by West, Shay
Reverend Marshall said good-bye to the last parishioner and went back inside to retrieve his family Bible from the pulpit. His footsteps echoed in the now empty church, causing him to attempt to tread lightly, so as not to disturb the venerate silence. He trailed his fingers along the edges of the wooden pews, lifting his hand slightly as he reached the end of one, fingers touching nothing but air, until coming to rest on the next pew. He stepped up onto the dais and walked over to the pulpit, where his Bible still lay open to the pages he had used in his sermon. As he made to close the holy book, his eyes caught a glimpse of another verse, on the page opposite the one he had read from earlier:
Blow the trumpet in Zion! Sound the alarm on my holy hill! Let all who live in the land tremble, for the day of the LORD is coming. It is close at hand--
A day of darkness and gloom, a day of thick clouds and deep blackness. Like dawn spreading across the mountains, a large and mighty army comes! Such as never was of old nor ever will be in ages to come.
As Reverend Marshall read these words he suddenly shivered, his skin pebbling in goose flesh. An unexplained feeling of foreboding and terror swept over him. He gripped the edges of the pulpit with both hands in a white-knuckled grip as the words swam before his eyes, forming the image of some thing, a massive shape and form he couldn't identify. He blinked and the words reformed. His chest heaved and he broke out in a cold sweat. The reverend reached for his Bible, hesitating before actually touching it, fingers curling into a shaking fist.
Now I am being ridiculous. It's just a damned book! He quickly shut the tome and picked it up, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
This was not the first time a sense of impending doom had come upon him. However, it was the first time he had ever seen anything out of the ordinary. He had no explanation for these episodes, other than the possibility that he was somehow tapping into some deep-seated fear of the actual end of the world.
Reverend Marshall sighed as he rubbed a hand over his face, noting absently that he was in need of a shave. He made his way back down the dais and down the center aisle between the pews, the echoing footsteps taking on a sinister sound, as if his fears had suddenly grown feet and were following close behind him.
He burst out the front door and blinked a moment in the light of the noon-day sun and stood holding his precious Bible in both hands against his breast, as if he could somehow use the holy words within to purge himself of these unpleasant sensations.
“Afternoon Lieutenant—or should I say Reverend—Marshall?”
Robert Marshall glanced to his left and spotted Brad Phillips, one of the Protectors, strolling down the main thoroughfare. He was a lanky man, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail that fell to his waist. It was his custom to wrap a thin piece of soft leather around his ponytail. He joked that it could double as a whip. A hand-rolled cigarette hung lazily between his grinning lips, smoke curling around a handsome face. Sunlight reflected off of the large, aviator sunglasses he had found on a scouting mission to the ruins of a city called Denver.
“Since Sunday service is over, I suppose I am back to being Lieutenant.”
“I brought those two mares to Jeb to be shod.” Brad took one last drag off his cigarette, threw it down in the dirt, and stamped it out with a foot clad in tall black, leather boots. “They should be ready tomorrow morning.”
Robert nodded absently, not really paying much attention to the other man. He was still uneasy about his reaction to the Bible verse he had read and was trying desperately to make sense of the incident.
“You alright Lieutenant? Should I fetch the Sawbones?”
“No…no Brad, I am quite alright. Just wool-gathering.” Robert smiled to show his comrade the truth of those words. “Are you on patrol tonight?”
“No, not until tomorrow. Tonight I figure on winning some of my loot back from Sloan.” Brad grinned and smoothed his hair back.
Robert let out a genuine laugh. “Not unless the man is drunk, or dead!” Sloan's prowess at cards was legendary among the Protectors. None of them would even play the man unless there was no loot at stake.
“Oh, now that hurts, boss!” Brad put his hand to his heart in mock tragedy. “I will beat him tonight, mark my words!”
Robert shook his head as the man sauntered off to the bunkhouse, where all of the Protectors and their commanders lived. Robert chuckled to himself as he pictured the evening ahead. Sloan would win even more of Brad's loot, and poor Brad would lament its loss for days, swearing for the hundredth time that he would never play cards with Sloan again. Only to come back a few weeks later with newly acquired loot, claiming that this time he would win for sure.
Ah, to be young again! Robert thought as he watched Brad walk into the bunkhouse. He could faintly hear the man call out to Sloan, but missed the reply as the door closed.
Robert made his own way to the bunkhouse. Their General, Ted Smith, would be back from patrol shortly and he would expect all of his lieutenants to be present for his report. The men at one of the watchtowers had seen smoke in the distance and it was suspected that the Horde had been looting and pillaging. Personally, Robert didn't care what they did to the ruined city of Denver, so long as they stayed away from the Jhinn encampment.
But there were some who wept at the loss of the history that lay buried in the ruined cities. There was only so much room in the small carts used for transport and most of the townsfolk were too busy working or refused to enter any of the ruins, fearing ghosts and spirits. The Protectors were also busy, and most had no time or desire to sift through the dirt, and old buildings to see what treasures could be had. But there were a few Protectors, like Brad and Sloan, who were fascinated with the deserted cities and took every opportunity to explore them. The things they found were the stuff of fireside stories in almost every home. Brad and Sloan were interested in exploring and loot but there were others, like Tess Golden, who wanted to know about the people themselves, and what sort of lives they led in this strange place.
The Sawbones, Mark Halliwell, was the most curious of the lot. He found the ruins of a hospital, grown over with climbing weeds and vines. He brought back what tools he could salvage. Mark found some old medical books, binding eaten to almost nothing by insects and the pages crumbling to dust. He packed them up carefully and brought them back to the Jhinn encampment, hoping to be able to read them, to learn something more of the people that lived before the apocalypse. Unfortunately, they were indecipherable, and the Jhinn had used the ancient books for fuel during a particularly harsh and long winter.
Lieutenant Robert Marshall greeted his comrades scattered about the common room of the bunkhouse, seated at the two large tables at the front of the room or lying down on the pallets arranged in three rows, one each along the east and west walls and one row running right down the center. The women slept along one side, their pallets separated from the rest by a cloth curtain. There were two large stone hearths, one on each wall. In the back of the room, a cook stove lay nestled between a large window and the back door leading to the stables. There were several large bearskin rugs on the wooden floors. The room was filled with the stench and smoke from beef tallow candles in holders along all four walls and on the tables.
Scattered remnants of the old world were found in most homes in the encampment. Most items were easily identified, such as books, knives and other eating utensils, twine and rope made of some strange synthetic substance, sleeping bags, and blankets. Some items could not be identified but were treasured nonetheless. There was much speculation as to what these things were and what they might have been used for. Old widow Coulson had the rarest of all treasures and was more than happy to let people come over and gaze at it in wonder. It was round and flat, with a little piece missing from the edge and it had a small hole right in the center. On one side was the word Memorex and writing in thick black ink that said “Trip to San Diego”. The other side was smooth and reflective. She had it hanging from the ceiling from a piece of twine and when
it caught the light, rainbows appeared all about her small home, filling her guests with gasps of wonder and delight.
Lieutenant Marshall walked past the row of pallets along the east wall and made his way to the small room at the south-east corner that had been set aside for himself and General Smith. It had two beds separated by a bearskin rug. There was even a small stove in one corner to provide heat during the winter months. A window faced due south, offering a good view of the river.
Robert got undressed, folded his clerical garments, and placed them in his wooden chest. These were his most prized possession, along with the family Bible. They had been passed down from father to son for many generations. The leather was soft and supple and dyed the purest, deepest black. As he closed the chest, he suddenly realized that the tradition of passing on the garments would die with him, as he could not have a family so long as he was a Protector. He often thought of what life would be like with a wife and children, a home of his own, working in the fields. The thoughts seemed foreign to his brain. He was a Protector and always would be.
Perhaps I can find a family with a young man worthy enough to take my place and wear these garments.
* * *
General Ted Smith rode his sorrel mare at a leisurely pace, reins held in one hand casually draped over the saddle horn. His brown and grey shoulder-length, unkempt hair was tied back with a strip of leather encircling his temples. His piercing ice-blue eyes scanned his surroundings. To his left and right he could see towers of concrete, about twenty feet high. They were heavily weathered and full of pockmarks. Several large pieces of rusted metal could be seen jutting out, like strange limbs dangling from an immobile beast. No one knew what these towers had once been. There were no windows or doors, and seemed to be constructed of solid pieces.
Forka knew what they used to be. His studies on Gentra revealed much about the lives of the humans who came before. The towers were all that was left of elevated highways. The roadway itself had long since fallen. The remnants, if there were any, were now covered in soil and trees and other plant life.
All around the General stood huge mounds of what appeared, at first glance, to be small hills covered in grass, flowers, vines, and weeds. Closer inspection would reveal that some of the mounds were in fact the fragments of stone and concrete buildings, long since overgrown. Buildings were now homes for birds, scores of insects, and feral cats. Trees, grass, weeds, shrubs, flowers, and climbing vines covered almost every available space, some even growing inside of the abandoned buildings.
Rusted hunks of metal could be found in neat rows, and sometimes jumbled together, all covered with dirt and plant life. General Smith knew that these objects were once automobiles, contraptions that the humans of this planet used to get from place to place. He also knew that they traveled on hard, straight surfaces called roads. He glanced up at the crumbling highway and shook his head. Not any more they don't.
The General continued his survey of the surroundings, aware almost instantly of how he and the four Chosen that accompanied him could use the features of the terrain as protection in case of an attack by the Horde or the Cowboys. The leaders of the two roving bands of thieves and murderers, Samson and Wild Bill, were as smart as they were savage. All of the Protectors were able, to some degree, to assess the landscape and determine which features offered the best defense, or possible escape route. The General had taught the Protectors this valuable skill, along with advanced battle tactics, when he had arrived in the encampment from Gentra.
General Smith sent 2nd Lieutenant and Chosen Mark Vincent ahead to Watchtower 1 to see to it that the ferry was brought over from the opposite shore, thus reducing the wait to cross the river. The General was not a patient man; he found waiting of any kind intolerable. It was bad enough dealing with all of the delays of everyday life but having to await the signs to appear revealing that the time has come to take the Chosen to the portal was unbearable. Ted was on edge every second of every day, quite unlike life on his home world of Gentra. He felt like a coiled spring with no release; he was not sure how much longer he could go on waiting.
But for all the inner tension and stress, he was outwardly calm. The only indication of his turmoil was his ever-moving eyes.
Ted smiled when he saw Brent Fields following behind Mark Vincent. Brent had taken to the man from the minute they met. Mark had been one of the few advocates for allowing Brent to join the Protectors, despite Brent only having one arm. It didn't take long for the other Chosen to demand his participation in their group, ignoring the protests from the other Protectors. Ted had made the announcement, his authority overriding the doubts of those who thought the young man couldn't perform his duties. It came as no surprise to Ted that Brent had never faltered in his dedication to the Jhinn, showing himself just as capable as those with two arms. He was one of the Chosen. Destiny controlled his fate.
“This waiting must be killing you, sir.”
Ted glanced over at Tess Golden. Her hair had come out of her braid and flew wildly around her head. She shared a smirk with fellow Chosen, Martha Stevens, who lounged lazily on her gelding as it plodded slowly toward the river.
“I don't know what you mean, Tess dear. Our General is a pillar of patience,” Martha said.
“You're right, of course. Whatever was I thinking?” Tess winked at Martha.
Ted ignored the two and gave his mare a soft kick with his heels. They topped a small rise and stopped. Before them lay the river, sunlight glinting off the surface like a thousand jewels. The cottonwoods and aspens along the shore were bedecked in golden yellow leaves, blowing in the cool fall breeze. The General shaded his eyes and could barely see the ferry half-way across, making its way to the large wooden watchtower.
He clicked to the little sorrel and he and the four Chosen made their way off the hill. They passed between several ruined buildings and homes. The General knew that they were safe; the men in the watchtowers had eyes as sharp as hawks and would sound the alarm if any movement was spotted in the vicinity. The closer they got to the river, the muddier the ground became. The horse's hooves made loud, wet, squelching noises as their feet pulled from the thick, brown mud. The General's sorrel tossed her head and whickered in disgust.
Ted grinned and leaned forward to pat her neck. He was amazed at the intelligence and different personalities that horses possessed. The animals reminded him of the scrago back home on Gentra. He regarded his sorrel with special affection. She was easily the smartest horse the Protectors had. He rode her almost exclusively and therefore they had a special bond, able to read each other's thoughts. She was invaluable in skirmishes, acting with speed and agility without having to rely on her rider for guidance.
General Smith's men kept pestering him to name the spirited mare but he could never settle on one that fit her spirit, strength, and intelligence. The others were free in sharing their ideas but he refused every one. Her namelessness made her unique. The General was of a mind to keep her nameless and free, as if burdening her with a name would somehow diminish who she was.
The ferry arrived amid splashes and shouting as the men aboard hopped into the river, pushed the large wooden platform closer to the bank, and secured it with ropes made from milkweed fibers.
The General and the Chosen dismounted and led their horses on board the ferry. He walked to the edge of the craft while the others took up positions at the four corners and grabbed the long, wooden poles. They pushed off into the slow-moving river and used the poles to maneuver across.
Once on the other side, the ferry was secured. It always remained on the west side of the river, the encampment side, making it more difficult for an enemy to cross, just one more line of defense for the Jhinn.
“Protector Stevens, ride ahead and assemble my Lieutenants at the bunkhouse. I want them ready when I arrive.”
“Yes, General.” Martha nodded in salute, winked at her friend Tess, and galloped due west toward the encampment.
General Smith and the o
thers arrived at the bunkhouse in half an hour. He handed a Protector his reins and ordered all but Robert Marshall, Mark Vincent, Sloan, Brad Phillips, Tess Golden, Martha Stevens, and Brent Fields to vacate the common room until the meeting was finished. No one questioned the orders; the General usually met with those seven before sharing information with the other thirty or so other Protectors. Inside, the Lieutenants were waiting, seated at one of the long tables.
The General took his usual place. A crude map drawn on a piece of leather with charcoal covered the table. Ted looked at the seven Chosen seated before him.
When he had first learned he was to be Guardian of planet Earth, he had been disappointed. He had argued with the Masters, convinced that they had somehow made a mistake in the interpretation of the prophecy. He did not believe that these men and women deserved the honor of being Chosen.
He alone knew all of the details of the last eight hundred years of history of planet Earth. Most humans had only the barest inkling of what had caused the near destruction of all of the people of this world. And while it was true that the destruction of Earth was a bad twist of fate, Forka had stubbornly believed that if only man had worked harder to get along with one another, they may have been able to come up with some sort of solution to save their planet.
After further study, he grudgingly admitted to himself that it was entirely possible that there wasn't much anyone could do to save Earth. It was almost as though a ball had been sent rolling and that it moved inexorably forward despite the best efforts of the leaders of the planet. But the feeling had remained, just under the surface, rising every now and then to cast doubt on his duty as a Guardian and everything he had been asked to give up for his destiny.