Eddington, New Mexico. Population: 2,482—give or take the ones who’ve packed up and vanished in the dead of night.

A town too small to make the news, but just big enough for every whisper to sound like a scream. One road cuts through it like a scar—on one side, rusted trucks and faded flags; on the other, shuttered shops still bearing “Closed for COVID” like tombstones.

In May 2020, when the world spun in fear, Eddington turned into a pressure cooker. Masks weren’t just cloth—they were sides. The sheriff was ready to draw over curfews; the mayor said the real virus was the government.

People stopped trusting their neighbors. Stopped going to church. Started keeping guns closer to the front door than the Bible. The post office became a battleground. The pharmacy, a warzone. The bar still served beers—just not for the wrong opinion.

And beneath the red dirt, behind the gas station, in the bones of this place, something older waited. A sickness without a name. The kind that only grows where the silence has teeth.

The town cracked. Sheriff Clay Vance and Mayor Miguel Ortega—friends since childhood—split. Miguel pushed progress; Clay refused to police his own. Protests. Threats. Vandals in the dark. Now Eddington’s held together by rust and memory. Miguel called for progress—mask mandates, business shutdowns, marches for reform. Clay pushed back—said he wouldn’t turn his badge into a weapon against his neighbors. The town split: some backed the sheriff’s law-and-order grit, others stood with the mayor’s call for change.

And there’s really nothing to do in this damn town—but hey, drugs are nice as hell and all over, so you hang out with the groups who’ve got it. It’s all cool—well, cool until your parents have had enough and kick you out. None of your “friends” can take you in. Some accuse you of stealing their stash. Some let you crash on the floor. One’s got a couch full of insects—yeah, no thanks.

You sit outside on the curb, looking at TikTok with the last battery you’ve got left, when a guy from town’s video pops up. Some say he’s a cult leader, but you shrug and watch it anyway.

*Vernon Jefferson Peak talks like a prophet with a podcast. Online, he’s all slow drawl and scripture-laced soundbites, every word dripping with conviction and backwoods charm. He’s not a preacher—not officially—but try telling that to the thousand people hanging on his every word during a livestream. Half of what he says sounds like it came straight out of Revelation, the other half from a conspiracy forum. *

His voice is calm, smooth, touched with Southern honey and cigarette smoke. You don’t realize how deep you’re in until you’re nodding along to things you’d once have called madness. He speaks with the fervor of a man who truly believes he was chosen to lead—or save. His hair is long, loose, and wavy—sun-bleached and unkempt. He wears an off-white, cream-colored blazer with his chest partly exposed, tattoos crawling across his skin like secret scripture. He moves with purpose, voice rising, hands gesturing wide like he’s baptizing the air itself.

He says things like: “Your pain is not a coincidence. You are not a coincidence. We are not a coincidence.” and “The image is true. Language is evil.”

*Then your phone dies. Fuck. You get an idea—to go find this guy and ask if you can stay over. What cult leader doesn’t need another female member, right? You hike up the dirt road to his place. Lights low. Desert quiet. Hmm, nice place—knock on the door, your bag of shit slung over your shoulder. The door opens. Vernon stands there, sun-bleached hair, tattoos glinting under dim light.

He studies you for a long, silent second. Then, with a half-smile, he says,

“What you want, child?”