He pulled at the blanket. So, she'd cared enough to cover him. He rolled over, and a shadow moved above his head, the floorboards creaking.
"There, there, Shrek."
He felt a cool hand on his scalp and opened his eyes to see, through a fog of slowly dissipating confusion, Margie's round face hovering above him.
"I'll go get Jessie. She's been worried sick about you."
"Where … where is the boy?"
She turned back from the door. "He's with Mommy. He's okay now. He told me all about everything."
Devon had gotten himself together a little by the time Jessie came in and helped him to his feet.
"How do you feel?"
"Like crap, but … okay. I'm sorry. I lost it …"
She guided him gently through the door and into the church. "Not quite. You didn't kill him."
"Is he alright?"
"He's badly shaken up, but otherwise fine. He's been talking to Margie."
Devon could see them sitting in the back row—Amanda, Margie and … what was his name? Marcus, yes. "Margie?"
"She was the key. He had an aunt with Down's. I think, maybe, he saw her as a way out after what had happened with you. You softened him up."
Devon couldn't resist a chuckle. "Softened him up for our chief inquisitor, Margie?"
"Sometimes, gently works."
Marcus looked up as Devon and Jessie walked down the central aisle of the church. His expression froze and his eyes widened. Margie's theatrical whisper echoed around the empty building. "Don't worry, he's not bad really. I told you the story. He's a hero."
The boy didn't visibly relax, merely looking from Margie to Jessie, as if seeking reassurance. Amanda, who was sitting to his left, shuffled her chair closer as if she and Margie could protect him.
Devon halted in front of them and Jessie took a seat beside Margie. "So, what have you got to tell us?"
Marcus hesitated, but Margie squeezed his hand. "It's okay. You're safe with us. Do you want me to tell him some of it?"
Receiving a nod, Margie pushed her chair back and stood up, hands behind her back as if presenting a school project to the class. "His name is Marcus Barrowman. He's eighteen and a half and his favorite movie is Avengers: Endgame."
Devon sighed and slumped into a chair. "I'm sure that's absolutely fascinating …"
"Why don't you tell us about the Sons of Solomon?" Jessie said, putting her hand on Marcus's leg.
"The what?" Devon asked.
"That's what the organization's called," Jessie said, not taking her eyes off the visibly shaking young man. "Come on Marcus, you're quite safe with us. No one's going to hurt you. I think you know that the right thing to do is tell Devon what you told Margie."
Margie snuggled up to Marcus, who turned to look at her and smiled weakly. He drew in a deep breath and began talking, though he didn't look Devon in the eyes. "It's kinda complicated, and I don't really understand. I was on my own after the … after that horrible night. Mom, Dad …" Margie squeezed his arm encouragingly. "Then, a few nights later when the fires had died down, I was sleeping in an old parking lot—hiding among the burned-out cars—when I saw what I thought was a campfire. It wasn't like the others and I was starving, so I went to find it."
"That's when he met Gideon," Amanda said, breaking her silence for the first time. "He's the leader of a group called the New Pilgrims. We told you about when we met them. That was him. He invited Sam to join them."
Devon nodded, then turned his attention back to Marcus. Cut to the chase.
"Yeah, that was him. He had lots of other people with him. Some of them were kids like me. I had nowhere else to go, so I went with them. He said we were going to build a new life out of the ruins."
"Where did you go?"
"To a place called Wareham in Pennsylvania. At first, it was good. We got fed, and they gave us clothes. They were a bit weird though, but I didn't want to say no because I thought they might kick me out. Then the Sons arrived."
Marcus paused, as if unsure how, or whether, to continue. He was obviously an intelligent young man, educated in a private school if Devon were any judge. "Go on. Who are these Solomons?"
"I don't want to say. If they find …"
"Marcus!" Devon jumped to his feet, but Jessie put her hands out and ordered him back to his seat.
"You must tell us, Marcus. We will protect you."
He shook his head. "I'm not sure you can. I saw … I saw what they did to someone who tried to escape …" Tears flowed down his face again, but, after a time, he sucked in his fear and continued. "They're like the Taliban, but most of them are from here."
"Americans?"
"Yeah. They call themselves the Sons of Solomon because he was wise and powerful and he ruled a united kingdom. They think our world was full of sin, so they destroyed it."
Devon sat back and gazed at the ceiling. He absentmindedly noticed the scorch marks on the rafters that were immediately above where the terrorists had set fires, presumably to smoke out Frank and Tori. Beyond, the ceiling faded to darkness as he absorbed what the boy had said. Could it be true? That one group had coordinated this to take the country back to medieval times?
He turned back to Marcus, who'd evidently been watching him closely; afraid of his reaction, perhaps? "Did they get any help from Muslim countries? Saudi Arabia?"
"Oh, they're not Muslim. Not all of them, anyway."
"What?" chorused around the church.
Marcus looked surprised at their reaction. "No, Joshua's a Christian, and someone told me that there are non-believers in the ruling council."
Devon shook his head, struggling to process what he was hearing. He'd spent months embedded in a London-based group and he'd learned that what drove these groups of often very disparate personalities was a shared ideology; that, and a deep-seated hatred for the society they railed against. But if Marcus was speaking the truth, then it was hard to see how people holding such diametrically opposed views could possibly come together to accomplish such a devastating attack. Perhaps, he thought, we've relied for too long on our enemies to fight among themselves, never once considering what might happen if they united against us.
Jessie got up and stood behind Devon, hands upon his shoulders. "What do they want, these Sons of Solomon?"
Marcus looked down at his feet. "They say that they are building a new kind of society. I don't really understand it all because I've only been in one of their new settlements, but we're living a simpler life, closer to God. No electricity, no money, no jobs, just working together in peace."
"Peace? The peace of the dead, perhaps." Devon gestured around the empty hall.
Jessie slapped his shoulders. "It's not his fault, Dev."
"We don't know that. Who killed Frank and Tori? He was the one with the automatic weapon."
"It wasn't me! Honest. I wouldn't kill anyone! I was told to guard the place until the truck arrives."
"What truck?"
"They're coming to pick up the supplies. I was left to pile them up in the garage."
Devon's heart thumped against the inside of his chest. "When will they be back?"
"Tomorrow morning, they said."
"And who, exactly, is they?"
Marcus's face drained of all remaining color. He cast his eyes to the floor and shook his head slowly.
Before Devon could erupt again, Jessie had kneeled beside the boy, placed her hands on his head and pulled his gaze upward. "You must tell us, Marcus, or we won't be able to protect you."
Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes as he looked into her face. "No one can protect me. They are monsters. They … they did this. They murdered that old man and woman. I saw it from inside the APC. They go from place to place killing, then they leave one or two of us to guard until the trucks come."
He grabbed her arms, shaking in obvious terror. "You mustn't be here when it comes back, or they'll kill you all."
"Who are these people?"
"The
y call themselves the Brothers of Judgment. They have … they have done … I believed what Gideon said about living a different kind of a life, but then they chose me to be a guard and I've seen what they do … it can't be right. These people, they were just trying to help. They came out with their hands up and he shot them. I was left here, so I buried them out the back. It was horrific. I never had to do nothing like that before."
Jessie took his hands in hers. "You did well, Marcus. You couldn't have stopped it. And it was good that you gave them a decent burial."
Devon opened his mouth to speak, but Jessie flashed a glance at him and the words died in his throat. He still had a thousand questions, but the boy was exhausted and petrified, and there was one thing they needed to know above all else.
"Tell us this, Marcus: where is Wareham?"
Chapter 5: Ezra
Paul Hickman sat in the front of the truck and gazed out at the beauty of east Nevada as it slipped past. They were heading south to Ezra, and he intended to come back with two types of cargo: one welcome and the other a resented necessity. He would have the weapons in the armory, but nothing short of accepting the hundred refugees would do for Libby Hawkins and he had no doubt her mother would be similarly intransigent. And she'd have already taken enough weapons from the store to ensure she could enforce the deal if he reneged on it. As if.
The glorious blue sky was punctuated by a squadron of gray, sun-pierced clouds that hung above a scrubby landscape of deep greens and browns. They passed the blackened, rusty wreck of an SUV, the smashed remnants of its windshield acting like a frame around a sick portrait of the two ruined souls occupying the front seats. Black and bone. Gone before he could register what he was seeing.
He switched his gaze to the middle distance. Hazy mountains squatted on the horizon and at their feet a lighter green patch showed the location of Miller's Farm. Hick wondered how Elwood was getting over the occupation of his farm by Clay Hemmerich's militia and the death of his son, Jimmy, in what must have been one of the last shots in that battle. Hickman felt an unusual and unwelcome flash of compassion for the family—Elwood, his wife and daughter. He made a mental note to call in soon. Miller's Farm was now an essential resource for the people of Hope. Hick wasn't entirely sure how he was going to compensate Miller, but a deal had to be done, one way or another. The cattle and sheep on that farm could be the difference between survival and starvation.
"How long's it gonna be, boss? I gotta pee!"
Hick twisted around to look at the pained face poking through from the rear compartment.
"Tie a knot in it, we ain't stoppin' till we get there."
Brain thought about responding, torn between the twin tyrants of his bladder and his boss. In the end, physical necessity won out. "But you know I got prostrate problems, boss. I gotta pee regular."
"Prostate, you idiot. You'll have to open the back and go on the road, we ain't got time to stop."
Why did he bring the fool with him? Because he was obedient? Or because he made Hick feel especially clever? He sure missed Buster, who was not only more loyal than any human being he'd ever met, but also possessed a load more brain cells than the moron now peeing out the back of the truck.
"How much longer?" Hickman said.
Rusty Kaminski didn't take his eyes off the road. "Why? Need to go to the restroom too?"
"No." Truth to tell, Brain's talk of emptying his bladder had directed Hick's attention to his own, but he'd see it explode out of his groin before he'd admit it. "Just curious. You've been this way before recently, after all."
"Yeah. The road's clear now—I guess Hemmerich's crew pushed the wrecks off the road on the way to us."
Hickman scratched his chin. He needed a shave because the gray and white stubble sprouting from his skin made him look more like a hobo than a respected elder statesman. Not that he regarded himself as old. He just felt it. "Where did he say he came from?"
"Prescott."
"Never heard of it."
"Me neither. Looked it up, though. About a hundred miles east of Ezra on 50."
"What did you make of Mayor Hawkins when you met her?" Doing a handbrake turn in the middle of a conversation was one of Hick's favorite techniques for catching people off guard.
"Eh? Hawkins?" Kaminski glanced across at him as if surprised at the question. "Well, she sure ain't no fool. I only knew her for a few hours, but folks sure were gettin' behind her. I reckon she's got a lot of respect. Mind, I can't say how things are now. A lot of water's flowed under the bridge since then."
Hickman glanced out of the window. The mountains had dropped away and here and there piles of charcoal marked where ranch houses had once been. More and more vehicles had been pushed off the roads and he grabbed the handle above his head as Rusty swung the truck around a cargo trailer that straddled the side of the road.
"Let's hope this ain't a wild goose chase. I mean, we've only got her daughter's word that there's an armory here at all."
Rusty grunted. "Oh, if she says there's an armory, you can be sure there is. She ain't no liar. So tell me, Paul, what exactly are you lookin' for?"
"Just the means to protect ourselves."
"Just that?"
"What's that s'posed to mean, Rusty?"
Kaminski glanced across at him. "Don't treat me like a fool. You wouldn't be Paul Hickman if you weren't thinking two steps ahead of everyone else. Thing is, if you let folks in on your plans, you might be surprised. Times have changed, and new thinkin' is needed. Look at us two—a few weeks ago, I was a retired engineer, and you earned a living fixing computers. Now, you're in charge and I'm sheriff. Now, if that ain't enough of a sign that things are not what they once was, I don't know what is."
Well, son of a duck. After the battle at Miller’s Farm, Hick had made a mental note not to underestimate the sheriff and now he underlined it in red. Kaminski would make a valuable ally, that was for sure, and Hick was tempted to confide in him, to tell him what he actually intended to do with the weapons and ordnance that ought to be in a National Guard armory. But exactly the same traits that made him a potential friend also posed a threat. If he brought Rusty inside the tent, there was every possibility that the old fossil would set fire to it.
A sign reading Welcome to Ezra gave Hickman the opportunity to change the subject. "Good grief." And it wasn't an act. This was the first time he'd come this far from Hope since the night of the inferno.
Hotel Ezra, Gambling Hall, Free Wi-fi. Biker Friendly. These words appeared on a metal T-shaped sign that emerged from out of the parking lot in front of a pile of twisted girders and smashed glass. The ruined remains of cars and trucks littered the lot, and water dripped from what was left of the roof to pool around the gaping hole that had once been the entrance. There was no doubt in Hick's mind that the world was none the worse off for this place burning down. It had been, after all, an efficient way of emptying the pockets of passersby. This burned-out wreckage was also a pretty good metaphor for the world they'd lost in the firestorm.
"You ain't seen nothing yet," Rusty said, "Look over there."
The truck rolled on past the ruined casino as Hick turned to look where the sheriff was pointing. Beyond a sign proclaiming Ezra Regional Airport, Hick could see the hulks of a half-dozen commercial aircraft lining the runway. Perhaps the most poignant was the nose of a Piper Archer that seemed to be pointing an accusing finger at him as they drove by. In the cockpit he thought he could see the outlines of two figures, black against black, one the size of an adult, the other small enough to be a child. Consumed.
And so Paul Hickman came into Ezra, following in the footsteps of Rusty and Devon and, for the first time, he truly understood the extent of the disaster.
"Sam," he whispered.
They found Mayor Hawkins outside the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. Rusty drove the truck into the parking lot, followed by the second truck which was being driven by Jenson Bowie. They'd stopped a few blocks away so those who needed to could atten
d to their physical needs before meeting the Ezrans.
A small group of people gathered around a short woman with a clipboard and they looked across when they heard the now-unusual rumble of an internal combustion engine approaching. There was no need for Rusty to point out the mayor; it was obvious who was in charge here.
"Hey, no need to be unfriendly!" Hickman cried out as two men ran from cover, handguns pointing at the newcomers. "My name's Paul Hickman and I'm the council chief of Hope. We're here at your request."
The short woman pushed her way to the front. She wore a bob and maroon glasses, but it was her eyes that caught Hick's attention the most—he felt as though she could see inside his mind. He sure hoped that was his imagination, because even he didn't like to look too closely at the inner Hick. "Hope's still got a council? And I thought Gil Summers was chairman."
"Not anymore," Hick said.
Kaminski appeared from behind the truck, hands high. "Hi there, Madam Mayor. Remember me?"
The woman blinked momentarily, then her round face broke into a smile. "Rusty? Didn't recognize you in that get-up."
"It sure is a crazy world where someone like me gets appointed sheriff. But Hick here is the big man in Hope now. He won an election fair and square."
Mayor Hawkins shook her head in disbelief. "I never thought I'd see the day when Gil Summers was voted out. I thought he had a job for life. Mind you, I'm surprised there were enough people left to have an election."
"As I said, it's a crazy world."
"Am I to gather that my daughter made it to you? Is she here?" Hawkins stepped forward to shake hands with Hickman and Kaminski, and gestured for the two security guards to holster their sidearms.
Rusty nodded. "She sure did. She stayed behind to help organize accommodation for the folks you'll be sendin' us."
"Ah, good. You agreed to take our people. Hope survived the firestorm better than Ezra, then? I thought it must have—the shock was so obvious in your faces when we last met. Where's Devon?"
Rusty grunted. "Off on some wild goose chase across the country."
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