“Brother Logan,” the other acknowledged and released his hand. “You may call me Preacher. Everybody does. It defines both my profession and my identity.
My own name ceased to have relevance a long time ago—so long ago I can barely recall it. I’m simply Preacher now, a shepherd to my flock.”
Logan glanced past him to the deserted town. “Your flock seems as if it might have scattered.”
The Preacher smiled. “Well, as they say, looks are deceiving. My flock of fifty years ago, when I was a young minister starting out, is dead or gone, almost the whole of them, along with the church in which I gave my sermons and spoke of my faith. But when you undertake a ministry to those seeking guidance, you don’t pick and choose your flock or your pulpit; you take what comes your way and minister where you can.”
Logan nodded. “A few of those in need have found their way here, have they?”
The Preacher leaned forward, brow furrowing. “Are you a believer in the Word, Brother Logan?”
Logan hesitated, and the clear blue eyes fixed on him. “I believe in the Word, Preacher,” he said, wary now. “Maybe not the same Word you believe in, though.”
“I ask not to be rude, but because I have heard that there are servants of the Word who carry black staffs of the sort you grip so firmly in your right hand.”
Logan glanced down. He had forgotten he was holding the staff. It was so much a part of him by now that he had taken it with him when he left the Lightning with barely a second thought.
“The staff and its bearer are the Word’s own cleansing fire, I am told,” the Preacher went on with a hushed reverence. “You are welcome here, sir. In this poor outback, in this withered and dusty gathering place of wounded souls, we still do what we can to serve the Word and her Knights.” He smiled reassuringly. “Can I offer you something of food and drink? We haven’t much, but we would be honored to share it with you.”
Logan almost said no, then decided that doing so would be an unnecessary insult and a disappointment to the old man. What did it hurt for him to accept the invitation? He had planned on spending the night here anyway, and it would be nice to eat indoors for a change.
“I can only stay a little while, Preacher,” he said.
The old man nodded. “Let me be honest with you, Brother Logan. This invitation is well meant, but selfish, too. It would mean a great deal to those to whom I minister if they could visit with you. Trial and tribulation and time erode their faith. They have little with which to restore it. You would provide them with a large measure of what is needed, just with a few well-chosen words.
We are isolated out here, which is probably for the best. But we are not ignorant of the world, even though the world is ignorant of us. We hear bits and pieces of news from the few who pass this way. Some speak of the Knights of the Word and the demons with which they do battle. We hear of the struggle taking place and understand its source. But the reality is distant and insubstantial for many. It would help give it a face and an identity if a champion of the Word were to grace us with his presence. Knowing this, will you still stay for just a little while?”
Logan smiled despite himself. How could he refuse? He walked back to the Lightning, set the alarm and locks, and then gestured for the Preacher to lead the way. They set off among the buildings toward the center of the town. “How did you know I was here?” Logan asked him.
“Sound carries long distances out here, where so much is silence.
We heard you coming across the fields in your vehicle.”
They passed between the residences and arrived at the main street.
The buildings were weathered and sad, the paint peeling, windows and doors mostly gone, and the roofs stripped of shingles. The walkways and street were cracked and weed-grown, and trash was piled everywhere. There was no sign of life, nothing to indicate that the Preacher’s flock consisted of anything more than the ghosts of the dead.
“Used to be a drugstore over there—soda fountain and pharmacy,” the Preacher said, turning left down the walk. “Gas station back there at the end of the block. Two pumps, that was it. Clothing store, insurance and real estate office combined, barbershop and hairdresser—they were combined, too—bank and post office.”
He shook his head. “The post office was one of the last government services to close down, you know. Delivered the mail even after Washington was destroyed. It was all done locally, nothing beyond that. But it was something, and it gave people a sense of sharing a larger community. It gave them hope that maybe not everything was gone.”
They had reached a square, single-story building at the edge of the town proper, something that might have once served as a community center. The windows were shuttered and the door tightly sealed. Heavy deadbolts secured against unauthorized entry. The Preacher took a ring of keys from the pocket of his jacket and released the locks one by one.