Oct 14th, 2083: The Empty House

We ruined the first couple of hides, of course.  Then Anthony managed to connect to the mainframe long enough to download a video.  He talked us through the last couple of hides, and come the next couple of days we should have enough to make a purse or something.  Excuse me, a satchel.  I know Sam well enough to know that she will scoff at anything so frivolous as a purse.  Practicality, that is the word Sam lives by.  Hm...  Maybe I would be better served to use the fur to line our boots.  Though we are out of Jack Frost's territory, the chill can still be deadly to those who don't take proper precautions. 

We are following the Missouri down to the next major town, Sioux City.  In this land, the Tall Man is king.  The borders of his land are clearly delineated.  At first, the stagevan traveled easily over the remnants of the cracked asphalt highways.  Then it stuttered and started to drag.  Underneath the stagevan's wheels, the asphalt had become covered in a black grass.  The sun seemed dimmer, a cold white orb in the sky. 

We stopped for water and the driver insisted that we tie ourselves to the van before refreshing our thirst.  I refilled my canteen and saw that while the water was clear and cold, the river had no bottom.  I dropped a blade of grass in the water, and rather than floating along on the current, it slowly drifted downward into the abyss.

As we traveled, we saw areas of forest and grassland that were taken over by black vegetation.  I watched a deer, startled by our approach, run into one of the patches, then disappear from my sight.  No trees for it to hide behind, only grass that immediately stilled as if it had never been there at all.

The entire day I felt as if sandpaper were being rubbed on all my nerves.  It seemed the entire party felt the same way, everyone was irritable and short-tempered.

We stopped for camp at dusk in an abandoned town.  All the buildings but one were crumbling, victims to the ravages of nature and time.  The sole exception was a lone house right at the edge of town.  While not as pristine as it might have been before the Sickness, it was the only one that seemed to have four sturdy walls and an intact roof.

It didn't take a genius to sense that something was wrong about that house.  I did not argue when the driver told us to set up camp in a building with no roof.  Anthony, however, took exception. 

"Why not that one?"  He argued, while I lit the fire.  Sam rolled her eyes and shook her head, then slipped out to hunt for our dinner. 

The stagevan driver tucked a wad of some black stuff in his lip. "It's a trap, kid.  Plain as day."  As he spoke, a flash of lightening ripped across the sky.  Oar and I worked together to brace a tarp over the fire so the approaching rain wouldn't extinguish it.  The heat from it was outstanding, it seemed to singe my flesh while I was still several feet away.  I had no doubt the small fire would be adequate to heat our roofless room.

Anthony and the driver exchanged more heated words, then the boy stormed off as large drops of rain began to patter.  His bedroll thrown over his shoulder, he disappeared through the door of the one intact house.

Our stagedriver spit a wad of noxious black liquid into the dark.  "Stupid."

I volunteered for first watch and during the darkening twilight hours my eyes stayed on the house where Anthony slept.  He had not yet appeared by the time I woke Oar for his shift.  I hope that no harm befalls him during the rest of night.

Oct 13th, 2083: The Michaelman and The Rabbits

Mr. Ellis, or Oar as he would have me call him, was born by the ocean.  He is one of the first generation born after the great sickness and has seen first-hand the evolution of the holy archangel Michael. As he told me his story, he smoked a pipe carved from mahogany and brushed the ashes off his suit. 

"My first memory is of a brilliant white light.  It was His light, telling me that I was going to serve Him for the rest of my days.  As I grew older, I gathered my flock from other lost children in the area.  We grew larger and started a society of virtue and peace.  Once my flock was well-established, He talked to me again.  He told me to spread His word as far and wide as I could.  I gave all my worldly goods to my sons and daughters and headed east with nothing but the Scriptures in my hand."

"Fascinating.  May I see your scriptures?"  He handed me the book, a thick journal bound in soft black leather.  Inside, each and every page was filled to the brim with tiny cramped handwriting.  I opened a page at random and tried to read by the dim firelight. 

"He is most sacred to all.  Hold His life above your own, His truths are more valuable than yours, He is all that is right and just in this world."

I flipped to other pages in the book, but the content remained much the same.  "What exactly are His truths?"

"Listen to your heart, son.  He speaks them to you if only you take the time to listen."

Anthony interrupted to take a look at my broken toes.  He had some less-than polite things to say about the doctor who saw to me in Miles City.  Apparently the toes haven't been set right and I can look forward to walking with a limp the rest of my life.  Sam returned with a brace of rabbits slung over her shoulder, and since I am apparently the only one who can cook without turning the meat into charcoal, I have been nominated the stagevan chef.

Anthony helped me rise to my feet and handed my crutches to me.  I stumbled and had to grab his shoulder for balance.  We laughed and I headed to my luggage for my spices.

"Careful with the Michaelman, Sen."  Sam knelt on the side of the stagevan, opposite the fire.  She spoke in low tones and didn't look up at me, focusing on skinning the rabbit in her hands.  "There's certain lines there you just don't cross with them."

"What?"

A huff of impatience, and the stem of sagebrush in her mouth was spit onto the ground.  "Sen Stu Sha, you know full well what I'm talking about.  That kid, Anthony.  I'm warning you now not to let the Michaelman see you together."

I pulled the suitcase to the ground next to her, the better to participate in this hushed conversation.  "First off, I don't know what you're talking about.  Anthony is nothing to me.  Second of all, what business is it of his?"

She wrapped the viscera in the rabbit's pelt and set it aside, handing me the bloody meat.  "Michaelmen think everything is their business.  And they're not afraid to tell you so with more than words."  Another carcass was laid over my arm.  Thank goodness I'd chosen to wear a dark colored shirt today.  "I've seen the scars Michaelmen leave behind if they don't like what you're doing.  Taking a hand for theft.  Plucking out the eyes of wandering husbands."  She wiped her knife on the grass before sticking it back down in her boot.  "Love the wrong person and you get burnt.  Literally.  Acid.  Fire.  The Michaelmen have everyone under their thumb out West."  She stood, gathering the gruesome blood-dripping pelts in her arms.

"Wait."  I jerked my head to the campfire, where Oar and Anthony sat talking with the stagevan driver.  "I can cook up some of those and burn the rest.  We can save the hides for something." 

Sam smirked, but helped me to my feet and handed me the spices from my suitcase.  "Do you even know how to tan hides, Sen?" 

"No, but I believe I have a book with instructions for it somewhere."

"Figures," Sam laughed, shaking her head.  "Why?"

"I want to see if I can, that's all."

Oct 13th, 2083: The Serene Smile of Shaylee Weathers

Oar Ellis is a man in his seventies, with wisps of yellowing hair dusting his liver-spotted scalp.  He wears a threadbare black suit that barely covers his gut.  Like Charlie, he is always smiling, however sometimes there is something about his smile that unsettles me greatly. 

Sometimes, when the flickering campfire light catches his face in just the right light, his smile reminds me of Shaylee Weathers.  Shaylee was only a couple of years older than I.  She was the daughter of one of my father's cowhands, and far too often I would see her with bruises in the shape of fingers.  Her father disappeared one day, just didn't show up to work.  After two days of this, I was sent to check up on him.

I found Shaylee asleep on a cot in the one-room cottage, innards and shards of bone spread around the floor.  Blood was smeared on the walls.  Peace at last.  Over and over again, in her father's blood.  Peace at last.  She stirred and woke to find me standing in the doorway, taking in the gory scene.  She was no longer cowed or troubled.  She was peaceful.

Shaylee didn't fight when my sister led her out of the small cottage.  I remember the summer heat, it was almost warm enough to wear a single shirt.  The warmest summer I can recall.  Maybe it was the heat that drove Shaylee to the breaking point. 

She was quiet during the trial, not that there was much to it.  I was too young then, but I understand now.  How everyone knew what her father did, but no one wanted to talk about it.  No one wanted to help. 

That year, the first snowfall, there were no lots drawn.  Shaylee sat in the town square, the serene smile still on her face and her hands in her lap.  The next day, under the cold white blanket that had fallen through the night before, Shaylee sat with her hands folded in her lap.  Her eyes were black, her teeth sharp, and her skin white.  But she still had the same smile.  Not even Jack Frost could break that aura of peaceful serenity.

I know better than to discount my intuition.  I must treat Mr. Ellis with the same cautious grace as my sister used with Shaylee.  I don't know what horrific acts Mr. Ellis will perform to ensure that his peace is not interrupted.