The Prophet

I lay on the wooden picnic table, rugged splinters prickling my back. The paint was fading, leaving the entire bench to be an ashy red. My rifle was resting in the grass, loaded and ready to be fired. I was waiting for Sab, who was getting all our weapons together and putting them in the trunk. I heard the she's doors slam shut, creaking as she latched the iron lock back on to shield the door that was hidden underneath some hockey supplies inside the shelter.

Inside was an ordinary shed, full of sports supplies that me and her used to use when we were children. Now it was just masking the iron trapped door that had stairs leading down into the old tornado shelter. We had turned the dusty wooden hiding space into a weaponry room with demon traps acting as a welcome mat at the front door. Other carvings were embedded into the metal and iron walls, casting away creatures as they entered the safe house. We had lived down there months at a time, eating life away as we avoided the dangerous world around us.

I smiled as Sab drove the old pickup truck down the gravel road towards me, honking loudly and making me jump a little. I could hear her bubbly laugh coming out of the drivers window as she gestured for me to hurry up.

" Grab your gun and let's go!" She cried, craning her neck out of the window then sitting back in the scrappy leather seat. I leaned down, grabbing my rifle and my jacket, jumping onto the wet grass bare foot and sprinting to the vehicle. The rocks stuck to the bottom of my foot as Sab kicked the passenger door open. I slid inside, dropping my rifle in the backseat. We kept handguns in the glove compartments for easier access, the same one our brother insisted on keeping there years ago.

I put my bare feet on the dashboard, wiping off the dirt and rocks along the flat surface. I leaned back in my lather seat, which creaked with my every move. I was just getting comfortable when a sudden jolt of the car sent me flying frontwards, folding in half. The guns hit the beginning of the trunk with a loud thump. The car came to a stop in the dirt road, and I stabilized myself. When I glanced up at Sab, she was already looking at me.

" What the hell was that, Sab?!"

I cried, rubbing my sore neck. She smirked a little, reaching over and pushing both my feet off the dashboard of the truck. They hit the floor, and she unlocked the passenger door for me.

" Keep your feet off my dash."

She replied. I rolled my eyes, knowing the drill. I leaned out of the door, scraping my feet against the my hands, wiping the dirt and stone off. She was so OCD about things like this. I wiped my hands off on my jeans when my feet were good, and I reached back inside of the track to grab my combat boots that were laying on the floor of the truck. She leaned against the wheel, waiting. I put my knee up, lacing up my one boot and then the other. My hand struggled to open the glove box, but I finally got a hold of a small knife along with a few fake ID's. One of the many among them was my fake FBI ID, which I used to get into closed crime scenes to investigate anything unnatural that was a job for Sab and I.

We had picked up where our family left off, mostly avenging them. The one I missed the most was Ryan, who used to sit in the same seat that Sab now occupied. There were still beer stains where his cans used to spill over, or other stains that mom would get angry at him for when he slopped food on the leather during a job. He had short black hair, and always had A dog tag around his neck. There were small rips in his jean pockets where receipts would poke out.

I always looked up to him, listening to his stories of the dangerous world out in the open, and how he would slay these creatures so swiftly. I wanted to be like that, I wanted his courage and his skills. Although I had no faith in it, I would dream. For night after night sleeping in the old tornado cellar I would dream of one day when mother would decide we were ready. I was stuck living in the cellar for 6 years, my toddler years roaming free at the farm. Once I hit of age, mother raised me in the tornado cellar, surrounded by the same weapons we use to this day. I remember being a child and wanted to touch and play with all the smaller guns, knives, and Especially this one blade.