Logan nodded. "A few of those in need have found their way here, have they?"
The Preacher leaned forward, brow furrowing. "Are you a believer in the Word, Brother Logan?"
Logan hesitated, and the clear blue eyes fixed on him. "I believe in the Word, Preacher," he said, wary now. "Maybe not the same Word you believe in, though."
"I ask not to be rude, but because I have heard that there are servants of the Word who carry black staffs of the sort you grip so firmly in your right hand."
Logan glanced down. He had forgotten he was holding the staff. It was so much a part of him by now that he had taken it with him when he left the Lightning with barely a second thought.
"The staff and its bearer are the Word's own cleansing fire, I am told," the Preacher went on with a hushed reverence. "You are welcome here, sir. In this poor outback, in this withered and dusty gathering place of wounded souls, we still do what we can to serve the Word and her Knights." He smiled reassuringly. "Can I offer you something of food and drink? We haven't much, but we would be honored to share it with you."
Logan almost said no, then decided that doing so would be an unnecessary insult and a disappointment to the old man. What did it hurt for him to accept the invitation? He had planned on spending the night here anyway, and it would be nice to eat indoors for a change.
"I can only stay a little while, Preacher," he said The old man nodded. "Let me be honest with you, Brother Logan. This invitation is well meant, but selfish, too. It would mean a great deal to those to whom I minister if they could visit with you. Trial and tribulation and time erode their faith. They have little with which to restore it. You would provide them with a large measure of what is needed, just with a few well–chosen words.
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 be eating with us tonight," the Preacher said. "You might notice that he is a bearer of the black staff of a Knight of the Word. He has come a long way. I hope you will all do your best to make him feel at peace on his night with us so that he will be well rested when he leaves us on the morrow."
He guided Logan to the center table and seated him between two very elderly women who looked at him as if he were something come out of the ether.
He smiled at them, and watched as the Preacher walked around the table and took the chair across from him.
"Give thanks for what we have, Sister Anne," he said to the old woman on Logan's right.
The meal was served and Logan got another surprise. The food was fresh, not prepackaged–vegetables and pasta, bread, and some sort of fruit. Tea was poured from pitchers, and he didn't ask where they had gotten the water. He didn't ask where any of it came from. It didn't feel right to do so. He just ate and drank what he was given and answered what questions he could. Most were about what he had seen of the outside world. He kept his descriptions as positive as he could, staying away from demons and once–men, from the destruction that was taking place everywhere, and from his own knowledge that worse times lay ahead. These people didn't need to hear about it tonight. They had already chosen what to do with the rest of their lives.
"How long have all these people been here?" he asked the Preacher at one point.
"Most have been here for close to twenty years. Some were born and raised here. Some came to be with relatives and friends. They're the castoffs and leftovers of families splintered and scattered long since. All the young ones left long ago. The bombings chased most away. It was bad; there were a lot of missile silos and command centers in the mountains. They all went. But they took a lot of us who were standing out in the open with them. Then the water and soil turned bad. That was the end for most; everyone pretty much packed it in. We're the only ones who stayed. Now almost no one comes this way anymore. You are the first in more than a year."