Concepts Round One (Lovecraftian Mess)
Just a mini-series of things I wrote the hook for but have no current intention of continuing.
Vaguely Lovecraftian. Less than 500 words. Female Deputy, no pairings. No warnings except for a vague sense of unease.Â
People pass through Falls End to the Commune all the time.
She sees them on morning patrol. Lazily driving to-and-fro on the Montana roads, keeping Staci Pratt company on his morning rant about -whatever the fuck, heâs very passionate but not very clear. Rook has time to waste here, with this job. Hope County mostly runs itself and whatever it doesnât the unofficial heads of the community -Eli in the mountains, Adelaide down in the Marina, Whitehorse here in her cushy job- do. Theyâre old blood, old stock from way back when, and they keep the peace between them with short phone calls and elaborately themed community get-togethers. Rookâs new, as in three years new, and she already trusts them far further than her skinny arms could throw. Â
Her apartment is on the second floor of an ex-motel, semi-recently renovated and has a weird quirk in the air conditioning. At night Rook sleeps with her face turned towards the big unit in the window and tries to listen for the click. The air turbine goes round and round, her eyes slide from side to side in her skull following colours that donât exist. If you last long enough the air turns non-euclidian, pure. Most nights she doesnât hear it.
People pass through Falls End all the time. They have big white crosses painted on to the sides of their vehicles and they never stop in town. Rook counts their heads of hair: blonde, pink, brunette, brunette, brunette, black, blonde, green, brunette. She counts their motivations, too. Some come in modest clothing with massacred versions of the bible blaring out of the speakers. Some shuffle through town in dark, ragged clothes skittering from the edge of an eye line to the edge of a street, like that will save them. Some come in normal clothes, do stop in at the local bakery for a coffee and a chit-chat, and never come down again. Not the same at least.
One night, before midnight, when sheâs staring at the air conditioner and itâs clicking, itâs colours, she gets a call. We have a warrant. Rook lies back down on her bed and watches again, gets a different call. Weâve been waiting for you. Only you. Come home, my child. He is awake. Rejoice, the end is near. Come. Home. Rook gets up at ten to one, dresses and drives to work.
She parks a street down the road to have one final cigarette before she goes up in the air to where the wild things are. Watches a bundle of, Peggies, theyâre Peggies, drive through town in a beat-up pick up, layered like dip at a wedding. There is no music, only the whining of an old air conditioner. Rook listens for the click. Â
She puts out the cigarette on her boot and walks up the street, ready to get into the helicopter.
