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Staci comes awake in a roar of flames.The fire licks up the porthole, burning so hot that the metal groans and twists, the sound of yelling and hooting heard as a nearby background noise. He is… upside down, arms hanging limp beside his ears. The world is noise and fire.Slowly, groggily, Staci searches and finds his hands, fumbles them to the buckle of his seatbelt. Is someone giving a goddamn speech out there? Confused and hurting, head pounding to the beat of his heart, he twists to look at the passenger seat, where Marshall Burke had been strapped in. The seat is empty, the chopper door hanging limp on its hinges.“Staci! Staci, say something, damn it!”Staci fills his lungs with difficulty and grips the belt, “I’m ok, I’m alright, Joey.” He twists to look behind him, but only manages ninety degrees, fire and broken glass in every direction.“Listen, can you move? I’m, god, I’m trying to free Earl, but his belt is twisted, I need help. I, I think Rook is waking up.” she makes a sound like sobbing through clenched teeth, “Those crazy bastards…”Above the crackling he hears noise from the passenger’s hold, fabric shifting and tearing. Staci tries the buckle again, fingers uncooperative and sticky. Sticky?“Joey…?”“Rook! Just hang in there rookie, I’m gonna get you down, just- fuck! Staci, they’re gathering out there-”Staci keeps blinking, blinking, to clear his vision. The belt doesn’t butch and he listens helplessly as Rook calls out to Earl, Joey’s profanities increasingly gaining vulgarity. Beyond the fire and empty window frame to his right, black shapes start filtering through, towering above view. Shouting, and the shapes rush towards the chopper, moving like one organism.Behind him Joey yells, and Staci kicks at the chopper frame to free himself from his seat.“Joey!”“Get off of her!” Rook sounds frantic and strained, as he seemingly attempts to keep his co-workers in the cabin. Beside Staci, a boot starts pounding the hatch, one, twice, two more times before it springs open. The noise of an excited crowd saturates the air as a dirty, beaded man leans into Staci’s space.“Got you now, Sinne-”Staci gets the man good in his left eye and is drawing his arm back for another swing when the fire suddenly makes itself known again, greedily swallowing the oxygen being introduced through the open hatch.Staci hisses as the flames swell in front of him, closing off the exit to his right and making the sweat erupt all over his overheated face. Tearing at the buckle, it snaps open suddenly, causing him to drop onto the ceiling landing on his radio. The shell cracks into sharp pieces, black plastic and detriments of torn electronics digging into his hand as he snatches it up, wide eyed, tosses it aside. Staci crawls away from the heat, towards the other exit hatch. The shouting from outside reaches a crescendo and distantly he hears a woman scream.“Joey!” he gasps and then coughs, smoke beginning to fill the cabin rapidly. The exit hatch hangs slightly open and Staci pushes through it, crashing onto the ground, using his arms to drag himself further away.Hands grab at him and he fights in vain before realising they belong to the rookie. His face is shiny and red, chest huffing for air.“They’re gone,” he manages, pulling Staci to his shaking feet, “they took the Sheriff and Joey. Burke… I don’t even know.”The helicopter is empty Staci sees, taking in gulps of cool air. Covered in blood and riddled with gunshot. Behind it, shapes still move, a man standing tall above them, speaking, chanting. Staci remembers - Jesus, someone propelled themselves into the rotor blades - Joseph Seed singing quietly behind him, the Peggies going into a frenzy below. Fuck , this is way above his paygrade.Staci can’t hear Joey anymore and Earl is nowhere to be found. Behind the chopper, the Peggies start trying to find a path past the fire, getting visibly agitated.“We have to go,” Staci says, finally. He can see that Rook wants to argue and Staci almost wants him to, wants an excuse not to flee. Instead Rook clenches his jaw and replies: “you’re right”, with quiet determination.As the men back up, it seems the Peggies take notice. Several pews ripple through the evening and small dust clouds spring up around him. Staci freezes before he finds himself yanked back. Rook curses and pulls on him harder, snapping him out of it and he stumbles back, falling into a sprint.Rook and Staci turn tail into the treeline. More shots echo through the dusk and a spray of wood hits Staci’s face as he rushes past a large oak tree. Over the pounding of his ears and his feet beating the soil he hears voices call out to each other, other voices answering. Rook lungs are working overtime where he is fleeing in front of him.Between the trunks he sees distant fires flickering orange. He skids down a hill, bracing himself on one hand to turn sharply as another round of bullets embed themselves into the ground behind him.Staci’s mind races, same as his pulse; skipping like a skittish hare. He saw the scene rushing by as in a dream, either courtesy of surrealism or a concussion. He hadn’t been involved in making the arrest of Joseph Seed, but he had seen the effects on his flock, rippling outwards through the compound as people vacated the church. First came the shouted protest, the thrown rocks, drawn guns-Rook throws out an arm and stops Staci dead in his tracks. Things have been quiet behind them for a while, and they crouch behind a fallen tree. On its other side, a bald man in a grimy white sweater jogs by, reporting into a walkie. In his arms rests a goddamn assault rifle .“Christ”, Rook mutters as Staci looks at his profile in the low light.Staci looks around, deeming the forest quiet for the time being.“Are you good, Rook?” he asks, “No holes in you?”“Yeah, no, I’m not hit,” Rook answers, padding himself down,” but I don’t think we can keep running, there must be dozens of them out here. Where are the Seed’s even finding this many followers in Hope? Are they like, hired from out-of-county?”Staci shakes his head, allows himself to lean on the fallen tree, “You weren’t around back when Joseph Seed first rolled in a couple years back. Most of these people are from down south, Georgia, I think. The youngest Seed used to come by the station often, always chatting, wanting to cosy up with the Sheriff I guess,” Staci huffs a laugh,” I used to think he was oversharing, but he never mentioned this .”“It’s so messed up,” Rook says, “I can’t believe they send only one marshall! And the guy runs off, first chance he gets.”As if timed, Rook’s radio chose this time to begin screeching, Burke’s frantic voice coming through. Both men curse and grapple for the device.“ - a bridge leading .. a cabin, does ..nyone read-” “Shut up!” Rook hiss into the receiver, “stay where you are.”“And don’t use this frequency, moron,” Staci stresses, peering over the tree into the quickly darkening shades cast by the tree’s crowns. Coast thankfully seems clear.Rook hangs up the walkie: “We have to go to him. The Peggies will come running.”“Seems like a good reason to stay away.”“Staci…”“No, I’m serious,” Staci doubles down, “this isn’t for us to handle, Rook. Those weren’t warning shots: Eden’s Gate is firing to kill.”Rook sits back on his haunches, looking conflicted: “Listen, I know I don’t have much experience as a deputy yet, but I know when something just doesn't sit right with me.”“And I respect that, but you don’t have to waste your life on this guy. You realise he left us to die back there, no hesitation?”The rookie shrugs helplessly.Staci sighs, knowing a losing battle.“How about this,” he counters, “with the Sheriff away, I’m technically in charge. Are you saying that you are willingly disobeying orders from a superior?”Rook looks a bit put on the spot, but he still meets Staci's eye: “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”“Earl give you a service weapon yet?”“No, but-”“Take mine then, here,” Staci unclips his sidearm, despite Rook’s protests, “If you are quick and you stay low, you might be able to make it before any Peggies show up.”“Yeah,” Rook replies, taking the sidearm hesitantly, “Yeah, okay. You aren’t coming with me?”Staci shakes his head, no: “You might save Burke’s ass, if you’re lucky, but we aren’t bringing in the Seed’s with the help of only one guy.”“You want to call in the national guard?” Rook catches on quickly.“I doubt anything less would suffice,” Joseph Seed means business, as it turns out, “I’m sure dispatch has realised something is off already, so I’ll reach out to her as well once I dig up a decent radio.”“Maybe Nancy has called someone already,” Rook says wishfully.“After you get Burke, radio her. She’ll know if anyone else made it out,” Staci urges, “but you have to go now if you want to reach him in time.”Rook nods seriously and peaks over the fallen tree a last time. The light is low enough that it will be difficult for anyone to spot them in their olive uniforms: but it will be hard for them to spot approaching search parties as well.“Where are we meeting up after?” he asks uncertainly.“Just find somewhere to lay low,” Staci instructs, pushing to his feet. They ache with pinpricks while the skin on his temple itches with dried blood: “When I find a long-range radio, I’ll call you.”“Yeah, fine…”“Just go, Rook. Don’t… get shot or something,” Staci jokes, gripping the much taller man by his shoulder. Despite Staci being younger by a couple of years, the rookie suddenly appears small.The grimace on Rook’s face resembles a smile.“Yeah, yeah, you too Staci.”Then he is turning and vanishing into the solid blackness spreading between the trunks. Staci waits until he no longer hears the snapping of dry sticks under boots and then sets out towards the river. o0o Staci heads for the Barlow residence by the banks of the Henbane. His parents used to have friends living in the house. Their acquaintances moved to a smaller place in their older days, but the young couple that moved in afterwards were small-time preppers; same as many others in Hope County. The woman, Harriet Barlow, is a regular at the gas station that Staci stops by when on late night shifts.They would chat in the snacks aisle, Harriet telling him all about the construction of the bunker in their backyard, installation of appliances, stocking of lasting goods, long-range radio equipment, the whole shebang. Staci will ask for advice on the tomatoes he is trying to grow in the window sill of his trailer home.Staci is confident they will open their doors to him, if not by merit of their familiarity, then for their hatred towards the Project at Eden’s Gate. o0o He has a few run-ins with Eden’s Gate members before reaching the riverbank. Groups of armed men comb the woods, sharing information between them in brief shouts. Staci moves slowly and listens, hears them coming from a distance and is able to hide before the peggies come into view: first taking cover in the lower branches of a tree, later by pressing his stomach into the tall grass along a weather bidden fence.Despite being glad that Rook has a means of defending himself, he painfully feels the absence of the familiar weight of the firearm on his utility belt. The only advantage of it missing, is that a Peggie might be less obliged to shoot at an unarmed man, but Staci wouldn’t bet much on that.Eventually his luck runs out when he ducks under a branch in his path, and straight into the sharp beam of a flashlight. The eyes above the glowing orb lock onto him and they stare awkwardly at each other, frozen still.The Peggie reaches for his gun.So much for being unarmed, Staci thinks later, from where he has squeezed his body in between two moss-covered boulders. His chest heaves from a sprint that took him through fields and dense woods, spooking a herd of grazing deer on one memorable occasion, all the while ducking under rounds of bullets courtesy of a hairy maniac with a red cross painted on his forehead.By the time he reaches the banks of Henbane River, just beneath the southern bridge, night has fallen properly and the perspiration on Staci’s flushed skin is drying coolly.He parted from Rook roughly an hour ago, with the detours he had to take to dodge search parties, and the time he spent anxiously hiding in various thickets. His hands are torn open by blackberry bushes and rough dirt. In short: he is about ready to get off his shift and go the fuck home.Yet all plans of leisuredly crossing the river by bridge and getting through this nightmare painlessly, dies once he gets a closer look at the structure: floodlights illuminate every Peggie milling about on the bridge, carrying supplies, ammunition, weapons. On both ends sturdy roadblocks have been raised, guards pacing steadfastly back and forth in front of them.Staci looks on incredulously as a white truck is waved through the first barricade. On its load someone has installed a heavy machine gun on a stand. With this level of discretion, he won’t be surprised if a civilian contacts the national guard themselves before Staci gets the chance to.Either way, his escape route is blocked and it’s time for plan B:On the bank in front of him stands an old wooden post. Someone has lovingly tied a knitted scarf around it three quarters from the loose rocks covering the ground. The pole marks a spot in the Henbane that is fit for swimming; the river narrow and the current mild. Staci used to come here all the time when he was a kid on summer break. No adults or sunscreen, just him and Joey- not the time, Pratt. The water is so cold that it forces an airy gasp from Staci’s lungs. Holding his boots high above his head, his legs carry him further into the stream, waterline rising past his knees, then his hips.Once the water is wetting the curls in the nape of his neck, Staci has to hold his footwear with one hand, lowering one arm beneath the waves to keep his balance. Only his toes touch the soft riverbed. Despite it only being august, the Henbane springs from atop the Whitetail mountains, and it shows by its temperature. By the time Staci is dragging himself onto the opposite bank, he can hardly feel his feet and he’s pretty sure his balls have disappeared within his body.Biting down a cry of anguish, he sinks onto a patch of grass by the treeline and rubs at his feet, determined to let them dry before attempting to pull his socks back on.Every inch of him is soaked through, pants sticking uncomfortably to his thighs as he sits and drips into the ground, warming his feet by friction.“ God , Joey, you are gonna be so smug,” he laughs painfully, recalling every accusation and conspiracy out of her mouth ever since the Seed’s first rolled into town.‘Mark my word, Stace, those hippies spell trouble’, she had readily declared.‘Saw that guy John Seed sniffing around the old lumber mill the other day. You guys think he’ll leave one or two properties for the rest of us?’ she’d rage, aggressively tidying her desk.‘Sheriff, I know you believe that nothing ever happens in this county, but I swear , they are up to something! Staci, back me up here, please.’Staci had been inclined to agree on one account: Earl disliked “ruckus” and only contacted higher ups once people were calling the department daily, for reasons less harmless than ugly fences rising across the county.As they awaited permission for Joseph Seed’s arrest, the Sheriff finally allowed Joey to cruise past the communities fenced in properties to gather intel, Staci being sent on long flights over the Whitetails to peak past wired fences…Now Staci figures that the Seed’s must have been aware the whole time, laughing while the belly of his chopper circled above. Turning a blind eye while Joey snuck close to their churches, peeking through windows to get incentive for a warrant.No wonder John Seed didn’t show up at the station, waving his fancy lawyer’s degree around, claiming violations of every amendment: Eden’s Gate would have been very busy staging a militant invasion.Staci falls silent. Just sit still for a while, a little longer. Breathing clouds into the night air, while his feet slowly warm up in his hands.Above him an explosion rocks the bridge and whitens the sky. A moment passes before a truck barrels through the railing and plummets into the river below.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
By the time the red wooden house materialises between trees, the sun has risen and Staci is so tired that he is seeing dark spots. He slumps over a hill, supporting himself on every other trunk. His boots are waterlogged, as are the innermost of his layers. The water-weight nearly unbearable on his shivering frame.
Staci stays upright. He keeps walking.
After forcing himself to withdraw from the riverbed, he had not run into any more Peggies in the woods. By luck or by reason of being far from Joseph Seed’s compound, Staci isn’t sure. He thinks about the civilian truck crashing through the bounds of the bridge, diving into the water where Staci had just crossed. The glass had broken on impact, car filling rapidly while the opposite bank had soon been flooded by cultists.
By that time, Staci had been forced to leave, before seeing if anyone was rescued from the wreckage, before being able to reject his initial thought: that Rook had somehow managed to find himself in more trouble that he was able to chew. That he was drowning on that slimy riverbed, unconscious and injured, while Staci could do nothing but stand on the side and watch…
Despite the sun being up, Staci can tell that no lights are on at the Barlow’s. He jogs to the door, checking the empty driveway.
Two raps with the door hammer. No response. Staci waits a considerable amount of time before knocking again.
Nothing.
“Fuck,” Staci sighs. Sidling down the porch, he pressed his forehead to the living room window, shading with his hands. Not a soul. No one in the kitchen either.
Returning to the front door, Staci knocks again before routinely checking the handle. Alarmingly, the latch spring opens, hinges squeaking as the door slides inward. Standing frozen, Staci looks over his shoulder, down the drive.
“Hello?”
He lets the door fall all the way open, frame hitting the hallway wall with a soft
thump
. Alarm bells are going off in the back of his head, flashing red.
“Hello,” he re-attempts, standing stock still on the stiff doormat, “Mr. and Mrs. Barlow? This is Staci Pratt speaking… I’m with the Sheriff's Department.”
He takes a step into the foyer. No sound comes from the house, nor from the back yard. Obviously, Staci can’t go perusing into people’s homes, he is an officer of the law
for crying out loud
, but…
Staci check the drive again. At the end of the long dirt track, a hint of a cemented road is showing. Probably, the Barlow’s are secluded enough that no one could drive by and successfully recognize him, but he can’t spend any longer standing out in the open.
He’ll just have to make do with leaving a note for the homeowners. If they sue him… well, that will have to be a problem for another day.
o0o
The house is empty.
Staci thought so, but still checks every room, calling out for signs of life or even of a break in, besides the one he was performing at this moment. When none can be found he starts looking for a bunker key. He checks every cabinet, clothes, feels for tape under the bed and dresser, but he eventually comes up empty handed.
In the kitchen a mechanical watch hangs on the wall: it’s just after eleven. Staci’s hands have been shaking for a while. He sloppily does the math, leaning on the kitchen counter. He counts at least 24 hours since he last ate, skipping lunch to pick up Marshal Burke from the airport yesterday. He had tried eating an apple just before leaving for the compound, but nerves got to him, making him feel faint and ill at the thought of flying directly into the snake’s nest.
God
, they never should have gone.
In the end Staci succumbs to the hunger pangs and, despite his guilty conscience, ramage through the fridge. He finds it disappointingly empty, but scarfs down stale cucumber and scraps of cold cuts straight out of the package, leaning over the sink to catch spills. On the bread shelf he finds a pack of crackers, and those go down pretty easily as well along with water from the tap.
No one comes home while he raids the kitchen, or when he is sitting on the toilet seat of the ensuite, wringing his socks over the shower drain. He draws off the deputy’s jacket, hanging it from the open bathroom door. His trousers are wet as well, but also caked in mud. Staci tries using paper towels to remove the worst of it, attempting to get the mud out of his hair as well. Neither project does great, mud half dry and tacky. The dripping jacket is soiling the pristine, white tiles.
Shit
,
fuck
.
Staci runs a wash. Everything except his shoes go in, and he sets the machine to medium warmth, supplying soap from under the sink. And because he is already in deep shit, he uses the shower.
Despite washing quickly and efficiently, it’s a cathartic experience. In the place where scalding water pounds Staci’s back, his muscles feel like melting butter and his arms want desperately to hang limply at his sides.
“Fuck,” Staci laughs hysterically, scrubbing mud from under his arms, “I’m getting fired for this. I’m so fucking getting fired for this.”
Aside from the euphoria, his body is hurting. Staci put a palm across the span of his ribcage, where a vile plum-coloured bruise bleed across his skin. He can see exactly where the seat belt broke his fall on impact, a line of pain. On the back of his head, a narrow cut has been bleeding sluggishly, making the curls of his hair form hardened ropes. His head spins on sudden turns, probably caused by concussion and sleep deprivation in turn.
No broken bones, though, he reasons. No bullet holes either.
While Staci waits for the dryer to run its cycle, he dons a towel and searches the house anew; the heavy metal grate of the bunker could be seen down in the backyard from where he was scarfing down his food earlier. He checks the garage as well. In it sits two trucks like sore thumbs, one of them Staci recognizes as Harriet’s. There’s a key mount on the wall next to the door leading into the kitchen, but it’s empty.
He searches the living room again, and this time he gets lucky; peeking under a couch, he finds a small lockbox, and within a sturdy brass key. The wooden floor beneath the box is scratched up, worn with use. Staci hopes that means the bunker has been in active use, that the radio is functioning.
His clothing is warm and dry, but it doesn’t smell like his soap. Still has a tang of smoke from the crash. Pulling on the jacket over his flannel shirt, Staci circles the bathroom, kitchen, sheepishly picking up crumbs beneath the sink. He leaves a note with his phone number on the fridge, pins a twenty note under a ladybug magnet and calls it a day before exiting the house through its backdoor.
The key fits confidently into the bolt lock on the bunker door. Hinges hushed, the metal sliding aside with little effort, revealing its treasure as a flaky red-painted ladder reaching into the pitch black.
No one’s down there, stupid, the door was locked
, Staci reasons, sucking on his front teeth, shuffling his feet.
“... I’m coming down!”
He does.
As soon as his soles touch concrete he reaches for the light. It springs to life with some protest, flickering in the ceiling, slightly yellow in its neon glare.
Staci has got a foot on the lowest rung still, as he takes in the narrow storage compartment. Canned food and bottled vegetables stack on the shelf, reaching from floor to ceiling. Toilette paper, rice, gasoline and ammunition packed tightly for a more efficient use of space, it’s nothing Staci wouldn’t have expected from the average doomsday bunker locals bury across the county.
The dried garlic and thyme hanging in bulks from elevated hooks make for a nice aesthetic.
On the opposite side from the ladder is a door, leading into a kitchenette area, a bunk bed tucked into a corner with a home knit blanket on the upper bunk.
In the last room, lying in extension of the common room, stands the long-distance.
Staci rushes to it, nearly slipping on a forgotten bolt. It’s a simple setup: a fixed transceiver balancing on the table top, connecting to a box fitted with dials and buttons and stuff. There is even a red button for powering it up. Staci presses it readily, waits. Press it a second time.
“Dammit,” he mutters, pressing some other things at random. Not exactly tech-savvy, but he
has
helped out comm-central at the prison at times. A radio is a radio… or so he thought.
Staci spends some time messing around the radio, crawling under the table, cracking his head on the leg, making sure the wires are whole and plugged in. Finally he concludes the device must be out of power.
Following wiring under dusty tables and into dark corners, he finds the generator under the kitchen sink. Thankfully it’s full and springs to life with a
roar
once prompted. Staci shuts the cabinet to keep the noise down. He left the hatch leading outside ajar, feeling uneasy at the thought of locking himself in. When he shimmies out of the compartment, a spiderweb gets stuck in his eyelash.
“Come on, come on, come-yes!” Staci exhales, watching the lights flutter on on the radio. He leans over the table, forgoing the chair, and eagerly twists dials, making greenish digits shift on the tiny display. The frequency soon matches the one reflecting off of his service comm every day for the past 7 years.
Staci picks up the transceiver with baited breath, using a sweaty thumb to compress buttons at random, until:
“-
hrzzHel- o- yourself.”
“Hello!
God
, are you reading this?”
“
-lo, is this? Identify yourself.
” and, fuck, it’s exactly who he wanted to speak to.
“Nancy! Dispatch, this is Deputy Staci Pratt, reporting from an alternative comm-source.”
“
Pratt!? That you?”
Nancy’s voice is screechy as a deers, coming through the microphone, and Staci couldn’t be happier to hear her. The pin of his batch digs into his chest, sharp as glass.
“Yeah, yeah! It’s me, is everything alright at yours? Have you heard from Whitehorse? Or- or Hudson?”
“
Slow down, Pratt, you’re the first person I’m speaking to since communications went dead. Where are you calling from? Are you injured?”
Nancy asks. The static is bad, but hardly noticeable anyways, with the way Staci’s head is pounding. He rubs at his temple with one hand, clutching the microphone with the other.
“Yeah, yes, no-
fuck
. Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but we are in
way
over our heads. I need you to call for backup.”
“
Backup, Staci? To your location?”
“What, no, no, I’m safe right now, I’m at the Barlow’s, their bunker has a radio setup. It’s difficult to explain, but this Eden’s Gate thing is way bigger than we thought, than any of us thought,” Staci urges, “they are heavily armed: I’m talking semi-automatics and fucking, turrets, enough firepower to arm a small militia. They took Earl.”
“
Eden’s Gate took Whitehorse?”
Staci nods rapidly, sending dust molecules spinning in front of his wide eyes.
“And Joey too, dragged them away and shot after me when I… when I ran. Lee and I ran when they started shooting, split up so I could contact you.”
“
Goodness, I’m grateful neither of you was hit
,” Nancy breathes, rustling in the background. The empty hollow of the radio chamber’s four walls enhance her voice, projecting it. “
And Lee? Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, I can’t talk to him. Are you sure he hasn’t called you?”
“
I’m sure. You’re the only one I’ve spoken to all day. I didn’t want to leave the station in case any of you made it back.”
“That’s good. You shouldn’t let anyone into the station right either, just in case. Silver Island was crawling with militia, and I’m not sure how far Joseph Seed wants to take this.”
Already, something has shifted inside Staci: the known boundary of maximum mayhem an individual can possibly commit fleeing, moving out of view. Boundaries Staci had never stopped to consider, simply accepted as fact. Nothing ever happens in Hope County. Certainly, no one builds religious armies and shoots at law enforcement, targeting Marshalls and Sheriffs alike.
“Whitehorse had some contact info laying in his office, numbers to reach the Marshals Service, we should contact them as soon as possible,” Staci continues. Nancy hums, static layering the sound until it sounds like a buzz.
“
I understand, let me go get it. Hold on
.”
Staci mutters his affirmation, even as he doesn’t depress the receiver. With the distraction gone, his thoughts move back to Rook and the missing correspondence. It could mean nothing, but it could also mean things that stick to the inside of his head like honey.
Watching
as the car split dark waters.
He is struck with sudden frustration that he didn’t put his foot down when Lee wanted to go to Burke. The rookie is allowed moral qualms, but should also have to learn that priorities are in order, especially when in extraordinary circumstances. Marshal Burke might have benefited, but right now all Staci can think is how much he yearns for someone by his side, craves the unchallenged knowledge of his colleague’s wellbeing.
The longer he stands frozen, waiting for Nancy to return, the tighter the feeling in his chest wounds. He brings a hand to his jaw, presses a bruise into the bone. In his ears, the cracking of Joey’s yells grow distant on repeat.
Staci barely hears the radio spitting.
“
Pratt? Pratt, hello?”
God
, snap out of it. Focus, Pratt!
He has to use two hands to find the right button.
“Nancy.”
“
Staci?
,” she demands, “
what’s wrong?”
He shut his mouth several times after opening it. His face feels cold and
“I think I’m having a panic attack.” he says, the words coming out blank despite his racing heart. On the receiving end Nancy is talking again. Staci can’t hear the words, tries so hard and only hears himself, his own lungs pumping oxygen in and out of his body, too fast for anything to stick.
“
- be fine, Pratt. They’ll be okay.
”
“Whitehorse isn’t- isn’t well, Nancy, his heart…” despite the words, he feels his body calming in increments, sweat drying on his temple.
“
You’re alright, Sweetheart, It will be alright.”
Staci breathes hard, eyes stinging, bent in half over the microphone. He’s tired, that’s all. Just tired.
“
You did well, you don’t have to fight anymore, okay?”
Nancy's voice soothes his nerves easily. Always have, just the same as when he was nineteen and wet behind the ears, not even allowed to
look
at a service weapon yet.
“
It’s not your fault. You did everything right, Flew that chopper s’good as you know how, even through a crash, everyone still made it out.”
Wait.
“
Everything will-”
“Wait.”
“
-be fine… what d’you say, honey?”
He doesn’t feel his head anymore, the pain gone, light, lightheaded now.
“You just-” Staci makes a sound, straddling the borders of amusement and shock.
“
What- oh.”
It’s quiet.
“Nancy?” Staci pleads, “Nancy?”
There is static. More static, like someone is pressing the receiver multiple times in a row. A whimper gets caught in Staci’s throat. He feels like he might vomit.
The crash, he registers, the
goddamn
crash. Which she doesn’t know about, can’t possibly know about… unless- Unless Whitehorse called her. Earl is fine, he got away and he called dispatch first thing, told her everything. In two seconds she will respond, she will tell him-
“
I’m so sorry, Staci,
” Nancy whispers. “
I can’t speak to you anymore, okay? I have to go.
”
Staci couldn’t compress the comm-button if he wanted to. He can’t feel his face either.
“
I have to go, just- promise me you’ll come willingly. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he just wanna help us. He is going to help all of us. Staci? Pratt? I’m sor-
”
Staci regains mobility in record time, lunging for the radio and ripping the cords clean from their bed. The equipment makes a hissing sound and sputters dead, leaving him standing in silence.
Later he will thank whatever being is watching over him for triggering his panic attack moment before the greatest shock of his life, for seemingly his brain is unable to crash twice in a row. It takes him through the steps, one two three, easy as that:
Nancy is lying
Nancy isn’t calling for help
Staci told her where he is
No sooner has he thought it to an end, before he is scrambling for the exit, recklessly pushing aside a chair in the common room, hearing it crash to the floor behind him.
The sun is directly above him, blinding him as he climbs, crawling onto the lawn, legs unsteady. Nothing seems off. Everything seems off. Staci gets to his feet and makes it to the treeline before he doubles over and empties his stomach into the brush, undigested food dripping from every leaf.
Despite just showering he feels dirty, impure. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep. Instead he rises and keeps moving into the trees from which he emerged just an hour ago, not turning once, even to see the red cottage disappear from view.
o0o
It’s only fifteen minutes before he hears the dogs.
o0o
Fucking Nancy.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Not dogs. Wolves, Staci is soon to realise.
Huge
ones.
Their voices carry far despite trunks and leaves coating the sound and it’s a while before he catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. As he runs uphill, trees thin out in the elevation, eventually leaving vast grassy fields with wildflowers in bloom. Staci jumps a narrow stream and uses the vegetation to force his way up a steep slope. A sharp howl cut through the air, soon joined by at least five others. At the top of the hill, lightheaded from exhaustion, he risks a backwards glance.
Below him and approximately hundred metres behind a pale shape absolutely barrels though the woods. The size and speed of that thing settle in his stomach like a punch, blood running from his face. From up here, he can’t see it clearly, except from the fur and blood-red of its wet gape.
He contemplates finding a tree to climb, but that would only save some time before a Peggie can shoot him down. He can hear people yelling further away, whistling and shouting commands at the wolves. Staci keeps running, legs shaking beneath him nearly making him stumble a dozen times.
Before long Staci runs out of tree cover and breaks onto a tall-grassed meadow. It's wide and sunlit, curving around the mountain side, blue blue sky stretching above. Prettier than a postcard and the perfect spot for deer hunting. A deep growl from behind makes him put in that extra sprint, making for the great pines up the mountain.
Staci’s vision blurs and he looks to his side to see another wolf break from the tree line, as big as a small bear. Expecting it to pounce eagerly, Staci watches it run parallel to him, only slightly diminishing the distance between them. Turning to run left, he nearly stops in shock when spotting another wolf opposite himself. Behind the feral growl sounds again, so loud that he feels it in his tremoring chest.
“Hold it!” a rough echo call out from behind.
What the fuck? Are the Peggies and their giant wolves herding him? Staci has no choice but to run, but hopelessness rises into his lungs, making him feel like he is without air. Mostly because he is breathing so hard he nearly blocks out everything else. With the elevation and exhaustion giving his body bent over to drive him forward, it’s a while before he can manage to raise his head and fix his gaze on the approaching tree line. Staci gasps wetly and nearly halts entirely in his dash.
Between the trees, a man dressed in army attire paces calmly from shadow into the midday sun. The red of a long sniper rifle catches the light, lens of the scope a bright orb beneath his hand, which is securing the weapon to point it casually towards the ground. A flash of white by his side, another wolf, tongue lolling from its steamy gape. From this distance, Staci can glimpse a smear of thick red soaking the bridge of its nose, shaping a cross.
It’s over.
The thought comes into his head unwittingly, and is barely thought to an end before someone crashes into his body at high speed, sending him to be flattened against the ground, the impact removing the remainder of the air in his hard-pressed lungs. Staci chokes, a heavy body on top of his, restraining.
“Wuuh! That’ll leave some pretty bruises!”
To Staci's shock and anger, the man breathes out the words through a burst of laughter, wrestling for control of Staci’s arm, a knee pressing down painfully between his shoulder blades. His chin is smarting from impacting with the ground, and he tastes blood.
“Get off of me!” Staci erupts, receiving another grin for his troubles. A gloved hand yanks his wrist out from under him, making him drop flat to his stomach. The heat on his back makes him sick.
Without thinking, Staci bucks into the grasp, knocking his assailant temporarily out of balance. Rolling to his back, he kicks out with his leg, nailing the hooded man in the crotch, making him howl and fall back.
A new round of laughter, but this isn’t coming from his assailant, face now devoid of humour instead curled into a sneer. A crowd has gathered with some distance around the pair, Staci’s head whipping around to himself surrounded by a handful of camo-clad bodies, red hoodies beneath the top layer. He doesn’t recognize any of their faces, not having been to church since childhood and definitely never the Church of Eden. They seem amused by the situation, one crouched to rest his weight on his haunches. The wolves hang close by, circling.
Staci’s attention is quickly brought back to the man in front of him, when the man in question raises an affronted cry and rushes him.
They collide roughly, Staci’s spine striking the earth jarringly, nearly distracting him from the fist he catches to his jaw. His head snaps sideways and he feels a tooth chip, cutting the fleshy inside of his mouth.
“Fucking
pig
,” the words are hissed into his ear, wet teeth on his earlobe. Staci grabs the wrist of a hand that is snaking around his throat, but can’t stop it from tightening rapidly, cutting off his air. He gasps, or attempts to. It
hurts
.
Staci pulls at the other man, staring into his brown eyes that are mindless with rage, bloodshot through the whites and spittle around his mouth. The Peggie shakes him hard, back of his head striking the ground. Staci’s right hand pushes back at the man’s chest, feeling along the roughened fabric, the seams.
This is not how I die
, Staci thinks, the thought lined in desperation. Without Joey, without anyone, in this
ridiculous
situation being hunted down like prey. How can you live a lifetime or normality, of having faith that life comes in certain shapes, behaving in predictable manners, only for something like this to overcome you and your home? The home that can’t be more than a few miles east, the precinct only a bit further. Staci grew up in these hills, playing hide and seek in the shade of the looming pines. Did he remember to lock his trailer this morning- or was it yesterday morning? Did he turn off the stove?
Brown, brown eyes, blue sky beyond a red hoodie… red… black…
Pfft!
Staci heaves in buckets of air, choking halfway and coughing his lungs out. His hands fly up to touch his closed off airways, but are stopped by the dead weight atop him. His right hand is gripping the cool, unmistakable handle of a handgun. The handgun that had been secured on the Peggie’s belt.
No one is laughing anymore. Dead silence in the meadow.
The Peggie upon him is heavier than he was just a few moments ago, a stranger’s face pressing into his shoulder. His midriff is wet, undershirt slowly soaking through. It takes the smell of iron wafting into his nose for realisation to hit.
Staci screams brokenly and pushes the body with uncoordinated force, no longer for survival, but instead for self preservation. It doesn’t slide off easily, legs tangled in his, long arms on each side of him.
“He killed Michael,” someone announces, a blond guy whose pale skin turns blotchy pink like fallen fruit turns bad. Then louder: “He fucking killed him!”
And through the panic Staci hears the assembly of angry men, the rustling of loaded guns. Flat on his back beneath a corpse, his fist tighten around the handgun, gripped by the sudden fear that its safety is on. It isn’t,
it isn’t
. A woman with ribbons in her hair and tears in her eyes release a cry and start building momentum, eyebrows descending on her face. It if wasn’t the look of cold determination in her stance, if would be the crossbow in her arms making Staci grit his teeth and raise the gun-
A stern weight slams onto his wrist, a boot with steel soles crushing the bone to cold ground
grinding
rocks into his skin. Staci yelps on an intake of breath, half a bark for lack of air, mouth open and fingers instantly releasing the weapon. He turns his head to watch it get picked up, a brick wall of a person bending to nestle it carefully in the palm of his hand, boot still pressing harshly on Staci’s tiny wrist bones. Despite the size of him, not a sound announced his arrival, non-existent one second,
there
the next.
The man rises to full height, and seemingly keeps going for hours, blocking out the sun drying out Staci’s eye ducts, leaving only a black outline, the barrel of a rifle sprouting from one shoulder of the man-shaped cut-out against azure sky.
“Stand down, Mason,” he drawls, cocking his head at Staci who has to look skywards for eye contact and still doesn’t quite manage it. The woman stops dead meters from them, entire face scrunched like a drying towel, crossbow shaking. But she doesn’t pull the trigger, just stands there and breathes through clenched teeth.
“Yes, Herald Jacob!”
“Let’s see what we’ve caught,” the man, Jacob, says with his deep-rumble rasp. Then checks the safety on the handgun, no use, handing it off to an appearing hand.
Jacob, Staci thinks, Seed - one of four. Despite years having gone by since the caravan of rusty minivans tracked through the tunnel west of Fall’s End, Staci doesn't recall having laid eyes on the man. Only knows him through the grapevine, frequency of mention going up over time, his name on complaint forms loyally dropped off by one Eli Palmer, once just past the weekend and brought up again for good measure whenever Staci crosses his path out on the range when the weather is nice and boredom forces him from his own home.
He sees him now, grand, if nothing else than in terms of physicality, and scarred,
badly
. Staci sees as much in a flash, when Seed kicks the corpse off of him, flips the cooling body like a log and hauls Staci to his feet by his scruff. He yelps, feeling hairs leaving his head where a too-rough fist closes on him. His hands catch rough fabric around a wrist, tips of his shoes barely keeping him on the ground.
Scarred and red, hair gelled and severe in its colour, bright beard patchy where it’s covering shiny crops of scar tissue, climbing up his face, his temples. The rest of him, miles of him, is covered in army drabs, a hare foot of all things snuck against his chest beside a dog tag.
“Not a bad first impression,“ the oldest Seed says, Staci’s gaze snapping onto his face. The corners of his mouth are oddly raised, even in stasis, mean looking and tight. Jacob Seed leans in, making Staci bare his teeth. Seed’s gaze lazily catches the motion. “Not bad at all, but I wouldn’t expect it to make you a hero of the people, let’s see, Deputy…” he squints at the name tag, “Staci Pratt. Can’t seem to take a piss without hitting one of you around here, huh?”
Every word, syllable sharp and purposeful, albeit lined with the drawl of an accent not originating in Montana, southern, lazy. Staci can’t gain the momentum needed to push off of him, the intensity of having someone else's face so close to your own getting to him. Still, he doesn’t blink, drawing air through a smarting throat.
“
Put
me down.”
“Yeah, Pratt.” Seed asks curiously, “Else what?”
“Hng-” the grip tightens momentarily. Jacob’s eyes are dark blue and hungry.
“You gonna arrest me, Deputy? Or maybe you ain’t one for a fair trial: you gonna shoot me dead, like Michael down there?”
Staci gasps angrily, can feel the other man’s warmth radiating through his thin deputies uniform, smell pine and gunpowder wafting off of him.
“You deny it, then?”
“It was self defence, you crazy-”
“He had a family, you know. Three kids at home.” Jacob doesn’t look angry, doesn’t look much of anything, eyes cold and void of emotion. “Does that make you feel… anything?”
“You’re going down just as hard as your brother. There is no world in which this ends well for you, any of you.” Staci hisses, kicks out with limited success, boot barely brushing Seed’s knee.
“Not currently, that’s right,” Seed replies, a huff like a laugh, letting Staci have a little more ground under his feet, hand still clasped on his neck. His fingers are hot and dry. “Not until the Reaping has served its purpose. But don’t you worry, Deputy.” in a blink Staci catches a backhand across the face. He didn’t even spot the movement before impact. Stunned, he falls back without managing to catch himself before hitting dirt. When he grabs at his nose, blood is fussing out between his fingers. The cultist just behind Seed spits on the ground, the gunk reflecting sunlight in its downward arch.
Jacob stands above him, shaking out his hand, speaking for all to hear: “You’ll get a front row seat. We’ll get some remorse spooned into ya’ soon enough. Always do.”
Staci clutches his face, eyes glaring above his hands as blood fills his mouth. He swallows heavily. Jacob nods to someone over his shoulder, and turns away.
Two cultists haul Staci up by his arms, wrenching them behind his back and jostling his nose. He fights in vain with blood finding their way into the cracks of his teeth, but hurt and eyes straying to the white figures circling them, grass barely reaching the wolves’ knees, stills him eventually.
Seed is standing close to the ribboned woman, muttering at her downturned head for a short while, before threading back, addressing his men.
“We’re moving out! I want every man back at the trucks within thirty minutes.”
They move, Staci mostly dragged, energy draining out of him possibly leaving a trail behind them, beside the furrows the nose of his shoes make.
Not death, he thinks fervently, every bone is his body aching, stomach eating itself. No, this isn’t death. This is… something else.
o0o
They throw him in the back of a truck. Slam the doors shut, leaving him alone sitting on the dirty floor, a line of seats along each wall, metal bar clearly meant for handcuffs to settle around. The car starts up, the first hard turn making him glide to a seat, has him holding on for dear life as some psychopath takes the narrow mountain roads scattered throughout southern Hensbane doing at least 120 km/h.
Staci pressed his back to the far corner. Carefully, he brings his hands up to his nose, blood drying in a messy line down his chin. He tests the bridge, aching, but whole: nothing broken. His throat hurts too, deep in the cartilage and if he had a mirror, he’d be sure to spot dark fingers edged into his skin around his airpipe.
In his head anger, indignation and helplessness fight for dominance. If it had been Joey in his place, the mix would have turned to destructive behavior, possibly some yelling and graphic threats. No way Joey Hudson would take this treatment laying down. Unfortunately for Staci, the state only crosses wires in his mind, starting unhelpful reactions. As a clockwork tears wells unbidden in his eyes and he wipes at them angrily.
“Fuck sake…”
The heat in his face makes the blood start pouring again, and Staci sacrifices his newly washed uniform-sleeve to wipe himself down as well as he can manage. The fluid dries quickly, making his lips sting with itchiness where it settles.
Despite working in the Sheriff's Office since his teenage years, Staci has never actually been hit before. Threatened: sure. With the way his mouth runs and won’t catch a break, it was always bound to happen. In the Spread Eagle making an arrest of a disorderly client who has been bugging Mary May one time too many, or in the parking lot of a Home Depot, some Chad lashing out. Not like this though. So fucking cold and disinterested, like scolding a misbehaving child, sending Staci off to bed early.
He curls around himself in the truck barrelling onwards to some unrevealed destination, maroon stiffening his uniform shirt.
o0o
It’s no more than 20 minutes before the truck pulls over, the sound of people outside its steel carcass. Staci gets to his feet just before the doors fly open and he is dragged into the light, dozens of people milling about, most of them wearing faded camo and red hoods. It’s a gas station, the one just before crossing the bridge connecting the Henbane and the Whitetails. The windows in the shop are busted and glass crunches under his feet as Staci is led through the busy crowd, everyone seemingly armed but him.
“Straight ahead, move it, Sinner.” Staci receives a sharp jab with the butt of a rifle. The crowd clears, revealing a line of people kneeling on the dark concrete, hands tied behind their backs and backed against the wall of the gas station, plastered up commercials of coin offers and all. The peggie pushes him down and Staci settles on his knees. He isn’t restricted before the peggie retracts slowly, eyes on the captives, hands full of assault rifle.
“Staci. Christ, what’ they do to
you
?”
Staci’s head whips up. The woman kneeling beside him is achingly familiar, blue eye wide where half her face is visible to him. There is a bruise above her eyebrow, purpling.
“Hey! Heads down,” someone above demands and Staci returns his face to point into the ground. He waits until he hears footsteps moving down the line.
“Miss Fairgrave-”
“Cut it, Staci, lord knows you’re not on shift.”
“... are you okay, Mary?” Stacy asks quietly, hands held carefully along his sides. Mary May shifts beside him, he can just tell the bareness of her arms, white of her shirt dirtied. She shakes out a laugh, barely moving her lips, keeping her face turned down.
“They came through Fall’s End a few hours ago,” Staci’s gut clenches like a fist around nothing, “took me from the bar before I could lock the doors, caught some scrapes trying to keep ‘em out.”
“They are taking people.” Staci repeats heavily, sneaking a look down the line of people waiting, all adults mostly in one piece. “To the island on Silver Lake?”
“I don’t know. There were more of us at first, the whole town sat down in the square, being doled out into separate trucks. Just like this, but
everyone
, Staci,
children
and pregnant women too.”
Staci’s head is swimming, trying to reconcile what he knew with what he now knows: that Joseph Seed’s influence doesn’t limit itself to a small, secluded piece of the county. That the amount of manpower he has access to has already taken out local law enforcement, is bold enough to hold an entire town hostage.
“People have been trying to reach the department,” Mary May whispers, as a cultist passes close by, “but nobody has been able to get through to anyone.”
Nancy,
Staci rages,
fucking Nancy
.
“There is no one to reach,” Staci croaks, his shifting carving a small stone into his kneecap, “The Sheriff's office has been compromised.”
“No, I meant… the signal stopped working. To reach the police, to reach
anyone
. The phones just stop connecting.”
Staci’s brows furrow: “You believe they're cutting us off somehow: blocking the reception.” Mary scoffs.
“It sure seems convenient to me,” she says, voice hardly noticeable over the ruckus at the gas station. From the glimpses Staci catches, the main thing being moved is people, along with great green barrels. The latter is loaded onto big trucks with open loads. The former are either militia or civilians.
He runs his eyes down a line of bodies, gaze stopping on a pair approaching steadily. Quickly he cast his eyes down.
“What is it?” Mary asks, feeling him stiffen up. He shakes his head, squeezing a few words past his lips: “Trouble. Keep your head down.”
It’s barely five seconds before he hears her, voice like a windchime, chatting pleasantly while leaning in close to the captives, assessing. Faith Seed and her oldest brother, perusing their spoils.
“Oh Jacob, this is the one!” she says excitedly as Staci sees heavy combat boots step neatly into his peripheral. “She put up a good fight, John says. He says his Faithful might never shoot a rifle again.” The thrilling laugh is unexpected and sends a chill down Staci’s spine. The man
hums
assessingly.
“Might not be worth the trouble.”
The hint of bare skin peeks into Staci’s view, clean toes on a shoeless foot: “Well, she’ll need training first anyways, they all will! But she’s wasted on the Bliss, I think.”
The Bliss?
“Let’s have her secured then,” Jacob says at last. It’s two seconds before Mary May starts exclaiming protests beside him, her kicking foot strafing his thigh. Staci looks up, sees her struggling between two large peggies as they start dragging her off. She looks back at Staci over her shoulder and cries out, face twisted. He’s partially onto one knee, a hand in the ground when a cold nuzzle presses to his forehead. He freezes. Jacob Seed is a mountain of camo above him, trigger finger cradled decisively around its charge.
“Down boy.”
Mary May’s sounds of distress fade behind the trees and Faith tuts disapprovingly at her brother: “Jacob, that’s not nice.” Staci is clenching his teeth so hard he can nearly hear them creaking, ears straining and limbs static in their state of emergency. His chest is bellowing, heart pounding as stress and fear fill his throat. He sinks slowly, hands pressing onto his thighs and legs folding beneath him again. The nuzzle redraws.
“This one goes with you. He’s not worth it, with or without the training.”
Staci won’t look down again, holding Faith’s curious gaze when she leans in, eyes roaming over him. Her white dress is fringed along the edges, her pale fingers running along the fabric and wide eyes inspecting him like a neat trinket on a shelf.
“He doesn't look too difficult to me. Kind of bloody… I take it he’s the other escapee from last night?”
“Faith.” Admonishingly.
The Other- Rook!
Staci can’t help it, his breath catches. Despite not knowing, it rings true in his head: Rook is still alive, the rookie had escaped Joseph’s Seed’s clutches. Sure, she could be talking about Burke, could be talking about Whitehorse or
Joey
for that matter, but the former was an idiot, that much was certain, and the latter… it just didn’t feel right. If either of his colleagues had gone free, Staci is sure he would have known, they would have found a way to reach him. But if Rook was still running loose, maybe he could get a message out somehow. Maybe Staci could even help him…
“Don’t get any ideas, Pratt,” Jacob warns, breaking Staci out of his thoughts, “This changes nothing for you.”
Faith hums thoughtfully.
“Actually, it might.”
Staci sits, awaiting more information for his toolbelt. Jacob isn’t having it, though. The vet casts one look upon him before he’s directing his sister away, out of hearing range. They stand by the trucks, guarding cultists stepping in to fill their place. The line in which he sits has thinned, Staci suddenly finds. The few who are left sit sunken, eyes dull. The oldest of the bunch, it looks like. The most tired.
All of the sudden, someone grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. Staci yelps, pushing back before another set of hands joins the first. By the trucks, the Seed’s are nowhere to be found.
The ride he is dragged to isn’t the same that he arrived in, but it still has those metal bars under the seat, and this time he
is
restrained. Zip Ties abundant to Eden’s Gate, clear from the amount they slap around his wrists, keeping him bent at the waist to reach. He hardly bothers fighting while they finish tying him up. Once he got past the first two, there'd still be a dozen waiting for him outside.
The new truck has windows. And as the vehicle rolls away from the pumping station, he can view the trees as they pick up speed on each side of the road. He looks for road signs, but the angle is wrong and he can hardly see the top of them, the white outline on green. They might be heading north.
Eventually darkness falls again.
Staci’s eyes start drooping. At this point he hasn’t slept for at least 36 hours, body in high alert for most of that time. The streetlights paint yellow across his moving cell in spaced intervals, and the effect is nearly hypnotizing. Several times he wakes, head having fallen heavy onto his chest. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been driving, where he is anymore or if he’s even in Hope County.
Staci scoots down the bench, dragging the chain with him. Tenderly, he leans into the corner letting his heavy head rest on the metal casing humming quietly. He closes his eyes, sighing.
He sleeps.