Chapter Text
Travis Phelps knew what he was doing was wrong. He also knew that everything he was, was wrong. He knew he shouldn't help the gang of freaks that paraded around Nockfell High like they owned the place, but he also knew that they would die if he didn't. Maybe- maybe he had a soft spot for the teenagers- maybe he admired the way they were flawlessly themselves and didn't take a no for an answer. Maybe he admired that Todd could say that he was gay without wanting to throw up after and tear his hair out of his skull, the way Ashley expressed herself through fashion, how Sal was always just Sal, no matter what happened, and how Larry, well Larry was just Larry, he was hard to explain.
Travis and Larry used to be best friends, inseparable, but when Jim Johnson, Larry's dad, left, Travis’s father started to despise the Johnson family and he never knew why. The Johnson's stopped attending church. He wasn't allowed to talk to Larry anymore, and he thinks a year later was when the bullying started. At first it was teasing. Maybe pulling on Larry’s long hair his father hated or yelling an insult when Todd walked by. He was just so hurt that he took out his anger on them.
When Sal Fisher showed up in Nockfell, it was his last straw. He was so different. He was actively himself. He didn't have to sit through lectures. He wasn't hurt at home. He was happy. Travis Phelps was not happy. Travis Phelps was never happy anymore. The last time he was happy was when he was sitting in Larry's treehouse watching the world go by.
So, Travis upped the anty, he fought Larry almost every other week now, he fought someone else almost every other day now. He yelled slurs in the hall; he shoved his stupid church flyers into kids' backpacks as they walked by, and that somehow felt just as bad as hitting an innocent kid.
He was a bad person and he knew it. Travis Phelps was never good. He prayed; he repented but the deep pit in his stomach never went away.
When his father showed him what was under the church, he wasn't surprised. He knew something more was happening, knew there was a reason that adults looked at him weird. What surprised him was the pile of bones in corners of the massive temple. Under his feet for his whole life death, destruction and decay. His father told him about the Devourers of God when he was thirteen. It didn't feel right even then. He never fully understood; there was always something missing. His father never fully told the truth; he knew that by now.
Eventually he learned what happened to Jim Johnson. He was horrified. He knew he had to keep a straight face. He knew it was for the ‘betterment of humanity’ or whatever it was his father said. So, Travis went along with it, even when he didn't understand why they needed to hurt people or why he was only allowed sometimes. He thought that fully embracing this lifestyle change would finally fix him. But it didn't. The bruises didn't stop peppering his skin; his dad was still angry, all the time. But now there was another thread of the web his father had caught in; the Devourers would watch him more closely than before, just waiting, daring him to slip up, say something he shouldn't.
He couldn't leave even if he wanted to. But why would he want to, he was the son of a preacher who was showing him the way. What was bad about that? He knew he should be grateful that his father was showing him the way; he knew every doubt he has was another sin added to his seemingly never-ending list. But the pit in his stomach never went away.
After a while it got easier, not as tough watching the devourers end another life. But it was still hard. The days after the meetings he was the worst at school, maybe throwing a punch or shoulder checking someone into a locker. He wasn't strong by any means; he was tall and lanky. But he had the same essence you'd find in a feral dog, anxious, ready to snap and angry. He was always angry. Sometimes he wrote and wrote to escape the feelings. He knew he was in a box, one that had no key.
He wanted to be able to give his father his unwavering support, but he knew he couldn't. Deep down, at his core, he felt wrong. Not in the same way he felt when he sinned or when he was feeling particularly queer, but in a way where his body felt like a cage to a spirit trying to escape, like he was just a cage for a voice deep down inside that in the end was more true to himself then whatever he was presenting himself as now. He knew the devourers were wrong.
The more he thought about it the more scared he got. As his doubt grew, he realized just how large this situation was. The DOG spread wider than his dad's church, larger than the entirety of Nockfell.
It only really dawned on him how trapped he was, when after he had asked his dad about Mrs. Packerton’s food she gave to the school, (he was expecting it came from a rural farm around town he just hadn't seen, (which was unlikely because he knew this town inside and out, from the nights home wasn't safe)) he learned that it was human. Human meat. He. Was. A. Cannibal. His school had cannibals. His family were cannibals. Who knew about this? Who was he eating? The worst part was his father's face when he said it, like this was an average conversation, like Travis had just asked why the sky was blue. His father noticed his discomfort and told him if he didn't eat the bologna sandwiches, he was in big trouble, that was his dad's code for violence. Travis nodded, he went up to his room and threw up, then he cried. That was the day he knew it was a cult.
He was aware that the cult didn't like Sal Fisher, and he never quite knew why. Was it Because he was a freak? Because he looked like a queer? Because he wore a prosthetic? Travis Phelps knew why he hated Sal fisher, but why did the cult?
Then one day things changed. He was pathetic. Travis Phelps was sobbing in the bathroom like some dramatic third grader. Boys don't cry. He doesn't cry. But here he was, in direct contradictory of that previous sentence, crying. He had been an asshole today, to Sal and his friends. He was trying to scare them off; he could tell Sal had been paying attention to him, noticing his bruises. He saw it from Larry to, but those might have just been glaring. He needed to keep them away from him. After all these years he still cared for Larry. He knew Larry hated him, and with great reason to, so he needed them to stay far away to be safe. No one Travis was close to was safe. Then Sal came in. It was the worst moment possible. The walls he usually had around his soul were down; he scrambled to put them back up.
In the end Sal Fucking Fisher broke those walls. He clearly had read the pathetic love note he thought he had thrown in the trash but evidentially had missed. Sal Fisher knew he was gay.
Sal.
Fisher.
Knew.
He.
Was.
Gay.
He knew Sal was okay with gay people, but what if he told someone, what if he casually mentioned that Travis Phelps was a freak who liked boys.
By the end of the conversation (it's all blurry, he hardly remembers a thong through his panic) he had somehow APOLOGISED? He absolutely knew Sal and his friends deserved one. But was he ever planning on telling them that? Absolutely not. He had a rule. Keep everyone as far from himself as he could.
What's even crazier is the fact Sal excepted it and offered him a place to go if he needed it?!
The horrifying conversation eventually ended, and Travis decided he would leave them alone. He knew he needed to keep them away and making fun of them was an easy way to relieve his anger, but he was so tired. He was tired of being an asshole. Tired of being a bully. Every night he collapsed in his bed feeling worse than when the day started. Maybe they could just avoid the problem all together and make sure they never saw each other in the halls.
That worked for a day or two before Travis got the news they had snooped through Mrs.’s Packertons house and saw the temple. His father told them to keep them under a close watch at school and to report everything to him. Travis knew he couldn't do that. The cult would kill them if they kept looking, and if he knew Sal Fisher, Larry Johnson, Todd Morrison and Ashley Campbell, they were stubborn and were not going to stop their investigation and would wind up dead.
He didn't want that to happen.
So, he took a pen and an ugly church flyer and wrote a sentence in morse code. He couldn't use regular lettering that could be read at school by any passerby. He made a stupid, risky plan. He was going to pass along the message to Todd Morrison (he seemed to be the smartest and would be the easiest to pass along a pamphlet to) and hopefully save their asses from murder.
The code he wrote was long, making it even more risky. What if someone saw a bunch of dots and dashes and knew what was happening? He had to risk it; he couldn't have their deaths on his hands. He would give the pamphlet to Todd tomorrow. For now, he just wanted to go to bed.
“.... . -.-- / -.- -. --- .-- / -.-- --- ..- / .... .- ...- . / -... . . -. / .. -. ...- . ... - .. --. .- - .. -. --. .-.-.- / ... - --- .--. .-.-.- / .. - / .. ... / -. --- - / ... .- ..-. . .-.-.- / -.-- --- ..- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -.. .. . .-.-.- / -.. --- --. / -.- -. --- .-- ... .-.-.-”
“They know you have been investigating. Stop. It is not safe. You will die. DOG knows.”