#but i had to google west country british slang for this. do not ever claim i am not a committed writer!

[someotherdog]

the world was jamestown. that was what lauren had learned after the outbreak. the world had given him a thirteen year long reprieve from the cult that he grew up in, allowing him to return to england for a few years before he left for washington and its comfortable rot. it allowed him to flourish in his career, particularly unctuous to the right and the wrong people. it allowed him to be married for a few years, it even allowed him to be (somewhat) happy, before he was reminded of the world’s true nature. though the circumstances and the scenery had changed, the dead now walking, it was just like jamestown: a prison. james crone was no longer around for lauren to follow, but he could make a god out of his camp leader. he made gods out of senators before, hadn’t he?

a part of him wondered if perhaps he should’ve made a god out of himself—it would be within his birthright, wouldn’t it? he was the first son. he was set to inherit jamestown if his father were to ever be destroyed by their enemies (though their scripture soon changed to james crone never being harmed or dying at all, a few years before lauren had escaped). sometimes he had to wonder if that was what the world had been trying to tell him: it was time to take up the mantle. surely his father had died. lauren hadn’t believed that his father was a god anymore, though he occasionally had moments of doubt, so it was likely that his father was dead. it was likely that jamestown had fallen. or perhaps there was a small chance that it was still standing, remote enough that the members of the compound truly believed america and england had destroyed each other with nuclear bombs, yet not a bit of ruin befell them. the point being that sometimes lauren felt the urge to be a god.

not yet, though. maybe not ever. though he was always worried about his own self-interest, willing to fuck anyone over in order to get ahead, lauren preferred someone to hide behind. he liked to be able to blame his deeds on someone else, whether good or bad in nature. it was nice to have that sort of shield since his childhood of growing up in a cult didn’t lend him a lot of sympathy anymore. not since people had mostly lost interest in his family’s story. true crime was a hungry creature that could never be satiated, eternally growing bored with its latest repast and searching for its next. the public used to gawk at and pity the crones that escaped, but they couldn’t do much with escapees; they wanted the cult they came from. documentary crews occasionally traveled to the bolivian jungle only to be chased off by cult members or the locals alike, or podcasters that would routinely reach out to lauren for a comment on their investigative series on cults as if there was still any meat on the carcass. he would return their request for comment or an interview with cease and desist letters, but some new podcast or netflix documentary would pop up and he’d have to send another, repeating his refusals all over again. a cycle that never seemed to end.

well, it sure ended eventually. society fell shortly after the dead rose. washington held on as long as it could, but sank into darkness quicker than lauren had expected. it might’ve been luck or coincidence that lauren was out of the capital when the outbreak hit, but he was thankful all the same. he had originally been irritated that his wife had moved out and returned to her parents’ house in wyoming, but it worked out for the better when he had flown out to try and convince candace to come back to him (the high society folks in d.c. were starting to notice he was showing up to events and dinners dateless) just as armageddon came. it led to him walking down the street that day, careful to weave between cars and avoid attracting the attention of any undead. it led to him being suddenly assaulted with the sound of someone banging on the window glass to his left. instantly, his head snapped to the source, only seeing a flash of blonde hair and fists flying. that was certainly… odd. lauren looked around, assuming the person was alerting him to a horde or some other danger further ahead, but found nothing of consequence.

standing there, one foot hovering slightly in the air in the abandoned practice of walking, he gave a quizzical quirk of his brow before he simply walked to the storefront and opened the door. “what are you trying to do, attract the attention of every dead and living thing in hearing distance?” lauren asked, though he made sure to keep his tone somewhat jovial and friendly, like an older brother chastising a wayward sibling. the girl seemed like she had seen a ghost, however, staring at him as if she recognized him—unlikely unless she was obsessed with cults or american politics. proper cakey, he thought.

how long had it been since astrid had seen her brother? locked away in rapunzel's tower, she'd never imagined she'd make it past the brambles. a scared, white rabbit in the open. she lived a charmed life compared to the relative poverty of the other members of jamestown, but it did not come without a price. when the walls finally fell and her father was presumably eaten instead of saved like a god or some other prized thing, she had run like a rabbit.

astrid's charmed life hadn't let her down even in hell. a place that burned like she'd been told, but that came with a freedom both terrifying and liberating. she'd been rescued by a gruff old man and their journey had led them far from bolivia and into the chaos of the united states.

she had known lauren was free and living somewhere out in the world, but she had never imagined she'd see him again. once a documentary crew had come to jamestown and one of the members had shown her a newspaper article about her brother with a photo. all grown up, she never would've recognized him otherwise. she'd hidden the clipping and studied it often, but it hadn't survived the trip with her. it didn't matter; she didn't need it.

the man outside of the clothing store she and juan had been scavening was her brother. lauren crone in the flesh. stalking down the street with the gait of a boy she could remember. just right outside of the glass. stunned, she stood there until he was close enough that she knew he must be real and she reached out, pounding on the glass between them. would he know her as she knew him? would he stop anyway because she was a survivor and, like all survivors, there was a desire to be known again? she called his name, though she knew he could not hear her. "lauren!" @someotherdog