“Yes, sir. Three. This is the fellow who says he’s an artist. A classically trained artist.”

  “Ah. Yes. I have his…things…on my desk. I’ve been looking them over for the past hour or so. Yes, I’ll have to talk to that one. First thing.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “In a moment or so. Best to let him wait for just a while longer.”

  Douglas didn’t ask why this was important, but he knew it was so. “Is he any good, Preacher? His art, I mean.”

  “Hm. Well, that’s always a matter of opinion, isn’t it? What one man likes, another may find offensive.”

  “His art is offensive?”

  “No, I didn’t mean to imply that, at all. I was just saying that while one person might feel he was a very accomplished artist, one more might not agree.”

  “I see.”

  “He obviously has talent; this…what’s his name? Nuttman?”

  “Yes, sir. Rick Nuttman.”

  “Rick, eh? How perfectly mundane.”

  Douglas chuckled. The Preacher smiled at him.

  “Well, I guess he’s waited long enough. Why don’t you show him in?”

  Douglas headed toward the door at the other side of the rather large office. About halfway across the carpeted floor, he paused and turned back to the preacher. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes. By all means.”

  As Douglas turned back to his task, Preacher Chase could not help but see the pleased expression on the young man’s face. It was good to throw this type a bone, now and again, the Preacher knew. These were the men who would someday take up the mantle of leadership.

  By the time Douglas had escorted Mr. Nuttman to the Preacher, the minister was back at his desk, standing beside it, allowing himself to bathe in the full glory of the sunlight streaming in through the large window behind him. As the two approached, he extended his hand and took Nuttman’s in his own. He was surprised to feel how soft, pliable, and limp the fellow’s palm was. Maybe he really was an artist. He was certainly no laborer.

  “Hello,” Chase said in his strong, even, almost musical voice. “So glad to have you among us Mr. Nuttman.” He flashed those perfect white teeth at the new arrival, bowing slightly in greeting.

  “Hello,” Nuttman said. “We want to thank you for taking us in. We’ve been on the road a long time.” Indeed, the man looked the worse for wear. His hair was matted, despite the hot shower, which Chase knew the man had taken. The Preacher always insisted that new arrivals be bathed and clean before he officially greeted them. And he shall put off his garments, and put on other garments, and carry forth the ashes without the camp unto a clean place.

  As Preacher Chase was straightening after his slightest of bows, he breathed in and caught the barest whiff of Nuttman’s breath. The stench was horrible, and Chase wondered when last the man had brushed his teeth. But this was something other than merely a lack of recent hygiene. Still, despite his inclination, he decided not to mention this transgression. He knew that the man had been issued soap and shampoo, toothbrush and paste. Surely the fellow had used all of these. Chase could smell the soap and shampoo.

  “Well, you and your family are welcome to stay with us. As you were told when we granted you asylum, there are only two things that we require of you. You must attend at least one worship service each week, and you must turn your hand to work.”

  Nuttman’s smile seemed to grow crooked at the Preacher’s words. Even Douglas noticed the change in the man’s expression. Douglas’ eyes met Chase’s, but no words were exchanged. “About that worship,” Nuttman said. “We…my wife and I…we’re not Christians.”

  Preacher Chase did not seem to react at all. His face did not darken and the smile did not fade. “We didn’t say that you had to become Christians, Mr. Nuttman. Rick. We only insist that you attend services at least one day per week. We’d actually like it if you participated in more than one service every seven days…but once per week is required.”

  “How can you insist on that if we’re not Christians?”

  “Rick!” His smile, if anything, broadened, became whiter, greater, and friendlier. “We’re a fellowship here in the City of Ruth. We survived because our fellowship was so strong when The Event hit. When the prophecies of Revelations came to be. While the rest of the world was falling apart…eh…going to Hell, you might say, the people of this church held together. We survived. And now we’re thriving.” His smile seemed a permanent thing.

  “So, yes, we do insist that everyone join in our Christian services. There is no other recourse.”

  “None?” Nuttman, for his part, was not smiling. He was thinking how best to press his case, mulling over his options as he always did.

  “Well, there’s always the road.”

  “The road.”

  “Yes. Back out on the road. But I take it that you and your family did not care for the road. Such as it is. Infested with the husks of the damned.”

  “The zombies.”

  “If you like that term, yes.”

  “You’d send us back out there.”

  Finally, Preacher Chase turned his back on the new arrival and he seated himself in his very large and comfortable leather chair behind his very large and impressive oaken desk. There was a slight sound of his lean weight settling into the leather with a mere creak of the skin and a very mild puff of air scented with some type of lemon polish. “My men tell me that you came here from Harvest Baptist?”

  Nuttman fidgeted, slightly. He looked around, searching for a chair, but there were none. Behind him, Douglas was a strong and silent presence. “Yes, we stopped there. Briefly.”

  “How did you get there, Mr. Nuttman?”

  “We left Columbia,” the man’s eyes, slightly mad, seemed to be searching for a figure, “eighteen months ago. Like everyone else, we tried driving as far as we could, finding gas where we could, siphoning it out of abandoned vehicles and tanks. But our car finally broke down. I think it was five months ago. That’s as far as it would go. It finally gave out about a mile from Harvest. We made our way through the woods to there. They took us in.”

  “They took you in, but you didn’t stay. Why is that?” Preacher Miller’s smile had faded just a bit, so that it was all lip and no teeth. His blue eyes sparked. The air in the room was very comfortable. An artificial breeze generated by central air conditioning caressed them all.

  “There was no food,” Nuttman admitted honestly.

  “No food. Is that why they let you go?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “You escaped, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. They wanted us,” he paused, weighing his options again, deciding on honesty. “They wanted me to help in a scouting mission. They wanted me to risk my life to find supplies.”

  “Are you a coward, Mr. Nuttman?”

  Nuttman stood rigid, despite the weakness that he felt building in his knees. “I’m an artist,” he finally said. “I’m not a soldier. I’ve always been an artist.”

  “Not a soldier. An artist.” Preacher Chase’s hands were resting on the ragged and worn surface of the leather bindings of Rick’s portfolio.

  “That’s the fact, Mr. Chase.”

  At last, some anger did flash in the Preacher’s eyes. “Rick.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t ever refer to me as mister again. Do you understand? I am Preacher Chase.”

  “Yes. Sir. I meant no disrespect.”

  Chase’s immaculately clean hands moved to the portfolio again and he unzipped it and opened the cover. He began leafing through the contents, each watercolor, each pen and ink, each gouache behind a sheet of scratched plastic.

  “You have talent, Rick. God has seen fit to bestow gifts upon you. There are many people who struggle long and hard to achieve what seems to have come naturally to you.”

  Rick pointed to the portfolio on the Preacher’s desk. “I did work long to learn how to illustrate and to paint,” he said.

  “Yes,” the Preacher said. He let the palms of his hands cover the nude female figure before him—a painting in garish acrylics displaying a mainly naked woman doing battle with some type of dragon. “That’s something I wanted to ask you. I value education here. We all do,” he waved his hand at Douglas, who stood behind Rick.

  Nuttman smiled, nervously.

  “You’ve told the men who greeted you that you were classically trained. Might I ask at what learning institution you received this classical education?”

  “Sir?” The nervous smile had completely left Nuttman’s ruddy, weather-rouged face.

  “One doesn’t just absorb a classical education. I was wondering where you studied.”

  “I…what I meant to say…is that I’m self-taught. But I studied the classical arts.”

  Preacher Chase closed Nuttman’s portfolio. He spread his palms down on the worn surface of it. “Mr. Nuttman!” He stood. “Get this through your mind right off the bat:

  “We neither condone nor tolerate lies here in the City of Ruth. This is one of the main reasons God has tossed down this judgment on the human race! The lies that ran rampant through his world were poison. And now it’s left to people such as us—the good folk of Ruth—to see to it that God’s Kingdom is clean. We’ll have no more of Man’s lies.” He leaned across his desk, aiming his broad forehead at Nuttman.

  “Do you understand me, Mr. Nuttman?”

  “Yes, Preacher Chase. I understand. I didn’t mean to lie. You have to understand that my family and I have been struggling. We…for a long time we haven’t known who to trust.”

  Chase’s palms slapped the portfolio again. “Enough! Enough of your lies! Lying is precisely what you intended. The sooner you admit that, and the sooner you stop doing it, the better off you will be. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir,” Nuttman stammered. “I understand.”

  Preacher Chase sat back into his chair once more. “That’s better,” he said. “Now, what I want you to do is go back to your wife and children. You’ll need to help them settle into your temporary quarters. We’re going to keep you here, in the main compound. Later, we’ll see about moving you out into the township.” He zipped up the portfolio and placed it inside a large drawer in his desk.

  “You’re keeping my art?”

  “Yes. I want to show it to some of the deacons. I think that you may be of service to us here. With your art. I mean to put you to work in that capacity.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you.”

  “Douglas. Show Mr. Nuttman and his family to their quarters. Help get them settled in and tell Deacon Sim that I wish to see him.”

  “Right away, Preacher,” Douglas said. And then he quickly ushered Nuttman out of the office and out of the presence of Preacher Chase before returning, quickly, crisply, as always.

  “That was an interesting exchange,” he said to Douglas.

  “In what way, sir?”

  “Those poor souls down the road. The ones at Harvest Baptist. They have no food. Or very little. All of those people, starving.”

  “It’s a shame, sir.”

  “I think it’s time we did something.”

  “I agree.”

  The Preacher turned and gazed out the window. He could hear the odd crackle of gunfire coming from various points around the perimeter of the town. “All of those women and children.”

  “Yes, sir. We should do something.”

  He turned back to his young assistant. “I want the Nuttman family kept here in the main compound. Especially keep an eye on his wife. As I recall, she has a bad complexion, but with the scarcity of women in town, she’s liable to raise a few eyebrows. In fact, despite her mixed blood, she looks like she’d clean up pretty nice.”

  “She’s a well-built woman,” Douglas informed the Preacher.

  “Put the ladies auxiliary on her, why don’t you? Yes. Have them show her the ropes. We need her to understand…without creating any panic; you understand…that we’re having…difficulties. Over the paucity of females here in Ruth.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.”

  Preacher Chase smiled at Douglas. “Well get to it, son. And have someone show in the next arrival. I’m going to have a busy day. Very busy.”

  Fair Trade:

  “The workmanship on these blades is top-notch,” the trader admitted. We haven’t been able to find enough steel to make scalpels of this quality in Ruth.

  “Well, we don’t so much find our steel as make it.”’

  “You make your own steel?” The trader, Deacon Lashmett, could not disguise his surprise, and did not try to do so.

  “Yes. We’re all going to have to learn to be self-sufficient until things get back to normal. That’s why we’ve been so intent on building our library. If you continue to bring us books of this caliber, you will always find us open to trading for the things that you most need.”

  Deacon Lashmett nodded. He’d always felt that the citizens of Sparta were fools. They traded the most valuable of commodities for books that were all but worthless. The Lord was coming soon and here these godless bastards were toiling away as if there was going to be a mundane future for them. They’d spend eternity in Hell, and the time was soon coming for that. As for him—he and all citizens of Ruth were going to be residing in Heaven with the Savior in due time.

  “I understand,” Lashmett pretended to agree. “We have quite enough books in our libraries to suit us and are only too happy to trade the surplus items. Or to gift them, if that suits.” He almost said ‘the Lord’, but left it off. Best not to panic these heathens, if he could help it. In point of fact, there was really only one book that mattered to him and to those with whom he lived; and that was The Good Book. The Holy Bible.

  Nate led his guest out of the storeroom where the medical tools were kept until they were needed and to be sterilized. It was currently filled with like material, for their craftsmen had been hard at work learning to perfect their new skills. He’d watched the trader carefully, noting how he had taken proper survey of the laden shelves, eyes slightly widening in surprise at the things visible to him, squinting in wonder at the boxes that hid their contents.

  Outside in the warm air of the early summer, they stood for a moment, taking in the sight of the fenced hillside above the long, low concrete storage building. The grass was tall and green from recent rains, and cattle grazed along, munching contentedly. A few calves moved with some speed and joy alongside their more sedate elders. “Milk cows?” the trader asked.

  “Well, some of these are dairy cattle. Others at the top of the hill are basically for beef. We don’t eat a lot of meat here, but we find it’s needed to balance our diets and give us the protein we need. Especially in winter. We dry and salt and can as much as we’re able.”

  “Yes. One needs a balanced diet, for certain.”

  “Are you getting hungry?” Nate was genuinely curious. The trader did look a bit gaunt, and he wondered what the scoop was on such subjects down in the low country where Ruth was located.

  “I am, yes,” Lashmett admitted. Just the sight of cattle on the hoof had started his stomach to aching with mild hunger. He’d been feeding himself from the meager stores he’d been allowed to bring along for the trip, and those were all but gone. He’d have to purchase some food for the long ride back, and for that reason he’d held back two slim volumes for which he hoped to be able to obtain food. Fruit, if they had it. “You don’t have any apples, by chance, do you?” He blurted it out, despite his best efforts to conceal his true feelings and any such urges.

  “The best apples this side of the Blue Ridge,” Nate bragged. “We’ve got 400 acres planted in apples. Another 200 in peaches, but the frost got about half of those. About 100 acres in pears. Come on. We’ll head down to one of the mess halls. Some of the men will be coming in from the fields for lunch about now.” He led the way, angling eastward and slightly downhill, taking them toward a grassy saddle between two peaks partly in grass and trees. “This was a Christmas tree farm before,” Nate said. “We decided to let the trees grow. Balsam’s a light wood and we figured to let these get big enough for timber harvesting. All kinds of things you can build with that kind of wood. You know, they made airframes out of that stuff during World War II. Up until they started mass producing enough aluminum for the war effort.”

  “No,” Lashmett told him, thinking of apples. Of bacon. Of beef. Of bread. “I wasn’t aware of that. We don’t study much on war down in City of Ruth,” he lied.

  “I suppose you folk don’t,” he said, recalling such men from the days before the great plague had struck. This trader was the kind of man who’d made a supremely difficult situation almost impossible in the weeks and months after the outbreak. These were the men who’d wielded ignorance, intolerance, and hatred like guns and knives. Although he was currently in control of the situation, and Sparta was in a position of some strength in this area, he still feared this man and everything he represented. He led him on.

  “Are the forests safe?” the trader asked.

  “One must always be prepared,” Nate said. “But we keep a close eye out. We’re a close community.”

  “Lookouts?” Lashmett’s suspicious eyes scanned the treetops.

  “We take precautions,” Nate told him, keeping his secrets.

  “How often do they come?”

  “The zombies?”

  “Of course.”

  “Rarely.”

  “Why is that? What is it that you do to ward them off? Short of destroying them, I mean.” He was glancing nervously as they approached the closely packed balsam trees. Such dark, fragrant branches could easily hide the sight and stench of the animated corpses that had been sent to bedevil Mankind in these, the End Times. Of that, Deacon Lashmett was certain.

  “It’s very simple, just as I told you before.” He had explained it once before to the man from City of Ruth, but he wasn’t sure he’d been believed. “We noticed very early on that, like any water, they flow downstream. Zombies almost always take the path of least resistance. They go downhill. You’ll rarely see one move uphill. They just don’t like to do it. It takes an awful lot to get a zombie to do more than move down an incline. You have to practically tempt them to get them to move against gravity.”

 

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