Chapter 2: Tribute and Terror

I ride the white mare, watching Pete lead her on ahead. The saddle creaks, the horse’s flank warm beneath me. The countryside rolls past in dusty ribbons—fields dotted with hay bales, clapboard barns slumping into weeds. Somewhere a crow caws, sharp and lonely, reminding me just how far I am from anything I’d call home.

Compared to the other two, Pete seems the most normal right now. He trudges ahead, hands stuffed in his pockets, humming "Sweet Home Alabama" under his breath. He could be any guy fixing a fence or pumping gas at a roadside station—almost comforting, if this world weren’t so warped.

If it’s just gluttony, there’s food in the saddlebag. We could always swing by a diner or grocery store nearby. I eye the saddlebag, hoping for granola bars or jerky, something normal. I let myself imagine a small-town diner—formica tables, endless coffee, the smell of fried eggs. Anything to feel real again.

I decide to use Pete as a starting point to gather more info. I lean forward in the saddle, keeping my tone casual, like we’re just shooting the breeze on a lazy Sunday ride.

"Pete, what have you all been eating?" My voice cracks a little at the end. Pete hesitates, then forces a crooked grin. The silence drags out, thick as July humidity.

A flicker of nerves crosses Pete’s face, then he laughs, "Father, don’t get the wrong idea—these are tribute infants sent to us by the Women’s Colony."

My brain blanks out. Is this a sick joke? In America, you call the cops for less. The words hit like a punch to the gut. I feel the air sucked out of my lungs. Tribute infants? Just saying it would have the sheriff and half the county on your porch.

"Tribute infants?" My voice is barely a whisper, cold sweat breaking out behind my ears. Pete’s eyes dart to the horizon, like he’s hoping someone will ride out of the cornfields to save us.

Pete grabs a duffel bag from the mare’s back, opens it, and tiny infant corpses, each the size of a fist, tumble out onto the dirt.

My stomach lurches. The bag hits the ground with a dull thud, its contents rolling out like twisted Halloween props. They’re so small. I try to convince myself they’re dolls, but the sickly-sweet smell says otherwise.

I force myself not to throw up. "How can this be allowed?" My hands are shaking so bad I have to grip the reins. My question comes out sharper than I meant, raw with horror. The world tilts, colors too bright, the sun too hot.

As he picks up the tribute infants, Pete explains, "Father, this is nothing. Over at St. Mark’s, folks talk about a miracle tree—says it needs special sacrifices, stuff you wouldn’t believe. Just a whiff’s supposed to add a century to your life. Old wives’ tales, right? But around here, people take it serious."

His voice goes weirdly reverent, like he’s reciting family folklore. But the details are so grotesque it makes my skin crawl. In the U.S., people chase youth with gym memberships and green juice, not rituals straight out of a horror movie. I try to focus on the mare’s rhythm, but the image won’t leave me.

Sam laughs too. "Don’t know if we’ll have the Father’s blessing to taste one at the monastery." His laugh is brittle, echoing too loud on the empty road—like a guy who’d get kicked out of the church social for being just a little too weird.

At that moment, the white mare lowers its head. The mare’s breath huffs, hot and sweet, before she snaps down—crunch. She bites through a skull. The sound is sickening—wet and final. Her eyes roll back, something ancient and hungry flickering beneath the calm.

"Urgh." I can’t hold back—I vomit all over the ground. For a second, I’m outside myself, watching a stranger gag in the dirt. Then I’m back, knees shaking.

【Be careful of the fifth person in the group.】

The rule blares in my brain, red alert, like an Amber Alert buzzing my phone. I can’t shake the feeling something’s watching, just out of sight, waiting for me to slip up.

This rule echoes in my mind. My thoughts race, tearing through details, searching for the hidden threat.

By order of joining, Sam was last to join. I try to remember the story—who came when, who’s always been here. Sam feels off, like a latecomer to a party who won’t leave.

The rule forbidding talking to him hints at his danger. I keep my mouth shut, afraid to even look at him. Something about Sam makes my skin prickle.

Or maybe the white mare is the fifth member. My eyes drift to the mare, her mouth still stained red. Is she just a beast—or something else?

Or, like those urban legends about the Four Corners Game, maybe there’s an invisible person trailing our scripture-seeking group. My skin crawls. I remember sleepover stories—kids daring each other to play games that open doors best left shut. The air feels charged, like we’re not alone.

Some versions say the real Caleb was already killed here, replaced by a fake. The narrative is slippery, always one step ahead. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose track of who’s who.

I look at silent Big Brother. Could he be the fifth? His silence is heavy, stormlike. He gives nothing away, and that scares me most.

My head throbs again—a sharp, blinding spike. I grit my teeth, fighting to keep my thoughts clear.

Looking at these three and a horse—none of them seem normal. A chill runs through me: I might be the only human left in this twisted America.

"Father, we’re almost there." Wild Hair, scouting ahead, turns his head, voice weirdly cheerful—like a camp counselor announcing the next stop on a field trip.

"Almost where?" I squint at the horizon, expecting smoke or fire, but all I see is endless fields and a gleaming white spire.

His face lights up. "To the Western Sanctuary!" He grins like a kid about to ride the world’s biggest roller coaster. Whatever’s waiting, it’s not going to be good.