by James Hunt
Three different men from before stood next to Walter, varying in age from twenty to forty, dressed in camouflage hunting gear. They wore hats and were carrying hunting rifles. It seemed strange to David because on their last visit they seemed so careful about not being armed. Walter noticed David examining his group from the other side of the gate’s green bars.
“Don’t worry; we don’t need another tour or anything. I wanted to know if I could talk with the Sheriff.”
“The Sheriff?” David asked. “I’m afraid he’s sleeping right now. It’s still a little early and they were working on that bunker--I mean they were working pretty late into the night.”
“I apologize for showing up unannounced like this. Our leader, Sister Bonnie, really wants to meet the Sheriff. We had nothing but good things to say about all of you guys,” Walter said.
“Where is she?” David asked, looking around.
“Oh,” Walter laughed. “Sister Bonnie doesn’t leave the camp.”
“So I’m guessing she wants the Sheriff to go to her camp?”
“Well, not just the Sheriff. His council and any other influential members of the town.”
“How about me? I’m a pretty influential guy,” David said jokingly.
“Of course, we’d love to have you visit as well.”
David looked around; everyone was sleeping soundly within the town. The sun barely rose and not much could be seen of it in the gray sky. David moved inches within the fence and made direct eye contact with Walter.
“I’m starting to think that you didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood.”
“We’re always in the neighborhood,” Walter said.
David looked at the group closely, thinking to himself. He wished there was someone else to man the gate with him, but the sooner he got the Sheriff, the sooner the outsiders would leave.
“Wait here,” David said. “I’ll get the Sheriff and be back in five minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, the Sheriff was up and ready for another day. His bedroom was minimal in appearance with a simple twin bed and dresser. Before he left the room, he took a framed picture of his wife, Emily, out from a dresser drawer.
“Just wanted to say hi,” he said, then placed it back in the drawer.
The smiling woman in the picture wore a dark red sundress and oval sunglasses. Her graying hair blew in the wind. She held a hand to her forehead to keep the hair from hitting her face. The Sheriff had taken the picture when they visited the Golden Gate Bridge during a vacation, three years before. Emily had died a year before, after a sudden and unexpected stroke at the age of sixty. Her death destroyed him and a rough year of alcoholism followed.
When he was a real sheriff, he almost lost his job with the police department as a result. He was demoted after driving a squad car under the influence. It had taken him twenty years to make sheriff, and only two days to go down to deputy following the incident. It was the lowest rank in the department. It was either face the disciplinary action, or leave the force altogether and lose his retirement pension. The demotion was humiliating, but the Sheriff knew that he only had to hold out a few more years until retirement. Then the world changed and rank didn’t matter so much anymore.
The townspeople called him “Sheriff” because they hadn’t forgotten his rank with the local police department. It was an act of kindness that caught on in the town a few days after Day One. He wore his sheriff’s badge with proud embrace. What other choice did he have? He approached the front gate as David paced back and forth along the sealed entrance. David hadn't expected the Sheriff to take so long, but was relieved upon his arrival. Small talk with the outsiders had run its course. Walter moved toward the gate as he saw the Sheriff. His three other men stood nearby.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Walter said.
“Morning… Walter, how can we help you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, it’s good to see you again,” Walter replied.
The Sheriff nodded back.
“I wanted to thank you for your extreme hospitality the other night. You’re already a sort of local legend back at our camp,” Walter continued.
The Sheriff laughed. “Nothing worse than being overrated, even in today’s uncertain times,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Walter said. “Sister Bonnie is very impressed with how helpful and genuine you and your people are. I'll get to the point; we’d like to make a pact with your town.”
David stood near the gate listening to the conversation and examining the outsiders suspiciously.
“A pact?” the Sheriff asked.
“Yes, a cooperative relationship. Seeing as all the institutions we once looked to have failed us, it’s obvious that we have to work together to survive this thing.”
“I can’t argue with you there, but I’m curious, where is Sister Bonnie?”
“She’s currently struggling with some physical issues and can’t leave the camp, but she would like to meet you and your people.”
“Are you suggesting that we go to your camp?” the Sheriff asked.
“It would mean the world to us. If you have an hour or so to spare.”
The Sheriff looked at David then back to the group.
“I’m guessing you guys don’t have a vehicle,” he said.
Walter smiled.
“It’s rather embarrassing to admit, but no we don’t.”
“That can certainly be a problem,” the Sheriff said as he looked up into the sky.
“So how about it, Sheriff? Think you can pay us a visit?” Walter asked.
“Here’s the thing,” the Sheriff said, looking back to Walter. “We’re in the middle of a very important construction project. Can we maybe do this later in the week?”
Walter’s smile dropped as he tried to hide his disappointment. “I guess we could take another trip out here in a few days. Walk another seven miles or so to meet up with you.”
Walter’s guilt trip seemed to have an effect. The Sheriff rubbed the white scruff below his chin. “Let me talk to the other council members and see if we can’t get a small group out there today.”
David looked at the Sheriff in disbelief. Something about Walter gave him a bad vibe. He stared at you when he talked, and his bright, greenish eyes never seemed to blink. His red beard also was alarming. Walter spoke with a sort of conviction that David found disingenuous. David followed the Sheriff back to the townhouse, expressing his opinion on the group.
“I just don’t trust them, and I don’t think you should either.” The Sheriff stopped and looked at him. “I don’t trust them or
distrust them. They do have a point though. We have to work together with other communities if we want to get through this. We can’t just live within these walls and not make contact with any outsiders. Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to leave them out there hanging. Please keep them company until I get back.”
David couldn’t have been more irritated by the Sheriff’s request, though he complied. He placed one hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder. “Just promise me that you’ll take me out there with you. I want to keep an eye on this bunch.”
“If it means that much to you, sure,” the Sheriff said.
He walked away from David with a light slap on his back. David looked to the gate to see the outsider group standing in a circle, casually conversing or plotting. He couldn’t tell, but he believed it to be the latter.
Paul woke up to a knock at his door. He looked over and saw Jordan sleeping on the other side of the room. Paul counted the days in his head. The Sheriff said three days and he would help him with a vehicle. It had been one day since then, making it day two. Paul racked his brain to think of what day it had been since the nuclear strikes. It was Day Twelve. Twelve days too many that he had not heard from Samantha. The questions her absence left were agonizing. Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she in any way harmed whatsoever? Or was she, like him, relatively safe for the time being?
He dreamed that he was in their home in Be
ech Creek. He strolled down the hallway calling her name, but no one responded. The house was undisturbed and there was no trace of her in sight. He heard her car pull into the driveway and ran outside to embrace her. Just as she was getting out of the car, he woke to the knocking.
“Paul,” the Sheriff’s voice said. “Hey, get dressed, I need your help.”
Paul covered his face with a pillow then threw it across the room. He got up and hobbled to the door wearing boxers and a white T-shirt. As he opened the door, the Sheriff had already started walking away. “What is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Meet me outside in five minutes. I’m assembling a group of us to go to that other camp.”
“Where?” Paul asked.
“Sorry, don’t mean to sound vague. Those people you met the other night at the cookout. We’re going to visit their camp.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Paul asked.
“As good as any,” the Sheriff replied. “Now enough questions; get ready and meet me outside.”
The Sheriff disappeared leaving a flurry of thoughts rushing through Paul’s head. While he contemplated the purpose of visiting the outside group, he also began to wonder what kind of deal he had made with the Sheriff. Was he now on call? Paul wondered if he could trust the Sheriff. He felt that New Haven looked up to the man almost too much. He was a sheriff, but he was also a man that Paul knew virtually nothing about. He went to Julie’s room next door and lightly tapped.
“Yeah?” her voice said from inside.
“It’s Paul, can I come in?” Paul asked.
“Hold on,” she said.
He heard her move off the bed and walk to the door. She opened it, wearing her pajamas and holding a bath towel.
“Did you sleep well?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, I guess. I’m about to take a shower,” she said.
Paul tried to smile at her, but could see she wasn’t in the smiling mood.
“Look, I know that it’s hard right now, but we’ll be leaving soon.”
“It’s okay, it could be worse,” she said.
He was impressed and surprised with her attitude. “You’re right,” he said. “It could be much worse.”
They looked at each other for a brief moment, not saying anything. It was clear that Samantha’s absence wasn’t an easy thing to discuss.
“So listen, I have to make a run with the Sheriff and some of the others. Just take it easy around here and I’ll be back in no time.”
“Where are you guys going?” she asked. “I want to come.”
“That’s okay. Just stay back here and hold down the fort.”
“Oh please, like that makes any sense,” Julie snapped back.
“It’s an adult thing. The Sheriff doesn’t want any kids, I’m sorry.”
By shifting the blame to the Sheriff, he felt that Julie might cut him some slack.
“Whatever,” she said. “I’ve got to take a shower.”
She moved past him and down the hall to the bathroom. Paul thought to wake Jordan, but he heard the Sheriff shout for him from outside.
“Alright, Paul, let’s get moving!”
Paul changed his T-shirt, put on a pair of blue jeans, grabbed a jacket, and went out the door. Jordan didn’t take notice from his slumber. The townhouse was essentially three small rooms and a bathroom. The third room, a joint kitchen-living room ensemble was nicely furnished but stripped of character. Paul met the Sheriff in the front yard with a group of four others. There was the Sheriff, David, Rob, and two of the council members, Ryan and Shelly. The Sheriff had assembled a team of six, including himself, but Paul wondered of its purpose. David was holding a rifle and Rob was armed with a 9mm pistol. Paul could see the pistol in the Sheriff’s side holster as well.
“Better grab your shotgun,” the Sheriff said.
Paul looked around. “What kind of trip is this?” he asked.
David and Rob laughed.
“Relax,” the Sheriff said. “It’s just a precaution. We leave the weapons in the truck if necessary, once we get to the camp.”
“I have to admit, I’m not very comfortable with this,” Paul said. Maybe he could get out of it. As Paul searched the Sheriff’s face, he couldn’t see the eyes behind his dark aviator sunglasses.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Paul, I promise. This is a simple visit at the behest of their group. We have to establish good relationships with other communities out here, trust me on this.” Paul was left with little to say. He followed them to a large red pickup truck idling in the street.
He sat in the back of the truck with the outsider group from the camp, who said little. The truck, a Ford F-250, had enough room for the Sheriff and his people as they rode comfortably up front. During the short trip, Paul felt every bit an outsider as the visitors he was sitting with. Walter made a few comments in passing about the end of times, as Paul nodded politely. He wasn’t in the mood to engage them. They traveled a largely rural path to a nearby small town that appeared deserted. Down a dirt road they stopped at a church surrounded by tents of varying color and size. There were about twenty tents total. People, old and young, were moving about, conversing, eating from paper plates, and hanging articles on clotheslines. Faces looked up from their daily chores and watched the truck enter their camp. Their eyes watched with great interest and suspicion.
The church was a small single white building arched in the middle with a steeple centered at the top. The bottom of the church sat atop a brick foundation. The tents surrounding it resembled a shantytown. The surrounding area was fenced in with simple chicken wire. It hardly resembled the fortified gates of New Haven. Rob parked the truck to the side once they passed the entrance.
“Home sweet home,” Walter said.
His group hopped out of the bed of the truck and stood nearby as Walter climbed out. Paul got out last and walked to the front of the truck where the weapons were. He examined the camp and saw several children among the occupants of the camp. The presence of young ones caused Paul to second guess the need to be armed.
“Leave the weapons in the truck,” the Sheriff said, as he exited from the passenger’s side, though he still had his own pistol at his side.
Rob pointed out the pistol at his hip, and in response, the Sheriff told him that while one gun sends a message, too many would give the wrong impression. They were visiting the camp as neighbors, nothing more, nothing less. Walter walked around to the front of the truck as his own group dispersed back to the tents.
The visitors in their truck appeared to be family men as they were met by wives and children. However, one question remained, what had happened to their homes? The camp looked like a refuge from a hurricane or earthquake. Its set-up and design seemed temporary and hastily built. As far as Paul knew, there hadn’t been an attack anywhere near Missouri. Who were these people, and where did they come from?
“I think this camp is a little farther than seven miles,” Rob told Walter.
“Is it?” Walter asked. “My pace count is generally always spot-on.”
“I clocked it at about ten,” Rob said.
“Can’t argue with a speedometer, I guess,” Walter said.
The Sheriff observed the camp ahead of them with great interest. He felt a sense of sadness, maybe even pity for the conditions the people were living in.
“Just breaks my heart,” he said to Rob.
Walter overheard and stepped in.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Just sad to see these people living like this,” the Sheriff replied.
Paul figured it was his chance to get some answers.
“Where did they all come from?” he asked. “Don’t they have homes?”
Walter took a step back and raised his hand in the air.
“Let me clear this up. Everyone here comes from different backgrounds and circumstances. Some were homeless prior to the end, others had lavish and beautiful homes. Together we all live the same. Personal posses
sions and extravagances are of no importance to the Seventh Order. Things like that simply don’t matter anymore. We live very frugally. We adopt an extreme minimalist lifestyle, taking only what we need. Then we wait.”
“Wait for what?” Paul asked.
“We wait for what’s coming,” Walter answered.
Paul could see where the conversation was going and chose not to press him any further.
“So who lives in the church then? Must be pretty nice in there,” David pointed out.
The Sheriff gave him a look that suggested he back off.
“The church is our learning center, not a home,” Walter said.
The people in the camp were quiet and behaving in a careful manner. Several of them went into their tents upon the New Haven’s arrival. The bolder ones stood outside and watched them with careful eyes. Already Paul felt weary of their presence.
“They’re looking at us like we’re a different species,” he said.
“Don’t worry about them, they’re good people. They haven’t seen any new people in over a month,” Walter said.
“A month?” Paul asked. “But the attacks started only a week ago.”
“Oh we’ve been prepared far before that,” Walter said. “Now please, enough chit-chat, Sister Bonnie waits. Follow me.”
Walter led the group past rows of tents and piled clutter. The air smelled poignant and strong. Piles of compost and trash lined up along the tree line engulfed the camp in its smell. A small fire burned in front of one of the tents, roasting a skewered squirrel above the flames.
“Are you kidding me?” David whispered to Rob after pointing out the squirrel.
Rob didn’t respond but gave David a knowing glance. They climbed up the steps into the church to the red double doors. Walter pulled on one of the large circular-shaped handles as the door creaked opened. The dank air rushed their senses. They were met by an empty foyer, which led to two rows of church pews on the opposite side of each other. At the end of the room was a podium. Interestingly enough, the walls had been stripped bare. Not a picture or cross hung on the wall. In the place of decorating were lit candles placed in every conceivable location. They sat along the red-carpeted floor, on the windowsill, the pews, the podium, and several small tables that filled the room. To the right of the foyer was a closed door with a sign that read: “office.”