The Girl: Part 3

The roadside sanctuary is a simple complex. There are two long, reinforced barns the color of dirty sand and a black tower between them. From far away, the tower seems as an obelisk in the harsh sunlight, a symbol of man in the wilderness. Nearer, it is clearly a construct of necessity. Covered in panels built to collect sunlight, it is a means of power for the small settlement. Surrounding the barns are a number of pits, most covered in clear plastic tarp. Their depths are hidden from the old man and the girl as they approach the outpost.

"Why can't I wear the glasses anymore," asks the girl, "the hood is hot and dirty."

"You know why."

"But people wear glasses all the time, especially out here in the sun," she opens the glove compartment by twisting a broken knob. It snaps into place, revealing a mass of papers and two pairs of glasses.

"People wear them; strangers don't. If we walk in there and you are wearing glasses, people will jump to conclusions. They always jump to conclusions. I just want to get in and out without much of a fuss." He watches as she pulls a pair of wide brown sunglasses out. Sighing, he relents, "Bring 'em, just in case."

She slides the glasses over her eyes and pulls down the truck's visor. "Hey, how come there's no mirror!"

"Old truck, remember." He replies as he slows the truck and turns off the highway. The truck begins to rattle as it leaves the smooth concrete of the road. "Not many travelers here," he comments as he looks over the few vehicles parked in front of the nearest barn: a sedan, two more pickup trucks, and a worn solar. Two tractors stand near the other barn, a reminder of a more stable, simpler past. "Good, we shouldn't get much trouble from the locals and I don't see any seekers."

The girl looks up at the solar panels, "maybe they will have music here, or hot water!"

"Maybe, but first we need some gas," he says, eyeing a large tanker alongside the main barn.

"Are you going to bring your tools," she asks, turning to look at a small box in the bed of the truck.

"Yep."

"Can I carry it?"

"Sure, just be careful with it, I need everything that's inside it."

"What about your whip? Can I carry that?"

"No, we shouldn't need it, and I don't want to scare anyone." He parks the truck near the entrance, within a few feet of the front doors. A heavy layer of dust hides the window on the front of the barn, rendering it useless. The girl begins to lift the door handle, but his voice interrupts her, "remember, you have to keep your face hidden. Out here we don't know if His message was heard, but we have to assume it was."

"Yeah yeah."

She opens the door slightly, but he quickly grasps her free arm, "this is no joke, they will kill you." Concern mingles with anger as he spins her around to face him.

"Yes, I know," she softly replies and looks into the old man's eyes, silently consoling him. He releases her, glancing worriedly up at the barn. She follows his gaze and touches him gently on the forearm, "they won't kill me 'cause you're there. You've always been there for me. You are my one friend in a world of strangers. One look at me and anyone would turn me in or kill me just to see if it is true, just to test it. Not you." Together, they sit in silence for a moment. She fidgets and lifts the hood over her head. The large sun-glasses come off and smoothly shift to her pocket. "I'll be careful. I know the danger."

"Whatever happens, I love you."

"I know that too," she smiles and steps out of the cab.

Closer now, the barn door reveals itself to be a facade, sturdy wood stolen from some ornate church. This false exterior gave the barn a divine, churchy character, which was blasphemously tempered by the scattered, illegible graffiti.

"They even took the windows," he quips as he glances above the door frame at two large stain-glass portholes. One depicts redemption, the other, damnation. "I hate churches," he murmurs under his breath as he reaches back into the truck-bed for a small canvas box. The box is plain, except for a nearly faded decal of a red cross in a white circle. Pulling the zipper aside, he wordlessly reviews the contents before handing it to the small girl. She strains under the weight, but enthusiastically compensates.

"Do you really use all these tools?"

"If I need to."

"Wow." She skips ahead, excited, reaching the door before he does. Waiting, she studies the box with childlike intensity.

Once at the door, he pauses and inspects the intricate, expensive gothic woodwork and glances up at the dichotomy at play in the windows above. Slowly pushing open the door, he winces. "No pain, you really are gone aren't you," he whispers.

Once inside, the divine facade is shattered. Three threadbare couches sit close to the door in a semicircle. Behind them are rows of plywood walls, none rising to the rafters above, which are dark. The walls are a combination of woodwork and some sort of cement filler. A mixture of artwork hangs on the walls: washed out posters, chipped artwork, and religious carvings. On one of the couches sits a heavy man with long scraggly hair vainly compensating for visible baldness. On the opposite couch sits a smaller man smoking an improvised cigar. His face borders on caricature: wide lips, hooked nose, uneven ears, and disheveled hair. They were arguing about something seemingly important, but the arrival of the two strangers prompted both silence and curiosity. Their eyes pass quickly over the man, focusing on the girl.

"My daughter and I are passing through. We have an old gasser and are running low. We noticed your tank and thought we could trade for some gas."

"Uh huh," says the large man, "we got gas. We got food too. Come on in, sit down." He stands up and shifts his attention back the man. Stepping forward, he motions towards the closest couch. "I'll go back and get Sheila; she'll cook something up for ya."

"Thanks."

Once the large man is out of sight the small man leans forward and asks, "so what do you have to trade for the gas?" He glances as the case he is carrying, "are you a doctor?"

"Sort of. I learned the trade after the fall."

"I hear ya. I used to have a desk job; paperwork was all I did. Now, I farm. I'm pretty good at it, turns out. You?"

"Surprisingly good."

"Well, we might have some work for ya. You'll have to ask Sheila. Feel free to sit down, we ain't going to bite." He leans forward and balances the cigar on the edge of a ruddy brown ashtray. His eyes lazily drift, resting upon the girl.

Placing his hand on the girl's back, the old man leads her to the far couch, where he takes the closer seat. She sits carefully on his left, careful to not look up at the man with the cigar. Her hands caress the rough green felt of the armrest, careening down cliffs of youthful imagination. Relaxing, she begins to kick her legs a little bit.

"This place used to be a farm," continues the cigar-man, "but most of this stuff came from the town 10 miles down the road. Are you headed that way?"

"Sure," the old man's eyes remain focused, darting between the cigar-man and the hallway behind him. "What can you tell me about it?"

"Not much. Most everybody was taken. It's just a ghost-town of old scavengers now." His eyes greedily follow the movements of the girl. "Haven't seen a kid for a while."

"We don't want any trouble. The seekers have checked out my little girl. We are clean, even got the papers to back it." He reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a small brown book.

"Don't you worry about that!" A powerful voice interrupts. It originates from a tall, stocky woman that is striding into the room, coming from the makeshift hallway. Her height dwarfs the provisional walls, lending her a gravitas that quickly draws the attention of both the old man and the girl. Her bright hair and warm smile quickly ease the tension. "It's rare enough that we get a visitor, and all are welcome. Saul tells me that you are looking for work?"

"Yes," the old man replies as he drops the book back into his pocket. "I am a healer of sorts. We need gas, and some food if you have some to spare."

"Dear lord, what kind of people do you think we are, of course you can have some food!" She quickly moves to the far side of the room, near the kitchen. "Come on in and I will heat ya up some grub." Kind eyes fall upon the girl, "does she like potatoes?"

Looking up at the old man, the girl bounces in anticipation. " I looove potatoes. Can I have them mashed? Mashed are best!"

The old man smiles an easy smile and relents, "whatever you have is great. Boiled would be fine."

"Nonsense, we can talk while I make some of the tastiest mashed potatoes this side of New Heavan. Jay, stop smoking and go get us some potatoes from storage." The cigar-man picks up his namesake and heads out the front door. "Come now, there are seats in the kitchen."

The girl bounces to her feet, excitedly rushing forward towards the kitchen. In her careless exuberance, the white hood slides back off her head to reveal her bleached hair and pale skin. More importantly, it reveals her startlingly unique eyes, which unsuspiciously scan the next room for food. One dusty brown. One sky blue. The woman's hands rush to her face. Stifling a scream, she stares at the girl.

"Shit," mutters the old man.