Anna sat down beside her husband and took his hand in hers. "What is different about us, do you think?"
"I've no idea. I don't know many Amish," Devon said.
"What do you know of us? That we live simple life? That our lives are devoted to God? What else?"
Devon was all at sea, but he could sense Jessie fidgeting beside him. He glanced at her and mouthed, “What?”
"Children," she said, spitting the word out like a cherry pit. "Amish have big families."
Anna's face dropped and she gripped Noah's hand tightly. "Not us. We had only two children, a girl and then a boy. The birth of the boy …"
"My wife can bear no more children. Our daughter, Ruth, was sixteen when she became ill. We tried, at first, to tend her within the community but in the end, we had to go outside. She got better, but she met an English and … ran away with him. She wrote to say where she was, but when the elders questioned us, we would not tell them and we would not condemn her. My son left us then, and the elders proclaimed us to be under streng Meidung—some call it shunning. And ever since, we have been under suspicion."
Anna kissed his hand. "We must speak truth, husband. We are not liked because we question. Long they have watched us. But now they fear the Söhne, the Sons, and they have heard that one of their vehicles has been taken, so they seek it. And they come to us because flies come to cow dung."
"We are the dung," Noah said with a chuckle. "And you are the flies. We attract trouble, they say. And they are correct, are they not? I hope and believe that it was God's hand that guided me to the farm of the Carrs. So, we will protect you as we may. But we must find your friend soon, or abandon the attempt."
He pulled a map from a kitchen drawer where it had been hastily hidden when the Wächter had knocked. Noah spread it on the table and smoothed it out. "We have covered this area," he said, running his fingers over the map surface. "There's a colony of New Pilgrims here, but I think we have spent long enough watching it to know that she is not there."
Devon nodded. They'd hidden in the trees above the fields of that farm for a full day, watching as people were led out and set to work. They were obviously unused to it, and they were given much smaller areas to work than the Amish. They were also brought in after a shorter time. It would take a while for those soft urbanite young people to adapt to a life on the land. It hadn't helped that the weather had turned cold and wet again. Devon had enjoyed the cool rain on his head until it had seeped down the back of his neck and he'd spent the rest of the time crouching miserably in the thicket, hoping beyond hope that Jessie would, at some point, recognize Sam in the field below.
No such luck. They'd returned the previous night soaked to the bone, but Devon refused the warm bath Anna offered. Though, over the past days, the needle-like agony in his head, hands and legs had given way to a general pain that only morphine and sleep interrupted, he still couldn't bear even the thought of heat. Not even to share Jessie's bath water.
Amanda and Margie had made themselves useful in the farmhouse while they'd been away. A week's laundry had been done in a day, and Margie, it turned out, was something of a genius when it came to folding linen and making beds. "She is gift from God," Anna had said.
"There is another colony here," Noah said. "It is, maybe, two miles away. Come, if we leave soon, we can get in position as they take their morning break."
And so, a few minutes later, Devon and Jessie followed Noah Kurtz onto the lane outside their farm once he was convinced that the way was clear. It was a bright day, but yesterday's rain had left the trees and grass soaked, so they walked along to the gentle percussion of falling water drops and footsteps in puddles.
"This is beautiful country, Noah," Jessie said as they turned into a narrower lane that skirted a tree-cloaked hill. The asphalt had given way on the right-hand side as the edge of the road threatened to follow the slope downwards. Given twenty years, all evidence of humanity would be gone from this place, buried beneath leaf mold and the compost of ages.
Noah beamed. "It is. We are blessed to live here. But it is more dangerous than it was, since the coming of the Sons."
"Surely they have the same vision as you? A pre-industrial world where people live in harmony with their world."
"Yes, I suppose when you put it like that, we might seem to share much in common. But the end does not excuse the means. Where we seek to live what we see as God's desire for his people, they impose it on all. Where we live in peace, they practice violence. Extreme violence. We do not like them, but the people here do not believe they can oppose them. Here, we will cut across this field." He climbed the gate and jumped down, squelching in the mud before wiping his hands on his deep brown pants.
"So, they bring these kids, these New Pilgrims to you so you can train them as farmers?"
Noah helped Jessie down and then led them along the edge of a recently plowed field lined by trees on three sides. "Yes, and we are happy to do it. This new world has desperate need of farmers. The Sons say these people will be sent out to make new communities across the country."
"Surely that's a good thing?"
"Indeed, but there is violence that goes with them, masquerading as protection. And who knows what will come next? There are no women among their leaders, you know."
"Isn't that also true of the Amish?"
Noah stopped for a moment and gazed across the field. "It is, sadly. But we do treat our women with respect. You see this field of beans? The seeds were planted by men and by women, working together. Our elders are men, it is true, and they guide us. But women are our partners. The Sons shun women even in their name for themselves and we have seen some cruel things since they joined our community. All inflicted by men."
"On women?"
"Not always. All resistance is punished. Now, the edge of this field borders the farm we are heading for, so we must be careful. I do not wish to experience the punishments of the Sons firsthand."
Devon and Jessie followed him along the edge of the field until they reached the corner. A copse ran along that side and, as they crept through the trees, Devon caught a glimpse of a farmhouse at the bottom of a long slope that ran away from their feet. Noah was crouching behind a long, low branch that spread out from near the base of a tree and Devon crept across so that he kneeled beside him, signaling for Jessie to join them.
"This oak has seen many changes," Noah said as he gazed down over the valley. "It has been here since before my ancestors first farmed this land and it will outlast us all. I guess it would welcome the culling of the human race, since we are the main threat to its existence."
Smoke curled from the farmhouse chimney, and great steaming clouds rose from heaps of straw and manure Devon could see piled up on its far side. The house lay at the bend in a track that emerged from the woods to their left and then turned almost ninety degrees before heading off to join a larger way beyond the crest of the farther hill. The valley formed between the slope they were sitting on and the one beyond the house had been divided into four large fields. One had a stubbly green appearance as a spring crop emerged—potatoes, perhaps. Another was covered in the black and yellow remnants of last year's wheat crop, and the two fields closest to them were entirely barren.
"That field has been plowed," Noah said, "and is ready for planting. The women will work there. The men will work in the other field. They must learn how to use a horse-drawn plow. They will colonize the country as their forebears did three centuries ago."
"And just like back then, they'll find people already living there," Jessie said.
Devon jumped as a bell sounded in the valley below. Seconds later, people began marching from behind the house and into the fields. Most of them were women wearing plain black dresses that reminded Devon of nun's habits, though they wore white sweaters against the cold March weather. They wore white bonnets fastened under the chin. Each carried a wood-handled implement—Devon guessed they were hoes—and they were led out by women in dresses of deep blu
e.
Separately, a smaller group of men in brown and black separated off and walked solemnly toward the other, unplowed, field.
The two groups stood waiting, as if on parade, and then the bell sounded again.
The farmhouse door opened and a figure was dragged out by two large men wearing black from head to toe. Behind them walked another man, this time dressed entirely in white though, unlike the others, his head was uncovered. He was a man of middle years, bald but with a long flowing brown beard flecked with gray. He carried something wrapped in cloth—it was the size and shape of a rifle.
Devon could now see that the prisoner was a young man and that blood ran down his face and onto his white shirt.
"Heavenly Father," Noah said under his breath. "He is a Son—the man who walks behind, with the bald head—and he carries a knife."
Jessie gasped as Devon's gaze flicked to the bald man. Yes, he had a hunting knife of some sort and, as he looked, the sun caught it and Devon ducked down, feeling as though the flash of light had revealed them. But there was no sign anyone had seen anything amiss on the tree line above the farm.
The men and women in the fields stood silently as the young man was dragged to a post that stood at the intersection of the two roads. Once, it might have brought electrical power into the valley, but now it would be used for another purpose.
The prisoner's hands were lashed together around the post and the bald man held up his hands. It might have been his imagination, but Devon would have sworn that nature herself held her breath as they all—seen and unseen—waited for the pronouncement.
"People of the New World, we gather here for a solemn purpose." He had a rich, nasal voice that carried through the still air and all movement ceased. "This man stole from us. In his greed, he took the food of his masters and so he shall pay according to the law. And yet, this man owes more than most since when he came into this community, he was close to death. We healed him of his wounds so that he could be among us. We welcomed him as a new brother so that he might help build a better world for all. And he repays us with theft!
"Tell me, brothers and sisters, what is the punishment for theft?"
The people in the fields raised their arms as if responding to a teacher in school. Devon waited for the bald man to select one to give their answer.
"Yes! Our laws demand that the thief lose the hand he used to steal from us!"
The voice echoed around the valley as the audience waited in dread of what was to come.
"But without a hand he would be worthless to us. How would he work the fields? He would become a burden, and that would also be a crime. It would be more just to simply execute him."
Devon saw a shudder run through the shivering body of the man tied to the post. He was young and thin, and, though he was clothed in brown pants and a white, bloodstained, shirt, Devon could see traces of injury beneath the cloth, old wounds that had twisted his body. The poor devil.
"If we execute him, however, he will never be able to repay his debt to us. No, he must work in the fields, so we shall not kill him. But he must be punished."
The bald man nodded to one of the two guards, who took the cloth bag from him and walked back to the post. The other guard lifted the prisoner upright, sliding his hands upwards while he kneeled and grabbed the prisoner's foot, tying it to the post with a strip of cloth. The young man wriggled, as if sensing what was to happen.
"Let it be known that this man, Jason Kelly, has sinned in the eyes of the community and God, and that his punishment has been pronounced."
Again he nodded and, in a single motion, one of the guards swept something of silver and wood from the cloth, swung it up and then down again. The young man screamed as the ax came down on his foot and red misted the air.
"Jay! No!" One of the women in black and white yelled as she leaped forward. An arm shot out and pulled her back into the ranks before either the guards or the bald man could see who it was.
"Oh my God," Jessie gasped. "Sam. It's Sam."
Chapter 11: Martha
"You can't do this, Paul!"
He'd never seen Lynda Strickland so mad. And he kinda liked it. She'd stormed into his office on the top floor of the community center right on schedule.
"It's just during the crisis, Lynda. We can't allow everything to go belly up."
"Then why not just recruit more deputies?"
Hickman shrugged. "I'd have thought after what happened to poor Marlin you'd agree we need our own civil defense force so we don't get caught with our pants down again."
"So, you're killing two birds with one stone?"
"You could put it like that if you want. Fact is, we got the equipment, and we got enough vets to use it. And we're lucky to have an experienced military police officer to run it."
"But he's Danish!"
"Dutch. And so what? He fought alongside me in Ezra so I know he's got what it takes."
Lynda Strickland leaned over the desk and wagged a finger. She was an average-looking woman with gray eyes surrounded by laughter lines, and he'd never appreciated being pointed at, but he was finding it kinda hot. He breathed in the smell of freshly applied nail polish and listened passively. "Now you listen to me, Paul Hickman, if you don't withdraw and disarm your militia, I'm going to have the council remove you from office!"
Hickman looked into her eyes. "You and whose army, Lynda? Now you run along and do whatever you want, but you'd be a lot more useful helpin' with the supplies distribution now poor Martha's out for the count. As for me, I got plenty to be thinkin' about because, in case you hadn't noticed, we got a lot of sick folk to care for."
Strickland jerked back up and turned to go but then she paused, threw her head back and somehow pirouetted so she was facing him again as she sneezed all over him. "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Hickman. I sure hope I haven't got the early stages of the flu. You know, when it's at its most communicable. That'd be a helluva shame." She smiled at him and left the office before he could respond.
He gave the surface of his desk a thorough clean with disinfectant wipes, then scrubbed his hands with anti-bacterial gel, cursing under his breath as he did so. The last thing he needed was to come down with the disease when he was on the cusp of having total control. But what he needed right now was some fresh air.
It was midafternoon, and he'd spent the entire day in the office. One meeting after another. He had to admit he felt a certain pride in the way some of the council members had stepped up to the plate during their city's darkest hour. He knew Lynda to be efficient, and she'd taken on responsibility for the supplies in Martha's absence. Working with Libby Hawkins, she'd placed all the Ezrans into shared houses that had been left vacant by Hopers who'd had the bad luck to be elsewhere on the night of the firestorm. Doctor Pishar had been handling the supply of drugs, but that had gone to pot since the flu outbreak and Hick knew he'd have to deal with that personally, and soon.
Other council members were working on essential utilities. There was no prospect of getting the electrical grid working again—though Emilio Catarino had a wild scheme to connect them to a solar farm between Hope and Ezra—so propane and diesel generators were providing electricity to a select few places. Martha's refrigerators and freezers, for example, and the community center hospital.
The water supply in Hope was mainly gravity-fed from a reservoir that had been built at the foot of the mountains a century ago. But the filtration plant needed power and lots of it, and Catarino had worked out it would be more energy efficient to keep that running than to have the population boiling their water. So, in the end, it came back to generating electricity.
The final meeting had been to discuss finding extra supplies. Despite cleaning out the Walmart distribution center, they were now having to ration just about everything and they still had no more than a week's supply of some essentials. Hick intended to send Gert's team north, but not until the sickness had run its course. The size of the Dutchman's team was limited by the weapons they had obtain
ed in Ezra and by Hickman's sense of self-preservation. He had a feeling he'd created a Frankenstein's monster, and he wouldn't have made matters any better if the creature had been larger.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard a hacking cough and the general murmur of sick people. Not for much longer. The doctor had protested, but Hick had pointed out that the school was a better place to provide care: the gymnasium was larger and there were all those classrooms to fill with the sick.
Hick skirted the makeshift sickbay and made it to the front entrance without being stopped by anyone. Turned out being in charge meant answering a thousand questions a day and he wondered how other leaders ever got anything done.
Temporary Sheriff Waydon Downs was the only person in the parking lot to welcome him. A cool wind with a metallic tang to it tickled Hick's nose. Or was it the first hint of something else?
"Mr. Hickman, just the man I was lookin' for."
Hick groaned inwardly. He'd so nearly gotten away. "How can I help, Sheriff?"
"Well, I wanted to ask if you'd have a word with Jenson. I need him to come back to work, but he says he's gonna stay with his mom."
"That's understandable enough," Hick said. He wondered just how sick Martha Bowie was. She'd always seemed indestructible.
Downs nodded sympathetically. With his short brown beard and black rimmed eyeglasses, he looked more like a rock band roadie than an officer of the law. "I know, and I wouldn't ask, but we're terrible shorthanded, and he's the best we've got left."
"Why don't you deputize some more volunteers?"
"I can't just take on anyone, Mr. Hickman. It's a responsible job."
"But you've got the CDF helpin'. I don't see no need for crowd control here, for example." It was amazing how effectively a handful of men and women wearing camouflage and carrying M-16s could disperse a mob.
Downs rubbed at his beard. "Well, that may be, but I can't help thinkin' folks would be happier with regular police on the streets rather than …" Hick waited for the man to complete his thought, but it seemed Downs thought better of it and subsided.
Last Dawn: Book 2 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 2) Page 9
