Chapter Text
The pathway to Hell is paved with good intentions . But it wasn't the caterwauling of bombs streaking through the sky, the explosions mushrooming up to the heavens, or the orange fires consuming everything that made Rook's reality Hell. No. It would be laborious and grueling, but he could survive the end times as he'd survived for years. Hell appeared in a manic stare stitched together with an unnerving glee pointed down at Rook and the promise of 7 years. Joseph may not let him die, and in that, slaughter him beyond even God's repair. Rook couldn't save his friends, maybe couldn't even save himself, but he could cut out this seed before it poisoned him.
Even though the world burned outside, Rook knew Joseph Seed wasn't a real prophet; if he was, he would have at least been able to blink before Rook tore a knife from his boot and sliced through his own throat.
An insane, delirious grin choked him as he was hit by the hilarity of all of this starting in a--
--church doors slammed behind the officers. Burke didn't seem to notice, but Rook shared a nervous expression with Sheriff Whitehorse. Being locked deep in Peggie territory with an idiot content to poke a bear spelled several types of trouble.
People had been wary of the Project at Eden's Gate from the start. Rook had still been in training, but he could feel the anxiety building up at the station the longer they stayed. It wasn't until they started buying up property that people realized they weren't leaving. Then the complaints came in. Constant gunfire to the north, strange flowers being planted in the Henbane, and John generally pissing people off. But they were smart, or, at least, John was. He had an excuse for every little infraction. It didn't stop the complaints, though. If anything, they got worse when nothing ever stuck. Most of the station gained a particular hatred for John.
The family made an effort to integrate with the community, going to BBQs and festivals, but they stuck out like a sore thumb, and the way they spoke felt more like propaganda than friendly chatter. Some people bought into it, leaving their family and friends behind to preach the Word of Joseph. If they were ever seen again, and that ‘if’ became more and more likely as time went on, they showed up sporting the seven deadly sins in either ink or still red scar tissue and spoke as if the cult’s fucked up hymns were all they knew. Even now, Rook could hear the repeated murmurs of Joseph’s self-aggrandized prayers on the lips of his followers outside the church. But their voices were swallowed up by the Father's fervored preaching.
"I saw when the Lamb opened the First Seal," the Heralds gathered behind Joseph as he spoke with his arm stretched toward the heavens, "and I heard as it were the noise of thunder," Jacob smirked, the glint of cold metal ready to turn hot sparkled like dying stars on his hips, "one of the four beasts say, come and see," Faith hovered in her spot beside the brothers with a content smile, "and I saw, and behold it was a white horse," Lastly... John. There was something different about him. Wide eyes betrayed an absence of the confidence he normally presented. He watched Rook like he was a wild animal ready to either fight or flee. There was an inkling of something shining in his eyes, something Rook remembered but didn't know. Or that he knew... but didn't remember?
"And Hell followed with him." Joseph now focused on him, but Rook barely spared him a sideways glance. John had started covering up his emotions once Rook's attention fell on him, but it was piling dirt on a mountain. The Marshall and the Sheriff paid neither of them any mind as they bickered, but Rook watched John like he held the crumbling world in his hands. There was something there, a memory slipping like soap from his grasp. A dream he'd just woken up from.
His gaze switched to Joseph. The mania under the Father's aviators sent a dead cold curl of dread through Rook that wasn't there when he spoke to Joseph a couple of days ago.
"God will not let you take me."
Snapping the cuffs closed rang a final bell on Rook's life. He got behind the Father with an uncomfortable awareness of who he turned his back toward. Burke counted down before he and the Sheriff burst open the doors. Yelling immediately sounded through the compound. Dogs barked and snarled behind chain-link fences, and the closer they got to the helicopter, the rowdier the crowd became. It honestly wasn't a surprise when one of the cultists threw a rock at the Marshall. Neither was Burke whipping out his pistol. Whitehorse tried his best to control the situation, but the match had been struck. Rook all but shoved Joseph into the helicopter to get away from the growing conflict. The rest were still piling in as Pratt began to take off. Only problem? Several Peggies also caught hold of the vehicle. Rook dug the heel of his boots into the hand of one clawing up at his side and pulled back one grabbing for the Father.
Screaming pierced through the monstrous beating of the helicopter blades as well as what nearly sounded like radio. It took Rook looking around for him to realize it was Joseph, face to the sky, singing Amazing Grace. Rook would have socked him in the face, but a cultist that had been gripping the front window lunged up into the blades. Blood rained around them. Pratt tried to regain some control, but it was fruitless. So were the prayers his fellow deputies recited.
Yet it all started in a--
--church doors slammed behind the officers.
--the mania under the Father's aviators sent a dead cold curl of dread through Rook that wasn't there when he spoke to Joseph a couple of days ago.
--There was something different about John.
--wasn't a surprise when one of the cultists threw a rock at the Marshall.
--blood rained down.
--cold metal ready to turn
--hot.
“CALM DOWN.”
--shared a nervous expression
--propaganda.
--recited prayers.
“YOU’RE TRYING TO FOLLOW TOO MANY THREADS.”
-- Amazing Grace
--sock him in the throat.
--all started in a--
“FOCUS.”
--crumbling world in his hands.
--regain some control
--came to hanging upside down with only his seat belt keeping him in place.
--Nancy, the Betrayer.
-- fire, fire, fire
--gunshot placed a little too perfectly.
--c̷̡̫̓̃ḧ̸̢͕̼̗̝́́͂͐͂̒ư̶̧̖̫̖̹͖̲̳͕͗͋r̷̘̪̥̄͊͐̉͑͑͋c̴͉̳̪̟̝͚͓̒̐͘h̴̩̐͊͂͂̆̀̇͗̅͐
“YOU’VE DONE IT BEFORE.”
--crouched in high grass
--idiot gave away the location.
--middle of their territory.
--idiot also can’t drive.
“YOU JUST HAVE TO DO
--boom of dynamite.
IT
--rush of cold water surrounded them.
A
G
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I
N.”
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C̵̤̲̹͖̦̏͒̂ợ̸̹̟̏̄m̵̡̈́͑̅̿̒͝e̵̬̥̻͇͌ ̵̛͎̐̊͘f̵̰͇̰̦̏̾̓͗̇i̶̝̙͛̂͑͝n̸̻̥̽̿̐̀̔ḑ̵̛̬͚̙̊̾̾͗̕ ̷̭̐m̷̙̩̾͘͝è̸͈͍̈̊͝͠ ̸̭̗̮̎̓̌̒á̸͔͇̙̪̬͂̃̔̃͝f̷̆ͅt̶̠̬̬͙̥͌̎̊e̸̡͙͕͆͛̃̊̄ŕ̶͍̻̃̕ ̸̫̘̓̏̌̀͗y̷̫̕o̷̡̠͚͈͊̎̅̍̇̄ȗ̶̳͎͔͕̮̈́ ̵̧̮̝̪̲͗͆̎ȓ̵̼é̷͚͗̋̉t̵̙̞͎̐̎͐͑͝u̷̲̝͋r̸̟͆n̵̥̳̓̄͛͝.̸̜̬͚̰̍̀̇̀
Whorling darkness crept back from his vision. Joseph’s rhythmic tone drained in from somewhere across the room. It sent an electric shock through Rook's system, enough to jolt him awake. He tried to move only to find his wrists zip tied to a metal bed frame. A radio clicked off, stopping Joseph’s ramblings. Finally, Rook looked up towards the only light source in the room and under it, found the figure of Dutch Roosevelt. It was through haze Rook remembered the man in front of him pulling him from the riverside. Trying to remember anything else about the man, though, was like looking for water on Mars: nothing there to find. Dutch didn’t regularly come out of his bunker for anything other than supplies, much less meeting rookie cops.
He turned around but didn’t make eye contact. “You know what that shit means?” Rook shook his head. Dutch finally looked at him. After a moment, he grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it over. “It means the roads have all been closed. It means the phone lines have been cut. It means there’s no signal getting in or out of this valley. But mostly, it means we’re all fucked.” Dutch sighed. “The goddamn ‘Collapse’... they all think the world’s coming to an end, now. They’ve been waiting for it for years. Waiting for someone to come along and fulfill their prophecy and kick off their goddamn Holy War. Well, you sure as shit kicked.” He leaned forward in his chair, getting up in Rook's face. “The smartest thing for me to do would just be to hand you over,” Dutch swore and turned to the side. He debated something in his head. Abruptly, he stood up and pulled a knife from his pocket, but Rook didn’t flinch at the sight of it. Dutch cut off the zip-ties. “Get out of that uniform. We need to burn it. There’s some fresh clothes over there. When you get changed, you come and see me.”
Rook stared at Dutch as he trudged out of the room. Then continued to stare for a long time after, his mind blank and numb. The whole situation required a feat of mental gymnastics to wrap his brain around. How they’d let the cult get enough power to occupy the entire county seemed as improbable as it was currently happening.
Not to mention whatever mindfuck happened in between the church and waking up in Dutch’s bunker.