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What Comes After (Book 1): A Shepherd Cometh

Page 3

by Peter Carrier


  The group crossed the wide open lot quickly, since it was dark and the wind was cold. The ladder extending down from the roof seemed to be their goal. By the time the rest had reached its base, they could just see the last of Jay's team pull himself onto the roof. Up the rest of them went, one at a time. Once they were all on the roof, the ladder was pulled up and laid behind a short wall that surrounded the edge of the roof.

  The Shepherd watched the mother and son as they slowly moved across the rooftop. Her body was racked by quiet sobs as she attempted to comfort her child. He had his arm about her waist, equal parts companionship and support for his fatigue. Hammer-Man and Sentry moved in their wake, and it was plain to see they were weary in body and soul. These four radiated fear, resignation, regret and anxiety. Their captors, it seemed to the Shepherd, were on the other end of the emotional spectrum. Exuding a giddy joy, they seemed every part the victors, returning home with the spoils of conquest.

  They one and all made their way to the middle of the central section of the roof, stopping just shy of the tower. It was difficult to tell in the dark of night, but the wood of the tower seemed stained, rounded and worn. It had seen two or three winters, likely more. While he studied the support beam closest to where the group had stopped, the Shepherd noted additional men at the tower base. They appeared stationed around a trap door that led down into the building. Summers stood close to one of the men near the trap door. Listening closely, the Shepherd could only just make out what they were saying.

  The guard, his voice pitched low. “Where's the new guy going?”

  Summers glanced over his shoulder at the Shepherd and replied. “Interrogation room. He's a fighter and none to happy with me. He might cause a problem, so he'll go down last. We'll need to have a couple of guys down there, first. And a couple up here. Just in case.”

  The guard nodded. “And the rest? What about them?”

  Summers chuckled. “Back to holding. Where else?”

  “Your guys taking care of that?”

  Summers nodded. “I'll get the Old Man once the new guy is set in the room.”

  “Alright.” With that, the guard crouched and pulled open the trapdoor.

  Summers looked at Red and the man slung his rifle, then descended into a dimly lit hall. The other two in his team followed suit, positioning themselves behind the ladder. Dust and his team went next. With six armed men at the base of the ladder, Summers deemed it safe for his captives to move. He indicated they should make their way down, starting with the woman. She shook her head, but quickly recanted the action under the baleful stare Summers fixed on her. Like a beaten dog, she slunk along the roof to the trapdoor, then down the ladder. Her son followed quickly behind. The Shepherd barely noticed Hammer-Man and Sentry make their way into the building. He was too busy determining the marching order of his personal escort. He'll send Rujuan first, the Shepherd thought. He'll want his biggest man already down there.

  He nodded to himself when next Summers spoke. “You next, Rujuan.”

  The Shepherd felt the large man shoulder past him and get swallowed up by the trapdoor moments later. As the rest of the team followed their leader down the ladder, Summers spoke to Jay, pressing something into the other man's hand. Gaze fixed squarely upon the Shepherd, he said, “Send him down as soon as I hit the floor. If he resists or moves before you call, kill him.”

  Jay nodded and stepped away from the trapdoor. Summers nodded to the guards at the base of the tower and made the climb into the hallway beneath them. When Summers was gone from sight, Jay pointed to the Shepherd and waved him over. Taking slow, steady steps, he crossed the short space to stand before his captor. When he was within arms reach, Jay motioned for him to stop.

  “Turn around.”

  The Shepherd did so. After a moment, he felt Jay's hands working on the cuffs around his wrists. He heard what sounded like a foot fall, then another command. “Face me.” The voice sounded a bit further away this time.

  The Shepherd did as he was told. He saw the other man had moved back a step and was pointing to the trapdoor. “Move.”

  As instructed, he made his way to the trapdoor and checked below. Weak yellow light filled the hall, as though illuminated by lamps at its far ends. Rujuan, Summers and the others looked up at him, ready to act when he did. He took the ladder rails in hands, felt the cool metal on his palms. Taking a breath, he climbed down. For a fleeting moment, he was grateful to be out of the night air and the chill wind. That gratuity faded as quickly as it had come when he reached the base of the ladder. He had one foot on the floor when he was pulled from the ladder and thrown into a wall. Being robbed of his wind did nothing to diminish the stare he offered Rujuan, who now held the shotgun on him.

  Jay and his men began to join the rest of them in the hall. The last of that team pulled the trapdoor closed before making the descent. While waiting for those men to climb down, the Shepherd noticed the hall was much longer than he had anticipated. It was lit by oil lamp, however; one against the wall near the ladder and another in Summers' hand. Even though he strained to hear something over the sound of Jay's men climbing down, the Shepherd could discern no sight or sound from the group that had preceded him into the hall. The other captives were already far from here and on the path to whatever fate awaited them.

  “Shall we?” Summers indicated a nearby set of double doors.

  The group passed through into another hallway, turned a corner and stopped at the first door on the right. When Jay opened that door, the room behind it filled with oily yellow light from the lamp. Within, the Shepherd saw a wooden table in the middle of the room with a folding chair on either side. A large hand on his back pushed him inside, towards the table. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Summers point at the chair on the far side. Moving into the room with the Shepherd, his captor reached the table and said, “Sit.”

  Feeling the time was still not right for him to escape, the Shepherd moved around the table and sat. Summers set down the lamp and came to stand beside him, then gestured to a bar that had been bolted across the width of the tabletop.

  “Hands,” he said, while removing a pair of cuffs from his coat.

  The Shepherd placed his fists on either side of the bar and watched Summers lock a band around his left wrist, then slide the other band beneath the bar before closing it in place around his right wrist. Rujuan never moved from the doorway, shotgun leveled at him the whole time. After snapping the second band closed, Summers retrieved the lamp and crossed to a shelf near the door. The room brightened considerably for a moment as a second lamp was lit.

  “Won't be gone long, but just the same... keep an eye on him.” Summers instructed Rujuan before taking one of the lamps back into the hallway.

  Left with only the silent, shotgun-wielding black man brooding in the doorway, the Shepherd listened to Summers' footsteps recede down the hall. He heard twenty-one steps in the direction from which they had come before the metal clicking, clanking sound of a door stopped his count. That's a different door, he thought. He listened a moment longer but heard nothing else.

  He turned his attention to the room. Not large enough to be a classroom, if this was in fact a school. The lamplight showed pipes running along the ceiling, covered cables on the wall to his right, converging on three metal boxes. A hook suspended several feet above the table. There was an odd smell to the place, too. Musty and something else the Shepherd couldn't determine. The shelf on which the lamp sat was empty of other objects, but appeared built into that wall. A store room, perhaps?

  Whatever the room had been built for, the surface of the table spoke volumes for what purpose it served now. There was enough dust to tell the Shepherd it saw infrequent use, but he was more concerned with the condition of the wood. Scratches ran the length of the tabletop, and it was marred by many chips, dents and gouges. Looking more closely, there appeared to be several spots darker than the original staining. Moving only his eyes, he glanced to the floor. With the lamp on the
opposite wall, the table cast a shadow across much of this part of the room. With better light, he felt confidant he would see similar dark splotches on the tile around his feet.

  How many have sat here, been beaten here? How many have died?

  It was a dark thought, but he could no more stop it than he could the stomach-churning realization that he was most likely to be among that number in the very near future. This was probably the worst spot he'd been in since leaving New Mont. Brossard was no picnic, he mused sardonically. But this is at least as bad. With that, the Shepherd closed his eyes and took a breath. Emptying his mind, he centered himself for what was to come.

  1.4

  Many minutes passed before he heard the opening of the doors down the hall, followed by measured steps. The footfalls stopped just outside the door, behind Rujuan's bulk. “Still make a better door than a window, son.” This voice was different; deep, gravelly, part humor and part authority.

  Rujuan responded to that authority and took a few steps into the room, allowing entry to the men behind him. Summers had returned and another man was with him. The new man and Summers were as tall as the Shepherd standing, but where Summers was slight, the other was stocky. The stocky man had dark, curly hair graying at the temples, with a thick mustache on his pitted face. Dark eyes regarded the Shepherd for several seconds with almost animal intensity. He made no effort to conceal how he was sizing up the stranger. The Shepherd responded in kind, taking in the man's broad shoulders, thick arms and large hands.

  Seemingly pleased with what he saw, how the Shepherd reacted or some combination of the two, the stocky man put his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. Turning to Summers, he asked in that deep voice, “Would you give us a few minutes?”

  Summers nodded after a moment. “Okay, boss. You sure you don't want a couple of us in the room in case he gets nervy?”

  The new arrival smiled at the younger man. “Oh, I think I'll manage. Don't go too far, though.” He called as Summers and Rujuan moved into the hall. “Looks like he could be feisty.”

  The stocky man watched the others close the door. When it latched, he turned to the Shepherd. Watching him for another interval, the man crossed to the shelf where the lamp was set. Removing his hands from his pockets, he picked up the lamp and walked back to the table, hanging the lamp from the hook over the table. While so doing, he spoke conversationally. “Let's put a little light on this, make it easier on all concerned parties. Besides, my eyes don't work as well as they used to.”

  No longer back lit and closer to the light, the Shepherd was able to discern more detail about the room's other occupant. Striped shirt, thick vest, dark pants, all well-worn but reasonably clean. A couple of small pouches on his belt; a folding knife and something else, perhaps? The man stood very still and exuded surety, radiated power. He continued to watch the Shepherd, apparently waiting for something. Disciplined and confidant, the Shepherd thought.

  “You must be the Old Man.”

  He smiled. “Guilty as charged. The name is Shane, actually, but 'Old Man' caught on pretty quickly. Was accurate when folk started using it and time has lent it a... growing credibility.”

  He moved to the chair across from the Shepherd, pulling it away from the table and seating himself. The Shepherd noted the exhalation that escaped the Old Man when he rested his weight onto the chair. Old, indeed, he thought.

  The two men watched each other from their respective sides of the table for a short while, quiet and with neutral faces. Finally, the Old Man asked, “Do you have a name?”

  The Shepherd's confusion must have been clearly written on his face, because the Old Man gestured to the door and continued speaking. “Shortly after I came in, you called me the 'Old Man' and I told you my name is Shane. Where I come from, it's considered courteous to identify yourself when someone is introduced to you. There could be more etiquette involved in that exchange, but its polite to provide a name, call sign, title... something.” A pause. “But that was a different time. You might be too young to remember it, too hard to care for it or too ignorant to have ever known it.”

  The last part of Shane's statement brought embarrassment to the Shepherd's face. “Call me Tom,” he murmured.

  Another few breaths passed, both men openly assessing the other. Shane studied the Shepherd through narrowed eyes. “How old are you, Tom?”

  “Twenty six, this past summer.” The Shepherd provided his answer and was again quiet.

  The Old Man nodded slowly. Bringing his hands onto the table, he interlaced his fingers and continued to watch Tom. The intervals of silence between bouts of speaking were growing longer and more pronounced. The Shepherd could tell the man across from him was just as comfortable with silence as he was. What he couldn't tell was why.

  The Old Man asked another question. “Where are you from?”

  After a full minute of silence, Shane made an open expression on his face and shrugged his shoulders. “If you won't tell me that, could you tell me what you were doing out there?”

  The Shepherd intended to respond, but knew he must use care in both what he said and how he said it. He took too long considering his words, however. The Old Man began to tap his hands on the table top, dropping his gaze to watch the motion. “You see,” Shane began, “I'm having trouble figuring out where we go from here. And I'll level with you: if you don't give me something to work with, there's no way to present you to the others as anything but a threat.”

  The Shepherd bristled. “A threat? I saved those people from-”

  Shane interrupted in a flat tone, raising his face and looking Tom in the eyes. “From two Muppets, for which they were equipped and experienced. They didn't need your help, but even if we believe you intended to help them, we still don't know why.”

  When the Old Man finished, the Shepherd stared back and replied just as levelly. “They seemed unprepared for what could have been within the house. They made no perimeter check, didn't leave anyone outside to keep a watch. They only had one visible weapon. They had a child with them. How could I call myself human if I didn't even offer aid?”

  Shane leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So, watching from a safe distance, you decide to lend a hand. Armed with a six-shooter and a knife made to sever extremities, you went into the house by yourself. Because that's all you needed to make the difference, right? One man rushing headlong into danger, capable of taking the action required to save five other people.” He snorted. “Sounds like something out of a goddamned fairy tale.”

  Seething, the Shepherd replied through clenched teeth. “Where I come from, that's what people do for each other.”

  The Old Man blinked. “That's rich. Where you come from, is it also accepted to assume everyone you encounter is an idiot? That's the only explanation for your actions, really.” Shane raised his right hand and began raising fingers to count his points. Thumb first; “Your presence and action are required to assure the safety of five armed people.” Forefinger; “Attack a man who has used non-lethal force to subdue you instead of kill you.” Middle finger; “Refuse to provide information to the people who still take you in even after your questionable actions result in the death of one of their own-”

  The Shepherd thrust his bound hands at Shane. “Your man is responsible for that! Before crossing the river, we attracted the attention of some Turned. Summers said that we needed a decoy, and he ordered one of the captives to be crippled. The child was his first choice, but I stopped Summers from hurting the boy. I wasn't fast enough to prevent injury to the other man.”

  The Old Man fixed Tom with a shrewd look. “You expect me to believe that?”

  Returning the Old Man's look with his own unblinking stare, the Shepherd replied. “Believe what you choose. It doesn't change the truth.”

  Shane looked at his right hand a moment, then back to Tom. “You know what I think? I think you were tracking that group. You saw them leave and thought they were just soft enough to t
ake. So you waited until they were on the other end of town, far enough away that no one would hear their screams. You followed them into that house, ready to do... God knows what.” He grimaced. “You came into that room, saw the Muppets and thought, 'They're not beating me to it! Not today!' So you cut 'em down and before you could do the same to my people, Summers came in behind you. Seeing you as human, he didn't want to kill you. Instead, he stunned you and brought you here. That about cover it?”

  The Shepherd's voice was filled with anger and frustration. “That's not why I went to them!”

  The Old Man narrowed his eyes. “Which is easier to believe; a wandering hero just happens across the trail of a band of outcasts, misunderstands their predicament and resolutely defies the perceived indifference of their community? Or an outsider sees easy pickings to better prepare himself for the coming winter?”

  Long, tense seconds ticked by. “You don't even have a coat,” Shane observed.

  Tom swallowed audibly. Patience, he thought. Anger will not see me through this. Face crimson, he took a breath and spoke. “Sounds like you've already made up your mind. What could I possibly say to convince you my intentions were pure?”

  Shane watched him for several seconds before responding. “Why don't you start by telling me what your intentions were?”

  Tom nodded and took a few breaths to steady himself. “You've already determined my motive, which was to help those people. However misguided you feel it was, it's still the reason I sought contact with them.”

  The Old Man frowned. “Why? And how? You seem ill-prepared and under-equipped to guarantee your own survival out there, let alone offer real assistance to anyone else.”

  “I saw the group some ways out while checking the town through my binoculars. After watching them for a few minutes, I knew if they needed my help it would be sooner rather than later. I stashed my gear so I could make better time to them. It seemed best to remain undetected, since they might be running from something instead of simply checking the area.” Tom offered this last while watching Shane closely; no need to let his captor know the thought only occurred to him just before he was subdued.

 

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