Tribulation

Chapter 1: Thirteen Years Later

Isaac jolted awake. Cold sweat poured down his face. His eyes darted around his room, half-expecting to see the demons eyes watching him from the shadows. He wiped the sweat from his face and laid back down with his hands over his face. He glanced over at the small alarm clock setting on his bedside table. It read: 4:00. It wasn't even light out yet, and there was still a full three hours before he was supposed to actually be awake. He cursed under his breath and closed his eyes, hoping to get those final, promising hours of peace. After a few minutes, he was asleep.

When the alarm finally went off at seven, he felt like he hadn't slept at all. He flipped the switch off and groggily sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swung his legs off the side of his bed. He was lucky to get a room and bed all to himself, he thought. All the other survivors were forced to sleep in tight, close spaces on uncomfortable cots. Only a select few could have the luxury of privacy.

He stood up and looked around his messy room for a pair of pants and a shirt. He found his off-white, baseball t-shirt and black skinny jeans. He turned and reached for his necklace, when he accidentally knocked over the picture sitting on the nightstand. He picked it up and brushed the dust off of it. It was a picture of himself, his uncle and his mother. His mother used to be so beautiful. Golden blond hair, bright hazel eyes, pearly white teeth and perfect smile. Everything about her was beautiful. He smiled at back at her as if she were actually there. He then looked at his uncle. He was a gruff looking man with long, grey hair he always kept brushed to one side. He too had those bright, hazel eyes that never seem to match what he was saying. Isaac set the picture back in its place. He found his work boots and pulled them on letting the bottom of his jeans hang over. He grabbed his black, leather jacket which hung on a pathetic nail hook he'd made for that exact purpose. Lastly, he looked over in the corner where he kept his uncle's sword, Faithless. It was a beautiful sword. The blade was made of some silvery metal, as were the hilt and pommel. The grip was wrapped in a faded grayish-brown leather. On the hilt there were angelic runes carved into it. His uncle once told him that the runes were the swords true name. No one spoke the language of angels, not even his uncle. The sheath was just as beautiful. There was a metal tip that swirled with intricate designs. The top of the sheath had a similar pattern. He strapped the sword to his back with the leather sword-belt his uncle had made for it.

Outside in the corridor, everything was quiet and peaceful. At seven in the morning, no one, except the merchants and cooks, were up.

Headquarters was a large building full of rooms, halls and everything that would be found in large buildings. Pre-Armageddon, it was an old high-school, filled with rushing students, teachers stopping fights, and the occasional after pep-rally riot. The rooms used as offices and classrooms were turned into apartments fit for 10 people to live uncomfortably. The cafeteria was now called the mess hall, so it stayed in it's original purpose. The gym was turned into an indoor training room for soldiers during the below-zero degree months, the old baseball field was used during the summer for training. The auditorium was left unused seeing as it had no purpose. The only room that still served its original purpose, other than the mess hall, was Jackson's office, what used to be the principal's office.

Jackson's office was usually in tip-top shape, seeing as how Jackson himself was taught to be orderly. But occasionally it would get messy and out of order. Today was one such occasion as Isaac pushed open the door into the room. Jackson glanced up at him and grinned slightly. Jackson had that kind of smile that made you wanna smile back. Despite his rough and tough military appearance, he was a friendly man. He looked as though he'd had no sleep. The dark circles under his eyes made his ebony skin turn charcoal black.

"Mornin', kid," he spoke with a thick cajun accent. Isaac glared at him, and he corrected himself, "Sorry, Mornin', jackass." Isaac smiled dryly.