by E A Lake
“How can I help you today?” I asked, keeping a strong ten yards between us. My eyes floated over his swaying clothing, searching for the telltale bulge of a weapon.
“How can you help me?” he laughed. “How can you help me? Well, God bless you, son. In reality, I’ve been sent here to help you.”
Yeah, I’d heard this before. He was here to help me get rid of my stockpile of food most likely. “I could use some help chopping wood, I suppose,” I joked, trying to keep the conversation light.
He got serious, moving closer. “No son, I’m here to save your soul.”
“I’d rather you save my arms and hands,” I replied, patting at his sides. Behind him I found what I knew was there. He froze.
“And I think I’ll save myself some trouble,” I continued, pulling his long-barreled pistol from its back holder.
Staring at the shiny silver weapon, I whistled. The gun had to be almost a foot in length. Staring the barrel, I read the stamping aloud.
“Colt Model 44,” I said, grinning and giving the old fart a wink. “That’s some pretty serious firepower, old-timer.”
He nodded, wiping dried leaves from his scraggly beard. “Man has to protect himself,” he said in a light and easy tone. “Wolves up here, bears to the south, and road scum everywhere. An unarmed man is a dead soul I’m afraid.”
“You won’t mind if I hold onto this while we chat, will you?”
He smiled and patted my right shoulder. The strength of his grip impressed me. “Feed me and give me some water and you can play with that thing until I leave,” he answered forcefully. “And in the mean time, I’ll tell you what God has in store for you.”
Any other time I would have chased him off with not so much as a sip of water. However, this one intrigued me. Not only did he appear harmless, I could tell he believed whatever he was selling.
Most of the prophet types wanted you to lay down your work and follow them down the road. This guy was only interested in my soul…and a meal.
Given the fact that it had been weeks since my last human contact, it seemed like a darn good trade.
Year 3 - early spring - WOP
Watching him slurp down three plates of venison stew told me a lot about this fellow. First, he had a decent appetite. Probably hadn’t eaten much in the past week. Also by the way he ate—he used the fork I offered instead of his bare hands like others I had fed.
Mostly it was the fact that he ate and didn’t talk. I sensed whatever he had to say could wait. Eat first, give thanks to his host — and God, of course —, then talk. I could wait. I had the time.
“Not sure how you made that, son,” he said after licking his plate clean, “but your recipe has to be one of the best I’ve ever tasted.”
That was a lie, a flat out huge lie. My food was as bland as eating sand. Actually, sand probably had a little better taste, with the grit and all. But his sincere tone actually made me smile.
“Eaten a lot of venison in your travels, padre?”
He shook something I said off. “I’m not Catholic. I’m just referred to as Reverend Smith.”
“Since all of this?” I asked, waving a hand in the air. “Or have you always been a man of the cloth.”
Firmly, he nodded once almost as if it were a tic. “God came to me in the apocalypse, the Darkness as some people are calling it. Before…” he shook his head, “I was just a common sinner. Worst than most, I figure. But God showed me the light.”
I grinned. “In this darkness, God showed you the light? While He’s shitting on the rest of us, you got to see Providence? Please tell.”
He leaned back, folding his hands over his thin waist. “What is it that you desire that God hasn’t provided…even now?”
That was an easy one, even for me. “My wife,” I answered quietly. “She’s in Chicago; I’m stuck here without her.”
“How long have you been here?”
A small chuckle escaped. “Since two days before.”
“And yet you’re alive?” I nodded; he had me on that one. “And you have friends, other folks to depend upon?”
I thought about Violet and Marge’s kindness when the bastard shot my finger off. I thought of all the food Lettie handed me, expecting nothing in return. All the lessons Dizzy taught without ever being asked. And the hearty hugs Nate gave every time he saw me.
“Yes,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ve been blessed,” he stated, staring through me. “Many have died. Every day people struggle to survive. You’re winning the battle; so many others are not. God has been good to you.”
“Where else you been?” I asked, steering the subject away from my many blessings.
He rubbed his baldhead, yawning before answering. “Been down almost to Green Bay, over as far as Stevens Point. Up through Wausau, Ashland as well. Ironwood, Marquette, even Escanaba.”
That was quite an impressive circle. My studies of a regional map last winter told me he’d traveled nearly 500 miles, maybe further.
“What’s it like out there?” I asked, watching him watch me. “Where there are more people?”
“Not good,” he answered in a sincere tone. “A lot of killing has gone on; many have died from other causes as well. The old were the first, the ones who needed the most. Then the sick and the very young died soon after. Disease came with the first winter, killed more. Starvation came the following spring. Numbers of dead rose faster than burials. More disease last summer.”
That’s what I’d heard from the few others who dared the roads of No Where. We were actually safer and better off here than most other places.
“Any government left?”
He shook his head, letting his face fall. “It was gone so quick; we hardly ever knew we ever had it. Police, firemen, hospital workers… they all disappeared faster than I thought possible. Can’t blame them really. They were just trying to make it, like the rest of us.”
“Anyone have any idea what happened?” I asked. “You know, what caused all of this?”
A boney finger rose. “Nuclear attack.”
A second finger joined the first. “Solar flares.”
A third joined in. “God Himself.”
Finally a fourth and it made him smile. “Aliens.”
I laughed. “I think we have a mutual acquaintance in Covington.”
He nodded, taking a sip of the tea I had made him. “Stuart Callies,” he replied. “The late Stuart Callies now.”
I snapped my back straight, my eyes felt alert. “He’s dead?”
“Yep,” Reverend Smith replied. “Last winter, right as the first snows came, I’m told.”
“That’s going to make a group of people I know very happy. Makes me happy. I feel like celebrating.”
His face warned me of something more. “Better hold off on that, son. His sister and her husband have hung half the town. Some doctor they brought in said the man was poisoned. They’re bent on revenge.”
That didn’t make me feel any better. Susan Weston was every bit as crazy as her younger brother, and slightly more sadistic in my best estimation. I hoped she didn’t come looking for revenge here.
“Say, you never did tell me your whole name,” I said, noting his face flush.
“Can’t say I offered it,” he admitted. “Joe, Joe Smith.”
It took a moment for me to catch the meaning, but when it hit it brought a grin with it.
“The Reverend Joseph Smith,” I said, laughing at the end. “As I live and breathe, the true prophet has returned.”
He took another sip of tea and winked at me. “Now you know why I don’t go offering it all the time. Has a way of decreasing my credibility, you understand.”
Hey, this was the end of the world. Who was I to judge?
Year 3 - early spring - WOP
Joe and I hung out together the rest of the day and into the evening. I fed him again near dark and asked him to spend the night. He didn’t try to dismiss my offer, much as I ex
pected.
His Colt revolver sat on the kitchen counter by the sink all that time. Never once did his eyes glance towards the weapon. Something deep inside told me I could trust him. Even though I knew better, I left it there during the night. Of course, I had slipped the bullets from it when Joe went out to relieve himself before turning in for the night.
Resting on the couch, I listened to him toss and turn on the saggy boxspring in the lone bedroom. Dizzy and I had always said we were going to find a twin mattress somewhere within five miles to replace the original; the one that ended up covered in blood when my first victim came calling with a knife. More than a year later, the search was still not done; hell, we hadn’t even bothered to look.
When I rose to stoke the fire sometime in the middle of the darkness, I dared a peek into the dimly lit room behind the couch. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. By the time they did I found Joe sound asleep. Lying on his back, with his arms spread wide, I heard him mumbling. Maybe that’s what woke me up. It could have been the snoring as well. I wasn’t used to too many other sounds being alone so much.
By morning, I was finally comfortable on the couch and awoke to kitchen clatter sometime after sunup. Through crusty small slits, I peered towards the sound to discover Joe busy by the stove.
“Good morning, friend,” he nearly shouted. “God has blessed us with another beautiful day.” His sincere smile back on display, and so infectious. “Let us rejoice, and give thanks for what he has given us.”
Okay, that was enough talking to last the day. While I wasn’t a morning curmudgeon, I certainly wasn’t as bright and happy as this fellow.
“As long as I don’t have to pray,” I croaked, sitting up on my elbows, “you can give all the thanks you want.”
I saw his chest heave several times with suppressed laughter. “You don’t have to talk out loud to pray,” he countered. “You don’t even have to say anything to God, even in your conscious mind.” He tapped several times at his own bald skull.
“Every time you take a breath, you’re thanking God. Every time you pause in your day and admire nature, you’re thanking God.” Joe shoved a cup of something my way; a steaming cup of something. This steaming cup smelled suspiciously like coffee.
He had my attention and I sat up straight. “Where’d you find coffee? I thought I was out.”
Winking once, he went back to the stove. I noticed the bend in his back, leaning forward like it caused him less pain. “I had some in my pack,” he replied, gingerly picking something up from the stove. “And this.”
He held out what I knew to be hardtack — a cracker like food made with flour. Something like that lasted a long time, rarely spoiled, and traveled well. In other hand, he extended a smaller plastic container.
Popping the lid, the smell of fresh raspberries struck me. And what a wonderful smell it was. I glanced up at him, nodding and smiling.
“You keep this up, Joe, you may just have stay a little longer.”
Joe offered to help chop some wood in repayment for my sharing of food and shelter. Who was I to argue with a man insisting to help? If I were honest, I enjoyed his company plenty.
I let him head outside first. That gave me time to check the revolver. Though I had my doubts and queasy feelings, the Colt sat in its exact same position as the night before. This one, the Reverend Joseph Smith, had earned my trust. And that made me feel good deep inside my soul.
By the way Joe bent I could tell his back was bad. So we struck a deal. I’d split wood and he’d go and stack it in the back of the cabin. As with everything else, he accepted with a smile…and thanks to God.
We worked hard and steady for several hours before taking a break. For an old man, with a bad back, Joe kept up well with my cutting. Real well, to be precise. Most of that time he was waiting on me to split enough wood for him to transport.
Sipping on cool well-water, he produced a pipe from his pocket and lit it with an old flick lighter. As I watched the thick blue smoke rise, I noticed a smile come to his face.
“My only bad habit from before,” he admitted, taking another pull on the short pipe. “I gave up drinking, chasing women, pornography…all my sins.” His head tipped right as he grinned. “Except this one. But I’m almost out of tobacco, so that too shall pass.”
I pondered Joe’s life for a moment. He seemed so sincere, virtuous, and honest. His usual expression was that of happiness, nothing like most of the others I had met in the past year and some months. I wondered if he was onto something, or just on something. “Could a man get to Chicago?” I asked, rubbing my calloused hands together. “Would the journey be safe?” Instead of checking his expression, I watched the wind gently move the pines back and forth.
“You could, make it that is.” His tone was the same as always; full of hope and encouragement. “I believe a man can do anything he puts his mind to. I’m living proof of that.” Always back to God, but he was a minister.
He turned and faced me, more serious than before. “But why? Why would you want to face such dangers?”
Taking a deep breath, I exhaled loudly. “I’d like to find my wife.”
I saw him nod as if he understood. But his expression remained tight, not full of hope. “She’s not there, Bob. You will search, but you won’t find her.”
“Why not?” My question had an intended bite to it.
“She could be elsewhere, with family and friends. She could have relocated. Or she could be dead.”
The last option was the worst, and one I refused to believe. But he might have had a point.
“No power, no working vehicles, no communications,” he continued in a matter of fact way. “You’ve adapted, she will have to. It’s been more than a year, you know. I would think Chicago is worse than most places.”
I tilted my face his way. “Worse in what ways?”
“Disease mostly. But there’d be rioting, looting, bad people everywhere. And most of that happened before the first winter,” he paused to relight his pipe. “If she’s alive, and she very well could be, she’s not where you’d expect to find her. And even if you made it there, how would you ever figure out where to look?
“Chicago is a big city, I’ve been there.” I nodded, noticing his gray eyes on me. “Hundreds of square miles where she could, or could not, be holed up riding the storm out. If she’s smart, and I bet she is, she’s long gone from there by now. Somewhere safe.” He poked my leg with the end of his pipe. “Somewhere just like this.”
Year 3 - early spring - WOP
Sometime around mid-afternoon, our pace slowed. A man can only cut so much wood in a day; especially a man missing a finger. And I noticed the more pronounced slouch in my partner’s back. Time to call it a day.
Watching a drizzle mixed with a few bursts of tiny snowflakes, we reclined inside. Joe made another batch of coffee and each sip brought back memories of a time I was beginning to realize would never come again.
He must have sensed my sadness, sitting next to me on the couch. Joe had picked up a piece of wood in the yard; a burl he called it. Pulling a small pocketknife from his pants, he began to mindlessly whittle.
“God has plans for you,” he announced.
I had drifted away for a few moments, the day’s labor catching up with me. “What’s that?” I asked, deciding to play along with Joe and God.
The old man turned and tapped the bench between us. “God is going to bless you and then take it away.”
I grinned; I was already living that part. The life I lived prior to being here was a blessing. Though at times I doubted that, in the past, I knew it to be the honest truth now. The God’s honest truth.
“And in return for your torment,” he continued, striking at the stick he had been whittling, “God will bless you many times over, and never leave you again.”
The tale sounded vaguely familiar to me. “Sounds like Job,” I replied. “You know, from the Old Testament.”
He nodded and went back to carving. Now t
hat I studied his hands closer, I could see he was crafting a wooden cross.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, son.” He held the crude cross to his face. “I was lost, and He found me.”
I didn’t want to argue with him, but he was peddling a big string of horseshit.
“I’m not sure God’s around anymore, Joe,” I answered.
He laughed and pushed off the bench. “But He is. And he has big plans for you.”
“I think I’ve gone through the whole biblical suffering crap already. To be honest, I’m pretty sick of it. Most days I can’t decide if living is any better than the alternative.”
”And yet,” he started, “God will take care of you. You must know that already.”
I leaned back, my face screwing up. “Here?” I asked. “In No Where?”
Rubbing his hands together gently, he looked down on me. The dim afternoon sunlight framed his face giving him an angelic glow. “Yes,” he answered sincerely. “Here!”
Even though Joseph Smith snored like a lumberjack, the presence of another person lifted my spirits to a place they hadn’t been in quite some time. Add in the fact that he made coffee every morning… well didn’t hurt either.
Watching him leave, a tinge of remorse filled my half-empty soul. Maybe this one deserved an invitation to stay a little longer. Who knew, another two or three more meals and God’s plan would have been revealed to me.
Who was I kidding? His job was the road. Preaching whatever vision some deity had filled him with. Loneliness does a lot to a man. Even opens his heart to something he formerly didn’t believe in. It also caused people to take stupid chances with potentially mentally ill folks.
His words rang out as he waved his farewell. “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war…”
Maybe God had spoken to Joseph Smith, again if the Mormon’s were to be believed. Going back to work, I smiled and began to whistle the same church tune he sang. Those folks at Lettie’s place were going to be amused by this fellow.