someone and he took care as he moved past the doorframe, hugging the outside wall and keeping to the shadows. Outside, he crouched down next to the cracked facade of the building and scanned around.
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.”
Book 1
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.
Chapter One
Night fell over the grim landscape, washing out any tenacious remnants of color lucky enough to remain.
