Despite the naysayers and the doomsday, glass-half-empty preachers, who had arisen during the darkest hours to speak the most stridently to his people; Stephan had continued to guide his settlement through the crisis. It was true they had lost a large percentage of the livestock, and he was unsure the losses were over. However, it was obvious the land was on the mend after the deluge of the black rain.
Though the past few months had been heartbreaking, for both Stephan personally and those who shared life with him. The wizened leader felt great compassion for his people, even those who sought to undermine the common good.
They had sheltered inside, the remaining livestock and the precious store of seeds housed safely in the barns. Stephan knew that residual radiation still lingered on the pastures and furrowed fields, however, he also knew that the harvest must be planted to hopefully capitalize on the finale of the winter season. It was a gamble he had to undertake. The seeds would not be as potent this year, for they had sat out one full growing season, and hence the viability of the germination would be reduced.
Perhaps the radiation would render some of the animals infertile, and Stephan expected deformity and lower fertility rates to occur. He could see George Hanson already trying to preach his doom prophecy with every subsequent deviation from the norm that would arrive in the livestock. He sighed at the thought of this. The man in his religious fervor and fear had made the last few months truly far more harrowing than they had needed to be.
Fortunately, the vast body of his people was still behind Stephan, and any protest had remained peaceful. Most people here believed in the Christian God and gave thanks each day for his blessings whether they be small or large.
The heavy-hinged and padded door to the library opened, and Stephan turned to smile at the visitor. His wife Anna of many years came toward him with a cup of hot apple mead cupped in both hands.
“You should rest more love. The fields will wait for the morrow.”
“Ah, I know dearest.” He took the simple stoneware goblet from her slender hands and kissed her lovingly on the cheek in passing, as he turned again back to the window.
“If any man can do this, it is you my love.” Anna reminded him.
“I hope you are right. I grow tired Anna.”
“You will,’ she assured her husband, coming closer to put her arms about him, she did not enjoy hearing his rare confession.
“I miss them.” Stephan said as he sipped at the warm, deliciously spiced beverage. “It seems a terrible injustice that our son and daughter are not here to continue our good work. Sometimes even after such a long lifetime I cannot fathom the machinations of our Lord.” He sighed and felt his wife's arms encircle him.
“We have all suffered in various ways my love. Each of us has our own cross to bear.”
“Yes, you are right as always Anna dear. I think tomorrow we will give the go ahead to plant the crops. Time is marching on.”
“Yes, my love it is. Before we know it the clouds will completely clear and any hope of a growing season will be gone.”
“Well, tomorrow then. Stephan announced draining the cup and handing it back to the safekeeping of the graceful fingers of his wife.
“You should rest.” She chided him, turning from the library room.
“I promise I will be along in a moment.” Stephan smiled at her knowingly as Anna turned away.
*****
Aran idly looked up from his hard pallet at the cause of the disturbance. Glancing at the lean and dirty slave, clad in torn, colorless rags, who had come to retrieve the evil-smelling, and almost overflowing bucket. The man paid him no heed, it was apparent this slave was familiar with this task and did it as an automaton. The contents of the pail slopped onto the floor, as the weak man struggled to balance its weight.
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Aran wrinkled his nose in disgust and rose onto his elbow. The chained warrior had hoped there may have been a meal served, and he wondered if the man who tended this boiler previously had perished from lack of food, or if Dahlia had specifically ordered Aran's rations reduced? He suspected the latter, the doll-like woman had warned Aran that his slavery would be abhorrent after all.
The warrior who was now feeling much better at least physically from the beating, debated for a moment grabbing the man and causing a disturbance. He was tired of being here and declining by slow degrees, realizing with terrible starkness he must do something soon to relocate himself. Living in this lightness space, and surviving on one mean meal a day, did not bode well for his future.
To that end, Aran had decided he would simply let the boiler go cold. He had been warned not to after all. It would be some time before his defiance got their attention up above, but invariably it would, and he would be ready. So he positioned himself on the floor leaving the appropriate length of slack chain, and waited. As he watched through slitted eyes the bright lava orange of the firebox interior faded to a dull red.
The footfalls came soon after, heavy boots scuffing on concrete. Only a single man, folly really. A smile crossed Aran’s face at these odds, the guard was used to his previous charge and saw no need for backup. As he came into view, the warrior sighted the heavy club in the man's hand. Aran waited silently, well aware the man could see nothing coming from his well-lighted post into the darkness.
“You lazy son of a bitch,” the silhouette of the man growled, “what were you doing, sleeping?”
Aran watched him step closer, hand on the slack arc of the chain. Just a little further now…
“Get up you lazy fuck!”
The chain arced upright with precision striking the unsuspecting man in the face. The guard pulled his arm up to shield himself in a reflexive move as Aran in a deft and practiced maneuver wrapped the slack length of chain about the man's legs to bring him down. The struggle did not last long, The warrior easily divested the guard of his baton and hit him savagely over the head. Bone flew, and blood coursed slowly across the concrete floor, finding its way to the floor drain, and dripping at intervals below. He left the man to lay exposed to passers-by. Knowing shortly the guard would be missed.
His ploy had worked. Some hours later a knot of men stood in the doorway, arms folded staring at their unfortunate comrade. He had hoped to sight Dahlia but this airless place was Aran guessed beneath her presence.
“Joe didn't deserve that,” one man said solemnly. Gazing on Aran with eyes of hate. The others nodded and argued what should be done.
“I don't see why we just should not kill him.” Another said angrily. He had his hand on the inside of his leather jacket presumably on the butt of a handgun.
“She ordered us not to,” another man warned.
“I don’t care,” the original man snapped back heatedly.
“Stop!” Yet another of the men growled, he had a rather spectacular red beard. “We will do as she wants. “Now be careful we don't want to end up like ole Joe there.”
Aran had not planned to fight, at least not here. He had no desire to be beaten senseless like last time. He desired a change of location, possibly someplace better to facilitate his escape, so it was in his best interests he let the men move him without incident. He was sure the men were bewildered as he allowed himself to be freely bound and released from the chain attached to the immovable boiler.
“Get Joe out of here and go find someone else to tend this.” The red-bearded man barked.
Aran could tell he was mighty nervous as he escorted his charge through the darkened hallways beyond. For a terrible moment, Aran began to fear that perhaps now he would simply be incarcerated, and forgotten. This was a jail after all, and they passed many underground isolation cells which appeared to stand empty. He kept expecting to be pushed into one at each cell they passed by.
The escort reached a flight of concrete stairs, which were very steep, these led up and out to an outside exercise yard. These environs still looked much like one would expect of a prison. Chain link fencing crowned with ribbon wire and locked gates. After being housed some days by the warmth of the boiler Aran shivered, and being almost naked the cold air was a rude awakening.
Aran looked up and about him, as he was ordered to stand in place. He turned to look back at the main body of the complex and was struck hard in the shoulder. He again cast his eyes forward, then up at the heavens above. It had occurred to him the sky did appear much less clouded than before. Though it was growing dark and it was hard to really tell.
“If you were mine you'd be dead. I’d insist you pay for Joe. We’re a tight knit family here. You should thank the lady for your worthless life.” Aran’s red-bearded antagonist growled at him gruffly. “Still, some time on the on the chain gang clearing fields you will probably wish you were.”
The man did not laugh, this was simply a statement. It was very obvious he was most unhappy with this Joe’s passing. Aran took great care not to goad him, this man’s grief was real and would lead to nothing of benefit. He cast his eyes to the ground and did his utmost to appear benign.