Wanderers

by Chuck Wendig

  The two men nodded. The sandy-haired one said, “We’re with Mister Stover, that’s right, Preacher. I’m Ty Cantrell and he’s Billy Gibbons.”

  Gibbons said nothing, just offering a small nod.

  “Okay, great,” Matthew said, still confused. “I confess, I don’t know what you’re doing here, I apologize. No service this weekend—” He gave an awkward look down at the toolbox and the sawhorse, realizing full well they weren’t here for a service.

  “Mister Stover said the church needed some repairs, so, yeah. After that, we’ll put a new coat of paint on everything but first we gotta deal with the gutters, the window screens, the trim, some of the clapboard siding—you know, all that shi—uh, all that stuff.”

  Matthew was taken aback. “Thank you, boys, I appreciate that.” He suddenly felt strange calling the other man, Gibbons, a boy. Gibbons was probably Matthew’s age, maybe even older. That man stared down at him with dark eyes. He just shrugged and started setting up the sawhorse and circular saw.

  Ty said, “You heading over soon?”

  “Heading over?”

  “To the pig roast.”

  The pig roast.

  Oh no.

  Today was the day. Stover was holding a pig roast—said it was annual, something he did the Saturday before every Fourth of July. Big picnic, and he’d invited Matthew, Autumn, and Bo to join…

  That’s where Autumn was! She’d taken Bo over, he bet.

  “Yeah,” Matthew said, nodding vigorously. “Yup, the pig roast. Gonna head over there in the next hour or so.” Surreptitiously he glanced at his watch; it wasn’t even noon, yet, so he wasn’t running too late.

  With that, he bid the two men farewell and hurried to get ready.

  * * *

  —

  STOVER SAID NOT to dress too fancy, so he went with jeans and a simple dress shirt, no tie, and headed out.

  Autumn must have taken their car, the Honda, to Stover’s pig roast. It made Matthew more than a little resentful—things for him were suddenly going very well, very well indeed, and she didn’t seem to want to share in any of it. He suspected that was her depression acting up—the demon, as he thought of it—but it didn’t make it easy for him to deal with. Best he could do was hope she came around and found either a new drug—or prayer—to get her straight.

  He took their pickup, a beat-up silver Toyota from the last decade. Matthew used the GPS to get him out there—he’d never been, and didn’t go that way all that often. Stover’s house and junkyard were on the same property down in Echo Lake, about fifteen miles as the crow flew.

  Down in this direction, off the standard farm grid, the roads got a little bendier—they wound around through pockets of trees and ponds. All of it overgrown and wild. Ivy grew up over old forgotten farm equipment as raccoons scuttled through the understory. Along the way he saw lots of American flags, plus a scattered helping of DON’T TREAD ON ME and the Confederate flag, too.

  His GPS told him the place was up ahead.

  Sure enough, he saw a simple sign—two wooden posts and an aluminum sheet moored between them. On it someone had painted in simple black block letters: STOVER JUNK AND SALVAGE.

  The way forward was a gravel drive through a mess of trees—you couldn’t see the house or the salvage yard from the road.

  Nor was the way open: A gate sat closed across it.

  Chained shut.

  He eased the pickup forward, thinking, Well, what now?

  That’s when someone emerged from the tall grasses alongside—a fellow in a button-down plaid shirt with a John Deere hat ran up, waving. He called over, “You here for the roast?”

  Matthew rolled down his window. “I am if that’s all right.”

  “You the preacher?”

  “Pastor, yes.”

  “Come on in then.”

  He opened the padlock chaining the gate shut, then jogged it open.

  Matthew waved and pulled forward. The man shut and locked the gate behind him with a clank-and-rattle.

  The drive down was long—longer than Matthew expected, anyway. He pulled the pickup through copses of old trees and rusted machinery from eras past. He saw through the undergrowth various single- and double-wide trailers, poking up through the green like the decrepit white of cemetery headstones. Trails cross-cut throughout. He spied a fishing pond, a few deer stands for hunting, a mess of no trespassing zones—including repeated instances of TO HELL WITH THE DOG, BEWARE OF OWNER.

  Then the driveway branched off—a painted wooden sign pointed west toward JUNKYARD, a second east toward HOUSE.

  House it was.

  As the truck juddered across lumps and pits in the gravel, he felt a shock as the path softened—

  The road became paved. Not asphalt, but pavers of dark brick.

  And ahead, something emerged from the forest.

  It was a sprawling estate. At the top of a hill stood a massive house—it looked like the love child of a hunting cabin and a proper mansion. Rooms upon rooms, tall windows cut through stacked logs, a big red door in the dead center of the middle A-frame chalet structure. All of it surrounded by intricate landscaping where butterflies flitted about. He eased up the driveway past an octagonal log gazebo overlooking a pond and a fountain. Kids played inside the gazebo, chasing one another with sticks, using them like swords and rifles.

  At the roundabout near the house, a young man in khakis and a red button-down approached and asked for his keys.

  Valet, Matthew thought. Ozark Stover had valet parking.

  At his house.

  Well, I’ll be damned.

  All this time, he’d been thinking that Stover was poor, or something near to it. Meanwhile, Matthew was the poor one. He didn’t have a house like this. He’d never have a house like this.

  Would he?

  * * *

  —

  MATTHEW FOLLOWED HIS nose: The smell of woodsmoke and grilled meat pulled him along like he was a fish on a line. Out back, the estate only exploded outward—he saw ruggedized golf carts and a massive three-tier back deck, all preceding a longhouse full of tables and chairs, a smoker, a grill, a pool, a springhouse and creek…

  And the people.

  My word, he thought. Look at them all. This was a proper shindig the likes of which he had never seen and would never throw. Hundreds of people, all of them some version of casually fancy. They milled about with drinks in their hands and plates of hors d’oeuvres neatly and efficiently refreshed by roving waiters and waitresses. He suddenly had a plate of food in his hand, too, and a beer bottle—Sun King pale ale, cold and refreshing.

  But an old anxiety resurfaced in him. It went all the way back to high school, maybe junior high—that feeling of going into a crowded room and knowing no one. You had no power. You had no clue. They were all connected to one another, chatting and laughing and debating, but you—well, you were an outsider. Trespasser, stowaway, impostor. It was an absurd fear, because his job was literally to be a public speaker—but this was different. There, he had the power, which was itself the power of God. Here, he had none.

  And then, like that, it all changed.

  Faces turned as he approached. Eyes lit up.

  Next thing he knew, he was surrounded by people. They shook his hand. They wanted to bend his ear. A circle would come and chat him up, then one by one, slowly but surely, they’d be replaced by a new bunch of folks.

  None of this was what he expected. He did not know who he thought would attend an Ozark Stover pig roast, but he surely did not anticipate sheriffs, state senators, local CEOs and CFOs, journalists, even a few local celebrities like race car drivers and news personalities. Matthew was over the moon meeting all these people—doubly so because they seemed to be over the moon meeting him.

  And these people, they all wanted to talk about the sleep
walkers. Some approached Matthew moon-eyed and curious. Some giddily anxious about the walkers. Others still thought they should be quarantined, locked away, or, as one state senator said ominously, “dealt with.”

  It was an hour before Matthew was able to extract himself, his fingers sticky with barbecue sauce, his mouth tingling with the bitter citrus tang of the ale. He had the chance to ask, finally, where he might find Ozark Stover?

  A few folks didn’t know, but eventually he found someone who did: an avuncular gent named Roger Green who taught hunter safety for the DNR—the Department of Natural Resources. He said, “Listen close, you can hear him.” Matthew gave a quizzical look at that, but he said, “Okay, I’ll bite.” Then he turned his head to listen—

  There, in the distance, over the din of the crowd—

  “I hear it,” he said. “Firecrackers?”

  “Gun range. Stover’s down at the backstop firing some off. I was just about to grab a cart and drive down. Wanna come with me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—I don’t wanna be a bother.”

  “He’ll want to see you,” Roger said. “Come on, let’s ride.”

  * * *

  —

  ON THE WAY down, Roger asked, “How do you know Ozzy?”

  The cart had big, beefy tires and made easy work of the ruts in the pathway that carved between the trees and over ditches. Matthew explained: “My son’s been working here at the junkyard since winter.”

  “Your son’s Bo?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Nice kid,” Roger said. Matthew tried to read into that—he didn’t say smart kid, didn’t say good kid. Just nice. You’re being paranoid, Matt. Roger continued with, “Ozzy’s a bit of a handful, huh?”

  “He’s a real character, no doubt.”

  Ahead of them, a couple of bobwhite quail darted in front of the cart, squabbling as they went from underbrush to underbrush.

  “I hope you’re being careful,” Roger said.

  “I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

  Roger stopped the cart suddenly. Matthew’s head whipped forward.

  From here, the gunfire was loud—they weren’t far, now, from where people were shooting. Shots came in quick succession, pop-pop-pop-pop.

  “I’m just saying that Ozzy is serious business. You get in with him, you best be serious, too. You can’t half-ass it. You can’t flirt a little and go on your merry way. Being in with Ozzy is like marriage. Deeper than that, even. It’s as deep as the grave, you follow me?”

  “This sounds suspiciously like a warning. Isn’t he your friend?”

  “He is. And a good one. We go down there now and I tell him you disrespected me, he’ll pull your head off the way you might pop a tick off a dog. But that’s my point. He’ll do that, but he’d ask me to do the same.”

  “And would you?”

  “Bet your narrow ass I would, Pastor Matt.”

  At that, he nodded. “I think I’m good, thank you.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  Roger slammed the accelerator, and the golf cart jumped again like a rabbit that got a thistle whipped up its ass.

  * * *

  —

  THE BACKSTOP WAS a mountain of dirt and clay at the end of a short field—Matthew wasn’t great at sussing out distances, but he guessed this was around 150 yards out. The side of that mound, the side facing them, was dug out and filled in with a wall of thick wooden railroad ties—ties riddled with bullet holes. A human-shaped target hung there, nailed to the flat side of those railroad ties.

  Up at this end of the field was a wooden shooting bench with a gun rest. Looked custom. Also had a couple of long tables sitting out under tents—and not far away was a small corrugated metal shed.

  They were between rounds, by the look of it. Stover was handing a boxy pistol off to another man, a rangy man with a coyote’s lean, his greasy blond hair tucked behind tall ears. Next to him was another familiar face: Hiram Golden. As Stover handed off the pistol, his face underwent a tectonic shift—a smile cracked his face in half like an earthquake.

  He pulled off a pair of yellow-lensed shooting glasses and waved a big mitt at them. “There they are. Come on down, fellas.”

  Roger pulled the cart up. He gave one last look to Matthew like, You’re in it, now, Pastor Matt.

  Suddenly, he was damn near wrenched out of the cart by Stover’s massive hands. The big man pulled him into a chest-collapsing hug.

  “Preacher, good to see you, thanks for coming.”

  “A pleasure, Ozark. A real pleasure.” He tried desperately not to wheeze as he extracted from the hug. “I had no idea you had such a beautiful place out here.”

  A mischievous spark glinted in Stover’s eye. “I see. You thought I was just some country rube living out here in some redneck shantytown.”

  “No, no, I—”

  “It’s all right, Preacher. I don’t mind. I don’t put on airs. And I don’t mind if people underestimate me a little bit.”

  Matthew felt red in the cheeks. “I apologize if I seemed to do that, though. I should be a better man.”

  “Preacher, we could all be better men.”

  “You can call me Matthew, or Matt—”

  “Nah. Preacher’s good. I like the sound of it. Like a title and a nickname all wrapped up in one. You met Roger, I see. And you know Hiram—” Hiram gave a nod and a smile as he and Matthew shook hands. “And over here, this is my right-hand man, Danny Gibbons.”

  “Gibbons,” Matthew repeated, shaking his hand next. Danny rolled his knuckles a little bit, eliciting a slight wince of pain. “Is Billy your brother? I just met him—”

  Danny gave a curt nod, but it was Stover who answered.

  “Danny and Billy are brothers, that’s right. I forgot Billy was at your place today.”

  “Thank you for that, by the way. I can’t express how—”

  Stover waved him off. “Aw, stow it, Preacher. You’re doing the Lord’s work so we might as well do some work for you. Now, good news is, you got here just in time because we’re about to bring out the big guns—”

  Danny went over to one of the tables, lifted a sheet there, exposed about ten different weapons—rifles by the look of them, though Matthew was no expert and he supposed some of them could be, what, shotguns? This Gibbons brother pulled out a mean-looking rifle. Matte black, military-style. Matthew felt suddenly nervous just looking at it—his pulse racing, his palms sweating faster than the rest of him. He’d never fired a weapon before.

  “Gonna join us, Preacher? Pop off a few rounds, shred some paper?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” he said, laughing. “I’m not, ahh. I’ve never done that.”

  Stover’s grin grew wider into a giddy jack-o’-lantern leer. “Then you’re going to like this, Preacher. This is the Skirmish Light from POF. Patriot Ordnance Factory. Chambered for .223 Remington, it’s rocking a triple-port muzzle brake and a fluted barrel; it’s got zero trigger creep and no more recoil than a soft pat on the shoulder. Shooting one of these is dreamy, Preacher, just easy as the breeze. It’s like they used to say about those potato chips, Pringles I think: Once you pop, you just can’t stop.”

  Hiram laughed, suddenly. “My last wife was like that.”

  “I still don’t know,” Matthew said, holding up both hands. “I’m not sure a church pastor should be down here with weapons of war—”

  Suddenly, Stover was at his side, hand out like he was framing an imaginary picture, one he immediately began to describe: “Imagine it, Preacher. The Devil is loose upon the land, his servitors marching on your Christian settlement. They’re gonna come, they’re gonna take what’s yours, gonna steal your women and dash open the kids’ skulls with rocks. Knocking their brains right out of their little heads. They come up over the ridge, but you have one of those babies—�
�� He pointed to the weapon in Danny’s hand. “And suddenly you realize, God gave you this. God works through the hands of men and men built that beautiful piece of blue-black steel, a machine gifted with the ability to knock down Satan’s minions like they’re cans on a fence.”

  Stover then went, grabbed the rifle, held it out for Matthew.

  “I, uhh. It really is something, isn’t it.” His hand reached for it—

  And then Stover pulled it away.

  “Not yet, Preacher. First we need some ammo, and—ahh, looks like it’s right on time.” He waved over to another golf cart driving down.

  Matthew’s heart sank.

  His son was driving that cart.

  “Bo,” he said in a small voice.

  From the back of the golf cart the boy removed two green metal boxes—ammo boxes, like from a war, Matthew realized. He looked at his father with a sheepish face. A bit of anger there, too. The pastor knew it well enough to spot it on sight.

  “I don’t think he should really be here for this,” Matthew said.

  It was like he’d just doused everyone in sour milk. They turned toward him, collectively, giving him a puzzled look.

  “It’s all right,” Stover said. “He’s down here all the time with us.”

  “And he discharges those weapons?” Matthew said, his heart pounding in his chest. A big part of him wanted to run from this, just let it be what it will be, and not stir up any acrimony. But this was his son. He had to say something, didn’t he?

  “Listen to you,” Stover said, his voice going lower, into a growl. “ ‘Discharge those weapons.’ He shoots. He hits. He’s good at it.” Stover leered. “Be proud of him.”

  Their stares stuck through him. “I…” He turned to his son. “Bo, take the cart, go back up to the house. No more guns.”

  Bo looked to Stover. As if for confirmation.

  The big man stood there, like a landslide ready to roar down a mountain. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something. Then he smiled and said to Bo, while never taking his eyes off Matthew: “Bo, listen to your father. Go on, get the hell back to the house. Don’t stand there gawking at me, you didn’t come from my blood.”