Tate felt and saw the world blur around him. The distortion was accompanied by a sensation like being on a roller coaster as it makes its final descent down the track's biggest hill. Then suddenly he was standing in the foyer of the Montgomery Mansion.

"That cocksucker!" he raged when he realized what Michael had done.

He suffered an impulse to return to the church just to prove he wouldn't be moved around like some pawn, but there was no guarantee Michael would still be there. Most likely wouldn't be, in fact. So, Tate smothered the urge and punched the newel post next to the stairs instead. The thing was carved from solid mahogany and his belief in that fact sent a bolt of pain through his knuckles on impact.

"Shit!" he hollered even louder, shaking his throbbing hand.

He would never understand why he could feel pain if he was supposed to be dead. Supposedly, dead people couldn't feel anything, but he felt everything, inside and out, even more than he had when he was alive. Beyond frustrated, he went to find Violet. She was in her bedroom, smoking and listening to Joy Division. He peeked in, then edged into the room cautiously.

"Tate!" she chirped when she saw him. She crushed her cigarette hastily in the ashtray on the bedside table and hopped up from the overstuffed bed to hug him. "What happened? Where've you been? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, relieved to have her in his arms and not upset. "It's a weird story. You're...not mad at me, are you?"

"Mad?" she pulled away from him only enough to allow her to see his face. "No. Why would I be?"

Tate shrugged. "I don't know. How long was I gone?"

"Thirty-six hours, maybe?" Violet guessed. "What happened?"

"One of Michael's priest guys did something to me. It was like...he put me in this dream? Only I wasn't sleeping." Tate hugged her closer, wanting to smell her hair. "I d'know. You'd have to ask Michael. He's the one who knows. He said the guy put me in a ring or something. I just know it was like...it was like I was alive again. And so was Beau. And Constance and Addie and my dad were all living here, and we were happy. And you were in the dream place, too. We went to school together. I was gonna ask you to go to senior prom with me."

The words came out in an unpremeditated rush and he faltered after mentioning the prom. Sorrow stabbed his innards because he realized how frivolous and unattainable the imaginary life had been. How could he have believed any of that was real? Embarrassment flooded in next as he overthought what he'd just admitted. Senior prom. What a stupid thing to care about. He never cared about that shit when he was actually in school.

Violet sensed his mood shift and pet his back gently. "It sounds nice," she had to admit.

"It was stupid, " Tate grumped, angry with himself. "It wasn't real. There's no such thing as a happily ever after."

Especially for us, he added in his head. He didn't say that part, though, because he didn't want to hurt Violet's feelings. She still looked sad anyway.

"Maybe there isn't," she allowed, letting her hold on him loosen. "It could be worse though, right?"

Tate's inner moods clashed. Part of him wanted to dive headlong into a full-blown self-pity session. He was still mad that Michael had the balls to just ship him back to the mansion without giving him a choice in the matter. But he could tell that Violet wanted reassurance and what she wanted, he wanted too.

"Shit yeah, it could be worse," he said, throwing on a tight-lipped fake smile that dimpled his cheeks. "I could be stuck here without you."

That didn't quite come out the way he would have liked. Rather than flounder at clarifying, though, he grabbed her up and launched them both into the bed. They landed with a mighty creak of the box spring, prompting a squeak of surprise from Violet when they landed. She shoved her hair out of her face with a soft giggle. She peeked at him then and saw him smiling back. As they cuddled in close to kiss, she reassured herself that things could definitely be worse.

...

(("Killing Strangers" Marilyn Manson))

For the trip to Pripyat, Michael had only asked Troy to go with him, though the dark-haired young man wasn't sure whether to be flattered or concerned. Either Michael believed he was powerful enough to protect them both from whatever they might face there, be it beast or nuclear fallout, or…he simply didn't care about the risks. Troy chose to lean toward believing the Antichrist could handle anything the universe could throw at them.

Troy wasn't exactly helpless himself, either. He'd had ample time and reason to experiment with his own abilities, discovering and honing his supernatural instincts. He might not be impervious to radiation, but he was confident he could handle any living or undead threats he might encounter.

He travelled light: He only brought a small backpack with a couple of changes of clothes and a few just-in-case items they might need. The final thing he packed was a handgun, a big shiny black Colt .45 he'd picked up on his last scavenger hunt. After the encounter with Billie Dean, he had developed a taste for guns and firing them.

He checked the ammo and snapped the body shut with a cocksure flare. He looked down the barrel. The scent of recently applied gun oil stung his nose. He put the safety on then dropped the weapon on top of the small untidy heap of mostly black clothing in the duffle. The gun was little more than a prop and certainly not the deadliest thing in his arsenal. But he liked carrying it. Made him feel gangster.

Once he was packed, he headed down to the hotel lobby where he found Michael already waiting for him, leaning patiently against one of the planters near the entrance. He gave Troy a once-over then pushed up out of his lean.

"Ready?"

"Let's do this," Troy answered.

"I do like that about you," Michael remarked with a warm smile. "You're always so willing to do whatever insane thing I tell you to."

Troy smiled crookedly. "Not like I've got anything else to do these days."

"There's that spirit." Michael put a hand on his shoulder and gripped firmly. Then he said quite sincerely: "I'm going to send you through now. If you die, I'll be sure to resurrect you at the first good opportunity."

The world blurred around Troy, leaving him no time to process what Michael just said. Sound distorted and turned hollow. An ice-cold wind moved around and right through him and for a terrifying instant he thought he was dead. Then the world slowed down again, and he found himself standing in a gray field of dead grass. He gripped the strap of his duffle bag and turned around slowly, taking in the frozen terrain about him, suddenly very glad he chose to wear his leather duster. Towering high above him was a rusty, dilapidated Ferris wheel. Behind it, blocky buildings of bleak water-stained concrete decayed in the wintery shadow of the old amusement park ride.

As a child, he had seen pictures of the disaster at Chernobyl. He knew immediately that he was at Pripyat.

—

Author's Note:

I meant to get this chapter up a lot sooner, but other projects with deadlines got in the way. The deadlines are met for the time being so I wanted to slide this out there while the sliding was good.

So, Ryan Murphy's been green-lit for another American Horror Story spin-off series. He was also working on a season of AHS that's apparently going to have to do with the beach. I went mainly kaiju and Cthulhu with the way this fan season dealt with the beach. It'll be interesting to see what they do. If the last season's any indication, I'm guessing they'll be tapping the 80's vein of aquatic thrillers, like Jaws and Piranha. Can't wait to see what happens! Of course, everything's on hold till folks can socialize again, but it's something to look forward to.

Next time: Michael and Troy go angel hunting.