She hurried toward the bus, leaving Jacob and Tanner by their buggy.
“English,” she said, adopting the term frequently applied to outsiders.
He walked forward and met her in the middle of the dirt driveway. Samantha stayed close behind him.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“I’m Miriam. Jacob says that you’ve come for the English children.”
“That’s right.”
“And can you provide some sort of proof that you have their parents’ permission?”
He pulled out the paper with the descriptions of the children.
“This is all I have.”
She looked it over and nodded.
“It’s enough.” She turned to Jacob and waved. He patted Samuel on the back, and the younger man took off running around the side of the house.
“Where’s he going?” asked Tanner.
“The children are all in school. It’s across the field about a half-mile away. There is no road access, so he will go on foot and walk the children here. Now, please, come and allow me to fix you and your daughter something to drink.”
As everyone walked around to the front of the simple wood house, Tanner was reminded of the times he had visited his ex-wife, Grace. When he had last seen her, she was less than two miles from where he now stood. The world suddenly felt very small indeed.
“Please,” offered Miriam, “sit and relax.” Without waiting for them to do either, she turned and hurried inside.
Everyone took a seat and looked out at the large farm. An Amish man and his two sons were in the distance, plowing the field with the help of a mule.
Samantha looked over at Jacob.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few things about the Amish?”
He seemed surprised by her directness.
“I suppose not.”
“Tanner said you don’t drive cars or trucks. Is that true?”
Jacob nodded. “That’s right. We are simple people.”
She pointed toward the man working in the field.
“But wouldn’t a tractor help them to plow the farm faster?”
“Perhaps, but it would also rob a father the chance to share time with his sons.”
She nodded. “Okay, but what about electricity? Wouldn’t having lights and heating make life easier?”
“Why must life be easier?”
She scratched her head, giving his words some serious consideration.
Miriam came back out on the porch carrying a glass pitcher of milk. She poured them each a small glass, but took none for herself. The entire time they drank, she looked off at the sky, as if expecting a thunderstorm to roll in.
“What happens at nightfall?” asked Tanner.
Miriam shot him a worried look.
“What do you mean?”
Jacob also sat forward, clearly concerned by the question.
“You’ve been trying to hurry us along since we got here,” explained Tanner, “and Jacob warned us on the road that it wasn’t safe here. So, I’m guessing something happens at night. What is it?”
She looked to Jacob, waiting to see if he would answer.
“It is an Amish matter and not of your concern,” he said.
Tanner lifted the heavy shotgun and laid it across his lap.
“I’d like to be the judge of that for myself.”
Jacob would no longer look at him, and Miriam bit nervously at her lip.
They sat for several minutes without anyone speaking. The sun was getting low in the sky, and heavy shadows started to creep over the fields.
Jacob turned to Miriam.
“Where are the children?” he said, unable to hide his agitation.
“It is a long walk, Jacob. They’re coming. See? There.” She pointed off across the meadow. “It’s them.”
Everyone stood to get a better look. A few hundred yards away, a procession of young children marched single file across the field. They were garbed in a mix of traditional Amish and modern clothing. Samuel was leading them, and a young woman was bringing up the rear.
As they got closer, Samuel waved, and Jacob waved back. The woman at the back was urging the kids to move more quickly, and the entire procession was nearly at a trot. As soon as they got to the farmhouse, Jacob gathered everyone together.
“Okay, it is time to go now. Please, you must hurry, English.”
Tanner counted the kids. Thirteen. He checked again. Same count.
“We’re one kid short.”
“It’s Timothy,” the young woman explained. “He was ill and stayed at home with the Hochstetlers. Please, if I don’t go now, I won’t have time to get home before dark.” Without waiting for anyone to reply, she turned and hurried back across the field.
The man who had been plowing the farm passed her as he and his two sons came in for the evening.
“Jacob, what’s happening here?” he asked, brushing the dirt from his clothes.
Jacob quickly explained the situation, and the man nodded his understanding. He looked up at the sky.
“If you hurry, you and Samuel can get home in time. Please, go now.”
Jacob patted the man on the shoulder as he and Samuel hurried back to their buggy. They climbed in and urged the horse to make haste.
The farmer turned to Tanner and said, “I’m Isaac, and you’ve already met my wife, Miriam.”
Tanner nodded.
“I’m afraid I must insist that you take the children back to Salamanca immediately.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m one short.”
Isaac looked to Miriam.
“One of the boys was sick today,” she explained. “He’s with the Hochstetlers.” She could no longer hide the worry in her voice.
“Then you can return for him another day. You must go, now.” His words now sounded more like a plea than a firm insistence.
Tanner began calling out the names on his list. The children were all well behaved, and each responded politely when their name was called. Only Timothy Brown was missing. According to the list, he was Peta’s boy. Tanner shook his head. If any kid was going to be missing, it was bound to be hers.
He turned to Isaac.
“Tell me where the boy is, and we’ll swing by and pick him up on our way out. I can’t leave without him.”
“You don’t understand. There’s no time. You must go now.”
“No, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. I said that I’d come back with fourteen kids, and I’m not leaving without fourteen kids. So, unless you have a spare son you’d like to donate, I’m getting little Timmy.”
Miriam leaned over and whispered something in her husband’s ear. He nodded.
“Come,” he said. “We must get the children inside.”
Tanner leaned his shotgun against the wall and helped Isaac lift a heavy wooden shutter. The Amish man nodded his appreciation, and for the next several minutes, they worked together, carefully hanging the shutters over every window of his modest home. When they were finished, both men stepped back and looked at their work. The shutters were constructed from one-inch thick oak planks that were stained from years of exposure to the elements. Whether or not they would hold up would depend on what was coming.
“Thank you, English.”
Tanner nodded, picking back up his shotgun.
Isaac slid a chair beside the door and sat, weary from the day’s hard labor. Tanner pulled one over next to his. They sat, quietly looking out at the night.
Finally, Isaac said, “I’m sorry for my behavior earlier.”
“You’re worried. I get it. But maybe it’s time you tell me what’s going on here.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s only right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “English, are you familiar with our custom of Rumspringa?”
“It’s a time when you let your teenagers go out and sow their wild oats.”
&nbs
p; Isaac smiled. “Sow their wild oats—a wonderful idiom indeed. But true enough, I suppose. When our children reach sixteen, the rules for their conduct are somewhat relaxed. Punishments are less severe. They are expected to conduct courting and perhaps even experience non-Amish life to some degree. The purpose of this is to help them make an informed decision of whether or not to stay in the Amish community.”
“And do most come back into the fold?”
“Indeed. Almost all do. Young people often think that our customs are somehow holding them back, but when they experience life outside, they feel disconnected from nearly everything they see as important.”
“All that’s well and good, but what does it have to do with us sitting here in the dark?”
He took a deep breath before answering.
“When the virus first hit, some of our children were away on Rumspringa, experiencing life with the English. When we saw how dangerous things had become, we called them home at once.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yes, but some... some were already infected.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We kept them apart from others to keep it from spreading. And in the end, most of them died. It was horrible to see our children die.” Tears welled in his eyes, and he pretended to wipe away sweat with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.
“I’m sorry,” repeated Tanner.
“That was not the worst of it. The worst came when three boys began to recover. They were hideous to look at, but even worse to be around—unspeakably violent. That is not our way, English. You know that.”
“What did you do?”
“At first, we tried a firm hand, threatening Meidung, our banishment.”
“And did that help?”
“No. It only caused them to grow angrier. Their hearts became filled with vile hate for everyone but their kind.”
“Did you cast them out?”
Isaac wiped at his eyes again.
“We did, but not into society. We could not do so in good conscience. So, we built a barn for them to live in. It is forever kept dark because their eyes cannot adjust to the light. They stay in the barn throughout the day and roam freely at night. We leave them food and drink to help them stay alive.”
“It sounds like you came to an arrangement with them. That’s something, I suppose.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Ours was but the act of desperate men and women. When they come out at night, they are no longer Amish. They are like wolves on the hunt.”
“Why don’t you just lock them up?”
“They would not allow it without great violence.”
“Let me get this straight. You have a situation where a few murderous teens kill anyone who happens to be out after dark? Is that what we’re dealing with?”
Isaac said nothing, but his silence was an answer.
“What will you do about them? Eventually, they’ll kill someone you love—a man who is slow coming in from the field, a child who gets distracted on the way home from school. It’s bound to happen.”
“It has already happened,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Two men were killed last week. Their horse injured its leg, and they were forced to travel on foot.” He shook his head. “They did not make it home.”
“Where are these teens?”
“The second farm to the north. There’s a big red barn with an ‘X’ painted on the side. The house near it was abandoned. The farm past it is the Hochstetlers’.”
Tanner thought he heard something unspoken in Isaac’s words.
“That’s where Timothy is staying?”
Isaac turned and stared into Tanner’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Tanner nodded. “I understand.”
“Let me get this straight,” Samantha said, ushering Tanner closer to an oil lamp. “You’re going out to a barn to fight Amish teenage zombies?”
He shrugged. “It sounds weird when you say it like that.”
“It is weird!”
“Someone has to do it.”
“Then I’m going with you.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never minded doing other people’s dirty work, but this isn’t for you, Sam.”
“But—”
“No buts. You stay here until I get back.” He nodded toward one of the girls who had come from the schoolhouse. “Besides, this will give you a chance to talk to Isa. She needs a friend right now.”
Samantha looked over at her. Isa sat quietly at the long dinner table, barely touching her food. Instead, she seemed more interested in watching the other children scramble for an extra helping of potatoes or another slice of fresh baked bread.
“I don’t have the note anymore. I gave it to her mom.”
“That’s okay. Keep it simple today. She can deal with that when her mom is around to help.”
“Fine, I’ll stay here,” she sighed. “But be careful. I can’t drive a bus, and I’m pretty sure no one else around here can either.”
Tanner gave her a quick hug and ushered her off to the kitchen before he quietly stepped out onto the porch. The night air was humid, and the sounds of insects were everywhere.
He walked down the dirt driveway and turned north on Flatiron Road. The road was pitch-black, and only the feel of smooth pavement under his feet kept him from straying into an open field. He regretted not asking Isaac how far it was down to the barn. If he failed to pay attention, he might walk right past it.
His concerns ended up being misplaced. After a few hundred yards, the silhouette of a large structure came into view. He couldn’t make out the white ‘X’ on the side but felt reasonably sure it was the barn in question.
Tanner stopped in the center of the road and began whistling. It was the whistle of a man walking to his favorite fishing hole, carefree and upbeat, guaranteed to draw the ire of evil on the prowl. He whistled for a full minute. Two. Five. Nothing.
Where the hell were they? Out hunting, maybe?
Tanner looked off toward the barn. He was hoping to avoid going into the closed space. Better to shoot them at a distance than have them biting at his face.
“Well, shit,” he said. “If you’re not coming out, I guess I’m coming in.” He doubted that anyone could have heard him, but saying the words made him feel a little better about walking toward a barn filled with The Lost Boys.
He trudged across the dirt path up to a set of heavy wooden doors. One of them was partially open. Half-eaten plates of food were sitting out in the dirt. He kicked the plates aside and swung the door all the way open. Moonlight shone in from behind him to catch a dark shape darting behind a bale of hay.
Tanner stepped in and immediately caught the sour stench of something dead. The sound of flies buzzed angrily from one corner of the room, fighting one another for their midnight snack. The Lost Boys had apparently dragged at least one of their victims into the barn. Maybe they had done so before the kill to have a little fun, or maybe afterward, to have a little dinner. Either way, it smelled pretty rank.
He stood in the doorway and waited to see if his eyes would adjust to the nearly impenetrable darkness. They didn’t. The barn was dark, and it was going to stay that way.
“Listen up,” he said. “I got no desire to kill a bunch of pimple-faced Amish outcasts. So, if any of you are still human enough to speak, step out and we’ll have words.”
Nothing moved.
“That’s kinda what I figured,” he muttered.
After a few more seconds, the young man he had seen dart behind the hay slowly eased out. He was a little over six feet tall and easily weighed two hundred pounds. Another boy dropped down from the loft, landing heavily on his feet. He was shorter, but thick and solid. A third boy stood up from the back of the barn and twisted his head from side to side, like a wrestler might when preparing for a match.
“Oh, my,” said Tanner, “you boys are a little bigger than I imagined.
”
They slowly started toward him.
“I forgot to ask any of your names, so I’m going with...” He pointed his shotgun at the first boy. “… David.” He swung the muzzle over to the second. “Marko.” He shifted it to the third. “And Dwayne. Don’t ask why I chose those names because I’m guessing that, at this point, you couldn’t appreciate the movie reference.”
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