A Shepherd's Calling (What Comes After Book 2) Read online

  A Shepherd's Calling

  by Peter Carrier

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, organizations and incidents are either used in a fictitious manner or are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  If the first book was dedicated to the person who showed it really was possible for me to write a book, wouldn't it be appropriate to recognize the people who inspired the subject matter itself? While the story and characters have undergone many permutations, the core concept came from an idea that began with a group of friends playing a glorified game of 'what if'.

  Engaged in a consensual hallucination, such as it were, we postulated what the zombie apocalypse might look like in our own back yard. We played through this fantasy every week for several months, each session getting more desperate and depressing. Things had gone unbelievably sour in this make-believe world of ours before other demands on our collective time forced us to abandon the narrative. But it was those sessions that formed the basis for a couple of scenes in “A Shepherd Cometh” and “A Shepherd's Calling”. A few characters owe their existence to these late-night co-mingled ramblings, as well.

  While all of the Windham Boys played a part in turning an idea into a game that became a journal entry that (eventually) gave birth to a manuscript, one person in particular deserves direct credit. After all, were it not for his proposal and twisted, imaginative direction, none of the elements that served as so much prenatal sputum would have existed. Without those elements, no story could have been conceived, much less written in book form.

  To Jared Howard. Aren't you glad you took a chance? I know I am.

  An Excerpt of the Way

  [Good morning, Brothers. While preparing for my own instruction, I stumbled upon this passage, which was found in a survivor community called New Mont. As with many 'books' written in the era following the Ascension, it seems more a collection of loose notes, crudely bound together. It referenced a philosophy that seemed a core belief of those the First struggled so mightily to defeat, so I thought it might be of use for today's history lesson. May it serve you well.]

  Of all the things that we have lost, hope has hurt the most.

  In the absence of hope, all manner of destructive traits have been permitted to flourish: suspicion, neglect, apathy, hate, intolerance, selfishness. Once any of these attributes have taken root in a person, it becomes increasingly difficult to harvest more positive, productive attitudes. Without the attitude for productivity, how can one expect a person to be productive? Where there is limited productivity, there can be only limited growth, which often means no real growth at all. A lack of growth is tantamount to stagnation, which in turn will ultimately extinguish whatever hope dared remain.

  When individuals want something more than simple survival, that desire banishes apathy. With apathy gone, the drive to act prevents that person from being neglectful. Wanting more means wanting what is not already had, so intolerance must yield to change. The cycle continues and evolves until the person who now acts under the auspice of hope can spread this sentiment to others, thus inspiring a community. When a community is inspired to act, no shortage of wonders can be achieved.

  Since civilization began with community, it stands to reason it can be rebuilt from community. It is with this goal that we send you into the world. All your training and education is bent to this single purpose: help them rebuild. The world beyond our borders is full of dangers, physical and spiritual. You'll encounter all manner of devils, real and imagined. Some, such as the Turned, you will be able to best with steel. Some, such as those who might deceive you, can be met with cunning. Some will require time to be shown your Way is The Way. But of all the weapons you have, hope is the greatest you can wield. A knife cannot slay hunger, no trap will stop ignorance, and while patience can stay the hand of fear, will alone cannot defeat it. Bring hope wherever you go; let it govern your every thought and drive your every action.

  Of all the things that have damaged the world, fear has been the worst.

  [This is where the passage ends. While it is obvious that the matter under discussion is not concluded here, the remaining text has been rendered indecipherable due to a mix of age, water and fire damage. The next page that bears legible writing addresses something else entirely, as it begins: “It is important to remember, however individualistic and opportunistic it became, the first words written upon the document on which this great nation was founded: “We the people, of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union...”]

  Prologue

  “Marfeen? Is dat you?” Laurent's accent was very noticeable over the phone. If possible, it seemed even thicker on the small ear buds of his mobile.

  “Who else would it be, you crazy Cannuck?” Marvin Hughes chuckled when he heard his friend splutter at the reference to his nationality. “What do you need, Serge? They're boarding the final rows now, so we'll be in electronics purgatory soon.”

  “Ah, you are flying? Hopefully to somewhere warm and beautiful, wit' women to match, eh?”

  He remembered Costa Rica and smiled. “No such luck. Managed to set up a meeting with Ratner, at the FCC. Hoping I can talk to him about centralized syndication, maybe some kind of continuous coverage for the feed we're hoping to establish.” Marvin wondered if the Quebecois could hear the doubt in his voice.

  There was a pause and a crackle from the other end of the line before Serge continued. “Den I have good news for you, my friend. My 'man on de inside', as you put it? Well, he was in touch earlier.”

  The American thought for a moment. “Vargas, right? The Marine officer working with N.A.T.O.?”

  “Yes, yes. Dat fellow.”

  “Damn, Serge. That was what, Tuesday? You guys work fast.”

  “'Twas, yes. He phoned from de... how do you say... orbit? Not radio...” Serge trailed off, muttering in a run-on of Canadian French.

  “Satellite?” Marvin offered, noting how one member of the air crew was securing the cabin door. Another assisted an older couple with their luggage.

  “Satellite, yes. He called from de satellite phone to say he had found our man. Should have him before de weekend is finished. C'est si bon, non?”

  Marvin frowned. Though it was good news, it was not exactly what he had wanted to hear. “That is good, but it'll be better when he's actually in Quebec. Think you could let me know when you have eyes on him, Serge? If I can tell Ratner that someone I know and trust has the guy in custody, it'll be that much easier to get the ball rolling.” He stopped speaking when he heard a chime over the aircraft's intercom.

  Even with the flight crew providing instructions over the speakers, Serge's voice filled his ear. “I hear da 'bong bong'. Da plane leaving, yeah?”

  “Indeed,” he replied, leaning back into his stiff seat. “Call me when you have him, alright?”

  Another crackle before the Canadian answered. “Of course, my friend. Fly safe, or however de saying goes in your country.” One last crackle before the 'click' that terminated the call.

  Marvin shook his head as he powered off his mobile, removed the buds from his ears. That equipment must be ancient, he mused. Or the copper hard lines in his office. Maybe both. The senior media consultant wasn't surprised that Laurent was recording their conversation. Quite the contrary: he would have been surprised if it were not. It was the ineptitude of the effort that made him wonder.

  He gazed through the small, oblong window beside his shoulder. Just past his reflection, he could make out the boarding tunnel stretching away from the gate and the ground crew milling about on the tarmac. The familiar images spurred a sense of deja vu, reminded him that every time he flew, some part of him wondered what the airport would look like if it were overrun. He knew it was a morbid fantasy, but he couldn't help himself. Like always, he indulged it to the fullest. He shifted restlessly in the old, hard, angled and generally unpleasant seat while he performed this part of his preflight ritual.

  Once, using stock footage from old broadcasts, he had created his own depiction of the moment. “Escape”, he had called it. The plane racing down the tarmac as the field filled with dark shapes, climbing over or tearing through the fences. The wall-sized windows of the terminal telling a tale of terror inside the huge building. The gate disgorging men and women as they fled the monsters, who in turn eagerly jumped after their falling prey. The aircraft taking to the sky just before being rundown by the creatures on the ground. There was even a P.O.V. zoom through a cabin window, like the one he was looking through now, to the runway and surrounding airfield. There, people and beasts filled the surrounding grounds and as the camera pulled up, mirroring the ascent of the aircraft, the small forms receded until they were specks and then... gone. It was probably cliched. Having been done before didn't remove room for improvement or personal distinction, however. At least, that was what he told himself.

  Pulling away from the umbilical tether that linked the aircraft to the gate proper, Marvin considered the purpose of his visit with Ratner. It was unlikely the deputy director of the F.C.C. would be easily convinced to push along the career of a lowly consultant without some other motivation. Even with the merits of the proposal Hughes was going to make, he knew he would need to offer something more. Where there's a will...

&
nbsp; The imagery of fear was his job, and he was good at his job. Too good, perhaps. Maybe “Escape” had been too powerful, too soon. Maybe the market was closed on that particular brand of terror. Though he had been demoted to effectively entry-level member, he was still able to use his sharp eyes to find noteworthy scenes of spellbinding brutality and despair. After all, while there was still an element of savagery to this new project, it espoused a different kind of horror: hope.

  Whatever, he thought, watching the gate shrink into the distance. Like that gate, it's behind me now. “Escape” or not, this is the break I've been waiting for. This is my time to shine.

  Another thought occurred to him, as the plane began to gain speed on the runway. If Ratner couldn't be sold on the idea, if he couldn't commit the necessary resources to the project... Marvin shuddered. That would be two solid strikes. He'd be only one small step from department transfer. Live-action field work, most likely. Except he doubted his presence or expertise would warrant any kind of entourage. Certainly not a combat communications team escort. No, since he was a glorified A/V guy with a strong computer background, they'd likely give him a D.S.L.R. camera, some food, water and seasonal clothes, then send him on his way. Alone. And everyone knew once you went into the field, you never came out of the field. Even if you came back from your assignments.

  The senior media consultant felt his ears pop as the cabin finished pressurizing. His mouth was suddenly dry and his stomach became a large, clenched knot. This will work, he told himself. It needs to work. He swallowed hard. I hope to God they get you, Sir Wandering Badass. Both of us will be much better off, if they do.

  Book IV: Another Story

  4.1

  Standing in the vehicle bay of an old fire house, the Shepherd took note of the others around him. Janessa was beside him, still crouched by their supplies. Toby, her younger brother, stood nearby. The child Ben was half hidden behind the Shepherd's old mentor, Chris Farr. Across from this small band, Major Vargas and several of his N.A.T.O. marines were watching and waiting for a reply.

  “Home.” Tom spoke the word slowly, with all the care and reverence it was due.

  It felt strange in his mouth, unfamiliar and almost unwanted. Thoughts filled his mind: the farms, minding the livestock, tending the crops, training, teaching. Making the most of every day for every person, so that one day the world might be a better place.

  But he's not talking about New Mont, Tom thought. After a pause, he asked a question of his would-be rescuer. The oxymoronic nature of the query made him smile. “Where might that be?”

  “Quebec. I understand that's most likely not where you grew up, but it's the closest city in the nearest safe zone.” When Tom did not respond, the Major probed further. “Something wrong?”

  Chuckling, Tom shook his head. “No, Major. Not quite what I was expecting, is all.” Looking plainly at the military man, Tom asked the next logical question. “What happens now?”

  “That depends on you,” the Major replied. “If you are in fact Thomas DuPuis and you agree to return with us to Quebec, we do just that. If you decline the offer, I've been instructed to make every effort to convince you to change your mind.”

  “What does “every effort” mean?” Tom reigned in his frustration before it got the best of him. “How do you know who I am, or that I'm even the person you're looking for?”

  The Major unfastened the shoulder strap of his rucksack and placed the bag on the cement at their feet. Crouching, he opened the container and began rooting through its contents. He said, “Every effort is just what it sounds like. I'm told I can be very persuasive, when need be. As to knowing you're the man we're looking for, that was an educated guess.”

  The Major removed something from his pack. Tom thought it was a narrow piece of slate wrapped in gray, sectioned rubber. The older man peeled away a portion of the rubber-covering as though opening a magazine. A moment later, the officer pressed something near the top of the object and Tom saw the reflective surface, black and glossy a moment earlier, begin to fill with images of varying brightness. The crouching man touched the surface of the device, making a few swiping motions and tapping different places. Seconds later, the Major turned it toward Tom, inviting the younger man to view what was now displayed.

  There, side by side and in high-definition, were two photographs of him. One might have been taken yesterday: since it was a cropped close-up of his face with no visible background, he had no idea where or when it might have been taken. The other was the portrait his parents had submitted for his eighth grade yearbook page. Below the photos was a map, which outlined topography, roads and population centers for Vermont, New Hampshire, southern Maine and a portion of Canada. Push pins littered the map, centered primarily in the area of New Hampshire that was, colored mostly red with some blue and yellow interspersed throughout. He was so overwhelmed by the color saturation and crispness of the images that he initially missed what was at the top of the screen. In bold, black type on a tab poking out from the northern border of the map was a name. But not just any name.

  DuPuis, Thomas Henry.

  His name.

  This revelation, coupled with his amazement at the device that offered it, so stunned him that he missed the arrival of Chris and Ben. In fact, he remained entirely unaware of their presence until Ben tugged on his sleeve.

  “Whatcha lookin' at?” The boy asked.

  Startled from his reverie, Tom tore his eyes from the images. He felt himself still entranced and doe-eyed, symptoms of lingering captivity from the electronic device he had been staring at. Realizing a stupor was still upon him, he blinked rapidly and shook his head before he spoke, banishing both wonder and reproach before either could take further root.

  “Pictures,” he said.

  “Of what?” Ben pressed further, pushing up on tip-toes for a better look at the screen of the computer-like object.

  Tom watched the older man cover the device with the sectioned rubber and return it to his rucksack. The officer seemed content to allow Tom to divulge that information, if he so chose.

  “Of me,” Tom answered at last.

  “We did find the right person.” The Major stood from his crouch. “Outstanding.”

  The Shepherd marshaled his considerable patience with a long breath. “Why me?”

  Vargas shrugged but offered an easy smile. “That, I don't know. The 'why' was outside of my pay grade.”

  Both men seemed to be waiting for the other to do something. Nearly a minute passed before the marine spoke again. “Your silence is not encouraging.”

  Tom's mind was racing to accept what he had seen and heard, as well as discern the possibilities and implications thereof. There was so much to consider; to be expected to speak about it so quickly was almost overwhelming and possibly unfair.

  Vargas must have interpreted Tom's lack of response as stemming from something unfavorable, for he frowned and spoke with disappointment in his voice. “Are you telling me that you'd prefer to stay out here?” He looked pointedly at the boy and older man flanking Tom. “That you'd rather have your people remain in the field, with all the dangers it presents? You have the opportunity to offer something meaningful to those traveling with you; food, shelter, medicine. Safety. Possibly even purpose, once you see the city and the people who call it home.”

  The marine's comment about purpose struck a chord with the Shepherd, but probably not in the way it had been intended. A true leader understands the role purpose plays in keeping people united and motivated, he thought, grudgingly admitting how enticing that part of the invitation was. He's presumptuous to think he has purpose and I do not, or that his purpose is greater than mine.

  The Shepherd took another few moments to assess the marine and his kit. The man himself had only a few days growth of beard, and his hair was cut close to the scalp. His eyes were clear and focused, watching Tom with what seemed to be patience and awareness. Vargas even stood like an officer; aware of his posture and bearing, how those intangibles spoke volumes about his readiness and authority.