Rachel Harsmith skidded to a faltering stop, her feet slapping the pavement, barely breaking a fall. She teetered off the bike and let it clatter on its side. Shaking with exhaustion she knelt slowly and let the backpack slip off her shoulders. The afternoon sun was baking her neck and bare arms; she should apply sunscreen again. Not that it mattered.
She dug the tube from her pack and squeezed some of the white cream into her palm. She stared at it for several minutes. Her sister had always bleated on and on about skin cancer and had a fit if she found out Rachel had gone out without sunscreen. He sister wasn't around to tell her that anymore, and Rachel wasn't worried about skin cancer herself. Not now. She put it on anyhow, rubbing it into her skin with rough, hard strokes, leaving her neck and arms red from the pressure of her fingers. She rubbed until the greasiness was gone, then dropped her face into her hands and was racked with sudden, dry sobs. She brayed and shuddered, finally screaming towards the advancing sunset. Her breathing slowed again, and she calmed herself down.
Standing slowly, she shouldered the pack and picked up the bike. Here eyes were dry, if red, her face stony, mouth an emotionless line. She could get a few more hours in today, perhaps make the state line.
Rachel heard the singing and the guitar before she saw her. It was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. An old gospel, Rachel thought, though her only knowledge of old gospel music was a passing acquaintance with her mother's Elvis records. She walked slowly through the corn in the warm evening, insects buzzing and flicking around her head and feet.
She was there on the porch, old and dry as a wisp, strumming away and singing with a strong clear voice. When Rachel steeped from the corn, the woman stopped playing and looked up, her toothless mouth drawn into a warm smile.
"Hello, Rachel," she said, laying the guitar across her knees.
"How do you know my name?" Rachel asked, shocked at the realness of the dream. She stepped towards the woman, feeling only kindness, and warmth. The old woman held out her hand, and Rachel took it. It was as dry as paper, but soft.
"I know you," she replied, "He showed me to you."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Abigail Freemantle. I've lived in Hemingford Home, Nebraska my whole life. I'm 108 years old and I still make my own biscuits." Rachel smiled and placed her other hand on top of Abigail's. "Folks 'round here just call me Mother Abigail, though. You come visit me sometime, y'hear?"
Rachel nodded and tried to say more, but Mother Abigail faded quickly and a cold breeze brushed Rachel from behind. She shivered and turned; the cornfield had disappeared, leaving only darkness.
Rachel woke up with a gasp. It was dark and cold, still a few hours from dawn. She shivered and settled deeper into her sleeping bag. Mother Abigail? It was so real, but it didn't make any sense. Who was that woman? Rachel closed her eyes and slept soundly till dawn.
Nick Andros and Ralph Brentner peered at the map spread on the hood of the truck. Tom Cullen sat cross-legged in the street, blowing past a blade of grass held between his thumbs, trying to beckon a shrill whistle.
Nick suddenly tapped the map excitedly, and Ralph leaned in closer. Nick's finger was pressed just below a tiny line of print: Hemingford Home.
"Yee-haw!" Ralph yelled, taking off his hat and wiping his brow. Nick grinned. "All right, Tommy, time to go. Nicky here found where we're goin'. We're almost to Nebraska."
Tom leapt up, whooping. "M-O-O-N, that spells Nebraska!"
At the same moment, Rachel tracked her route to Nebraska. She had been planning on continuing west to California, to find her sister. It had been almost a week, however, and she hadn't met anyone else who was alive. For all she knew, she was the only one left. Except for the woman. Nebraska was off her original route, but if it was all hallucinations than she could still go straight west to California.
Rachel folded up the map and got back onto her bike. A few more days of hard riding would get her there, and she would find out what was real.
That night, she was in the corn again. She heard the guitar music, and Mother Abigail singing. Rachel couldn't stop herself from smiling. She walked up to the old woman and sat on the porch step below her. Mother Abigail stopped playing and smiled down at her.
"Bless you, child. He has chosen you. He has chosen you as a protector. But you'll have to hurry, they'll be here soon and then we'll be movin' on to Boulder."
"A protector? What do you mean? Who'll be here?" Rachel's smile dissipated.
"You hurry now, child, you come see me real soon." Mother Abigail waved and Rachel was suddenly deep in the corn. A young man stood about twenty feet from her, his back to her. Rachel glanced to the right and saw another man, the man, the man with no face. The dark man. He strode towards the other, his hand outstretched, fingers like talons. Rachel screamed and lunged at him—
She awoke, the scream dying in her throat. It was nearly dawn. You hurry now, child. Too scared to rationalize, Rachel rose quickly and rode into the breaking day, towards Nebraska.
They were pulling out onto the dirt road from Hemingford Home was Mother Abigail placed a hand on Ralph's arm. "Stop, Ralph. Not quite yet." He braked obediently and waited. She smiled and leaned forward, looking out onto the deserted road. Nick, beside her in the cab, exchanged a tiny shrug with Ralph, and then looked to the road. Several minutes passed. A breeze blew quietly through the truck, the smell of corn sweet in the air. Nick stifled a yawn then peered into the distance. There was something there. Maybe. Yes, there was definitely something coming.
"Someone's comin' on a bicycle!" Tom yelled from the truck bed.
Ralph squinted, then smiled. "Well, I'll be. Just in time, eh Mother?" Mother Abigail smiled.
Nick climbed out of the cab, watching the bike approach. It was close enough now that he could see the rider. She was young, around his age maybe. Brown hair pulled back. She was also close enough so that he could see the bike wavering with each labored turn of the pedals. Nick walked to meet her and finally she skidded to a rough halt in front of him. She was dripping with sweat, her chest heaving. She leaned on the handlebars with both hands and looked up slowly.
"I made it," she said, and began to tip over. Nick barely caught her in the faint, pulling her from the bike.
Rachel blinked awake, utterly confused. The last several miles had been a blur. She hadn't dared stop for the last several hours, and had biked through the previous night and the entire day, aware that if she didn't hurry, she would miss them. Miss who? Rachel didn't know, but the old woman had been particularly insistent in the last dream. You hurry, girl. Nick's waitin'. Mother Abigail, Nick, Nebraska? What was going on?
Ralph wiped her forehead with a damp bandana. "Are you all right, there, hon'"?
Rachel sat up slowly in the bed of the truck. She tried to speak, but uttered only a dry croak. Someone put water to her lips and she guzzled it like a camel. It dribbled down her front and she wiped her mouth with her hand. She looked around, her eyes clearing, the fog drifting from her brain. A largish man in a straw hat was kneeling beside her in the truck bed. His round eyes were kind and unassuming. A woman and a little girl watched her from the tailgate along with a tall blonde man with a soft, concerned face and a fifty-ish man with small, steel-rimmed glasses. Another man, young, with brown hair, peered at her anxiously as he leaned over the side of the truck bed.
"She told me to hurry," was all Rachel could think of.
"Well, I guess she was right 'cause we were just leavin'," the man in the truck bed said to her, handing her more water. "What's your name?"
"Rachel…Harsmith. I don't know why I'm here, I just, I've been having these dreams…" she trailed off, embarrassed and still sick with exhaustion.
"Dreams where an old woman in a rocking chair tells you to come visit her?" The woman at the tailgate said, smiling kindly. Rachel nodded. "We've all been having them. We met up with each other by chance and Nick led us here. I'm Olivia, and this is Gina," she said, an arm around the little girl's shoulder.
"And I'm Ralph Brentner, from Oklahoma," the man beside her said, removing his hat. "This is Tom Cullen, Dick Ellis, and Nick Andros." Rachel nodded at them, then looked at Nick. Nick.
"She said you were waiting," Rachel said to him. He watched her closely, then gave a small shrug—who? "Mother Abigail," Rachel said. "She said, Hurry, Nick's waiting." Nick glanced at Ralph sharply, and then back at Rachel. Taking a pad of paper and a pencil from his shirt pocket, he wrote a quick note and tore it off, handing it to her. Rachel took it slowly, watching him.
You should try to sleep. You rode a long way.
Rachel looked around at all of them. Were they real? She had really started to believe she was the only one left. Alone and half-crazed, with only a hallucination to keep her company. "Wait, where is she? Mother Abigail?" she added, with hesitation.
"I'm right here." Mother Abigail came up behind Olivia and the younger woman stepped aside. "You made it, child. You came a long way." Mother Abigail reached out a hand, and Rachel took it slowly. It was dry and warm. For the second time that day, Rachel fainted.
This time there were no visions, only Mother Abigail's voice. "You watch over him, little girl. God as chosen you. He has chosen Nick, as well, but He's got his own purposes for him, and the others. You watch over him."
She woke in the early evening, still lying in the truck bed. They were moving at a good clip, the road unwinding like a ribbon behind them. Ralph and Nick were on either side of her, leaning against the cab with their legs stretched out. Ralph was asleep, his hat tilted over his face. Rachel sat up slowly and winced as her sore muscles protested. Nick watched her silently and handed her a canteen of water. She leaned against the cab and took a long drink. It was slightly warm, but wet enough. How long had she come? Did she really bike to Nebraska? Jesus. Rachel handed the canteen back and Nick smiled.
"I guess I was pretty wiped out," she said, coloring slightly.
Nick smiled again and cocked an eyebrow. He took out the pad again and began to write. Rachel frowned and leaned forward. Nick glanced up.
"What are you—" she began, but he interrupted by handing her the note.
You looked like you'd been riding for a long time. I came from Arkansas and picked up Tom in Kansas. Where are you from?
Rachel ignored the note for a moment and looked at Nick carefully. The wind was buffeting his brown hair, and his blue eyes regarded her right back. After a moment he covered his ears with both hands, then put a hand over his mouth, then shook his head.
"You're deaf?" Rachel asked. Of course. He nodded and pointed at the note, giving another of his questioning shrugs.
"I was visiting a friend in Minneapolis. I'm from Oregon, though. I was going to go to California to find my sister, but," Rachel stopped, turned her face away. The tears didn't come though. She didn't have anything left to cry. What remained was a dull ache in her chest. She turned back and shrugged. "I started dreaming of her, Mother Abigail, and figured I probably wouldn't find anything in California anyhow."
Nick put a hand on her arm. She mustered a weak smile, laughing nervously. "I thought I was going crazy. I hadn't seen anyone else alive, and then the dreams started. Sometimes nightmares."
Nick nodded and wrote briefly.
The Dark Man?
"Yes." They both looked out to the road. The sun was dipping below the horizon and the flatlands were melting into the darkness. Nick turned and peered around the cab. He pointed. Rachel went to the edge of the truck and looked out. The mountains were rising up sharply from the earth. She looked at Nick.
"Boulder?" He nodded and settled against the cab again. Rachel shivered as night approached and looked for her backpack. Nick touched her shoulder and handed her his jacket.
"What about you?"
He puffed his chest and made fists in a strongman pantomime. Rachel smiled and took the coat.
"If you freeze I won't be sympathetic," she said, putting it on and leaning against the cab again. He shrugged and grinned.
Rachel looked out towards the sunset and dozed fitfully. Later, the early evening giving way to a dusky darkness, she glanced at Nick. He was asleep, his profile silhouetted against the dark blue sky.
They stayed in Herbert, Colorado that night. They had pushed past the state border before stopping in the late evening. Ralph and Olivia dragged a mattress from a local Day's Inn and set in the bed of the truck for Mother Abigail. Entering the building had driven all thought of staying there from their minds; the stench had made their knees buckle. Apparently those trying to flee sickness hadn't passed on the luxury of a hotel. Luckily the night was clear and warm, so sleeping under the stars was actually a pleasant proposition.
Dick, Gina, and Nick had gone to sketch together a meal from the local market. Rachel sat on the ground next to Mother Abigail's rocking chair. Despite sleeping through almost the entire day on the road, she was still exhausted. Abigail patted her shoulder.
"We got many long days ahead of us," she said, looking into the campfire.
"What is going on, Mother Abigail? Why are we all having the same dreams?"
Abigail smiled and looked down at the girl. Her face was young, but she was smart, and stronger than she knew. "It's God's plan, Rachel. He is gathering the faithful around him. All we can do is listen to him and do his bidding."
Rachel frowned at this. She was more apt to believe in God after what she'd seen in the past days, but she had never truly believed before. It was difficult to make the leap that Mother Abigail was asking.
"What do you mean, when I dream of you? You keep saying I'm a protector. I don't understand."
Abigail looked into Rachel's eyes with her own, deep and brown. The girl was scared, but who wasn't? "God has chosen you, Rachel. He has chosen others, but for you he's got somethin' special. You've got to keep your eyes and ears open. You've got to listen. God has important work for your friends, but the Other has his own minions, and he will set them to evil doings. You must watch over His chosen so that they can do His work." With that, Abigail leaned back into her rocker with a sigh.
Rachel looked into the campfire and pondered the response. It was cryptic and unsatisfying, but in the little she knew of God, wasn't he always vague? It made sense, she supposed. He wanted His believers to follow His word, but they had to do a little thinking for themselves. So she was to protect God's chosen. Nick certainly, and maybe Ralph. Probably others that they would meet up with in Boulder. Rachel sighed as the flames held her gaze. So she was the vanguard against the Devil. Great.