Who: George, David When: The end of days, baby Where: The police-state ruins of New York What: Demon killing, people-rescuing. The family business
New York wasn't a safe place to be. Well, technically nowhere was a safe place to be, but New York especially was not a safe place to be. Between the Antichrist's forces (technically the police, now), Satan and Lucifer's forces (who had taken to saint-hunting with a gusto) and the other immortals, calling it a deadly clusterfuck was being polite. George knew the city was lost to them. It had been lost to them since the start, really. But it had been home to several billion people, and George wasn't willing to leave them to die. At least if they escaped the major population centers, they had less of a chance of being rounded up by Hell.
He was guiding one such group of people out of the city when they ran into trouble. The plan had been to use one of the old sewer tunnels (and George wasn't sure what the hell he was going to do when those eventually flooded) that would drop them on the riverbank outside of the city. It wouldn't be a journey without danger, but George figured they would be safe enough while he headed back into the city. Naturally, they ran into trouble half a mile before they reached the sewer grate that would have led to safety.
George felt the slow, unpleasant burn in the back of his mind that signaled a group of demons moving quickly towards them. He unsheathed his sword and flipped the safety off on his handgun.
"We're about to get ambushed," George told the group. There were about twenty of them, with five children included. They weren't going to be able to fight their way out of this.
Olivia, who had been the de facto leader of the group before George had stumbled upon them, pressed her lips together tightly and tightened her grip on her own gun. "Can you lead them away?"
George smiled at her. It wasn't an overly happy smile, but it wasn't completely devoid of mirth. "I can do more than that. The sewer grate's marked with a cross." A cross of St. George, to be precise. "It's a straight shot to the riverbank. You should get there okay."
Olivia nodded. "Any advice on where to go after that?"
George shrugged his tattered backpack off. Easier to fight that way. "Stay out of the woods. There are wolves, big ones. The Great Plains might be safer, unless Yellowstone goes off the way they're saying it might. Don't head to the Southwest. The Aztecs have set up there."
Olivia nodded again and began to the lead the group off. She hesitated and turned back to ask, "Are you going to be all right?"
George grinned. "Trust me, I'll be fine."
Olivia gave him a mock salute and a small smile before taking off at a quick pace, the rest of the humans on her heels.
A minute passed, then another. George pressed himself against the alley wall and checked his ammo clips. He had enough. He'd gotten out of worse situations. The demons would know where he was, the same as he knew where they were, but that didn't need to be a disadvantage. He smiled again, a little bloodthirsty, and let his halo flare up. Armor slid across him, glowing slightly, and he cocked the gun.
What followed next was quick, and very violent. When it ended and George let his halo fade away, he was surrounded by the mangled remains of five very unlucky demons. The street was slicked with blood, and he had a long, deep gash across his side. But he was smiling nonetheless. A part of him had been waiting for this, for a chance at all out-war, for a very long time.
He couldn't indulge it for long, though. George knew needed to return to the safe house and start searching for more survivors. He pushed himself to his feet and slid his sword back into the leather sheath across his back. He'd leave the demon bodies where they lay, he decided. A warning to Hell that the saints weren't gone quite yet.