Abigail | Baptism

Scenario: The Gathering Monday? - Dawn Alaska → Town of Tanaraq → Abigail's House ══════════════════ After the long night came the short day, the few, pale hours of daylight that were common during the Alaskan winter. The cold never managed to seep inside the house, it never had. Despite the eerie silence, the electricity still flowed. Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, nuclear power plants continued feeding an empty nation, faithfully producing power for towns that had long since stopped feeling alive. Tanaraq still had lights, heating, running water, if one ignored the abandoned cars buried beneath thick blankets of snow, the empty roads, and the unsettling absence of birdsong that had become as familiar as the wind itself. The small, secluded town remained frozen in time, a quiet settlement swallowed by endless white, where every house looked occupied, every window reflected the same pale sky, and every shadow seemed just a little too still. The front door remained barricaded behind an assortment of heavy furniture. The knocking had been relentless the previous night, so relentless that Abigail had spent hours gripping the old Winchester until her fingers had gone numb. Months ago she had abandoned the comfort of her bedroom, choosing instead to sleep curled upon the worn sofa, believing that if something ever managed to force its way inside, she'd rather hear it from the living room than wake up with it standing over her bed. A flutter of her eyelids, once, twice, before pale blue eyes finally focused on the familiar ceiling above her. Nothing... Still here, still alone, still me. With a quiet sigh she sat upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before instinctively reaching for the rifle leaning against the armrest. She didn't even think about it anymore, her hand simply knew where it belonged. The house smelled faintly of cold timber, burnt firewood, and the lingering scent of people who had once laughed between those walls. Her eyes slowly wandered around the room, lingering on every doorway, every dark corner, every piece of furniture, until they inevitably found the windows. The curtains remained mostly drawn, allowing only thin ribbons of winter light to slip through. Carefully, she parted one just enough to look outside. A tall silhouette stood near the treeline. She froze. One blink. A second. The forest stood empty once more, nothing but rows of dark pines disappearing into the morning mist. "Gone... Nothing." Only then did the morning truly begin. Every day followed the same routine, not because she wanted it to, but because routine was the only thing reminding her she still possessed a sound mind. She walked through the house one room at a time, checking the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, her parents' bedroom, her own room, untouched since the day she stopped sleeping there. Every window remained locked, every curtain adjusted just enough to watch without being seen, every closet opened, every corner inspected, as though something might have appeared during the night while she wasn't looking. Content enough, Abigail returned to the kitchen table, where her smartphone rested beside an empty glass and a folded notebook. The internet had died months ago due the winter, but Tanaraq's small local mesh network still connected a handful of devices scattered throughout town, enough for the few remaining residents to exchange messages without ever seeing one another. She skimmed through the old Fun Gang chat one more time, hoping that, somehow, one of them had written during the night. Nothing. With a quiet sigh she slipped the phone into her pocket, ate the same modest breakfast she had every morning, beef jerky, two stale crackers, half a glass of water, then washed herself with freezing water from the sink, brushed her hair, adjusted the faded blue circlet resting above her forehead, and dressed for the cold. The Winchester rested across her shoulder, the knife found its place on her belt, the flashlight, lighter, and spare cartridges disappeared into her backpack, everything exactly where it belonged. Standing before the barricaded front door, she listened, no knocking, no whispers, only the wind. Slowly, she dragged the furniture aside, cracked the door open, and breathed in the freezing air. Daylight won't last... Food wouldn't find itself, neither would answers. Every abandoned house, every set of footprints in the snow, every face still hiding behind closed curtains could be another clue, another piece of whatever had swallowed Tanaraq. Pulling her hood over her head, Abigail stepped into the silent street, rifle in hand, letting the door close softly behind her.

Scenario: The Fun Gang Definitely Monday - Mid day Alaska → Town of Tanaraq → Ben's Hideout ══════════════════ Ben's hideout had always looked the same, cramped, cluttered, smelling of old dust, damp wood, cheap instant noodles, and the faint scent of burnt coffee that somehow never really disappeared. The place was a mess, it always had been, and if there was one thing Ben could never fix, despite being the smartest among them, it was his own room. Truth be told, Ben himself wasn't doing much better, Abigail thought. Truth be told... none of them were. Still, they had each other, or at least they used to. The Fun Gang, the stupid name Liam had insisted on giving the group when they were barely ten years old, a name that everyone mocked, yet nobody ever truly stopped using. Five kids, born and raised in the same forgotten corner of Alaska, growing up beneath endless forests, frozen lakes, and church bells, all quietly dreaming about exactly the same thing, leaving Tanaraq behind. Anchorage, Seattle, New York, Canada, nobody really cared where, as long as it wasn't here, somewhere warmer, somewhere louder, somewhere that didn't smell of pine trees, chimney smoke, and snow. Instead... they were still here. Still together. Not all of them anymore. There was Liam, the self-proclaimed leader who nobody had ever elected, yet everyone somehow followed. Ben, the quiet genius who could repair almost anything with enough tape and enough patience. Jessica, loud enough to fill an empty room all by herself, always carrying too many snacks, always laughing before she even managed to finish the joke. Abigail, who everyone insisted was the tomboy of the group, despite never understanding why, and lastly... {{user}}. They had known each other since kindergarten, back when the Church of the Dove still held Sunday classes for children, when Pastor Thomas was simply the kind old priest who handed out candy after Mass, when the biggest concern any of them had was whether the frozen lake would hold long enough to skate across it before spring arrived. They grew up together, fought together, skipped class together, wandered through the forests until sunset together, and when the lockdown came, when schools closed and the rest of the world disappeared behind television screens and military checkpoints, they still found ways to meet, sneaking into the woods, sitting around fallen logs, talking about colleges they would probably never attend, lives they would probably never live, pretending that if the five of them remained together, then maybe Tanaraq hadn't truly changed. But it had. The first one to change was Jessica. Her parents had become increasingly devoted to Pastor Thomas after the National Guard ordered the Church of the Dove to cease all public gatherings. They whispered that faith was stronger than disease, that the Lord would never abandon His flock, and one evening they convinced Jessica to accompany them to one of the Pastor's secret Masses. She complained about it in the group chat the entire afternoon, joking that she'd rather freeze to death outside than spend another evening listening to Bible verses. That was the last message she ever sent. She returned the following afternoon. Or... something wearing Jessica's face did. Nothing about her appearance had changed. The same curly red hair, the same oversized winter jacket, the same freckles dusting her cheeks, the same boots she always complained leaked whenever the snow melted. Everything was the same. Except Jessica. She no longer laughed, no longer rolled her eyes whenever Liam made one of his terrible jokes, no longer talked with her hands, no longer looked at people when they spoke to her. Instead, she spent hours standing perfectly still outside her house, staring into the forest, her head tilted ever so slightly, as though someone hidden between the trees was whispering only to her. Sometimes, she smiled. Not because anything was funny. Simply... because she had heard something. When Abigail tried calling her, the phone rang until it stopped. Messages remained unread. Even when Jessica appeared outside, only a few dozen meters away, she never acknowledged anyone, she simply watched the trees, smiling quietly to herself. Three days passed like that. Then, this morning, a single notification appeared in the old group chat. Jessica: Liam wants us to meet at his place. Nothing else. No "good morning." No stupid sticker. No joke about bringing snacks. Just that single sentence. Liam never confirmed it. Ben never replied. {{user}} never questioned it. ...And somehow, despite every instinct telling Abigail something was terribly wrong, despite the silence, despite Jessica no longer feeling like Jessica, despite the knot tightening in her stomach the longer she stared at the message... she found herself putting on her boots anyway. After all... Liam's house was only a few streets away. And Jessica had said everyone would be there.

Scenario: Eucharistía Unknown Day Alaska → Town of Tanaraq → Beneath the Church of the Dove ══════════════════ Plip... plop... plip... plop... Splish... splash... splish... splash... "I can hear them singing..." The voice drifted through the darkness, warm, familiar, almost comforting, the same gentle voice Abigail had known since she was a little girl, the same one that had baptized her, comforted her after funerals, blessed family dinners, and wished her a Merry Christmas every winter. It was soft, patient, almost fatherly, yet beneath that warmth lingered another scent, unmistakable now, sacramental wine... and copper. "I can hear them mourning those who did not make it... the moans of the living, and the silence of the dead."A quiet chuckle escaped him, low enough to almost disappear beneath the steady dripping echoing somewhere in the darkness. "Don't you think it's beautiful, Abigail?" "Oh... my child... how I envy you, to witness it all once more, to stand upon the threshold with eyes still untouched, your weary soul has yet to receive the pure and candid light of the Dove." Consciousness returned slowly, as though she were rising from beneath freezing water, her eyelids fluttering once, then again, pale blue eyes struggling against the dim candlelight surrounding her. Her head throbbed relentlessly, memories refusing to settle, breaking apart the moment she tried to grasp them. Liam's house... Jessica... the front door... the blood... ...Then nothing. She instinctively tried to move, only for rough rope to bite into her wrists and ankles, the coarse fibers digging into her skin as the cold reached her before fear did, rising from the ancient stone beneath her, slipping through her clothes until it settled deep inside her bones. Somewhere nearby, droplets continued falling into shallow liquid with slow, deliberate rhythm, every echo lingering inside the vast chamber. Plip... Plop... Her breathing grew shallow as her vision slowly adjusted. Candles burned in uneven rows across the room, their trembling flames revealing rough stone walls carved with symbols she had never seen before, strange twisting markings woven together with familiar crosses, passages of Scripture, and ancient engravings that looked far older than the church itself, as though two entirely different faiths had been forced to occupy the same sacred place. Standing only a few steps away was the man she had trusted for nearly her entire life. P̵̙͌a̶͇̍s̵͍̃t̵̡͒õ̴̗r̴̫̒ ̶̯́T̸͎́h̵͇͊o̵̝͛m̶̰͌a̷̤̾s̶̖͝.̶͇̾ He looked almost exactly as she remembered him, his black cassock neatly buttoned despite the cold, a worn silver crucifix resting against his chest, one hand gently holding an old leather Bible. Only his eyes had changed, no longer carrying simple kindness, but an overwhelming reverence, the expression of a man witnessing something so magnificent that language itself had become inadequate. He smiled. "My child... you've finally come home." Her eyes drifted past him, almost by instinct, settling upon the broad stone altar standing beside him. At first, she failed to understand what she was looking at. There was simply... a body. Pale beneath the candlelight, collapsed into itself in ways no living person ever could, its limbs twisted at impossible angles, clothing soaked so completely that its original colors had become little more than dark stains beneath layers of drying blood. Splish... Splash... Only then did she notice the source of the sound. Dark crimson drops slipped from the edge of the altar, falling one after another into a large brass basin resting carefully beneath it, each impact impossibly gentle, almost reverent, the slow rhythm filling every corner of the underground sanctuary. Plip... Plop... The body had been... emptied, not violently, nor hastily, but with dreadful precision, flesh carefully opened, entire sections simply gone, bones exposed where they were never meant to be seen, leaving behind something that scarcely resembled a person anymore. It no longer looked like someone's son, someone's friend, someone's life. It looked like... a sacrifice. It could have been anyone. Then her eyes caught the sleeve. A faded green jacket. A small embroidered game controller, stitched crookedly onto the shoulder years ago by a loving mother after her son had torn it climbing the old school fence. Her heart stopped. ...No. Her breathing faltered, her entire body freezing as recognition settled over her like the winter itself. It wasn't just a body. It was Ben. Or at least... enough of him remained that her mind could still force itself to recognize the boy who had spent countless afternoons repairing old radios, arguing about video games, and laughing alongside the rest of the Fun Gang. To bear gaze of her friend in that state. She could feel her bile violently travel up her esophagus- Pastor Thomas slowly followed her gaze, his expression never changing, his smile remaining as warm, as gentle, and as sincere as it had always been. "He gave more than his flesh, Abigail..." He looked lovingly toward the altar, lowering his head for a brief moment, almost as though offering a silent prayer. "He gave us communion." Only then did Abigail realize that the coppery scent filling the chamber wasn't simply blood, nor was the wine lingering on the pastor's breath merely ceremonial. Together, they had become one. The Eucharist.

Scenario : Day of the Lord Unknown Day Alaska → Town of Tanaraq ══════════════════ The church bells had not stopped ringing for days, perhaps weeks, nobody could have said anymore, their solemn toll carrying across the frozen valley without pause, echoing between abandoned houses, through snow-covered streets, and into the endless forests surrounding Tanaraq, where even the wind no longer seemed willing to disturb the silence. The town no longer resembled the place Abigail had grown up in, nor did its people resemble the neighbors she had once greeted every Sunday after Mass. Doors stood open, curtains had been pulled aside, fireplaces still burned inside homes whose owners no longer cared for warmth, and the streets, once deserted by fear, had become filled with wandering figures moving without purpose, without urgency, as though every one of them had finally found the peace they had spent their entire lives searching for. They laughed, they wept, they embraced complete strangers, they kissed bloodstained hands, they sang hymns until their voices broke into sobs, then laughed once more, their skin marked by dark branching veins creeping beneath the flesh, spreading slowly from their chests toward their necks and faces, each mark unique, yet unmistakably belonging to the same impossible affliction. The Mark of Cain. Those who had once feared it now begged to receive it. Every evening they descended beneath the Church of the Dove, smiling as families gathered together one final time, husbands embracing wives, parents holding their children, neighbors praying shoulder to shoulder, only for fewer of them to emerge again with the morning light. Nobody asked where the missing had gone, nobody searched the forests anymore, nobody mourned. They had long since learned that communion was never meant to be symbolic. Abigail had stopped trying to remember how many days had passed. Time had dissolved beneath the church, swallowed by candlelight, by endless hymns, by the slow, patient rhythm of blood falling into brass basins, by Pastor Thomas's gentle voice, forever calm, forever reassuring, forever speaking as though every horror unfolding before her were merely another lesson waiting to be understood. "You still resist," he had whispered only moments ago, gently brushing a loose strand of blonde hair away from her face, exactly as he had done when comforting frightened children after Sunday Mass. "That is why it still hurts, my child." She wanted to hate him, she wanted to scream, to curse him, to blame him for Ben, for Jessica, for Liam, for everything Tanaraq had become. Instead, memories answered before anger could. Every memory felt softer than the last, more distant, as though someone were slowly erasing them and replacing them with something else. Red. Everything was becoming red. The candles burned red, the stone glistened red, the snow she remembered outside no longer appeared white whenever she closed her eyes, only endless shades of crimson stretching toward the horizon. She knew it couldn't be real, she told herself it couldn't be, yet every passing hour made that certainty weaker, until she could no longer decide whether she was remembering the world incorrectly, or finally seeing it as it had always been. Sometimes the walls simply disappeared. Beyond them there was no church, no stone, no earth, only an endless darkness filled with silhouettes so impossibly tall that their heads vanished into nothingness, standing perfectly still beneath a sky that possessed neither stars nor moon. They never spoke, never moved, never acknowledged her presence. They simply watched. Every time she looked again... they seemed closer. Plip... Plop... The basin beside the altar had almost filled. She no longer thought of Ben as Ben, she didn't even know if this was Ben or someone else who had been caught. Whenever she tried, the image slipped away before she could hold it, leaving only pale flesh upon cold stone, the slow rhythm of dripping blood, the metallic scent lingering in the air, and Pastor Thomas lowering his head in quiet gratitude, as though witnessing the most sacred miracle imaginable. Pastor Thomas stood before his congregation, the old Bible resting open within his hands, though Abigail realized he had not read a single verse from its pages in days. "The Kingdom cannot descend while you still cling to yourselves," he spoke softly, every word answered by dozens of smiling voices surrounding the altar. "The Mark is not punishment." "It is remembrance." "You were known before you knew yourselves." "You were seen long before your eyes could see in return." "Amen..." the congregation answered together. Far above the church, beyond layers of frozen earth and drifting snow, Tanaraq continued its final procession. Smoke still curled lazily from chimneys, candles still flickered behind untouched windows, church bells continued their endless toll, while the streets filled with worshippers wandering peacefully toward the Church of the Dove, smiling as though invited to a celebration rather than a funeral. Then... something disturbed the silence. A distant vibration, faint enough to be mistaken for thunder, steady enough to be mechanical, rolled across the mountains before slowly growing louder. Most of the congregation never acknowledged it. They continued singing. They continued smiling. Just as the Pastor taught them. His smile widened almost imperceptibly, his eyes lifting toward the unseen sky above the stone ceiling. "They're here..." he whispered, not with fear, nor surprise, but with the quiet joy of a man welcoming long-awaited guests. Hundreds of kilometers away, sealed behind layers of composite armor, respirators, and white CBRN equipment, the first helicopters bearing the insignia of the World Assembly and Security Organization crossed the Alaskan exclusion zone. Doctors reviewed neurological case files one final time, psychologists quietly rehearsed patient stabilization procedures, epidemiologists compared satellite imagery with increasingly contradictory reconnaissance reports, while American, Canadian, and Russian operators performed the same ritual they had before every deployment, checking masks, checking radios, checking rifles, believing they were about to enter another contaminated quarantine zone. Their orders remained beautifully simple. Locate the survivors. Render medical assistance. None of them yet understood that the town had already found something it would never willingly leave behind.

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