Authors: Norman Dixon
“His son died for our sins,” Pastor
Craven said, facing the congregation. “Yes, indeed . . . and we have died, have
sacrificed in His honor against Satan’s horde, and will continue to do so as
long as they walk the earth.”
“That’s right,” a grizzled, middle-aged
man said, waving his hat in the air.
“Make no mistake, we are at war with the
damned, with the souls that slighted the Almighty Father. Amen." Pastor
Craven pounded his fist on the pulpit. “We’ve been at war for more winters than
I’d like to count. By the grace of God we have endured . . . but there is much
work still to be done, my friends. Our faith gives advantage. It gives
guidance. It gives us comfort to sleep. It gives us food. It gives us shelter.
It gives us hope." Pastor Craven paced back and forth in front of the pulpit.
Sweat dripped down the folds of his neck, stung his eyes.
“Hope, my friends, hope that will see us
through this dark despair. Think about the other inhabitants of God’s
land." He clasped his hands, bowed his head.
“Kill ’em all!” someone shouted.
“We shall, but, my friends, it is not
the undead of which I speak. No, it is the other inhabitants. The dull, the
uneducated, the savages that continue to defy the odds against the horde. What
will happen when we stand victorious for the Lord? And what about the non-believers,
the loners, the other pockets of society, and the ragged remnants of our
pitiful government? When we win back God’s land we must not allow them to
corrupt it again.”
“Never!”
Pastor Craven banged his hand on the
pulpit saying, “Never! Never! We will not allow them to slight the Almighty
ever again. We are few, but we are devoted, we are blessed, and we will win
back God’s land.”
“Amen!”
“A new beginning under the Lord’s
gracious smile. Think of it, friends, can you see it? The world of God from sea
to sea, the bounty of the earth, the safety . . . I can see it. God has told me
it will be so. We are like the old dog licking its wounds who then returns to
his master to prove his worth. We must prove our worth, my friends, and prove
it we shall. We will carry God’s word into a new day, a day free from sin, from
the blight, a day that our children and their children can speak of our
hardships with honor, without fear of the Fection, or the sin of their brothers
and sisters. That day is coming.”
Pastor Craven closed his bible. He
rarely read it these days. There was no wisdom in the text to guide him through
such times as these. He relied instead on experience and prayer. The Lord spoke
to him often, and he felt it his duty to convey those words to the rest of the
Folks. He felt the stagnation of many winters held in check, barley surviving,
and now he felt something stirring, though, he could not explain it, or even
understand it. But he knew it was coming.
For Jesus told him so.
*
* * * *
Bobby was terrified. He had maybe hours,
two or three at best, before he became one of them. He expected it to be
different, he expected to feel . . . something, aches or pains, fatigue, but he
felt none of those things. Aside from the slight sting of the wound, he felt
perfectly normal. But his mind was a cyclone of emotional worry, and fear, like
an injured animal limping off into the deep forest to die. The thought had
crossed his mind several times already, and since returning from Corral duty he
packed his rucksack with supplies. He intended to leave the only family he had
ever known behind, but first he had to see Ryan one last time.
He watched his brothers dominate a
lopsided game of football. Three on six, and they were still up by six points.
While the native Settlement boys became overconfident with their superior
number Bobby’s brothers used team work and tactics to outwit them on every
play. Curses and cheap shots were thrown, but Bobby’s brothers capitalized on
them as well. Over the years the five brothers learned to survive on many
levels, and though the native boys learned the same skills, they only applied
them in practice situations. They were taught how to survive the harsh winters,
survive the wilds, survive with only the resources of the land, and any
inhabitant of the Settlement excelled at this, but the native boys did not
truly understand the many applications of survival tactics. Nature was harsh,
but the mental and physical games of adolescent dominance were even more so.
The storm clouds scudded across the
Colorado sky, an orange purple mash, foreboding, mangling the last rays of the
day’s light. Winter was almost upon them, and if the storm was any indication,
it would be a long one. The wind blew bitterly cold. Bobby’s breath showed. His
fingers numb.
“You guys are a bunch of cheaters,” a
small, blonde-haired boy said.
“Your mother’s a cheater,” Paul answered
with a wry grin.
“Yeah, well at least I have one!”
Bobby could sense a fight brewing. He
stepped in between his brother and the smaller boy and said, “Easy now. It’s
almost time for supper. We don’t want Pastor or Ol’ Randy coming by and giving
everyone a round of latrine duty.”
“Shut up, freak.”
Somewhere between the detonation, the
ensuing bite, and the prosaic way in which Bobby came to understand he was
about to die, the boy in him ceased to be. He turned so fast none of them were
ready for it, small fist hitting small face with a crack. No one intervened,
Bobby didn’t follow up with another punch, he didn’t have to. The small boy was
out cold on the hard ground. The other boys stepped back, including his
brothers, afraid of what they saw in his eyes. It wasn’t the look of boy become
a man, it wasn’t sharp angry fear, it was desolation on an epic scale, an empty
void where no light would ever find its way.
“I’m going to see Ryan. You guys can
come if you want,” Bobby said, turning towards the infirmary.
His brothers followed him in silence
across the yard.
Most of the Folks were in between
shifts. Those that were done with their duties for the day were either at the
chapel, or eating in the mess. The rest of the them were preparing for guard
duty, or night classes. They were so busy with their tasks, that they didn’t
notice the boys, or maybe they did, they just didn’t question their presence,
more bees about the busy business of the hive.
Bobby peered into the fogged windows of
the infirmary. The harsh lights within, coupled with the condensation without,
made for strange undefined shapes, but they did not move, which gave Bobby a
measure of calm. If any of the Folks were inside he’d never get to say a proper
goodbye to his brother.
“Bobby, it’s c-cold what are we doing?”
Bryan asked with chattering teeth.
“I already told you. We’re going to see
Ryan. I don’t see BB. Hurry up." Bobby checked the door. It was unlocked.
The sterile scent of winter met the pure scent of ozone as he opened it and
stepped inside.
*
* * * *
Lyda slid into the Pastor’s private
quarters like a wraith. She moved in silence. Her rugged boots creaking not one
board on the familiar dusty floor. She watched the aging pontificator move
about his routines.
Pastor Craven leaned over a small table.
The Good Book off to his side, and a tumbler in front of him. His hand was
steady as he poured a stiff shot of whiskey. He sipped it slow, letting the
burn light on his tongue and then drip down the back of his parched throat. The
Lord had blessed him with the fortitude to brave what was coming, but he
couldn’t do it on faith alone. Before the world fell apart he made sure to use
a good bit of his reserves to secure enough Old Number 7 to last him to
judgment day, and well into the afterlife.
“You may have been quiet, Lyda, but you
let the coming winter in with you, and these old bones are always aware of a
storm a’brewing. Drink,” he asked, turning to her with a raised glass.
“I shouldn’t, but I really need one. We
need to talk. This is just . . .”
“Settle down, child, settle down."
Pastor Craven patted her thigh and motioned for her to join him at the table. He
poured her a shot and handed it to her.
Lyda slugged back the whiskey and held
out her empty glass for a refill, which the Pastor obliged. She was about to
knock back the second shot, but the Pastor’s wrinkled hand stopped her.
“Easy now. It’s best when sipped, and
when your mind is calm. Have you slept?”
Lyda wanted to scream what she had found
out loud, but like so many others, she reverted to an almost child-like state
in the presence of the Pastor. His eyes humbled her, deconstructed her, and
observed her dismay with an eerie unblinking quiet. “I haven’t slept . . . I’ve
been tending to the boy." She hesitated to even use the word, knowing what
pumped through his veins, that darkness, the source of all the evil in the
world made him inhuman.
“And? Has the greatness of God seen him
through the cold night?" Pastor Craven scratched at his chin, punctuating
his question with the sound of his nails on dry, sandpaper-like skin.
Lyda wasn’t ready to reveal what she
knew, not yet at least. “Let me ask you something.”
“Oh?" Pastor Craven’s eyes became
narrow, brow knitted in suspicion. He ran his skeletal finger along the rim of
his glass.
“Where exactly did the Crannen’s
rescue
those boys from?" Lyda sipped the strong whiskey with a cringe. As warm
as it was, the stiff drink did not remove, or even subdue, the glacier in the
pit the her stomach.
“Why, they rescued them from a group of
road trash who meant to eat the boys somewhere near Nevada,” he said with an
air of sarcasm.
Lyda knew that story, and it always
seemed conveniently fabricated to her. And she wasn’t the only one. The
Crannen’s decision to bring the boys into the flock had caused tremendous
turmoil, not only within the societal structure of the Settlement, but within
their own family as well. Even the twin sons did not believe their parents, and
shortly after the Crannen’s return, the twins had a falling out with Ma and Pa.
The ramifications of which still lingered, long after the figureheads of the
Settlement had been laid to rest.
“Spare me the myth and tell me what you
really think,” Lyda said sharply.
Pastor Craven shifted uneasily in his
chair. His hip hadn’t been the same since last winter, but that wasn’t
what had him afraid to answer her. Something in her small, dark eyes, shifting,
dilating as she drank, spoke of a secret that she was having a hard time
concealing. It almost made her seem happy.
Pastor Craven put down his drink and
folded his hands. Staring at the dull glow of the lamp he said, “Randy knows.
He was with them on that trek, but that is a secret kept between the dead and
the Lord for him. But what I think . . . so strange wasn’t it? The furthest
west any of us had traveled in what, seven, eight winters? They weren’t even
supposed to go that far to begin with. What did they find out there in that den
of sin? What did they see? I think they saw much. But look at me questioning,
perhaps, our greatest example of a good life, a life lived in God’s service.
And I say life because they were one in their love and their thoughts, but I
always questioned some of their intentions. The birth quotas, letting the
children experience the old world, it never sat well with me, but they were our
founding mother and father. And if it weren’t for them, and the love of God I
doubt either of us would be alive today. So I always kept my reservations to
myself and God.”
Lyda did not add to his words. She
waited. The alcohol beginning to loosen his lips as the Pastor displayed his
trademark smile. The gesture was something he reserved for their private
conversations, and it was a sign of the darker man within. They all had their
demons, and man of God or not, the Pastor had more than a few. Perhaps, that
shade, the hint of sin was what had attracted her to him in the winters since
Steven’s passing. She could look past what the alcohol and war had done to his
physical features. The Pastor wasn’t even within two decades of Ol’ Randy, and
yet, he looked to be the man’s grandfather. But none of that mattered when she
was in the presence of what lurked behind his eyes, a tightrope act, a
brilliant display of parochial dexterity. Just by being in his presence, she
hoped to attain the skills necessary to pull it off herself.
“I believe they lied to us,” Pastor
Craven said. He licked his dry lips. “The lot of them. But what’s done,” he
looked into her eyes as he said, “is done. They are with the Lord now and Randy
will never talk. So, my jitterbug, I implore you to tell me what kind of secret
they’ve kept from us all these years.”
“I don’t understand it completely,” Lyda
stammered. “At least, not the long term ramifications of it. The boy has the
Fection.”
Pastor Craven nodded solemnly. “Long
rest, far from the Creeper’s breast.”
“Amen, but it didn’t come from that
bite, in fact, I think he’s immune to it altogether . . . and I suspect the
rest of them are, too.”
“Immune,” the Pastor’s voice held the
last syllable until a dry cough snatched it from the tip of his tongue. “Can’t
be. You’re mistaken. There is no immunity. There is no cure. There is only life,
or the eternal damnation of
undeath
. He is either infected, or he is
not.”