Armageddon's Children - Terry Brooks [98]
We are isolated out here, which is probably for the best. But we are not ignorant of the world, even though the world is ignorant of us. We hear bits and pieces of news from the few who pass this way. Some speak of the Knights of the Word and the demons with which they do battle. We hear of the struggle taking place and understand its source. But the reality is distant and insubstantial for many. It would help give it a face and an identity if a champion of the Word were to grace us with his presence. Knowing this, will you still stay for just a little while?”
Logan smiled despite himself. How could he refuse? He walked back to the Lightning, set the alarm and locks, and then gestured for the Preacher to lead the way. They set off among the buildings toward the center of the town. “How did you know I was here?” Logan asked him.
“Sound carries long distances out here, where so much is silence. We heard you coming across the fields in your vehicle.”
They passed between the residences and arrived at the main street. The buildings were weathered and sad, the paint peeling, windows and doors mostly gone, and the roofs stripped of shingles. The walkways and street were cracked and weed-grown, and trash was piled everywhere. There was no sign of life, nothing to indicate that the Preacher’s flock consisted of anything more than the ghosts of the dead.
“Used to be a drugstore over there—soda fountain and pharmacy,” the Preacher said, turning left down the walk. “Gas station back there at the end of the block. Two pumps, that was it. Clothing store, insurance and real estate office combined, barbershop and hairdresser—they were combined, too—bank and post office.”
He shook his head. “The post office was one of the last government services to close down, you know. Delivered the mail even after Washington was destroyed. It was all done locally, nothing beyond that. But it was something, and it gave people a sense of sharing a larger community. It gave them hope that maybe not everything was gone.”
They had reached a square, single-story building at the edge of the town proper, something that might have once served as a community center. The windows were shuttered and the door tightly sealed. Heavy deadbolts secured against unauthorized entry. The Preacher took a ring of keys from the pocket of his jacket and released the locks one by one.
“Won’t stop everything, but it makes my flock feel a little safer,” he offered. “Usually, we leave the shutters open to let in the light. But we closed them when we heard your vehicle coming. Almost dark now, so we will leave them closed until sunrise.”
He led Logan inside, where a different world awaited.
There was a large room with three long folding tables and chairs set out in its center. A pass-through cut into the back wall opened onto a small kitchen. He could smell food cooking and see trays of glasses sitting out. A door to the left of the pass-through revealed a second large room beyond. Doors marked MEN and WOMEN were set into the wall to his left.
A scattering of faces turned his way; all of them were ancient and worn and framed by dustings of white hair. There were maybe two dozen, all seated at the tables except three who occupied wheelchairs, ancient eyes giving him an uncertain look, wrinkled hands folded together on the tabletops. Whatever conversation had preceded his appearance had died away. The room was quiet save for a shuffling of chairs and the soft wheezing of labored breathing.
“Everyone, please welcome Brother Logan,” the Preacher said.
There was a soft muttering of “Hi, Logan,” and “Welcome,
Logan,” in response. Logan nodded, thinking there wasn’t a person in the room under the age of seventy-five. He wondered how they had found their way here. It didn’t seem possible that any of them could have traveled very far. But then perhaps they had all been here much longer than he assumed.
“Brother Logan will