Title: Hell on Earth
Author: Meagan-bird
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU (alternate universe). Say that Frank Redbear died before he could push the Harvester forward. Well, what then? Press on, children, press on! I need lots of reviews to make sure I'm doing this right.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the fic you see before you and the citizens of St. Cecilia. Can't sue me, I'm makin' no money! HAH! COTC and whatnot belong to Stephen King and all those people.
Micah was sitting in the dark.
The building that had once served as a hotel was now living quarters for most of the original Hemmingford children, and he had requested to have the entire 9th floor to himself. The whole level was silent -- the children had their orders, and they were strict: do not disturb.
He needed the quiet.
The biggest suite on the floor had all the shades drawn, making the room almost pitch black. Tiny leaks of sunlight crept in from the windows (which irritated him beyond belief), but they were cheap shades anyway and he had no way of solar-proofing the room. Micah closed his eyes, bringing the unconditional darkness of his lids, and ran a hand slowly through his hair. His head still pounded like a wild Native American drum but at least his eyes didn't burn anymore. Possession hangover, the voices in his head had explained patiently when he woke up standing in the lobby of St. Cecilia Central Hospital. Micah couldn't remember anything clearly beyond that; all his memories of Hemmingford had been churned into twisting smoke and unfamiliar faces. The voices that now seemed to permanently reside in his subconscious had informed him of everything. At first, he'd been skeptical, then hysterical, and at last numbly calm. He Who Walks Behind The Rows had worked his will through him, just as he'd worked through Isaac in Gatlin, and there was nothing he could do to fight the deity's orders.
Besides, a little part of him didn't want to anymore.
Micah moved his palms to his face and rubbed it slowly, trying to work out the throbbing headache he had. The demon had lived in him for a few days, but that was all it took to affect his own essence. When he was thinking in the dark like this, he sometimes found himself secretly hoping for some kind of visitor to St. Cecilia -- someone he could hunt down and eventually kill, making the Lord pleased with a sacrifice. The lust for blood and power was in him now, and Micah felt it too exhausting to fight.
"Micah?" The quiet venture didn't startle him a bit; he didn't even remove his hands from his face to speak.
"Yes, Ruth?" he muttered. The girl placed one hand on the doorframe and nervously tugged at her curly hair with the other.
"Jedediah wants to speak with you," she said meekly, obviously terrified she was going to anger him in some way. Micah sniffed quietly, then smiled. He could smell her fear floating through the doorway like an extreme overdose of stinky perfume. Another handy trick left by He Who Walks Behind The Rows.
"About what?" Micah asked softly.
"The children housed in the neighborhoods refuse to work in the fields." Ruth chewed her lip and gave her hair another healthy tug. "Jedediah felt you might be able to --"
"Convince them otherwise?" His lips twitched slightly, almost forming a smirk. Micah got slowly to his feet. She watched him carefully but didn't retreat.
"Yes," Ruth murmured as he walked towards her. Now he could smell something quite different than fear, and Micah was suddenly all too aware of how intently she was watching him walk.
"Thank you, Ruth," he said simply, and slipped past, careful not to brush against her as he did so. "Let's see this insubordination Jedediah speaks of."
Jed was waiting at the Head House, as they'd decided to call the large white duplex that preceded the neighborhoods, and lead Micah to the source of the problem.
"They've gathered in a red brick house on Elm," he said immediately. "A boy named Jeremy has grouped them together. They refuse to work in the fields, or even leave the neighborhood."
"Thank you, Jedediah," Micah responded evenly, turning into the driveway of the indicated house. "How many?" Jed stepped carefully around the dented, burnt-black remains of a '94 Buick.
"About nine or so," he said after a moment's thought, then sneered. "Unless he's gathered more of them. Micah, this would've been so much easier if we'd just stayed --" Micah whirled on him, black brows met in an angry scowl.
"Do you question me...?" he growled, and Jed lowered his head in submission.
"Of course not, Micah." They went silently into the house, easily opening the door. All the locks had been broken; that was Naomi's job. Quiet and good with a screwdriver, she had disabled the locks in the entire neighborhood in less than two nights of work.
"What have we here?" Micah asked pleasantly, stepping into the ransacked livingroom. The widescreen television was a shattered mess in the corner, pictures and frames had been swept into a neat pile near the kitchen. He smiled calmly at the small group of teenagers, the scent of fear wafting on the air once again. Good. At least he'd accomplished something.
"Get out of my house," a tawny-haired boy snarled, leaping off the back of the couch with fluid grace. Micah spread his hands, an expression of innocence -- a gesture that said 'We're all friends here.'
"Not your house, child," he said evenly. "All houses belong to us now. We share the whole town. I believe I explained that very clearly in last week's opening sermon."
"You don't own anything!" The boy began to advance on him, his face pale with anger. "Who the hell do you think you are, coming here and ruining --"
"Jer," a blonde-haired girl said quietly, placing a restraining hand on his arm. Jeremy seethed for a moment, but slowly sat back down on the couch.
"Get out of my house," he repeated coldly.
"Not your house, child," Micah said again, and relished the look of pure rage that passed over his opponent's face. He glanced at the girl by Jeremy's side, recognizing her as the spiky-haired blonde who'd ripped her dress that first day in the church. A smirk tugged at his lips; the girl glared at him and quickly returned her gaze to Jeremy.
"Calm down," Micah heard her whisper, and barely caught a scent of affection on the air. He tensed a little, then relaxed and clasped his hands behind his back.
"I've been informed," Micah said calmly, beginning to circle the room so he could inspect each frozen teen, "that you refuse to work in the fields. Why is that?"
"Because we don't have to work in those stupid fields!" Jeremy spat heatedly. "If anyone is going to work, it's going to be you, because where you should be is --"
"Jeremy, calm down," the girl whispered again. Micah turned his gaze slowly to the girl with spiky blonde hair and slowly smiled.
"Tell me your name, child," he said simply.
"Gabe," she responded, her voice surprisingly even.
"Like the archangel?" He reached out and ran his palm slowly over her hairspray-hardened hair; she shivered slightly and leaned back into the couch, ducking away. Micah smiled anyway, and Jeremy bristled with anger. "I thought I made it quite clear that hairspray and cosmetics were forbidden," he purred, eyeing her over slowly. In one swift movement, Jeremy was on his feet, holding Micah's collar firmly in his hand.
"Stop... looking at her like that," he snarled. Micah didn't even flinch.
"Like what?"
"Like she's a piece of meat and you're a hungry dog." Jeremy shoved him back hard, making Micah nearly stumble over a coffee table. "Back off and get out." He slowly straightened, his original amusement having faded by now. Now he was just pissed.
"I don't think you quite understand the concept of our newly reformed town," Micah said slowly. Jeremy opened his mouth to snap a retort and was stopped by Micah's hand shooting out and clamping around his neck. He raised his arm, lifting the boy very slowly from the ground until his shoes were grazing the floor. The teenagers gasped as Jeremy began clawing at the pale hand around his throat, making odd choking noises for air. "The Lord is most displeased with this display of insubordination. Most displeased." The dull ache in Micah's head became a sudden throbbing pain; he tightened his grip around the blaspheme's neck, relishing how the muscles were straining beneath his palm. Jeremy gagged loudly.
"Stop it!" The spiky-haired blonde was at his side in a flash, tugging desperately at Micah's arm. "Let him go, you're hurting him!" Micah looked at her with a snarl and squeezed a little tighter. Blue eyes met black; Gabe shook his arm again, her gaze pleading. "Please, put him down. Please." Something inside him twisted painfully; Micah looked over her face again, then threw Jeremy the short distance to the sofa. He landed there with a dull thud and the sound of a spring breaking. Gabe stared at Micah a moment more, then hurried to Jeremy's side.
"You will work in the fields," Micah growled, finally tearing his gaze away from Gabe to sweep it over the small crowd. "You will work in the fields or you will be punished. Severely." He whirled and stalked out the door, slamming it hard enough to shake the walls. Jedediah watched him go with a grimace.
"I knew we should've stayed in Hemmingford," he muttered.
Micah was back in the dark, his head resting in his hands. Listening. Waiting. Hoping for a brief consultation with the voices that normally wouldn't go away, and now seemed nowhere to be found.
"What was that?" he whispered to the silence. "Aren't I the strong, unwavering leader?"
Stay away from the girl.
"Which one?" He lifted his head and cocked it experimentally. "The one with the hair?"
Idiot boy. Do not blaspheme. Stay away from that girl.
He wasn't stupid, he knew which one they were talking about -- Gabe. She had made him show weakness before Jedediah, before all those watchful children... but surely she could be affected. Made into one of them.
"I don't want to lose any of them under 19," Micah protested. "How can I stay away from one of my own children? Surely I can change her, make her less of a --"
Threat? That's what she is, boy. A threat. STAY AWAY.
"But --"
Stay away or kill her. It's as simple as that.
And the voices went silent.
Author: Meagan-bird
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU (alternate universe). Say that Frank Redbear died before he could push the Harvester forward. Well, what then? Press on, children, press on! I need lots of reviews to make sure I'm doing this right.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the fic you see before you and the citizens of St. Cecilia. Can't sue me, I'm makin' no money! HAH! COTC and whatnot belong to Stephen King and all those people.
Micah was sitting in the dark.
The building that had once served as a hotel was now living quarters for most of the original Hemmingford children, and he had requested to have the entire 9th floor to himself. The whole level was silent -- the children had their orders, and they were strict: do not disturb.
He needed the quiet.
The biggest suite on the floor had all the shades drawn, making the room almost pitch black. Tiny leaks of sunlight crept in from the windows (which irritated him beyond belief), but they were cheap shades anyway and he had no way of solar-proofing the room. Micah closed his eyes, bringing the unconditional darkness of his lids, and ran a hand slowly through his hair. His head still pounded like a wild Native American drum but at least his eyes didn't burn anymore. Possession hangover, the voices in his head had explained patiently when he woke up standing in the lobby of St. Cecilia Central Hospital. Micah couldn't remember anything clearly beyond that; all his memories of Hemmingford had been churned into twisting smoke and unfamiliar faces. The voices that now seemed to permanently reside in his subconscious had informed him of everything. At first, he'd been skeptical, then hysterical, and at last numbly calm. He Who Walks Behind The Rows had worked his will through him, just as he'd worked through Isaac in Gatlin, and there was nothing he could do to fight the deity's orders.
Besides, a little part of him didn't want to anymore.
Micah moved his palms to his face and rubbed it slowly, trying to work out the throbbing headache he had. The demon had lived in him for a few days, but that was all it took to affect his own essence. When he was thinking in the dark like this, he sometimes found himself secretly hoping for some kind of visitor to St. Cecilia -- someone he could hunt down and eventually kill, making the Lord pleased with a sacrifice. The lust for blood and power was in him now, and Micah felt it too exhausting to fight.
"Micah?" The quiet venture didn't startle him a bit; he didn't even remove his hands from his face to speak.
"Yes, Ruth?" he muttered. The girl placed one hand on the doorframe and nervously tugged at her curly hair with the other.
"Jedediah wants to speak with you," she said meekly, obviously terrified she was going to anger him in some way. Micah sniffed quietly, then smiled. He could smell her fear floating through the doorway like an extreme overdose of stinky perfume. Another handy trick left by He Who Walks Behind The Rows.
"About what?" Micah asked softly.
"The children housed in the neighborhoods refuse to work in the fields." Ruth chewed her lip and gave her hair another healthy tug. "Jedediah felt you might be able to --"
"Convince them otherwise?" His lips twitched slightly, almost forming a smirk. Micah got slowly to his feet. She watched him carefully but didn't retreat.
"Yes," Ruth murmured as he walked towards her. Now he could smell something quite different than fear, and Micah was suddenly all too aware of how intently she was watching him walk.
"Thank you, Ruth," he said simply, and slipped past, careful not to brush against her as he did so. "Let's see this insubordination Jedediah speaks of."
Jed was waiting at the Head House, as they'd decided to call the large white duplex that preceded the neighborhoods, and lead Micah to the source of the problem.
"They've gathered in a red brick house on Elm," he said immediately. "A boy named Jeremy has grouped them together. They refuse to work in the fields, or even leave the neighborhood."
"Thank you, Jedediah," Micah responded evenly, turning into the driveway of the indicated house. "How many?" Jed stepped carefully around the dented, burnt-black remains of a '94 Buick.
"About nine or so," he said after a moment's thought, then sneered. "Unless he's gathered more of them. Micah, this would've been so much easier if we'd just stayed --" Micah whirled on him, black brows met in an angry scowl.
"Do you question me...?" he growled, and Jed lowered his head in submission.
"Of course not, Micah." They went silently into the house, easily opening the door. All the locks had been broken; that was Naomi's job. Quiet and good with a screwdriver, she had disabled the locks in the entire neighborhood in less than two nights of work.
"What have we here?" Micah asked pleasantly, stepping into the ransacked livingroom. The widescreen television was a shattered mess in the corner, pictures and frames had been swept into a neat pile near the kitchen. He smiled calmly at the small group of teenagers, the scent of fear wafting on the air once again. Good. At least he'd accomplished something.
"Get out of my house," a tawny-haired boy snarled, leaping off the back of the couch with fluid grace. Micah spread his hands, an expression of innocence -- a gesture that said 'We're all friends here.'
"Not your house, child," he said evenly. "All houses belong to us now. We share the whole town. I believe I explained that very clearly in last week's opening sermon."
"You don't own anything!" The boy began to advance on him, his face pale with anger. "Who the hell do you think you are, coming here and ruining --"
"Jer," a blonde-haired girl said quietly, placing a restraining hand on his arm. Jeremy seethed for a moment, but slowly sat back down on the couch.
"Get out of my house," he repeated coldly.
"Not your house, child," Micah said again, and relished the look of pure rage that passed over his opponent's face. He glanced at the girl by Jeremy's side, recognizing her as the spiky-haired blonde who'd ripped her dress that first day in the church. A smirk tugged at his lips; the girl glared at him and quickly returned her gaze to Jeremy.
"Calm down," Micah heard her whisper, and barely caught a scent of affection on the air. He tensed a little, then relaxed and clasped his hands behind his back.
"I've been informed," Micah said calmly, beginning to circle the room so he could inspect each frozen teen, "that you refuse to work in the fields. Why is that?"
"Because we don't have to work in those stupid fields!" Jeremy spat heatedly. "If anyone is going to work, it's going to be you, because where you should be is --"
"Jeremy, calm down," the girl whispered again. Micah turned his gaze slowly to the girl with spiky blonde hair and slowly smiled.
"Tell me your name, child," he said simply.
"Gabe," she responded, her voice surprisingly even.
"Like the archangel?" He reached out and ran his palm slowly over her hairspray-hardened hair; she shivered slightly and leaned back into the couch, ducking away. Micah smiled anyway, and Jeremy bristled with anger. "I thought I made it quite clear that hairspray and cosmetics were forbidden," he purred, eyeing her over slowly. In one swift movement, Jeremy was on his feet, holding Micah's collar firmly in his hand.
"Stop... looking at her like that," he snarled. Micah didn't even flinch.
"Like what?"
"Like she's a piece of meat and you're a hungry dog." Jeremy shoved him back hard, making Micah nearly stumble over a coffee table. "Back off and get out." He slowly straightened, his original amusement having faded by now. Now he was just pissed.
"I don't think you quite understand the concept of our newly reformed town," Micah said slowly. Jeremy opened his mouth to snap a retort and was stopped by Micah's hand shooting out and clamping around his neck. He raised his arm, lifting the boy very slowly from the ground until his shoes were grazing the floor. The teenagers gasped as Jeremy began clawing at the pale hand around his throat, making odd choking noises for air. "The Lord is most displeased with this display of insubordination. Most displeased." The dull ache in Micah's head became a sudden throbbing pain; he tightened his grip around the blaspheme's neck, relishing how the muscles were straining beneath his palm. Jeremy gagged loudly.
"Stop it!" The spiky-haired blonde was at his side in a flash, tugging desperately at Micah's arm. "Let him go, you're hurting him!" Micah looked at her with a snarl and squeezed a little tighter. Blue eyes met black; Gabe shook his arm again, her gaze pleading. "Please, put him down. Please." Something inside him twisted painfully; Micah looked over her face again, then threw Jeremy the short distance to the sofa. He landed there with a dull thud and the sound of a spring breaking. Gabe stared at Micah a moment more, then hurried to Jeremy's side.
"You will work in the fields," Micah growled, finally tearing his gaze away from Gabe to sweep it over the small crowd. "You will work in the fields or you will be punished. Severely." He whirled and stalked out the door, slamming it hard enough to shake the walls. Jedediah watched him go with a grimace.
"I knew we should've stayed in Hemmingford," he muttered.
Micah was back in the dark, his head resting in his hands. Listening. Waiting. Hoping for a brief consultation with the voices that normally wouldn't go away, and now seemed nowhere to be found.
"What was that?" he whispered to the silence. "Aren't I the strong, unwavering leader?"
Stay away from the girl.
"Which one?" He lifted his head and cocked it experimentally. "The one with the hair?"
Idiot boy. Do not blaspheme. Stay away from that girl.
He wasn't stupid, he knew which one they were talking about -- Gabe. She had made him show weakness before Jedediah, before all those watchful children... but surely she could be affected. Made into one of them.
"I don't want to lose any of them under 19," Micah protested. "How can I stay away from one of my own children? Surely I can change her, make her less of a --"
Threat? That's what she is, boy. A threat. STAY AWAY.
"But --"
Stay away or kill her. It's as simple as that.
And the voices went silent.