Infab
The Demon Fanatic
The mention of the Confederates, as well as 'hicks and inbreds' made Morgan cock an eyebrow as she glanced to Agent Song. They were intending to pass through Confederate territory during the trip? Wonderful. She had already had her fill of the Confederacy and all that lived in it months ago, and really didn't wish to have to go through that same crap again.
At least she was getting her gear back when they leave on this merry little escort op. She missed her rifle. And her guitar. She also missed her car, but that wasn't coming back. Rednecks claimed that, and they had died with it too.
- + - Two Months Ago - + -
Religion wasn't Morgan's thing. Never has been, after learning about what all had happened to the world and how little faith had done to save it. She'd even argue that in some cases, blind faith pushed humanity closer to the brink. Some divine being looking down on humanity, attempting to guide it through teachings and strict rules written down in books by their 'prophets'. That was, of course, just the major religions of the old world. The minor ones had varieties of gods, and were often less strict.
There were some out west that believed in a few of the old religions. Christianity being the primary one. She had encountered primarily Catholics and Mormons out west, the latter being the weirder of the two and apparently centralized almost exclusively in the region of what used to be Utah.
Down here in the old state of Alabama, religion was a major part of a Confederate citizen's life. Specifically Christianity. You lived by the word of the one and only God, written down in tomes referred to as the Bible. A man referred to as Jesus of Nazareth was one's savior, having sacrificed himself to atone for all of humanity's sins.
Now, normally Morgan didn't give a shit about what you believe in as long as you didn't shove it onto her. Believe what you want, but leave me alone. It had allowed her to cross through religious territories smoothly, with a bit of gun flashing here and there to accompany her saying 'Fuck off.' to hecklers.
Here, it was a different story.
She couldn't count the number of times she had been called a harlot. Or a snake. Or a devil worshiper. Or even a demon. She shrugged it off. She had been called a variety of things over the years, by people far better and far worse than these people.
But most of the hecklers stopped after a while. Some didn't. Those particular few were of a variety of individuals that lived deep in the woods and mountains of Alabama (and likely elsewhere in the Southeast and up through Appalachia.) Rednecks. Hillbillies. The ones that clung to their guns and hate just as hard as they clung to their religion. Often ending up dead in a family feud with another clan of rednecks, or at the hands of some creature in the woods they shouldn't have fucked with.
Well, they decided to fuck with Morgan. The method? Stealing her car while she was out hunting for a meal. The car she had been driving since California. The car she had been living out of for the past few months, as she travelled America's old highways and dirt roads. An old, beat-up Ford Mustang Mach 1 that Faith had fixed up for her.
She loved that car, really. Enough to kill over it.
These motherfuckers took it and wrecked it. Plowed it into the bank of a river after trying to jump said river with it. Most of her stuff survived the jump, but the car and its engine didn't. It now sat half submerged in the murky brown water, front end crushed and caved inward.
She wanted payback. And for two weeks, she had tracked them. Five people. Inbred hicks, living in the backwoods of what was formerly Monroe County, Alabama. The mother and father: Susie and John. The three sons: Richard, Joe, and Mason. The Travers family.
And over the past three nights, she had killed all but two of the sons. The first to drop was Susie, whom had stepped outside to call out to John that supper was ready. As she stepped across the poarch, moving towards the railing so that she could see her husband over by the woodshed, her foot pressed down on a loose board in the poarch's flooring.
Beneath that board, a pressure switch attached to a makeshift trap loaded with a cluster of four shotgun shells. Double-ought buckshot would blast straight upwards, blowing most of her leg off before ripping through her chest and head. She was dead on the spot.
The next night, Mason went next. Searching the woods for whatever killed his mother, he'd fall into a pit that had been dug into the forest floor. Morgan spent a lot of time on that pit, and filled it with one of her favorite animals.
Snakes.
She watched the man panic and flail about, trying to climb from the twelve foot deep pit. Timber rattlers latching onto him and pumping him full of as much venom as they could. He was dead within minutes, as Morgan looked on with a wide grin. Two down. Three to go.
The third night, John was put down. His was a bit tricky. He noticed Morgan coming, and had fired off a shot. Shitty aim, of course. Asshole couldn't afford an automatic either. Some reproduction of an old Springfield trap-door rifle chambered in a big, heavy hitting round. These idiots and their wierd fascination with the past.
She dropped a tree on his ass. Didn't even see it coming, either. One second, he's looking down the barrel of his rifle. A second later, he was splattered across the ground as a pine tree's trunk crashed down onto him from directly above. The rifle seemed interesting, so Morgan ended up keeping it. A handful of bullets from John's pocket came with it, so she didn't have to scrounge too much.
And now, it was the fourth night. The two remaining brothers, Richard and Joe were still alive, hiding in the shack the family lived in. Fear ever growing in their hateful little hearts. And she was going to cash in on it.
As darkness settled in, rendering the forest pitch black around the wooden shack, Morgan called out.
"Oh, Richard! Little Joe! Come out, come out, wherever you are!~"
There was silence for a few moments afterwards, before she heard Richard yell back. "Please!! Leave us be, demon!! What have we done to deserve this!?" he shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the house.
"You've sinned, of course. You've been living in sin your whole lives. You and your brother! Your whole family!"
She knew they were trying to figure out what they had done. The silence that followed her words only confirmed it. She grinned.
"God's not going to save you, boys. You're mine now, and I am to collect those miserable excuses for souls."
"S-Stay back, demon! I rebuke thee!!"
She chuckled, before picking up a line next to her foot. She gave it a gentle tug, and near the shack, a stack of aluminium cans she had set up fell over. Making a loud clanking noise.
A shotgun blast sounded off from inside the house, ripping through the wall of the shack in the direction of the cans. They were certainly scared now.
She lifted the Springfield rifle to her shoulder, taking aim at the front door of the shack. She knew what they were intending to do. She just had to wait. Wait, and watch.
And soon, the shack door eased open. She could hear the creak of the hinges from where she sat in the dark. She could now see inside, but still didn't see anyone. She did, however, see the end of a shotgun barrel, poking up into the air from behind the doorframe. It seemed they were trying to will themselves to investigate the cans.
And then, Richard swung out of the doorway onto the poarch. Shotgun shouldered, pointing towards the left side of the house. Ready to fire at a moment's notice. Joe followed behind, clutching a woodcutting axe.
Richard wouldn't be standing for very much longer, however.
There was a crack, and a .45-70 round darted through the night air. It struck Richard in the temple, blowing half his head off as he slammed into the wall next to him. Joe panicked, rushing back inside and slamming the door shut.
Morgan chuckled, flicking the trap-door open on the rifle. The empty shell casing darted out, and she quickly replaced it with a new round before shutting the door and cocking the hammer back. Rifle was ready for a other shot.
"Just you now, Little Joe! You and me!"
He didn't respond. He didn't need to. He was probably shitting himself with fear in a corner of the house.
"Why don't you come on out? Face ol' Lucifer with some dignity, eh? Surely a loyal soldier of God's got the balls to do that?"
No response.
She smirked. "Ah, well... guess I'll come to you!~"
She then heard movement, as she slowly walked towards the shack. He was moving furniture inside, trying to find something heavy to block the door. Cute. He thinks that's going to help.
As she approached, she carefully stepped around to the right side of the house. From her belt, she pulled a bottle with a rag jutting out of it. A match was also drawn, which she struck across the side of her leather boot. Once lit, she lit the rag poking out of the bottle. Molotov time.
A simple toss sent the bottle through the right window of the house, shattering the glass window as well as the bottle as it hit the floor inside. Fire errupted practicly everywhere, and she could hear Joe panicking inside. She grinned again. He'd be moving that furniture out of the way of the door.
And so he did. It took him a minute, with the fire building behind him. Engulfing the back half of the house before he was able to step outside the front door.
The moment he stepped out, a .45-70 round punched through his knee. He collapsed, yelling out in agony as he fell onto the poarch. Morgan chuckled, reloading the weapon as she stepped around.
"You dumb motherfucker." she muttered, slipping a fresh round into the weapon. She closed the door and cocked the hammer back. Then, another shot. Right into the other knee. The man cried out again, now rendered unable to walk. And a few moments later, Joe would finally pass out from the pain.
An hour later, he'd awaken to find himself strapped across a log. Chains bound his hands and legs, rendering him completely unable to move. And nearby... was a woman wearing what appeared to be a goat's head. She glanced back, chuckling as she noticed he was awake.
"Ah, the fat-ass returns to the land of the conscious. How's your knees, Little Joe?" she asked, looking back down in front of her. She was messing with some sort of object before her, just out of view.
It was then that she heard Joe reciting some sort of prayer to himself. She slowly looked back, taking a moment to watch him as he whispered the words.
"...God's not going to save you, Joe."
Joe slowly stopped his recital of the prayer, eyes fluttering open and looking in her direction.
"He checked out a long time ago, I'm afraid." she then added, before turning about with the object she had been messing with. His eyes then met the object, and a look of horror appeared on his face.
It was a chainsaw.
"But, feel free to pray! Your decision, after all." she said, checking its settings before pulling on the string in an attempt to start it. "Maybe you'll make better decisions in whatever life comes after, hmm? Like not touching someone else's car?"
It soon cranked, smoke bursting from the tool's exhaust. Morgan revved the tool a few times, holding it up and watching the rough chains spin along the track.
"Groovy."
At least she was getting her gear back when they leave on this merry little escort op. She missed her rifle. And her guitar. She also missed her car, but that wasn't coming back. Rednecks claimed that, and they had died with it too.
- + - Two Months Ago - + -
There were some out west that believed in a few of the old religions. Christianity being the primary one. She had encountered primarily Catholics and Mormons out west, the latter being the weirder of the two and apparently centralized almost exclusively in the region of what used to be Utah.
Down here in the old state of Alabama, religion was a major part of a Confederate citizen's life. Specifically Christianity. You lived by the word of the one and only God, written down in tomes referred to as the Bible. A man referred to as Jesus of Nazareth was one's savior, having sacrificed himself to atone for all of humanity's sins.
Now, normally Morgan didn't give a shit about what you believe in as long as you didn't shove it onto her. Believe what you want, but leave me alone. It had allowed her to cross through religious territories smoothly, with a bit of gun flashing here and there to accompany her saying 'Fuck off.' to hecklers.
Here, it was a different story.
She couldn't count the number of times she had been called a harlot. Or a snake. Or a devil worshiper. Or even a demon. She shrugged it off. She had been called a variety of things over the years, by people far better and far worse than these people.
But most of the hecklers stopped after a while. Some didn't. Those particular few were of a variety of individuals that lived deep in the woods and mountains of Alabama (and likely elsewhere in the Southeast and up through Appalachia.) Rednecks. Hillbillies. The ones that clung to their guns and hate just as hard as they clung to their religion. Often ending up dead in a family feud with another clan of rednecks, or at the hands of some creature in the woods they shouldn't have fucked with.
Well, they decided to fuck with Morgan. The method? Stealing her car while she was out hunting for a meal. The car she had been driving since California. The car she had been living out of for the past few months, as she travelled America's old highways and dirt roads. An old, beat-up Ford Mustang Mach 1 that Faith had fixed up for her.
She loved that car, really. Enough to kill over it.
These motherfuckers took it and wrecked it. Plowed it into the bank of a river after trying to jump said river with it. Most of her stuff survived the jump, but the car and its engine didn't. It now sat half submerged in the murky brown water, front end crushed and caved inward.
She wanted payback. And for two weeks, she had tracked them. Five people. Inbred hicks, living in the backwoods of what was formerly Monroe County, Alabama. The mother and father: Susie and John. The three sons: Richard, Joe, and Mason. The Travers family.
And over the past three nights, she had killed all but two of the sons. The first to drop was Susie, whom had stepped outside to call out to John that supper was ready. As she stepped across the poarch, moving towards the railing so that she could see her husband over by the woodshed, her foot pressed down on a loose board in the poarch's flooring.
Beneath that board, a pressure switch attached to a makeshift trap loaded with a cluster of four shotgun shells. Double-ought buckshot would blast straight upwards, blowing most of her leg off before ripping through her chest and head. She was dead on the spot.
The next night, Mason went next. Searching the woods for whatever killed his mother, he'd fall into a pit that had been dug into the forest floor. Morgan spent a lot of time on that pit, and filled it with one of her favorite animals.
Snakes.
She watched the man panic and flail about, trying to climb from the twelve foot deep pit. Timber rattlers latching onto him and pumping him full of as much venom as they could. He was dead within minutes, as Morgan looked on with a wide grin. Two down. Three to go.
The third night, John was put down. His was a bit tricky. He noticed Morgan coming, and had fired off a shot. Shitty aim, of course. Asshole couldn't afford an automatic either. Some reproduction of an old Springfield trap-door rifle chambered in a big, heavy hitting round. These idiots and their wierd fascination with the past.
She dropped a tree on his ass. Didn't even see it coming, either. One second, he's looking down the barrel of his rifle. A second later, he was splattered across the ground as a pine tree's trunk crashed down onto him from directly above. The rifle seemed interesting, so Morgan ended up keeping it. A handful of bullets from John's pocket came with it, so she didn't have to scrounge too much.
And now, it was the fourth night. The two remaining brothers, Richard and Joe were still alive, hiding in the shack the family lived in. Fear ever growing in their hateful little hearts. And she was going to cash in on it.
As darkness settled in, rendering the forest pitch black around the wooden shack, Morgan called out.
"Oh, Richard! Little Joe! Come out, come out, wherever you are!~"
There was silence for a few moments afterwards, before she heard Richard yell back. "Please!! Leave us be, demon!! What have we done to deserve this!?" he shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the house.
"You've sinned, of course. You've been living in sin your whole lives. You and your brother! Your whole family!"
She knew they were trying to figure out what they had done. The silence that followed her words only confirmed it. She grinned.
"God's not going to save you, boys. You're mine now, and I am to collect those miserable excuses for souls."
"S-Stay back, demon! I rebuke thee!!"
She chuckled, before picking up a line next to her foot. She gave it a gentle tug, and near the shack, a stack of aluminium cans she had set up fell over. Making a loud clanking noise.
A shotgun blast sounded off from inside the house, ripping through the wall of the shack in the direction of the cans. They were certainly scared now.
She lifted the Springfield rifle to her shoulder, taking aim at the front door of the shack. She knew what they were intending to do. She just had to wait. Wait, and watch.
And soon, the shack door eased open. She could hear the creak of the hinges from where she sat in the dark. She could now see inside, but still didn't see anyone. She did, however, see the end of a shotgun barrel, poking up into the air from behind the doorframe. It seemed they were trying to will themselves to investigate the cans.
And then, Richard swung out of the doorway onto the poarch. Shotgun shouldered, pointing towards the left side of the house. Ready to fire at a moment's notice. Joe followed behind, clutching a woodcutting axe.
Richard wouldn't be standing for very much longer, however.
There was a crack, and a .45-70 round darted through the night air. It struck Richard in the temple, blowing half his head off as he slammed into the wall next to him. Joe panicked, rushing back inside and slamming the door shut.
Morgan chuckled, flicking the trap-door open on the rifle. The empty shell casing darted out, and she quickly replaced it with a new round before shutting the door and cocking the hammer back. Rifle was ready for a other shot.
"Just you now, Little Joe! You and me!"
He didn't respond. He didn't need to. He was probably shitting himself with fear in a corner of the house.
"Why don't you come on out? Face ol' Lucifer with some dignity, eh? Surely a loyal soldier of God's got the balls to do that?"
No response.
She smirked. "Ah, well... guess I'll come to you!~"
She then heard movement, as she slowly walked towards the shack. He was moving furniture inside, trying to find something heavy to block the door. Cute. He thinks that's going to help.
As she approached, she carefully stepped around to the right side of the house. From her belt, she pulled a bottle with a rag jutting out of it. A match was also drawn, which she struck across the side of her leather boot. Once lit, she lit the rag poking out of the bottle. Molotov time.
A simple toss sent the bottle through the right window of the house, shattering the glass window as well as the bottle as it hit the floor inside. Fire errupted practicly everywhere, and she could hear Joe panicking inside. She grinned again. He'd be moving that furniture out of the way of the door.
And so he did. It took him a minute, with the fire building behind him. Engulfing the back half of the house before he was able to step outside the front door.
The moment he stepped out, a .45-70 round punched through his knee. He collapsed, yelling out in agony as he fell onto the poarch. Morgan chuckled, reloading the weapon as she stepped around.
"You dumb motherfucker." she muttered, slipping a fresh round into the weapon. She closed the door and cocked the hammer back. Then, another shot. Right into the other knee. The man cried out again, now rendered unable to walk. And a few moments later, Joe would finally pass out from the pain.
An hour later, he'd awaken to find himself strapped across a log. Chains bound his hands and legs, rendering him completely unable to move. And nearby... was a woman wearing what appeared to be a goat's head. She glanced back, chuckling as she noticed he was awake.
"Ah, the fat-ass returns to the land of the conscious. How's your knees, Little Joe?" she asked, looking back down in front of her. She was messing with some sort of object before her, just out of view.
It was then that she heard Joe reciting some sort of prayer to himself. She slowly looked back, taking a moment to watch him as he whispered the words.
"...God's not going to save you, Joe."
Joe slowly stopped his recital of the prayer, eyes fluttering open and looking in her direction.
"He checked out a long time ago, I'm afraid." she then added, before turning about with the object she had been messing with. His eyes then met the object, and a look of horror appeared on his face.
It was a chainsaw.
"But, feel free to pray! Your decision, after all." she said, checking its settings before pulling on the string in an attempt to start it. "Maybe you'll make better decisions in whatever life comes after, hmm? Like not touching someone else's car?"
It soon cranked, smoke bursting from the tool's exhaust. Morgan revved the tool a few times, holding it up and watching the rough chains spin along the track.
"Groovy."
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