Prophet, Shepherd, Savior?

I curse under my breath as we cross a massive empty parking lot. It's been barely an hour since we left the small town of Sweet Home, and already Rockville is in sight. It sits right on the bank of a massive river, which sounds like its flowing violently as we approach it. Even before the empty parking lot we could see the giant neon sign flashing its welcoming words to the world. If I hadn't insisted we take cover at that post office, surely Edson and I could have evaded the raiders long enough to make it here.

Scott took point the entire trek, ushering us into the tree line or some side roads periodically to avoid other raider camps. I guess when you travel with one group, you learn about the others. When the sign came into view, he suddenly lost all sense of caution, exclaiming our safety.

"Snipers," he'd said, "are posted on all of the buildings in the area. Each one is connected through the sewage system back to Rockville. If a hostile enters within two miles of the radio station, they die. No exceptions."

Sure enough, as we approached, a raider attempted to stalk us. And he died. Instantly.

We walk on, our spirits high, the end of our journey in sight. The sign buzzes with comforting words, electricity pouring through the power lines. As we reach a road sign denoting Cottondale Lane, I can see the river flowing to the southeast. On the far side, tall buildings stretch upward, their tops broken or otherwise missing, centuries of wear and tear crumbling them to shadows of their former selves. But the radio station stands almost pristine, a large tower stretching over its protective gate that looks brand new. A golden bell shines beautifully in the sunlight that flows over the top of the tower.

The water in the river looks bright blue, pure and tasty. Suddenly the water from White Bluff sits sour in my stomach. Not dirty, perhaps, but certainly not this pure.

A voice calls out from nowhere—or maybe everywhere—with a high screech in the background. I almost recognize the voice. "Welcome to Rockville, children. So long as you bear no ill will, you are welcome in our sanctuary." Ahead of us up the road a bright green light bursts to life on a large metal gate. As it rises from the ground, several armed guards rush to meet us, weapons locked on us. We continue on toward them.

The guard at the front speaks, and despite the gun in his hand his voice isn't threatening. "Although I'm sure you went through a lot to get here, I'm going to have to confiscate your weapons." His companions stand steady and focused, ready to blow us away should the need arise. He adds, "You'll get them back once Father Gabriel clears you."

I can't help but feel that this is how it's supposed to be. A kind, caring community couldn't hope to keep its people safe without checking newcomers and confiscating weapons. As much as I hate the idea of being unarmed, I know that they have the right idea. I pull my bag off of my shoulder as I approach the head guard, putting my pistol in it slowly and visibly. By the time I'm within his reach, I'm holding my bag away from me in cooperation. Edson is quick to follow my lead, packing everything away aside from his inhaler.

Scott, noticeably a bit less trusting of the guards, attempts to strike a deal. "You can have everything except my magnum. The dynamite, grenades, and Jet are all yours." He holsters his magnum and hands away his bag. The guard glances at the silver weapon before nodding in acceptance.

One of the other guards advances to take our bags, while the other two head back into the gate. The head guard holsters his weapon and chuckles, "It's been a while since we've had new arrivals. The raiders are getting a bit braver down south." He takes point as we enter the warm green light, offering words of explanation. "I'm Captain Peter, head of defense here at Rockville. And you must be Johnathan Neal and company."

I stop, my muscles locking me in place. My heart skips a few beats as I interpret what he's just said. Scott's next to catch it, turning back to check on me. Peter notices the lack of response and turns with a warm smile. Edson doesn't even realize anything is wrong as he keeps on walking.

"How'd you know my name?" I ask, calm and collected. I don't feel threatened or frightened, but I'm certainly not okay with this turn of events.

He cocks an eyebrow in confusion for a moment before slapping a hand to his forehead. "Oh dear, you'll have to forgive me! I'm not used to welcoming newcomers to Rockville. I just assumed you would know about Purity's powers." He walks briskly back to my side and places a hand between my shoulders, ushering me forward. "You know Purity, the woman on the radio broadcast, right? She tells us when others are approaching our sanctuary, prepares us for their arrival. She's the one who decides who the snipers shoot."

I try to process the thought. How could Purity—whoever she is—know my name? Does she have connections at White Bluff? Even in light of the new information, I don't feel threatened. Just…disturbed.

"That's why you get to keep your dad's gun," Peter nods at Scott's magnum and is met with a sour scowl. "Purity told us all about you three, how you aren't stupid enough to threaten us."

He ushers me farther through the gate, my silence all the answer he seems to need. Scott's footsteps pick up once we're a decent distance ahead. "I get that she knows about me. Hell, I'd be surprised if she didn't know my brother. But how'd she know about my dad?" His voice bounces around the metal tunnel we've found ourselves in, genuine curiosity flooding his tone.

I can't really blame him.

Captain Peter removes his hand from my back and turns to face Scott. "Our Purity can do so much more than you could comprehend, Scott Tanner. She's guided us to this sanctuary for decades, and she's protected us from those who would harm us." He scratches his cheek for a second and sighs, "She's a Prophet of God, after all." As if what he just said were normal, he turns on a dime and continues his march forward. As my companion passes by me, we walk cautiously side by side. There's a feeling in my chest growing, not one of rage, but of fear.

We let Peter get several yards ahead of us before Scott whispers his thoughts on the subject. "Bullshit. Plain and simple bullshit. They really believe their 'God' has kept them safe all these years?" His hand rests gently on his gun, ready to draw should things take a turn.

"I," I breathe, "don't know. Maybe He has?" The look I earn sends a shiver up my spine. But still I feel that maybe there's some truth in Peter's claim. After all, I met Scott under the few specific circumstances that would convince him not to kill me. How miraculous is that? "There was another guy who tried to convince me I survived this long because it was my destiny."

"And? Did you believe him?"

"Of course not! But this feels…different somehow."

"It's not. Destiny is bullshit. God is bullshit. Prophets are bullshit."

"How can you be so sure?"

He stops, catching my arm as I continue on. With gritted teeth he hisses, "Because look at this world, the people, the places. Think long and hard about the raiders you've met—Redfield especially—and tell me you think a God of love and salvation would let those people exist." He lets go, falling silent. I see a hatred stir up in his eyes; his jaw clenches.

He's seen things. I get that. I have too. But I'm still not sure that's a good enough argument. I decide to keep silent as we head farther into the tunnel, the metal slowly transitioning into wood, the dirt replaced with concrete. We finally reach another gate, half as large as the first, with a warm blue light beaming over it. Edson stirs up conversation with the rest of the guards and, as soon as we catch up, Peter orders the gate to open.

The sight beyond is breathtaking.

Small buildings, in full contrast with comparison to the ones on the other side of the river, dot the large lot, surrounded at every angle by a solid metal wall. The metal sheets are held together by cement, uniform and sturdy from an engineering standpoint. At the very back of the pristine settlement sits the tower with its golden bell, shimmering in the now-setting sunlight. The building it's attached to stands tall and authoritative, a large satellite dish pivoting slowly from east to west. You can tell it has been the main attraction of the area for the longest time.

In large red plaster letters words adorn the building between the door and the steeple. "Welcome to Rockville, Sanctuary for the Damned."

As the gate stops its upward movement and the full effect of the view settles in, my jaw drops. I blink several silent times, any feelings of discontent I had felt moments before washing away in the idea of a safe settlement. This place makes White Bluff look like a scrap yard—which, to be fair, isn't far from correct.

Captain Peter chuckles, patting me on the back, "Welcome to Rockville, Johnathan! It's our little slice of heaven in the wasteland." His eyes scan the buildings, stopping on the radio station with what I swear is a twinkle. His body noticeably relaxes, his posture changing instantly to one of comfort. His voice loses its authoritative tone as he speaks. "There are no officers inside these walls. There are no rich men or poor men, no homeless or starving children. Inside these walls, we are all equal, and we all do what we can to earn our keep. Inside these walls, we are God's flock, and Purity is our Shepherd."

There it is again. God. Purity. And now we're sheep?

But the thought of sanctuary takes precedence over my disbelief, and I nod in empty confirmation of his claims. He smiles a knowing, condescending smile and takes me by the wrist. As the tender flesh stings, my first instinct is to flinch away, to curse him and his lack of tact, but he points toward the radio station and my body floods with the weirdest curiosity I've felt since leaving the Vault. Thoughts of Purity and the man at the station drive me forward with him.

I pass by Scott, who stands unamused with a concerned expression. His footsteps slowly begin to follow us, Edson doing the same with much more enthusiasm.

As we approach the doors to the station, an intense anxiety fills my chest. I don't know what to expect, and I don't know why I even care, but I can't help but hope for something comforting or supportive of my course of action. I feel guilt swell in me, the thought of my family in the hands of the Enclave imposters surfacing. An image flashes in my head of Brotherhood members laying lifeless on the ground. Blood splatters and laser fire are everywhere. It's only for an instant, but I'm certain it's what I see.

It fades just as quickly, and I'm standing inside the building. I'm met with a chapel, just like the one we had in Vault 95, with pews aligned neatly from the front to the back and a large altar on the far side. A tall man in a dark suit stands at the altar as a seemingly random assortment of wastelanders sit silently—attentively—in the room. A large stairwell sits on either side of the congregation and the building is decorated in paintings of Jesus and his disciples. I recognize most of them from our history books.

Mr. Edson whispers with disbelief, "That one's from Vault 95…" His hand shoots in the direction of the closest painting on the right. And I can't disagree with his claims. The one in question, a replica of Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, hangs innocently on the wall. The frame is engraved with small golden 95's to denote that it was ours.

And this church has taken it for its own.

And I don't even really care.

The man at the altar speaks with diction, his voice deep. As light pours in through the stained glass of the entry windows, his body lights up in a dazzling array of colors. He steps from behind the altar and continues his sermon. His dark skin adds an odd flare to the words he speaks, the multi-colored lights dancing on him as the sun continues to set.

"For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them. Ephesians 2:8-10." Bible passages, just like Purity. Why would he preach to his people if someone else is already doing that? Couldn't the messages become fuddled? "We are born to serve our Lord, to do good deeds by His children and to help those who require it. To pass by a brother and ignore his plight for the sake of convenience, for safety and self-preservation, is a wrong by the eyes of our God, and must be washed from your heart in His glory!"

No. No way.

Is he preaching about helping others? About being selfless? And those images from before, on the way here… There's no way it can just be coincidence! It just can't! There's more going on than I can begin to understand, and it makes me sick! Are they playing some kind of trick on me? Am I the butt of some cosmic prank? I glance at Scott as if he might hold the answers, and he returns my look with one of annoyance.

"In our community this very evening is a man who turned on his kin for the sake of finding peace in this wretched, sinful wasteland! He had every power to fight for his brothers and sisters in Christ, and yet he turned them away, rebuked their values just as St. Peter did to Jesus in those final days! This man has nerve to claim brotherhood with us!"

My heart begins to pound. My muscles suddenly lock up. Can he be talking about me? Is he making me the bad guy in the situation? No, certainly not. We've never even met! But the people in the pews begin whispering, gossiping, questioning the claims. They turn back and forth, scanning their fellow followers.

"That's right," he roars, stomping down the aisle to the center of the church, "our very own Brother Robinson left his kin to die at the hands of the raiders, not even three miles from the very bed he attempts to sleep in! But his sins weigh heavy on his heart, and he has found no peace in reaching our sanctuary. And do you understand why?"

The subject of the claim is obviously not present, as the rest of the congregation turn back to the altar. I let out a sigh of relief, though my heart still pounds as the service continues. They shake their heads collectively, perhaps in understanding or in confusion. One elderly woman stands to her feet, her hand lifted high. She holds a small silver cross in her left hand.

"Sister Christina?" the preacher questions, his eyes shining bright.

The woman calls out, her voice strained and small, "His betrayal must be punished, and God is bestowing the consequences on him. To leave those in need to suffer is a sin that can only be repaid by suffering." She sits down, a tear glistening in the colored light. With my attention drawn to her eyes, I notice her irises are faded, dysfunctional. Blind?

The preacher shakes his head with a frown, stepping closer to her. His voice quavers as he shouts, "Amen, Sister! Who else but she could tell us something oh so true? To be struck blind because of blindness to the suffering of your fellow brothers and sisters is apt punishment! To ignore the cries of the dying children is enough to fall mute! To run while others are crippled is cause for crippling!" His words echo around the chapel, the stone walls almost vibrating in their loudness. "Thus is the justice of our Lord God. Blood for blood, sin for sin."

He falls silent, returning to the altar. He flips through a thick book—most likely a Bible—until landing on some specific passage.

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven. Matthew 5:16." He smiles at the crowd of silent wastelanders, the light washing over them. "Just as the sun blesses us with its warmth, bless others with your own. Only then will they see the beauty that comes with the blessing of our Lord God. Show them your light, and they too will come to find their own. Remember this, my children, and go forth into the world. Do not be content to survive—you must show others the way to God. Dismissed."

The wastelanders whisper a collective "amen" that swallows the sounds of them getting up from their seats. A young woman takes Christina by the arm and guides her from the chapel. Other, more able-bodied followers, wait until they've passed. Even as the crowd thins out, the preacher remains unmoved behind his altar. He stares down at his Bible, hardly taking notice of us who haven't attempted to leave.

Once the chapel is empty, Captain Peter, still leading me by my wrist, hurries us to the altar. Edson is close at our heels, though Scott refuses to move any farther from the door. I can't blame him, I guess, with his disdain of the concept of a loving God. I can't say I entirely agree with the idea, but there has to be more to this preacher than meets the eye. He may not have been talking about me, but I certainly felt his words hit me hard.

I…start to regret not agreeing to help the Brotherhood.

Before Peter can say anything, the preacher looks up from his scripture and chuckles, "You must be Johnathan Neal and Dwight Edson, survivors of Vault 95 and companions of the brother of Redfield. You've come for sanctuary, yet you aren't certain whether to trust us. It's too good to be true; that's what you're thinking." With a large, confident grin, he finishes, "I am Father Gabriel, the Mouth of God for our community. And this is my church, a simple radio station from before the war." He reaches a hand out and I shake it firmly.

Even without understanding his knowledge of us, I can't feel threatened by him. He's a simple man, it seems, with simple ideals. He does what he believes is needed, and sticks by those convictions. That's the vibe I get from shaking his hand, anyway.

Captain Peter releases my other wrist and turns to walk out. As he strolls down the aisle with a relaxed demeanor, Father Gabriel asks, "Brother Peter, would you mind stopping by Brother Robinson's and asking him to come to my office later?" The preacher's face shows no sign of discontent or urgency, though the officer's demeanor shifts a few moods darker.

"Of course not, Father. I'll pass the message along." With a slight bow Peter continues through the doors and into the orange-tinted Rockville.

As the door closes behind him, Mr. Edson jumps to life with a single excited question, "Can we really stay here, Father?" His eyes shine with a hope I haven't seen from any other wastelander.

The preacher smiles warmly and chuckles, "Of course, Brother Edson. So long as you abide by our laws and the laws of God, you may stay in our flock for so long as it suits you." There's a sweetness in Edson's new title, some sort of coercive tune underlying the word. I doubt he caught it, but I certainly did. "As for you, child, our blessed Prophet has been wishing to speak with you for quite some time."

The Prophet? Purity? Why would she want to speak to me? Even as the thoughts swim around in my throat, my voice rips from me. "I'd be honored, Father," I stutter, my body acting almost on its own, bowing before the 'holy' man. I can't stop it, and I certainly don't hate it, but this isn't me! I wouldn't bow to a priest; hell, I never bowed to my dance partners at school activities!

School…

The word is sour in my head—it stings with the flames of wrecked memories.

Another image flashes in my head of the classroom level of the Vault. I see blood and bodies everywhere, children no older than ten or twelve laying limp over their desks. As the image fades, my body acts in accordance with Father Gabriel. He turns toward a stairwell and begins to approach it; my body follows. Something is…wrong.

I can't explain it; I can't stop it; I can't speak out against it. I just…go with him. I can't turn myself away from the stairwell even as I hear Scott's grunt and a loud thud against the stone ground. As we ascend the stairs the temperature begins to drop, the atmosphere taking on a visibly blue tint. The mysterious veil contrasts so drastically with the light from the stained glass windows that my head begins to swim; such a sudden shift is jarring, to say the least.

Once we reach the final flight of steps, Father Gabriel ushers me ahead of him. He stands erect, hands clasped together in a prayer-like symbol. There's excitement—or maybe it's pride?—in his voice as he speaks, "Our precious Prophet has asked to speak with you face to face. It is an honor than only the most holy of God's children are blessed with. You must ascend on your own accord." He stands motionless, a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face.

Whatever had possessed me to follow him melts away as the chill in the air creeps up my skin. The crawling of skin that accompanies the appearance of goose bumps helps me focus on the situation I'm in. The door at the top of the stairs looms intimidatingly, a solid metal engraved with holy symbols. A cross, a lamb, a fish, and several other assorted marks relating to biblical passages line the outer inches of the frame. The knob is molded into the shape of an apple with a bite taken out of it.

The way Gabriel stands tells me I have no choice but to head up. If I had a weapon, perhaps the last few minutes would have played out differently, but as it stands I'm trapped playing whatever game this seems to be. So I begin taking the final flight, one step after another, slowly and cautiously. As I approach the door, the temperature continues to drop. I can't even begin to imagine what might be waiting on the other side.

What kind of person is Purity? How can she know so much about all of us, and how did she relay that information to her companions? But the greatest question of all: Why do I even care? No matter what I see beyond the door, I can't change it. I can't stop the last hour from happening. I can't turn back. I don't need Gabriel standing in the way to remind me of that…

My hand meets the doorknob, and I'm hit with an intense stinging sensation in my right eye. I try to flinch away, to pull my hand back, but all I can manage is covering the pain with the hand that isn't occupied. In my blind pain a vivid image bursts to life, almost as if I were watching it in person.

A massive green monster is prying its way out of a metal box, a hammer fashioned from fire hydrants and cement blocks grasped firmly in one hand and a slightly-smaller green monster in the other.

The image fades and the pain subsides, my heart racing with a painful pounding. My sight returns to normal and my hand continues to grip the knob. I take a single deep breath, fear coursing through me—a truer fear than anything I've ever felt—and pushing me ahead. As the door begins to swing, a gust of chilled air blasts me back a step. I hear a faint beeping as I recover, the scent of isopropyl alcohol burning my nose.

Light flickers from within.

I hesitate for a second, long enough to take another breath and to gather my nerves. I can't even begin to understand where the intense fear is coming from, but I know that something is just all around bad about the room I'm being forced to walk into.

A voice tears through the anxious silence, though it's untraceable in origin. It doesn't come from Gabriel or the room I've just unsealed. It just…comes. "You've no cause for fear, child. In my presence, all is well. Enter the room before you with conviction, the very conviction that helped you on your path. Do not doubt your choices; do not question your road. Come unto me, child, and hear your truth." It swims through my head, a feminine voice, much older than the one on the radio and yet it carries the very same tone. The words seem to push my fear from within me, and as I release my most recent breath my nerves settle. My body relaxes as I push myself through the doorway.

I stare at a small figure opposite of the door, strapped to a long upturned table and smothered from top to bottom with wires of assorted sizes and colors. Each one digs into the flesh of the figure's arms or legs, a single wire slithering its way to the skull. Behind the table whirrs a large machine, beeping and blinking with color and energy. Just above the machine is a large window, thin rays of orange light managing to find their way inside as the sun crosses the horizon.

It's the figure on the table that catches me in the end. It stands short, thin and frail, with sagging flesh and colorless eyes. Just beneath the scent of sterility is the stench of rot. Even in its deathly image, the figure manages to move about in its restraints. Though the body is covered from throat to feet with a simple cloth, the lump that accompanies feminine maturity is defined by the restraints.

Its eyes roll back and forth, faded irises barely visible against the wide whites. It opens its mouth with a sickening wheeze before whispering through the chilled air, "Welcome, child. You've come, just as I had told Gabriel you would." The voice is old, strained, but the words flow without pause. After another breath, it continues, "I'm sad to admit that our meeting may have come too late…"

Of all the questions that zip into my head, only one really matters to me at this very moment. My voice trembles as I form the words, "Are…Are you okay?" A question that I wholeheartedly believe anyone in my position would ask. I can't say it's out of concern, but it feels like the right thing to say.

The figure laughs—as much as it can laugh in its state—and attempts to answer me with shallow breaths. "I have never been better, child. But I have had many years to contemplate just what it means to be okay." It reaches out a pathetic hand, the wires threatening to snap it to pieces. I take several slow steps forward, feeling almost obligated to take the bony limb in my own. "I can see the doubt within you, child. The words you've spoken to the Elder, to Scott, ring with disbelief. You deny the concept of destiny."

My hand meets her and a dozen images ignite in my mind. Soldiers and children and fire and guns.

"That you can stand here today and exchange words with me is evidence enough of His grace, don't you think?"

"It wasn't God that brought me here!" I grunt, the images stinging inside my skull. I feel an intense nausea wash over me as I stand before her. "I…survived…because of luck!" Can you really call it surviving, though?

"You've been walking your road since long before the Imposters attacked your Vault. You were set on the path that led you here the moment you were born, and it was simply a matter of time before you would arrive." The voice grows stronger as it speaks, the grip on my hand filling with youthful flesh. The stench of rot leaves the air entirely as a snapping sound echoes about the room. A newfound fear swallows the images in my head. Suddenly I'm standing before a young woman, tall and strong, with shining eyes.

With a new voice to match, she snaps, "You were always going to meet me, child, whether you wanted to or not. I've seen visions of you, of your future, of what you will do to help or harm us. You walk a road that was lain for you from the day of your birth, though the steps you take to continue down it are your own." She takes a step forward, forcing me closer to the door. "I am Purity, Prophet of the Lord, and you are Johnathan Neal, Savior of the Wastes. I have seen that title many times in my dreams, as will you in the days to come."

Fear and confusion fade as my back hits the wall. Her grip is strong, but she isn't threatening me. She's intimidating me—to what end I'm not certain, but she seems to believe her words.

I snap, withdrawing my hand, "I'm no savior, no matter what you say! I'm no servant of God and I sure as hell don't believe the ramblings of a monster like you!" I can't tell if it's anger or annoyance that fills my chest, but I want nothing more than to expose this strange woman for the bat-shit crazy creature she is. "You say you're a prophet: prove it!"

My words must strike a chord with her, because she retreats to the other side of the room. A wicked smile corrupts her features as she sighs, "The rage in your heart will be your death; you will become what you despise most in this dead world, and you cannot stop it. You can only fight it so long as there are those who would protect you, and even they shall fall to your desire for blood." My head starts to swim, the lights around me fading. I open my mouth to speak, but find my voice missing. She lifts her head toward the sky and cries out, "And so the Lord hath spoken!"

My vision is swallowed by darkness and my legs give out from under me. I hear heavy footsteps and the beeping of the machine…