What Comes After (Book 1): A Shepherd Cometh

by Peter Carrier

  Holstering the GP, Tom spoke with quiet passion. “Here's the gist of it: that boy deserves better. In truth, so does everyone else, but most here chose this for themselves. Ben deserves a chance to meet his maker on his own terms. To stand and fall on the merit of his own decisions, not for what someone else chose for him. Be judged for his character, not because of what a wayward community did to survive. That won't happen if he grows up here. If he grows up at all, which is a lot less likely the longer he's here. Isn't that right?”

  Janessa nodded wearily.

  “Both of those things are important. Not just that he be afforded every opportunity to reach adulthood, but that it happen in a more... supportive environment.” Tom paused. “'Supportive' might not have been the word I was looking for. 'Nurturing', maybe. Or-”

  “Somewhere better than here. That where you're going with this?” Janessa asked rhetorically. “Cause if so, I agree.” She stopped, caught her breath. “I wanted that for Toby. Jesus, he deserved better than this.” Her head fell forward. Tom could see she was losing the battle, so he took her by the shoulders and pulled her from the wall. He embraced the young woman while she wept, her tears growing spots of wet warmth seeping through his shirt.

  The two of them stood in the barn, surrounded by the growing light of early morning. They allowed themselves a time of physical contact where they could take solace in the presence of another person. Tom held Janessa and spoke not a word while she shook quietly in his arms. He merely offered her the silent, supportive companionship one proven human offers another in times of emotional difficulty. To err is human. To forgive, divine.

  After a minute or so, Tom brought the brief, intimate interlude to an end. Taking the young woman by the arms and peeling her away from him, he looked at her. His smile was soft and genuine as he said, “Steel your heart. There's a bit left to do, some of which will be unpleasant. But we've nearly finished it. Come on.”

  Janessa nodded. She cleared her throat while wiping her eyes with her fingers, used a sleeve for her nose. Picking up Tom's rifle, she moved to the door. “Let's get it over with.”

  This time when they moved, they did so without waiting for the watcher on the roof to face a particular direction, as he would see them the moment they stepped away from the barn. As before, Tom walked in front and Janessa followed, the Shepherd's 'confiscated' rifle pointed in the general direction of his back. It seemed their ruse succeeded, as they reached the porch of the farmhouse uncontested and with no alarmed raised.

  Tom stepped onto the porch and stopped at a screen door, waiting until he heard her footsteps behind him. Turning his head just enough so she would see his lips moving, he said, “Things will probably get rough in here.” He watched her reflection in the smoke-dappled window of the front door, saw the warped image shift up and down in the glass as she nodded. Trusting she was ready, he made his way inside.

  Book III: Chaff In The Wind

  3.1

  The screen door wobbled open with a creek, the sound something from a horror film made long ago. Behind that flimsy partition was a much stouter door. When he turned the knob, he was only somewhat surprised to find it unlocked. Might be something to that water aversion theory, Tom thought. With the farm's proximity to the river, perhaps it was in the range of 'dead space' the Turned seemed to allow between themselves and moving water. The Shepherd pushed the door open and followed closely in its wake, entering the house.

  It was somewhat darker in the house, but Tom could still make out a silhouette just a few feet away. The man seemed to be moving into the sitting room to the right of the door, and both people seemed momentarily startled by the other. The man in the house, of smaller stature than Tom, turned to face him and spoke only after Janessa appeared in the hall behind the Shepherd.

  “The Old Man was right. Guess there was someone else with 'em. He sure will be pleased with you, little lady.” The short man sounded relieved.

  “Where's he at?” The young woman asked as Tom moved past the stairs to the second floor and further into the house, straight toward the other man.

  Seeing the Shepherd advancing directly on him, the smaller fellow took a step back and looked from Tom to Janessa. “On, on the porch out back. Should he be walking around that?” Looking at Tom, he said, “Listen, mister: you need to stop right where you are. Don't come any closer. I mean it.”

  There was only a wooden chair separating the two men, now. Tom stopped on his side of it while Janessa entered the room behind him. She scanned the room while Tom continued staring at the other man. The Shepherd could tell the shorter man was becoming uneasy. Not only were his eyes darting from Tom to Janessa, but he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. He knows something's amiss, Tom thought.

  The young woman asked the fidgeting man a question while she crossed to a doorway. “Who else is here?”

  Tom saw the man's eyes move again from him to her, now bright white saucers drinking in the early morning light. The short man bolted, circumventing the chair and attempting to pass Tom on his way to the front door. The Shepherd managed to catch the fellow by the back of his shirt, fingers closing tightly around the collar just before a soft tearing sound when the seams tore in several places. A couple of thumps followed as the smaller man was suddenly stopped; first his feet hitting the floor, then his backside.

  Tom ground his teeth, since the noise this man made would certainly draw the attention of others in the house. Knowing time was short, the Shepherd moved with frightening celerity. Crouching, he wrapped one arm around the smaller man's neck and put his other hand behind the man's head, then squeezed with his arm and pushed with his hand. He slowly stood and pulled his opponent tighter against his chest, feeling desperate tremors begin to course through the shorter man's body.

  The grappled man reached for Tom's face, but could only graze stubby fingers on the Shepherd's rough cheeks. The choking man attempted to speak briefly, but could only offer a prolonged, choking wheeze that ended in a spray of spittle. Too late, the smaller man took hold of the arm around his neck, but lacked the strength to pry it from his throat. Several seconds of patience and consistent, intense pressure, and at last Tom felt the smaller man go limp. A sudden increase of weight signaling the little man's departure from the waking world, Tom held the choke a heartbeat longer before releasing the hold. Better safe than sorry. No sooner had he released the unconscious man and lowered him to the floor than did a call issue forth from the top of the stairs in the previous room.

  “What are you dropping now?” A woman's voice, equal parts concern and exasperation. It grew louder above the creaking of the stairs as the speaker descended from the second floor. Tom was loathe to commit violence against the fairer sex, so he used the seconds before she entered the room to search for another option. The groaning wood was getting louder, as were the punctuated thumps of feet hitting the stairs. He had yet to arrive at a peaceable solution when the person on the stairs finally arrived on the ground floor. There was a note of hesitation in her voice when she called, “Bob?”

  Any reservations Tom had about taking the necessary action were quelled the moment before she stepped through the doorway. Preceding her entrance into the room was a smokey, fatty odor that inserted itself directly into his nostrils. He hardly saw her face, crossed with lines and wrinkles denoting middle age. He barely registered the crow's feet around her eyes and the gray streaks at her temples, flowing back into the wiry mass of hair coiled in a loose bun on the back of her head. Later, he would take in her open robe and nudity beneath, deduce what she and Bob had been about only minutes before Tom and Janessa had entered the house. But all he saw in the first instant she came into view was the crisp roll of meat she delicately placed atop her tongue as she entered the room. She was licking her fingers when she saw the Shepherd before her and would have screamed, had her mouth not been stuffed full.

  For all his discipline and restraint, the kukri completed its flat arc through the woman's neck before Tom rea
lized what he was doing. Her head spun forward and away from her body, which promptly fell into a heap in the doorway. Loose hair, flying in all directions, brushed against his cheek, soft and smooth as a lover's parting touch. It spread through both rooms, a falling curtain of uneven, glittering strands settling atop and around the body. The head hit the floor between Tom and Janessa, bouncing to a wall where it finally stopped after a short roll. They were both grateful it faced the wall.

  Tom stepped over the body to the front door and turned the lock. Taking a step back, wide enough to clear the dark pool rapidly growing around the woman's body, the Shepherd looked at Janessa. He saw the young woman had visibly paled. She was watching him with wide eyes and her mouth was open in shock. She's my accomplice now, he thought. She knows that and is beginning to understand what will happen here, what must happen here. “Where can I see the porch?”

  When Janessa only stared blankly, he called her name. “Janessa, look at me.” She did, her face openly betraying conflicting emotions. With her eyes on him, he said, “I need you to focus or this ends poorly for everyone. Now, take a breath.” He waited for her to do so, and while she was still visibly shaken, she appeared less distracted. “Where can I see the porch from here?”

  “Um, this way.” With some uncertainty, the young woman led him through the doorway into a large kitchen. Using his rifle, she pointed to a door on the opposite wall.

  Nodding, Tom asked her another question while crossing to the door. “How many others are likely to be in the house, this time of day?” Using two fingers on his left hand, he carefully parted the dingy curtain on the window while peering through the filmy glass.

  “None, most likely. Folks'll be in and out all mornin', though.” Her voice carried a “let's not dally” tone, no doubt borne of a two-fold desire. First, to reduce the risk of being caught and second, to have this in her rear view mirror as soon as possible.

  He nodded, eyes searching for figures in the yard behind the house. A quick look of the porch revealed it to be devoid of occupants. Instead, he focused on some motion around a tree a few yards away. Three persons were gathered around the base of an elm, embroiled in violent discourse. The distance to the tree and the stout wood of the door made hearing the specifics of the conversation impossible, but there was no mistaking the volume at which the discussion occurred.

  Greg was on his knees, held by Rujuan. The enormous black man stood behind the Sentry with one thick arm wrapped around his neck. In front of them, Shane stood bent at the waist so he could shout at Greg, their faces mere inches apart. In one hand, the Old Man held a large skinning knife and in the other, an ear. Tom concluded it previously belonged to Greg, as there was only a red nub where his right ear should have been. All three men wore blood, though the lion's share was on Greg and Shane.

  Tom removed his pack and placed it in the corner behind the door, then gingerly set his hat upon it. The curtain fell closed while he was stowing his pack, blocking his view of the macabre scene outside. Taking hold of the doorknob, he allowed some of his tension to manifest in how tightly he gripped it. Looking to the young woman, he quietly asked a question. “Ready?”

  Janessa blinked. “For what? What are you doing?” Her questions a whispered hiss while she watched him slowly open the door.

  “Not what I'm doing,” he replied. “What you're doing. Tell them you're back and want to know where to put me.”

  The young woman turned her ear toward the Shepherd, as though she hadn't heard him. “You want me to tell them I got you?” He nodded. “What if they come back to the house?”

  “I'm counting on it,” Tom replied.

  “What if they get some of the others?” Panic rose in her voice.

  The Shepherd arched an eyebrow. “Do either of them ever ask for help?” Janessa blinked before shaking her head. “Thought not.” Opening the door fully, he made an 'after you' gesture. Seeing her freeze, he offered a vocal cue. “You're up.”

  Janessa swallowed audibly and stepped into the doorway. “Found the other one.” Then, seeing Greg's condition, she made a sound and turned her head. “Jesus, guys. You gotta cut on him like that? He's one of our own.”

  “Not anymore,” Shane called back. “Not after what he did.” The Old Man raised the ear in his left hand to his mouth and spoke into it like it was an old-fashioned telephone speaker. “Did you hear Janessa, Greg?” Even though the other man offered no response, Shane continued gloating. “No? Well, I'll tell you what she said. She found your friend, brought him back. So he's not coming to rescue anyone. Couldn't even save himself. How could he possibly help you?”

  Greg opened his mouth, allowing more blood to pour from swollen, split lips. Whatever answer he offered was a wet mumble that only the Old Man and Rujuan could make out.

  Janessa's disgust was genuine when she asked, “Where do you want me to put the other guy? I'm not watchin' this.”

  Shane looked at Rujuan and nodded to the house behind him. “Give her a hand getting him to the barn? Make sure he's... compliant. Soften him up a bit, if he needs convincing.” The Old Man smiled. “Even if he doesn't. I'll be there in a second.”

  The ebon giant displayed his own toothy smile. “Sho'.” Releasing his hold on Greg's neck, the other man dropped to his knees and promptly began coughing. Rujuan allowed the other man no relief, however. No sooner did Greg begin drawing in a lungful of air then he found Rujuan's boot lodged in his stomach.

  Standing over the now fetal captive, the Old Man looked at his enforcer. “Go on. I've got this.”

  Rujuan held Shane's gaze a moment before nodding. He spat on Greg before allowing his long, ground-eating strides to carry him to the house. “I leave da shottie, case you be needin' it,” he called over his shoulder.

  Seeing Rujuan move toward the house, Tom took his cue to vanish from sight. A step backwards placed the door between himself and anyone on the porch looking in. This way, he figured he would be concealed until the much larger man either entered the kitchen or pushed the door completely aside. Hidden from view, he allowed his attention to turn briefly to the young woman in front of him. Just beyond arms reach stood a beautiful creature, fragile and vulnerable yet with great strength. Do this and know your proof, Janessa, he thought. He watched and waited for her to cast her vote.

  3.2

  Tom heard Rujuan climb onto the porch with one enormous step. He brought his girth within a single stride of Jannesa's small frame, still sheltered in the doorway. Smiling down at her, the giant cupped her chin with one blood-spattered hand.

  “You got 'im?” Rujuan's smile broadened when she nodded. “Dats my good girly. Where he at?”

  The young woman looked into the large man's face, her eyes wide discs of white. “Living room,” she said quietly. She masked her furtive glance at Tom by shaking her head to free herself from Rujuan's grip. “One hit, went down like a chump when I got him in here. He's on the couch.” She turned and made her way further into the kitchen, luring the large man further into the house.

  Rujuan, in turn, watched her go. When she was halfway across the kitchen, he stooped through the doorway and followed her. If he had any inkling there was someone laying in wait behind the open door to the porch, he offered no sign.

  Tom waited for the large man to be near the island that dominated the middle of the room before making his move. Pivoting on his left foot, he allowed his right foot to swing slowly forward, connecting on the door with a quiet tap. The door swung closed, its gentle creaking causing Rujuan to stop mid-stride. Tom watched the other man's shoulders tense as the door came to rest in its frame with a thump. Taking a step away from the wall, the young man waited a moment before addressing his adversary.

  “Don't suppose you'll make this easy and surrender?”

  The Shepherd waited while Rujuan slowly turned to face him. From across the island, the two men gauged each other, one with venom and the other with purpose. A pregnant pause hung heavy in the air while they made their calculation
s.

  Tom offered his foe the slightest smile. “Didn't think so. Let's dance.”

  Rujuan moved quickly, circumventing the island with a single step. The Shepherd waited, kukri held in his right hand, hands clasped before him while he awaited the approach of his opponent. His foe was much faster than someone his size had any right to be. No doubt that speed was part of his confidence. Perhaps it had been awhile since Rujuan had faced someone with training. Perhaps the large man thought Tom was intimidated and would freeze at the moment of truth. Perhaps he simply didn't know better. Whatever the reasons, he telegraphed his movement so plainly Tom read it like a billboard. He saw where it originated, what form it would take and how his opponent's body would be positioned when the motion was finished.

  While very quick, Rujuan was not as fast as Tom. When Rujuan reached out with his right hand, no doubt intent on stunning or distracting the smaller man with a short strike to set up some other attack, Tom moved with practiced ease. His motion was fluid, almost casual, and he recalled another expression of Father Jacob's: the will is strong, but the flesh is weak. Sam had offered a similar sentiment. It never ceases to amaze me just how frail the human body can be. The Turned are completely unaffected by pain or discomfort, but even the strongest willed person eventually submits to the needs of the body, real or perceived. The Turned never feel fatigue or fear and must be dealt with accordingly. That usually means one swift, sure strike. People, on the other hand... well, death by a thousand cuts is a viable strategy, provided you have the time and fortitude to outlast your opponent. Wear 'em down if you need to, but always, always, always finish the job. Every action has but one purpose: to bring you closer to victory.