Well, he hadn't been wrong. There is certainly something supernatural happening, and that fact is undeniable as something suddenly possesses each of their bodies and pulls them towards the abnormally immobile river. He swears there were stars in the sky, but the river reflects nothing, it's just an inky black void. He can't pull his head up to check if the sky is still as it was, nor can he turn it when he begins to hear the splashing.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
The knowledge that they are all being pulled into the river one at a time was intrinsic somehow, and yet, he doesn't fear it as he thought he might. Does he want to die? Of course not, and there is that natural fight-or-flight instinct driving adrenaline through his body, but mentally, he's prepared. He doesn't want to die, but does he not deserve it? He's partially responsible for his student's death, and if this is what happened to her, then meeting the same fate feels like poetic justice.
So, he closes his eyes and lets the water envelop him in its crushing, choking embrace.
When he opens his eyes, he's surprised that he even
can. He's never believed in the concept of an afterlife, and the pain shooting through his body tells him that he can't be in any sort of utopia. It's the unmistakable pain of creaky joints and bruised skin, though, not the fiery depths of any kind of Hell that's got him still. Although, his lungs are burning, and his body begins to cough on its own in painful jerking motions, sending fluid back up and out of his throat. He can't move much, though, as there's a heavy weight on top of him, keeping him in place. The mass is warm, soft, and remarkably solid. When he presses a hand to it, he can feel the expansion and compression of breathing. His clothes feel heavy and are sticking to his body uncomfortably. Right, the river... Had he not drowned? Had
they not drowned? The breathing of his unconscious companion seems to confirm that they'd indeed survived.
His head is swimming, his ears ringing, and his vision is fuzzy, glasses lost who knows where.
"F-Fuck," he manages, hands scrambling to push the weight off of him. When he manages to shove it off of him, he turns over, sending himself into another coughing fit as his hands scramble for his lenses. He can't make heads or tails of most anything with the world reduced to blurs of color with no precise shapes. He can hear, though, and as his head begins to clear, the low humming becomes voices. Familiar voices, actually. One, in particular, is close enough to hear, and it's saying his name. The voice isn't overly familiar, but he's heard it before, he knows he has — right! Noah, the priest.
"Noah, is that you? Do you see my glasses anywhere?"
When said glasses are returned to him, he puts them on and breathes a sigh of relief at the world coming back into sharp focus again. The right lens is cracked, which is irritating, but it's better than nothing. His head is pounding, but he can process things again, like the smell of coffee and the desks around him. Are they at the school? No, this room doesn't look familiar to him at all.
"Where are we?" he asks, getting to his feet with the help of a nearby desk for support. Nearly as soon as the question leaves his mouth, though, does he notice the pictures and files everywhere. Ah. The sherrif's office. Not that that really solves his confusion.
"How the hell did we get here?" The question is entirely rhetorical.
He'd be tempted to say that the whole thing had been a dream, but the feeling of having fallen from a far distance and the way his clothes are soaked through suggests that the earlier events had indeed happened as he remembers. The horror on everyone's faces, too, solidifies that.
"Seems I was right to suspect the supernatural," he grunts, pulling his bag off of his shoulders to sift through it.
"Hope you've still got that holy water." This is probably the wrong time for jokes, but then again, it's not entirely a joke.
It's a good thing he'd invested in a water-resistant bag, as his equipment seems largely untouched by the liquid. Then again, he can't be sure they're all still in proper working condition until he tries them out.
"So, do you guys think that was some sort of wormhole? A crack in time and space sort of thing?" He fixes his attention on the deputies in particular.
"Do you recognize everything here, or does anything seem... off?" If the latter, they could be in an alternate dimension. Provided this isn't all some hallucination in his head.
A groan draws his attention, coming from the person he'd shoved off of him earlier. He recognizes the man's face, although his name is more difficult to place... or right, Mr. Casella. He's not much of a drinker, so he's not on close terms with the other man, but he's well aware of the weight of his family name. Both in what they have offered to the town and in the tragedy that befell them.
"Am I dead?" Mr. Casella asks, rubbing the back of his head.
"Possibly," Jeremiah says,
"Although the fact that I feel like I've been hit by a truck suggests this is very much real."
"I can't imagine that was all just the result of a concussion, then, if you're all here," Mr. Casella frowns, rubbing at his lower back.
"How is everyone? Besides bruised up?"