"Come out sinners and repent!" the man of the cloth beckoned in a fiery tone. "I have what you need to survive! The Day of Judgment has come and you shall be saved but only by accepting His tender mercies."
The potbellied man who had survived on snack foods glanced at the wall above his nineteen-inch color television, the one that had not broadcast any game shows, pay-per-view porn, or wrestling in a long time. There, nailed to the dirty peeling brown wallpaper, glinted a dusty old crucifix reflecting a beam of sunlight slipping in through the parted curtains.
Could this be a sign?
The Frito Lay driver opened his front door-cautiously-as the clergyman’s group moved past. That clergyman had a thin body but broad shoulders. The skin on his face drew tight around his jawbone but his eyes were afire with life. Old, perhaps, but not elderly.
"Father…?" the snack food man called tentatively.
The procession halted. Its leader smiled at the shut-in who desired to hear the good word.
"My son! Come, join us!"
Snack food man descended the concrete steps of his home for the first time in many, many weeks. As he moved he begged, "Father, do you have any food?"
"Yes, my son, plenty of food; especially food for the soul! Join us and partake!"
The potbellied shut-in reached the sidewalk and exclaimed to the preacher, "Oh thank you, Jesus!"
The man in black opened his good book. Except it was not a good book, more of a container.
Things squirmed inside.
"Jesus?" the Father corrected sternly. "No, my son…"
The preacher took one of those things in his fingers and reached toward the snack food man.
"Thank the living God and all his blessings. Come, join The Order and be one with Voggoth. He so desperately wants to be one with you."
7. Paradigm Shift
par-a-digm, n. model; pattern. -Webster’s Dictionary
Trevor Stone slid the metal cabinet in front of the gray door. With the cabinet in place, the small utility room underneath the basement stairs appeared to serve no purpose other than a holding place for the propane-fueled hot water heater.
He kept the key that opened that hidden door on the end of a necklace, which hung out of sight beneath his t-shirt.
Satisfied everything needing hiding had been hid, Trevor exited the glorified closet for the main room of the basement. That room offered a stocked bar, a pool table, a plasma screen TV, leather furniture, and "Penn State Nittany Lion" pennants.
One thing overshadowed everything else: a big heavy door set in one wall and controlled via an electronic access pad.
A bout of lightheadedness came over him, the price of visiting the third gift. He steadied his mind by listing the projects he wanted to tackle: a solar power grid, more security cameras around the estate, add stabilizer to every stockpile of gasoline he could find in the county before the petroleum degenerated and-just as the lightheadedness faded it returned, not caused by the third gift this time but by the volume of projects awaiting his attention.
So much to do and he had wasted nearly a week spending too much time comforting Sheila. Some days she did nothing other than cry. Other days she stared out the front window watching for approaching horrors until deteriorating into hysterical paranoia.
Trevor wondered if he picked the wrong day last week to extend his patrol route. More worthy survivors must be out there, somewhere, and today he intended to find them.
As the calendar inched toward the end of September, it also inched toward winter. He needed to move aggressively to find survivors before the weather turned. The right people with strong backs could help finish those projects before the snows came.
He sighed and tapped in the correct code. The door buzzed open leading him into a large, rectangular room filled with racks and shelves and cupboards and cabinets full of assault rifles, pistols, shot guns, sniper rifles, collapsible batons, knives of all conceivable types, stun guns, ballistic armor, helmets, and crates of ammunition.
A closet stored a variety of BDUs in a multitude of sizes. A row of drawers held rigs and assault vests and garrison bags and all the other toys that made a survivalist’s life so neat-o.
Trevor, already dressed in gray pants and a black T-shirt, strapped on a thigh rig as well as a utility belt and grabbed a black cap. The day threatened rain, so he added a lightweight army camouflage jacket.
From his gun collection, he chose his preferred weapon: a Colt M4. Trevor’s version sported a scope for distance and a laser-targeting beam perfect for striking those hard-to-hit weak spots on Earth's visitors.
He added a nine-millimeter side arm, a collapsible baton, and a combat knife to make ready for an afternoon drive.
– Trevor chose the custom-built motor home parked behind the six-car garage. The woodland camouflage paint served notice this vehicle had not rolled off the traditional Winnebago assembly line.
Inside, only the rear bedroom and the bathroom remained unchanged. Modifications had gutted the interior equipping it with gun cabinets, a first aid bunk, wall-mounted map holders, and a docking station for the lap top computer Trevor used to compile a "Hostiles Database."
After starting the engine, Stone hopped from the cabin and walked toward the main house with Tyr at his side. The dog’s tail wagged in anticipation of the day’s work despite an annoying light drizzle falling from fast moving gray clouds.
"I want two patrols plus you and Odin."
As he spoke, Trevor visualized what he wanted: two patrols of three K9s each, and his two Norwegian Elkhounds.
Tyr bolted off to muster the force. Trevor went in the house and found Sheila pacing in the living room.
"C’mon, we’re going out today."
Sheila not only shook her head, but her whole body quivered.
"I don’t want to."
He tried to show compassion- whatever that was — but his hard exhale and stiff lip belied his consternation.
"You can’t stay in here forever. We have to go out there. There are people out there."
"No, no they’re all dead. Everyone is dead. We have to stay here," an annoying pleading crept into her voice.
"Sheila, what if I had thought like that last week? Right now, there have to be more people out there, people who are alive today but won’t be alive tomorrow. If I can find them, and bring them here, then things will get easier for us. It’s what we have to do. We owe them."
She shook her head again. Violently.
"I know you’re afraid-"
"No you don’t! You don’t know!" Tears glinted in her eyes. "You never get afraid! Nothing scares you! You talk about all this like it’s a big game. Devilbats and Mutants and Deadheads. But you haven’t been chased by them and seen your friends killed by them!"
The vision of his parents’ bodies-what he had first thought to be shaggy rugs-blasted to mind.
"Shut up!" He commanded, raising his voice to her for the first time.
She stopped talking.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"Okay then, you can stay here. I have to go."
"No…please don’t go!"
"I have to go. If all you want to do is stay inside and you don’t care about anyone out there, then fine."
Her mouth opened then shut.
He called, "Ajax!"
Scrambling, obedient paws hurried along the first floor hallway. Ajax, a stout black Doberman charged with security inside the mansion, bolted into the living room flanked by two more Pinchers.
Trevor commanded, "Protect Sheila."
"Don’t leave me!"
Trevor stormed out.
– A thick cover of gray clouds hid the sun and cooled the day. Rain fell in a soft drizzle, just enough to add to the gloom.