Philip Simpson - Tribulation

Soon enough, the whole building was ablaze. Sam waited anxiously while it continued to burn, racing after any flying embers with a bucket of water, drowning it before it could set fire to something else. Smaller fires inevitably started and by nightfall, Sam was exhausted, covered in soot, his clothes singed. Fortunately he was all but immune to fire. The church collapsed but still continued to burn.

Despite the fact that the fire hadn’t completely burnt out, Sam knew he couldn’t delay any further. He could sense the demons about to come through the gate. Removing his swords, his clothes and his boots and carrying a bucket in each hand, he swiftly moved into the burning wreck, conscious that he must look ridiculous. A naked fireman.

Muttering blessings, he scattered the water over every part of the burning building he could get to. Most of it evaporated with an angry hiss but he hoped it would still work. It seemed to. The feeling that demons were about to break through lost its immediacy as their presence began to fade again. Inevitably, he spilled the water on his naked flesh; wherever the droplets touched him, they raised ugly blisters. Soon, almost his whole body was covered. He ignored it stoically, knowing he had to do this for Grace. He owed her.

He worked for hours, ignoring his exhaustion, keeping going until no water remained. By that time, the fire was out, the church had been reduced to charred remains.

Staggering slightly, he remembered to pick up his swords before wobbling back towards the house he shared with Grace. When he got there, he collapsed on the floor next to her bed and remembered no more.

He awoke from a thankfully dreamless sleep to find that Grace had opened her eyes. It was morning. He stood next to her bed, fussing over her injuries. She was looking at him strangely and for a moment he wondered why and then, with a start, remembered. He was naked and covered with still-healing blisters. Embarrassed, he streaked out, found his singed clothing and dressed painfully and as swiftly as he could, wincing whenever the cloth touched a particularly sore spot. When he returned, Grace was sitting up all by herself.

“Do you often nurse people in the nude?” she asked in a weak whisper.

Sam looked down, trying to conceal the blush that was spreading over his face. “Only on Tuesdays,” he muttered, clutching desperately for something funny to say.

“Is it Tuesday?” she asked, the vaguest hint of a smile on her face.

“Beats me,” he said, still not looking at her.

He fed her again, his spirits soaring. Not only had he cleansed the church, but Grace was getting better. This was a sign that he was doing the right thing. It had to be.

The next few days passed uneventfully. Grace’s health gradually improved although she rarely spoke and never, ever smiled. Conversation and humor especially wasn’t exactly his strong point, either, but he made an effort, trying to make light of the situation and smile at her as often as he could muster up the energy. It wasn’t natural for him, either. She didn’t offer to talk about Hell and what she’d been through over the last few months. He took the hint — this was a sign that she wasn’t ready to discuss it. She would when she was ready. Perhaps, she would never be ready but that suited Sam as well.

One morning he discovered her trying to get out of bed.

“What are you doing?” he exclaimed, terrified that he might reopen some of her wounds. He quickly knelt down by her side and helped her sit up, conscious of how thin and frail she felt beneath the t-shirt he’d found for her.

“What does it look like?” she replied irritably. “I can’t say here forever.”

Reluctantly, he agreed. The fact that she was trying to get up meant that she was probably ready to travel.

“I want to leave,” she said. “Can we go? Please.”

He couldn’t and wouldn’t deny her. “Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He found a pack at the same hardware store where he’d liberated the buckets and filled it with as much sterilized water and roasted, dried rat meat that he could carry. Inside another abandoned house, he discovered clothes and boots that almost fitted her.

He carried both packs, one at the front, one at back. Even though Grace was getting better, she still wasn’t completely healed and Sam didn’t want her to relapse while they were traveling.

She watched him impassively while he made his preparations.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Yes,” she snapped but then appeared to regret her tone. Her voice softened. “I just want to get out of here, Sam. I don’t want to be lying helpless when demons come for me again. I’d much rather be doing something — anything.”

Sam nodded. He was beginning to understand. She didn’t want to be a victim any longer — wanted to appear to be in control of her own destiny. If the demons took her again, at least it would be on her terms.

They made slow but steady progress, heading east, traveling during the day and resting at night. It was easier this way for Sam, even though it was an unusual change that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Grace struggled to see during the night and even though his glamor ability was possibly able to conceal both of them, it would count for nothing if they were seen at close range. If demons found them on open ground, it made it all but impossible for Sam to protect her. It was better to be holed up for the night in an abandoned building — well away from any churches. Even if demons found them, at least he was better able to protect her.

Several more days and nights passed. Finally, inevitably, the demons found them again.

He’d known there was a church nearby, but there was nothing for it. Grace couldn’t have gone anymore. He’d had to carry her for the last hour as it was.

The place he’d chosen for the night didn’t often much in terms of respite and protection. He could hardly call it a cave — it was more a concave depression in a cliff face. Sam made Grace as comfortable as he could within while he took himself outside.

It was already dark. The wind had picked up blowing eddies of ash into his face which he brushed off without conscious thought. He sat down on a shattered piece of rock, took out his whetstone from his pocket and began methodically sharpening his blades. The activity always managed to soothe him with its mindless repetition.

He felt the demons intruding on his thoughts as a gradual pressure, slowly increasing as they got nearer. He knew they couldn’t sense him — his glamor was still in place — but they had detected Grace.

With a resigned sigh, he stood, placing his whetstone back in his pocket. He picked up both swords and shrank back into the protective overhang of the cliff face, gathering the shadows about him. It wasn’t actually concealment but it might give him the slight advantage of surprise. They wouldn’t be expecting him.

He knew there were many but he hadn’t anticipated just how many. They arrived in a great howling, screaming horde. Just Lemure, thankfully, but scores of them. They headed directly for the cave where Grace was beginning to stir, completely ignoring or unaware of him. He leapt out before they reached the entrance and cut down several before they even knew he was amongst them.

Even though they were just Lemure, there were just too many of them. In desperation, he called upon Yeth. His Hellhound arrived, inflicting fiery destruction on any Lemure he touched, shredding others in his powerful jaws. The Lemure were routed, unable to cope with such power. They fled into the night, shrieking.