"The staff and its bearer are the Word's own cleansing fire, I am told," the Preacher went on with a hushed reverence. "You are welcome here, sir. In this poor outback, in this withered and dusty gathering place of wounded souls, we still do what we can to serve the Word and her Knights." He smiled reassuringly. "Can I offer you something of food and drink? We haven't much, but we would be honored to share it with you."
Logan almost said no, then decided that doing so would be an unnecessary insult and a disappointment to the old man. What did it hurt for him to accept the invitation? He had planned on spending the night here anyway, and it would be nice to eat indoors for a change.
"I can only stay a little while, Preacher," he said.
The old man nodded. "Let me be honest with you, Brother Logan. This invitation is well meant, but selfish, too. It would mean a great deal to those to whom I minister if they could visit with you. Trial and tribulation and time erode their faith. They have little with which to restore it. You would provide them with a large measure of what is needed, just with a few well-chosen words.
We are isolated out here, which is probably for the best. But we are not ignorant of the world, even though the world is ignorant of us. We hear bits and pieces of news from the few who pass this way. Some speak of the Knights of the Word and the demons with which they do battle. We hear of the struggle taking place and understand its source. But the reality is distant and insubstantial for many. It would help give it a face and an identity if a champion of the Word were to grace us with his presence. Knowing this, will you still stay for just a little while?"
Logan smiled despite himself. How could he refuse? He walked back to the Lightning, set the alarm and locks, and then gestured for the Preacher to lead the way. They set off among the buildings toward the center of the town. "How did you know I was here?" Logan asked him.
"Sound carries long distances out here, where so much is silence. We heard you coming across the fields in your vehicle."
They passed between the residences and arrived at the main street. The buildings were weathered and sad, the paint peeling, windows and doors mostly gone, and the roofs stripped of shingles. The walkways and street were cracked and weed-grown, and trash was piled everywhere. There was no sign of life, nothing to indicate that the Preacher's flock consisted of anything more than the ghosts of the dead.
"Used to be a drugstore over there-soda fountain and pharmacy," the Preacher said, turning left down the walk. "Gas station back there at the end of the block. Two pumps, that was it. Clothing store, insurance and real estate office combined, barbershop and hairdresser-they were combined, too-bank and post office."
He shook his head. "The post office was one of the last government services to close down, you know. Delivered the mail even after Washington was destroyed. It was all done locally, nothing beyond that. But it was something, and it gave people a sense of sharing a larger community. It gave them hope that maybe not everything was gone."
They had reached a square, single-story building at the edge of the town proper, something that might have once served as a community center. The windows were shuttered and the door tightly sealed. Heavy deadbolts secured against unauthorized entry. The Preacher took a ring of keys from the pocket of his jacket and released the locks one by one.
"Won't stop everything, but it makes my flock feel a little safer," he offered. "Usually, we leave the shutters open to let in the light. But we closed them when we heard your vehicle coming. Almost dark now, so we will leave them closed until sunrise."
He led Logan inside, where a different world awaited.
There was a large room with three long folding tables and chairs set out in its center. A pass-through cut into the back wall opened onto a small kitchen. He could smell food cooking and see trays of glasses sitting out. A door to the left of the pass-through revealed a second large room beyond. Doors marked MEN and WOMEN were set into the wall to his left.
A scattering of faces turned his way; all of them were ancient and worn and framed by dustings of white hair. There were maybe two dozen, all seated at the tables except three who occupied wheelchairs, ancient eyes giving him an uncertain look, wrinkled hands folded together on the tabletops. Whatever conversation had preceded his appearance had died away. The room was quiet save for a shuffling of chairs and the soft wheezing of labored breathing.
"Everyone, please welcome Brother Logan," the Preacher said.
There was a soft muttering of "Hi, Logan," and "Welcome, Logan," in response. Logan nodded, thinking there wasn't a person in the room under the age of seventy-five. He wondered how they had found their way here. It didn't seem possible that any of them could have traveled very far. But then perhaps they had all been here much longer than he assumed.
"Brother Logan will be eating with us tonight," the Preacher said. "You might notice that he is a bearer of the black staff of a Knight of the Word. He has come a long way. I hope you will all do your best to make him feel at peace on his night with us so that he will be well rested when he leaves us on the morrow."
He guided Logan to the center table and seated him between two very elderly women who looked at him as if he were something come out of the ether.
He smiled at them, and watched as the Preacher walked around the table and took the chair across from him.
"Give thanks for what we have, Sister Anne," he said to the old woman on Logan's right.
The meal was served and Logan got another surprise. The food was fresh, not prepackaged-vegetables and pasta, bread, and some sort of fruit. Tea was poured from pitchers, and he didn't ask where they had gotten the water. He didn't ask where any of it came from. It didn't feel right to do so. He just ate and drank what he was given and answered what questions he could. Most were about what he had seen of the outside world. He kept his descriptions as positive as he could, staying away from demons and once-men, from the destruction that was taking place everywhere, and from his own knowledge that worse times lay ahead. These people didn't need to hear about it tonight. They had already chosen what to do with the rest of their lives.
"How long have all these people been here?" he asked the Preacher at one point.
"Most have been here for close to twenty years. Some were born and raised here. Some came to be with relatives and friends. They're the castoffs and leftovers of families splintered and scattered long since. All the young ones left long ago. The bombings chased most away. It was bad; there were a lot of missile silos and command centers in the mountains. They all went. But they took a lot of us who were standing out in the open with them. Then the water and soil turned bad. That was the end for most; everyone pretty much packed it in. We're the only ones who stayed. Now almost no one comes this way anymore. You are the first in more than a year."
Logan nodded. "I'm surprised you're still here."
The Preacher laughed softly. "Where else would we be? Inside the compounds? Not people like us. We've lived all our lives in the open, most of us in small towns like this one. We're old, all of us. We don't want to change what we know. We've only got a little time left under the best of circumstances, and we want it to feel as comfortable and familiar as possible. Living here gives us that."
"It's not so bad," said the old woman on his left. "We've got what we need."
"No one bothers us here," said an old man across from her.
"No one," the old woman agreed.
They finished their dinner, and the Preacher brought them all together in a circle of chairs. An old man with wild white hair and long, supple fingers brought out a guitar, and they began to sing songs they remembered from their childhood. Their faces brightened with the music and the memories it conjured.
Their voices were thin and ragged, but brought life to the songs. Logan didn't sing; he only listened. There hadn't been much singing in his childhood and none since he had gone with Michael. Listening now, he realized how much he had missed. Worse, he realized how much he had lost.
Then the Preacher said, "We will do a song now for Brother Logan, one that speaks to the nature of his life and work." He looked at Logan. "Maybe you will carry something of the words and melody with you when you leave us. Maybe they will soothe you when you are in need of soothing. Maybe they will help you remember that there are those who still have faith in the Knights of the Word."
He looked over at the guitar player. "Brother Jackson?"
The guitar player nodded and his fingers began to pick out the notes.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me I once was lost, but now am found Was blind but now I see.
'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear And grace my fears relieved How precious did that grace appear The hour I first believed.
Amazing grace, How sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me I once was lost, but now am found Was blind but now I see.
That was the whole of it, and afterward Logan could remember every word.
It wasn't his story exactly, but it felt like a close approximation. The music was sweet and haunting and conjured memories that were strong and true. When the song was finished, there was a hushed silence as all eyes turned to Logan to measure his reaction. He looked around at those assembled and found mirrored in their expressions an understanding of what the song had meant to him. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he would never forget it.
"We owe a debt to the writer of that one," the Preacher said quietly. "The words still speak to us, and the music still works magic."
They sang several more songs, the night enfolding the building and its occupants, the darkness deep and unbroken. When the evening ended, the assemblage joined hands and murmured thanks for their day and began to shuffle off to the back room to where they would sleep. Most took time to say good night and thank you to Logan, a gesture that touched him deeply.
The Preacher came up when the rest were gone. "Would you like to sleep here tonight, Brother Logan?"
Logan shook his head. "I don't think so, Preacher. I plan to leave early.
I've said my good-byes to your flock. I think I should leave it at that."
"You brought a little light with you on your visit. I hope we gave you a little light back in return." The old man smiled. "I wish we could do more."
Logan wanted to ask him how long he thought they could stay out here like this. He wanted to tell him that it was too dangerous to be alone and unprotected. But he knew what the response would be, and he felt that saying anything would be an insult. Some things you had to accept. Some things you left alone.
"Travel safely," the Preacher said to him, and extended his hand.
Logan gripped it firmly. "I will remember you every time I think of that song."
"Then remember, too, that there are still some of us who believe in what you are doing. We will pray for you."
Logan went out the door into the night and did not look back.
BY SUNRISE OF the following day he was driving into the foothills below the Rockies, winding his way slowly upward toward the barren peaks. There had been snow on these mountains once, long ago before the weather changed. Even in summer, the permafrost had endured and traces of winter had remained. Winter had capped the peaks in a soft white covering that could be seen for fifty miles. He had been told that it was a beautiful sight.
He had come to the Preacher almost broken by what he had done inside the compound two nights previous, consumed by self-loathing and a growing fear of what he was becoming. It wasn't that he hadn't done any of it before; it wasn't even that it was more horrific this time than any other. His mood was the cumulative result of so many compounds and so many encounters with children transformed into monsters. It was the repetition of the killing, however necessary, however well intentioned. It was the crushing weight of the numbers.
He had been doing these ... he searched for the right word, the least contemptible word . . . these mercy killings for almost fifteen years. How many children had he killed in that time? Children] He made himself say the word. How many children had he killed?
Of course, they weren't really children. They weren't even human by the time he reached them inside the compound walls, not after the demons had altered them. But they had been, and something of that still reflected in their eyes and on their faces, even as he snuffed out their lives. Oh, yes, he had no choice.
He had to put an end to them because he understood what was happening.
Demons were breeding demons from human children.
Tears came to his eyes, and he couldn't stop them. It's all right, he told himself. You can cry for them. No one else will.
But he was crying now for himself, as well. He was crying for what he had turned himself into. He understood better than anyone what too much of something could do to you. He had witnessed it firsthand not that many years ago. He had not believed it possible before then. He thought that once you understood the difference between right and wrong, it was ingrained in you. He thought your moral values were developed early and stayed with you.
As with so many things, Michael had taught him otherwise. It was a lesson he would never forget.
He drove on through the morning, the sun an indistinct splash of brightness above the thick screen of clouds, its light diffused into a dull wash as it filtered down through the mist that shrouded the lower levels of the peaks. The temperature was changing slightly, but the air was still warm and oddly dry, even in the haze. If there was such a thing as dry damp, this was it.
He remembered an expression he had once heard-sunny showers-which was used to describe bright sun shining down through a rain. He wondered what that would be like.
It was barren and empty in the mountains, more so than on the plains, which was disconcerting. To keep himself from dwelling on it, he sang "Amazing Grace" a few times, repeating the phrases he liked the best, letting the melody take him away. He was feeling better today, after his night with the Preacher and his flock of old people, and he wanted to keep that feeling wrapped about him for as long as he could. The horror of the compound had begun to dissipate, as such horrors always did, even when he feared they wouldn't. The human spirit was remarkably resilient. Were it not, he supposed he would have gone mad a long time ago.
The road tunneled between the cliffs, and he went with it, steering the AV through clusters of boulders and over small slides. If he had been driving anything else, he might not have been able to go on, but the Lightning's huge tires and high-set chassis allowed passage over almost anything. The mountains loomed all about him now, huge monoliths that jutted skyward until they disappeared in clouds and mist. Everything was taking on a hazy look, giving the world about him an indistinct quality that suggested it was fading away. He wondered how much farther he would have to climb in order to reach the crest of the pass.
He got his answer almost as soon as he finished asking the question. The road rounded a curve and simply disappeared. Tons of rock had collapsed in a slide that had brought down an entire cliff face. He drove right up to it, stopped, and got out. The slide was fifty feet high if it was an inch. It angled down across the road from what remained of the cliff and tumbled over a drop.
There was no way around or over unless he proceeded on foot. The slide had formed a wall he could not get past.
He would have to find another way.
There is no other way!
The familiar voice screamed at him in the silence of his mind, the words cutting at him like a razor and triggering a memory he knew he would never escape. He felt the world drop away beneath his feet as the memory surfaced in a swarm of harsh, angry images.
And suddenly, he was reliving the final moments of his last night with Michael Poole.
Chapter EIGHTEEN.
. HE CROUCHES WITH the others in the concealing shadows of a skeletal forest and peers through the hazy darkness of the moonless night at the Midline Slave Camp. The Midline sits squarely on the border of what used to be the states of Indiana and Illinois, just bebw Lake Michigan. A hundred yards of open ground surrounds the camp, land cleared by the once-men as a precaution against what is about to happen. Watch fires burn in pits along the barbed-wire fences surrounding the camp, and torches flicker at its heavy gates. It is a slave camp like all other slave camps, and yet it is something more. It is the one slave camp that Michael Poole has steadfastly avoided attacking, the one camp he has said it would take an army to break into.
Nevertheless, here they are, preparing to do what he has sworn they would not.
There is no reason for them to do this. There are other, easier compounds against which they could mount an assault. The Midline is formidable. Three buildings that were once steel mills form the compound- huge, cavernous structures built of corrugated steel sheets and surrounded by double rows of mesh steel fencing strung with concertina wire. Ditches deep enough to swallow Michael's Lightning S-150 pockmark the open ground outside the fences in all directions. The buildings are tightly sealed, their doors and windows barred and shuttered. The slaves of the once-men who come here are taken inside and do not come out again until they are carried out. The work that is done here is infamous. It is widely regarded as the most impenetrable of the slave camps.
Michael says it doesn't matter, that it is an abomination and must be destroyed. Michael says they have put off doing so long enough.
Logan looks at the camp, assessing its defenses and its sheer size, and shakes his head slowly. This is suicide, he thinks.
But Michael has decided, and once he has done so, that is the end of the matter. Even Grayling, who isn't afraid of anything, won't cross Michael Poole.
Michael is a legend. He is a living talisman; nothing can kill him. He has survived against impossible odds. He has led his men on successful attacks again and again. He has never failed.
No one thinks he will fail tonight, either.
Still, Michael is not the same man since Fresh died. It took something out of him when he lost Fresh, and while most had not noticed, Logan could tell. It was an accident, a truck's hand brake giving out, and the truck rolling slowly downhill, gathering speed, and finally crushing Fresh against a wall. There was blood everywhere. Fresh had taken two days to die. There was nothing anyone could do; the injuries were too extensive. Michael had kept vigil the entire time, even when Fresh lapsed into a coma and no longer knew who he was.
Michael told the driver of the truck afterward that it wasn't his fault.
Accidents happen. He told the driver he bore him no grudge and thought no less of him. Logan was there and heard what he said and how he said it. Another wouldn't have recognized the rage Michael was hiding. But no one knows Michael better than he does. Michael is so tightly controlled that he never lets anything show that might reveal or compromise him. Still, he gives himself away through small gestures and an emphasis on certain words. He saw the telltale signs during Michael's conversation with the driver and knew instinctively what it meant. The driver was a dead man. Logan almost told him as much, and then decided it was too dangerous.
A week later, the driver disappeared while foraging and was never seen again.
Fresh might have tried to do something about it. But Logan is not Fresh.
He is not Michael's equal. He is Michael's adopted child. Even though he has just turned eighteen years old and is technically a man, that is the position to which Michael has relegated him. It is odd to feel so close to someone and at the same time so distant. They share so much that no one else shares, and yet there are boundaries that Logan knows he cannot cross.
Questioning the wisdom of tonight's assault is one. He knows he should say something because on the face of things the attack is foolish and because it is clear to him that Michael has changed. He thinks the change began before the death of Fresh, but it has evolved into something dangerous since. Michael has grown reckless in his efforts to destroy the once-men and their camps. He seems increasingly heedless of the dangers into which he leads them. His leadership decisions are uncomfortably spontaneous and made with less and less consideration for the consequences. So far, he has gotten away with it. So far, his aura of invincibility and his luck have carried him over the rough spots.
But Logan knows that sooner or later even these will fail. If that happens before Michael recovers himself, the consequences will be disastrous. But what is he to do? No one will listen to a boy barely turned a man. No one wants to believe that Michael is no longer invincible.
Nor will he be the one to run from what the rest of them go willingly to face. Michael saved his life. Michael gave him everything he has. He will never abandon Michael, even if it means his death.
He tries to push such thoughts out of his mind as he stares at the compound and waits for Michael to give the order to attack. But the thoughts will not be banished; the thoughts persist.
"Logan," Michael says to him suddenly, turning around so that he can see the other's face. Michael's expression is chilling, alive with a terrifying wildness. "I want you to lead the assault on the right wing, on the first building. If you can't handle it, tell me now."
Logan would never tell him that, and Michael knows it. He nods without speaking.
"Just remember what you've been taught. Wilson, you take the left.
Grayling, you stay with me. The center building will be the most heavily guarded. The experiments are carried out there."
On the children, Logan thinks. On the old and sick and helpless.
There are demons in residence here, two of them at least. But Michael's information tells them that the demons are absent this night, gone on a hunt that will keep them away until the end of the week. Michael's information has never been wrong. Logan hopes it is right tonight. Once, he would not have thought to question it. But Michael is not the same, and Logan can no longer be certain that anything he does is well considered.
He feels an unexpected sense of despair. How did this happen? When did Michael lose his way? He understands how it could happen, given the terrible work they do. Live long enough in a madhouse, and you risk going mad yourself.
But he had always believed Michael could rise above it. Michael is the penultimate warrior, hardened to everything, strong enough to withstand the horrors they encountered no matter how often or how terrible. Even losing Fresh shouldn't have been enough to change him.