The other man steps into the circle. He’s tan and slim, also well muscled. His hair is loose to the shoulders, a mess of corn silk, some tawny, some light. Like Rebekah’s when her braid is picked apart, but shorter. “Atta girl,” he says. His voice—haunting and familiar. Paul cringes, but the woman does not kick her companion. Instead she moves closer, smiling, and the man laughs.
Paul blinks.
That laugh. Impossible. “Thomas? Thomas!”
The others stare at their mate. Fingers find triggers; hands pull blades from belted leather sheaths. They all point at Paul.
“It’s me, Cousin Paul. Untie me, for God’s sake!”
Thomas raises a slow palm. “I do know him,” he says, “from the life before.”
But Thomas does not rush to release Paul’s bonds. He inspects Paul, forces open his mouth, counts teeth, squeezes his shoulders, arms, and chest. “You’re a runt. The old man still kicking?”
Paul says, “Father Ernst? Yes.”
Thomas nods, and his companions step away, giving them privacy. In a softer voice Thomas says, “They all still down there?”
“Not all.” Paul chokes out his words. “We thought you died. We sewed the sacred purse. We mourned.”
Thomas is more than alive—he is strong, tan, and lithe. The huntress is back beside him now, arms at her hips, head tilted, eyes following their every move. Thomas smiles at her, shrugs. She blinks. Some kind of language carved from silence. Thomas has joined these forest dwelling heretics. He is one of them now, bewitched by an ungodly apostate.
She touches Paul’s arm; he flinches. “Sorry I was so rough,” she says.
“Sondra doesn’t mess around,” says Thomas. He calls to the bigger man, “Diego, let’s eat. Drink. Find out what he knows. Might be able to use him.”
“We have you. Don’t need this Bible thumper.”
Thomas shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Paul knows the bunker—numbers, status. He’ll know if the stash was moved. I’ve been gone three years. A lot can change. Up to you, man.” He reaches out to touch Diego’s shoulder and they hold some silent dialogue. Thomas’s fingers slowly move around to cup the back of Diego’s neck, massaging it.
“Okay,” says Diego, softening. “We’ll see.”
Soon they are in a small clearing crouched around a campfire. The woman, Sondra, releases Paul’s arms and the rope from around his neck but leaves it coiled nearby—probably to remind Paul he’s their prisoner. She kneels down to offer her water canteen. He’s so thirsty. Still, he hesitates.
“You don’t trust me,” she says.
He can see the pulse thrum in her neck, she’s so close. Smell the musk from her body. In this light, her irises shine jet. His tiny reflection mocks him again, so useless. She tucks thick braids behind her ears and says, “I guess if my people had been killing your people for centuries I’d be suspicious of a kind offer, too.”
What did she mean by that? Paul stammers, “S-Sorry. Thank you.” He drinks deeply from the canteen.
“I’m serious,” she says. “Sorry about before. Didn’t know who you were. Thomas has told us about your, uh, family. I know you’ve been through a lot.”
Those same eyes that bore into him without mercy now regard him with compassion. It’s confusing. Heat builds in Paul’s throat and he swallows, hard. Who are these marauders? What do they want?
Paul clears his throat. “I guess everyone’s been through too much nowadays.”
When Sondra stands, he has to tilt his head back to see all of her. She is like a slender tree, rooted and full of vitality. That knot of discomfort—shame, guilt, fear—tightens in his belly. Sondra doesn’t owe him anything, that’s for certain. The reverse, more likely. Had she lost people in the Burning Light? She strides over and settles herself on a log beside Thomas and Diego. Does she belong to them both? Strangely, they show no interest in her. Rather, they lean together, murmuring, laughing at some private joke.
Thomas refuses to look at Paul. But Paul, stupefied, can’t stop staring. Thomas is risen. Thomas, healthy and confident, joking with the infidel. Paul strains to remember Deborah’s youngest son—four years older than Paul, so never a close playmate. Had occasional tensions with Father, to be expected. Thomas started quietly training Paul to scavenge before he disappeared. In hindsight, Thomas had probably planned his escape for some time. Paul remembers a quiet boy, cooperative and devout. Nothing like the outlaw he’s become.
Paul drinks again from the canteen. Thirst slaked, he scans his surroundings. They have nuts and berries, and Thomas gathered ferns that they steam, along with the rabbit, over the fire. If Thomas’s friends live off the land, couldn’t Paul and the girls? Plenty of life in this old-growth forest. Birdsong, more scampering in the trees, up and down the thick bark of their trunks. He hears a brook nearby. If he makes a run for it, will the current carry him away? Probably it’s not deep enough.
Diego licks rabbit grease from thick fingers. “You stab that with your knife? You trap it or what?”
“Used a throwing stick.”
Diego says, “No way!”
“Throw hard. Aim for the head.” Paul swallows, remembering the hare’s final seizure: the body trembling and then the eyes losing light. The stillness. After that, the intermittent hiss of air releasing from the cooling body.
Thomas says, “He always was a good shot as a kid. Make one helluva sniper!”
The group freezes to silence. Paul looks from one to the next.
Thomas says, “Oops. That’s awkward.”
Sondra says, “Maybe it’s time we talk this out.” She gestures for Paul to come sit beside her, and the men make room.
The fire’s heat soothes his sore limbs, and when Paul looks around the circle, flames lick golden on their faces, softening them. Thomas and Diego lean close on the other side, whispering. Is Diego’s arm around Thomas’ shoulder? They must be good friends. Paul had never shared a fire with anyone but his father and with Memaw and the other kids. He feels surprisingly calm with these strangers, considering.
Diego says, “You’ve been buried down in that hole of yours a long time. What, five years?”
“Seven,” say Paul and Thomas at once. Our great tribulation.
“You might not know,” Diego says, “but the American South is pretty much one big war zone. Your pendejo leader dropped his dirty bombs and went into hiding. Lots of people died.”
“Thousands,” says Paul, nodding. This brutal truth sits inside, devouring him.
“People call it the Redneck Rebellion, what started it all. Some folks actually think he’s a hero.” Diego struggles to keep his voice calm. “At first there was a lot of chaos. Military everywhere. Called the overseas troops home to help sort it out. We built community coalitions to keep the peace in most of the major cities. It worked for a while, believe it or not.”
“It still could,” says Sondra. “Better than the previous system of governance.”
Diego nods. Is he deferring to Sondra? Does that make her the leader? Paul reels with all this new information. There had been whispers of a rebel coalition. Thomas had been the first to report it years ago, back when he was still the Family provider.
Sondra continues. “Except right-wing senators released white power prisoners, armed them, made them security militias in the southern states. Called them volunteers, but they’re all on payroll. Scary stuff. We’ve got one hell of a civil war raging. It’s why I took those precautions with you.”
Paul watches Thomas’s face for any reaction. Nothing.
“You’re lucky she didn’t kill you on sight.” Diego says.
“Why’d you come here?” Thomas asks.
“I’m Provider now. Came for food. And the well’s tapped out, we need water.” Should he say how badly off the Family is? Or would they kill him right now, thinking they don’t need him?
“You had meat in your pack.”
“Not enough.”
“Well, it’s gone now. How much wate
r were you gonna carry back over the sands?” Thomas squints at Paul. “You came for something else. What?”
Paul bites his lip. “Wanted to check the woods, make a shelter. Thought to bring them up when I return.”
Thomas says, “All of them?”
Paul shakes his head. “Any who’ll come but Father. Was going to leave him down.”
“Leave him down or put him down?” Thomas, who used to be serious and watchful, lets out another easy laugh. “You rebel!”
“Have you been in the forest all along?” Paul asks. Could he have been so close, all these years?
“No, we were in Atlanta for a while. We travel around, you know. Came back special.” Thomas and Sondra and Diego exchange looks. They are like cats, silent and secretive, tuned in to frequencies Paul can’t fathom.
“Why did you leave us, Thomas?” Paul tries to keep his voice neutral, but it’s hard.
“Why did you stay?” If Thomas feels any guilt, it’s buried beneath his skin; no sign of it shows.
“For Ruth. Rebekah. The children.” Paul grinds his teeth. “Help me get them out. You’ve got to.”
“Slow down,” says Diego. “We’ve got our own plans.”
Sondra says, “People need to pick a side in this fight. You and yours especially, Paul. This is America’s ugly past rising up.”
“Some would say his people already picked a side,” says Diego.
“The kids never had a choice,” says Thomas softly.
“We will give them one.” That’s Sondra, and her words sound final.
Paul’s mind churns with all this talk. “What do you want from me?”
Diego says, “Your guns. Thomas says there’s a serious stash in that bunker, and we need it. If Ernst is still alive, we’re taking him.”
“You’re not,” says Paul.
“Try me. Your white Father started this war and as much as I’d like to end him myself, he’ll be tried in an international court.”
Sondra gets up and steps into the shadows. The men follow. Paul can’t see beyond the bright ring illuminated by campfire, but he hears whispers, voices layering in earnest discussion. Will they kill him now, with a full belly? Or will he be marched across the sands and forced to betray the putrid bunker? Honestly, he couldn’t care less about the hidden guns. They can have them.
Bodies, now moving with purpose. Bending, straightening. Laying down bedrolls and putting away their other supplies. They’ve come to some kind of decision.
Thomas returns to crouch in front of Paul. “Now is the time to tell me if you’re gonna be a problem. We’re taking Fath—Ernst.” Thomas stutters on the name. “Don’t be a hero, Paul. You have no idea how big this is.”
Paul shakes his head. “I won’t, but you can’t take anyone else.”
“If they cooperate, no one will get hurt.”
Paul says, “They’re pretty bad off. Might not even make it out.”
“We’ve got a truck waiting. We could take them to medical. I’ll see.” Thomas shakes his head. “Can’t believe they’re still there. What the hell have you been eating?” Thomas stares beyond Paul like he’s seeing things, the past maybe, and his face contorts.
“You don’t want to know, Cousin,” says Paul. “Trust me.”
CHAPTER 29
Father Ernst paces the length of his chamber. The Ascension taunts him, always out of reach. Over the years he has, perhaps, put too much emphasis on this distant goal. The mothers and children, now even Susan, push with an urgency he resents. They are so literal. To them it is simply about climbing a ladder and opening a door. He tries to explain—there are steps, rules leading to this mythic, cataclysmic release. Each foul mistake drags them back to square one, pushing the likelihood of an actual Ascension farther into the realm of fantasy. He is on a precipice, clawing; a sheer drop lures him to ruin.
What good is an afterlife without the Doctrine, without a dedicated army of light? If the Family is not purely militant in God’s love, there is no point in ever leaving the bunker. It’s not ideal, of course, but it’s better than scrambling topside without conviction and allowing the Dark Prince to dilute Father Ernst’s message. Preserving the Doctrine, even as a lived moment in time, as a purely historical pulse, is victory. Why can’t they understand?
Even now, safe in his room, when Ernst visualizes the moment of unsealing—bunker door swung wide, light filling his eyes—his palms sweat. His limbs tremor. Unbidden, he sees riot police, SWAT team with snipers surrounding him. His old prison life comes at him hard—the brutality of men locked into bullpens, seething—and he can’t go back to that. He won’t. Truth be known, it’s the only reason he does not commandeer the door when the Provider leaves on mission. He lurks in the tunnel, unbeknownst to them, ready to run for his secret crawlspace at a moment’s notice.
Ernst swipes at his desk with an angry arm. Holy Bible, papers, a pen, clatter to the floor. Everything is slipping away. He has got to reign it back in. He needs Memaw Ruth’s calm presence, but God won’t let him speak with her. God is a brick wall, shutting him out.
“Father in Heaven, why?” Father Ernst clutches the framed photo of his first three wives. “Ruth,” he cries, falling to his knees. There she is, smiling, beautiful as ever, gracious and kind. He rocks back and forth, tapping the picture against his forehead, harder and harder, until the glass breaks. Shards fall to the floor and sprinkle his face, his robe. He grips the frame until it snaps. Blood beads on his forehead, his hands. He opens his mouth to keen. The sound is primal and echoes off the walls.
Father Ernst wakes on the floor in a dusting of glitter. He is inside the snow globe dream. He struggles to sit, notices cuts on his hands. His head stings. He is in his chamber. Blood. Glass. Oh yes, the picture frame. Yes.
Ernst wipes his hands on the dirty robe and staggers upright. His body aches, his head thrums with a percussive beat. Memaw is gone, it’s clear. Their only daughter, Ruth, forsaken. He must replace them. There’s no time to waste.
He stretches his arms overhead, then drops them as he bends his knees, a few times over. He draws invisible circles in the air with his arms fully extended, clockwise, counter-clockwise. He hangs at the waist and slowly rolls up, undulates his spine. His exercise routine has diminished over the years, but he must keep the blood circulating. Waking the body also wakens the mind. Leadership requires a level of physical fitness and mental alertness unrecognized by most. Plus, he must be in good form tonight. He will take the Seventh.
Ernst reviews his assets: meat for a few days and not much water, aside from his private supply. Other than himself, only the builder knew about the hidden quarters adjoining his chamber, and the builder is long dead. It was a shame, however necessary. Ernst liked the man—brilliant, attentive, and a sworn devotee. Now, human resources in the bunker are slim: Silas will keep the lights on another few days, then provide for the others. Silas, Ernst’s shadow, is weak—no charisma, no strength or prowess or ingenuity—but he does what he’s told. He is no threat. Susan does what others are too squeamish for. Hannah and Ruth will keep as his wives and will be put to work. The children’s value comes in relation to the Doctrine. They’ve been raised with it; they are his flock.
If the other cousin returns, Ernst will deal with him. In fact, he’ll be disappointed if that black-haired traitor expires topside. Ernst wants to fight, needs to win something tangible to help keep focus.
Ernst hears benches scraping the floor and the muted hush of children’s voices whispering in the Great Hall. So soon? The clock he relies on, the one he winds each night, is silent. He shakes it, but the second hand is frozen in time. He must have collapsed and lain on the floor all night, not just for a few moments as he thought—very disorienting. He was sure he had hours to prepare before the others even got out of bed.
He will have to make do.
He steps through the pile of debris, winces. He’s cut his bare foot. Hops to the bedside and sits to look at the damage. One shard of glass protrud
es from the yellowed ball, right through the tough old skin. Large enough to see easily, he still can’t pull it with his fingers. He needs tweezers or a needle. “Rebekah,” he calls in a hoarse voice. It’s a moment before he remembers she is gone. He doesn’t want Susan here; she’s too clumsy. Hannah. He can’t bear the girl to see him so vulnerable; she capitalizes on it.
He grimaces as his full weight bears down. He opens his door, turns to check the state of his room—a mess, Susan will have to clean it right away—and enters the hall, locking the door behind him.
The children sit at the table and pull Martyr cards. Movement and whispers, stilled to silence; they stare at him.
“Children,” he booms. “Who’s missing? Quickly, gather round. Silas, come. Mother Susan, ring the bell. I bring tidings of joy!” Purpose fuels him, and he laughs, touching their small heads.
Susan stands, hands on hips, glaring. She takes the bell from its place on the wall and clangs once, twice, then hangs it back up. Ruth appears from the shadows, shuffling her feet. Hannah arrives last, wrapped in a red shawl. She lifts her cheek for a kiss and sits at his left hand, bumping the children down the bench to make room.
Father Ernst says, “We are God’s Army.”
The children say, “We are the Light.”
“We are the future.”
“We pledge our life to God.”
“We know the presence of Christ expels the presence of Satan. Whenever two or three are gathered together in His name, He is in their midst.”
“Amen,” they say.
“We have had our share of struggle. We have fought with the Devil, topside in the world and below, in our own hearts. But today we celebrate. We strengthen our commitment to God and to the Doctrine by calling upon the most sacred of vows and ushering them forth.”
Hannah cocks her head, curious. Susan slouches behind the children, arms crossed. Ruth mouths something to Silas. She’s not even listening.
“Cousins! It is time for me to take the Seventh. Children, you must wash and dress in your best and practice the Union Hymn. You have only heard it once. Silas, teach them. Mother Hannah, you will prepare Cousin Ruth for the ritual. You are cousins, and you will be like sisters as you share the motherdress and all it’s responsibilities. Susan, I’ll need you in my chamber, then preparing the feast. Silas, set the furniture for our ritual.”
Tarry This Night Page 14
