((Song suggestion: From the Vault of the Miskatonic University by Graham Plowman))

The world had changed. Even from a bird's eye view, that much was apparent. The fog that had choked the landscape had thinned in many places. There were even large patches where the mist had retreated entirely. Fiona couldn't decide which was worse to see. Over the years, she had grown somewhat accustomed to the perpetual haze. Seeing the remains of the world was a new breed of unsettling.

Most of the roads were gone. Some had been torn up from underneath; others were overgrown, broken to chunks by florae gone wild. Some of the highways looked like they had been hit with napalm. One large section had turned to glass or something that passed for it from a distance. Cities she passed were similar: Many were blasted, gutted by some violent, supernatural force no longer apparent. Others were overgrown and rapidly being reclaimed by nature. One she passed was shrouded in thick, ominous webs.

New Orleans fit into the "reclaimed by nature" category. Without anyone to maintain the roads and levees, Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River had flooded the region. Much of the 9th Ward was underwater, as was the St. Bernard Parish. Kudzu had grown over large portions of the city, making it look like an ancient ruin in a jungle. The Vieux Carre was the only part of town that looked remotely like its old self. The Garden District was at once overgrown and dying: An overabundance of vegetation left unattended had led to its own demise as plants competed for resources.

Miss Robichaux's Academy was worse than the witch had feared. One side of the venerable house had collapsed to rubble, the white bricks scorched black by a vicious fire that likewise blackened the interior. The upstairs had collapsed into the sitting room, cutting off access to the kitchen. Fiona saw no bodies but she saw no sign of life, either. All of the school's relics were missing as well, from archaic books to talismans.

Much of New Orleans was the same: The only living things she saw were animals and strange creatures that had come with the fogs that were clearing. The fog's recession meant nothing to the new fauna: The overcast skies provided them enough protection from the sun that they were able to roam free. Fiona paid them little mind while flying over. They couldn't hurt her and she had no use for them.

She paused to light on a balcony rail on Bourbon Street when the clouds opened up and dumped cold rain on the old street. Ivy choked the building across the street and the green-and-white striped awning that used to shade the third floor balcony overhead had rotted through and hung in tatters that rustled with the rainfall. Soon a rush of water was flowing down the black drainpipe that hugged the side of the building she roosted on, splashing onto the cobblestones below.

The sight stirred some nostalgia in the witch. She could almost hear the distant sound of jazz, but it was just the wind dancing through the deserted alleys. For the first time in a long time, Fiona actually missed the old world. The sentimentality was short-lived, soon replaced with a dose of self-loathing for feeling such a thing. The world was better this way. No idiots clogging the roads, pissing on statues and stealing from each other. No charlatans passing themselves off as fortune tellers. No Vodoun.

Fiona's feathers ruffled up at the thought of the religion. The practitioners might be gone, but there were still Loa to contend with. One in specific came to mind: Baron Cimitiere.

She took flight and, on a whim, circled over to St. Louis #1. The old cemetery was overgrown but not flooded. The witch settled atop one of the nicer crypts and straightened a couple of pinfeathers before having a look around. She half-expected the spirit to come strolling around the corner but the only thing she saw was a pale yellow moth hovering above an algae-lined puddle on the ground.

With a clatter of wings, Fiona took to the air again. She swooped up high, then dived down to snap the moth up. The protein snack would tide her over until she could find something more substantial. It tasted of the flowers it had fed on. One of the yellow wings fell away, fluttering down to land in the puddle. She let it go. She didn't mind eating bugs but drew the line at eating off the muddy ground.

A few flaps of her wings later and she was heading west. It was time to go back to the only home she had left: New 'Salem.

...

"Why are you being such a dick?" Violet wanted to know.

"I'm not," countered Tate defensively. "I just don't get why you're doing Chad's shit for him. He can leave the house just as easily as we can."

Violet pursed her lips. His attitude was frustrating, but she really did want to help him understand. She still held to the hope that he might one day develop people skills of his own. So far, that hadn't happened. Her parents thought she was foolish for holding out hope which was also frustrating, especially coming from her dad, who thought he knew Tate better than Violet did.

"It's not about ability," she said. "It's about...it's about making concessions. He doesn't like having to come down to the market himself. If we do it for him, that'll put him in a better mood. If he's in a better mood, he's less likely to be an ass-hat about shit."

She looked at her boyfriend to see if that flipped any switches for him, but he still looked sulky.

"He's gonna be an ass-hat no matter what," said Tate. He plucked a twig from an overgrown willow tree they passed under and twirled the thin stick in his hand. "It's just part of who he is."

"Maybe," Violet sighed. "But I know he's not as big a one if he has real food in the kitchen to work with."

"He just wants the wine so he can get a buzz," Tate debated. "Phantom booze doesn't do shit but the real stuff seems to work for him."

Violet's lips twitched in a small, brief smile. She couldn't deny that was the most likely reason for the four-bottle wine order, even if he said he was going to use it for cooking. The bourbon he requested she knew was for making mint juleps, which she liked to sip with him.

"Yeah," she allowed. "But is that so bad? I mean, when he's buzzed, he's even less of an asshole."

Tate shrugged and started to casually rip the thin leaf buds off the willow stem. "I just think it's stupid he always wants us to get him stuff when we go out. And I don't need Pat giving me shit about it either. When you take their side—"

"I'm not taking sides!" Violet flared, amazed by the leap in logic he just executed. She grabbed his nearest arm and pulled it close to her, to get his attention. "I'm on your side, if I'm on any side. Just because I'm picking some stuff up for them doesn't mean I'm not."

He passed her a dose of his broody look, unconvinced. "Feels like it."

Violet felt her bubble of frustration grow a little more. She checked her first impulse and chose to employ one of her father's tactics. "Well. What would make you feel like I'm on your side?"

Tate perked up. "We can skip the market."

"Tate."

He made a face and looked down at the twig he held. "What? I don't want to go shopping. I hate shopping! I just want to see what's making that stupid noise and go home. Why can't we do that?"

"Because I already told Chad we would bring stuff back for him," she explained carefully. It was her own temper she was treading on carefully. "How about this? How about...we check out what's making the sound. Then you can go home and I'll go do the marketing."

He considered her offer. He didn't like it that much, but had to admit to himself that it was better than shopping. But he wanted Violet to go home with him. The silence stretched as he stewed over the quandary. Violet let him chew on his feelings in silence. She knew him well enough to know when he was thinking and when he was just being difficult. Right now, he was thinking. Eventually he would come around to some sort of decision.

"Maybe I could hang out in the square and wait for you while you shop?" he counter-offered. "Then we can go back home together."

"Fine," she accepted. It was the best compromise she was likely to get from him.

The agreement instantly bolstered Tate's mood. He didn't get exactly what he wanted but he was satisfied with outcome. He let the twig fall and put an arm around Violet's shoulders, his mood improving with each step forward.

—

The source of the deep, throbbing sound was readily apparent when the teens reached the village square. Seeing it didn't grant instant understanding, however. Erected in the center of the New 'Salem's commons was a huge construct made of metal siding and flattened utility barrels, shaped into the form of a giant bull. The bizarre sculpture was stationed on a raised brick platform under which acolytes from Michael's church were tending a large fire. A series of sloppily welded pipes that were fastened beneath the platform and above the fire pumped water from a container that resembled an above-ground pool. The thrumming sound was made as the water coursed through the pipes. The circulated water flowed back through return pipes, into the pool, which steamed from the heat generated by the fire.

"What the hell is it?" Violet wondered.

She found the metal creature oddly fascinating. It had a rough, post-apocalyptic quality to it that reminded her of old Mad Max films she used to watch with her dad.

"It looks like that bronze bull the Greeks made," said Tate, his upper lip curling up faintly.

"What?"

Tate tore his eyes off the monstrosity and looked at Violet, surprised she didn't catch the reference. He tended to assume she knew everything he did, because she was smart like that. "You know. The brazen bull. It was a torture device."

Violet pulled a face, but she couldn't help being morbidly curious. She looked at the rusty tin construct. "What sort of torture?"

A smile tickled Tate's lips. He liked it when Violet was morbid. It was one of her best qualities, in his estimation. "When the Romans got it, they put people inside it and lit a fire under it. Cooked them alive. The insides had these acoustic pipes that supposedly converted the victims' screams to the sounds a bull makes."

"Bullshit," Violet declared, though she was no less fascinated by the idea. "No way."

"Seriously!" insisted Tate. "You can look it up if you don't believe me."

"There's no internet anymore."

"But there's a library," Tate pointed out. He tipped his head. "You want to go?"

"We should get Chad's stuff first."

Tate made a face. He had hoped she would forget about errands. "Fine. After?"

She smiled. "Sure." She rose up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'll meet you here when I'm done. Okay?"

He nodded and watched her head off across the square, toward the small open-air market. Then he shifted his attention back to the tin bull. Without Violet there to enjoy it with him, it wasn't nearly as cool. It was kind of hideous, in fact; it gave off an unsettling vibe. There was something about the messy painted-on red eye and the set of its gaping mouth that put him off. The whole of it spoke of a rush job. The bull he'd seen illustrations of was a scientific work of art; a terrible machine that was quite beautiful in its design. This thing was a mockery of the ancient torture device—a crude reproduction made by craftsmen who didn't give a shit about what the thing looked like.

Drawing closer to the strange statue, he tried to see if it had a door of some sort in its belly or sides, but he couldn't tell due to the way the sheets of metal were layered and wrapped. While he was studying the thing, a gray-robed acolyte came to drop more wood on the fire. The pipes thrummed louder, which sparked a rush of indignant anger in Tate. Why should the church's stupid bull be something he had to listen to even when he was in his home blocks away? Why was Michael having them make the thing anyway?

He glanced over to the blood-soaked altars that stood in front of the church. There were no sacrifices going on at the time but the evidence staining the concrete slabs suggested they were still being used regularly. From that, he drew the conclusion that the bull wasn't a likely replacement for the ritual sacrifices.

The scene made Tate remember why he hated coming to the square so much. He didn't like to shop but more than that, he didn't like seeing the evidence of Michael's control over the city. It made him feel somewhat responsible and he didn't want to be responsible for anything he was seeing. His mood darkened quickly, spurring him to action. He made himself visible and addressed the acolyte as the bald man was getting ready to leave the bonfire.

"Hey," Tate said. He threw on one of those smiles his mother liked so much. "Is Michael around?"

The man turned to him, surprise evident on his face. "Er. No. No, I don't think so."

Tate's irritation swelled, killing the fake smile. "Well, where is he?"

"I...I don't know," the man stammered. Then he frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

Tate didn't like his tone or his frown. "Because," he said. He put on another smile, this one closer to a smirk of superiority. "So. You work for his church but you don't know where he is? Guess you're not very important."

The man bristled, insulted. "Our Lord's business is his own."

"Whatever," Tate dismissed. "Who's your superior?"

The man stared at him.

"Who's your boss?" pressed Tate, smothering his growing resentment under a toothy smile. "I want to talk to somebody who actually knows shit."

"That can be arranged," the man said in a tone that intimated trouble.

He grabbed Tate's upper arm, a move that surprised the teen. He let the man do it, though, curiosity overcoming his bad mood. The acolyte used Tate's arm to steer him toward the church. He wasn't particularly gentle in herding the teen inside the chapel, but Tate didn't care much. He was more interested in what the guy thought he was doing.

The acolyte brought him all the way to the back of the chapel and through a door on the left side. The narrow corridor beyond smelled weird to Tate. It smelled of cloves and death. The cloying scent bothered him, so he looked for something funny to say about it, to make it less bothersome.

"Most people don't use dead things as air fresheners."

The acolyte didn't even spare him a glance but kept herding him forward, around the corner and down a long, tight hallway. "Most people don't have to provide sustenance to the Antichrist."

Tate didn't like that answer, or the fact that the man was so eager to provide it. "Where are we going?" he wanted to know, his tone still injected with false humor that no longer touched his expression.

The man didn't answer, and Tate liked that even less. He could easily evade the man, but he was also terribly curious about what the guy thought he was going to do. Once his curiosity was satisfied, Tate decided he would leave.

...

Author's Note:

Last chapter was a bit short; this one got super long. It just didn't chop up any better than this. Next time, we'll catch up with Michael and find out what he's been doing. Also, remember those relics? The ones so many people didn't want Michael to collect? Yeah, that's coming back to haunt us.

Gonna watch Doctor Sleep this weekend. Maybe it'll provide me with some fresh inspiration, being that it's the long-awaited sequel to The Shining. Not that I'm short on ideas. Frankly, I don't know how long I'll keep writing this fic. Every time I think I'm close to a conclusion, a whole new path opens up, just begging to be explored. I'm glad you're following it with me. Whenever you venture down dark, scary roads, it's always good to have someone with you. Safety in numbers.