After they had circled around to the south and west, BC found a spot on a lower ridge where the oaks had been blown down and where he could look back and see the area from where the gunfire had come. At this spot he was able to look up and spot the fenced compound he and the others had failed to note before. He could see the ten-foot barrier of thick logs, the tower rising within, and the slow turn of the windmill. He could also scent fresh water from within that place, smell the scent of chickens, and the bleat of goats. How had he allowed himself to miss such a place? What a terrible mistake he had made.

  BC growled, a sound of contempt. New Hound and the other hunter backed away from him, not understanding that the growl was meant for BC in a fit of self-loathing and not for them. They would come back here, though. As soon as possible.

  BC had a plan.

  The Parley: City of Ruth:

  Deacon Sim looked down on the group.

  They’d been given a point high on Cold Top Mountain for the parley. That was how the leader of the group had referred to the meeting. “A parley,” he’d told them. It had been a long time since Deacon Sim had heard the term applied to a meeting. He’d always liked it, actually, but rarely did anyone use such words in these modern days.

  Sim was uniquely qualified to speak to just about any group the Church encountered, these times. He was well versed in not just the King James Bible, but also the Torah, Talmud, and the Holy Quran. He couldn’t read either Hebrew or Arabic, but he knew the holy books of all of the three main monotheistic religions as written in English. He was not a true scholar, to be sure, and never tried to pass himself off as that. But in the current situation, he was as close to such a scholar as the Church had to offer. Preacher Chase was forced to rely upon him more and more as the dark days continued.

  And, in addition to everything else, he’d once been a citizen of that damned so-called “confederation” headed by those godless councilmen in Sparta. How he now loathed them. He’d gone to the light belatedly, he admitted to one and all, but had done so with no less intensity for all of that. The day was coming when there would be an accounting for those atheistic church-burners who sat so smugly in their mountaintop redoubt.

  He stood clearly visible on the rocky secondary peak of Cold Top, so that any member of the other party could plainly see him and understand that he was descending to the gap between the two peaks with no ill intentions. Yes, he had a well-armed contingent to back him up, should there be trouble. No doubt as the other side also had. But nothing was achieved without some basic level of diplomatic trust, and there was also a certain risk to be taken when negotiating the resettlement of the nomadic bands who were trying to survive.

  The Church stood ready, and able, to provide for all who sought sanctuary. That was the message in days past, and that was the message he was ready to deliver now.

  With no butterflies flitting about in his flat stomach, he marched down into the grassy gap one hundred feet below, always keeping his eyes peeled for the tell-tale staggering approach of the zombie menace that seemed to always lay in wait wherever man was forced to journey. To his rear, concealed behind the trees, were snipers with powerful scopes and well maintained firearms. Sim was not afraid.

  By the time he was on level ground and approaching the flat stone where the parley would take place, another figure had emerged from the forest at the top of the opposite peak and was making its way carefully down the slope to join him. He noticed immediately, and with no small amount of distaste, that it was a woman. This was not what he’d expected. He’d initially conversed with a man named Roland Thompson by way of short wave radio. And it was a man he’d expected to see coming down to speak with him. Not a woman, surely.

  Women were a distasteful lot, as far as Sim was concerned. They were, in his mind, unthinking creatures that reacted by way of what they felt rather than any ability to reason logically. If not for the single fact that they were needed for procreation, he saw little use for them. He certainly did not relish the idea of being forced to negotiate terms of resettlement with a female. However, he was also willing to hold his nose and do his best to make certain that his tongue would not offend this woman.

  After all, the Church needed her kind. In the worst way. For whatever reason He had, God had seen to it that the ratio of men to women in City of Ruth was three to one. There was a palpable tension in the air these days. Jealousy between men who had female companions from those who did not was a growing problem. Men were fighting over them. Things weren’t out of hand. Not yet. But the day was coming, unless something could be done to help matters. It was the job of the Church, and of men such as Deacon Sim to find enough women to satisfy the needs of the growing community of God.

  “The Church needs women,” Deacon Lashmett had said to him recently, invoking the title of some obscure B-movie from the 1950s. Lashmett had chuckled then, safe in the knowledge that he had a young wife, who was now with child.

  Deacon Sim had chuckled with him, filing away the flippant remark to use in such a day as he might think positively of the errant fellow. Lashmett was not, in Sim’s opinion, a true worthy of the faith. He was, in fact, rather ignorant of the facts of the matter of the Savior and of the Father. But Preacher Miller thought highly of Lashmett, and so he was willing to go with the flow until such time as the minister could be made to see the true nature of men such as Lashmett. Like women, he supposed such fellows had their uses. He just didn’t see a future for the man.

  Sim reached the large, flat stone shortly before the woman. He watched her approach with the sun in her face. Her hair was strawberry-red, her features ruddy with the look of one who has been living out in the elements for some time. His own skin, he knew, was pale and soft—the skin of a man who has been living under a roof, in the midst of warmth when it was cold out, and comfort when it was hot in the sun, and dry when rain or snow came down from the sky. This woman had been living without such basic comforts. His appearance as one who seemed unchanged from the days before The Event would work, he knew, in his favor. Everyone he’d met who came seeking sanctuary wished pretty much for a sense of what they had known as normal.

  The Church, he would argue, would be happy to provide an answer to that wish.

  “Hello,” he smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Deacon Sim from the Church of the City of Ruth,” he told her. He stood before her, all five feet ten inches of him looking lean and hard, his clothes clean and well pressed, smelling of good soap.

  The woman extended her own hand, hard and rough and callused, the stark trail dirt pressed deeply into the creases of her palm and fingers, her nails with black crescents that had not quite been scoured out. She looked up into Sim’s light blue eyes, seeing his full, pouting lips, his weak, receding chin that gave him not an appearance of weakness, but one of childish youth that was tempered only by the steely squint of his eyes. His brown hair looked very soft as it blew in the wind, and the woman could smell the shampoo—real shampoo—that had been used to wash that hair.

  “Hello,” she said, even her voice indicating the harshness in which she’d been living for months. “I’m Melissa Warner. I’ve come down to hear what you have to say. Some of us may want to go with you, to City of Ruth. Some may not. We’d like to know what you have to offer.”

  Deacon Sim took Warner’s hand, briefly, feeling the roughness of it, she noticing how soft and pliant his own fingers. They quickly gave up the handshake and their hands went to their sides. “Let’s sit,” Sim suggested. “We can talk more comfortably that way.”

  Each took a spot on the flat granite stone in the center of the grassy gap. They faced one another, one thigh tucked under, and one leg touching the ground.

  “Let’s parley,” Warner agreed.

  Seated comfortably, facing the woman, Sim began to speak, his voice very clear, his pronunciation of the English language plain, betraying his Canadian roots. “What we’re prepared to offer,” He told her, “is the same thing that we offer to anyone who comes to our gates. And that thing is sanctuary. We offer protection from the elements, from hunger, from poverty, from the undead. We offer companionship and fellowship in the Church.” He smiled, close-lipped, not revealing his white teeth.

  “And at what cost?” Warner asked. “Excuse me, but I know that there’s never something for nothing.”

  “Of course not,” Sim agreed. “We require—given the circumstances in which Mankind now finds itself—that everyone who comes into City of Ruth turn his,” his smile became a little more pronounced, and there was almost a flash of those perfect teeth, “or her hand to work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Every kind,” he told her. “Whatever needs doing. According to the abilities of each person, of course. We’d never ask the physically weak to do the labors of strong men,” he added. “We’re doing our best to rebuild society,” he told her. “We need every kind of professional, every kind of tradesman, people from every walk of life.”

  “We’ve heard that church attendance is compulsory.”

  “It’s true,” he admitted. “We’ve discovered that this cements the community’s fellowship.”

  “We have people in our group who are not Christians,” Melissa informed the deacon. “I’m sure they wouldn’t wish to be made to attend church services.”

  “We can’t make anyone worship Christ,” Sim said. “But they would have to be present during our services. These are held several times a week, at various times. To make it easy for everyone to be able to go.

  “But we can’t force anyone to believe in the Savior. All we require is that everyone at least listen to sermons and take part in certain church activities. It’s for the greater good.”

  Warner met Sim’s eyes. She did not like what he was saying and she didn’t care for the man. There was an almost palpable arrogance in his demeanor. But she knew that some of her group were going to go with him no matter what she reported. It was likely that Sim was aware of this, but she wasn’t sure of that.

  “Some of us definitely aren’t going to return with you to City of Ruth,” she told Sim. “No matter what you offer in the way of comforts. Some of us want to continue on to the next town and see what they have to offer.”

  “That’s your choice,” he told her. He could not hide the slight flash of anger in his eyes, and he knew that she’d seen it. Alas, he was not perfect.

  “You won’t try to do anything to stop us if we move on, then.”

  “Why would we do something like that? The days of conflicts of one man against another are over. Now is the time of peace, of love.” He believed that, of course, but knew that there was room in those words for acts of violence to preserve the Faith.

  “Is it true that City of Ruth has electric lights, heat, plentiful food, clothing…?” She wanted to go on, but held it at that.

  “We have more than we need,” he assured her. “Our warehouses are stocked to capacity. Canned goods. Rice. Beans. Oil. Meats.” He let the words linger on the air.

  Despite herself, Melissa swallowed, thinking of a good, hearty meal. “How many are you prepared to take with you? Now. Back to City of Ruth.”

  Sim smiled at her, hoping that he would head back to church sanctuary with dozens, perhaps more than a hundred, most of them women to supply the hunger of City of Ruth’s single men. “We can take all of you,” he told her. “No matter the number. One, or one thousand. It’s all the same to us, just as it’s all the same to God.”

  “Some of us are Jews,” she said. “Some of us are Pakistani Moslems. Some of us are dark-skinned. Some of us are old.”

  “All are the same in the eyes of God,” he lied. He sincerely did not want to head back to town leading an army of undesirables. But so be it, if it came to pass. There were always uses for everyone. Scouting and scavenging was difficult work, and the numbers of those groups seemed to be constantly in decline. “We have only those two requisites for granting sanctuary: attending worship at least one day per week, and turning one’s hand to useful work. Whatever work that might be.”

  “But your form of worship only?”

  “Of course. This is the City of Ruth. It’s ours. We defended it. We built it. We maintain it. On this thing we are adamant.” He tried not to smile. “It’s only fair.”

  “I’ll relay that message to the rest,” she assured him, rising. “I think it’s best if I go back now, before it gets any later.” She looked up at the sun. “No one wants to try to travel once it gets dark.”

  “No,” Deacon Sim agreed.

  ***

  After exactly one hour and fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, the woman reappeared in the gap, leading a rather small group of people. Deacon Sim did a perfectly acceptable job of hiding his disappointment. The numbers were not as large as he’d supposed or hoped. As he counted heads, he realized that he was going to only bring thirty-four people back to Ruth with him. And of those thirty-four, only seven were women. Worse than that, of those seven, only two seemed to be of childbearing age. There were no female children, at all. Still, he put up a good front.

  “Hello,” he told them. “I’m Deacon Sim, and I’d like to welcome all of you, in advance, as new citizens of the City of Ruth.” He extended his hand, moving through the crowd, asking each person their name. At least, he realized, some of the men were able bodied. Almost half the number was of advanced age. At least, advanced by current standards. It was a rare old person who had been able to survive the zombie outbreak.

  One of the youngest adults approached him—a blonde fellow of about twenty whose appearance, though rough, showed much promise. “Is it true that you still have electric power? Running water? Cars? TVs?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “We have all that. Things are much the same as they were before The Event.”

  A barely muffled cry of joy went up among the almost three-dozen souls.

  “Now,” he continued. “We must be on our way. We have a long walk down the mountain to Ruth, and it’s best if we begin now.”

  “Yes, sir, Deacon Sim.” It was the blonde youth again.

  “Your name—it’s Douglas, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do me a favor, Douglas.”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “I’d like for you to bring up the rear. Watch out for the slower members of our group while I lead the way.”

  “No problem,” he said, smiling, thinking of hot meals, warm showers, bright lights.

  “And tell me something, if you will.”

  “Yes?”

  “How many chose not to join us in Ruth?”

  “I’m not sure. But quite a lot.”

  “Any idea?”

  “I’ve heard it said that Melissa and Roland are leading about three hundred.”

  It was all Deacon Sim could do not to look surprised. Fortunately, he had argued effectively against any attempt at trying to outflank that group. His fifteen-man unit would have been overwhelmed.

  “And they’re headed where, now?”

  “The rest of them want to go to Sparta. We all talked it over. Most wanted to head for Sparta. Something about their city the others liked. Things they heard on the short wave. I don’t personally get it, but that’s the way it went down.”

  “Well, then, so be it.” He smiled at his new charge. “We’ll join up with our escorts on the other side of the mountain, and then it’s downhill all the way.” He turned his back and motioned the numbers to follow.

  “It’s downhill all the way,” he heard Douglas telling the others as he made his way to the back of the line.

  Some of the group turned from time to time to look back, seeing Melissa Warner standing at the edge of the forest, watching them moving away. They would periodically wave at her, and she at them. Deacon Sim, too, glanced back occasionally to watch this. And he did not motion to the ruddy woman standing alone at the edge of the forest.

  “But if our gospel be hid, it is hid to them that are lost,” he whispered. Only the few closest to him heard his words at all.

  And then they were gone.

  In the Autumn of Year Two: Intel:

  He had been thinking of the zombies that continued to flood down the roads and through the forests toward their sanctuary. It was a constant battle. “For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink; for they are worthy.”

  “Pardon?”

  Preacher Chase turned to face his page. The young man had been standing behind him, and the minister had almost forgotten his assistant was there. The youth was so silent and respectful.

  “I’m sorry, Douglas,” he said, addressing the man by his first name. “I was just musing.”

  “What was it you said, sir?”

  “Revelations. Chapter 16, verse six. For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink; for they are worthy.” The young man, his face illuminated by the sun streaming in through the window of this upper room, high above the grounds, seemed to absorb the words, but was puzzling over the meaning.

  “Don’t worry yourself, son. As I said, I was just musing. Sometimes I like to turn the verses over in my head, hear how they sound.”

  “I see, sir. I was just wondering.” The youth was convinced, as everyone had to be, that Preacher Chase was a prophet—a true one, nothing false about him at all.

  “Now, then. What’s on the agenda this morning?”

  “Well, one of the new families who have applied for asylum. The head of the family is here now, waiting in the other office.”

  Chase brushed the odd fleck of dust off of his jacket sleeve. He was wearing the brown suede one, and it was pristine. Absently, he ran a left hand through his closely cropped dark brown hair. His eyes were the bluest of piercing blue. “Which family is that? We’ve had three appear at the gates in the past couple of days, yes?”

 

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