What Comes After (Book 1): A Shepherd Cometh (7 page)

Another pause before Janessa spoke. “So, you wander around and help people? Like out of a TV show or something?”

The Shepherd nodded. “Basically. It's less glamorous than that, but much more rewarding.”

Her expression as flat as her tone, she asked, “Ever help anyone?”

Tom nodded again. “Not long before I encountered you, I spent a couple weeks helping folks on a small farm. Mending fences, building an addition to their barn, caring for the crops. I offered directions to the nearest other friendly group, but they wanted to be left alone. So when they had no further need of me, I moved on.”

“Where was that?”

“North of here,” he replied vaguely.

Rujuan rumbled, his accent thicker. “Lots north of here.”
Norf o' heah.

The Shepherd met his eyes and smiled serenely. “Indeed.”

The large man shifted, turning towards Tom. Before he could press the issue, Shane spoke without looking up from his plate. “Our young friend isn't about to offer up that kind of information. Just like he wouldn't tell me where he's from or what he was doing when we found him with our fugitives. He knows that while it would help make his case more believable, he also understands it presents danger to those he's been in contact with. Just as we don't fully trust Tom yet, neither does he fully trust us.” He paused long enough to polish off the rest of his breakfast. “Of everything he's done yet, that puts me more at ease with him. Whether we like it or not, he's looking out for the best interests of those he's already come into contact with. And that,” he added with an emphatic stab of his fork, “is something that will carry weight with the others.”

Which is it that carries the weight, I wonder? That I know where other survivors are or that I wouldn't give them up?
Tom gave voice to the thought. “I hope it's the right kind of weight, then.”

“Mmm,” Shane grunted non-noncommittally.

Janessa looked from the Old Man to the Shepherd a few times, waiting to see if either of them had anything more to say. When it was clear they were finished, she continued her line of questioning. “How long you been doin' it? Helpin' people, I mean.”

“I completed my Final Challenge four years ago, spent the best part of the next year close to home. This will be my third winter errant.” Tom took on a faraway look, remembering the last three years.

“Damn.” She sounded impressed.

“Could you tell us a little more about what goes into 'weeding out the dark and depraved'? I confess a... curiosity about it.” The Old Man seemed equal parts amused and interested. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for Tom's response.

The Shepherd pursed his lips.
I must be diplomatic
, he thought. “I'm certain you'll agree that could be a loaded topic of conversation. Best to let everyone hear it all at the same time and right from the horses mouth, wouldn't you agree?”

“Fair enough. How long must you be away? How many people must you help? Is there a number of something you must reach before you can go home or just settle down somewhere?” Having completed his meal, it seemed Shane was ready to take control of the conversation.

Tom acknowledged each of the Old Man's questions. “I must leave at least ten markers and travel no less than three hundred miles in search of proven human beings. Failing that, I could find the object of my quest.”

“Probably won't tell us how many miles you've traveled?” When the Shepherd merely arched an eyebrow, the Old Man continued in a different vein. “Markers, then? How many of those have you planted?”

“Two,” Tom paused a moment before replying. “To answer your next question: no, the farm I left most recently did not warrant a marker. As they were not yet interested in rejoining humanity at large, there was no reason to record them as such.”

“Sounds pretty subjective,” Shane offered sourly. “Is this object you seek more concrete?”

“What's subjective about three hundred miles from home, as the crow flies? Or requiring that I find ten places or groups worth investigating?” Tom made no effort to mask his contempt of the Old Man's opinion. “As far as my search goes... I'm looking for the author of a journal that was brought to our community with one of the founders. Part of our community and philosophy is built on ideals and premises outlined therein. If the person who wrote it is still alive, he or she would no doubt be a great asset for what we mean to do in the world.”

It was Shane's turn to arch an eyebrow. “Any luck on that front?”

Tom shook his head and sighed. “Not yet.” After a pause, he started his own inquiry. “What about you, Shane? What do you do?”

“I'm a butcher.” The Old Man thought a moment and qualified his answer. “At least, I will be until the last hog is gone. After that, guess I'll be a second-rate handyman with a bad attitude. Only time will tell, though.” He smiled bitterly.

“How many hogs left?” Tom asked even though he knew it would be a sensitive issue.

“Enough to get us through the winter. Probably.” Shane was guarded in his response. “We were in trouble enough before Greg went off his rocker and busted up one of the holding pens. With nearly half our stock loose and nothing to show for it... problems, they abound.”

The Shepherd gave the Old Man some time before asking his next question. “Do you know why Greg destroyed the pen?”

Shane fixed him with a measured stare and was silent a long time. “He wouldn't say, but I can imagine his reason. Not offering it himself makes it harder, but it isn't my place to speak for him.”

Tom tilted his head. “Maybe I could give it a shot? He might open up to me, be less concerned with the judgment of a stranger or something. Come to think of it, I'd like to speak with each of the other captives. Maybe all of them have something of note to offer.” He waited to see if the man across from him would ascertain the true meaning of his words.

The Old Man leaned further back on the bench, studying the Shepherd through narrowed eyes. “I'll ask about it, when we're discussing you. Can't guarantee anything, mind you... but I will ask.”

The two men watched each other for the next few minutes, the only sounds those of Rujuan and his team eating. Tom noticed only a handful of others remained, clustered at one table in the far corner. The group didn't bother to hide that they were paying close attention to the Shepherd and those at his table. The other breakfast-goers had gone, no doubt filtering out when the conversation became more intense. It was during this most recent quiet spell that a man came through the doors of the cafeteria. He made his way straight towards their table and was twenty or so feet away before there was enough daylight on the figure to identify it as Summers.

“Been looking for you, boss.”

Lifting his eyebrows, Shane called over his shoulder, “You found me. What do you need?”

Summers slid his hands into his coat pockets, eyes on Tom. When Shane fixed Summers with a stare, the Old Man noticed where Summers was looking. “He's alright, at least for the time being. Out with it.”

“Alright,” Summers began, still clearly against his better judgment. “Night watch reported possible activity to the northeast, near the tower at Hillcrest.”

Shane shifted on the bench, turning more fully toward Summers. “That's over a mile from here. They saw this at night?”

Summers shook his head. “No, they didn't see anything. They
heard
something. Or thought they heard something. Jerry didn't think it warranted enough attention to send anyone out before sun up. Once the day team got up there to relieve them-”

“The day watch captain wanted someone to check it out,” Shane finished. “Suppose you volunteered?”

Summers grinned, face lighting up like a school boy. “Ab-so-lute-ly,” he emphasized each syllable. “Best defense is a good offense.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Shane agreed. “You headed out now?”

“Yes, sir. Taking Red and Dust with me, if that's alright with you?”

The Old Man nodded. Pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, he looked at the Shepherd as though only now remembering he was there. “Got room for one more?”

Tom had been in no position to refuse: an elder of his host community required aid, so he was oath-bound to honor the request. Truth be told, he was just as curious as they to learn what the source of the commotion was.
Hearing something over a mile away, and at night? Desperate times, for who or whatever made the sound.

Standing somewhat apart from the others while they examined the tracks, he thought back on Summers' words just after they'd left the school.

Dust and Red were already outside the fence, their respective teams equipped and ready for a patrol. Both of the team leads regarded Tom with obvious skepticism and looked to Summers for an explanation.

“What's his deal?” Red asked, the fingers of his left hand drumming along the handle of the machete at his side.

“He's coming with us,” was Summers' reply.

“You sure that's a good idea?” This from Dust, who adjusted the visor of his ball cap

Summers grunted, shook his head. “Wasn't my idea. That's not all, either.”

Summers took the pack from his shoulder, removed two objects very familiar to the Shepherd.

“Aw hell, no,” Red voiced his displeasure.

“I don't like it either, but the Old Man was very clear,” Summers had told the others. “He gets his equipment back and we treat him as one of our own.” That seemed to end the matter as soon as it had begun.

Summers first handed over the kukri, which Tom removed from the sheath to check before returning to his belt. With that done, Summers next handed over the pistol, a dubious expression on his face. Tom took the GP100 back, handling it with the same reverence he had the large knife. There was a pause before Summers handed over a pouch with the ammo. After opening the cylinder of the revolver and performing a brief visual inspection, the Shepherd kept his eyes on Summers the entire time he reloaded the weapon. He holstered it and replaced the speed-loaders and loose rounds in their respective pouches, pockets and loops.

“Lead the way,” he offered to Summers.

With that, they had been off. Even in the light of day, the school appeared no less sinister. Every window on the ground floor had been bricked over, every door chained or bolted or both. The only way in or out was through the roof or the windows on the second floor, some fifteen feet or more from the ground. The whole place, building and fenced-in playground included, exuded an almost ominous air. He was grateful to put it behind him, however briefly.

Tom watched the men he traveled with. He saw they maintained little discipline while in transit to their destination. The point and rear men appeared reasonably aware of their surroundings, but the rest were focused on making small talk in hushed tones. Unsurprisingly, those speaking made little effort to include him in the conversation and for his part, he made little effort to join. He had many questions, but figured the asking could wait a while longer. After all, they still had the walk back.
If I'm still with them
, he thought grimly.
If they act against me, it will be after we've checked the site. They won't want to put themselves in danger from whatever unknowns could be there while dealing with me.
The Shepherd took little comfort in this thought, but felt it to be true.

He lifted his face to the sky, took in the cloudless blue ceiling that stretched far as the eye could see. The dampness from last nights rain was all but gone, the only traces of it shrinking puddles in broken sections of asphalt. The wind was brisk, but only blew occasionally. It was the very image of a perfect autumn morning. So it was that this perfect autumn morning saw them traverse nearly a mile and half to the base of Hillcrest without event.

“They look like tire tracks. Big enough to be from a truck, maybe.” Red's voice called the Shepherd back to the present.

“Well, they can't be. Haven't been any vehicles out here for ten years. Hasn't been any gas to run one since.” Summers' reply seemed equally mystified.

The Shepherd let them debate for a minute longer before he offered his own observation. “What about the boot print?”

Dust looked back at him. “What boot print?”

Tom raised his left hand, pointed. Dust came to the Shepherd, stopped a yard away and looked where the young man was pointing. Then he saw the shape. Clear contours and sharp, textured lines, unmistakably pressed into the recently softened earth.

“Doesn't belong to one of yours, does it?” The Shepherd asked Dust, who shook his head in answer.

The Shepherd fixed Summers with a look. “Beautiful thing about rain and snow. They keep the trail warm a long, long time.”

Summers returned Toms look with one of his own. Frustration evident in his voice, he said, “Tell me what you see here, stranger. What do you see and what does it mean to you? The Old Man said you might be worth your keep. Time to see if he was right. Show us what you've got.”

Noting his proximity to Dust and how agitated Summers had become, the Shepherd let his right wrist drop a bit, so it hung just over the hammer of his gun.
Maybe I was wrong about the when
.

Dust must have felt the tension between Tom and Summers, because he looked up. Seeing where the Shepherd's hand was and how still he had become, Dust froze.

“Hold up, man. It doesn't have to be that way.” Dust spoke quietly, the handkerchief covering his face muffling his voice even more.

Without taking his eyes from Summers, Tom replied just as softly. “Your man over there is awfully worked up about something.”

“There's a very real possibility that the world as we've known it for the last twelve or thirteen years is about to be turned on it's head. That'll do things to people. Stress 'em right the hell out. He also might be thinking what I was thinking.” This he said to Tom in the same confidential tone he'd used a moment earlier.

“What was that?” Tom was still watching the man behind Dust.

“That these might belong to friends of yours.”

This gave Tom pause. “I see your point.” His tension began to dissipate, but he remained ready to act.