This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
— the hollow men, t.s. elliot
❥
Hellhounds caught Jordan's scent as he was leaving Detroit.
He was in the city to trade; that last bastion of humanity, or at least the last for miles and miles. As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, Jordan couldn't do everything himself. The world was good and dead, now, and every year there was less and less to scavenge.
So he had to go into human settlements every once in a while, but usually, he avoided Detroit like the plague.
There were just too many people there.
Hundreds, even. And Jordan, who was used to traveling alone now, who was used to a dozen others at most, couldn't stand it. The noise, the heat, the smell.
Even worse was the way they looked at him.
With hope.
As if he'd bring news, good news.
Jordan knew there was no such thing.
Money might be a thing of the past, but there were valuables to be found, nonetheless. It was Jordan's job to find them, bring them to settlements like the one that used to be Detroit, and trade them for what couldn't be found.
Like a hot meal, or fresh food, or clean water.
The sentinels at the front gate let him in after he showed proof of his goods; once, they would have tested him for humanity, before they realized there was little point. If either side really wanted to get in, they would simply walk through the gates. No, it was humans you had to worry about, now.
Jordan walked down the remains of the highway offramp, his worn combat boots avoiding holes in the cement. No grass grew. No dandelions snuck up in between the cracks.
He shifted his backpack on his shoulders, banishing the thought. It had been like this for as long as he knew.
If sometimes he could remember the feeling of grass between his toes, of blowing dandelion seeds in the wind, well. That was between him and God.
Assuming there was such a thing. Jordan believed in heaven and in hell, in angels and in demons, but God?
What kind of God created a world like this?
He didn't know. And he didn't want to know.
Jordan didn't say in the city for long, unable to stand the presence of so many humans. So he left, pack heavy with supplies, and found refuge in one of the old suburbs outside of the settlement.
It was a trace of flame in the air, almost like a match being struck, that gave him his first and only warning.
He knew that smell.
It was the scent of Hellfire, of smoke and sulfur and something indescribable as anything but pure heat.
Jordan stilled where he lay, sleep still clouding his mind as the scent filled the room. A feeling almost like static electricity surrounded him, and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up.
He shivered, adrenaline rushing. His body tensed as his mind raced, and he absently thought that it was a good thing he slept with his boots on.
Perhaps if he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't so much as blink, the Hellhounds would move on to easier prey. A meal that wouldn't fight back.
Fuck, who was he kidding? He was easy prey. He had an axe stashed under the backpack he was using as a pillow, and a loaded pistol near his hand, but neither of those would do much against one of Hell's creatures. Jordan did have a few ounces of Holy Water, but that was buried deep in his pack for safekeeping.
Because Jordan had never heard of Hellhounds hunting so close to a city.
Foolishly, he'd thought himself safe there, in the shadow of the walled settlement. He had thought that no beasts would venture so close to what was left of human civilization, with its guns and defenses. Nothing that would stop a demon or an angel, of course, but enough to protect the inhabitants from beasts like Hellhounds, or the endless other demonic and angelic monsters that now ravaged the world.
He heard deep growls from the 'hounds and winced at the low, discordant sound of many throats at once. It must be a whole pack, he thought, not just a lone dog.
Just his luck.
Slowly, silently as he could, he reached for the hatchet under his pack, praying to whoever or whatever might be listening that he would reach his holy water before they came at him. If he could coat the blade with the stuff, he might have a fighting chance.
Might.
His hands shaking so hard he could barely grasp the hilt of the axe, he pulled it from the sheath, the metal dull in the dim light of the distantly rising sun. Resting it on the blanket, he lifted his pack.
The sound of the zipper seemed louder than anything Jordan had ever heard before; the grating, jagged noise of metal against metal was sure to signal to the Hellhounds that someone was within the old, dilapidated dwelling.
He'd chosen the house because it was identical to the others on the street. There was nothing to indicate that this one wasn't as abandoned as the rest, and just as empty of valuables. But somehow, the Hellhounds knew he was there anyway, or they would soon. The question of what they were doing so close to the city still lurked in the back of his mind, but Jordan had more pressing things to worry about.
Like surviving the next five minutes.
He reached into his back, deep beneath his food, the meds he had to trade, the three thick paperbacks he carried with him — there! The flask.
The dissonant chorus of growls was growing closer, and there was no more time for silence and sneaking. Jordan yanked the flask from his pack, not caring that it spilled the rest of his meager belongings across the floor.
He could hear the click, click, click of many sharp claws against the once pristine hardwood floors, the sound of death coming for him. Hellhounds were not like normal predators, Jordan knew. They didn't hunt for food, or to survive, but for the pleasure of the chase, the kill. And they were smarter than dogs, or even wolves.
Much smarter.
Intelligent enough that, even though Jordan had shut the door behind him, he soon saw the knob turn.
He forced himself to breathe as he unscrewed the lid of the metal flask, and with trembling hands, poured some of the holy water over the edge of the axe. It was the only way the blade would have any lasting effect on the 'hounds.
As he rose, the open flask in his left hand, axe in his right, the door creaked open on rusty hinges.
And there was the first Hellhound. Jordan could see the rest of the pack spread out behind it, a sea of glowing red eyes in the dark of early morning.
It was massive, broad, muscular, and easily reached his chest, even on all fours.
Jordan didn't have a chance. But he wasn't going down without a fight.
The Hellhound growled as it stepped into the room, black fangs bared. There was something wrong with it, as with all of its kind, like it was a creature no human should look at, a creature that shouldn't be walking the Earth. Jordan's eyes could barely meet the crimson ones that burned into him.
He raised the axe in front of him, and the Hellhound lunged.
The next moment passed as if it was in slow motion, the adrenaline rush taking over Jordan's senses — but it must have taken seconds.
Swinging the axe, he watched the 'hound dodge the blade with an agility that surprised him, considering its size. He pulled the axe back again, but then the beast's paws were on him, and he was falling back, hitting the bed, the precious holy water falling from his hand and splashing harmlessly over the floor.
And Jordan waited to die.
He waited for the razor-sharp teeth to sink into his bare throat, to tear his flesh, for the pack to rend him limb from limb.
Instead, he felt a hot, rough nose huff against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. The Hellhound lifted its head and let out a loud, discordant howl. He flinched back, pressing against the dirty floor as if he could melt into it to get away from the beast.
Jordan was well and truly screwed, he thought, as the beast made itself comfortable on his chest and stomach, resting its paws on his shoulders and panting, like an overlarge lapdog instead of the fearsome creature it really was. Jordan could see its teeth, shiny and black and sharp as needles, could feel its hot breath against his face, smelling of smoke and something else, something stronger than mere fire. If he focused his eyes, he could just barely see the flames peering out from its throat.
He reached for the axe, but the dog growled, low and deep and grating, and snapped, its fangs around his neck.
With its teeth pressing into his fragile skin, Jordan froze.
Had he tempted fate? Had he ruined his chance at surviving?
That was when he heard the words out of nowhere. A deep, velvety voice spoke up, sounding almost amused, from somewhere beyond his vision.
"Down, girl."