We will drown in the deep rivers of blood...
At exactly midnight on October 26th, 2009, something that's been lying in wait since Flagg's death earlier in the day grips Chicago tightly. It's been building to this moment all day, a sharp feeling that most will dismiss as anxiety from the television broadcast. It's just leftover trauma- nothing more, nothing less
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Drinking and driving is illegal, but that doesn't usually stop Francis. Apparently, though, the universe doesn't want him to this time. His car won't start.
Shane. Won't. Start.
And then the scent of blood hits him so hard it feels like it assaulted him physically. Francis doesn't even think for a moment about his shirt before his wings are out, shredding the fabric. He's fucking pissed. Fuck this town. He doesn't even know what's going on but he knows this town is fucked up. The bar had been packed, considering the day. People needed to drink their memories of that broadcast away.
Right now, though, Francis is pulling out a pistol, muttering something under his breath.
Someone is going to pay for what this town has done to him.
Fuck the treaty. Smelling this much human blood is only reminding him of the smell of demon blood. And it's been far too long.
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So he went out, and he walked, and now he has come to Buckingham Fountain, which is spraying not water but blood into the air. And the lake, lapping at the walls and painting all the little white sailboats red at their moorings.
Dev sits at a bench and stares at the fountain, his face reverent. He smiles slowly.
"Take thy rod, and stretch out thine hand upon the waters of Egypt, upon their streams, upon their rivers, and upon their ponds, and upon all their pools of water, that they may become blood; and that there may be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood, and in vessels of stone." He pauses and giggles a little. "And ( ... )
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She's dragging her tiny body along the edge of the fountain, giggling like it's her birthday and she had a little too much cake. Finally it's too much and she heaves herself over the side, laughing as the blood swallows her up.
"Red red red red red!" she cries, making waves with her hands. She's loud enough to be heard, that's for sure.
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"Scoutling Scoutbird! Is today a beautiful day, or is today a beautiful day?" He sort of bounces over to her, coming to lean on the fountain ledge.
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"Devdev!" she cries, her lips stretching apart to reveal strangely white teeth. "Prettiest day, prettiest day come play yeah yeah? Come play Devdev, come play with the Scoutbird, yeah?" She crawls a little closer, still reaching for him with her blood-covered hand.
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"Arrrrgh, and I tell myself over and over to save more often, but do I ever listen? No, of course not." He looks over at Onigiri, who is curled up on the arm of a chair nearby, swishing his tail and giving Metis a pissed off look.
"I know, your person is an idiot. I know." Onigiri abruptly hisses at nothing, bristles and dives under the chair, his tail floofing out. Metis raises an eyebrow at the display. Onigiri is rather insane, but he has never been quite that odd ( ... )
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Her journal was in her lap, Martha Jones' entry visible to her whenever she looked down at it. She wanted to answer it but words failed her, and whatever she ended up trying to say diminished the emotion, the sorrow she felt weighing down on her heart and clenching her stomach.
She's huddled into an arm chair trying to write an entry when the power goes out. She's trying to figure out what to say but words won't come, and thoughts won't come, and there is darkness once the television shuts off save for the roaring fire--open your eyes, my dear--devil. Randall Flagg was the devil. She met him one uneventful night she chose to go to the Skydeck, and this night children are dead because of him.
ChildrenThe glass beside her is filled with blood--it was supposed to be water, it isn't water, she went to the kitchen for a glass of water ( ... )
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"Hey, Rachel."
Conway's just going to pretend that he doesn't look far beyond horrified, and Callie doesn't have blood around her mouth from trying to drink out of her water bowl.
Nope.
This is all perfectly normal. He's obviously just gone crazy, and this is definitely not the start of what everyone thinks this is the start of.
He is calm. Completely, totally calm.
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His expression twists something inside of her and she swallows thickly at the sight of him and Callie.
She stands and the journal on her lap falls to the floor. Words that were never written and fragile promises that are yet to be made and apologizes still weighing heavy on her heart are left forgotten near her feet. Instinct demands she take care of him, take care of whoever needs it, take control of the situation and do something. To help because she can.
The steps she takes to reach him are slow, as if any wrong move on her part will shatter something. Her hand reaches out to him and it rests lightly on his arm.
"Conway?"
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Callie sits and whines. He's heard of animal instinct before - that animals know when something bad is about to happen. Now he knows why Callie's been pacing ever since midnight, why he's been nauseous and restless for the past handful of hours.
This is bad, something tells him. Bad, bad bad. He kind of wants to run, but he isn't sure where he'd go, or if it's even safe outside.
He rubs at his nose, trying to push the scent away, but he can't.
And now it's his turn to whine. He doesn't care if it's weird.
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He was in the shower, head tilted forward, hands braced against the wall, feeling the water run over the back of his head in a warm stream. He can't stop it, can't stop replaying it, the image of a person torn to pieces like that in front of kids who are now dead.
Children. Tiny, fragile heroes, broken because there was no one else could stop that man.
The devil.He's still religious. As much as he'll deny it, as many holy laws as he'll break without a second thought, he's still religious. He doesn't know what it means, that Chicago chose the devil to guide it, but god it makes him cold and sick and everything smells like blood and he would swear the tracks of water trickling down his arms and off his elbows are red ( ... )
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He has no fucking idea where he is. There are a dozen places, a dozen corpses that could keep him company.
Then Rachel speaks and he snaps back to the present, where the shower turned bloody and the toilet reeks and his back and head are sore. The shower is still on. Oh god, he has to turn it off.
He really doesn't want to touch it.
"Rachel." Relief. No one is dead.
Someone has to be dead.
"What's happening?"
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Rachel steps into the room, gingerly picking her way around splashes of blood on the floor. She reaches into the shower and turns it off, wiping her hand on a towel when she's done (and hoping her twitching doesn't show).
"The same thing happened in the kitchen when I was trying to wash my hands. It's... It's real blood, as far as I can tell."
She crouches on the floor beside him, careful not to sit in any of the blood, but also making it clear she's not distancing herself from Adrian. "You okay?"
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