Chapter Text
Crowley never thought he would last this long, to be honest. Ages ago, before all this happened and he was just an over-imaginative child, he used to daydream about this kind of thing happening. He thought he would be a hero and kill all the zombies or defeat the devil or whatever. After all, he had been in the Scouts; he knew how to camp outside and find clean water and start fires. Compared to the rest of the boys in his class, he was practically Bear Grylls. He even knew how to shoot a gun. His instructor always told him that he would do well in an apocalypse. Until he ran out of bullets, at least.
The first thing that indicated something was wrong was The Hum. Not the melodious sort of hum that people make when they're baking cookies or doing the laundry. No, this was a loud, low pitched humming noise that seemed to emanate from the earth itself. It had all started in the Scottish countryside; on a small farm near Culloden. At first, The Hum was more of an inconvenience than the stuff of nightmares. For the first couple of weeks, it did nothing other than cause a few headaches and disrupt the sleeping patterns of a few farmers and several flocks of sheep. It was only after The Hum had spread as far as London and people started claiming that they could hear voices that the scientists stepped in. The military ended up cordoning off several fields in the area where The Hum had apparently originated.
After a few months, The Hum could be heard in every single country in the world. It had now become tolerable in most places, but for some reason, the scientists had become even more suspicious. After some detective work on the internet, Crowley soon learned that not even the specialists could find the source of The Hum. How there came to be specialists in that particular field in the first place he would never know.
It was at exactly six o'clock in the afternoon on Boxing Day the first time it happened. The police couldn't figure out what had caused two hundred and thirty three people across the world to simultaneously murder their families. Naturally, the authorities had attempted to interview the killers, but considering none of them spoke a single word to either the police or the doctors, they were of no help to the investigation whatsoever.
The second time this happened was at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. Seven hundred and thirteen people became murderers that night, including a twelve year old girl named Charlie Bradbury. She had stabbed her parents to death with a smashed wine glass. Just like before, none of the murderers spoke a word. Except little Charlie Bradbury.
"Why did you do it, sweetheart?"
"It said; do it, Charlie . Kill them all and you'll live forever. You'll live forever, just like me."
"What told you this?"
"The Hum. The Hum told me to do it."
Detective Inspector Cross had shuddered at the child's words and tried her best to keep a straight face.
"And... did it say anything else?"
Charlie had nodded. "It said that it had chosen me; that I was a prophet. But I don't really know what that is. The only prophets I've ever heard of are the ones who wrote the gospels and stuff. Mark, Matthew, Luke and John, you know? I don't think I'm like them. They were the good guys, weren't they? God chose them specially. Do you think it was God who told me to kill my family?"
Detective Inspector Cross had reached across the table and taken one of Charlie 's hands in her own. The child still had dried blood in her fingernails.
"No, Charlie. I don't think that God asked you to do this. I don't believe God asked anyone to do this. God is good, remember? He wouldn't want to kill all those people."
Charlie had tilted her head to one side slightly, her expression thoughtful yet emotionless at the same time.
"But he's done it before, hasn't he? He flooded the whole world once. He killed people in the bible all the time because he thought that they were wicked. My teacher said that the whole world is living in an age of sin. It says in the bible that before the end of the world, people would act exactly how they do now; rebellious and unholy and angry. 'It's all there in the bible, Charlie ' he said. 'If you've never prayed before I think now would be a good time to start'. And I think I agree with him. If God punished the wicked in the past, what's to stop him from doing it again?"
Detective Inspector Cross had no idea how to respond to that.
A year had passed since the second mass killing, and most people were now able to tune out the hum and go about their daily lives without too much disruption. Surprisingly, Scotland had become quite a popular tourist destination, despite recent rumours that the old Culloden battlefields had started to whisper. Apparently people had even founded a society dedicated to discerning the source of The Hum, and the large campsite that had sprung up in the area soon became a local landmark. The fact that The Hum had supposedly driven nine hundred and forty six people to murder their own families did not seem to deter the campers at all.
In the January of that year, just a few days after the anniversary of the New Year's massacre, The Hum stopped. Just like that. Many people found themselves actually missing it and deliberately made as much noise as possible; slamming doors and talking too loudly and leaving their televisions on all night so they wouldn't have to listen to the oppressive scilence.
One man even wrote the priest of Westminster Abbey a letter before leaping off the roof.
The end of Days is near. God is angry, for the world is wicked, Sinners beware, repent or die. You have not heard the voice of God like I have. You heard it as a crude, distressing noise which you named The Hum. This does not please him. Beware, for he shall return and the devastation will be more terrible than you could ever imagine. I warn you sinners. Repent or die.
The priest had fallen to his knees, begging for mercy with his arms outstretched towards the stained glass window in front of him. Some members of the congregation had sworn that the crucified Jesus depicted in the window had shed a tear at the sight of him.
The suicides started six months later. Most of them didn't leave a note of any kind, and the ones who did wrote letters reminiscent of the one left by the man at Westminster Abbey.
"See how powerful God is?" One wrote. "We don't have free will at all. Even our minds belong to him."
"I have been chosen" said another. "I must tell you, sinners. The four are coming. And they will devastate this wicked world."
Naturally, this letter had caused a bit of a stir. Many believed that the man was referring to the Four Horsemen, and that this was indeed the end of days. Of course, there were the people who were adamant that there was "something in the water" or "some kind of gas" and that The Hum was simply a mass hallucination. The team of scientists who had suggested this theory died one week later. They left one simple note before drinking a lethal mixture of chemicals.
"We did not heed his warnings. And now we pay the price. Beware; for the first one is already amongst you."
No-one else had suggested any similar theories after that.
Of course, when the war between the USA and North Korea broke out, most people knew what was happening. It was War, they said. War as in the Horseman of the Apocalypse. By then, even the most sinful of atheists were claiming to have been born-again. Church attendance was at a record high.
After only a few weeks, North Korea had been almost completely obliterated and the USA was left poor, weak and almost completely defenceless. The sudden assassination of the president lead to riots in the nation's capital, and soon, Washington DC was overrun with gangs. One group, who called themselves 'The Lords of DC', somehow invaded the white house, and their leader claimed to be the 'King of America.' No-one came to the USA's aid, not even their own military. After all, it's hard to fight for your country when the entire army has died of a mysterious disease in the space of only twenty four hours. Many regarded this as Pestilence's first act of destruction. There would be many more to follow.
***
Crowley sighed and adjusted his face mask as he made his way down his house’s long, gravelled driveway. He could feel the sickness in the air today. The earth felt rotten, and the once tall, green hedges that lined the drive were yellowed and sagging. There had been a cold, biting wind only a few weeks before, despite it being July, but after the infection had spread to his village, the air had become stagnant and unmoving.
It hadn’t really been that bad at first. The Hum’s origin site was only a short walk from his home, and he and his friend Balthazar had enjoyed walking down to the farm and pretending that they could hear voices, just like that girl and all those other people had. They even used to go to the campsite and talk to the Hum fanatics, discussing theories and drinking the occasional glass of scotch, which Crowley and his friend soon developed a taste for.
Of course, when The Hum had stopped, he’d been just as curious as everyone else as to why it had ceased so abruptly. Some of the campers had gone a little bit crazy, running around and banging their heads against walls, demanding the hum to return. Crowley’s mother had forbidden him from returning to the farm.
Crowley checked the mailbox as he reached the end of the driveway, smiling widely as he caught sight of no less than three letters from his friend Castiel. The international postal system had become so unreliable of late that it could take a couple of months for a letter from America to arrive. After the ban of public internet access, the only way to communicate was via pen and paper, and many letters got lost in the post, or the mail trucks intercepted by US rebels. During the war, Crowley didn’t hear from Castiel for four months and at one point actually believed his friend to be dead. The war had only lasted for eight months in total, however, and so afterwards, there had been a whole wad of letters waiting for him in the mailbox that had no doubt been delayed.
His smile faltered slightly as he caught sight of a yellow envelope. Those yellow envelopes hardly ever contained good news. They were the same envelopes that were used to notify the families of people who died in the killings, or the suicides, or the war. In the July of last year, Balthazar’s mother had opened one of them and was informed of the suicide of her son. Of Crowley’s best friend. Balthazar had driven out of the village in his beat up old land rover, saying that he was driving to the shops to pick up some milk and a packet of Reese’s peanut butter cups. He never returned. The letter said that in Balthazar’s note, he had said something about angels and Lucifer and a cage of some kind.
Crowley pocketed the yellow envelope and continued his walk down the road, humming to himself as he approached the village shop. He nodded politely to the small group of people who were waiting for him outside, and indicated to them to go down into the little alleyway between the shop and the post office.
“You’re late again, McLeod. I thought you’d never show up.”
“I’m not late, Alastair. Stop complaining or you can go home and I won’t deal with you at all.”
Alastair made a face.
“Right, then” said Crowley, taking out a roll of paper from his jacket pocket and unfurling it. “Ruby, I have that knife you wanted. Do you have my money? One fifty I believe we agreed on?”
The dark haired teenager nodded, handing Crowley an envelope full of banknotes, which he counted before nodding and handing Ruby a small package. He held out his hand for Ruby to shake, and sent her on her way. The fewer people that were gathered in one place, the better. People often got suspicious when large groups congregated like that.
“Lilith, I’m afraid I’m going to have to raise my fee for this one. Bribing government officials isn’t exactly easy, even for me.”
“But the army knows where she is! The soldiers are doing their monthly checks on Wednesday and if they find a boxing day killer, they’ll arrest her and anyone who’s helped to hide her, you know that!”
“I know, Lilith, I’m sorry. But didn’t you read the small print? It clearly stated that I could raise the price if I wanted to. Unless you can give me three hundred by tomorrow, then I can’t help your mother.”
Lilith’s expression would have been heartbreaking to anyone else, but Crowley prided himself on his lack of empathy and guilt. He couldn’t do the job he did if he felt a personal connection to his customers. But Lilith was an old friend. He couldn’t let a lifelong friendship, however messed up that friendship had sometimes been, to fall apart because of a simple deal.
Crowley sighed. “Okay then. Two hundred it is, like we agreed.”
Lilith smiled and handed Crowley the money.
“Thanks Ferg... Crowley. This means a lot to me.”
They shook hands and Lilith walked away, a slight spring in her step.
“Come on, McLeod, I’m in a hurry. Do you have that gun for me or not?”
Crowley shook his head, trying not to let his anger rise to the surface. Alastair was a twisted little shit, even more than he was, and whenever he made a deal, it was for weapons. What he used them for, Crowley wasn’t so sure.
He walked over to the old metal rubbish bins at the end of the alleyway, taking the lid of the largest one and lifting out a handgun-shaped package wrapped in cloth.
“That gun better not be damaged, McLeod. You shouldn’t have left it outside for so long.”
Crowley ignored the older boy and wordlessly held out his hand, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head to one side slightly.
Alastair scowled and handed Crowley an envelope that was considerably thicker than the previous two had been.
“Four hundred, I believe?”
Alastair nodded. “Still don’t know why it’s so bloody expensive.”
“Use your common sense. Well, if you actually have any, that is. Remember the war? You know, loads of people shooting each other? With guns? Guns like this one?”
Alastair snorted and turned to leave, but Crowley reached out and pulled him back by his sleeve.
“Nuh-uh. How do we seal deals around here?”
The other boy reluctantly held out his hand for Crowley to shake.
“Much better. Now, who’s next?”