A Shepherd's Calling (What Comes After Book 2), page 23
Tom nodded and directed Janessa, Toby and Ben into the vehicle Doughty was vacating. Toby and Ben took seats in the middle row with Janessa at the rear. That task completed, Tom took the front passenger seat while Vargas stowed his carbine between the bucket seats at the front of the truck. The marine brought the vehicle to life and rolled it several yards forward before stopping.
Letting the engine run, the Major retrieved his weapon and jumped out. Tom craned his neck around and watched the marines hook up the winch. Vargas assisted his men and when the task was finished, the Major pulled his second in command aside. The officer and the Sergeant talked to each other briefly before the large man nodded, and the two each returned to their respective crews.
The people sharing the vehicle with Tom had not spoken since piling in. Ben now brought an end to that silence.
“Is he dead?”
“I don't know,” the Shepherd answered.
“He's better than Dust. Stronger. Smarter. He should be okay, even though you left him.”
Though Ben's tone suggested sympathy, the child's words were anything but sympathetic. Those words struck Tom harder than any blow he'd ever felt, cut deeper than any blade, and stung worse than any failure, perceived or real. He took a quiet, shaking breath as the weight of the day's activities extracted their toll on him all at once. Physically and emotionally exhausted, it was all he could do to murmur a response to the boy.
“There's water where God wills it. If He would make it so, Chris will share our Way again.”
Vargas ducked back into the driver's seat, this time closing the door behind him. Glancing at Tom, then in the rear view mirror at those seated behind him, he spoke in an almost fatherly tone.
“Fasten your seat belts. It's bound to be bumpy and we'll be moving fairly quickly.”
Epilogue
He'd been watching the house for nearly an hour. The color of the sky told him sundown was a half hour away, and the increasing cool told him he would not want to be outside after dark. Though the rain had stopped, it was more than wet enough to cause a man to catch cold. Even one as rugged and seasoned as he was.
Shortly after arriving, he saw a man come out of a window on the second floor and climb down a rope. That would be Darrow, he thought.
Upon reaching the ground, Darrow stopped briefly to look around, then moved toward the barn. He stopped on along the way, making a pause as he knelt beside each body laying in the yard. Quickly, his hands moved over their heads and chests, as though he performed Last Rites. Whatever spiritual duties he was attending did not prevent him from acting practically, as well; he scooped up rifles and knives before resuming his trip to the barn. With the sun behind the trees and both main doors opened, the interior of the building was cast in deepest, darkest shadow. Indeed, when Darrow finally reached it, he was immediately swallowed by the cavernous maw of the barn's open doors.
Minutes later, Darrow and another man emerged, this one carrying a bow. Both men had full packs and began to head east. Neither cast so much as a backward glance at the area they had called home. The Hunter watched them go, curious as to where they went and why. While he enjoyed the exercise of entertaining his curiosity, he accepted the fact that satisfying it would have to wait.
He waited a few minutes longer, just to be certain. He wanted to make sure Darrow and associate were not coming back before he moved from this vantage. The Hunter feared no attack from behind, as the only persons who could have threatened such an action had already been dealt with. Though not as quick as he once was, he was even more crafty. It had been a small matter to set the bag and pack in a tree, with Nadeau's rifle resting on a branch, and arrange the items to appear as a sniper laying in wait. One of the Peacekeepers had been dead before he was close enough to know he'd been duped and the other only had time to gasp, surprised at the ruse, before the knife in his throat put him to rest.
Casting another glance skyward, he felt it was safe to move. Time to go, he thought. I'm not in the habit of leaving men behind. Even if they're marines.
The Hunter slipped through the porch door, just another shadow. He placed the climbing hook on the lip of a hole in the floor, this one under a window near the door. Then, he took the rope attached to the hook and kept it loose in hand while he put his knife between his teeth. At last, he sat beside the opening, swung his legs through and entered the pit.
Landing silently, he let go the rope and left the remainder in a loose coil on the floor. Taking the knife from his mouth, he took a step to his right and stood stock-still. There he remained for a few moments, listening carefully. When he was satisfied there was nothing nearby that waited for him, his free hand went to the flashlight on his belt. It was but one of many toys he had discovered in the back of the marine vehicle. Something he was only too glad to commandeer, like the personnel radio. After all, who could put those items to better use?
Depressing the device's button, there was a quiet 'click' and the open basement flooded with light. While the electric torch was too small to illuminate the entire chamber, which he guessed ran the entire length of the structure, it quickly revealed the object of his search.
In the corner to his left, with a dead beast at his feet, was Nadeau. The Sergeant sat with his legs outstretched, propped up against the wall. Knife in one hand, flashlight in the other, canteen between his legs, he appeared unconscious.
Crossing to the marine, the Hunter panned his light around the room. No less than six Turned lay in grisly final repose, one directly beneath another opening against the wall opposite Nadeau. Most were spread across the center of the open chamber, however. The light from his torch glinted on several objects, and a quick check confirmed his suspicion: brass. A few were 5.56mm shell casings, from the marine's carbines, but most were 9mm.
Reaching Nadeau, he crouched beside the man. Even with the bright, harsh white light of the torch in his face, the marine did not waken.
“Nadeau,” the Hunter said in a low voice. “Nadeau.” He spoke louder this time. Still nothing.
“You'll thank me later,” he muttered. Setting the knife next to his boot, he struck the Sergeant across the face with an open palm.
Nadeau's eyes fairly burst open, then immediately slammed shut. With a groan, the marine raised a hand to shield his eyes from the flashlight.
“Christ on a bicycle.” Nadeau was turning his head, trying to get his eyes further from the torch.
Chris held it on him, however, trying to gauge the extent of the man's injuries. After another few moments, the Sergeant spoke again.
“Am I dead?”
Chris continued checking the man over. “I don't think so.”
“Then get that damn light outta my face.”
The older man smiled. He ran the light down each of the marine's arms and legs. The Sergeant offered no evidence of pain or discomfort during the examination.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked.
“Like Dett used me for a punching bag. Hungry as hell, too.”
“The hungry part we should be able to remedy once we get topside.” Other than bumps and bruises, the Hunter could find no evidence of injury. “You're one lucky son of a bitch, Nadeau. No broken bones, not even a scratch. Just some aches and pains that should be gone in a few days.”
“They say better lucky than good, right?” The marine stood slowly. Once on his feet, he groaned and grabbed his head, waving Chris off. “I'm alright. That one rung my bell before I got 'im.” Nadeau kicked the Turned between them. “So, what's the plan?”
“Spend the night here. Just the two of us now and plenty of supplies on the second floor. We can move out before sun-up.” Chris sheathed his knife, stooped for the canteen and handed it back to the sniper.
“Where we headed? I imagine my guys have already bugged out.” The Sergeant paused. “Who's left?”
“That I saw? Everyone except Eby and Davis, but you knew about those two. Turner was either taken prisoner or defected. Couldn't tell which, just seeing it through your scope. Either way, he's in U.N. hands now. Russians, I think.”
“They still headed to Quebec?”
“Far as I know.”
Nadeau frowned. “Well, shit. How am I supposed to get back?”
Chris shrugged. “Before winter? No idea. But I can get you there.” The Hunter smiled. “If you don't mind making a couple of stops, first.”
Special Thanks
Neither “A Shepherd Cometh” or “A Shepherd's Calling” would have been the same (or perhaps happened at all) without the direct efforts of the following folks;
D-Rock: for keeping some of my suckitude in check (not only with the first two books, but in general). Keeping some in check is better than none. Really, there's just too much for one person to handle.
The International Traveler, Man of Moderate Interest: in addition to providing the impressive cover art for the first two works, he also volunteered some much needed critical feedback. And he'll never let me forget where I came from. Ever.
Kelly Grogan: who also offered crucial, critical comments. Her perspective helped me keep (dare I say gain?) perspective of the first novel as it unfolded.
Obzervo, Master of the Obvious: for catching his share of conflicting character and situation based issues. Also, for being a rock star, in general.
To The Reviewers
How could I forget you? Your time, commitment and willingness to share your thoughts makes a noticeable, lasting impact on every one involved in this effort: the writer, editor, promoter and reader. In light of this understanding, it seems appropriate to offer acknowledgment to the people who shared their thoughts about “A Shepherd Cometh”:
Amber B Enterprises, Newton, normanlum, Patrick T. Doherty, The Verticoli
Know that the few minutes you spent to speak your piece means a great deal to me. Thank you for the constructive manner in which you presented your criticisms and for any praise you offered. Your feedback really does make a difference.
Carrier, Peter, A Shepherd's Calling (What Comes After Book 2)
