What Comes After (Book 1): A Shepherd Cometh (4 page)

“Shall we?” Summers indicated a nearby set of double doors.

The group passed through into another hallway, turned a corner and stopped at the first door on the right. When Jay opened that door, the room behind it filled with oily yellow light from the lamp. Within, the Shepherd saw a wooden table in the middle of the room with a folding chair on either side. A large hand on his back pushed him inside, towards the table. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Summers point at the chair on the far side. Moving into the room with the Shepherd, his captor reached the table and said, “Sit.”

Feeling the time was still not right for him to escape, the Shepherd moved around the table and sat. Summers set down the lamp and came to stand beside him, then gestured to a bar that had been bolted across the width of the tabletop.

“Hands,” he said, while removing a pair of cuffs from his coat.

The Shepherd placed his fists on either side of the bar and watched Summers lock a band around his left wrist, then slide the other band beneath the bar before closing it in place around his right wrist. Rujuan never moved from the doorway, shotgun leveled at him the whole time. After snapping the second band closed, Summers retrieved the lamp and crossed to a shelf near the door. The room brightened considerably for a moment as a second lamp was lit.

“Won't be gone long, but just the same... keep an eye on him.” Summers instructed Rujuan before taking one of the lamps back into the hallway.

Left with only the silent, shotgun-wielding black man brooding in the doorway, the Shepherd listened to Summers' footsteps recede down the hall. He heard twenty-one steps in the direction from which they had come before the metal clicking, clanking sound of a door stopped his count.
That's a different door,
he thought. He listened a moment longer but heard nothing else.

He turned his attention to the room. Not large enough to be a classroom, if this was in fact a school. The lamplight showed pipes running along the ceiling, covered cables on the wall to his right, converging on three metal boxes. A hook suspended several feet above the table. There was an odd smell to the place, too. Musty and something else the Shepherd couldn't determine. The shelf on which the lamp sat was empty of other objects, but appeared built into that wall. A store room, perhaps?

Whatever the room had been built for, the surface of the table spoke volumes for what purpose it served now. There was enough dust to tell the Shepherd it saw infrequent use, but he was more concerned with the condition of the wood. Scratches ran the length of the tabletop, and it was marred by many chips, dents and gouges. Looking more closely, there appeared to be several spots darker than the original staining. Moving only his eyes, he glanced to the floor. With the lamp on the opposite wall, the table cast a shadow across much of this part of the room. With better light, he felt confidant he would see similar dark splotches on the tile around his feet.

How many have sat here, been beaten here? How many have died?

It was a dark thought, but he could no more stop it than he could the stomach-churning realization that he was most likely to be among that number in the very near future. This was probably the worst spot he'd been in since leaving New Mont.
Brossard was no picnic,
he mused sardonically.
But this is at least as bad.
With that, the Shepherd closed his eyes and took a breath. Emptying his mind, he centered himself for what was to come.

Many minutes passed before he heard the opening of the doors down the hall, followed by measured steps. The footfalls stopped just outside the door, behind Rujuan's bulk. “Still make a better door than a window, son.” This voice was different; deep, gravelly, part humor and part authority.

Rujuan responded to that authority and took a few steps into the room, allowing entry to the men behind him. Summers had returned and another man was with him. The new man and Summers were as tall as the Shepherd standing, but where Summers was slight, the other was stocky. The stocky man had dark, curly hair graying at the temples, with a thick mustache on his pitted face. Dark eyes regarded the Shepherd for several seconds with almost animal intensity. He made no effort to conceal how he was sizing up the stranger. The Shepherd responded in kind, taking in the man's broad shoulders, thick arms and large hands.

Seemingly pleased with what he saw, how the Shepherd reacted or some combination of the two, the stocky man put his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. Turning to Summers, he asked in that deep voice, “Would you give us a few minutes?”

Summers nodded after a moment. “Okay, boss. You sure you don't want a couple of us in the room in case he gets nervy?”

The new arrival smiled at the younger man. “Oh, I think I'll manage. Don't go too far, though.” He called as Summers and Rujuan moved into the hall. “Looks like he could be feisty.”

The stocky man watched the others close the door. When it latched, he turned to the Shepherd. Watching him for another interval, the man crossed to the shelf where the lamp was set. Removing his hands from his pockets, he picked up the lamp and walked back to the table, hanging the lamp from the hook over the table. While so doing, he spoke conversationally. “Let's put a little light on this, make it easier on all concerned parties. Besides, my eyes don't work as well as they used to.”

No longer back lit and closer to the light, the Shepherd was able to discern more detail about the room's other occupant. Striped shirt, thick vest, dark pants, all well-worn but reasonably clean. A couple of small pouches on his belt; a folding knife and something else, perhaps? The man stood very still and exuded surety, radiated power. He continued to watch the Shepherd, apparently waiting for something.
Disciplined and confidant,
the Shepherd thought.

“You must be the Old Man.”

He smiled. “Guilty as charged. The name is Shane, actually, but 'Old Man' caught on pretty quickly. Was accurate when folk started using it and time has lent it a... growing credibility.”

He moved to the chair across from the Shepherd, pulling it away from the table and seating himself. The Shepherd noted the exhalation that escaped the Old Man when he rested his weight onto the chair.
Old, indeed,
he thought.

The two men watched each other from their respective sides of the table for a short while, quiet and with neutral faces. Finally, the Old Man asked, “Do you have a name?”

The Shepherd's confusion must have been clearly written on his face, because the Old Man gestured to the door and continued speaking. “Shortly after I came in, you called me the 'Old Man' and I told you my name is Shane. Where I come from, it's considered courteous to identify yourself when someone is introduced to you. There could be more etiquette involved in that exchange, but its polite to provide a name, call sign, title... something.” A pause. “But that was a different time. You might be too young to remember it, too hard to care for it or too ignorant to have ever known it.”

The last part of Shane's statement brought embarrassment to the Shepherd's face. “Call me Tom,” he murmured.

Another few breaths passed, both men openly assessing the other. Shane studied the Shepherd through narrowed eyes. “How old are you, Tom?”

“Twenty six, this past summer.” The Shepherd provided his answer and was again quiet.

The Old Man nodded slowly. Bringing his hands onto the table, he interlaced his fingers and continued to watch Tom. The intervals of silence between bouts of speaking were growing longer and more pronounced. The Shepherd could tell the man across from him was just as comfortable with silence as he was. What he couldn't tell was why.

The Old Man asked another question. “Where are you from?”

After a full minute of silence, Shane made an open expression on his face and shrugged his shoulders. “If you won't tell me that, could you tell me what you were doing out there?”

The Shepherd intended to respond, but knew he must use care in both what he said and how he said it. He took too long considering his words, however. The Old Man began to tap his hands on the table top, dropping his gaze to watch the motion. “You see,” Shane began, “I'm having trouble figuring out where we go from here. And I'll level with you: if you don't give me something to work with, there's no way to present you to the others as anything but a threat.”

The Shepherd bristled. “A threat? I saved those people from-”

Shane interrupted in a flat tone, raising his face and looking Tom in the eyes. “From two Muppets, for which they were equipped and experienced. They didn't need your help, but even if we believe you intended to help them, we still don't know why.”

When the Old Man finished, the Shepherd stared back and replied just as levelly. “They seemed unprepared for what could have been within the house. They made no perimeter check, didn't leave anyone outside to keep a watch. They only had one visible weapon. They had a child with them. How could I call myself human if I didn't even offer aid?”

Shane leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So, watching from a safe distance, you decide to lend a hand. Armed with a six-shooter and a knife made to sever extremities, you went into the house by yourself. Because that's all you needed to make the difference, right? One man rushing headlong into danger, capable of taking the action required to save five other people.” He snorted. “Sounds like something out of a goddamned fairy tale.”

Seething, the Shepherd replied through clenched teeth. “Where I come from, that's what people do for each other.”

The Old Man blinked. “That's rich. Where you come from, is it also accepted to assume everyone you encounter is an idiot? That's the only explanation for your actions, really.” Shane raised his right hand and began raising fingers to count his points. Thumb first; “Your presence and action are required to assure the safety of five armed people.” Forefinger; “Attack a man who has used non-lethal force to subdue you instead of kill you.” Middle finger; “Refuse to provide information to the people who still take you in even after your questionable actions result in the death of one of their own-”

The Shepherd thrust his bound hands at Shane. “Your man is responsible for that! Before crossing the river, we attracted the attention of some Turned. Summers said that we needed a decoy, and he ordered one of the captives to be crippled. The child was his first choice, but I stopped Summers from hurting the boy. I wasn't fast enough to prevent injury to the other man.”

The Old Man fixed Tom with a shrewd look. “You expect me to believe that?”

Returning the Old Man's look with his own unblinking stare, the Shepherd replied. “Believe what you choose. It doesn't change the truth.”

Shane looked at his right hand a moment, then back to Tom. “You know what I think? I think you were tracking that group. You saw them leave and thought they were just soft enough to take. So you waited until they were on the other end of town, far enough away that no one would hear their screams. You followed them into that house, ready to do... God knows what.” He grimaced. “You came into that room, saw the Muppets and thought, 'They're not beating me to it! Not today!' So you cut 'em down and before you could do the same to my people, Summers came in behind you. Seeing you as human, he didn't want to kill you. Instead, he stunned you and brought you here. That about cover it?”

The Shepherd's voice was filled with anger and frustration. “That's not why I went to them!”

The Old Man narrowed his eyes. “Which is easier to believe; a wandering hero just happens across the trail of a band of outcasts, misunderstands their predicament and resolutely defies the perceived indifference of their community? Or an outsider sees easy pickings to better prepare himself for the coming winter?”

Long, tense seconds ticked by. “You don't even have a coat,” Shane observed.

Tom swallowed audibly.
Patience,
he thought.
Anger will not see me through this.
Face crimson, he took a breath and spoke. “Sounds like you've already made up your mind. What could I possibly say to convince you my intentions were pure?”

Shane watched him for several seconds before responding. “Why don't you start by telling me what your intentions were?”

Tom nodded and took a few breaths to steady himself. “You've already determined my motive, which was to help those people. However misguided you feel it was, it's still the reason I sought contact with them.”

The Old Man frowned. “Why? And how? You seem ill-prepared and under-equipped to guarantee your own survival out there, let alone offer real assistance to anyone else.”

“I saw the group some ways out while checking the town through my binoculars. After watching them for a few minutes, I knew if they needed my help it would be sooner rather than later. I stashed my gear so I could make better time to them. It seemed best to remain undetected, since they might be running from something instead of simply checking the area.” Tom offered this last while watching Shane closely; no need to let his captor know the thought only occurred to him just before he was subdued.

“As to the why...” the Shepherd began, watching the Old Man lean forward and tilt his head to the side. “'Man is his own keeper, salvation and damnation. Whosoever show us the path, it is we who must walk it.'” Seeing Shane's face begin to twist in disgust, Tom continued. “Simply put: it's on each of us to make and be the difference we want to see. Why leave something to fate or chance when we can do it ourselves and ensure it comes to pass?”

The Old Man shook his head. “So it's not that you're better than everyone else. It's because this is your calling. You're serving some higher purpose. Got it.”

Tom waited for Shane to stop shaking his head.
Most of them will react poorly,
he remembered Father Jacob's words.
Faith is difficult to recognize, harder to cultivate and nigh-impossible to prove. Even if it's faith in ones self, many will see that as the sin of pride or vanity and refuse to acknowledge the strength it can actually be. Often, it is among the first virtues to be cast aside when visited by hard times. Do not find yourself wanting in the judgment of others, nor doubt your conviction in the face of their apathy. As long as you are dedicated to the Cause, you walk the path of the righteous no matter what God you call on or faith you ascribe to. Always remember the first and last tenant; do the right thing because it's right thing to do. Act with this purpose and no desire for reward or gratuity. To do so will demonstrate the purity of your spirit and the strength of your character.