But the Watcher was cunning. He had given him the news of Gabriel’s and Satan’s pact at that exact moment for a reason: to confuse Sam, make him more susceptible to other offers. Despite knowing this, it didn’t affect the allure. Sam wanted to believe, wanted to believe that what Samyaza offered was honest and true. Time would tell.
Right now, he had to focus his mind. The Devil’s Hand, while not exactly closing on him, were certainly not falling back, keeping pace even as he accelerated. Unlike him though, they had probably not already been running for many hours, arriving refreshed a few hours ago from Hell. Idly, he wondered if they trained like him. Had they spent their youth running for mile after mile like he had? Probably not. Hell no doubt had its own less subtle ways of training its warriors.
He probably would have out-distanced them more easily but he ran into a few problems. First, an earthquake had caused part of the road to collapse completely, leaving a gaping hole in the earth that appeared to go on forever — so deep, in fact, that Sam kept expecting to see Hell somewhere in its depths. It was also rather wide. He was forced to make a wide detour around it. Behind him, the Devil’s Hand closed the distance between them.
Then, near the town of Bethlehem, he was hit by a fire-storm. It wasn’t a huge problem. He was, after all, almost completely immune to fire as he’d imagine the Devil’s Hand were. But that wasn’t the issue. They were a relatively new phenomenon, becoming increasingly frequent. Fire-storms took the form of balls of lava falling from the sky, deadly to normal humans and highly destructive, largely responsible for most of the burnt towns and cities he had encountered. They struck the road in front of him. So intense was the heat that they melted the tar, creating a sticky mess that spelt ‘death trap’. If he ran through that, the tar would stick to his boots, further impeding his progress.
He detoured again, off the road, thrusting himself through smoldering plants, long since dead but still able to burn. The detour cost him time but he knew it was worth it. Experience had taught him well. The Devil’s Hand might not be as wise.
Sure enough, when he’d completed his detour and returned to the Highway, Sam cast a look over his shoulder. The Devil’s Hand had not bothered to avoid the burning road. They lacked Sam’s experience on Earth, running straight through the viscous black tar. Four immediately ran into trouble, their black boots becoming encased in the sticky sludge, slowing their progress considerably. If Sam got lucky, they might even have to retreat back to Hell to get new boots.
Unfortunately, the fifth member, ever so slightly behind the others, saw the difficulty they were having and followed Sam’s detour around. On closer inspection, Sam realized this member of the group was one of the two females.
He slowed slightly — not obviously — but enough to allow the isolated female to close the distance. This was almost too lucky. It was exactly what he’d been waiting for: an opportunity to isolate one of them. If he faced them as a group, he knew that his chances were slim. But one on one? That was a different story. Silently, he called to Yeth, willing his great Hellhound to appear. The timing couldn’t have been better. Sam could sense a church nearby, a portal that Yeth could use to his advantage.
Still cloaked in his glamor, Sam sprinted ahead. There was a mass of cars piled ahead of him on the highway, scattered like so many child’s toys. Enough to obscure his movements. He somersaulted over the first one he came to. Ahead of him was a jumbled maze of other cars. He darted in amongst them and then skidded to a halt and crouched down. He didn’t have to wait long.
He sensed her mind state first, of course. As she got closer, her thoughts became clearer to him. She didn’t expect an ambush, confident that Sam was like a deer being pursued by a pack of wolves, certain that his fear would drive him on.
Her footsteps and the sound of her breathing became apparent before she did and for once, everything went exactly to plan. He waited until she just gone past the car he huddled behind and then leapt after her, as silent as death. Some sixth sense or desperate self-preservation must have warned her at the very last moment, but it was too late. To her credit, she swiveled with surprising speed, brought her sword up and almost managed to block his blades despite not knowing exactly where the attack was coming from. It was impressive and something Sam would have struggled to do himself. He was careful not to kill her straight away though, which would have been pointless. He needed the scent trail.
His Wakizashi knocked her block sideways, even while his Katana was already curving upwards, biting underneath her arm and slicing through it almost without resistance. Blood spurted. She screamed once and tried to drive her remaining blade-like hand straight into his eyes. He blocked it again, removing the other hand just as easily. Unarmed and completely defenseless, Sam thought she might have surrendered or perhaps even pleaded then. But this was the Devil’s Hand he was dealing with here. A Cambion like him, unafraid of death and confident that if she died here, she’d just come back to face him stronger next time.
She screamed defiantly and threw herself at him. He plunged both swords though her, one through the neck and one in her chest, killing her instantly. She disappeared. Yeth appeared at his side as if her death had summoned him, his body flaming, sensing his master’s mood and prepared for battle. His Hellhound was to be disappointed this night. There would be no more fighting.
Sam pointed and understanding blossomed in the great demon’s mind. A fight might not be on the cards now but it was coming and soon. Sam assured him of that, patting Yeth’s great flanks reassuringly. The Devil’s Hand thought they had the upper hand, but things were about to change.
He thanked Yeth and cautioned him to escape. Four more Devil’s Hand were rapidly approaching, intent on avenging their fallen comrade. Sam could sense their mood and it was dire. Even he and Yeth might not be a match for them.
As Yeth faded back to Hell, taking refuge in his own plane, Sam took to his heels and fled.
He managed to stay ahead of them through the rest of that long night. It was taxing — he’d rarely felt this exhausted having run almost non-stop for twenty four hours. And that was after spending a whole night in a rage-fueled binge of destruction.
The Devil’s Hand were relentless. The four that remained pursued him doggedly, intent on revenge. A part of him even admired their persistence. The pursuit also taught him something valuable — how long it took for one to be ‘re-spawned’.
He sensed her reappearance immediately, joining the others as they ran along, presumably emerging from a nearby church. Swiftly, he did the calculations. He’d killed her just after midnight. Now it was almost dawn — probably five am if he was any judge. So basically, it took them about five hours to, well, reconstitute themselves again. Re-born. Sam envied them this ability. To be released from the fear of death… and not only that. To be re-born stronger each time. How exhilarating! He caught his envy before it got out of control. To be jealous of a demon. Ridiculous!
By dawn, he found himself in Springfield, New Jersey. Thankfully, the Devil’s Hand once again returned to Hell to avoid the hated daylight. Sam didn’t think it would last. One day soon, they would adapt like he had, able to continue the pursuit no matter what time of day it was. Sam hoped that that day was still a long way off.
He could probably have pushed on through to New York — through Jersey and into Manhattan, his ultimate destination — but he wanted to scout out the lie of the land first. Things didn’t look promising. To the east, in the general vicinity of where Sam thought Manhattan was, black smoke was drifting up in the warm morning breeze. Not a great sign.
It wasn’t much better in Springfield. The fire-storms and other natural disasters had wreaked havoc. Most of the town was destroyed, only the brick buildings having survived the fire-storms. Signage on the interstate informed him that there was a golf course nearby and he could just make it out in the distance. Or what had once been a golf course. It was now nothing more than a large open area, covered in blackened grass. People lived i
n the town though — he could perceive their presence, although whether they were demon worshippers or not, he couldn’t determine. He kept well away from them. Even if they weren’t in league with his Father, there wasn’t much he could do for them at the moment. Besides, Colonel Wheat and his troops would be along in another few weeks. Small comfort for those dying of the plague but Sam just couldn’t help everyone — even if he’d had enough antibiotics which he didn’t.
He got off the interstate near the business district. In order to confound the Devil’s Hand and their persistent tracking, he climbed up onto the roof tops. Some were still mostly intact, while others were just exposed and blackened ceiling beams. Silently leaping from one to the next, he knew he was taking a chance but it had to be done. He just couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself. If the Devil’s Hand found him, they would be able to summon both their human followers and their demonic kin to aid them. This way, they might not be able to track him.
He found an abandoned building, far away from any church and other people. The closest person he could sense was so distant, their mind was but the dimmest spark. As for the church — he certainly couldn’t tell if it had been desecrated from this distance and there was no way of telling if it had been destroyed or not. It was better to be safe than sorry. He wondered whether the advance demolition squads that Colonel Wheat had sent ahead had done their job yet. If they had, they would be doing well to have beaten him here, despite having set off three days before him and traveling on motorbikes. He’d made much better time than he’d thought — largely thanks to being harried by the Devil’s Hand.
He did some rough calculations in his head. It had taken him the best part of a week to get to New Jersey and Adam had told him they had six weeks. He still had four weeks — five at the outset — before the arrival of the Antichrist’s invasion fleet. Plenty of time. He’d be busy though: checking over the churches to ensure the demo squads had been successful, assessing demon worshipper numbers, determining how many survivors existed, working out possible defensive positions.
According to the latest Intel possessed by Adam, the invasion fleet would probably take the standard route into New York Harbor, past Ellis Island and then onto Manhattan. Sam still didn’t understand why they were going for Manhattan. What was the point? Any port along the Eastern seaboard would’ve done. Sam had to admit the strategy wasn’t bad though. Manhattan was an island after all. Once taken, it would be fairly easy to defend. Perhaps, as the city with the greatest population, the Antichrist thought it would have the greatest number of demon worshippers. Or maybe it was symbolic. Who knew?
The one thing he did know, however, was that coordinating the defense would be a challenging task. Communications had been poor since the Rapture, with short wave radio being the most common way for isolated bands of survivors to keep in touch. Even that form had become unreliable, which was one reason why Adam had been passing on his warning in person. Worsening atmospheric conditions in the last few months had been blamed.
The only reliable method seemed to be walkie-talkies but their range was incredibly limited. Sam had one himself and had specific instructions in relation to it. The plan was for him to rendezvous with Adam and the Colonel a week before the Antichrist was due to arrive. This gave the Colonel — who was coordinating the land based assault — time to gather troops and move them into New Jersey. If everything went to plan, he and his troops would then enter Manhattan as discretely as possible through the Holland tunnel under the Hudson River and take up defensive positions in the city. Meanwhile, Adam traveling with the British submarine, was to muster up whatever sea and air support he could along the coast. His objective was to ambush the enemy fleet by hiding behind Staten Island, allowing them to pass and then attacking them from the rear. Hopefully, the Antichrist’s forces would then be caught in a pincer maneuver, bombarded by Colonel Wheat artillery from the front and Adam’s ship to ship missiles and torpedoes from behind. It was a simple plan and one that could easily go horribly wrong but it was the only one they had.
Sam was to turn his walkie-talkie on in roughly three to four weeks’ time for an hour a day and attempt to make contact with the defense forces. By then, hopefully, he’d have all the information they would require.
He’d think about that later. Right now, all he wanted to do was rest. It was the first time in years that he actually felt the need to sleep. He was bone weary but couldn’t risk it without using a protective pentacle; he could make one but that would mean he was potentially trapped. His usual meditation regime would have to suffice for now.
The building he was in was part of a two-storied brick office block, partially gutted by fire. It had survived primarily because it was made of brick. He found an isolated office cubicle and made himself comfortable, pulling the long disused and ash coated blinds shut, darkening the room sufficiently so at least he felt a little more relaxed. He settled into his meditative position. Tomorrow, he would investigate Manhattan. A little thrill went through him. He’d never been to New York, never seen the ocean. Despite the circumstances, it was still a tiny bit exciting. The prospect of destroying some demon worshippers appealed also, as did thoughts of what he might find. Perhaps Manhattan was a bastion of humanity? If they had destroyed all the churches and entrance points to the island, there was no reason they couldn’t survive. They would still be exposed from the air but a determined resistance could ward off Astaroth attack. The thought filled him with a little hope. A tiny bit… but some hope was better than none.
Ten hours. That was all he’d have to wait. And then he’d find out for himself.
Chapter Twenty
Manhattan, New York
“ The second angel blew his trumpet, and something like a great mountain, burning with fire, was thrown into the sea, and a third of the sea became blood. A third of the living creatures in the sea died, and a third of the ships were destroyed.”
Revelation 8:8-9
When darkness finally fell, Sam was already prepared. Had been for some time. In fact, he’d struggled to fill the last few hours, his mind going over and over recent events until his brain was swimming. Aimi was a painful recurring subject. He’d sharpened his swords. Twice. Emptied out his backpack, cleaned and checked everything inside and replaced it neatly. Planned his route into New York. Even trimmed his fingernails. Eventually, he shut the thoughts down by finding an old packet of cards, playing patience until it was dark enough to move. Somewhere in the distance, he heard screams and felt the telltale presence of demons. Clearly, at least one church had not been decommissioned.
Suddenly, he felt torn. He knew he should investigate. Despite what Gabriel had done to him, it was still his duty to protect the innocent. He had given his word, and that was not lightly given.
Empathy messed with his resolve. He could imagine what some poor person felt right at this very moment, being stalked, trapped, captured and dragged to Hell. Their terror. Their pain. Reluctantly, he shook himself free from its grasp. He had to think about the bigger picture. He had a duty and obligation to Adam and Colonel Wheat. He had a job to do. That was what he had to focus on regardless. It was ruthless and made him feel nauseous but it was about the greater good.
Eventually, he just took off, putting as much distance between himself and the source of the screams as possible, heading east towards Manhattan. Behind him, in the same general direction as the screams, he felt the Devil’s Hand make an appearance. Very persistent. They were also getting lucky or just guessed correctly that he was heading for Manhattan. He had no doubt they’d soon pick up his trail again. Their presence made him think of Yeth. He wondered how his Hellhound was getting on with his assigned task.
Slipping back onto the interstate, he increased his pace, keen to increase his lead over his pursuers. The last thing he needed whilst reconnoitering was to have them nipping at his heels. He’d planned his route out carefully, using his map to trace the interstate from Springfield, through Jersey City and under the
Holland tunnel into Manhattan. Originally, he’d planned to take one of the bridges in order to get a closer view of the city but he’d reflected that it was pretty important for him to check out the state of the tunnel. It was, after all, the route Colonel Wheat planned to take when he arrived with his forces.
Fortunately, the interstate became increasingly blocked with cars as he got closer to Manhattan. This suited Sam perfectly. He’d never been trained in Parkour — the French style of urban movement — but he’d read about it when he was younger. The definition of it kind of summed up how he liked to move, aided by his natural athleticism and otherworldly strength and dexterity. It was something he’d had a great deal of experience with over the years. Urban landscapes scattered with the remnants of human debris weren’t exactly hard to come by these days.
The piles of cars posed an irresistible challenge to Sam, an obstacle almost purposely designed for him. It was the closest thing to what Sam defined as fun. He doubted whether the Devil’s Hand would view it like that. Hell probably never ran courses on navigating urban settings.
He raced through the cars with a will, somersaulting, rolling and leaping with a grace and power no human could match. He made good time, sensing the Devil’s Hand falling behind even though they’d discovered his trail.
As he neared New York, the smoke became more apparent. Several buildings at least must have been on fire. But that paled into insignificance when he began crossing a bridge, thankfully largely intact other than some twisted girders, interspersed with a few cracks big enough to fall through. A sign told him that he was still on interstate 78. If memory served, the bridge was the New Jersey Turnpike extension. The vaguely familiar stench should have warned him, but he didn’t really think about it, largely immune to the smells this post-apocalyptic world could throw at him.
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