Tom's eyebrows rose. “Over a hundred?”
Shane nodded.
“How many, exactly?”
“Depends on who you count. If you include the recently returned prisoners, one hundred thirty four. Had close to five hundred at our peak, but that was years ago.”
“What happened?” Tom asked and immediately regretted it.
“What do you think?” Shane's voice was harsh, his face twisted before he regained his composure. Eyes and voice distant, he continued after taking a breath. “Some left, some passed from sickness or old age. A few were killed... Muppets got the rest.” He shook his head. “Talking about it puts me off my feed, and I could do with some breakfast. Joining us or not?”
The Shepherd considered it. Even if he chose not to eat, he had no desire to remain in the dark room. Nodding, he replied. “I will.”
The Old Man smiled. “Atta boy.”
When Tom stepped into the hallway, Shane clapped him on the shoulder. “If it'll set your mind at ease, think of this meal as indebted to you. After all, you did us favor by catching those runaways and so far, you've been a model guest.”
Tom glanced sideways at the Old Man as they walked down the hall, the lamps casting a diffuse glow on the floor and walls. “Are all of your guests treated to an armed escort?”
Shane chuckled and shook his head. “Rujuan isn't here because of you. He's here for me. I'm told I'm getting old.” This he said with his own glance back at the large man.
“Not because you're a member of the council?”
Shane nodded, impressed. “That too. Sussed it out already, huh?”
Their conversation stopped briefly as they passed the double doors at the end of the hall. Having more opportunity to study them, Tom confirmed there was no way to access the bolt on this side. Once through, the Shepherd noted someone he'd not seen before. This new man slid home the heavy bolt, locking the door, then nodded to Shane before making his way up the stairs. Daylight eked in from the windows at the top of the stairwell and began creeping into the hall. The stairwell is open during the day, but that hallway is locked from one side. Strange hospitality. The Shepherd kept his musings to himself.
“Cafeteria's this way,” Shane gestured to another hall.
The Old Man seemed to have fallen into a quiet mood. They walked in silence for a few moments while Tom considered what topic to broach next. “Why do you call them 'Muppets'?”
This brought another chuckle from Shane. “That's what Calvin called them. He wouldn't call them zombies, since they weren't the risen dead. Seeing how stupid and useless they were, seemed to fit. His accent certainly helped.” Noting the Shepherd's lack of response, Shane's expression soured. “Maybe you had to be there. At any rate, it's the term that stuck.”
“You say 'he called them that'. Calvin is no longer with you, then?” Tom asked softly.
The Old Man nodded. “Fell ill the second winter. He was a good man, deserved better. Figured we could use his word for 'em as a kind of living memorial.”
This time the break in their conversation proved longer, lasting until they had reached their destination. The smell of cooked food greeted them long before the doors of cafeteria came into sight, an earthy mix of vegetables, some kind of meat and was that... bread?
Shane saw the look on Tom's face and smiled. “You smell that, do ya?”
Tom regarded the Old Man with wide eyes. “Is that what I think it is?”
Shane's smile broadened as the younger man's stomach growled audibly. “One way to find out.”
The room that still served it's original purpose, albeit with something of a makeover. While the kitchen and cafeteria might have been separated before, they were now one large chamber. Long folding tables with attached benches customary to such places were arrayed near the doors. On the far side of the chamber was the kitchen, dominated by a large brick oven churning out odors that both delighted and amazed. Those smells would have been a welcome relief even if he had not spent the previous evening in a septic guest room.
Their group stopped just inside the doorway. The Shepherd let his senses feast on the room, drinking in it's delicious smells, heat and the feeling of hearth that always seemed to accompany warm food and a gathering of people. Even through his amazement, he noted how the sounds of conversation and eating slowly died away, and no fewer than three dozen heads turned to him. For a moment, he imagined he could smell their uncertainty, taste their doubt. He watched their eyes move from him to Shane and back again.
Seeing those expressions on unfamiliar faces brought Tom crashing back to reality. Looks that seemed to say stranger, outsider, interloper. In an instant, all his frustration and fatigue returned to him. Taking a cue from the breakfast crowd, the Shepherd regarded his host.
The Old Man returned Tom's stare a moment before gesturing to the kitchen. “Line forms over there,” he said to the younger man.
Tom, Shane, Rujuan and the others made their way to a counter ten or so feet from the oven. Shane took two plates from the top of a stack and handed one to the Shepherd. Putting his plate on the stainless steel counter top, Shane looked at a man beside the large, brick hotbox. “Mind bringing some of that slop this way, Burt? Enough for two. Wouldn't want our guest to go hungry.”
Burt nodded and picked up Shane's plate. Then, from a number of heavy pans atop the oven's surface, he doled out a generous portion of scrambled eggs and potatoes. This he followed with two strips of meat and a yellow, cakey square.. He promptly returned with the filled, steaming plate and handed it back to the Old Man. Burt turned and motioned for Tom's plate.
Tom watched the other man repeat those motions with an almost mechanical level of efficiency. Again, his stomach rumbled loudly enough for all at the counter to hear. He salivated as each portion found it's way onto the brown ceramic disc in Burt's hand. It was especially taxing for the Shepherd when the square of cornbread was offered up, taking a considerable amount of will not to lick his lips.
When Burt returned to the counter, Tom could only stare stupidly at his breakfast. After a few seconds, Burt thrust the plate of food at him saying, “Here.”
Snapped from his daze, the Shepherd took the meal and inclined his head in gratitude. “Many thanks,” he murmured.
“Don't forget your silverware.” The Old Man rapped on the other end of the counter, drawing Tom's attention to a sectioned box filled with eating utensils of various shapes, colors and styles.
Food in hand, they moved to a nearby table. Shane waited for Tom to sit before seating himself across from the younger man. Noting the Shepherd's reserve, the Old Man motioned to Tom. “No need to stand on ceremony. You look hungry. Eat.” With that, Shane stuffed a forkful of potato into his own mouth.
Seeing Shane begin to eat served as confirmation for Tom. From his perspective, it seemed he blinked and the food was gone. He could scarcely remember the flavor, just that it was fresh and warm. The cornbread and bacon he ate last, and the manner in which he savored these particulars must have been apparent to the man across the table.
“How was it?”
Licking his fingers, Tom replied. “It's been two years or more since I've had bread. That might have been the best I've had, same with the bacon. I don't mean to look a gift-horse in the mouth, but... how?”
Around a mouthful of eggs and potato, the Old Man asked, “How, what? How does Burt keep us coming back for more of the same, day after day? Must be his secret ingredient.” Shane's eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Mmm,” he noted Tom's frown, waved his fork as if take in the room. “You mean, how do we have all this?” When the Shepherd nodded, Shane made a suggestion. “Seein' as how you're already finished and I'm still eating, why don't you start? Tell me a bit about yourself. Once I've had a proper go at my meal, I'll give you a bit of our history. Sound fair?”
The Shepherd considered this as Rujuan and the rest joined them. With daylight streaming in from the windows above them, Tom finally got a good loo
k at the others in Rujuan's team. Both had darker complexions, but not the ebon shade of their crew chief. Tom guessed one was about his age and the other a few years older. When his eyes came to rest on the older of the pair, Tom blinked. That long, silky hair, smooth skin and soft face could not belong to man, no matter how effeminate. The swell of breasts beneath a faded sweatshirt confirmed that one a woman. Only the second he had seen since coming in contact with this community.
Shane chewed thoughtfully while watching Tom stare. After a few seconds, he broke the thickening silence. “Introductions are probably in order. Rujuan, would you do the honors? I could really do with just stuffing my face for a few minutes.”
1.7
The large black man nodded to Shane and glanced at the younger man to his left. “Dis Toby. He one a da best soja's we have. He ain't got no fear.” He looked at the woman across from him. “Dat Janessa. Toby's big sistah. She rip ya face off, cross her. Crack shot, too. I'm Rujuan.” The “and I don't like you” went unspoken, but was not lost on the Shepherd. Though he was certain Rujuan was speaking English, Tom struggled to understand him. Some combination of accent, regional dialect and a wholly different vocabulary made for difficult translation.
Again, Tom's thought was naked on his face. Shane asked, “Hard time understanding him?” Tom nodded in reply.
“Us, too. Not as bad as when he first got here, but we still have an occasional... misunderstanding.” The Old Man and Rujuan locked eyes for short time, telling the Shepherd those 'misunderstandings' probably had less to do with language and more to do with something else.
Shane continued. “Seems pretty clear most of the time, now. Where did you say you came from again, Rujuan? Atlanta?”
Though a much younger and far more physically impressive specimen than Shane, Rujuan nonetheless blinked and looked away. In a soft, angry tone, he responded. “Athens. Right outside Atlanta. How many times I told you that?” The last part sounded more like 'toad joo dat'.
The Old Man pulled his lips back in feral fashion, exposing more teeth than would normally be wont. The rictus was entirely without mirth, and danger shone in his eyes. Tom had heard the expression 'a wolf's smile' before, but had never seen one until now. “Well, I am getting old.”
The Shepherd thought things would soon escalate beyond the point of no return. Janessa must have sensed the same, because she looked at Tom and asked, “Who're you?”
Looking from her to Rujuan, then to Shane and back to her, he answered. “Thomas Henry Dupuis. But call me Tom. Most everyone else does.”
She nodded. “Alright, Tom. What do ya do?”
Tom debated before replying. Honesty is policy, he recalled the tenant. “I'm a Shepherd,” he said at last.
“For real? Like, you take care of animals?” Janessa asked.
Tom shook his head. “No. The flock I protect is humanity. Or what's left of it.”
“That's too bad,” the Old Man interjected around a mouthful of eggs. “Could've used someone that had some experience with animal husbandry.” Noting the silence that loomed in the wake of his comment, Shane offered an exasperated apology. “Sorry for the interruption. Please tell us about the Shepherd's holy purpose.” The contempt in Shane's voice was poorly concealed.
Eying the Old Man critically, Tom continued. “The purpose is less holy than it is wholesome. Find people, wherever they are. Help them survive, teach them to grow, nurture what's good in them. Weed out the dark and depraved, shelter those who want something better. Develop and refine existing communities, should the community want it, and help those on their own find others, if they so desire. Simple, really.”
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.”
What Comes After (Book 1): A Shepherd Cometh Page 5
