Wanderers

by Chuck Wendig

  “Doctor Ray, with all due respect, there are five hundred people coming this way. They may be infected with…with tiny machines. They cannot be harmed by needle or knife. They do not eat or excrete. They explode like pressure-cooker bombs if you hinder them in any way! We can’t keep this a secret. We should be making noise about this. The CDC, the FBI, the media—”

  “No.”

  That word, ringing out.

  “Why?” Arav asked, but then said: “It’s because of Sadie, isn’t it?”

  “No.” That loneliness hit him again. Like the ground beneath him had gone to soft silt, sucking him down and crushing him. Sadie had manipulated him. Was their relationship ever anything more than her leading him around by the nose? Black Swan had been manipulating him, too. He felt like a fool. “I don’t even know where she is, and I certainly don’t care to find out.”

  “Doctor Ray. Please. I don’t want to bear this burden.”

  Benji reached out, took Arav’s hand. He tried to be calm when he said, “Listen to me, Arav. You told me before that you trusted me. That you looked up to me. I need you to hold on to that. I need you to trust me now. Failing that, I know you’re with the Stewart girl, Shana—”

  “I—it’s—I know it’s not appropriate—”

  “It’s fine. But I want you to think of her and her sister. Think very hard what will happen if the army comes in here again at the behest of Homeland Security. The next time they try, it will be with more soldiers, more weapons. They might try something more drastic. It could hurt Nessie, and it could hurt Shana, because knowing Shana, she won’t leave, will she?”

  “No,” Arav said in a hushed voice.

  “Then I need you to do the right thing.”

  He felt like a bully. A calm, quiet, sinister bully. Even now, the battle flashed in Arav’s eyes—a battle between warring uncertainties. On the one hand, he was wondering if what Benji said was right. Homeland Security couldn’t be trusted with this, that much was clear. At the same time, they both knew they had been played, that the sleepwalker flock had been infected on purpose by a company literally owned by the CDC. It was, if true, a conspiracy greater than many of the worst and strangest in history.

  He asked again: “Will you, Arav? Follow my lead?”

  “Fine. For now.” Arav opened the car door. “I admired you, you know. But maybe you’re not who I thought you were.” He looked down at his shoes. “I have to get some air. The flock should be here soon.”

  And then he was gone, out of the car, walking away. Like someone lost who had no idea how to be found again. Benji recognized it, because he felt the exact same way.

  Ideology always paves the way toward atrocity.

  —Terence McKenna

  JULY 15

  Echo Lake, Indiana

  IT WAS DANNY GIBBONS WHO brought Matthew into the house—the man didn’t walk so much as he loped, like a rangy coyote. He led Matthew in through the front door, not saying much except “Ozark’s inside” and “Follow me” and “This way.” Simple declarations. Commands, even.

  As he moved forward, sometimes his shirt lifted up away from the waist of his jeans, exposing the grip of a pistol tucked away there.

  They went in through the front door, down the hall, and down a few steps into a broad, low den of dark wood and dead animals: an elk head on the back wall, its mouth open in half bugle, tongue partway out; a bobcat on a branch, eternally ready to pounce; a massive northern pike above a sixty-inch television screen, the scales of its sides polished and gleaming.

  Ozark Stover sat there in a recliner.

  He was not alone.

  A woman sat next to him, on a smaller chair. Her blond hair lay in messy braids across her head—like doll’s yarn. She wore a too-tight white T-shirt. Matthew could see her nipples through the material, and it made him feel red-faced and suddenly, inexplicably uncomfortable—like a child catching a glimpse at a nudie magazine for the first time.

  Her arm was out, bowed at the elbow, her hand gently resting on the brown leather of Ozark’s recliner. His own massive mitt was there, next to hers, two of his fingers out, gently stroking the back of her hand.

  She looked at Matthew through half-lidded eyes. With slurred, mushy speech, she said to Ozark, “You wan’ me to go, babe.”

  Ozark, undisturbed, said, “No, sugar, you stay. Preacher here is a friend. This ain’t business, this is just two friends. Right, Preacher?” Ozark’s gaze darkened. “You want to tell me what happened in Arizona?”

  “I want to tell you what happened to Autumn,” Matthew said.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s sick.” No, you fool, she’s not sick! Even now he was hedging his words, why? So as not to offend the mighty Ozark Stover? He drew a deep breath, tried again: “She overdosed.”

  Stover didn’t flinch. Didn’t even sit up straighter. “That is a shame, Preacher. She’s a nice woman. She’s alive, I’m guessing.”

  “She’s…comatose.” He felt tears in his eyes. That brought fresh shame. He bet Ozark Stover never cried. That man was as stoic as a boulder: He didn’t crack for nobody, for no reason.

  “Thassa shame,” the woman said. Her chin dipped suddenly to her chest, which seemed to startle her, because then her eyes jolted open.

  “Lemme know if I can do anything, and thanks for sharing the news, Preacher. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “This is on you.”

  Now—now!—Ozark sat up straight. “I’m sorry, Preacher, I don’t think I heard you right. Sounded to me like you were slinging a little blame my way, but I’m sure that can’t be true.”

  “You sold her those pills.”

  “I gave them to her, no charge. As a favor. And she’s a big girl, knew what I was giving her.”

  “You’re a drug dealer.”

  “Watch your mouth. I’m no such thing. I am a local supplier of complicated necessities.”

  “You’re a criminal.”

  Stover eased forward, his hands forming ham-hock fists that pressed down on his own knees like he was trying to keep himself from standing. “By some view, I might be. You knew who I was. If you didn’t, it’s because you kept your eyes pointed the other way. I make no bones about who I was, who I am. I helped you considerably. Gave you a voice. Lifted you up. Don’t come at me with this shit, Preacher. You’ll make me mad.”

  Something in Matthew broke, like a dam under siege from a rising river. “You…you gave her pills, and you don’t even know what was in them. She took them and, and, and now she’s in a hospital bed in a coma and I can’t even—” A small cry of fresh pain tore out of him as his mind flashed to an image of her in that bed. “You need to be held accountable.”

  Now Stover stood. The woman pawed at him, as if to keep him sitting—or maybe to anchor herself to him so she didn’t fall over—but he pushed her out of the way. She made a sour, pickled face, looking equal parts angry and whelped.

  The big man loomed over Matthew.

  “Accountable. That’s a big word. Lotta meaning behind that word, Preacher. Are you accountable? You abandoned her, didn’t you? Wouldn’t help her with her problems. No doctor. No meds. Just the power of Christ to compel her, mm? Yeah. She told me. Maybe it’s you who needs to take a look inward, see how you failed her, and how I was only trying to help.”

  “You helped her right into a fucking hospital bed!” Matthew shouted.

  For a moment, Stover looked sick with rage, like all parts of him were tensing up—a catapult ready to launch its boulder payload.

  But then his shoulders eased. He grabbed a fistful of his beard and smoothed it down a few times—a calming technique, by the look of it.

  “So,” Stover sniffed. “What is all this, then?”

  “I’m done. With you. And this…place. Leave us alone.”

  “Uh-h
uh.”

  The woman suddenly spoke up in a gushing babble: “Baby we almost done here because I wanna go an’ hit the hot tub—”

  Ozark shot an arm out to her, his index finger pressed to his lips. “Shush. The men are speaking. You sit there and you shush.”

  Chastened, she did as told, curling into his chair and pulling her knees up to her chest.

  “Preacher, I’d like to show you something. Something real special. I’ve given you a lot of my time and my resources—favor after favor, I think we can agree on that, and so we can also agree you owe me a little bit more of your time, at least.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Especially after that nonsense in Arizona.”

  “I just want to go home.” Matthew was feeling tired, now. Angry, yes. But scared. And sad. Nearly crushed by all of it.

  “I know you do. But first, come with me.” He called out in his big voice: “Danny. Danny! Bring around one of the carts, will you?”

  Don’t go with him, said a little voice inside Matthew. Go back to Autumn.

  But another part of him thought, What’s the harm? Ozark had a point. He owed this man a debt, and to simply run away…That would be too bold, too brassy, and Ozark didn’t seem to think anything of it. Maybe he could talk some sense into the man. Maybe getting him away from Danny and this woman, Ozark could let down some of his guard and then Matthew could tell him that this kind of thing just wasn’t appropriate. With the pills, but also, with Bo and the guns, too. Maybe the big man would even consent to paying for some of Autumn’s bills because Matthew had no idea how he was going to manage that…

  “Okay,” Matthew said.

  “Good. C’mon, Preacher,” Ozark said. He moved his massive Godzilla shape past Matthew, back toward the front of the house.

  Reluctantly, Matthew followed.

  * * *

  —

  THEY DIDN’T SAY anything to each other as Ozark drove the rugged big-wheeled golf cart down through the woods, on a trail Matthew had not yet seen. They passed underneath old oak trees and tulip trees, the sun above dappling the ground ahead. Bees and wasps and deerflies crisscrossed the air in front of the cart as it sped forward, bounding and bouncing.

  After a longer trip than Matthew expected, he saw a series of buildings through the trees. Dead ahead was a Morton building: a steel storage structure, like a monster-sized metal barn with a couple of bay doors for trucks or tractors. This one was red like a barn, too. New coat of paint. Along the sides were a few other structures: a garage with a greasy lift and engine parts scattered around; a pole barn with hay for a floor; a wooden shed, its heavy metal door locked with a series of padlocks.

  The lot surrounding this was all gravel, then turned into a small private road that went—well, Matthew didn’t know where. To another road or highway, he imagined, because how else would anyone get back here?

  Beyond that, the trees encroached overhead, leaning over the buildings almost like they were trying to keep them hidden. A dark forest keeping some kind of secret.

  Ozark sped up to the Morton building and hit the brakes. The cart lurched as the tires skidded on the scree of loose limestone.

  “Come on,” Ozark said, grunting as he extricated himself from the cart. Matthew followed, uncertain what they were doing here.

  “What is this?” Matthew asked.

  “Like I said, I want to show you something. I want to show you the future, Preacher. The future I intend. It is our way forward.”

  Matthew trailed the man, saying as he walked, “Ozark, listen. I appreciate everything you’ve done. I do. You’ve been good to me but this has all…it’s gotten out of hand, it’s gotten bigger than me, and the only thing I want bigger than me is God Himself. With Autumn hurting now, I see that I’ve betrayed something core to myself, and I’m still betraying some part of what I learned, what I preach—”

  Ozark went to one regular-sized door next to one of the massive bay doors. The bay doors had windows, but they were blacked out.

  Next to the smaller door was a keypad for a security system.

  “Only thing you’re betraying is me,” Ozark said with a dark chuckle.

  “No, no, hey, it’s not like that—see, I’m just in over my head. I’m a small-town pastor and I’ve lost my way.”

  “Then let me help you find it again, Preacher.”

  Ozark punched in a series of numbers, at least eight digits.

  Several locks audibly disengaged behind the door.

  He pulled it open and let Matthew enter first. Matthew stepped into darkness. He could make out massive shapes ahead, and the light from behind him—eclipsed as it was by his body and Ozark’s—illuminated some familiar shapes. Headlights. Grilles. Tires.

  Vehicles, of some kind. Sensible, given the garage bay doors.

  “Hold on,” Ozark said, then flipped a series of lights.

  Fluorescents clicked on one at time, buzzing to life.

  God have mercy.

  They illuminated an arsenal.

  From left to right, Matthew saw a troop carrier, three Humvees, and at the far end, a massive tank. And that was only the start of it. Along the left wall were racks, and stacked along them were rifles. Military, mostly, like AR-15s, but also an assortment of hunting rifles. Right wall were pistols, knives, machetes. And along the back, he spied heavier ordnance: what looked like mortars, heavy machine guns, rocket-propelled grenade launchers. Stuff you’d see in movies. Or on the news.

  Matthew’s guts felt in free fall. His skin felt cold. His mouth, dry.

  “That right there,” Ozark said, pointing at the tank, “Is an old Soviet T-72 from the early 1970s. Still packs a wallop, though. Here, come on, follow me to the back.” He started walking, and Matthew, feeling loose and lost like a spinning top, followed.

  Ozark took him to the back rack of heavy ordnance, where Ozark also had several workbenches set up with what looked to be reloading equipment—sometimes hunters, instead of buying new ammo, reloaded their own brass, and this was that, but bigger. A more elaborate setup.

  Also along the back were flags:

  DON’T TREAD ON ME.

  A Confederate flag.

  A black flag with two white swords crossing and a red hammer intermingled down the middle.

  And into the one wooden workbench, someone had idly carved a swastika. Like a high schooler emblazoning one on his desk at school.

  “I…I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Matthew said.

  “Sure you do, because I already told you. This is the future.”

  “This…this isn’t a future. These are just weapons. Weapons end futures, they don’t make them.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. No. That is wrong, Matthew. Weapons have long been a part of securing freedom for the right people. You’re a man of God, and owning weapons is a God-given right. They’ll help us claim our future. For ourselves. For our families. For our nation and for our race.”

  For our nation and for our race.

  Matthew heard nothing about for God in there.

  “This isn’t who I am,” Matthew said.

  “No, I know, but it is who I am,” Ozark said, idly, almost wistfully. “See, Preacher, things in this country have been chugging along for a while, and a lot of dumb shits were happy as two pigs fuckin’ in mud, blissfully unaware that the machine was breaking down. Spics coming from the South, fucking ragheads trying to blow us up, crash our planes, drive cars into people. Then you got the niggers getting uppity again, thinking they deserve something because of their role in building this nation—here they go thinking they’re the bricklayers, not realizing that they were the bricks. You got the spics stealing all the low-hanging jobs and slopes stealing all the good jobs—and you ever try to call customer service, you’ll get a dothead in some faraway country where they drink water from the same river they shit and die in. P
eople like me see a world we don’t recognize anymore. But that can change. Because now the machine isn’t breaking down. It’s broken.”

  Matthew recoiled in horror. “Those are just people you’re talking about. Regular people, Americans like any other, and God doesn’t see those divisions you see, Ozark.” He said firmly: “What you’re talking about is not the Christian worldview.”

  “Honestly, Preacher? God can go fuck His big, holier-than-thou self. Only God I care about is country. This country. A white country.”

  “You…you said were a Christian. You said you read the Bible. You quoted the Bible to me.” And then Hiram Golden’s words came back to haunt him: Like the saying goes, the Devil knows how to quote scripture.

  “I said that stuff because I needed someone like you. Someone to stir up the churchy types, get them on our side, make them worry, make them afraid. Because they need to be, with what’s coming.”

  Matthew’s blood went to a cold, saline slush.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s coming’?”

  Ozark grinned and sniffed. “Can’t you feel it, Preacher? Chaos on the wind. The comet. The walkers. I know people at every level, and they say that bad things are coming. Worse than what we know. As everything breaks down, holes will open up. Rifts and chasms. Those are an opportunity. Like an earthquake that makes a doorway where none before existed. It’s our opportunity to remake the country the way it should be. The way it used to be. Whites leading the way. Everyone else knowing their place.”

  “I’m not a white supremacist.”

  Ozark laughed then, a big booming sound like a mudslide coming down toward you. “Sure you are, Preacher. Everyone with skin like ours is.” He reached forward, pinched Matthew’s cheek like a parent does to a little baby. “You’re white. You’re superior. The skin you wear affords you privilege that we’ve earned and built for ourselves. Be a fool not to see that. You’ve used that privilege for a long time. You’ve partaken in the supremacy of your people. Might as well seize it. Use it. Enjoy it.”