Tribulation (2 page)

The street
looked like a caricature of a post-apocalyptic landscape. His night
vision enabled him to see clearly - almost too clearly, giving him
an odd sense of exposure. It looked like any post-Rapture town that
he’d had the misfortune to pass through: cars and buildings covered
in a fine coating of dust; some buildings lying in piles of rubble,
others burnt husks; the street cracked and buckled and on it, cars
scattered haphazardly. He knew he was in Ohio, high up on the
central plateau, and as far as he knew, in the county of Richland.
As for which town – he had no idea. The only indication he’d had
was a sign as he entered town, lying half-buried in rubble,
unreadable now thanks to bullet holes, caked ash and grime and
graffiti. He’d tried to wipe it clean with spit but failed to
generate enough saliva. His mouth was often dry these days. He
couldn’t actually remember when he’d actually had a drink of water.
Days? Weeks? Luckily, his demonic constitution meant that his
physical needs weren’t the same as humans but he still missed the
little pleasures. What he’d give for a nice, long, refreshing drink
of cool water. Bliss. Fresh water was scarce these days. The rise
in global temperatures meant that many sources had dried up
completely, and those that hadn’t were often contaminated. He’d
even heard rumors that the ocean itself had turned to poison,
though he was yet to see it for himself.

As for food,
well, he just didn’t seem to need much of it, which was just as
well since there seemed to be hardly any around. Since the Rapture,
the Tribulation Earth had become more hell-like. The more hell-like
it became, the stronger Sam began to feel – almost as if the very
environment was feeding him and giving him strength. He didn’t
quite know what to make of that. A part of him felt grateful for
his demonic heritage that enabled him to survive in such harsh
conditions, but another part resented it as a reminder of how he
was different to every other human he encountered.

Sam missed
eating but not as much as he thought he would. It used to be one of
those comforting habits, something he did because he had to, not
because of any great desire. Saying that, he did miss Aimi’s
cooking, the flavors and textures. Her company as they ate.

At the thought
of her, he unconsciously reached up and fingered the cross around
his neck, his mother’s cross – the one he had given Aimi. She was
never far from his thoughts and he often wondered what she would be
doing now. Would she be too busy enjoying paradise to remember him?
Was she even now looking down upon him, watching over him or had
she already forgotten him? He hoped not because he would never
forget her. Never.

He let the
cross go, not for the first time wondering why it no longer burnt
his fingers. Bibles, crosses, hallowed ground – his demonic
heritage meant that the touch of anything holy still caused
scorching pain to sear through his body. The only exception seemed
to be this cross. Why, he didn’t know, but it provided some small
comfort. And comfort was a precious commodity these days.

He shook his
head to clear it, chastising himself for his self-indulgence, only
too conscious of what the consequences could be for his lack of
attention. It was only then that he detected the demonic presence.
His heart skipped a beat at the shock of its proximity – it was far
closer than it had a right to be. Sure, his mind had been
elsewhere, but he had never slipped up this badly before. He could
feel the growing hatred of it, its mind a hot coal of boiling
anger. And something else. Something was different about it,
something he had never encountered before.

It was nearby.
If his senses could be believed, it was across the street, just
around the side of the next building, a shattered and crumbling
Seven 11. Angry with himself but also slightly intrigued, he darted
across the covered street, keeping low, his feet barely stirring
the thick layer of dust and debris as he passed.

He reached the
Seven 11 and, making absolutely no sound at all, moved cautiously
around the side of the building. He found himself in an alleyway
about thirty feet long. The light was poor, shadows clutching
eagerly to the walls, just another patch of darkness.

His enhanced
vision cut through the shadows easily. Towards the far end of the
alleyway, crouched low at the base of a barbed wire topped metal
fence, was a creature. From this distance, it looked like a Lemure
– the almost mindless demon foot soldier – but its mind tone told a
different story. It didn’t appear to have seen him and probably
couldn’t sense him – he was becoming rather adept at concealing his
mind from his demonic brethren.

He moved, a
blur to any normal vision, crossing the distance between him and
the demon in less than two heartbeats. As he moved, he drew the
shorter of his blades from the sheathe tucked into his belt; the
Wakizashi – its shorter length perfect for close quarters fighting.
Sam silently glided around behind the Lemure. He grasped its
disgusting mangy hair with one hand and drew the head back, sliding
his blade against its neck with his other hand, ignoring its
surprised struggling and the sound and smell of burning as his iron
blade made contact with demonic flesh.

His black demon
eyes met those of the Lemure and he saw a flicker of realization
dawn. Wait! A flicker of realization? Lemure were essentially
mindless, and yet this one displayed a sense of self. That wasn’t
all – Sam could sense the disquiet and panic that had set into its
mind. Something else too. It seemed like it … it recognized him,
knew who and what he was. What was this thing?

He stared at it
and it gazed back at him. It had stopped struggling now and had
become calm, as if accepting the inevitable.

“What are you?”
he demanded, tightening his grip on the greasy, foul smelling hair,
ignoring the sharp stab of horns against the palm of his hand. The
Lemure - or whatever it was - smiled at him, the lips peeling back
to reveal the sharpened points of teeth glinting dully in the
shadowy light.

Slowly,
apparently to avoid antagonizing Sam, a disproportionately long arm
moved up to touch the blade at its neck, its sharp talons clicking
against the iron gently and lovingly as it completely ignored the
sizzle of burning flesh that the contact caused.

Sam was aware
that his mouth was hanging open in surprise like some dullard but
he was unable to close it. This whole scene was so strange. This
shouldn’t be happening. Why wasn’t he doing something? Saying
something? The unusual and uncharacteristic behavior of this thing
that clearly wasn’t just a Lemure had deeply unnerved him.

The Lemure’s
eyes had not once left his own. It opened its mouth and something
that Sam thought would never usher from it, did. Words, hissed out
but recognizable.

“Your father
sends his greetings.”

Hell

6 months into the
Tribulation

He will inhabit ruined
towns and houses where no one lives, houses crumbling to rubble. He
will no longer be rich and his wealth will not endure, nor will his
possessions spread over the land. He will not escape the darkness;
a flame will wither his shoots, and the breath of God's mouth will
carry him away.

Job 15: 28-30

Utah/Colorado
border

N
ight fell over the grim landscape, washing out any
tenacious remnants of color lucky enough to remain. There weren’t
many; a few stubborn shrubs and weeds, their dull green leaves
mostly blanketed in grey ash, clutching on to skeletal branches in
a desperate gasp for life. The warm, sulfur- tinged breeze sent
drifting flurries of ash swirling and dancing into the night sky.
Occasionally the clouds would part, revealing a crimson moon for a
moment, bathing the setting in its sickly red glow.

Other than the
ash and the clouds, nothing moved. No animals, no humans. No living
creature. The landscape was as motionless and barren as a
corpse.

A figure stood
amongst the ash and dead vegetation. He was shirtless, every muscle
on his lean torso defined periodically by the light of the moon. A
sword was clutched in either hand, one long, one short. A Katana
and a Wakizashi. The long and the short. Daisho.

With startling
swiftness, the figure began to move, his swords flashing out in
practiced movements more like dance than mindless killing strokes,
each strike elegant, fluid and undeniably deadly. The power behind
the blows was enough to shatter full grown trees.

Despite the
obvious energy expended, the figure seemed unaffected. His
breathing was slow and even. Occasionally, he would breathe out
forcefully in time with a particularly energetic strike. The only
real evidence of his exertion was the sweat slicking his upper
body.

Suddenly, he
stopped, the action almost shocking in its abruptness. He cocked
his head as if listening to something. To a human ear, there was no
sound other than that caused by the constant motion of the wind.
But the listener wasn’t human – at least not entirely.

His eyes darted
towards the sky. Something was coming from that direction but the
figure appeared unconcerned, lowering his swords so that the tips
touched the ground. For a moment he cloaked his mind using the
glamor ability he’d worked so hard to perfect, concealing his
presence from any nearby demon but then he appeared to sense the
futility in it, and let it drop. Whatever it was in the sky had
probably already seen him. He’d learnt that his glamor ability,
whilst useful for shrouding his mind and thoughts, did little to
mask his actual physical body, especially at close range and
especially when he’d – in all likelihood – already been seen.

Lightning
flashed, outlining a winged creature for a fraction of a second
before it gracefully touched down a few feet from the other figure.
The two stared at each other for a moment, unmoving. They could
have almost been twins. Both were tall and well-proportioned with
dark locks. The only obvious difference was the black wings that
the new comer sported.

“Greetings,
Samael,” said the winged figure. “I trust you are well.”

The other
figure appeared to flinch slightly. “You can call me Sam, you
know,” he said. “It is the name I go by, after all.”

“I prefer to
use the old names.” The winged inclined his head and smiled
mirthlessly. “It doesn’t pay to deny your heritage, Samael.”

Sam glared but
said nothing for a moment. “What do you want, Samyaza?”

The Watcher
took two light steps closer. Sam watched him warily but didn’t
raise his blades. He didn’t exactly trust the Watcher but had no
reason to distrust him either. The creature had, after all, helped
him out in the past.

“I’m here to
help you, Samael. Again.”

“Why?” Sam
asked suspiciously. He’d learnt that the Watcher (or Grigori in the
old tongue), had his own agenda.

The other
grinned. “Do I need a reason?”

Sam considered
for a moment. If he was being truthful with himself, it didn’t
really matter why the Watcher wanted to help him. If it served Sam,
then where was the harm?

The Watcher
tossed something through the air. Without conscious thought, Sam
transferred one of his swords to his other hand and caught it. It
was a small statuette. He turned it over in his hand, examining it
curiously. It was a crude, ugly thing, roughly carved out of
volcanic rock to resemble a dog.

Sam looked up,
meeting the knowing stare of the Watcher. “What is it?” he
asked.

“In a moment.
First, tell me, Samael, what is your heart’s desire?”

Sam paused,
momentarily caught off guard by the question. Images of people
flashed through his mind. Aimi, Hikari, Grace. His mother. “You
know better than I do,” he replied eventually.

“Tell me,” the
Watcher commanded.

Sam sighed
resignedly. Clearly, the Watcher wasn’t going to be satisfied until
he got an answer. “I want the truth about my mother. To save her if
possible – if she can be saved. I want to get Grace out of Hell. I
want to be with Aimi. Why ask me this, though? You knew the answers
before you asked.”

The Watcher
nodded, satisfied. “That object in your hand is filled with
possibilities. It can lead to the fulfillment of all your desires.
It is up to you what you do with it, though.”

Sam examined
the object again. What was so special about it? How could this
stupid, ugly piece of rock possibly help him be reunited with those
he cared about?

As if reading
his mind (which he potentially was), the Watcher spoke. “Tell me
one further thing. What do you know of Hellhounds?”

Sam grimaced.
He knew all about Hellhounds. Had faced one himself in Hell only a
few months earlier, almost losing his life in the process.

“They’re one of
the greatest demons in Hell,” he said, remembering the demon lore
drummed into him by his master, Hikari. “Almost impossible to kill
and feared by all.”

The Watcher
nodded again. “Quite right. But did you know that every Hellhound
is bonded to a demon of the upper echelons of Hell? To a Prince or
Princess. As powerful as they are, they were created to serve. They
were bred for bondage. That statuette you hold in your hands has
the power to summon one.”

Sam glanced at
the object again with renewed interest. How could such a simple
object contain such power? “So what am I meant to do with it?
What’s it got to do with me?”

“At rare and
specific times in Hell, demons of noble lineage – that is, those
who are related to the Prince of Lies in some respect - gather in
the hottest parts of Hell. These parts are invariably volcanoes.
They gather for one purpose and one purpose only: to gain the
servitude of a Hellhound.” Samyaza smiled infuriatingly and spoke
in a condescending way, as if lecturing a child. Sam let the insult
pass, intrigued.