A Shepherd's Calling (What Comes After Book 2) (21 page)

“
What about Janessa?” Tom's voice was low.

“
Turner, bring her in here, at the end of the stack.” The Major waited, very calm and still. Tom thought he saw something akin to annoyance on the radio operator's face when he turned to obey the command. A moment passed and the Corporal returned with the young woman.

Turner fell in line between Tom and Chris while Vargas spoke quietly to Janessa. “Ma'am, can you follow us up and keep watch at the top of the stairs?”

The young woman looked at Tom. When he nodded at her, she nodded back at the Major.

“
Outstanding. Cover your ears and close your eyes. We'll be moving after the second one.” Vargas waited until they had done as he instructed.

The explosion came with the next breath. Another, more muffled and further away, followed only a couple seconds after that. Tom opened his eyes and found the Major already at the top of the stairs, so he powered up the steps to join the marine.

For his part, Vargas didn't wait for the younger man, instead hammering the remains of the boarded door with a heavy kick. To Tom, it seemed every pound of force and weight in the Major's considerable frame was behind the kick, and it sent wood and nails flying into whatever lay behind it. The Shepherd had only stepped over the body of the beast he had slain minutes earlier, while the officer was already through the door.

It was unusual for the Shepherd to follow someone into a dangerous place. It was for him to be in harm's way and deal with whatever danger lay ahead: that was part of his job. No stranger to small unit tactics, he understood the people with the proper tools should be leading the way. The marine, with a flashlight on his weapon, was the right person for the job of being in front. But being behind someone, having them act like a shield... Not since before he had accepted his Burden had he felt so marginalized. He realized he did not care for it.

The Shepherd followed the Major into a hall, lit dim gray by traces of sunlight leaking in from open doors on either end, made brighter still thanks to the Major's electric torch. The Shepherd stepped over another body the moment he was through the doorway, the marine having dispatched a would-be ambusher.

The open space into which the men entered teed-off left and right. This time, Vargas went right. It made sense to the Shepherd, as the bulk of the second floor lay in that direction. This short hall had a single door on either side. The door on their right was closed, but unlocked. The door on the left was wide open and seemed to provide most of the illumination for this hall and another it intersected a few yards away. The open room looked like a work area, with a couple tables made of saw horse legs and sheet wood. Those plywood surfaces had many different objects spread across them; knives, mechanisms from firearms, tools and more. A make-shift workbench lined the opposite wall, near the window.

On the window end of the bench was a vice, which contained a rifle stock. The barrel was atop the bench beside it. At the other end was a reloading press, mounted onto the surface of the bench. The last thing they saw in this room was an empty, though neatly made bed, in the corner behind the door. Tom glanced through the window before moving away and saw the front of the barn. He couldn't tell if it was his imagination, but he thought he saw one of the barn doors shaking slightly, as though it were coming to rest after being disturbed. He watched for another few seconds and noticing nothing more, he left the room.

That was either the wind, or I'm seeing things
, Tom thought. Something in the pit of his stomach disagreed with that analysis, but he could make nothing else of it. The closed door across the hall led in to a store room; jars of fruit, vegetables, cured meat and the like. Neither room had contained an occupant, living or dead.

When they reached the end of the hall, they found it turned left and crossed to the far wall of the house. Halfway down was another corridor, cutting another 'T' into this part of the second floor. The Major's head turned slightly to the side, as he did when he was listening to his radio. Tom didn't need to hear what the small voice speaking directly into the marine's ear would be saying: he heard the muffled 'bang' of the stun grenade, quickly followed by several shots. Then silence.

While the Major watched the as yet unchecked hall, Tom focused on where they had come from. Several tense seconds passed, the two men shoulder to shoulder at the corridor juncture, watching, waiting. It felt closer to ten hours, rather than ten seconds, when the door Tom was watching finally re-opened. Thin shadows emerged, lit mostly from the windows behind them. To discern greater detail, Tom narrowed his eyes while his finger was ready to squeeze the trigger. Ready for the thought that would send a .357 magnum round hurtling down the hall to spell certain doom for whoever had the misfortune of being first from the room.

This time, his readiness was unnecessary. Tom could just make out the bill of Chris's ball-cap, the rounded dome of Turner's helmet. Lowering his weapon, he allowed the shadows to take another few steps closer and saw the distinct profile of the marine's carbine, his armor and L.B.E., the pads on his knees and elbows. Chris's hunting rifle came into focus, the machete hanging from his belt, the unique mishmash of worn, patched flannel, hide and leather. The two men were not running, nor were they gesturing back to the room. Tom surmised the missing marines were not amid the bodies in the room his companions had recently vacated.

Turner confirmed it. “Three beds, three hostiles. No one else, no survivors.”

They resumed their sweep of the second floor. Turner moved ahead, stopping at the corner of the next hall. Chris remained at the intersection where they had gathered. That left Tom and the Major to continue checking. 'Room service', as Chris had called it.

The first room they visited in this fashion was bare and required only a cursory check: small and narrow, it had a shuttered window on the right wall; an old, stained pot beneath it; and a mattress on the floor at the other end. Vargas didn't even enter the room, merely opened the unlocked door, leaned in to look left, then right. He pulled his head and shoulders from the room.

“
Clear.” The Major left the door open behind him and moved down the hall, in the direction of the next room.

If Tom thought the marine had entered each room quickly before, the officer now seemed in an even higher gear. Tom was fast, but oftentimes when he entered a room, only a step or two behind the Major, Vargas would be nearly at the other end of the chamber when Tom broke the plane of the door. They were in a bedroom; two twin beds, neatly made but covered in frayed, faded blankets lined the left wall, a shuttered window between them. A writing desk was in the corner across from the beds, several books laying in various states on its wooden surface. Before Tom had time to look at the array of books, papers and writing paraphernalia on the desk, the Major had thrown open the small closet in the corner. It must have been empty, for Vargas quickly turned from it and made a bee-line for the door.

“
Clear,” he said in that same crisp tone.

Onward they went, pattern unchanging, result unchanging. Down the short, connecting hall with Turner facing down what appeared to be the last unchecked hall. Chris just outside the rooms Tom and Vargas entered. A bathroom, as unused as the one on the first floor. Another bedroom, this one with four beds, four bureaus, a desk and a small table. A small study with a full desk and three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each nearly full.

Clear, clear, clear.

At last, the four men stood outside the door to the last unchecked room. Tom studied the others while the Major quickly determined their course of action. Turner was pale, but for the first time that Tom could recount since meeting him, the other man did not seem nervous, anxious or otherwise on edge. If anything, he seemed resigned. Chris was watching their backs and so was mostly turned away from Tom. This made his features difficult to see, let alone interpret. Two things Tom read from his former mentor: resolve and awareness.

Vargas, with his frown and narrow eyes, was something of a mystery. Tom knew, as he thought the officer must, that people had been in this building, and very recently. Even if the fraying rugs and patchy blankets didn't offer sign enough, the place smelled of habitation: excrement, smoke, food, the gamy smell of wet people living in close proximity to each other. The stink of people was everywhere, seeming to permeate the very wood of the house.

Before the Shepherd provided words of encouragement that this was, in fact, the only way forward, Vargas moved to the door. The marine looked back, ensuring the other three men were ready. Placing his hand on the knob, Vargas turned it slowly. His face showed surprise as the knob continued to move: it was unlocked. Throwing the door wide open, the Major stepped inside, the others flooding in behind him.

They were not greeted by a hail of gunfire, nor were they set upon with knives, fists or other instruments of melee. The room they entered was quiet, the only commotion their movement. Rain drizzled softly through the open windows on the far wall, and a cool, wet breeze that smelled of leaves and pine wafted in. A dozen chairs were spaced across the floor in two rows at the rear of the room, one section on either side of the door through which they entered. The chairs faced a table covered with a simple burgundy-colored cloth, which was positioned at the far end of the room, near the windows. A simple white cross hanging on the wall behind the makeshift altar was the room's final adornment. The chamber was so sparsely furnished they had only to enter it to know they outnumbered its sole occupant four to one, and it was this person that drew their collective focus.

A man sat in the front row, facing away from those rapidly approaching him. His head was tilted up as though staring at the cross mounted behind the altar. He was bent somewhat forward, with his elbows just behind his knees, the posture of someone deep in thought.

“
Hands up! Show me your hands RIGHT NOW!” Vargas barked loud enough that rafters above seemed to groan in response.

Chris moved ahead of the others, checking first behind the altar and then looking in a small closet beside the rightmost window.“Nothing here,” he called back to the others.

By this time, the seated man was sitting up straight, his hands raised at shoulder height. With Vargas closing in on the man's left and Turner swinging in from the right, that left Tom to move up directly behind him. On impulse, he holstered his revolver. Two marines had this man dead to rights at close range: Tom did not see one more gun making the difference between success and failure. Better to have his hands free, just in case.

Closer now, within feet of the stranger, he was just able to see something about the back of the man's hands. They were large and seemed discolored or scarred, but before he could take a good look, the man slid from the chair and onto his knees. Tom could not fault the man for doing it, as the Major had commanded for him to do so.

“
Interlace your fingers. Hands on top of your head.”

The man obeyed.

“
Do you have any weapons?” The Major still had his carbine pointed at the man, who merely shook his head 'no'.

“
Now, I'm going to search you for weapons. If I find one, you're going to learn there are consequences for lying to me.” Vargas slung his carbine across his back and gestured for the man to stand.

The stranger slowly rose, keeping his hands on his head as he did so. When he had gained his feet, Tom noted that he was a bit taller than average, perhaps just shy of six feet, and had a solid build. Not Dettweiler or Rujuan sized, but strong, nevertheless. Like Chris, he wore deerskin leggings. Unlike Chris, his feet were encased in old work boots. His vest was made of hide and beneath that was a thick and faded, stained chamois shirt, buttoned to the ragged collar.

Vargas began his search before the man was fully upright. Neck, armpit, back, crotch. The officer spared nothing on the search of his subject. He spent well over a minute patting the man down, paying particular attention to his worn, beaten boots, frayed collar and sleeves of the old shirt.

It was during the Major's check of the stranger's sleeves, when the officer had the man's arms stretched out parallel to the floor, that Tom once again noticed the mark. He was so certain he mistook what he saw that he blinked and checked a second time. But when he looked again, he found he had not been wrong and the confirmation gave him pause.

Clear as day, burned in black on each of the man's hands, was a cross.

Finished with his search, Vargas stood and stepped away from the man. When the Major spoke, his voice lacked anything resembling warmth or concern.

Without taking his eyes from the man he had just searched, the officer ordered Turner to begin recording. Then, to the stranger in front of him, Vargas asked, “What's your name?”

The man replied without looking at his interrogator, eyes still on the cross. “Robert Darrow.”

While the Major continued his line of questioning, Tom circled around to face the man. Moving behind Turner carefully, so as not to interfere the marine's positioning, the Shepherd looked at Chris and nodded to the door. The older man crossed the room and took position in the doorway.

“
Where are they?”

Darrow said nothing. From this angle, Tom thought the man's head turned to the side, as though he did not understand the question.

Vargas took a step closer to the quiet man. “Mr. Darrow? Can you hear me?”