Chapter 3: The Broken

It's not too often that you wake up one morning and know that your life is going to change. Of course there are certain days where you know a lifechanging event is to take place such as my wedding, or the mark on my calendar when I swore into the Guard, but most of the really truly pivotal days that change everything come completely out of nowhere. You still wake up, you still eat, you still get ready for the day, you still put your boots on one at a time, you still feel the sun beating down, the need to drink, and you still exchange passing words with your brothers and sisters and don't think much of it. The day I saw Evan Buller die was just like any other. I'd been on long range patrols and expeditions hundreds of times since becoming an entrance enforcer, but even on the days where friends are lost, the life changing moment just hits you without any warning and there's no way to truly brace for it .

Looking back, I think I could have guessed that today was no ordinary day just by the strange dreams I had the night before, the stories I heard, and the fragments of information or news that entered my ears. Despite that, we only realize how truly ignorant we are in hindsight because piecing two and two together is a lot harder to do in the present when more often than not the "coincidental" things you hear and experience often don't add up to anything… At least until the moment is right. In the end, I didn't think much of it when Mr. Mathers asked me there as the sun was about to disappear below the west;

"You know who Judah Black was?"

Not expecting the question, I began to think as my eyes went from the dilapidated shack to Mr. Mathers,

"Yes, why?"

Mr. Mathers turned his attention back to the shack as he said, "You asked me earlier why I had such an infatuation with this place in particular… This place used to be his from the records I've seen."

Thinking about that long-forgotten figure from so many years ago, of course, I knew my history of New Canaan, but I began to wonder about Mr. Mathers' adoration of the long-gone Bishop of New Canaan. I told him plainly;

"I was only about 11 years old when he died. I think it was 2251 or 2 if I remember correctly…" I paused, noticing the deacon looking at the structure in a new saddened way. I had to ask, "Why are you so interested in him and his old place… You been reading about the Mormon unification or something? I know they had big ambitions before the merge of churches and return to…"

I let my words trail off into nothing as he remained focused on the shack. Glancing past him I could see the replacements from the night watch were almost here, and after a moment he said to me,

"Did you know he had a son?..."

There, I racked my brain. I hadn't known that, but I remained curious and thinking until he added with a shrug, "… Well, not a biological son, but one he adopted…"

He remained staring at the shack as the sky became pink and darkness took over more of the land. I wanted to ask yet again why he was interested in the old leader of New Canaan as I tried to recall everything I knew about him. But again, Judah Black was before my time. I was only 11 around the time he died and was too busy playing, going to school, and learning smithing alongside "Mr. Cabbot" back when he too was alive. Either way, back then I wasn't thinking much about Judah when I was so young and occupied. I did vaguely remember attending Judah Black's wake in the Temple way back then. Come to think of it, that was probably the first time I'd ever seen a deceased person. As pivotal as that would've been to someone of my age at the time, and it probably was, but since then, I had seen death so many times that I couldn't even remember all the faces I've seen since… All of those faces only seemed to paint themselves as the most recent one I've seen, the face of Evan Buller.

My thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Mathers went on, "… Judah Black raised the boy like he would've his own. Had the boy learning languages of all New Canaan's neighboring tribes… Records say the kid learned tribal dialect like a supercomputer or something and Judah saw the boy's gift as a sign he was to play a grand role in spreading the gospel to the tribes of the wilderness… Poor kid spent his whole childhood learning tribal lingual variations. Suppose that's the time to learn'em. I hear it's easier when you're young…"

I tried to remember Bishop Black's son. I knew practically everyone in New Canaan today, and I certainly knew every kid of the community when I was young, but I couldn't remember Judah's son. There I began to think about all those faces I grew up with and how many of them were gone in the present day, as well as the ones who were alive and were long married with so many kids. Suddenly the answer to why I couldn't remember Judah's son entered my ears;

"He was all grown up and gone before Judah died, so you probably don't remember him…"

"How did he die?" I asked reflexively, surprising even myself.

Mr. Mathers looked to me under the pink sky, "Judah?..." I shook my head, "I don't know… I hadn't gotten that far in my research and don't even know for certain if his son died… All I know is that Judah spent the last of his days here in this shack waiting for his son to return…"

I didn't know what to say. I didn't remember Judah Black all that well, I had no memory of his adopted son, and I couldn't connect two and two at the time. Although, in the moment, all I could ask Mr. Mathers was,

"So why are you so interested in the tragic and dilapidated legacy of Judah Black?"

Then, I could hear the footsteps of the replacement guards of the night watch coming up the trail when Mr. Mathers stood himself up off the wood crate beside me, saying;

"I don't quite know, Paul… If I'm being completely transparent, reading about him just reminds me of some stories I heard when I was with the Desert- er 'NCR Rangers'. I'm not sure why… but…" he paused.

I began to wonder how his nearly forgotten old affiliation had any connection to the old leader of New Canaan from my early childhood when at last he added,

"… Still, I like to think his old home and our vision can help us do what only Christ can do and make the old things new…"

Just then, a voice from the darkness sounded, "Lt. Young! Doyle's boys! Your relief has arrived!"

I recognized the voice and raised my hand to wave at the approaching guardsmen, "Thank you kindly, boys. Make yourselves comfortable and give Lt. Salazar my best when you see'm"

I turned to see four enforcers under Lt. Salazar approaching us and dispersing around the area as Mr. Walsh of the night watch said again, "He already has it, Lt. Young, you all have a great night."

My thanks were on the tip of my tongue but Mr. Mathers spoke first saying, "Thank you Mr. Walsh. Mr. Young and I stacked some firewood there next to the shack for ya'll to fight the cold and thank you for doing this again. My work crew will be arriving to relieve you just before dawn."

Mr. Walsh replied to the deacon, but my attention was turned towards the guards of Doyle's group when Duncan came over to me at a jog saying, "Lt. Young…" I saw the other guards Duncan left staring at and pointing towards something in the dark south. I considered it nothing and turned my attention back to Duncan as he stepped up to me.

When the young man was before me, he said, "It's getting close to 8. Want me to join you at the meeting with Doyle? There are a few things I didn't tell you about my report, but I can still give it over to the Constable first thing in the morning."

I said, "Alright…" to the young man as I stood from my seat. Turning to Mr. Mathers, he was exchanging some more pleasantries with Mr. Walsh as the others started their campfire. Addressing Duncan I said knowing Mr. Mathers could hear, "Just head on back to town with the deacon and I. We'll discuss this further along the way."

Before anything else was said, the attention of everyone around the abandoned old home of Judah Black turned to the other guards of Doyle's group shouting towards the darkness;

"You there! Identify yourself!"

Silence.

I peered into the black beyond the place Doyle's men were facing and nothing returned. The world fell completely silent, and the winds slowed as the eyes of myself, Mr. Mathers, Duncan, and the members of the night watch stared into the night. It wasn't more than a few seconds of silence that passed but it felt like far longer before I felt the cold wind of night once more and my mind returned to the present. Leaving the company of Duncan and the others, I was the only one who stepped towards Doyle's other guards and joined their side with my hand on my .45 pistol.

Still no answer had come, and I stepped between the two guardsmen named Ray and Hudson. The three of us remained silent and staring into the blackness. My vision adjusted ever so slowly from the glow of the fire behind me as the last traces of pink in the sky disappeared giving way to even more black. We stared into the south for a long and lingering silent time and still no reply came, nor an answer to the cause of their challenge. A few more seconds passed when the man on my left, "Ray" whispered to me with the point of his finger;

"You see that, Lt. Young?"

I tried looking through the darkness but I still couldn't make out anything even where he was pointing. Just then, the night completely took over and with that came the light of the stars illuminating the wastes in their own way. Beyond the rocks in the far distance, at a distance of probably more than 200 yards, I began to see the faintest outline of a man completely shrouded in black under the night sky. I couldn't say anything else, and the figure appeared to be standing in place and facing us as it wobbled gently with the breeze. Hudson on my right raised his Thompson submachinegun up towards the figure asking us,

"Are they coming towards us? I can't tell?..."

Focusing even more, the figure was not wobbling in the breeze, the person began to appear even more like they were limping towards us, and they were getting closer, mere inches with each step. As I realized this, Hudson challenged the darkness again;

"Stranger! You will identify yourself or we will mark you hostile!"

As the voice of Hudson carried into the distance, Ray also raised his submachinegun towards the figure, and just as he did so, the black figure stopped in place standing completely still. Suddenly, time seemed to freeze yet again, and the dream from last night flashed through my mind once more. The piercing blue light from those eyes went right through me and immediately, the black figure in the south collapsed to the ground. Doyle's guardsmen continued to aim their weapons into the dark until the figure slumped over even further and Hudson asked in urgency;

"Should we investigate?"

Immediately, Ray said, "Don't be a fool. It could be an ambuscade."

"Oh just say 'Ambush', Ray!..." shouted Hudson softly before adding, "Still, Lt. Young, I think he's right…"

I couldn't turn my focus away from that slumped figure, hearing the footsteps of two men approaching when Mr. Walsh joined our group asking, "You see something out there?"

"Looked like a man…" said Ray pointing to the south with his gun still aimed out there.

Then the other new arrival, Mr. Schmitt asked, "Where?"

"It's that figure there. Fella was coming towards us before he collapsed into those rocks."

"Well, we should get down then? Could be aiming at us right now and the five of us are pretty clear targets with the campfire behind us," said Duncan with urgency in his voice.

Ray replied, "Nah, the guy was moving like he's injured. But Hudson and I think he could be a ploy to draw us into a trap."

Mr. Walsh of the night watch said, "Traders and tribals never travel in the wilderness alone. I'll send one of my boys to town for backup while we stay put. We got plenty of cover in and around the shack to hold off till they arrive…"

Mr. Walsh turned his head and whistled towards the rest of his men by the campfire and was about to shout for one of them to head to town for backup when he was halted by what I did next.

I don't know what it was that made me do it, but I was perfectly content with their plan to just wait out any possible ambush near the defensible shack when my legs started moving me south, into the darkness, away from the campfire, and towards the figure. They were right. Nobody travels in the wilderness alone, especially at this dark hour. Unless the person wasn't truly alone. Many of our enemies have feigned being alone when their friends were hiding in the rocks, shrubs, ruins, and trees, ready to show our people what an offer of help can sometimes reward them with. Still, all of this I knew, and yet I moved further, into the night, and towards the fallen figure.

I heard the protests behind me saying to wait for backup, to wait till morning, to at least draw my weapon, etc. and yet I didn't do any of that. Their voices seemed as though they were an echo, and still I continued on. I was not afraid of the night, the darkness, or even death itself. I knew what my true reward would be even if the figure was only a lure to an unfortunate end. I remembered the tranquil and content version of Evan Buller's face that I saw the day before when Michelle had left my side and remembered he was with our Lord. Whether or not I would join Evan this night, I did not care as I proceeded onward.

It may sound like I'm being overly dramatic with this simple walk into the night, but New Canaan in this time was in a heightened state of paranoia between all the unfortunate events I and the community at large had experienced recently. So, the possibility of this being an ambush was very real, but I still did not fear death. I had no real reason to believe this person was actually injured, but even if my mind knew that, my soul had an obligation and duty to take what we saw at its least ill-intentioned value. It was the same duty that made me bring Mr. Mathers back to New Canaan 5 years ago when I'd seen what his rangers did to those tribals, and it was what made me bring so many others who'd join the Guard or community of New Canaan into our gates. Wherever it landed me here on earth, the Christ in me had a duty to fulfill and I was certainly doing that as I drew closer to the collapsed figure.

My mind returned to the present when I heard the voices of Duncan, Hudson, Ray, and Walsh quietly bickering amongst themselves as they hurried to catch up to me. I still heard the occasional plead to turn back oriented towards me, but I continued to ignore it. Their pleads with me and gripes towards each other continued as they caught up and began circling me with their weapons trained in every direction, even as we stepped up to the site of the collapsed person.

There amidst a collection of waist-level rocks, I stepped up to the black figure and drew my flashlight. The second the light hit the person, Ray the guardsman let out a gasp and said, "Wasn't expecting a ghoul…"

All the guardsmen took their eyes off the surrounding wasteland to glance towards the light and see the same thing. In an instant, the possibility of this being an ambush disappeared for some reason and all of them stared in awe and curiosity at the skinless man leaning against the rock in completely shredded rags.

All of our nostrils were suddenly filled with the smell of a person who hadn't bathed in weeks as well as the smell of charred flesh. Of the few interactions I've had with ghouls in my life, I certainly remembered the distinct smell they gave off, but this wasn't that.

The guards continued to look over the limp body of the man, studying his skinless body and muscles peeking out from the tattered and charred rags up to the hung head that hadn't moved even after I illuminated him with my flashlight. Just then, Mr. Walsh attempted to wave the smell from his nose, saying;

"Only ever seen a ghoul once before."

Followed by Duncan asking, "Is he dead?"

I was wondering if the man was alive myself when Hudson asked rhetorically, "What's a ghoul doing wandering the wastes at such an hour?"

At that, I saw the faintest rise in the man's chest despite his head still hung. I dropped to a crouch before the man but still couldn't see his face as it almost appeared like he was hiding his face from the light. As I crouched before the man, I subtly announced my own conclusion about the sight to the rest of the men;

"I don't think he's a ghoul…"

Then out of instinct, I lowered the light from the unfortunate victim's face and towards the charred rags on his torso before asking as calmly as I could;

"Can you walk, sir?"

Silence ensued in the moment afterward and the man hadn't moved. After a short time, I asked, "Can you speak?..."

More silence took over the world around us. After another long moment that was too long to be an answer to my question, a sudden breeze came in from the west. Internally, I was thankful for the crisp breeze, but then the answer to my question came as the breeze hit the man. We all watched in disbelief as the man curled into himself and let out the softest and most terrible groan of agony. All of us watched in complete helplessness as that groan announced a terrific pain at the cold breeze, and were left speechless when the groan ended the second the wind had ceased.

A long silence lingered after that. I supposed we had our answer. He couldn't speak, but he could still audibly express how terrible his every waking second was.

At long last, the men as well as myself were left without any idea of what to say, what to do, or how to help this man. All I knew was that he needed help. The silence ended when I glanced back at the hung-open mouths of the guardsmen behind me and said;

"He needs help. Mr. Walsh, give me a hand with him, we'll bring him to the campfire. Duncan, you run to town, send word to the Constable and have someone bring a cart out here. Then find Doyle and let him know I can't make the meeting tonight. Ray and Hudson, you stick with me till the cart arrives and we'll take him to the nearest doctor."

All of them wordlessly acknowledged, Duncan began to run off towards the town, and Walsh and I moved to both sides of the stranger. Taking our spots beside him, Walsh and I crouched down, grabbed his flayed arms, and both of us were instantly deafened by the most horrible scream of agony we'd ever heard. I wanted to release my grip right there as I remembered the groan from earlier with the utmost fondness. Although, I met the eyes of Walsh looking at me with another plead to set him down and I knew it was already too late. He and I hoisted the skinless man's arms over our shoulders and were already walking towards the town and campfire with the man between us. Moving towards the campfire in the near distance, I could see that Mr. Schmitt had halted to see what the scream was about, but he only needed to see us moving with the man to make him continue his task.

As Mr. Schmitt ran further and further north towards town, the silhouettes of Mr. Walsh's fellow night guards stood beside the fire. A little further away stood the other motionless outline of Mr. Mathers, growing closer as we moved and all the while the man between Walsh and I screamed.

I was too focused on not tripping over the rocky sands to think about Doyle's men who followed at our rear or to think about anything other than the horrible pain the man between Walsh and I was enduring. Just based on that shout, I knew that the man was not a ghoul. Clearly the man had a dry throat from probable days out in the wastes, but despite the pain, the screaming didn't have the same crackle as that of an irradiated ghoulified man. The only time that the painful shouting lessened was when we were but 50 yards from the campfire, and that appeared to only be because he began focusing his energy towards struggling in our grip. Despite the weakened or half dead state we found him in, the closer we drew towards the fire, the more we struggled to keep our grip on him. I never would've imagined how strong this man was, and even though Walsh and I never lost our grip on him, he certainly tested our strength. I couldn't think of it at the time, but the fact he protested our help stuck out to me in the immediate moments after setting him down. At first, I thought he had eventually tried to free himself because of the mere pain our carrying caused him, but then I realized it was because he could see that it was the fire we were bringing him closer and closer to… I know for certain that the latter was the reason now.

When we were but 20 yards from the campfire, Walsh had his men clear a small spot beside it for the skinless man and all the while the deacon remained a statue.

At last we arrived beside the fire and the man was jerking and protesting and shouting so much that he probably would've killed us if he had a weapon. But the man did not, and Walsh and I released our grips before he collapsed on that makeshift bed made from the dark coats of the night watchmen. The skinless man slumped down beside the fire, still groaning from the continuing pain, and laying there staring up at the starry sky with his chest heaving up and down.

Everyone remained staring at him and nobody said a word, even as I felt another cold breeze from the wastes whip by us. I continued to look down at the man beside the fire, expecting to hear that groan flood my ears once more, but that never happened. He still breathed heavily in and out, the wind only elongating his recovery until I felt the presence of Mr. Mathers come to my side. The flames flickered, and the wind hadn't let up. That chest continued to rise up and down as the man's mouth was hung open taking breaths like each one was the one that would kill him. The wind picked up and continued to blow against us all even harder when at last, Mr. Mathers broke the silence without any need for introduction.

"How can I help him?"

All of us, including Walsh and the other guardsmen remained entirely focused on the man of agony until I could only reply with the truth;

"I have no idea…"

The wind continued to pummel us, and the man couldn't move, even as the cold wind picked up even more. Remembering what I heard earlier, I could only imagine the pain this person was in, and I couldn't help. It must have been even harder for him after Walsh and I moved him since he remained staring up at the stars looking like he was in so much pain that he couldn't even express it through any audible means anymore.

After so long without any way to help, the deacon Mathers knelt down at the feet of the man and bowed his head beginning to softly pray for him while I remained locked in place unable to move. Still the winds continued, still the night guards stood helplessly, and still the deacon prayed when at last the skinless man tilted his head up and met my eyes.

I can honestly say that I had never seen a more tragic face than the completely flayed one of this man at that moment. I remembered the face of Evan Buller when he begged me to save him and how this nameless man had the same one on his. Just like before, all I could do is watch. There was nothing I could do against the bullets destined for Evan or the wind destined for this man, yet they shared the exact same look at me. I stared into that skinless face and just then, I saw what I had seen in my dreams.

There, in the glow of the flame, I saw the skinless stranger had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. I remembered the image of the skinless beast with the bright blue eyes, how it peered at me between the cloth, and the thought put me in paralysis. The incarnation of my dream broke eye contact with me, and lowered his head almost as if he knew the unspoken message had been sent. The winds continued, and he curled onto his side to face the flame.

The only thing I could do was fall to my knees beside the deacon and stare at the shack door as I asked God "Why this? What could this man, that dream, this day possibly mean?"

I couldn't think of anything else when any more I was going to ask was cut short by Mr. Walsh saying aloud, "Tony, you still got that stim, right?"

Without any word, "Tony" removed a stimpack from the first aid pouch on his vest and knelt down next to the man. Mr. Mathers remained in deep prayer, and I remained too lost in thought staring at the shack wall and thinking about everything I couldn't understand. I wasn't really thinking about anything in particular, but I was still too shocked from this day and my dreams from the night before as my brain could only process the image of those eyes and the sound of this man's piercing scream. I couldn't do anything even if there were things to do, and I was too busy letting the Lord work the rest of His plans for this day to ask Him about it in prayer.

Tony injected the man with the syrum who gave another painful groan, the winds had died, and still the man remained staring into the flame.

20 Minutes Later

"So no name or anything?..." said Mr. Mathers wearing the same look of worry he adopted since I set the man down.

My eyes remained transifixed on the figure beside the fire, internally remarking how he had not moved one inch since he turned to face it. His face was completely focused on the flame almost as if it were the only thing in the world, like he wasn't in pain, and the fire was what he was trekking across the night for. As comfortable as he seemed staring into the flame, I began thinking about how vicious his struggling was as we drew closer and closer to it. I simply had nothing to make of that, but plenty had happened since those first moments after setting him down and his statue-like focus on the fire wasn't the only thing that captured my fascination.

I'd seen the miraculous work of old world stimpacks on countless occasions over my time in the guard. I've seen men get shot in the arm and get completely shattered only for one of our medics to see to the victim immediately with the first treatment being a stimpack near the injury site. It always astonished me how the work of a single stimpack could heal a man's bullet fractured arm within ten minutes, allowing the man to recover enough to return fire afterwards. I myself had experience with stimpacks recently as well. Not long after witnessing the end of Evan Buller and awaking to the sight of the Constable, one of the medically trained enforcers injected me with one and it probably shaved weeks off my recovery time. Of course, I'm still recovering from that bullet to the abdomen, but I watched the wound on my abdomen seal itself up and begin forging the fragile and easily opened scar that I was still living with at the time of this incident.

I sat there staring at the man and his body covered in 3rd degree burns for several minutes after Tony of the night watch injected him, and to my surprise, nothing happened. I'd seen the work of stimpacks on burns too, and how they make up for the skin that was burned away, how that was usually showed by a glossy layer the drug forms over every place that the person's DNA said there should be skin. Within 10 minutes, the burn is covered and complete restoration is underway within the next couple days or in some cases weeks. But again, none of that happened. This man remained a completely skinless wreck with no visible signs that the stimpack did anything to heal or even comfort him.

I was considering this extraordinary situation and the fact that Mr. Walsh and his men were discussing the same thing when the words of Mr. Mathers entered my ears again in an echo,

"… So no name or anything?..."

I looked to the man, only able to say with the shake of my head, "No. Nothing…" Then I thought about that scream, that dream, and the strange concoction of feelings floating in my brain since first seeing him, "… Seems like one of ours though…"

I wasn't quite sure why I thought that, so I didn't really know how to answer it when Mr. Mathers replied with a simple, "Why do you say that?"

Internally, I was still trying to work out the answer to that myself without saying that I thought it might have something to do with my dreams. However, my mouth again knew what to say before my brain did, so I found myself saying;

"Because he was traveling alone in the wilderness…" I glanced to the deacon who was still expecting more, "… Traders would get themselves killed out there alone and wanderers never travel alone out here… Except maybe Duncan back when he was a roamer…"

At that, I glanced towards the north, seeing the walls of New Canaan and the illumination of torches and campfires across the market. It was too dark to make out much, especially after staring at the man beside the fire for so long, but I thought I caught the outline of a few dark figures coming towards us as a probable sign that Mr. Schmitt had done what I asked. Meeting eyes with the deacon again, I went on with my realistic conclusions;

"… Could be a tribal runner who got himself in a bad spot..." Then the sound of that scream returned in my memory and I added absently, "... but that shouting and screaming didn't sound accented by dialect…"

As strange as that may sound, it was true in part. Shouts and laughs and screams tended to have unique sounds to them if the person doing it spoke in a different language or accent. Either way, that explanation was all I had to base my assessment other than, telling the man, "I can just feel it because of a dream I had."

I could see the slight skepticism in the deacon's face, not like he thought I was hiding anything, but like he understood that it was all I had.

After a moment, the deacon turned his head back towards the man as he said, "Probably just the survivor of an attack out there most likely…"

That seemed like a satisfactory answer to the mysterious burn victim, especially when considering the kinds of tribes dotting the south. We had a number of allies out that way, but the wilderness was dotted with the occasional tribe of roving marauders who left the kinds of horrible scenes this man could have survived. Still, the chances of a trader who survived such an attack to find their way here without a map and wearing almost no clothes at all was almost impossible to believe. I could only reply to the deacon;

"I feel our scouts and allies down that way would've reported a recent attack…" Then another real possibility hit me as I added, "Could be one of our missionaries perhaps? Who do you know that's down south?"

The deacon turned back to me and then looked towards the sky in contemplation as he considered the likeliness. After a moment, he said, "Only ones I know down south are still fine. I've received word from Israel, Gerald, and Mariela just the other day from our messenger teams and none of them are due to return for at least another month…"

I was going to say something in the brief pause, but could see there was more on the tip of his tongue. The deacon said with another look towards the skinless man, "… Could be Daniel. He said he was finishing up his first outreach to the 'Sorrows' tribe of the Zion valley and his correspondents said he may come back early…"

There my curiosity turned to worry as I too turned back to the burned man. I hadn't seen Daniel in some time and remembered how he normally didn't tell of his returns from missions till he showed up at the gates. I had a lot of love and respect for Daniel and all he's done as the head of initial outreach in recent months. As I stared at the man by the fire, the terrible image of that man's pain slowly put thoughts of my friend Daniel out of my mind only to be replaced by memories of the dream last night. When my mind compared reality with the reality of this day and my dream, I posed the internal question, "is this man Daniel?" I considered this for a long moment but even then, I knew it wasnt true. The man with eyes locked on the flame was not Daniel. I was fairly certain that Daniel too had blue eyes, but all I could see in the forefront of my mind were the eyes of my dream, and the eyes that stared at me pleading for help beside the fire, and how there was no chance these men were the same.

After thinking for a long time, the deacon and I could hear the sounds of a cart and several people coming up the road, the sound reflexively making me say,

"He's not Daniel."

The deacon glanced to me, but whether or not he was going to acknowledge, agree, or disagree, anything he was going to say was ended when the voice of Constable Hanshaw announced, "Hello there! Lt. Young! Mr. Walsh!..."

The cart and the trailing people entered the glow of the campfire and Doyle announced for his remaining men to rally on him. I shouted and waved over the Constable who approached me with Dr. Victoria Franklin and her two assistants who pulled the cart. As the Constable approached me, Doyle rushed by to rally with his men and told me in passing how our scheduled meeting could wait till some other time.

As the giant Constable entered the bright glow of the flame and shook my hands, the only words he got out were, "Mr. Young, you've had quite the return to duty after yesterday's rest-" before the charming Dr. Franklin cut him off;

"I see you're healing up quite nicely, Mr. Young. Is that the poor wounded soul over there?"

I pointed towards the fire and intended to reply to both the Constable and Dr. Franklin when she saw where I was pointing and announced for her assistants, "… Wheel the cart around over there, boys."

The cart was moving around the crates, the Constable was already exchanging pleasantries with Mr. Mathers about everything except the wounded man, and before I could even get my bearing, Mr. Walsh shouted from behind;

"Lt. Young! Mind giving me a hand with the injured fella?"

Autonomously, I began moving to the fire to give Mr. Walsh a hand, scarcely hearing it when Dr. Franklin said that her assistants should be the ones doing it. Walsh brushed her off with something along the lines of "He's most familiar with Lt. Young and I."

Everyone seemed lost in their own little worlds in the sudden business of the doctor's arrival when I found myself kneeling down next to the man beside the fire. I don't know where my mind was because I must have been bracing myself for the second we picked him up and the sound that would make, but I wasn't the only one surprised when that scream didn't come.

Mr. Walsh and I picked up the man, hurling his skinless arms over our shoulders, and other than a short burst of that terrible groan when we first touched him, he didn't make a sound. Mr. Walsh commented on this lack of scream, saying how "he's feeling much better now", but I knew that wasn't the case when I felt that same pained look he gave me earlier focused right on the side of my head.

The whole world seemed to go in slow motion. I couldn't hear the assistants or Dr. Franklin ushering Walsh and I towards the cart, I couldn't hear the conversations between Doyle and his guards, or the ones between the Constable and Mr. Mathers, but I could see their eyes were all on us as the only thing I could feel was the skinless man's eyes focused on my face. Rounding the stack of lumber and moving towards the cart, I stared straight ahead as I felt the skinless man's eyes leave my face for a split second, notice the shack, and then the first words I heard him speak came from his mouth;

"Judah Black."

The world caught up to me in an instant and beneath the noise of a dozen conversations happening all around, Mr. Walsh and I hoisted the man onto the back of the cart as the night guardsman asked, "Did he say something?"

Reflexively I said, "I think he said, 'My back'." As much as I knew the true words or name he said, and as much as I tried not to lie, I decided to repent for that later, knowing the answer was good enough for Mr. Walsh.

As the orderlies strapped the burned man down, Mr. Walsh said to him, "Were we hurtin your back, there? Our apologies, but at least you're talking now so that's good, Ha! Anyway, Doc Franklin here will have you walkin and talkin away in no time so sit tight and enjoy the short ride to New Canaan…"

Turning to me, I was paralyzed by what the burned man said, but nobody else seemed to notice since Mr. Walsh slapped me on the shoulder saying, "You get to town, Lt. Young, thanks for the help and you tell the family I said Hi."

Again, I was too stunned to even reply, but the world seemed to move right along while I was stuck with the last piece of evidence that this day was no ordinary one. That man was no ordinary man. And that dream was no ordinary dream. There's no such thing as coincidence, it's only God choosing to remain anonymous in our day to day. The only problem is that sometimes when you tap into and start to truly see the plan that God is putting in place before your eyes, it can be too much. I needed rest, this day was too much for me, and I was the only one who could see the faintest idea of how important this evening truly was.

In the end, the man was loaded onto the cart, and Ms. Franklin asked me to join her back to town. The Constable saw our departure and joined us with Mr. Mathers and Doyle's group by his side.

I can't say I have any real memory of the walk back to town. I was walking beside the cart and trying my hardest not to look at the Dr.'s newest patient. The Constable and Doyle talked at me, asking questions that I couldn't vocally answer, seemingly unable to piece together that I was entirely elsewhere. It seemed as though only the deacon was aware of something off about me, but he couldn't figure out what since I hadn't told him everything extraordinary about this day. I still had no idea what that dream really meant, but how could the man from my dream show up this night, the night after a day where I was given two separate stories I hadn't even considered till this afternoon:

The story of a war down south where a man who turned his back on God and the community of New Canaan got what he deserved by getting burned alive for failing the abominable nation he helped found.

Then the story of Judah Black, the deacon Mathers' most recent fascination. A man who died waiting for his son to return, hoping beyond all reason that the boy would find his way back.

The two stories made a new one that only I could see during this night: A strange man emerges from the darkness, to a place he recognizes, but is too in pain to express, to the home of Judah Black. A victim of such a terrible fate that he survived beyond all reason after who knows how long trekking through the wilderness… A stranger who survived the complete incineration of his flesh…

I knew the identity of the man that night. I would refuse to believe what I knew, going over and re-going over everything again and again along the walk back to town, knowing the answer and yet still refusing to believe what was staring right at me that night. I would suppress and suppress it, but admitting I knew the man who stumbled to our camp from out of the darkest of nights, and speaking the name I knew he carried meant bringing forth the question of "What do I do with this?"

All I could know with absolute certainty was that the name did not matter in this moment. I would say the name, "Joshua Graham" some night soon, and even though I felt like uttering the name of the stranger would kill both me and him for some unexplained reason, keeping everything I knew inside was too much.

At last, I was finally broken from my world of contemplation just as the gate was giving its deafening sound with its lowering. I saw the Constable waving to Dr. Franklin, shouting "… And have a great night, Dr. Franklin! We'll have someone check up on him in the!- … Oh my, Paul? Are you okay!?"

Before I could even realize the words were for me, I felt the hands of Doyle removing my vest while the Constable's hands were gripping both of my shoulders. Puzzled by the apparent emergency, I couldn't even ask what was wrong before the Constable said to Doyle's men, "Hudson, Ray, get some of your bandages out and tie this off…" Locking eyes with me, he added, "… Paul, you're bleeding like a faucet? What you been doing all night?"

This was all a mystery to me, after my mind was so far away for so long, but I looked down to see my abdomen and how the entire right side of my white guardsman shirt was completely soaked in blood.

Doyle had finished removing my vest, he and the Constable had sat me down on the curb just inside the walls of New Canaan, and Hudson was wrapping my wound saying "… I'll get you one of my shirts to replace this one, Lt. Young, we're about the same size…"

At last, my mind had completely caught up to the present and I gently pushed Hudson away to show that I was fine now and looked up to see both Doyle and Constable Hanshaw staring at me with worry on their faces.

"Looks like you lost a lot of blood, Paul. Why didn't you head home earlier?" asked the Constable.

With all my thoughts from earlier being out of mind entirely, I met their gazes saying honestly, "Yall are worrying too much. I'm fine. It ain't like I was breaking rocks all night. I hadn't even noticed I was bleeding…"

That was true, I was fine. I thought I might have been too deep in thought to notice it earlier, but even now that I was here in the moment, the injury site felt completely fine. I began to wonder why the wound even opened in the first place when Doyle arrived where my thoughts were headed,

"Your vest was probably chaffing it all day. Probably didn't help when you were picking up the ghoul…"

I found it strange that my first thoughts were about correcting Doyle's assumption that the injured man was a ghoul, but I decided not to say anything when I saw the face of Constable Hanshaw still emblazoned in deep concern. After another moment, I saw the words on the tip of the Constable's tongue and then he said,

"… Get yourself home, Paul. I know you've been feeling up to it but clearly, your pushing yourself a bit too hard if your wound is opening so easily."

"I barely did anything other than patrol with my men and help carry that injured stranger today-" I said immediately before I was cut off by the Constable.

"Please don't protest, Paul, or I'll use my rank and put you on bed rest till you're completely healed…"

He paused, I nodded in acknowledgment yet still puzzled by the fact that I thought I was already past this part in my healing. Remembering the stimpack given to the man and how it didn't help him, then thinking about my own experience with them, there still appeared to be no reason my injury was acting the way it was after over a month. Strange as it may sound, I started to wonder if there was a particular reason I wasn't healing normally this evening and if it was connected to the return of "That man." Before I could dwell on this for too long, the Constable added,

"… I'll have you and your detachment do their patrol shift tomorrow as normal, but I want you to take it easy for the next few days. Mr. Mathers has some work to do in the archives tomorrow so I want you to help him there, provided he doesn't have you lifting boxes…"

"That really isn't necessary, Constable…" said I.

"Sorry, Paul. I won't hear it. I'm giving you light duty until you're healed. This said, your first duty tomorrow morning is to let me know how you're feeling and then head to the museum and archives. I'll have someone else check up on the stranger in the morning but I want you to swing by Dr. Franklin and get yourself a stimpack after you're done with Mr. Mathers…"

I glanced up at Doyle and the Constable, seeing the people of town pass by in the background. Some of them looked at me sitting on that curb wanting to ask if I was alright, but staying out of it by the presence of Hanshaw towering over me. All I could say to the Constable's new orders and unnecessary precautions was, "Yes, sir."

A moment of silence passed where I could see that Doyle wanted to ask if now was a good time for our meeting about the scouting report. Doyle decided not to ask his question upon noticing Hanshaw's focus remaining on me. Finally, the Constable said,

"… I, er we. Your brothers in the Guard, just want to ensure you're healing up properly…" He noticed the dour face I wore, and I could see Doyle nodding his head in approval before the Constable concluded, "… If it's any consolation, I could allow your request to bring little Joseph to work?…" I lifted my head at the surprise idea, "... You've been wanting to do that for a while and now could be just the occasion."

"Now that I'm not doing any of the duties my young boy would actually Want to accompany me for." I thought.

The Constable was right though, I had been wanting to bring my young son with me one day to show him what I do for the community. Still, my immediate thoughts were right too. I would have preferred bringing him on a day that I was patrolling outside the walls or keeping watch over the town in one of the towers. The idea of helping Mr. Mathers in the archives or musty old museum wasn't all that appealing. Even then, the idea was a kind one, and the approval for my long-forgotten request made a smile grow across my face. The Constable took that as a sign of acceptance. I decided to accept the light duty and stood myself up from that curb, batting away the offering hands of Doyle and Hudson as the reason for my light duty tomorrow was gone from memory.

Upon standing to my feet, I said, "Alright, Constable. I'll do that…" I shook the Constable's hand, refused his offer to have Hudson help me get home, and met eyes with Doyle, wordlessly telling him to hand Duncan's report over to the Constable if he hadn't already. Doyle and his men turned to one another and began to quietly talk amongst themselves as I made my way down the street towards my home on the west end with my vest in hand.

I left that curb with nothing but positivity in mind, thinking about my plan for tomorrow, and how much I could do in my days off duty, but the further I went, the more I began to think about the day. Roaming the dusty vacant streets of New Canaan at this time of night caused those thoughts to return, but I couldn't think long for I was exhausted. Perhaps I did lose a lot of blood, perhaps I was just to mentally drained by all that happened, but I continued to swat the thoughts of today away from my mind by thinking deliberately about tomorrow. In the end, I still didnt have to think long because soon enough, I was standing before my quaint little home and had new things to think about. By the time I stepped through the fence around my front yard and noticed the lights were all off, I realized how late it was, and how I was going to have to explain this day to my wife.

I tried to formulate the reason why I was kept so late and what I would say, but I couldn't think of the correct words for the life of me. I put my key in the lock, turned the handle, stepped into my dark little living room, and the house sat silent as I passed the short hallway to the room the girls shared. The girls were sound asleep from what I could see through the crack in the door, and the lights were completely off in the next room over, telling me that Joseph was too. Softly opening the door to my wife and I's room, I entered to see her sitting up in bed, wearing her readers, and with an open Bible in her lap. Only the lantern on her side was lit, but she saw my entry and went to stand, asking in a hushed tone,

"Welcome home, hon. Was everything ok? Doyle stopped by earlier, but left in a hurry when one of his boys knocked. There was something about a wounded man?"

I set the vest down by the bed and motioned for her to not get up. Just as I did and kicked off my boots, I was in the glow of her bedside lantern and she saw the side of my white shirt and how covered in dry blood it was. She let out an audible gasp and became frantic, "It wasn't you who was injured, was it? Oh Paul, you have to be careful…"

She went on, hopping up and laying down a towel on my side of the bed since it was obvious that I had no concern for the bedding after undressing and plopping myself down on my side. She already had her little household first aid box or "Joseph Repair Kit" out and was cleaning the dried blood around the parts under Hudson's wrapping when at last there was a pause for me to reply;

"I'm fine, honey. Joshua Graham's returned…"

With my eyes shut, I hadn't even realized what I said, or considered it when I felt her hands stop their cleaning work, and I must've been too delirious to notice what words came out. Her hands were still frozen on me when I added, "… By the way, I'm taking Joseph to work with me tomorrow morning. Goodnight honey…"

I couldn't quite hear what she said after that but it was already too late. The day had caught up in full and I fell into a deep sleep.