Tribulation (12 page)

Their two
captives were an altogether different story. One male and one
female. Probably both in their teens. They were skinny and
undernourished, clad in scraps of clothing and smeared head to toe
in dirty ash. They were also patently terrified, the whites of
their eyes clearly visible to Sam from his vantage point above.
Still struggling, the two teenagers had been dragged into the
warehouse. The three men emerged some minutes later to smoke with
the two guards, their crass laughter drifting up to Sam’s ears. If
what he hadn’t seen earlier wasn’t enough to confirm his
suspicions, then what he saw next erased any doubts he might have
had. As one of the men raised a cigarette to his lips, the sleeve
of his jacket slid up to reveal his wrist. Even from that distance,
Sam knew what it was: a tattoo of a stylized outline of a horned
face. He couldn’t see the details but he knew what was tattooed
inside the face. The name Abaddon and the number 666. The name of
his father. The mark of the beast. There could be no doubt. They
were in league with Satan.

The three men
had gone back inside at least half an hour earlier, leaving only
the two guards outside. Sam hadn’t seen anymore movement either
inside or out. The amount of demons around was also decreasing as
dawn approached. It was a sleepy time of night, when human and
demon consciousness was at a low ebb. Sam could sense it, and knew
that the time had come.

With cat-like
stealth, he moved to the edge of the building he was perched upon.
The gap between his building and the warehouse of the humans yawned
in front of him. The distance was at least fifteen feet – too far
for a normal human. In fact, almost too far for Sam. It was at the
very limit of his leaping abilities but he thought he could
probably do it. He’d have to do it; it was either this or go in the
front entrance, waking every single human in the building and
bringing every demon in the vicinity running, flying and stomping
down upon him.

Problem was,
there wasn’t much room for a run-up. Probably five feet. Edging
backwards, Sam sighed and adjusted his swords slightly. It would
have to do. With a last glance upwards to ensure his movement
wasn’t observed by an Astaroth, he sprinted towards the edge and
leapt, eerily silent, just another flying shadow moving through the
night sky. He made it – but only just. If the distance had been a
single foot more, he would’ve eaten the side of the building and
tumbled to the ground. The very tip of his leading foot scraped the
parapet that marked the boundary of the warehouse roof and then he
was over it, desperately rolling to avoid any sound of impact.

At the end of
his roll, he froze, listening to see if his intrusion had been
noted, nervously watching the ash he had disturbed slowly
fluttering about him. When there was no sound or movement
forthcoming, he relaxed, exhaling with a long tiny hiss.

He stood up and
moved towards the skylight that he had scouted out two nights
previously. It was as he’d left it – still slightly ajar,
unnoticeable from casual inspection. He eased it open, wincing at
the slight noise, his heart fluttering nervously as some ash from
the rooftop drifted through the gap.

Unstrapping
both swords from back and hip, he placed them on the rooftop before
sliding through the gap. About seven feet directly below was an old
wooden walkway, probably only used to gain access to these windows
and provide some ventilation in the warehouse. He let himself hang
by the window ledge before dropping. Bracing his legs, he landed
catlike, crouched with arms outstretched. Under normal
circumstances, he wouldn’t have made the slightest noise but the
walkway was old and it was inevitable that his 6’3’’, 220lb frame
would have some effect.

It creaked - a
very slight noise, but alarmingly loud in Sam’s ears. He froze
again, listening to see if his presence had been noticed this time.
Beneath him, he could sense humans moving about. There was
certainly no outcry and he could detect no alarm in their minds. He
registered curiosity in one person’s mind, but they were looking in
the direction of the walkway.

Overly
cautious, he remained completely still as the minutes ticked by
slowly. The mind below soon lost interest and moved on to other
things. He breathed out slowly, silently, in relief and stood
upright. Raising himself onto his toes, he reached up and retrieved
his swords from the window ledge. With quick, deft movements, he
strapped them back on, only then feeling whole. Without his swords,
he felt like a part of him was missing and it was only rare moments
like this one when he was actually parted from them. Truth to tell,
he sometimes felt like they were his only friends.

At a snail’s
pace so as to not make any more unnecessary noise, he edged his way
towards the walkway railing and peered over. Forty feet below, it
was as he remembered. The uncertain, flickering light of a handful
of storm lanterns gave the vista more of a welcoming appeal than he
would have thought possible, like the light shed by a roaring
fireplace in a cabin in the woods. The image was reinforced by the
sleeping forms of several humans directly below him, comfortable,
warm and relaxed on their filthy mattresses. The main floor of the
warehouse was divided up by makeshift barriers, mostly comprised of
dirty sheets and blankets. The sleeping area was but one. Other
areas were clearly designated as food preparation and storage. From
his vantage point, he could see two rumpled and disheveled cooks in
dirty aprons sweating over a very large steaming cauldron. Sam
could smell the contents but he was careful not to inhale too
deeply. One section was obviously an armory; an improvised table
had been made and on it rested several weapons, more than one in
its component pieces, with at least three men working on them.

But the most
interesting and disturbing section from his perspective was the
massive cage hulking in one corner of the warehouse. Steel girders,
mostly held together and tied by steel cable, rope and in some
cases, wields, formed the basic structure. A solid-looking metal
door, cannibalized from what had probably been a bank, enabled
entry and egress from the structure. Trapped inside the improvised
prison were about twenty miserable, emaciated humans. At least half
of them lay on the bare floor while the other half stood listlessly
at the bars, staring with blank eyes, seemingly unaware of their
surroundings. Two armed men stood guard outside.

Sam tore his
eyes away from them, aware that he was breathing more heavily. He
felt the onset of what he now considered his ‘blood fury’ mode; a
time when his irises went from black to red and his anger took
complete control of his body. His suppressed it with an effort. The
time would come when he would welcome the anger with open arms, but
not quite yet.

A part of his
mind detached itself from his emotions as he scanned the rest of
the area with a practiced warrior’s eye. Not counting the prisoners
but including the two guards outside, there were about ten humans
currently up and about within the walls of the warehouse. All up,
there were probably thirty people he would have to contend with if
or when it came to a fight. Too many, even for him.

In order to get
to the cage, he’d have to descend through the sleeping area of the
warehouse. The walkway ran along the entire inner wall but
unfortunately had only one access point. That point was a metal
ladder fixed to the side of the wall which just happened to be
right next to a mattress that was currently covered by a human
occupant. Sneaking through those sleeping forms without being
noticed - that was doable. He was rather adept by now at clinging
to the shadows, and the uncertain light in the warehouse was an
incredible bonus. This, combined with his exceptional senses, meant
he had an advantage. Was it enough, though, to balance their
strength of numbers? Perhaps. Providing of course that he didn’t
wake anyone up. If he could take out the ten humans currently awake
without any of the others noticing, he had a chance. If he slipped
up, his chances of survival were remote. And that was just against
the humans. If some demons decided to join the fray, he truly was
doomed.

Inwardly
sighing, he crept along the walkway, his footsteps incredibly
light, ensuring that he shifted his weight subtly to compensate for
the movement of the wood beneath his feet. He made absolutely no
sound. When he reached the ladder, Sam paused momentarily to
reassess. He looked beneath him. Still no one had noticed him; the
sleepers slept on and the others carried on completely oblivious to
the danger that floated above them.

He took the
ladder two steps at a time, his long legs easily able to stretch
the distance. Within moments, Sam was down, hugging the wall and
the shadows. The nearest cot was so close he could have stretched
out and touched the human occupant. It was a man, lying on his side
with his back to him, covered in a grimy blanket.

Sam was about
to move again when the man coughed and rolled over. For whatever
reason - maybe his sixth sense alerted him, maybe it was a
completely random reflex; it hardly mattered – the man opened his
eyes, his stare finding Sam as if deliberate. Time seemed to
stretch. It was possibly no more than a couple of seconds, but in
that time, Sam saw a number of emotions in those eyes: denial,
realization and stunned shock. The man’s eyes widened, his mouth
began to open. Without realizing that he had moved, Sam was next to
him, one of his hands clamped over the stranger’s mouth. His
Wakizashi was already out. In a controlled, thrifty movement, the
blade moved out and then quickly in, straight through the man’s
throat.

Sam held him
down until his death throes were finished. It was only then that he
looked up – straight into the pupils of the person in the next cot
along. He was sitting up, staring with horror at the scene
unfolding next to him.

Before Sam had
time to react, the man screamed out an alarm.

The Hound of Hell

“
They sacrificed to
demons, which are not God-- gods they had not known, gods that
recently appeared, gods your fathers did not fear.”
Deuteronomy
32:17

C
ursing under his breath, Sam darted through the dirty
sheet that marked off the sleeping area from the rest of the
warehouse. It fluttered about him like washing in a fierce wind,
and he used the momentary distraction to draw his other sword - the
long to the Wakizashi’s short. His Katana. His most treasured
possession and an object that was closer to him than any brother.
Sam’s instincts told him that another man, fully awake with
adrenaline coursing through his body, was just past the sheet.

Sam knew
exactly where the man was; knew with absolute certainty that the
man had a shotgun that was even now being swiveled in his
direction. He could even smell the iron pellets that the shotgun
was loaded with. Sam could take no risks. A shotgun with iron
shells at close range could seriously incapacitate even him.

Both swords
emerged out of the sheet even before Sam had, looking like a
silvery extension of the material. The man armed with the shotgun
probably wasn’t even aware that death was upon him, only that
something vaguely man-shaped was moving through the sheet. His
finger was on the trigger and he’d almost rotated the barrel of his
gun in Sam’s direction, ready to fire, when the blades punctured
him. The man up at the figure that suddenly hulked over him,
flinching from the fiery eyes; glancing down at the two blades
protruding from his chest, he coughed once and then promptly
died.

Sam didn’t give
the man a second look. Kicking the body off his swords, he sprinted
in the direction of the cage. He gave into his anger, unleashing
it, using it to make him faster, stronger. He would need it now.
His senses told him that every human within the warehouse was now
awake and alert to the danger. Even now, he could hear others
raising the alarm. Despite the confusion and uncertainty, they’d
pick up weapons with every intention of using them, and shotguns
and rifles, all loaded with the dreaded iron, were being cocked
right now.

He had the
upper hand, because while he knew where they were, the humans were
completely unaware as to his whereabouts. Sam used the advantage,
doing the unexpected. He darted over to the main wall again and
followed it, knowing that at least this way he wouldn’t advertise
his presence every time he went through one of the makeshift
barriers. That had always been his plan, sadly interrupted.

If he followed
the wall around, he would eventually get to the cage which was his
ultimate goal. But he had one detour to make first. It wasn’t part
of his mission but he felt strangely compelled. His nose told him
when he was close and he left the relative safety of the wall and
moved into what was the food preparation area. The two chefs were
still in attendance around the huge pot, but instead of being armed
with ladles and spoons, they now had weapons in their hands. One -
a young, nervous looking man with greasy looking hair - had a
rifle. The other, - huge, pot-bellied, with a scruffy beard -
clutched a huge meat cleaver in one meaty fist. Both had
blood-stained aprons wrapped around their waists.

Both sets of
eyes bulged hugely when they caught sight of Sam moving swiftly in
their direction. The big man only had time to let out a cry of
warning before Sam was upon him. The man swung his meat cleaver but
Sam ducked under it as easily as if it was wielded by a child,
plunging his Wakizashi into the man’s chest. Without even looking,
Sam thrust out with his Katana, slicing the blade straight through
the neck of the other man, even as he brought his rifle up to
fire.