Chapter seven: poison-pen letter
Five years ago if somebody had asked her, Emerson would have said it was impossible to be bored at work.
She was doing what she loved after all. She had been bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm. Investigative journalism was going to put her on the map, she'd make sure of it.
"Next!" The teen behind the counter calls, offering a bubbly smile despite the ungodly hour and the fact she's no doubt only making minimum wage. Good for you, Emerson thinks, face heavy from lack of sleep. It won't last long, kid. "What can I get for you ma'am?"
"Ma'am, yeah," Emerson is not bitter, not at all. She sighs, unfolding the wrinkled piece of paper from her pocket. "Big order. Ya' ready? Okay. Two medium black, one large with two cream one sugar, three medium with two sugar one cream. You get all that?"
"Um, you said the large was only two cream and one sugar right?"
"A-huh."
"Perfect. That'll be 11.25."
Five years ago if somebody had asked her if she would ever volunteer to do coffee runs because she was bored at work, she would have laughed in their face. Please, her? Emerson was going to be on the map, she wasn't the woman you go too for coffee.
"Have a good day ma'am!" Emerson juggles with the two drink trays as she uses her back to push the door open, ignoring the call. She rolls her eyes as she steps outside, heading towards her junk car in the parking lot with a mutter. Ma'am, ma'am, ma'am.
Placing one of the trays of coffee on the roof of her car the sounds of sirens pause her digging for her keys in her jacket pocket. Emerson peaks up through her bangs, mouth opening slightly as a tail of police cars speed down the road siding the parking lot. At least four squad cars zoom by, lights flashing and alarms blaring.
A wisp of wind blows by her, the smell of fresh coffee and the nearby dumpster mingling together as the noise gradually fades. A sharp grin snatches up her expression as she hastily opens her car door, almost chucking the second tray of drinks onto the passenger side seat. She slams her car door shut, turns the ignition and slams on the pedal. Her car reverses with a skid, the forgotten tray of drinks on her roof tumbling off and splatting to the ground.
Emerson peels out of the parking lot, hot coffee pouring down the outside of her windshield. I smell blood in the water.
"Shut up about the coffee already, would ya'?" Emerson snaps, turning the knob on the police scanner with focus. "Have mine you whiny bitch."
"I don't like it black." Jonah mumbles, leaning back in his creaky desk chair as the others crowd around the police scanner. The police scanner crackles and they all straighten as a voice fades for a moment before she catches onto the frequency with, grinning so widely that it hurts her cheeks.
"Got it."
"..S'up on I-50… A group of individuals covered in blood armed to tha' teeth tried to jack a car.. Yeah, I shit you not… Arriving on tha' scene now…"
"Copy that. Report back if assistance is needed."
"Blood? Did he just say blood? As in, covered in blood?"
"Shut the hell up Amruth." Emerson chides, nearly pressing her cheek up against the scanner in anticipation, skin humming. Five years ago if somebody had told her she'd become some begging ambulance chaser, she would have been highly offended. Now?
Radio silence puts her nerves on the fray. Blood covered individuals? Here? In Senoia? And here she is hunched over some radio like she doesn't give a damn. Nah. Ain't no way in hell.
She skids back on her rolling chair, nearly ramming into Amruth who had been leaning over her shoulder to listen in. "I'm goin'."
"You what?" Jonah gapes up at her, the others sharing looks as she snatches her keys up from her desk. "Goin' where?"
"Where do ya' think? Sometimes, Jonah, I swear to god your mother dropped ya'," Billy, their editor, grouches, crossing his arms as he bellows after her. "Don't get yourself shot, alrigh'?"
The I-50 is a two-laned road that goes in and out of town. It doesn't take her long to come upon the scene of the mass of deputies cuffing and putting people in their squad cars. More squad cars had arrived on the scene during her trip out here, lining the dirt paving alongside the road and blocking any other traffic flow. She opens her car door and stands just beside it, having parked just behind a wooden barricade.
She can hear dogs barking from somewhere within the brush, the bright lights flashing off the wet leaves. She catches sight of some of the people, all scuffed up and ragged looking, flashes of maroon painted on them and sending her heart skidding. Blood in the water, too right.
She catches sight of a car just up the road in the midst of the chaos, starkly different compared to the clean white of the squad cars lining the road. It's difficult to make out the man standing next to it but it's not hard to make out the dusty license plate as she pulls out her camera. Bingo.
"Well, aren't you just a cutie patootie?" The woman coo's, softly wagging a finger. "And how old are you?"
Senoia is apparently a small town, filled with small-towned people. At some point Carol had once been able to consider herself a small-towned person in Alexandria, however fake that had been at first. And if Senoia is supposedly considered small-towned, Alexandria may as well have been an ant hole.
It's been a long time since she's had to wear this mask of hers, but she would be lying to say that it wasn't easy to fall right back into it. A nearby stream and her poncho kept most of the gore away which has made it almost too easy to assimilate herself into this group. It's a foreboding message. Numbers so large they don't know everybody by face or name.
Carol smiles kindly up at the woman, bouncing Judith on her hip. "Just a few months now. Isn't that right?"
"She's just lovely." The woman compliments genuinely, straightening up. She's pristine clean, straight teeth white as ever. "You have a nice day now."
"Oh, you too." Carol's smile is so sweet it almost gives her a toothache. As the woman turns and walks down the sidewalk, the facade slowly drops and she looks back down at the fresh paper held in her grasp, crossing her leg on the bench.
It's hard not to believe when it's right in front of her eyes. Somehow a part of the world has remained untouched. A part of the world has been completely shielded from the horrors beyond it. It's as if nothing has happened. As if the past two years of all their lives had just been a nightmare.
This fact will undoubtably work in their favor. They'll have no idea what's hit them then. Just who they had invited into their paradise.
"Looks like we have some work to do." Carol whispers into Judith's ear, pressing a chaste kiss on the side of her head. A small smear of blood from the ridge of her nail stains the crisp, freshly printed newspaper.
"What the hell is this?" Morgan grips the newspaper in his hand, waving it slightly with anger as he stands inside of the sheriff's office. It had been a long night for him. Staring at the ceiling of the hotel room scattered with papers, thinking of that damned kid's too hard face and that eye patch. Small hands covered in flaking blood and dirt crusted nails.
He grits his teeth as the deputy's merely look at him before shrugging. "Tis' the paper. Only matter ah' time 'for they caught wind. Senoia'ah small town."
In bold black letters the headline 'THE SENOIA SAVAGES' stares up at him, underneath lies a photo of a supposed 'Rick Grimes' head being pushed into a squad car. His face is hardened, blood splatter bright on his cheek as those sharp, unforgiving eyes bore straight into the soul of whoever the hell managed to snap that picture.
"Hotch," Morgan calls loudly over his shoulder, shaking his head. "You're gonna want to see this."
Gideon stares at the man through the one way glass, glancing at the newspaper held loosely in his grasp. He's got to say that the photographer really managed to get a winning shot there. "This complicates things. Not that we expected anything less."
"You look like you have a plan." Hotch comments quietly, turning to also look at the man through the glass.
He's a young guy, tense, dirty as the rest of them. A cut is spread across the corner of his brow, small flecks of blood peppering his temple. Below the cut his puffy eye is a shady purple, yellowing at the edges. The only other person in the group with obvious bruises is one of the more scantily clad women, who has yet to make a peep unsurprisingly.
"Yeah, you could say that." Gideon gestures towards the man with the paper, raising a brow with a false smile. "The 'Senoia Savages' huh? Interesting headline, really catches attention. It's not hard to have that kind of impression when you look at them is it?"
"What's your point?"
"He was wearing a ring when they booked him." Gidion taps the paper on his side absently. "And he's not the only one."
Hotch concedes, having also noticed that detail and the direction Gideon was going. "Marriage is not very savage like, is it?"
"It might ruffle some of their feathers," Gideon heads towards the exit, paper in hand. "I'll see what I can do."
He nearly runs into Prentiss on his way out as the door flies open. The woman heaves a breath, giving them both a serious look as she tilts her head slightly. "Have either of you had the chance to read the paper? Properly read it?"
"What's the matter?" Hotch immediately asks at her tone and expression, straightening.
Prentiss explains, eyes panicked. "It's the witness. They named him."
At exactly 5:00 am, seven days a week his alarm starts to blare. The room is cool, the AC chugging away as Jim waves his hand out, slapping the button on his alarm to silence the grating noise.
He goes about his regular morning rituals. He showers, gets dressed and heads to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee by the time the clock strikes six. He pours out a cup liberally for himself, adding his sugar and cream and goes to his front porch to enjoy the morning dew and the chirping of birds. And for a few moments he can forget he was held at gunpoint yesterday. Forget the hardened eyes and blood covered individuals, so certain he wouldn't be walking away from this one.
He leans down to pick up the daily paper from his deck just as two black SUV's swerve and squeal onto his front lawn.
Nearly dropping his mug from his shock, he can only watch bewildered as a man jumps out of one of the vehicles and comes running up to him shouting, paper loosely crumpled in his grasp.
Subject Seven does not jump as Gideon slaps down the paper onto the table. He merely narrows his eyes, shifting ever so slightly in the chair. With the lack of available holding cells, all of the subjects remained inside of their interrogation rooms overnight, provided with blankets and a pillow of course.
Not a single one touched the offered supplies.
Gideon takes a seat across the table, giving the man a look as he slides the paper further across the table, tapping his finger over the image. "You made the front page. I'd congratulate you, but well, I think you might find that in poor taste."
The subject sends a glance towards the paper, eyes narrowing with what appears to be anger and surprise as he registers the photo and headline. Gideon leans back in his chair with a shrug, offering an unapologetic smile.
"Savages, they say." He says without feeling, carefully watching for the man's tells. "Not that you can really blame them with your appearance and actions. Though, something is stopping me from giving you that title. Blood and viscera aside."
Without a flinch the man looks away from the paper, up at him with narrowed eyes. Gideon is not surprised. From what they can assume the group has witnessed, has done out in those woods, it's no shock that a little notoriety wouldn't faze him, aversion to the general public or otherwise.
"Through sickness and health," Gideon contiues flippantly, crossing his arms. "I don't recall murder and dismemberment being a part of the vows, but, to each their own I suppose."
The man catches on quick, quick to realization of what Gideon is trying to get at, quick to anger. His chair skids back as he abruptly stands, slamming his hands onto the desk as he rasps, mouth twisted sharply with disgust. "You- if you even laid a finger on her I'll kill you!"
Unruffled, Gideon raises an eyebrow, internally surprised at the sudden display. How his mind had immediatly jumped to that conclusion. A picture of how, assumedly Rick, had made them all so distrustful of law enforcement was starting to form in his mind. "On who? You're wife? Because that's who she is right? You're wife?"
"What have you done to her?" The subject looks just about ready to lunge, an almost desperate tinge hinting through the anger. His voice is croaky, weak, a sign of strangulation alongside the grey-blue tinge wrapped around his throat. Gideon narrows his eyes at the insinuation of his words, mind whirling.
"What's with the aggression? I'm just asking a question. Why do you think we'd lay hands on her?" Gideon doesn't have to fake his disbelief, leaning forward carefully as he honestly stares up at the man. "I can assure you that no one from your group has been harmed since we brought you into custody."
"Why should I believe you? Just- let me see her." He's clenching his fists, eyes skipping towards the exit. Such a strong parallel to the once stark silence that had been his interrogation room for the past 21 hours. It leaves a bad taste on Gideon's tongue.
Gideon tilts his head briefly, face carefully unresponsive. "I can't let you do that."
"What do you want?" And there's that look. The look of a man who has stared down the barrel and waited to attempt to catch the bullet between his teeth. Despite his haggard appearance his wounds are clearly the last thing on his mind, as if strangulation is a regular occurance. Gideon doesn't find it hard to believe he's gone through worse at this point.
A number of questions come up in his mind but a singular, spare thought catches his attention. Gideon clasps his hands together, leaning forward in his seat to level the subject a curious look as he asks calmly.
"What is a 'Walker'?"
