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Mar. 11th, 2010 10:18 pmSouthern Wyoming
Five abandoned frontier churches.
Five private railroad lines, connecting each to each in a pentacle of cold iron a hundred miles across, with an abandoned cemetery at its heart.
A single crypt at the center of it all, its doors sealed shut by a cold-forged, iron-bound lock graven with holy symbols, for which the only key is the mystical gun made by the same man who created this devil's trap a hundred and fifty years ago.
What Samuel Colt built, he built to last.
Unfortunately, what can be wrought by man can also be destroyed by him, and from the moment Jake Talley puts the gun in the lock, it's already too late. Cylinders whir and spin; tumblers fall into place with the dry rattle of old bones, and gears grind as bolt after bolt draws itself back, leaving the door unsealed for the first time since its creation.
With a scream of rusted metal, the gates of hell blow wide open.
Somewhere beside an unnamed highway
The RV's parked just far enough off the road to be safely out of the way of traffic, but not so far as to have trouble getting its wheels back on the asphalt when it's time to roll on. Passing cars, if there were any, would have no trouble reading the bumper stickers asking "How would Jesus drive" and proudly proclaiming "Bethlehem or Bust."
Kubrick finishes his dinner -- canned chili today, the kind with both beans and meat, what a treat -- sets his plate in the tiny sink, snags his shotgun and steps outside for a breath of fresh air and a peek at the stars before locking up for the night.
One look at the unnatural black clouds writhing overhead, and he's back inside with the door steel-barred and a cross dangling from the knob.
Less than ten seconds later, the taillights come on. The RV swerves back onto the highway and on toward the next town in a hail of gravel.
Lincoln, Nebraska
"Tamara!" The sharp adrenaline in Isaac's voice brings her from their bedroom to the living room on the run, pistol in hand.
He's standing by the window, looking out toward the east. She reaches him in time to see the streaks of demonic smoke storm their way across the sky toward Chicago.
They watch in silence as the clouds vanish, then turn away without a word and go to pack their gear.
In a prison cell
Gordon Walker sits on his cot, ignoring the yells of other inmates and the frightened shouts of the guards alike. His unblinking gaze is fixed on the darkness swirling across the small patch of space outside his barred window.
"Here it comes."
His hands tighten into fists.
"Sam Winchester. Shoulda killed you when I had the chance."
Five abandoned frontier churches.
Five private railroad lines, connecting each to each in a pentacle of cold iron a hundred miles across, with an abandoned cemetery at its heart.
A single crypt at the center of it all, its doors sealed shut by a cold-forged, iron-bound lock graven with holy symbols, for which the only key is the mystical gun made by the same man who created this devil's trap a hundred and fifty years ago.
What Samuel Colt built, he built to last.
Unfortunately, what can be wrought by man can also be destroyed by him, and from the moment Jake Talley puts the gun in the lock, it's already too late. Cylinders whir and spin; tumblers fall into place with the dry rattle of old bones, and gears grind as bolt after bolt draws itself back, leaving the door unsealed for the first time since its creation.
With a scream of rusted metal, the gates of hell blow wide open.
Somewhere beside an unnamed highway
The RV's parked just far enough off the road to be safely out of the way of traffic, but not so far as to have trouble getting its wheels back on the asphalt when it's time to roll on. Passing cars, if there were any, would have no trouble reading the bumper stickers asking "How would Jesus drive" and proudly proclaiming "Bethlehem or Bust."
Kubrick finishes his dinner -- canned chili today, the kind with both beans and meat, what a treat -- sets his plate in the tiny sink, snags his shotgun and steps outside for a breath of fresh air and a peek at the stars before locking up for the night.
One look at the unnatural black clouds writhing overhead, and he's back inside with the door steel-barred and a cross dangling from the knob.
Less than ten seconds later, the taillights come on. The RV swerves back onto the highway and on toward the next town in a hail of gravel.
Lincoln, Nebraska
"Tamara!" The sharp adrenaline in Isaac's voice brings her from their bedroom to the living room on the run, pistol in hand.
He's standing by the window, looking out toward the east. She reaches him in time to see the streaks of demonic smoke storm their way across the sky toward Chicago.
They watch in silence as the clouds vanish, then turn away without a word and go to pack their gear.
In a prison cell
Gordon Walker sits on his cot, ignoring the yells of other inmates and the frightened shouts of the guards alike. His unblinking gaze is fixed on the darkness swirling across the small patch of space outside his barred window.
"Here it comes."
His hands tighten into fists.
"Sam Winchester. Shoulda killed you when I had the chance."
