Virginian people. If they are lucky, it will take us until Christmas to crush these fools!"

 

[JasonVoorhees525]

Chapter Six
---​

On the steps of the Alabama State Capitol, Christopher Memminger and Judah P. Benjamin, the Confederacy's Attorney General, were cast down to their knees. As they looked around them, they saw these monsters, these utterly inhuman invaders, gather around the crowd of citizens. The people screamed as children were torn from their parents, mothers removed from their kin, fathers from their families. Those who were taken were dragged over to those steps, screaming; not for mercy, for it seemed that they knew it would not come. They screamed simply because they did not know what else to do. So they screamed, like animals to the slaughter.

Those who were finally hauled over to the Capitol's steps tried to run the moment they were shoved away. It was utterly useless, for these beasts surrounded them. Miraculously enough to them, such disobedient prey were not immediately killed for their attempt at freedom. They were simply shoved back and more closely surrounded. The message was quite clear: they were only still alive because that was what these savages currently desired.

As he looked around, Memminger saw that many of these demons actually looked quite human. And yet...there was still something so clearly off about them. Something in their eyes, their faces, that told of a mind far more alien than that of any mere man. Thoughts, memories, experiences, all of them making Memminger shudder without even knowing them at all. Truly, he did not want to know them, because he knew that if he did, he would become just as mad as these vile creatures.

Those who had been gathered with the two of them were similarly forced to their knees. The rest of the surviving people of Montgomery were blocked off by a militia of the murderers. Again, those who attempted to break through the living barricade were simply thrown back, the butchers visibly agitated at their not being allowed to just kill these mere mortals who attempted to defy them.

He heard steps coming from behind them. He dared not look and see who it might be, fearing that such a simple action would lead to a rebuke perhaps worse than death. And yet, he could hear these footsteps! He should not have, there was too much noise and commotion. So why did he hear them? Clearly, there was a power in whoever was coming...but what was it? Who could be projecting such power?

A sharp, sudden cry erupted from somewhere in the keeling crowd alongside Memminger. It died within a second, and there was silence. Quickly, he glanced to where the cry came from, and felt as if a terrible weight was coming down upon him. The people were pushed aside by that most particular of these abominations. The thing clad in tight black leather, almost as if that were its flesh; such a garb, almost as if it were of a holy nature. Skin white as snow, devoid of hair or even veins. Eyes black as the night sky, an abyss peering endlessly into even the strongest man's soul. Upon its chest, a ritual collection of scars, skin peeled back and muscle still raw after what seemed to be so long. Upon its head, a tattoo marked by pitch black nails. The creature poorly masquerading as a man strode to the top of the steps, where it positioned itself at the center. It was impossible to know whether any of the surviving citizens had even seen this thing until now, whether it was truly that much worse than everything else they had faced on this day. If that was the case, then it did not matter; as if commanded by the Word of God itself, all who were gathered there fell utterly silent.

Memminger kept his head slightly turned, to see what this demon would do. It looked upon the crowd before it, those who had not been selected to join him and Benjamin. For several seconds, it studied the mass of terrified people. Not a whisper was emitted by anyone, and certainly not Memminger himself. Then, without warning, it spoke, its booming monotone sweeping over everyone like the waves of a tide.

"Do not think we do not know of your cowardice, your arrogance," it began. "You lived in this world, a world safe from those such as us. And so you thought you could grow complicit. You believed that you could grow proud and conquer the whole universe. That there was nothing to stop such pathetic animals such as yourselves. All the while, you mocked those such as us. You used us as your entertainment, to instill a cheap sense of fear in yourselves so as to only perpetuate your solipsism."

It then shot its arm upward, motioning to the kneeling crowd of those who had been chosen. "Eventually, you will all die by our hands. We shall return to this place, and when you think you are most safe, we shall shatter your final illusion and snuff out the meager light of this world. But these compatriots of yours? They are the last of today's chosen. Chosen at random, to let every last one of you fools know that you possess no control over your own lives-"

"Our lives are in the hands of God!" an elderly man cried from within the crowd. Memminger cursed the man's foolishness; his doom would certainly be his own. "We will not let demons like you wrest that away from Him!"

The man was then immediately lifted into the air. The screaming began anew, though this time, it was quite quickly strangled with a roar of "SILENCE!" from the mutilated humanoid. Everyone obeyed. Its eyes met those of the elderly man, who was likely at least seventy years old.

"Where is your deity, dear human?" it asked him, with a slight yet noticeable mocking tone. "If this 'God' of yours exists, then why has he allowed us to come and slaughter you? Why has nobody come to save you and your people? Perhaps a better question is: why did he not save you, by keeping your mouth shut?"

At that, a number of black hooked chains shot out and dug into the old man. Memminger knew that he should not be seeing this, that he had no business endorsing these mad executioners with their butchery...yet he simply could not look away. There was no way his eyes would remove themselves from the example that was being made. The chains dug in, and before the man could even start to scream, they ripped themselves out at a lightning speed. The man's limbs were torn off his body, which was torn into five equally shaped pieces, while his head was separated into four perfectly carved blocks. All the while, his skin was torn off, blankets of gore-smeared clothing and the thin, wrinkled dermis beneath them. The body parts and blood fell onto the people below, followed shortly after by the man's skin as the chains retreated from this realm. By now, the people of Montgomery knew that they could not scream, though some of them still decided to weep as they were doused with the remains of one of their own.

"No tears, please," the pale beast chided them in that same tone of voice. "It's a waste of good suffering." It turned back to the people who had been selected to kneel upon the entrance into the Capitol.

"Let this be a lesson to all of you before your time comes" it told them. "There is nothing that can save you beyond our mercy. This mercy is only for this moment; after this, we set forth for the rest of this world. We shall reduce every meager settlement of yours to cinders. We shall butcher every last one of your species. We shall leave monuments of broken bone and severed skin. We shall leave oceans of your putrid blood. We shall darken your skies with the ashes of your burning civilization. Once we destroy the rest of this world, we shall return. We shall come back for you, and then you will finally, well and truly pay." The abomination turned its back to the sobbing crowd, facing its comrades surrounding Memminger, Benjamin, and the other chosen.

"Let them be an example now." The murderers all raised their various weapons, giving those who had been chosen their own chance to begin sobbing. Memminger himself did not cry, even as a great hammer was lifted over his head. He could not cry, he would not allow it. These savages would not have victory over him, even in death.

"STOP!"

The weeping and moaning immediately came to a halt. The killers kept their weapons raised, yet even they looked around in confusion. The leather-bound, mutilated leader of these things narrowed its eyes. Its face was contorted in distaste. Hesitantly, it raised its left arm, before waving its hand. The weapons slowly and harmlessly came down.

One of them pushed its way out from where it had been standing over those who had been selected for death. This was another one that Memminger had seen in the Capitol. It too was hideous, though not in the same way as its apparent leader. The entity's skin was twisted and stretched, warped as if though it had come from the realm of nightmares itself. It wore dark brown pants of a truly vulgar style, and some sort of small brimmed hat. The shirt it wore stood out as much as its skin. Its shirt was utterly garish, stripes of red and green, each color fighting for dominance. His eyes hurt just by looking at it. The trifecta was completed, however, by its right hand. Here, it was hard to tell where the humanoid ended and the animalistic began. Four glimmering claws fell from its fingertips, which grew from a hand that seemed both organic and artificial at the same time.

The warped thing walked up to what could only be its vile commander. A pompous sneer was wrapped around its repulsive face. Such an expression on such a face made Memminger want to spit. Meanwhile, its leader stood still as stone, a grimace utterly etched into its own mutilated face.

"What is the meaning of this, Krueger?" it asked the clawed creature. "What is your reason for deciding that now is a good time to be so kind and merciful?"

The person apparently named "Krueger" shook its head. "Mercy has nothing to with this," it hissed, its voice its own unique growl, like two stones being rubbed together. "No, this is just my attempt to make you and every single one of us realize that maybe this situation should be approached a bit differently."

Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers among the army of deranged beasts. So quickly did they speak, so quietly, and in such strange voices, that Memminger thought that nobody could understand what these things said. "What are you trying to say?" the leader asked Krueger, slowly, placing emphasis on its every word.

Krueger turned, so that his voice could be heard by all. "This is not the world we had been shown! Oh, it's certainly that world; but it's not the point in time to which we were supposed to go! These are not the people we saw, and that we swore vengeance on! No, no, we were sent to what is currently 1861, in Montgomery, the heart of the Confederacy!"

Now there was an explosion of noise. The madmen growled, screamed, and laughed. They looked around and stomped their feet. He heard shouts along the lines of "When did you plan to tell us?!" They were clearly directed at their leader, and it clearly was not expecting such a revelation to come about to the vast number of its kin. It took two steps closer to Krueger, its fists only further tightening as it came forward.

"SILENCE!" it roared. "Now, would you mind explaining just why you decided to share-"

"Because to remain silent about this would be of utmost dishonesty!" Krueger declared. "We might have sworn ourselves to being mindless, ruthless murderers. But for what? For a world that did not know us, that treated us as myth! This is not that world. If we had simply gone on with our original plan, we would have killed an entire world before it had the chance to correct its course."

"Krueger, if now is the time that you wish to begin amending for everything you had done, then I must say that your timing is-"

"I have no regrets for what I am," Krueger scoffed. "I believe that I, however, know a thing or two about revenge. We'd sworn revenge on the world of another time. A world that had allowed itself to grow haughty. But must we tear this whole world down, when we have been given the chance to create something new?"

Memminger barely had any idea as to what he was saying. Yet, along with every other survivor, along with the army of these fiends, he was listening intently. He could not yet put his finger on it, but something terribly great was happening here. God, how he wanted to kill himself for using such a description for what these savages were doing.

"Look around you!" Krueger called out to all his comrades. "Have we not been given the chance to correct this world's course? We have been sent to a nation built on a foundation of absolute morality! Nothing that either the future of this world would have indulged in, or that would produce the societies that would have shaped us! That turned us into what we were! Our fates were forced upon us by the immorality of humanity, but now, we have the chance to force the hand of fate itself! We stand upon the brink of destiny, and we must use that opportunity to stop this world from becoming the den of human pride that we had seen!"

Krueger's leader stood there, glaring at him for almost a minute. It pursed its lips tightly together, before it decided to respond to its underling's curt yet grandiose speech.

"What, then, are you trying to suggest?"

Krueger laughed at that. "Here I was, thinking you could read minds! My dear Pinhead, we have the chance to teach humanity something! Why destroy this world, when we can make it our home? When we can take control and show these people the way, something that we had all been denied before?"

Memminger's skin lost all color as he now realized what Krueger was saying. By God, he thought, do not let this pass! Do not let this be for nothing! To separate ourselves from those Yankees, only to become slaves of these-

"Very well then," the being called "Pinhead" said. "I shall take your desires into consideration-"

"Consideration?" a voice called from the barricade of murderers at the bottom of the steps. "First you don't tell us that the plan's gone to Hell, and now you just want to brush aside our simple fucking requests? Bullshit!"

"I may not be the greatest admirer of Krueger here" a slow, suave, deep voice announced, "but even I know that you seem to think that you are so far above us all, Pinhead."

Murmurs grew among the army. They grew visibly restless, completely turning away from their prey to face Pinhead and Krueger. None of the people of Montgomery, however, dared to try to take advantage of the opportunity. Through it all, Memminger saw that ugly grin return to Krueger's face.

"What do you all want?" Pinhead demanded. "What? Do you want me to allow some vote on this matter?"

"Yes, actually!" one of them cried. "That would be damn nice!"

"What, you scared of our voices, Pinhead?"

A storm of laughter erupted from them. For once, Memminger saw some actual emotion on Pinhead's face. A mean, spiteful scowl crossed its visage. It grit its teeth, looking ready to sink them into one of its troops. The only one that Memminger did not see laugh was the huge, utterly inhuman brown demon, its face twisted into a grotesque snarl as it looked on with its pale eyes.

"ENOUGH!" Pinhead raged. "That is enough! If it is a decision you all want, then it is a decision that I shall give you! All who are in favor of Krueger's idea, raise your right hand!"

A mass of right hands shot up. Memminger swore that if there was any color to be drained from Pinhead's own face, it would have. From what it looked like, practically the entire force of madmen voted for Krueger's deranged proposition.

"All those not in favor, raise your right hand!" Nobody's hands were raised. Finally, Pinhead decided to announce, "All those who could not be bothered to care either way, raise your right hand!" Memminger saw a tiny number of hands rise, including that of the massive man in the circular mask covered in holes and red arrows.

Pinhead looked ready to burst into mad rambling, likely to be accompanied by a flurry of blood and gore. Clearly muttering something under its breath, it gave the grinning Kureger an incinerating look, one that would have destroyed any mere man.

"Very well then!" it decided. "Our plan has been changed! We shall now continue our journey, according to what Krueger here has proposed. In the face of this idea, we must first select one of you mere people of the Confederacy to join us in this endeavor. Unlike our first decision, I have already decided which of you shall live!" It then pointed directly at the butcher right in front of Memminger.

"Bring me the prisoner right before you! Bring him here!" The beast looked down at Memminger, looked back, and nodded. It grasped him by the shoulder. He bit his tongue and groaned; it felt like his body was suddenly on fire, so tight was its iron grip. It dragged him over to Pinhead on his knees. Once it was close enough, it let go and kicked him in the back, sending his face into the ground of the entrance.

"The rest of them...let them be a lesson," Pinhead told the others. "Let us teach these people what will happen if they choose to cross us."

With that, the mad executioners obliged. Screams and sobs emerged from both sides of the living barricades, many of them cut short by the shower of viscera and the breaking of bodies. It was in the blood of Montgomery that a new nation was forged.

 

[JasonVoorhees525]

Chapter Seven
---​

Nashville, Tennessee
April 17, 1861, 3:45 PM

The crowd bayed for blood as if on cue, all of their roars coming together to form that of some greater beast. Even though he shared their outrage, Isham Harris had to admit that it also gave him no small amount of joy. Here he was, letting the Unionist filth know exactly where he stood with that usurper's demand for Tennessean blood, and his kinfolk were lapping up every word like water. Perhaps it was because they knew that, like water, they needed a leader like him. Like water, the people of Tennessee needed secession, or else their entire way of life would be ravaged by those warmongers of the North.

"So let it be known" he announced, "that not a single one of our lives shall be given in the name of Washington's tyranny! Tennessee will remove itself from this cancerous body, and find its true purpose in this newborn Confederacy! Brother will not stand against brother in this state, oh no! We know who our brothers are, and they are in South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas! We shall stand alongside our brothers, and if we must perish, then it will be with them! Let Lincoln find his seventy five thousand elsewhere! I am sure that he will have no difficulty in herding the masses of the abolitionists and the pristine barons of the Northern industrial waste!"

They roared again, the beast's cries punctuated with shouts such as "Burn Washington and those within it!" and "Let Lincoln hang for the crows!" Among that crowd in Nashville, there were eyes red and filled with an almost real fire. Having to stop himself from grinning at the amazing outrage, Harris then removed another paper, another message he had received in the past two days. This one, from the Confederacy.

"But!" he suddenly yelled, instantly silencing the crowd. "There is even graver news than that of Lincoln's antics. We had received another telegram, this one from Montgomery, the heart of that new nation. Though it pains me to reveal this information, I must! It is from their Secretary of the Treasury, Christopher Memminger. What he has told us is dire, indeed. Montgomery is under attack! The capital of the Confederacy is under siege, and their vile foe is utterly unknown! Already, he tells us, Jefferson Davis and the rest of the Confederacy's government has been slaughtered! He is the only one left, and if he is not dead yet, then he is surely close to it."

At that, the crowd erupted into true hysterics. Screams of pure terror, moans of utter despair, and even sobs born of genuine attachment came from them. Just like that, the mood had completely turned around, and what had been a united beast of fury was close to becoming a stampeding bull. Like a master of the stage, however, Harris only had to raise a hand, and they quickly quieted down to hear what solutions he had to this sudden calamity. Perhaps he did not have any solutions; even then, they still wanted to hear him give these unknown barbarians a good lashing of the tongue.

"My good people, do not despair so easily!" he assured them. "Though our brothers and cousins have suddenly found themselves in this predicament, there is a reason this has happened! From whom do such reasons come, beside our Lord? Does this not sound like the Day of Judgment? Is this not a test of the resolve of us as the Southern people? We must come to the aid of our kin! In these trying times, we must fight the Devil in all his forms! Tennessee must break from these wretched United States, and it must keep our Confederate brothers upon their feet! Will we give Lincoln and his spawn the pleasure of reigning over us?"

"NO!" was the collective shout, a shout that Harris did not doubt could shake Heaven itself.

"Will we let our people be destroyed and defiled by these legions of Hell, who seek to crush this newly created Kingdom of Heaven Upon Earth?"

"NO!" Such was the crowd's rage, they could have all marched for Montgomery then and there, with nothing to tear out this new foe's throats but their bare hands.

"Then let it be known that, from this very moment forth, Tennessee will stand with the Confederate States of America! Our loyalties lay with God, and His people! Woe be unto all demonic beasts and their worshipers in the Union! Where the people of Tennessee go, there will be a sea of blood, and in that blood, the people of the Confederacy shall reach the Kingdom of the Lord!"