"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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."