Phillip Simpson - Rapture

Perhaps he could subdue an Astaroth and harness it, using it to transport himself over the Rockies? Flying would be preferable to walking. Instantly Sam realized his stupidity. If last night was anything to go by, he doubted whether he’d be able to defeat an Astaroth in combat, let alone subdue it to an extent that he could ride it.

Not for the first time did he question his refusal to drive on this journey. Hikari had never taught him to drive and the need never arose; not once in his almost eighteen years had he left Jacob’s Ladder or its surrounds. But he was sure he could learn. How hard could it be? Pretty much all the other teenagers in Jacob’s Ladder were doing it. Or had been doing it. He’d even gone so far as to try out one of the abandoned cars parked on the side of Main Street. The owner had clearly been taken by the Rapture — their clothes were still gathered in a pile on the driver’s side and the keys were still in the ignition. The controls seemed simple enough and he’d got the hang of it pretty quickly. Put it into drive, go forward; reverse, go backwards. The handbrake had flummoxed him for a while but he had eventually worked it out.

A car and the ability to drive it would make the journey to Los Angeles that much quicker — and easier. He’d sat and thought about it for a while, idly playing with the keys, and realized that while it seemed like a good idea at first, the plan was deeply flawed. Many roads between Jacob’s Ladder and Los Angeles would no doubt be blocked by traffic — cars like this one that had been emptied of their occupants by the Rapture. Then there was gas to consider. The sole gas station in Jacob’s Ladder had been sucked dry by those fleeing the town following the Rapture, and Sam suspected that most gas stations across the country would be in a similar state.

So driving was out. Flying an Astaroth — out too. Resigned to his present course of action, Sam continued walking towards the terminal.

Closer inspection revealed that the building was heavily fire damaged. One whole wing had collapsed, presumably as a result of the numerous earthquakes directly following the Rapture. As he got closer to the glass and corrugatediron structure, something moved behind one of the sooty glass windows. It was a fleeting glimpse but Sam was sure it must be human. The image of a dirt-smeared and terrified face burned into his retinas.

Cautiously, he moved towards the entrance. The doors had been smashed off their hinges and Sam spied traces of Lemure prints in the ash. He put one hand on the reassuring hilt of his wakizashi and edged into the building. It appeared deserted. He crept over towards the window where he thought he saw the face. Fresh footprints in the dust and ash traced a path towards the far end of the terminal.

He bent down to examine the tracks more closely. Definitely human — he could tell from the tread marks of soles. Lemure, from his experience, didn’t wear shoes.

A door slammed. The noise startled him; he was standing and the wakizashi was half cleared of its sheath before he even realized it. He waited, frozen in a fighting stance with the wakizashi still drawn, but the terminal remained eerily silent. Over the last few weeks, he had become accustomed to the lack of sound with the departure of many humans and most wildlife, but the terminal seemed even more unnaturally quiet.

He crept forward, his eyes trying to take in everything at once. Part of his conscious mind registered the existence of two vending machines, and although they appeared empty, he noted them mentally for later investigation.

Nothing emerged. No humans. No demons. Still no sound. Taking cautious strides, he picked up the pace. The footprints led to a heavy door set behind the check-in counter. Long, deep scratches that he immediately recognized as the work of Lemure claws scarred the door. He paused, bent down and placed his ear against it. Even then, though the door was clearly thick and stoutly built, he thought he could hear some shuffling and whispering issuing from behind it. His hearing, like his vision, had always been acute.

He knocked, hesitantly at first, and then progressively more firm. There was no answer but he could hear movement. Someone was standing on the other side of the door.

He stopped knocking. Silence, then a hesitant voice.

“Go away.”

“I’m human,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.” It was probably pointless but he had to try.

“Go away,” said the voice again, more firmly this time.

“I have some food,” he said. It was true — he did have some food — but not really enough to share. A part of him, a selfish part that was probably his demonic side, wanted to leave them to their fate. There was another piece of him, however, that Hikari and Aimi had nurtured over the years, that told him that this was not the right thing to do.

He heard whispering behind the door again. There was a scrape as a series of bolts were being drawn and then the door opened a crack. An eye and part of a dirty face peered out at him.

“What sort of food?”

The person — Sam couldn’t be sure whether it was male or female — was clearly terrified. Only the thought of food had made them take this desperate move.

Sam shrugged. “Beans, mostly. Here, I’ll show you.”

The eye watched him closely as he drew the katana out of its sheath. Careful not to make any sudden moves, he laid the sword gently on the ground and took off his backpack, unsnapping the clasps and tilting the pack towards the door so the contents could be seen.

The door opened a fraction wider. “I can’t see,” said the voice. “Put the pack down and step away.”

It made sense. It was very gloomy in the terminal and the inside of Sam’s pack was probably even gloomier. He could see clearly but the human probably couldn’t. Sam knew it was probably a bad move, but he did as he was asked.

As soon as he was a few metres away, the door opened wide enough for a gaunt, dirty human to emerge. It was male, probably no older than Sam and vaguely recognisable as one of the teenage boys from town. The boy darted out, grabbed the pack with one grubby hand, and was about to carry his prize back into the room when Sam moved.

Understandably, the teenager had clearly underestimated Sam’s speed — the innate demonic reflexes honed by years of training. No human could possibly match them …

Sam grasped the pack and there was a brief tussle for possession before the human boy capitulated, aware that he couldn’t compete with such strength. He let go and attempted to scurry back through the door. Before the boy could slam it shut, Sam scooped up his katana with his free hand and wedged his foot into the opening. The heavy door crashed into Sam’s toes but he hardly noticed the impact.

He pushed the door open, sending the boy sprawling back into a windowless, dimly lit room. It was a storage room by the look of it — racks and shelves were piled with bags and other assorted travel items. A small kerosene lantern cast flickering, uncertain light over the scene. It was more than enough for Sam to see clearly. Behind a makeshift wall of luggage, three figures huddled together, casting fearful glances in Sam’s direction.

The boy scampered to his feet, leapt the mountain of luggage and joined the other terrified figures.

“Please don’t hurt us,” said one of them — a woman. Probably the boy’s mother. Other than the boy, she was the biggest of the four. The other two were clearly children. One of them started to sob.

Sam said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. These people would’ve taken his food and left him to starve. He felt anger well up inside him like smouldering embers that had just been rekindled.

“I know you,” said the boy, a look of recognition sweeping over his face. He stood more upright and moved away from his mother.