Phillip Simpson - Rapture

FIVE WEEKS SINCE THE RAPTURE

Sam sat and waited on the porch for night to fall, both swords balanced carefully in his lap. They would be coming for him soon.

For the thousandth time that afternoon, he leant out and stared down the length of Main Street. Still nothing. No surprises there. He hadn’t seen any other human for days now.

Main Street looked no different than it had for the last few weeks: the same wrecked SUV’s and pickups, most parked haphazardly at odd angles, some resting half inside shop buildings like partially-consumed meals. He tried not to think about food — it only made his stomach rumble mournfully. It had been three days since his last proper meal. He had to ration what supplies he had left carefully. He would need them for the trip.

Ash covered everything in a white shroud. It drifted down in silence, easily mistaken for the snow that usually fell at this time of year. It was February after all; in the eighteen years Sam had lived here, Utah was always smothered by snow in February. Somehow, even the Rockies that jutted above the town’s buildings to the west had lost most of their covering. Since the Rapture, the temperature had climbed dramatically, so much so that Sam almost felt the need to remove the hooded sweatshirt that he always wore. He didn’t though. Old habits died hard. He knew from the climatology and science lessons that Hikari had drilled into him that the cloud cover should lower the temperature, not raise it. It seemed that science, like God and many humans, had deserted this world.

Ash-covered rubble from a few destroyed homes blocked much of the road. Most of the other buildings looked like they are about to join their fallen comrades. It was dangerous in there now since the earthquakes. Sam had found that out for himself when he’d scavenged in amongst them for food during the days and nights since the world changed. He’d only narrowly avoided being crushed when a brick wall had toppled without warning. Only his heightened reflexes and training had enabled him to avoid certain death.

Death would’ve been a much more preferable option, though. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he had been trapped by bricks, unable to move and completely at the mercy of those things that prowled the darkness. And more than half of Main Street had caught alight since the sky started raining fire. At least three of the shops still smouldered even now, smoke from their burning timbers wafting idly up into the sky.

He cast his eyes skyward to track its ascent. Dark clouds boiled angrily above him. Not since the Rapture had he seen the sun; he would’ve given almost anything for a glimpse of it. Predictably, it didn’t appear.

Sam sighed and looked down. The deck beneath him was cracked from the earthquakes. He could see the ground beneath. Unlike most houses and shops in Jacob’s Ladder, his family home had gotten off relatively lightly. The earthquake damage was superficial with just a few cracks in walls and some broken ornaments. The ash was a different story though. Many of the fires in the town had begun because of it. He had to get up on the roof periodically and check for fire damage. When he did find something smouldering, he had to use his dwindling supplies of fresh water sparingly. It was a constant battle.

In fact, just living was a constant battle. Like him, the few remaining humans had ransacked the local store in desperate hunger. That was days ago now. The handful of survivors he’d exchanged wary words and glances with were now long gone. Either they had been taken in the night, or they’d moved for what they hoped would be better pickings. Probably to Boulder, he thought. It was only a few miles and an easy trip even on foot. Not him though. Sam knew he should have pushed on by now but just couldn’t bring himself to. It was too hard to leave behind everything he knew.

As his sharp eyes caught movement, his hands locked by reflex around the hilts of his weapons. He relaxed his grip when he saw that it was only bits of rubbish and leaves, dancing lazily around the stationary vehicles as if to mock their lack of freedom. Then the clouds above him parted suddenly, the ash turning crimson. Even though he expected it, the sight above him caused his heart to lurch. It was the moon — a moon never seen before on Earth. It had been like this for weeks now. Red. Bloated and corrupt.

The colour of blood.

He stepped back in the house, careful to avoid the trap in front of the door. Other than the red stain of the moon, it was very dark. There was no power any more, and no power meant no lights. The technicians who operated the power plants had been taken by the Rapture, or taken by those things that came later. Either way, it didn’t matter to Sam who saw extremely well in the dark. Part of his DNA, he suspected.

His pack was where he’d left it, lying on the carpet in the middle of the lounge. Mentally, he went through the contents to make sure he had everything. There was a small portable gas cooker and two spare gas canisters, a few tins of food he had managed to scavenge, and a sleeping roll, sleeping bag and a couple of spare sweatshirts. Not much for the trip he had planned, but it would have to do. At least he would no longer have any need for snow gear. He was grateful for that — he needed to travel light and move fast if he was to survive.

He looked around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. There wasn’t much time left and he needed to be ready. They usually came when the blood red moon was high in the night sky. Two of the windows were already smashed where they had broken through last time. That was before he had set up the spikes, gathered from nearby fences and embedded into the wooden floors next to the windows. This time they would be in for a surprise.

Sam dropped his swords down next to his pack. The scabbards, normally lacquered black, had turned a sickly maroon in the light. He strapped the longer of the two — the katana — onto his pack and slung the whole affair onto his back. The shorter sword — the wakizashi — he tucked into his belt. Normally, the two together — known as daisho , literally meaning ‘long and short’ — would both be there, but he’d found with practice that the katana was easier to draw if it was over his shoulder. His backpack also had a tendency to get in the way if the longer sword was tucked into his belt.

Now, he took some time to make sure his draw was not impeded. Both swords slid out of their oiled sheathes without trouble. He put them back and adopted the ‘still inner calm’ technique that Hikari had made him practice so much that it now came as second nature to him. Closing his eyes, he listened, conscious that he might have missed something while he was trying out his swords. Nothing. Usually Sam could hear or sense them long before he saw them, so he knew he still had time.