“Won’t stop everything, but it makes my flock feel a little safer,”
he offered. “Usually, we leave the shutters open to let in the light. But we closed them when we heard your vehicle coming. Almost dark now, so we will leave them closed until sunrise.”
He led Logan inside, where a different world awaited.
There was a large room with three long folding tables and chairs set out in its center. A pass-through cut into the back wall opened onto a small kitchen. He could smell food cooking and see trays of glasses sitting out. A door to the left of the pass-through revealed a second large room beyond. Doors marked MEN and WOMEN were set into the wall to his left.
A scattering of faces turned his way; all of them were ancient and worn and framed by dustings of white hair. There were maybe two dozen, all seated at the tables except three who occupied wheelchairs, ancient eyes giving him an uncertain look, wrinkled hands folded together on the tabletops.
Whatever conversation had preceded his appearance had died away. The room was quiet save for a shuffling of chairs and the soft wheezing of labored breathing.
“Everyone, please welcome Brother Logan,” the Preacher said.
There was a soft muttering of “Hi, Logan,” and “Welcome, Logan,” in response. Logan nodded, thinking there wasn’t a person in the room under the age of seventy-five. He wondered how they had found their way here. It didn’t seem possible that any of them could have traveled very far. But then perhaps they had all been here much longer than he assumed.
“Brother Logan will be eating with us tonight,” the Preacher said.
“You might notice that he is a bearer of the black staff of a Knight of the Word. He has come a long way. I hope you will all do your best to make him feel at peace on his night with us so that he will be well rested when he leaves us on the morrow.”
He guided Logan to the center table and seated him between two very elderly women who looked at him as if he were something come out of the ether.
He smiled at them, and watched as the Preacher walked around the table and took the chair across from him.
“Give thanks for what we have, Sister Anne,” he said to the old woman on Logan’s right.
The meal was served and Logan got another surprise. The food was fresh, not prepackaged—vegetables and pasta, bread, and some sort of fruit. Tea was poured from pitchers, and he didn’t ask where they had gotten the water. He didn’t ask where any of it came from. It didn’t feel right to do so. He just ate and drank what he was given and answered what questions he could. Most were about what he had seen of the outside world. He kept his descriptions as positive as he could, staying away from demons and once-men, from the destruction that was taking place everywhere, and from his own knowledge that worse times lay ahead. These people didn’t need to hear about it tonight. They had already chosen what to do with the rest of their lives.
“How long have all these people been here?” he asked the Preacher at one point.
“Most have been here for close to twenty years. Some were born and raised here. Some came to be with relatives and friends. They’re the castoffs and leftovers of families splintered and scattered long since. All the young ones left long ago. The bombings chased most away. It was bad; there were a lot of missile silos and command centers in the mountains. They all went. But they took a lot of us who were standing out in the open with them. Then the water and soil turned bad. That was the end for most; everyone pretty much packed it in. We’re the only ones who stayed. Now almost no one comes this way anymore.
You are the first in more than a year.”
Logan nodded. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
The Preacher laughed softly. “Where else would we be? Inside the compounds? Not people like us. We’ve lived all our lives in the open, most of us in small towns like this one. We’re old, all of us. We don’t want to change what we know. We’ve only got a little time left under the best of circumstances, and we want it to feel as comfortable and familiar as possible.
Living here gives us that.”
“It’s not so bad,” said the old woman on his left. “We’ve got what we need.”
“No one bothers us here,” said an old man across from her.
“No one,” the old woman agreed.
They finished their dinner, and the Preacher brought them all together in a circle of chairs. An old man with wild white hair and long, supple fingers brought out a guitar, and they began to sing songs they remembered from their childhood. Their faces brightened with the music and the memories it conjured.
Their voices were thin and ragged, but brought life to the songs.