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p_r_i_s_c_aTitle: Reboot - Sister Hannah (Part 8)
Character: Zeke Tyler, Casey Connor, Sister Hannah, OC
Wordcount: 3125
Rating: PG13
Finished: March 2015
Slowly, Zeke sneaked closer to the old factory building. It seemed safe. He had scanned the surroundings thoroughly but couldn't find a guard. Through the broken window, he could hear voices, laughing and talking. Some people seemed to be in the great hall. He just hoped there weren't more than four or five of them. He had promised Casey to be careful and to return when the group of Skinheads turned out to be too large.
Usually, they tried to stay out of their way; a lot of people build gangs nowadays, and the Skinheads were one of the worst. They weren't looking for a place to stay but dashed around the country in small groups and took what they wanted, often enough with brutal force. Dealing with them was much too high of a risk.
But this time, Zeke saw it as their last option to get the needed distributor for the Chevrolet. Already twice, he had been able to repair it provisionally, but now there was no chance of getting it up and running again. He needed some spare parts. But they were stranded in the middle of nowhere in the wild mountains of Oregon. And there was no one around but the Skinheads they had seen yesterday.
“They have cars,” Zeke had told Casey. “I'm sure they will have spare parts too. The only chance we have, or we will have to give up the Chevrolet and move on by foot.”
Actually not an option. Nevertheless, it had been a tough job to convince Casey. He had insisted on coming with him, but there was no way that he would put him in danger. In the end, he had left him behind with the Chevrolet, only a few miles away from the factory building.
“Don't you dare it not to come back,” Casey had told him while fighting back his tears.
“I will kill you when you do.”
Zeke had smiled because of this contrariness and pulled him into his arms.
“I promise.”
Then he was on the way only with a small backpack. He had thought about it to take his gun along but finally decided against it. Even if it was only a small group, it was him against all of them, and it would be better not to appear as a threat. He needed to convince them that all he wanted was to do some countertrade, an interesting dealing for them. Usual goods like sugar, milk powder, or batteries wouldn't quicken their interest, but he still had two bottles of Whiskey. Jim Beam, good stuff from the old world, almost impossible to find it these days. Hopefully, this would be enough.
Zeke thought of the ten pens of Scat he had hidden under his jacket. His homemade drugs with a stunning effect. Back at Highschool it had been a money-spinner. Not that he needed the money he made with his dealings; the monthly check was the only thing he could count on when it came to parental care. But it was fun to watch these dumbheads spending all their money right down to the last penny for a 'drug' whose ingredients one could easily buy at every drugstore.
But these times were long gone. Mary Beth had changed everything. Not only that many of his customers didn't survive the next few weeks or just got swallowed up by the chaos prevailing after the alien invasion. It had been his Scat, which finally beat the alien queen. Casey had rammed a pen right into her eye, and only a moment later, she started to dissolve.
It quickly turned out that her death wasn't the salvation of mankind because it unleashed the virus. Only slowly did Zeke start to realize that possibly the future of the world was lying in his hands. For the moment, the Big Death seemed to have reached its end; most of the adults were dead. But Zeke was smart. He knew that the virus might have just decided to take some rest, that it could mutate and then come back again. To take the rest of them.
His Scat might be the solution. Sometimes, when Casey was sleeping beside him at night, he got absorbed in his thoughts. When the drug was able to kill the carrier of the virus, it should be possible to use it to find an antidote. The problem was that he would need a high-tech laboratory to prove this, but the days of technology and research were gone. They were fighting to survive daily, for food and fresh water, for a warm place during cold winter nights.
Nevertheless, instinctively, he kept it secret that he had been able to salvage some boxes with Scat from his destroyed lab. He hadn't used it; he hadn't traded it in. And he was reluctant to give it to people like the Skinheads now. Of course, they didn't know about its effect on the virus. But even if they were brutal, they weren't stupid. Not all of them. Zeke hated the idea that they probably would try to analyze the composition of his Scat to get more of it. It wasn't impossible for them to discover the secret behind it in this process. And he didn't want to imagine what they would do with their knowledge.
:::
Suddenly, the vibe in the old factory hall changed. Zeke could hear the voices growing louder, some angry, others almost scared.
"Hey, who's that?"
"What the hell have you done?"
"Get her out here; she will infect all of us."
"Cut!" A stentorian voice drowned out all the others. “Steven. Come here.”
Something unexpected was going on in the hall; that was obvious. Zeke decided to risk a look through one of the large skylights. He used a nearby tree to climb onto the flat roof; then sneaked nearer to the opening, the glass long broken, so he had an unobstructed view into the hall.
He could only discern three dark figures for half of the hall in the shadow. But the center was sunlit. A brawny guy was standing there, his bald head covered with tattoos; even though it was not warm in the hall, he wore a dark waistcoat to his old denim. It is evident that he was the one who called the shots; the others showed him a kind of defiant respect. Opposite him, there was another guy, only a bit smaller, with a large knife in his belt.
But the third person in the middle of the hall took Zeke's breath away for a second. A small, almost fragile woman. She wore a long, worn-up dress, which was clean and patched. A grey scarf covered her hair. The guy squeezed her arm violently; it did hurt, for sure. But she didn't show any sign of pain or fear. She stood there straight up and didn't even try to avoid eye contact with the boss.
Holy shit! No wonder that even the Skinheads felt anxious and disturbed by her. She was … old … pretty old. Too old to be still alive.
Zeke observed the situation in silence, unsure about what to do next. Until the Skinhead leader slowly lifted his arm; his flat hand hit the old woman's face. She swayed, but she didn't cry. Zeke cursed inwardly. Well knowing that the best he could do was to stay out of this. But this seemed impossible. How could he close his eyes and abandon an old woman to her fate? If Casey would ever find out, he would never forgive him.
"Fuck," he muttered, sliding off the roof. He heard a second slap while stepping nearer to the open gate of the hall. This time, a suppressed groan was the answer. “Great! Hitting an old old woman is so brave!"
Even if he had taken everyone in the hall by surprise, the skinheads reacted quickly. Three guns and two knives were aimed at him in an instant. Zeke forced himself to stay calm and lifted his arms into the air. Then he turned to the two guys in the middle of the hall, one of them still holding the woman in a rough grip. Her lip was cracked, Zeke noticed, but she was the only one in the hall who looked calm despite the tense situation.
“I don't want a fight,” Zeke said. “Just don't touch her again.”
The Skinhead's leader eyed him cautiously. “Usually, no one tells me what to do.”
His voice was surprisingly calm, but Zeke was smart enough not to overhear the threat behind his words. It was a risky game he was playing he knew that well enough, and at the first sign of weakness, everything could be lost. He searched for eye contact with the woman for a short moment, hoping she would understand and play along.
“No one touches what is mine!”
“My territory, my followers.”
“Not her!” Zeke pointed at the woman. “I met her on the road some weeks ago. She was in a miserable state, high fever ...” He paused, satisfied noticing the skinheads shraking back from the woman; even the leader let her go. Zeke smirked inwardly while continuing. "But you can't be very picky nowadays, right? She is old, but useful. Does the cooking now, and at night, she warms my bed."
The leader still looked suspicious.
“The fever?"
Zeke shrugged. "Seems to be gone. Don't think, that it was this fucking virus. And even if so, who cares? World is fucked up, we all will have to die."
Suddenly, the situation eased off; the leader patted his shoulder and laughed loudly. “Not today," he said. "I like you.” He signed his followers to take down the arms, and they followed his order instantly. "Let's have a talk!"
"What's with her?" Zeke pointed at the woman.
“No one will touch her, not before I tell them.” The guy led Zeke to a separated area at the end of the hall. “Sit. Coffee? Real one, from the old world.”
Zeke dropped onto one of the lawn chairs and removed his backpack. “I have something better,” he said, putting one of the whiskey bottles onto a wooden box that served as a makeshift table.
“Whoa!” Eagerly, the Skinhead's leader grabbed for it, checking the cap.
Zeke grinned. "It's the good stuff from the old world."
“Cool. Where did you find it?”
“Ah, not sharing all my secrets at once,” Zeke answered evasively, opened the bottle, and handed it back over. “But be my guest.”
Of course, he couldn't resist. Took a big sip, and another one, smacked his lips, and another one. The bottle was already half empty when he handed it back. Zeke only took a sip of the Whiskey. Good stuff, indeed, what a shame to waste it on a fucking skinhead.
“What, you are a man or a wimp?”
Zeke looked into the half-amused, half-derisive face of the skinhead's leader. Shrugging, he put the bottle back onto the box. “Just don't wanna wake up later and all my stuff is gone … together with you.”
“Get it!” The leader relaxed again and chuckled. “Careful guy, huh? You better be. So, what is all this about? This woman, did you send her to spy on us?”
Zeke looked over to the old woman; she was sitting on the floor now, surprisingly calm as if the whole situation didn't affect her. “She followed me on her own; I will have to talk with her later. But business first. I saw the van and the Impala outside.”
The guy visibly stiffened, with narrowed eyes he stared at Zeke. “Our cars. You better don't touch them,” he snarled.
“Calm down, I have my own one. Old GTO; found it in a small town in Ohio ages ago. Shitty car gave up the ghost some miles off. All I need are some spare parts. You have lots of crap lying around out here.”
“Get it! But what can you offer me?”
When Zeke eyed the Whiskey, the guy shook his head. “Pretty bad exchange,” he said, smirking. “It's only half-full.”
Zeke chuckled, grabbing his backpack again. “I have another one. That's a deal? I would even add a pack of tobacco for free.”
The Skinhead laughed loudly. “You are a fox,” he said. “Interested in joining us? You would be welcome.”
“No, thanks, I prefer to be my own boss.“
“Too bad. We could need someone like you."
:::
Their way through the muggy woods had been long and stressful. The backpack pretty heavy now with the spare parts the skinheads had been willing to give. All Zeke had wanted was to go back to Casey as quickly as possible; he knew the boy would already be pretty jumpy because of him being so late. But he didn't dare to take the direct route. Much too big the risk that the skinheads might follow him.
Finally, Zeke stopped, turning around to the old woman who was following him without complaining.
“I'm sorry,” he said apologizing. “We can wind down a bit now, but bringing some distance between us and them was necessary. Need a rest?”
“No, I'm fine,” she answered. She didn't even seem to be out of breath.
“Okay!” He smiled at her and put his hand out. “Name is Zeke!”
She grabbed for it; her hand was warm and surprisingly strong. “Sister Hannah.”
“Oh!” For a moment, Zeke cringed inwardly. “You are a nun!”
“This a problem?”
“No. Not as long as you don't start talking shit about god and hell.” He knew it was harsh, but he couldn't help it.
“I understand,” was all she said, still smiling, though Zeke was sure she didn't. Of course, it was stupid to live in a world like this and to believe in an almighty god who had let all this happen. But it was not this. He just couldn't stand it to be reminded of this weird guy who insisted that God was talking to him. Never would he forgive him for what he had done to Casey with his muddleheaded prophecies.
"Okay." He shrugged, grabbing the backpack again. "Then, if you don't need a rest, maybe we can move on? My friend is waiting for me at the Chevrolet, and it's still a way to go. I want to be back before it gets dark.”
“I can't come with you any longer.”
Zeke blinked surprised. “But you shouldn't stay here alone,” he said. "The skinheads are still around."
“I am not afraid of them. And I am not alone.”
“You are not?" For a moment, Zeke wondered if she might have lost her mind.
"I am living in an old convent, about a two-day trip away."
"A convent?"
She nodded." I have been living there since I was sixteen. The only life I knew.
When the virus started to rage in the small village next to us, we did our best to help. It took a while until it reached us. But then it only lasted a week. Everyone around me was dying. I buried them with my own hands. In the end, I was all alone, the last human being that was still alive.”
She kept quiet for a moment, smiling apologizing. “I'm sorry, now I need to tell you about him.”
Before Zeke could wonder who 'him' might be, she continued to talk. “I couldn't get it. I couldn't get why I wasn't affected by it. Why He didn't let me die, too. I stopped to pray. I cursed him. He had been my life, and now everything broke down without any hope, and I was left behind.
Don't ask about the next days or weeks; I don't know how I survived. But then, it was a cold winter morning, Jenny knocked at the door. She was twelve, on the way to Indiana with her little brother; she told me her grandparents lived there. But I could read in her eyes that she knew the truth; it was just a desperate attempt to keep hope alive.
And suddenly, I understood. The reason why I was still alive was that I was the one responsible for the children. All the children, left behind alone."
She paused for a moment. "Today, forty-six children live in the convent, most younger than six. I offer them a refuge, a bed to sleep, three meals the day. I teach them to love, to feel compassion and respect in a world where everything seems to be lost. The children are the world's future, and the convent is the future for the children!"
Zeke listened silently, and even though he was usually not very emotional, the story touched him. "Even more reason to be more careful. Trusting everyone out here is not a good idea."
Sister Hannah smiled. "Usually, we don't leave the area around the convent. Everything we need, we produce ourselves. But the generator broke down last week. I couldn't repair it myself, and we desperately needs it for the hospital ward. I was desperate.
When I heard about the skinheads, I thought, maybe they might be able to help."
Zeke couldn't help but think that this was pretty naive. Help from the skinheads? It was more likely that they would rough her up; take all she owned, which was not much more than her well-worn dress and some elixirs she had made by herself, and abandon her to her fate.
She seemed to be able to read his mind and smiled. “It felt not that much a risk. I'm old. Most people are afraid of me.”
Of course, they were. The memories of the Big Death were still alive; people had lost their parents and grandparents, and almost everyone older than twenty died from the virus. To meet someone at Sister Hannah's age would scare everyone at first.
"Not the skinheads," Zeke said.
"No. Until you told them about the fever. That was a smart idea."
Zeke smiled at the memory. "I just got another one. We will return to the Chevrolet together now; it's not far away anymore. Rest for the night. Tomorrow, I will repair the car, and then Casey and I can give you a ride to the convent. I could even have a look at the generator.” He paused shortly. "If you can trust me enough to take you there. Strictly speaking, I am a stranger to you, too."
“I could already feel it when you stepped into the factory hall,” Sister Hannah said. “You are one of the good guys.”
Character: Zeke Tyler, Casey Connor, Sister Hannah, OC
Wordcount: 3125
Rating: PG13
Finished: March 2015
Slowly, Zeke sneaked closer to the old factory building. It seemed safe. He had scanned the surroundings thoroughly but couldn't find a guard. Through the broken window, he could hear voices, laughing and talking. Some people seemed to be in the great hall. He just hoped there weren't more than four or five of them. He had promised Casey to be careful and to return when the group of Skinheads turned out to be too large.
Usually, they tried to stay out of their way; a lot of people build gangs nowadays, and the Skinheads were one of the worst. They weren't looking for a place to stay but dashed around the country in small groups and took what they wanted, often enough with brutal force. Dealing with them was much too high of a risk.
But this time, Zeke saw it as their last option to get the needed distributor for the Chevrolet. Already twice, he had been able to repair it provisionally, but now there was no chance of getting it up and running again. He needed some spare parts. But they were stranded in the middle of nowhere in the wild mountains of Oregon. And there was no one around but the Skinheads they had seen yesterday.
“They have cars,” Zeke had told Casey. “I'm sure they will have spare parts too. The only chance we have, or we will have to give up the Chevrolet and move on by foot.”
Actually not an option. Nevertheless, it had been a tough job to convince Casey. He had insisted on coming with him, but there was no way that he would put him in danger. In the end, he had left him behind with the Chevrolet, only a few miles away from the factory building.
“Don't you dare it not to come back,” Casey had told him while fighting back his tears.
“I will kill you when you do.”
Zeke had smiled because of this contrariness and pulled him into his arms.
“I promise.”
Then he was on the way only with a small backpack. He had thought about it to take his gun along but finally decided against it. Even if it was only a small group, it was him against all of them, and it would be better not to appear as a threat. He needed to convince them that all he wanted was to do some countertrade, an interesting dealing for them. Usual goods like sugar, milk powder, or batteries wouldn't quicken their interest, but he still had two bottles of Whiskey. Jim Beam, good stuff from the old world, almost impossible to find it these days. Hopefully, this would be enough.
Zeke thought of the ten pens of Scat he had hidden under his jacket. His homemade drugs with a stunning effect. Back at Highschool it had been a money-spinner. Not that he needed the money he made with his dealings; the monthly check was the only thing he could count on when it came to parental care. But it was fun to watch these dumbheads spending all their money right down to the last penny for a 'drug' whose ingredients one could easily buy at every drugstore.
But these times were long gone. Mary Beth had changed everything. Not only that many of his customers didn't survive the next few weeks or just got swallowed up by the chaos prevailing after the alien invasion. It had been his Scat, which finally beat the alien queen. Casey had rammed a pen right into her eye, and only a moment later, she started to dissolve.
It quickly turned out that her death wasn't the salvation of mankind because it unleashed the virus. Only slowly did Zeke start to realize that possibly the future of the world was lying in his hands. For the moment, the Big Death seemed to have reached its end; most of the adults were dead. But Zeke was smart. He knew that the virus might have just decided to take some rest, that it could mutate and then come back again. To take the rest of them.
His Scat might be the solution. Sometimes, when Casey was sleeping beside him at night, he got absorbed in his thoughts. When the drug was able to kill the carrier of the virus, it should be possible to use it to find an antidote. The problem was that he would need a high-tech laboratory to prove this, but the days of technology and research were gone. They were fighting to survive daily, for food and fresh water, for a warm place during cold winter nights.
Nevertheless, instinctively, he kept it secret that he had been able to salvage some boxes with Scat from his destroyed lab. He hadn't used it; he hadn't traded it in. And he was reluctant to give it to people like the Skinheads now. Of course, they didn't know about its effect on the virus. But even if they were brutal, they weren't stupid. Not all of them. Zeke hated the idea that they probably would try to analyze the composition of his Scat to get more of it. It wasn't impossible for them to discover the secret behind it in this process. And he didn't want to imagine what they would do with their knowledge.
:::
Suddenly, the vibe in the old factory hall changed. Zeke could hear the voices growing louder, some angry, others almost scared.
"Hey, who's that?"
"What the hell have you done?"
"Get her out here; she will infect all of us."
"Cut!" A stentorian voice drowned out all the others. “Steven. Come here.”
Something unexpected was going on in the hall; that was obvious. Zeke decided to risk a look through one of the large skylights. He used a nearby tree to climb onto the flat roof; then sneaked nearer to the opening, the glass long broken, so he had an unobstructed view into the hall.
He could only discern three dark figures for half of the hall in the shadow. But the center was sunlit. A brawny guy was standing there, his bald head covered with tattoos; even though it was not warm in the hall, he wore a dark waistcoat to his old denim. It is evident that he was the one who called the shots; the others showed him a kind of defiant respect. Opposite him, there was another guy, only a bit smaller, with a large knife in his belt.
But the third person in the middle of the hall took Zeke's breath away for a second. A small, almost fragile woman. She wore a long, worn-up dress, which was clean and patched. A grey scarf covered her hair. The guy squeezed her arm violently; it did hurt, for sure. But she didn't show any sign of pain or fear. She stood there straight up and didn't even try to avoid eye contact with the boss.
Holy shit! No wonder that even the Skinheads felt anxious and disturbed by her. She was … old … pretty old. Too old to be still alive.
Zeke observed the situation in silence, unsure about what to do next. Until the Skinhead leader slowly lifted his arm; his flat hand hit the old woman's face. She swayed, but she didn't cry. Zeke cursed inwardly. Well knowing that the best he could do was to stay out of this. But this seemed impossible. How could he close his eyes and abandon an old woman to her fate? If Casey would ever find out, he would never forgive him.
"Fuck," he muttered, sliding off the roof. He heard a second slap while stepping nearer to the open gate of the hall. This time, a suppressed groan was the answer. “Great! Hitting an old old woman is so brave!"
Even if he had taken everyone in the hall by surprise, the skinheads reacted quickly. Three guns and two knives were aimed at him in an instant. Zeke forced himself to stay calm and lifted his arms into the air. Then he turned to the two guys in the middle of the hall, one of them still holding the woman in a rough grip. Her lip was cracked, Zeke noticed, but she was the only one in the hall who looked calm despite the tense situation.
“I don't want a fight,” Zeke said. “Just don't touch her again.”
The Skinhead's leader eyed him cautiously. “Usually, no one tells me what to do.”
His voice was surprisingly calm, but Zeke was smart enough not to overhear the threat behind his words. It was a risky game he was playing he knew that well enough, and at the first sign of weakness, everything could be lost. He searched for eye contact with the woman for a short moment, hoping she would understand and play along.
“No one touches what is mine!”
“My territory, my followers.”
“Not her!” Zeke pointed at the woman. “I met her on the road some weeks ago. She was in a miserable state, high fever ...” He paused, satisfied noticing the skinheads shraking back from the woman; even the leader let her go. Zeke smirked inwardly while continuing. "But you can't be very picky nowadays, right? She is old, but useful. Does the cooking now, and at night, she warms my bed."
The leader still looked suspicious.
“The fever?"
Zeke shrugged. "Seems to be gone. Don't think, that it was this fucking virus. And even if so, who cares? World is fucked up, we all will have to die."
Suddenly, the situation eased off; the leader patted his shoulder and laughed loudly. “Not today," he said. "I like you.” He signed his followers to take down the arms, and they followed his order instantly. "Let's have a talk!"
"What's with her?" Zeke pointed at the woman.
“No one will touch her, not before I tell them.” The guy led Zeke to a separated area at the end of the hall. “Sit. Coffee? Real one, from the old world.”
Zeke dropped onto one of the lawn chairs and removed his backpack. “I have something better,” he said, putting one of the whiskey bottles onto a wooden box that served as a makeshift table.
“Whoa!” Eagerly, the Skinhead's leader grabbed for it, checking the cap.
Zeke grinned. "It's the good stuff from the old world."
“Cool. Where did you find it?”
“Ah, not sharing all my secrets at once,” Zeke answered evasively, opened the bottle, and handed it back over. “But be my guest.”
Of course, he couldn't resist. Took a big sip, and another one, smacked his lips, and another one. The bottle was already half empty when he handed it back. Zeke only took a sip of the Whiskey. Good stuff, indeed, what a shame to waste it on a fucking skinhead.
“What, you are a man or a wimp?”
Zeke looked into the half-amused, half-derisive face of the skinhead's leader. Shrugging, he put the bottle back onto the box. “Just don't wanna wake up later and all my stuff is gone … together with you.”
“Get it!” The leader relaxed again and chuckled. “Careful guy, huh? You better be. So, what is all this about? This woman, did you send her to spy on us?”
Zeke looked over to the old woman; she was sitting on the floor now, surprisingly calm as if the whole situation didn't affect her. “She followed me on her own; I will have to talk with her later. But business first. I saw the van and the Impala outside.”
The guy visibly stiffened, with narrowed eyes he stared at Zeke. “Our cars. You better don't touch them,” he snarled.
“Calm down, I have my own one. Old GTO; found it in a small town in Ohio ages ago. Shitty car gave up the ghost some miles off. All I need are some spare parts. You have lots of crap lying around out here.”
“Get it! But what can you offer me?”
When Zeke eyed the Whiskey, the guy shook his head. “Pretty bad exchange,” he said, smirking. “It's only half-full.”
Zeke chuckled, grabbing his backpack again. “I have another one. That's a deal? I would even add a pack of tobacco for free.”
The Skinhead laughed loudly. “You are a fox,” he said. “Interested in joining us? You would be welcome.”
“No, thanks, I prefer to be my own boss.“
“Too bad. We could need someone like you."
:::
Their way through the muggy woods had been long and stressful. The backpack pretty heavy now with the spare parts the skinheads had been willing to give. All Zeke had wanted was to go back to Casey as quickly as possible; he knew the boy would already be pretty jumpy because of him being so late. But he didn't dare to take the direct route. Much too big the risk that the skinheads might follow him.
Finally, Zeke stopped, turning around to the old woman who was following him without complaining.
“I'm sorry,” he said apologizing. “We can wind down a bit now, but bringing some distance between us and them was necessary. Need a rest?”
“No, I'm fine,” she answered. She didn't even seem to be out of breath.
“Okay!” He smiled at her and put his hand out. “Name is Zeke!”
She grabbed for it; her hand was warm and surprisingly strong. “Sister Hannah.”
“Oh!” For a moment, Zeke cringed inwardly. “You are a nun!”
“This a problem?”
“No. Not as long as you don't start talking shit about god and hell.” He knew it was harsh, but he couldn't help it.
“I understand,” was all she said, still smiling, though Zeke was sure she didn't. Of course, it was stupid to live in a world like this and to believe in an almighty god who had let all this happen. But it was not this. He just couldn't stand it to be reminded of this weird guy who insisted that God was talking to him. Never would he forgive him for what he had done to Casey with his muddleheaded prophecies.
"Okay." He shrugged, grabbing the backpack again. "Then, if you don't need a rest, maybe we can move on? My friend is waiting for me at the Chevrolet, and it's still a way to go. I want to be back before it gets dark.”
“I can't come with you any longer.”
Zeke blinked surprised. “But you shouldn't stay here alone,” he said. "The skinheads are still around."
“I am not afraid of them. And I am not alone.”
“You are not?" For a moment, Zeke wondered if she might have lost her mind.
"I am living in an old convent, about a two-day trip away."
"A convent?"
She nodded." I have been living there since I was sixteen. The only life I knew.
When the virus started to rage in the small village next to us, we did our best to help. It took a while until it reached us. But then it only lasted a week. Everyone around me was dying. I buried them with my own hands. In the end, I was all alone, the last human being that was still alive.”
She kept quiet for a moment, smiling apologizing. “I'm sorry, now I need to tell you about him.”
Before Zeke could wonder who 'him' might be, she continued to talk. “I couldn't get it. I couldn't get why I wasn't affected by it. Why He didn't let me die, too. I stopped to pray. I cursed him. He had been my life, and now everything broke down without any hope, and I was left behind.
Don't ask about the next days or weeks; I don't know how I survived. But then, it was a cold winter morning, Jenny knocked at the door. She was twelve, on the way to Indiana with her little brother; she told me her grandparents lived there. But I could read in her eyes that she knew the truth; it was just a desperate attempt to keep hope alive.
And suddenly, I understood. The reason why I was still alive was that I was the one responsible for the children. All the children, left behind alone."
She paused for a moment. "Today, forty-six children live in the convent, most younger than six. I offer them a refuge, a bed to sleep, three meals the day. I teach them to love, to feel compassion and respect in a world where everything seems to be lost. The children are the world's future, and the convent is the future for the children!"
Zeke listened silently, and even though he was usually not very emotional, the story touched him. "Even more reason to be more careful. Trusting everyone out here is not a good idea."
Sister Hannah smiled. "Usually, we don't leave the area around the convent. Everything we need, we produce ourselves. But the generator broke down last week. I couldn't repair it myself, and we desperately needs it for the hospital ward. I was desperate.
When I heard about the skinheads, I thought, maybe they might be able to help."
Zeke couldn't help but think that this was pretty naive. Help from the skinheads? It was more likely that they would rough her up; take all she owned, which was not much more than her well-worn dress and some elixirs she had made by herself, and abandon her to her fate.
She seemed to be able to read his mind and smiled. “It felt not that much a risk. I'm old. Most people are afraid of me.”
Of course, they were. The memories of the Big Death were still alive; people had lost their parents and grandparents, and almost everyone older than twenty died from the virus. To meet someone at Sister Hannah's age would scare everyone at first.
"Not the skinheads," Zeke said.
"No. Until you told them about the fever. That was a smart idea."
Zeke smiled at the memory. "I just got another one. We will return to the Chevrolet together now; it's not far away anymore. Rest for the night. Tomorrow, I will repair the car, and then Casey and I can give you a ride to the convent. I could even have a look at the generator.” He paused shortly. "If you can trust me enough to take you there. Strictly speaking, I am a stranger to you, too."
“I could already feel it when you stepped into the factory hall,” Sister Hannah said. “You are one of the good guys.”