[bloodlocustarch]

junior deputy scarlett bell killed all the heralds, jacob being saved for last, then went to bash joejoe's skull in, and rather than trying to escape out to missoula with her coworkers, went back to where jacob's body would be and ended it. whether or not the collapse happens is unknown.

[carrythefire-deactivated2024050]

"shit," joel partially suppresses the urge to laugh, and what does leak out past his teeth almost sounds unnatural. when's the last time either of them have shared a dose of genuine amusement? nothing wry or sardonic, but authentic and aching.

"that's nice of you notice." he watches with red-rimmed eyes as she rises from her prior position with his involuntary aid, grunting with exaggeration. a large swathe of cloud coverage crawls in the distance, reaching for their location. whether that means rain or something more insidious remains to be seen. the elements roam the globe with a distinct indifference. people drop dead or worse and they practice that same indifference.

the rheumatic light from the sun wanes as consequence, and he's listening in albeit under a blanket of lukewarm static as she regales him with her opinions regarding their predicament. it's always something, isn't it? not that he expected anything different considering they've been making moves for weeks now.

"i caught that too," he mentions, recognizing the flurry of details that had been muddied in the haze of violence that had ensued shortly after. he reaches down to seize the pipe almost instinctively but only to settle it, knocking her knee in reply as she continues in her labor. it's a subtle detail. an unspoken ritual between the two.

peeling back the wrapping of the granola bar he chews half while immersed in thought. "i suppose we could drop by and scope it out," he agrees behind a mouthful, "set up somewhere with a new vantage point. somewhere that won't get us ambushed just in case the tower itself has some less than hospitable occupants. we could use more supplies." they could always use more supplies.

[bloodlocustarch]

he speaks around his granola bar and she wraps tape around their makeshift weapon. up and over and across, again and again. the two sounds dip in sync with one another; his drawl and the scratching hum of the roll of tape. scarlett's sitting close enough to joel that crumbs dance out onto her arm causing her to shake them off absentmindedly while he talks. drop by and scope it out sounds ideal, but it's an idle hope she's not likely to entertain. hope's a malignant thing. it gets people killed.

color her surprised if they don't end up shrouded in violence.

"huh. i tell you yet i suppose i like the way you think? 'cause i was thinkin' the same," she admits, glancing up from her work. it's darker now, given the ominous cloud cover, the temperature in their temporary shelter giving to a minuscule drop. what has been a lazy sprawl of colder pockets if you strayed too far from the fire would grow teeth, dogging them in the shadows. it's looking to be a potentially long day for anyone without some sort of roof over their head. still, in the dimming light she's met with the sight of granola caught in his beard and her smirk feathers instead into a hairpin curve of a smile. easy to miss, but it couples with his unnatural sounding slip of a laugh earlier. gestures and mimics long rusted. his more than hers. she doesn't point it out to him — the stowaway granola bits.

"could also be worth seein' if they've got radios to tap into other signals, too," another round of tape around the shiv before she's testing it, grunting as she gives it a genuine go. it doesn't budge. "inside intel without the fuckin' bullshit. some shit to give us an edge." once whoever occupies the tower is dead, anyway. "i mapped it out while you were gettin' beauty rest. we're close enough to what's left of the highway to pick through cars later if it doesn't pour on us." the highway could be a breeding ground for infected or worse. still. content with her handiwork, one last pass of tape is fed around the curve of the pipe. "i can head out there in a bit, grab some stuff n' bring it back," hands occupied with the pipe still, scarlett dips over, mouth open and expectant for a bite of granola.

[carrythefire-deactivated2024050]

@bloodlocust

continued from this.

"shit fresh, huh? never heard'uh that variety of bean or coffee brand before. must be somethin' artisanal from the deep south." some slow drip sarcasm to complement their canned breakfast and dubious coffee. he's dragging a threadbare washcloth over his face, scrubbing a few days' worth of dirt and debris from his whiskers and the sleep crust from his eyes in his return to the hearth of their temporary refuge.

it's something unassuming, reclaimed by nature like most of their surroundings with its choking kudzu forests cutting ominous shapes into the foreground. within that they're nestled in what looks to have been one of those tiny homes inspired by rustic cabin decor and stood just beyond the perimeter of what used to be a well-stocked town once upon a time. at night they're surrounded by beings of fiction, conjured from some fantasy writer's ineffable mind.

there's a quiet that settles like a balmy salve as he tosses the rag into the fire and watches it cave in on itself in its incineration. joel lowers to sit next to scarlett, sticking out an expectant hand to sample the drink for himself. "we should be alright here long enough to finish up. maybe even a day or two to mend if we keep it up."

[bloodlocustarch]

a flicker of amusement lights her eyes even if she doesn't laugh. it'd be easy to drop in a story about her and her brother finding a book in the atlanta qz library that mentioned something about some ridiculous expensive coffee made from cat shit. or something similar. the sepia-toned memories change as the years go on and she loses the threads to them frequently. the details shift and mutate. infected in their own way now. ask her what her parents look like and she only has small details to hold to. but the coffee is the topic at hand now and the thought's funnier when she imagines joel drinking some of that fancy cat shit, too.

what were the people back then doing? she's ten by the time shit hits the fan leaving her with only bits and pieces of a life before quarantine zones and infected. those first ten years are a blur of laughter, warmth, and a feeling of home never replicated again. so no, instead of opening that door, scarlett takes another generous sip and then hands the rest over.

"speakin' of shit, you look like it," she says, using his shoulder as leverage to pull herself up to stand. various bones ache and a mottled bruise crawling up along her ribcage from where she'd taken a kick just yesterday would indicate she feels like how she teases he looks. "day or two would probably do you good."

without narrating what she's doing, scarlett moves to their packs. she takes a shiv from his and the strapped on lead pipe from hers, then rummages through the side pocket for some tape and other little odds and ends she may need. "those dickheads we cleared out yesterday were talkin' about a lookout tower further west they wanted to hit," she says, arms full as she makes her way beside him and drops down into an unceremonious sit. her knee knocks his and the lead pipe clanks obnoxiously against the ground. her brow furrows briefly.

"lots of supplies. choke point for information." once settled again, she sets a chocolate chip granola bar on his knee and then resumes her own task, reinforcing the tape around the shiv before anchoring it to the elbow bend of her lead pipe. "small detour, could be worth somethin'."

[bloodlocustarch]

"is that coffee i smell?"

fingerless gloves cover either of her hands which contributes to the way she's got them wrapped around the tin mug in hand. one of those military fold-a-cup types that can be stowed away with ease. ( a borrowed and never returned addition to her duffel now. ) steam brims over the top of it and at his question, scarlett lifts her gaze and takes in a big inhale. a show considering she knows damn well what the contents are and how good it smells.

"could be," she counters, blowing once at the murky liquid before chancing a sip at it. it burns her lips and then down her throat. she doesn't wince, only wrinkles her nose, smacking her lips once she's swallowed. then, she grins, "shit, fresh and everything."

[bloodlocustarch]

@warisgod

there's a rhythm to the way he reads; an easy push and pull in that too familiar modulated voice, raspy and rough in quality, but somehow steady in a way that belies all the festering rot that makes up jacob seed. who is jacob seed? does he even know? he could move mountains and people and, in many ways, it seems as though he has. jacob with his army in the mountains. jacob, the resistance whisper, like he's more myth than man. like she hasn't seen him laid out beneath her in a throw of passion or on top of her looking more human than ever. like he doesn't bleed. he does. he does, she's made him bleed. she could be lulled to sleep, has been before in the past as he read. but a final sleep now. there are worse ways to go than succumbing to the starvation and thirst, to the rank stench embedded in her every pore, to the blood she wouldn't be able to get off no matter how much she scrubbed herself clean after this. after. after, like she has a chance to slip from the bars and the rotted corpse that is her company. after, like there's anything to look forward to beyond the next breath she draws in a wet rattle to her lungs.

it's spite that keeps her alive. spite and hate.

spite and that same sickness he speaks on.

the same one she knows he bears without needing him to illuminate the subtext so plainly laid out before her. scarlett blinks, the edges of her vision swimming with exhaustion. she blinks and focuses on him, on the red-rimmed blue of his eyes, the intimate curve of his mouth, his hands laid out against the spine of his book.

the lather, rinse, repeat destruction brought on by joseph seed's reaping has become a way of life no one can come back from. not the people left to ruin, not the ones captured, not the dead strung up for all to gape at. not her. but she indulges in it. it feels good to let go. to rip through people without a second thought because it's kill or be killed. survival of the fittest. it's whatever she hears on the radio that sounds an awful lot like a sermon when she pulls up to one of the outposts in the whitetails and it's jacob voice coming from the speakers. something about war. something about the weak. no one knows how fucking freeing it feels sometimes, but he speaks of it with ease.

the arrow wound at her thigh aches and she draws her hand back to subtly press on it, to provoke the pain to keep her mind sharp. her thumb damn near disappears into the wound. "yeh, i kinda like the new me," she spits out, rearranging herself once more from within her cage. her forehead rests against one of the bars, eyes held open by some unfathomable fucking miracle, half-lidded as they are. "don't you?" her nostrils flare, dry tongue running against her split lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. she clears what feels like glass from her throat, but the feeling stays lodged in place. "don't fuckin' preach to me. m'not one of your lackeys. m'not here to further your purpose."

[warisgod-arch-deactivated202302]

@bloodlocust

the structure that the hope county sheriff's department operates out of resembles something more pedestrian and unassuming versus anything that might inspire an air of legitimate authority in the area save for the occasional squad car parked up against its shoulder or the unofficial lot at its rear; rendered patchy and balding due to clockwork tire tread. its exterior boasts the same chipped slats of wood that's wrapped around the spread eagle sitting adjacent the lot, located on a strip of asphalt thoroughfare that cuts through the seat of hope county.

fall's end, population: not too damn many. it camouflages seamlessly into its immediate surroundings. the lack of any meaningful state or federal funding to local law had been a major selling point for the project when they had sought to make their exodus from the agitated bowels of the south. john had mentioned that they could be bought off if they're left wanting, and want they did.

he's well-acquainted with some of those within the department's ranks due to their association with the project at eden's gate, fellow believers, and their willingness to accept cash bribes from the project's coffers regardless of whether or not strings are attached to those bills. john always ensures that they are. all of them are known by name, and the newest recruit isn't exempt from jacob's dedication to attention to detail.

he recognizes the flash of red mane before he's even slid himself fully through the door, watching as she carves a sharp divide between the two that stretches until she's no longer within immediate view. making it a point to shut the door behind him, its frame rattles upon the door's closure. he doesn't bother hiding the fact the woman's distaste for him elicits a small measure of pleasure.

"well, damn, beverly, i was hoping to speak with you instead!" jacob's voice is gravelly and modulated, hovering just beneath what might be considered to be hollering, succeeding in conveying his disappointment in the situation no matter how false its dressing.

anyway. you ain’t here to play hero for your guy, are you, mountain man? what’s his name again? she addresses him from where she stands. a slip of an individual who appears predominantly harmless if one were to disregard the cutting expression that occupies her otherwise pleasant face.

"yeah .. sure," he raps his knuckles, blistered and cracked, on the desk, peering over and past her person to casually gaze at the sea of paperwork that seems to canvas every inch of its surface. "i didn't realize the department got themselves a bonafide secretary .. either that or you're on desk duty for being incompetent." his lure is the snide comment, but it's positioned as rhetorical. "jeremiah's the name. a jeremiah wells and a whole twenty years old."

[bloodlocustarch]

secretary. incompetent. it's not anything outlandish in comparison to other more colorfully chosen things she's been told throughout her career thus far, sure, but it provokes an arch to her eyebrow all the same. a mild irritation settles in the set line of her jaw. two can play that game. scarlett studies him for a solid ten seconds, taking in his blistered and cracked knuckles at the desk, what she can see of his arms, gaze crawling up to his face. he isn't handsome, but the same could be said of people she works with who don't have half as much going on as this man does. he sure as shit isn't charming. regardless, something in his eyes holds her focus for two more additional seconds before her smile pulls tighter in a way that reads as counterfeit as it truly is. she shifts.

"uh huh," scarlett half grunts, rifling through just a few of the papers on the top of the stack before pulling out four forms. for now. atop the desk, she slides them over to seed then plucks her pen from where its nestled at the crux of her buttoned shirt. two buttons less then what beverly peterson had buttoned. a write up waiting to happen if she were anywhere other than hope county, montana.

"whole twenty years old, mister seed. shiiiit. sounds like he doesn't need daddy bailin' him out." pen in hand, she marks along an arbitrary line designated for a signature. in truth, half of this paperwork is unnecessary and it's a waste of both their times. the department is understaffed and man power is frequently put to "better" use out in the field. wrangling in livestock. helping old people. there's a lengthy list and none of it had been touched on in academy or even back home in mississippi. she indulges in that paperwork and false sense of duty now. the same pen is flipped to offer him the other end of it. "this is one of more you're gonna hafta fill out. y'know, just makin' sure to dot the i's and cross the fuckin' t's like the glorified asshole detector that i am."

jeremiah wells. he looks like any other run of the mill kid here and he's currently sitting tight in one of the very few makeshift holding cells the department's thrown together. utilized more for drunks who stumble out of the spread eagle than any crime truly worth note, but it serves its purpose. he didn't look fazed at being here save for after he'd made the call to get picked up. another paper is laid out in front of him, her hand lingering over top of it to draw his focus away from it and to her. "i let him out and he ends up right back here, then what? gonna come waste my time some more?"

[warisgod-arch-deactivated202302]

@bloodlocust

the surgeon on duty had ruefully reported that the subject is expected to live but not without additional difficulty given the location and severity of her original wound—but that's nothing particularly extraordinary. throughout their time prior to the reaping he's surmised that she's always lived with a degree of difficulty both of her own doing and that of the life she's been saddled with. he would expect nothing less of deputy bell, stopping just short of embracing death itself.

the source of her blood loss, the sutured sliver of a ruby red grin that claims a decent segment of her abdomen, had been remarked upon as having been expertly tended in their thorough inspection, as well as a complementary exit wound discovered at her back. also mentioned was an almost inexhaustible cataloguing of other nicks and cuts, abrasions and markings.

some that he had contributed himself; little reminders that yes! he had been there and always would be in some shape or form. some that he could recall by memory alone.

he doesn't spend too much time ruminating on any of the aforementioned because nostalgia and tenderness would not serve him while hingeing on the precipice of another montanan winter. the only priority is that the alleged harbinger of joseph's prophesied collapse is still alive and in operable condition. the latter would be put to the test in due time.

where is he? get him. now.

"it is like you to make demands no matter your obvious disadvantage. i guess that means you're all better now, deputy," he calls, hollow timbre crawling from just around the cut of the threshold that leads into the room she's been occupying. three days and a deluge of reports, all prompted by a gross negligence for her own well-being.

[bloodlocustarch]

a chill drops down her spine, caressing the notches of it not wholly unlike the way his hands have been here, here, and there on her body before. she's quick to locate the source. there had been a time where the sound of jacob's voice had lit a fire of a different sort in her. it crawled from the pit of her belly, vining up through her ribcage, licking at her bones, leaping for her heart. a time when seeing him come through the threshold of her trailer had been cause enough for smile to curl at her lips. she's all teeth, but scarlett doesn't smile now. still on fire. still burning. still lit up from the inside. her body is fatigued, but her mind is not. and maybe had it been, she would've been put out to pasture in one of the pits or strung up like a decoration somewhere in the county by now.

maybe she would've been better off for it, too.

look here, hope county, don't be like her.

look here, look at the locust now, pretty and pinned and harmless.

"right as fuckin' rain, asshole," she quips, gaze immediately settling at his hands before she scans the rest of him. this is his domain. one she's familiar with, but his all the same. not st. francis, but an extension of his maw. of his influence. and maybe she just imagines the faint beginning notes to only you slither like an unspoken promise through the tower, coaxing her. as far as she can tell, he doesn't have the music box and while undoubtedly armed, she's not deterred. the third presence, the initial one she woke up to, hasn't gone neglected by the deputy. she's too aware of his movements and whereabouts, too, but she's never been one to be particularly shy or accommodating no matter the number of people in a room. scarlett looks between the herald and his lackey. she's alive because jacob had her saved. her re-stitched body pulls when she stands again. it's the other man she addresses, not jacob. "guess i should be thanking you - you gettin' some sort of deal to keep quiet? or is he gonna take you out back and feed you to one of the wolves? they're hungry. how good is your word anyway, huh?"

there's no real answer to be found. she doesn't want one from him anyway. gaze slitted, mouth pursed, she focuses her full attention on jacob. the other man disappears entirely. now, she smiles and it pulls like a dull blade through flesh. she takes a few steps in closer to him, giving into the aura so many are rightfully terrified or respectful of. "should've killed me."

why didn't you hangs in the air, unasked. she doesn't want to hear his answer.

[bloodlocustarch]

archived!