#i'm going to try to spread them out so it's not a deluge though

[nostalgicatsea]

After all these years, we're able to reply from side blogs and that changes the game because I CAN ACTUALLY INTERACT WITH PEOPLE ON HERE UNDER THIS HANDLE! 😭 I might post more actively then.

[gwydionmisha]

Personal: Transness and Physio

Wednesday I was at physio as is generally the case on Wednesdays this physio cycle. (Current goals: Arm unsupported above my shoulder prolonged to the front at all to the side, Undoing damage from the wrong sling the first two weeks of healing, and strength building). My main pre-op physio had a free moment and stopped over to check on my between patients.

Him: How are you doing?

Me, cheekily: ready for this to be over.

Physios *laugh*

He turned to ask my physio for more detailed info. Which involved pronouns. Look, my pronouns are on file. My prefered name is unfailingly used by staff in this facility and all the healthcare settings I routinely used for… most of a decade or something like that. I used to have to pioneer a lot of health care providers, including Poverty clinic (second trans patient getting trans related health care there, back when there was one ignorant and low key transphobic provider, but it was far better than the extremely transphobic endocrinologist who wasn't taking new patients anyway so everyone had to trek down to seattle for everything), and just about every specialist I saw for years and years, often with people for whom English was a second language who were flat out confused my my medical charts.

For the record, once word spread (and trans provider word spread FAST on the trans grapevine) and Poverty clinic got deluged by desperate poor people who flat out couldn't afford 150-300 per health apointment and a whole day of travel, a second super cool doctor self educated and started taking patients. Within a year or two the whole staff had training. A couple years later they did a big survey, flat out changed the name of the clinic so as not to scare trans people, added prefered name/pronouns/gender to all forms and are a makor provider for two counties, providing an ever expanding range of care. Poverty clinic's main population had been HIV, kids who's parents couldn't afford health insurance, and unhoused. They are so much more now, and my whole reason is the better for it, because a whole lot of other practices got better and new services opened up all over the western part of my state to deal with demand that having two cities with trans heallthcare drew to the reagon. (A whole lot of other places have safe clinmics now and if you are in a blue county, you are likely okay to be fairly open. People can live in cheaper towns and cities and still have care a reasonable drive or bus away. It absolutely wasn't the case fifteen years ago. For some things the choices were seattle, san franscisco, and that one city in colorado. For hormones and trans friendly psychiatry it was only slightly better.) I am incredably proud of all the medical practices I pioneered and made safe for other people.

Thing is though, it's still not perfect. I'm pretty relaxed about pronouns, but where people are super careful about names, some people are waaaay better at pronouns than others. I bowl down the middle on purpose, in non-medical customer service settings, people take their best guess and I don't make a fuss unless someone else does or is obnoxious or I get duling customer service people who are in conflict and each sure they are right (Which is hilarious, but I consider it polite to step in at that point). I will back up a child if their parent corrects them to the wrong thing. I will happily give pronouns when a polite person asks.

In medical settings outside of places trying really hard to get it right like Poverty clinic or weirdly the Christian Hospital, people mess up pronouns about a third of the time. I think the masks make it more confusing for them and I am always in a mask in a medical setting unless I need to take it off for a medical thing.

The room in the physio clinic where I go, it is pretty much middle aged straight guy therapists (There's a woman sometimes and a younger guy I see doing legs now and then, but mostly it is middle aged straight guys who look like gym teachers. Guys like my late Uncle when I was growing up who was also a physio). Trans stuff doesn't come up. I spend the entire session working one on one with these guys, so while names get used now and then the pronouns are all 1st and 2nd person, you follow? There is enough conversation that I'm pretty sure none of the three guys who've worked on my arm are MAGAS. I peg them as likely democrats, but where on that spectrum? No fucking clue. They are all good guys and good physios. I do not know their stance on right to pee, you follow?

So the most classically straight ex-college athlete guy turns to the very gentle, very pacific northwesty type married with children postsurgical guy (I have no idea how to describe this type of northwest guy to someone who's never been here, but if you have it's really obvious. Loves being out in nature and likely has nature based hobbies. Cares about feminism and the environment in a genuine way. Relaxed about their masculinity and masculinity in general, so are usually some degree of queer friendly. Other stuff. It's hard to explain, but trust me. If you live here, you will meet a lot of this kind of guy. The two people I had my longest relationships with were this kind of PNW guy. I dated a bunch more. ), who is currently super slowly and gently stretching my arm, and asks him more technical stuff about my progress because he was worried I hadn't put on quite enough muscle before surgery.

This involved pronouns. Get this: THEY WERE THE CORRECT PRONOUNS. Both guys used correct pronouns. They also included me in the conversation. Bravo, Physio Dudes! Seriously, I had no idea how that was going to go when the pre-op guy opened his moth and it was A+.

[reddogf13]

Outlast 2: Deliverance CH 4

Also on A03

Status: Incomplete

Rated: M - Dead Dove Do Not Eat This takes place in the Outlast 2 universe after all.l.

Previous chap: CH 3: Atonement

Next chap: CH 5: Deluge

_______________

~Ch:4 Eucharist~

Blake handed out basic orders to everyone else. “Fix what you can. Gather up everything that could be useful.” They spread from him down the town streets. Some fixing their own houses that collapsed from the major storm. Gathering chunks of metal buried partly in the mud. Barbwire taken down wherever it remained tied.

He went out to find the farmers followed by Marta. They were working on gathering what they could. Hanging the cobs looking mostly dark. A few rotten tomatoes on a table having its seeds plucked out. A few sacks of potatoes covered in fresh roots set aside. Approaching James to check in. “How are things going?”

“Better than first expected. Scoured the fields and found all of that left in the dirt.” Waving the knife he was using toward the collected stuff. Using the blade to scrape out more seeds from mushy tomatoes. “The potatoes were at the back of the barn regrowin' on their own. We can plant them right away if you want?”

“Uh… What do you use to water all of this? The lake and river?”

“River only, why?”

“I don't know if it's poisoned or not. There were a lot of dead fish when I crossed the lake.”

“Yeah, we worried about that. Many of us noticed it depends on which part you were at. Down round the main river the mines leached out to it. Spreading further into the lake. Anybody who drank from there suffered some serious illness. Us, meanwhile on the split river creek did fine. Long as you didn't eat the fish jumping up and down river rapids in between.”

“So the creeks fine, but fish aren't?”

“We can strictly take northern river water and be safe. Otherwise there ain't much more we can do. Canned food we can live off of a little while longer. Have to mention though that our pantries are gettin' tight. Something Knoth always made a point of not mattering.” James repeatedly side eyed Marta for a reaction. Faking the priest's voice next. “ “Ignore your empty bellies for soon we'll be feasting off God's harvest in heaven.”. ” Dropping the act. “I think he sang a different tune in private.”

“True. Can't live strictly off hunting for forever. Sounds like you didn't have the same faith.”

“Hard to after a while.” Watching Marta. “Faith works like food. Can be good for ya or bad. With Knoth we had a black moldy loaf of bread. Starved, we ate in the hopes it'd kill the pains. Deep down I think we all knew it only made things worse. Made us sick from the inside out. Might take some longer than others to see it. This place used to be better, not so rotten, although I admit it still had its dark spots that we ignored. I pray from here we can get better.”

Blake breathed out a “Yeah.” Telling James to plant the potatoes despite the concern about their water. Asking next. “What's with all the tall fences and barbed wire?” Didn't know you could put corn in a max security prison.

“Couple reasons, Thieves or escapees. Certain people ate first and the rest got desperate for scraps.”

“Mm, I don't think it's necessary anymore. Break them down If you have some free time.” Finishing his check in. Passing through town to try and find the group of hunters. Wanting to learn himself how to trap and forage. Marta limping beside him had him think of what she should be doing. Can't be an enforcer anymore, shouldn't have been in the first place. I guess every town needs a sheriff to break up disputes though. Won't have to kill anyone, she's intimidating enough to stop people from fighting. But her limp could drag her down if things get serious. Feeling bad that she was limping to follow him everywhere. “You don't have to come. You can rest at home if that's better for you.”

“No.” She stated then spoke out what sounded like an excuse. “I won't miss the word of a visiting Angel.”

“I'm not- … What if the angel tells you to go home?”

She let out a rough hum. “... Then I'll go home.”

“Then go home.” He stopped and so did she.

An annoyed bible verse mumbled before she asked. “What will you be doing?”

“Learn how to trap and forage until the day ends. I'll come back and maybe we'll all get to eat something that's not canned. Go home and rest your ankle.”

“It's fine, I can still move.”

“You shouldn't be walking on it. I'm ordering you to go rest.” Smiling at her mumbled along verses when turning to leave. Splitting with one heading up the mountain and the other down. Traveling around the forest while keeping Temple Gate in sight he found the group of hunters. Gathering around a cluster of berry bushes. Listening to John explain trapping while they worked. Blake was greeted as he joined in. Caught up to where they were in the lesson. Reported to on where rabbit wires were set in the hopes they'd snag something. Based on how many baskets of berries they collected he hoped everyone would get at least a small bowl's worth. Having some luck with the rabbit wires. Not enough for everyone between the small numbers caught. It turned into a topic of who would get some.

John stated what felt like the obvious. “You should take one.”

“No, there are a lot worse than me.” Wish I could feed everyone with a single rabbit. “Think we'll find anything else today?” Taking in the sun approaching the horizon.

“Maybe, up on the mountain side we used to find a ton of edible plants. Wild onions to carrots were up there. Don't know how much we'll find now. Since heretics were running rampant all through these woods.”

Blake nearly choked on his spit at the mention. “You think we'll see any?”

“I'm sure we won't. This is considered a bit far from where they normally spread out. Long as we keep heading west toward the sun set.”

“Mm… If we do find anything we could try and make a soup. Boil everything in a big pot, if we have one. Keep starvation back for a day.”

“Sounds good. I know a lot of leafy greens that should be up there. Not as filling as actual vegetables, but good for now… What will you do about the heretics?”

“... I don't know. … Feels weird calling them heretics still. They were just people who wanted to escape Knoth.” Stomach churning on the topic. “I rather not get involved unless I have to.” Ending the topic there to press forward up the mountain. Collecting various edible plants that satisfied Blake's needs for a soup. No carrots, but they found onions along with a collection of mushrooms on a tree. Their group took a break at the mountain's top to eat a small collection of edible flowers. Some weren't flavorful while some were a bit sour like lemons. Blake winced at his shoved down handful making him drool excessively. Unsure if chewing them of flavor felt better compared to harshly swallowing early. At least he caused others to chuckle at his ridiculous eating. Happy to have a little something in his stomach after so long. “Think we'll make it back by nightfall?”

“Just about.” John partly covered his eyes to see how low the sun was set. “Dinners gonna be late by the time we finish cooking it.” Carving bits out of a branch making the rough shape of a fox.

“Heh, I used to carve stuff like that. Haven't since I left scho-” His happy memory ruined by another. Jessica... I should have carved a rock for her too. Even if it's been years. By the change in Blake's expression John offered him the small carving knife.

“You can have it if you want. They're easy to make.”

“You sure?” He perked up at the small gift.

“Yeah, got five more at home. I lose them constantly.”

“Thanks.” He glanced around him for something to carve. I could make something to place at the graves. Locking onto a dead looking sapling sticking straight from the ground. Its measly branches bare of any leaves with its bark sun bleached white. Tall yet thin enough to fully grasp with a hand. Should be easy enough to take a chunk off. Grabbing onto the whole thing to yank back. Discovering it to be far sturdier than it looked. Shoving it back and forth to yank its roots free.

“Uh, I could find you some wood?” John offered. Watching Blake continue to struggle against the dead sapling.

“No, I'm not letting this tree win.” Blake joked through his fight. Ripping it enough to pop it free of the earth. Coming out with it was a smooth rock the sapling grew around. “Wow.” He turned it over for a closer look. No wonder it was so sturdy. Dirt brushed away from the roots thick as its own branches. Taking in the whole thing he was excited to start carving. Wanting to spare a lot of it with only a few extra twigs shaved off its branched top. Woodworking was one of the few classes he loved and was exceptionally well at. He cleaned the sapling of any sprouting branches down to a long straight shape. Smaller stringy roots snipped away for a cleaner look. Preserving the smooth rock it had attached itself to. Carving the rough shape of a snake winding down its long length. The head of it coiled just under the rock in a winded back position. Threatening to strike out from under the rock. That was as far as he got before they started to head back. Blake worked hard to carefully carve out the criss crossing scales down the serpent.

Forced to stop when it got too dark to work. Pausing for the moment when they returned to the dining hall. Setting up a whole makeshift process to cook dinner for a mass of starving people. Huge pots gathered to cook chunks of prepared rabbit followed by the various veg. Collected baskets of berry's delicately spread out by the cupful. If there were any extras they'd be put aside for tomorrow. The town was gathered in to be lined up for their dinner. Pots brought out to a bar top outside the kitchen doors for soup to be poured into bowls. Given a cup of berries as a strange side of sorts, but nobody was complaining.

Blake skipped eating for now to finish his carving in the kitchen. Off to the side was a small carved out dove. A fake banner around its neck donning the name Jessica. He planned to place it soon on the stone graves. Smoothing out the last few angles of the rattlesnake currently. Smiling over his finished staff of white turned black surrounding the stone still attached. Its shape resembled a bulky hammer that would surely kill someone if slammed down hard enough. Various open areas between the snake lightly carved to show imprints of leafy ground litter. Satisfied that no more needed to be done he left the kitchen to find Marta. Asking around he found out she finished eating a while ago and was back on patrol. He ignored any offerings of food to take before going back out. Wanting to give the walking staff to her soon as possible. Running around in the dark for her going by vague memories of her patrol. Eventually she found him first, leaning against a building to catch his breath.

“Come to find me, Angel?”

“Yes, and you don't have to call me that. Blake's fine.” Wheezing for more air. “Made you this.” Offering her the walking staff. She inspected it up and down without a move to take it. In fact she leaned away from it. Realizing he'd have to do some convincing. “I thought you would need it to walk. It's lighter than the … Last thing. ... Pretty sure with the rock you could still crack a skull.” Based on her negative reaction he was quick to follow up with. “But I saw it more of a defense thing. Better to have and not need than the other way. Everything's fine now, but if anybody needed saving I'm sure you can do it. I promise that I'll never ask you to kill anyone.”

Given an honest promise she took the staff from him. A soft spoken. “Thank you.” given back.

“Welcome.” Turning to visit the child's graves next.

“You want me to watch the streets tonight?” Using the staff to walk more smoothly by his side.

“Well, you don't have to. If people want to run they can.”

“What about the heretics?”

“... Yeah. Keep an eye out. Just scare them away, you don't have to hurt them… Should stop calling them heretics too.” Delicately placing Jessica's white dove between some stones across the grave site.

“Then what are they?”

He walked silent as he thought of a new term. Can't call them outsiders. I didn't like that when Knoth used it against me. Strangers? But they're not really. Could call them survivors, but isn't everyone? Just use them or people, but if we need to talk about them it could get confusing. Them just seems rude and ostracizing. Developing a headache from the running in circles he was doing. Settled on a label he himself thought was stupid, but felt right. “Goats.”

“Goats?” Marta's brows furrowed. “Why that?”

“It sounds better that the mountains are infested by goats then heretics.”

“What shall goats be called then when differentiating?”

“They'll be heretics.” Letting out a light chuckle. Marta let out an amused puff of air while giving him a questioning look. It was the first time he didn't see Marta so depressingly serious.

“If that's what the angel wants. I'll watch out for visits by “Goats”.”

“Make sure you get some sleep.”

“More plans for tomorrow?”

“Nothing like today. More rebuilding, more hunting for food.” Entering the dining hall to collect his serving. Long cold by now from when it was set aside. “It takes so long to gather everyone. I don't want to interrupt things so often.”

“The speaker horns still work after the storm. I can see the green light out the room's window. It was the best way for word to travel without physically doing so.”

Ugh, then I have to use something Knoth touched. Finishing his small meal. “Can you show me?”

“I can.” Leading him off toward a large two story house. Neighboring the compound near the helicopter crash site. Fully white with pillars lining the front with a second story balcony. The two front doors boarded over where the glass panels were broken out. A green light shown through a front lower window. Blake checked the doors and found them unlocked. Stepping through he saw the insides far more decorated then other places. Nice large rugs covering the floors. Many paintings covering walls blocked by fine carvings and vases.

Stepping to the radio room he saw Marta staying back outside. “Not coming?”

“This was Knoth's home.”

Of course it is. “Oh… Well, he's not here anymore.” Coaxing her to step inside. Waiting for her to duck under the doorway before moving deeper inside. Taking in the long set up radio controls. Most he figured out were to alert what was connected and what wasn't. The ones on were green, but many more were blacked out. “Do you know where “Eastern top road” is?”

“A road leading up toward goat infested forest.”

“Makes sense.” Other unlit labels saying eastern this or that. John said the goats were spreading out around there. Pressing a button that was labeled “talk”. “Testing.” His voice heard loud and clear from outside. “Heh, still works.” His smile dropped when he found an orange medicine bottle sitting out not far. Swiping it to read the label. “Prescribed to Ethel Garrison. Penicillin G Benzathine - (100mg) to be taken twice daily for 14 days.” Hmm, still in date. Must've bought these from someone recently. Pouring himself a couple to swallow down dry. “We need to find more of these.” Holding the bottle up for Marta to see.

“... Those aren't study aids, are they?”

“No, They're antibiotics for all the diseases around here. I said he could've helped the scalled at any time. These are how.” Rattling the bottle before setting it in a pocket on his vest. Facing her, she had a burning glare pointed toward the floor. “Did you know?”

“None were allowed to ask, but still others spoke about- ... I was told to quiet them…”

“How'd people know? A guess?”

“Us who are older once lived on the outside. Convinced by Knoth and rejected by others, we followed him en masse. 'till we settled here. I was far younger then.”

“You've been outside? How long ago?”

“Mm.” She hummed in thought. “'Bout more than 40 years past since.”

“That's - that's a while.” He nervously chuckled. “Has anyone been out recently?”

“Jacob has. His last visit may have been a month away now. He was sent out to lead a small group for buyin’ a list. Stuff we couldn't make like gas for the generator, “study aids”, to name a few. Don't remember seein' his fellow travelers around.”

“We'll have to find him tomorrow. It's time for another trip.” Leaving the radio room to snoop around the place. Drawers filled by many other bottles left empty. More canned food Blake noted to take back when done. Upstairs he found an office covered in drafts of his gospel. Swept away into the trash bin until it was over filled by Blake. Buried under a pile of fallen papers was a huge floor safe. “Whoa, wonder what Knoth's got in here.” He grabbed an iron poker by the empty fireplace. Using it as a makeshift crowbar to stab along the sides. Managing to stab it in between the door to force it up. He could wedge it enough to see the door bending up, but not enough to break it. Even with him leaning his whole weight onto the bar.

“Want me to try?”

Blake couldn't answer through his wheezing, giving a tired head nod as he stepped back. Marta set her staff to the side to grip the poker. Slamming it down firmly with a shout that cracked the safe door free. Thrown back to slam into the floor behind it. The poker itself stuck dented in a curve tossed aside by her. Both peered down into the large hidden safe.

“Guess this solves one problem.” Pulling out a huge brick of cash. A quick flip told him it was indeed all hundred dollar bills. Laying down on the floor he dipped his head into the dark space. Surprised there was a ladder below buried in the pile. Counting the stacks sitting on stacks of hundreds then sitting back up to stand. “Without messing up the stacks I'm guessing there's at least 9 million on the surface alone. If this thing is six feet deep it might be closer to 27 million. When we find Jacob we'll take some of this and buy everything we can to get things running again.”

“Like what?”

“A shit ton of seeds for one. Fuel to keep the generator running.” Grabbing a nearby empty prescription bottle off a window sill. “And pills, a lot of them.”

“You planning to help the scalled?”

“What kind of angel would I be if I didn't?” Setting the bottle back. “I don't think there's anything else here. Meet me at the hall tomorrow. Bring Jacob if you find him.”

[haddonfieldproject]

<<PREVIOUS⏺<<CONTENTS>>

1.2.3 HALLOWEEN NIGHT/NOVEMBER 1st 2:10 AM

Haddonfield, Illinois

As the Tate family continued eastward through Missouri in the rain, Officer J.T. Swain pulled his police cruiser into the parking lot of the Warren County Sherrif's Office. Swain jerked the hood of his rain slicker up, took a long and shaking breath, and braced himself for the deluge from above as he gripped his door handle. He quickly exited, shutting the door with his hip, and sprinted toward the doors, kicking up large splashes as he sloshed through the puddles in the parking lot---a parking lot that had been empty a few hours before when Samantha Nguyen had entered it.

It was now full.

His fellow officer, and friend, Greg Mullenix, met him at the front entrance, and held the door open for him as he stepped inside. “Where the hell have you been man?”

Swain threw his hood back, “I had to escort the Tramer's from the police station to the park.”

Mullenix winced as he opened the glass door on the inside annex.

“It was horrible,” Swain continued, “that boy's mom kept crying and crying, and I had to hold an umbrella over her while they ID'd their son.”

Mullenix put a hand on his friend's back. “I'm sorry man.

“What did I miss?” Swain asked as they headed through the lobby, passed the plastic chairs, and to the right of the front counter with it's frosted glass window...still shut. They could hear Officer Williams and another voice, a female voice, talking away from behind the glass. The phone still rang incessantly.

“It's a shit show.” Mullenix replied, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and tapping it to the little white square beside the large metal door that read: AUTHORIZED PERSONELL ONLY. His little plastic keycard inside reacted to the pad and a light at the top of the square went from red to green. He jerked the door open.

A cacophany of voices hit them immediately. The first door on the left gave way to a large conference room. The overlapping conversations were emanating from there. Six or seven Officers sat about the large mahogany table and about the same number stood in various places around the room. As Officer Mullenix and Officer Swain entered the doorway, they were bumped from behind by two other men. Deputy Sheriff Ben Meeker had exited his office from across the hall and pushed through the crowd. He was holding a manilla file folder in his hand. Another man, with a receding hairline and smart black and white business attire, followed him.

“Feds?” J.T. Mouthed to Mullenix as they moved to get out of the way of the two men.

Greg shrugged.

“Alright everyone!” Meeker rose his voice to a level that could be heard over the other conversation. “Everyone shut up!”

The conversations ceased.

“So as you know, Sheriff Brackett is of course in the hospital with his daughter so all operations has been handed over to me.”

He looked around the room, took a deep breath and then said, “Look---I know tonight has been,” he stopped for a moment, looking down at the desk, trying to fight the urge to get emotional. “Well,” he continued, “let's just say it, tonight's been really shitty. I know and you know we're stretched to the breaking point right now as it is, but US Marshals have something else we need to pay attention to, so this is Deputy McGrath out of the Springfield outfit, I need you to give him your full attention.”

The room was dead quiet, save for a solitary cough from the back corner of the room. Meeker switched places with the man who had come in with him. He cleared his throat and when he spoke, a sharp New England accent came through,

“Hello,” he said, pausing for a moment, thinking about what to say. “Deputy Meeker here has been telling me about the clusterfuck of a night you guys have had,” he looked around the room at the tired faces of the officers, “and I want you to know that the last thing I want to do is add to the little shitstorm you guys got going on in this little town tonight, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to.”

Meeker handed the file folder to the officer next to him, a fat, snow white young looking kid with pink cheeks and frosty blonde curls all over his head. The kid's name was Kip Kinnerly, but all the other guys called him “Doughboy.”

“Kip, look at this and then pass it.”

“Yes sir.” Doughboy replied curtly as he took the folder.

Meeker raised his voice. “I want everyone to take a good look at this!”

The man in the suit cleared his throat again. “As he told you, I am Deputy Mark McGrath from US Marshals, and as most of you have no doubt already heard, we have been hunting two extremely dangerous persons and we believe they may have just arrived in your back yard, that is, in the general area of Warren County.”

“Are you fucking serious?” An Officer who stood in the corner of the room spat. “Are you talking about those two shits from Mississippi?”

“Let's watch the language Spaulding.” Meeker snapped.

“It's alright Sherrif Meeker,” McGrath smiled. “Two little shits are exactly what they are. Their names are Lloyd and Lee Chumway of Biloxi Mississippi. And we are requesting---hell we are begging—for your assistance so we can nab these sonsabitches and at least give y'all a silver lining to this terrible night.”

“Oh fuck.” Officer Malcom Donald breathed as he looked into the file folder. “I thought I'd seen enough of this kind of shit tonight.”

The photograph of the Chumway brothers had reached Mullenix and Swain. They had already seen their faces on the television the days before. Hell, all of America had.

“Someone snap pics of that with their cellphone and text it out to everyone. I want everyone to have those two faces burned in their brains.” Meeker said.

“I got you boss.” Swain replied. He passed the picture back to Mullenix and began to dig in his pocket for his cellphone. “Here, hold this.”

“Who is this chick?” Spaulding asked, taking another pic from Doughboy and handing it to Officer Emrah Lagenbruner next to him who had just squeezed himself into the circle that was forming around the conference room. .

“Whoa,” The young African American officer said upon seeing the picture, “Gonna be a closed casket for sure.”

McGrath pointed to the photograph in his hand.

“Her name was Marina Madden, Lee Chumway's brother...he's the younger of the two. On Thursday afternoon, around 13:30 Central Time, these two upstanding citizens apparently brutally raped this woman, and then pummeled her with a bedside lamp.”

Mullenix took the picture from Lagenbrunner. The aforementioned Marina Madden was sprawled out on burgundy carpet, near the foot of a bed-frame, her lifeless eyes gazing upward at a ceiling that was out of view of the camera. Blood was congealed on the side of her head, a broken bedside lamp lay beside her, a dark spot in the carpet spread out from beside her head. The darkened puddle was flecked with bits of brain matter.

Mullenix passed the picture to Swain.

“Who's this?” Spaulding asked, holding up another picture before passing it to Lagenbruner. “Whoa, hello sexy!” Lagenbruner quipped again upon seeing the picture and passing it to Mullenix. It was a circa 1977 Olan Mills portrait of a woman, wearing a bright floral print dress, cat-eye tinted glasses and a large brown bee-hive hairdo in front of a tacky painted background with a sunset, trees, and ducks. Two young boys in white suits and red ties sat on her knee.

McGrath answered, “That is the mother of these two fine citizens. Melba Jean Chumway. Aparently they grew bored of Miss Madden and decided to drive over to their mommy's house. They beat her to death with a hammer.”

Lagenbruner whistled as he saw the next photo. “Good night,” he breathed as he passed it to his left.

Mullenix's stomach tightened as he saw it. Even though she was face down on a linoleum floor, you could tell it was the same woman. Her dress was different, but an equally as offensive floral print. Her bee-hive was gray now, and a different, more modern pair of glasses lay broken beside her. The side of her head was split open, and old darkened blood was pooled on the tile beside her. Large shoe tracks were printed in blood all around her as well. A blood soaked hammer lay just beyond her elbow.

For not the first time tonight, Mullenix was feeling nauseated. As the wave of sickness washed over him and through him, he closed his eyes, gulped and opened them again to receive another photo. The time, a pretty but a little chunky woman in a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt and camouflage pants was sitting atop a tractor. A field of snowy white cotton gleamed in the background. An older gentleman stood beside the tractor with a cigarette handing out of his mouth and a battered confederate battle-flag hat laying crooked on his head. He wore a simple blue shirt with the words TRUMP in bold white letters, along with the tag-line in red below it: Make America Great Again.

“I'm guessing this one is their engagement photo?” Swain tried to quip as he took the picture from Mullenix. It came out hollow as his voice cracked.

McGrath guestered to him. “They then left for Lloyd's apartment where Lloyd's unfortunate girlfriend Kelly Willis-Ross was living. They nearly decapitated her with a kitchen knife.”

Another grizzly crime photo was passed over. Poor Miss Willis-Ross lay in a bathtub, soaked red. Her head lay disjointed on her shoulders, her chin impossibly almost touching her right breast. Swain felt another surge in his stomach. He tried to focus on something in the picture so that he would appear to be looking at the slide, but not really looking at the carnage itself. His eyes fixed on a blue bottle which sat on the side of the tub next to the unfortunate carcass of Lloyd's now ex-girlfriend. HERBAL ESSENCES CONDITIONER. BLUE RASPBERRY.

“Jesus Christ,” Mullenix breathed.

Swain shot him a glance. His friend and partner's face was caught in a grimace.

“I know,” Swain whispered, “good luck sleeping tonight.”

“I don't think I'm ever going to sleep again,” Mullenix mumbled.

McGrath continued, as more horrific scenes of gore was paraded down the line.

“They then drove to their place of employment: a Papagayos Mexican Restaurant. These two star employees were on the clock for only 53 minutes before they murdered their boss and everyone in the store with kitchen knives. They have been on the run every since.”

“How do we know they're coming here?” Meeker asked, taking a seat on the edge of the conference table.

McGrath answered, “On Thursday night around 20:00, 911 operators at a Southern Star Gas Station near Oxford Mississippi were alerted to a robbery and homicide, and closed circuit cameras in the store captured the Chumway brothers. Two of the men they beat to death inside the store were concealed carry operators who were overwhelmed before they were able to withdraw their weapons. The Chumways stole the weapons and are now considered armed and dangerous....well...more dangerous.”

A few more cops trickled into the conference room from outside, looking pale and cold, shaking off the rain. McGrath paused as they took their place around the room, then continued, “Early Friday morning, around 02:30 we got a bead on to what direction they were heading in when 911 dispatch got word of a robbery at a Dixie Donuts outside Memphis Tennessee. Again surveillance at the location confirmed that the Chumway brothers were perpetrators of the crime. They were tracked to a strip club in the area and then to a motel, but apparently just missed the grasp of Memphis police. Their pursuit was also put off by trick or treating traffic, something I heard you guys had trouble with as well as you were tracking your own psychopath through the town.”

A few of the cops nodded and murmuring in agreement. Agent McGrath paused , rubbing his chin, his eyes clouded over, as if he were lost in his thoughts. After a moment he said, “We have every reason to assume they continued north, and would be entering this vicinity very soon if they continued at their assumed rate of speed. Unfortunately we have no idea what they could be driving now, they keep switching vehicles, but we just need you boys to keep an eye out.”

There was another cough and a few moments of heavy silence. Then Doughboy snapped to attention, his blue eyes wet, and barked: “Sir yes sir.”

The others officers followed suit, but all were less exuberant and most were merely mumbling. Deputy-Sheriff Meeker sat up from the edge of the table and approached Agent McGrath, and placing a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. McGrath gave a half smile, shooting a glance to Meeker and then back to the assembled officers. “Well okay then, we know what to look for, and we'll do our best to nab these sonsabitches.” Meeker extended his hand and McGrath took it.

Officer Mullenix yawned. Officer Ted Mitchum came in to the room with a large WANTED poster of the Chumway brothers. He lifted a stapler and stapled it to the wall next to the whiteboard at the far end of the conference room. Mullenix fixated on their face.

They look so normal, he thought, like just two simple men....two...really normal simple men.

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