This is The Book of Joseph.
Only a couple thousand were made and given away to those who bought the Mondo edition of Far Cry 5.
I thought this would be a much easier way for his word to be spread so everyone can read it. It very much goes in depth...
We needed a refuge away from the city and away from police harassment, a place where we could thrive and be protected from the terrible events to come.
So we unfolded a map of the country and searched for somewhere our community could call home.
We quickly turned to the mountains region in the Northwest - secluded spots that were easy to defend. Many religious and survivalist communities set up camp there to flee persecution and live on the fringes of society.
I examined the map closely, my eyes lingering over Montana and that's when I found it. The name appeared in tiny print, a name that I had never heard before, but which was extremely promising: Hope County.
Hope. The hope of giving birth to a new humanity, of creating a purer, fairer, more fraternal society from the ashes of the old. We would go to Hope County, where we would fulfill our destiny. I knew it at the very core of my being. I pointed to the name and told my brothers that I knew where we were going. We set off a few days later, determined to spread our message along the way. Our mission was as much to recruit faithful followers and grow our family, as it was to reach our sanctuary. I couldn't tell you about every single person who joined us over the course of our travels, for there were great many of us by the time we reached Hope County.
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If you listen to your heart and it is pure, you will join us. You will know us all, for you will harvest crops alongside us, you will train alongside us, and you will sing and pray alongside us. But I can tell you about a few of them - like our brother Matthew.
I was giving a sermon, as I later often would in a supermarket parking lot. The security guard made movements to intercede, until he caught Jacob's eye. He must have done a quick comparison of the peanuts he earned and the potential risk involved, shrugged and chose instead to patrol the other end of the parking lot. It was a wise decision on his part.
Thus, with a simple microphone and speaker attached to the roof of our van. I delivered my message.
Most of the supermarket's customers walked by without listening. They were more concerned with their carts overflowing with purchases, half of which would probably go to waste. Maybe they would think back on this scene when the end times came. Which would haunt them more: not having listened to me, or the bygone days of abundance?
On that day, my words resonated with only one person. He was a very thin young man. He wasn't grocery shopping, but looking for spare change that distracted customers might have dropped on the ground. At the time, the young man was named John Kennedy. People found his illustrious name hilarious, and he endured pitiless, mocking laughter because of it. Today, he goes by Matthew, and he is nothing like the man he once was. That man no longer exists. And soon, neither will the people who laughed at him. Nor will even the memory of presidents, kings, and prophets of yore.
But the man that Matthew once was had felt empty inside. He felt incomplete, but didn't quite know what was missing. He felt filled with a fetid breath, as if he were nothing more than a balloon inflated by a chain-smoker. And as often happens in such cases, he pricked himself with needles to try to make him-self pop faster. Because the money that John Kennedy sought in grocery store parking lots, in trashcans, and in gutters was money for a hit of heroin.
But that day, the young man no longer felt empty. On the contrary-for the first time- he felt fulfilled. The drugs he once took to forget his life gave way to the incomparable light of the revelation. He heard my message and understood it. He became Matthew, and he will be saved.
Like a few- very few- others.
Many have joined us since then. I love them all equally. They have become new beings, freed from the burdens of their pasts, absolved of their sins. They are pure.
In their previous lives, they were homeless tramps and police officers with nothing in common. Today, they are farmers and soldiers, but above all, they are family, equals, all serving our grand plan under a fathers benevolent eye.
We were also joined by Peter over the course of our trek. In a past life, he had been one of the most well-known geneticists in his field, but he had been kicked out of the medical association for conducting an experiment that proved fatal for the terminally ill patient.
It now seems to trivial to us, we who know that all of humanity has been sentenced to death - all but a handful of chosen ones of all ages and backgrounds.
Having become a pariah of Chicago's high society, Peter tried to kill himself by crashing his car into a wall. Despite the impact, he was spared by providence - but a fire that began immediately after the crash left his face severely burned. After that he emerged only at night, hidden beneath a scarf. When he answered my call, I asked him to reveal his face to all of us.
And we accepted him as he was.
As horrifying as his scars were, they were nothing compared to the invisible wounds that many of the chosen ones in our large family had to live with.
Others followed. The larger we grew, the louder our voice became, like a choir whose volume swells as its membership grows.
We were the choir of an invincible army.
We soon became a veritable cortege, a caravan on its way to conquer the Wild West - only we weren't driven by a gold rusk, but rather by our faith. We found and fixed up some old school busses to transport those who didn't have their own cars. We obtained tents and makeshift shelters. Wherever we went, good Samaritans let us camp in their field, their yards, and sometimes in their houses. Some of them joined us: others did not. May they experience a quick and painless death.
Soon, the police and even the FBI began circling us like vultures, and helicopter flybys, snapping photos of our convoy of chosen ones became more frequent.
They arrested us and searched our vehicles more than once.
But they never found a thing.
We had our brother Luke to thank for that. Luke was probably the handiest man in all of America. With his own two hands, he built a weapons cache under the seats of one of our buses. The work was exquisite and undetectable. For additional security, Jacob spent most of his time sitting on it, and it was rare that someone dare ask him to get up.
We met Luke at a bar in Tennessee. Unfortunately for him as was common among those who joined us, the feeling of emptiness in his heart had left him a shaky man. It was eight o'clock in the morning , and while we were drinking coffee, he was on his fifth beer. Despite all his talent, he had lost his job as a carpenter and became a permanent fixture at the bar. He spent his days drinking, a friendly barfly.
First he drank through his bank account, then his car, and finally his house. At least he didn't have a family to drink through, like Old Man Seed had back in his day.
When I began my sermon at the bar, his glass of beer was half-full. He never finished his drink and hasn't had a single sip since.
Such is the power of my message. Its mere breath rescues the flotsam and jetsam of humanity that society has condemned; the drug addicts and alcoholics whose futures have been shattered by war or by mistakes they have made. There is nobody I cannot save and offer a new life. And when we finally arrived at our destination, there were hundreds of us.
