“Maybe not literally,” said Lampert. “But speaking metaphorically, well, it seems pretty applicable to me. I mean, what did any church ever provide for its patrons? Sure, there were charitable-type organizations, folks that built houses or ran food shelves or whatever, but those kinda things are hardly the exclusive domain of religion, either, considering all of the secular relief agencies. So what did they really give people?”
Justin shrugged. “Hope?” he replied. “A sense of well-being? Among other things.”
“False hope,” said Lampert pointedly. “They promised an eternity of bliss, right? In heaven, that is, after you die. But what about the here and now? Did they really help with that?”
Justin sighed and lowered his head back to the table. “I suppose you may be on to something,” he admitted. “Though what I fear is that these men are simply using Christianity—or some warped version of it—to justify their cannibalism. It allows them some psychic comfort. But then again, what’s the point? After all, our sitting here arguing about it isn’t going to change anything, is it?”
“Nope,” said Lampert sadly, “won’t change one single fucking thing. I just think about this kinda stuff. That’s all.”
“Uh huh,” said Justin. “Well, do you suppose you could think of something else? Like perhaps some way of getting us out of this place?”
“Oh, I already thought all about that.”
“You have?” Justin said, looking up hopefully.
“Sure,” said the Old Man. “And I’ve come to one conclusion: we are fucked. If somebody from outside don’t come for us, we are gonna get eaten, like so many sides o’ beef. The end. Roll the credits.”
Justin groaned and re-lowered his head. “No offense, Mr. Lampert,” he said. “But maybe you should just keep these little musing of yours to yourself from now on.”
“Hey, you asked!” said Lampert crossly. “But if that’s how you want it, fine. I’ll just keep my fool mouth shut from now on.”
I sincerely doubt it, thought Justin; you haven’t managed to do that yet! To the Old Man, though, he smiled wanly and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s just been a very long, very strange couple of days and I am not myself at the moment. Please forgive me.”
Lampert grumbled a bit and then shook his head. “S’okay, Doc,” he said magnanimously. “You didn’t mean nothin’. And I guess it’s not every day o’ the week a guy gets kidnapped twice in as many days. You’re probably entitled to bein’ kinda touchy.”
Coming from the Old Man, it was practically empathetic, but Justin was far too worried to take much notice. What were they going to do? What would become of them? Suddenly a wave of despair and self-pity washed over him. What had he done to deserve this? All he’d ever wanted was to help people, to help in the fight against disease and suffering, yet here he was, a captive of cannibals, slated for the cook pot. Worst of all, it seemed like they’d finally failed. After all they’d been through, all the sacrifices they’d made and the hardships endured, their mission had ultimately come to its end in this middle-of-nowhere militant survie camp. The hell of it was, these brown-clad morons would probably kill and eat Mr. Lampert with no idea that they’d just doomed humanity’s only chance at ending the Plague, and they’d never even know. A sudden, puny scrap of hope popped into his head and, choking back the despair, he sat up at the table.
“What about their leadership?” he asked. “Do we know who’s in charge here?”
The others all generally nodded, but only Bowler spoke up.
“That would be the almighty Brother David,” said the young man. “You know, the dude with the face that looks like a melted Halloween mask?”
“Ah, yes,” said Justin. “I met with him when I first got here. By the way, do you know what happened to him? How he acquired such awful wounds?”
“Accident,” shrugged Bowler. “Or so I heard. Some kinda car crash, maybe a fire, I don’t know. But really, that’s just rumors. Who knows for sure? I sure ain’t gonna ask him.”
“Hmm, yes,” said Justin. “He does seem somewhat aloof.”
“If by that,” said Bowler, “you mean crazy as a bat in a whirlwind, then yeah, he’s aloof.”
“A-ha. And what about guards?” Justin asked. “Is there someone posted outside?”
“Night and day,” said Bowler. “One dude, plus his shotgun, that is.”
Nodding, Justin thought about it for a moment and then went over to the heavy metal door and banged on it with the side of his fist. This made about as much noise as a pillow hitting a pile of soap suds, so he tried again, this time with a kick. Nothing happened for a moment, so he kicked some more. Then a voice called from without:
“Hey! Quit that bangin’! Yer buggin’ the shit outta me! Ya hear? Cut it out! Or else!”
This didn’t sound terribly promising. Justin stepped back from the door, hesitating, and then, despite his better judgment, forged ahead.
“I want to speak to Brother David!” he hollered. “Can you hear me? I need to talk to your leader! It’s very important!”
He waited, but whoever was outside didn’t reply. Instead, he heard some non-descript mumbling, some scuffling noises, and then nothing. He waited some more, but still nothing, just the few faint sounds of the greater compound.
“Nice try, Just In Case,” said Mr. Lampert, after a little while. “Take me to your leader, eh? Gonna try an’ reason with him, right?”
“That’s the idea,” said Justin. “Maybe if I explain our mission he’ll—”
“He’ll what? Let us go? I kinda doubt it, Doc. These guys seem like just about the screwiest screwheads that ever were. I mean, you’re welcome to try! Hell, knock yerself out. But I wouldn’t count on that ugly fucker just lettin’ you walk outta here.”
Justin grimaced, controlling his temper with some effort, and then turned to the Old Man with what he hoped was a stern expression.
“One never knows,” he said. “And it would seem to be worth the effort. Unless you would prefer simply waiting around to be eaten, that is.”
“All the same to me,” said Lampert. Folding his arms across his lap, he sat back into himself and lapsed into a sullen silence.
With a sigh, Justin went back to the table, sat down, and tried to think. Eyeing his compatriots slumped listlessly on their cots, he contemplated giving some kind of a pep talk, about how they weren’t done yet and how there was always hope, but the inanity of it was so bitter and obvious that the sentiment died before it was even really conceived. No, this was no time for mock optimism. He was still sitting there when the door to their cell suddenly clanged and then swung open.
“Dr. Kaes,” said a voice from outside, “come with me, please.”
Blinking in the bright sunlight streaming into the room, Justin hesitated, glancing at his cohorts, young Bowler, and Mr. Lampert for a moment, and then swallowed a hard lump in his throat, rose from the table, and went to the door.
Outside there stood a man, dressed like all of the others in drab brown and just as unremarkable, holding a pistol, a thick, complicated-looking weapon, the likes of which Justin had never seen, which he waved around by way of emphasis.
“C’mon, you,” said the man lifelessly. “Let’s go.”
“May I ask to where?” said Justin meekly.
“You wanted to talk to Brother David, right?” said the man. “Well, it looks like ya got yer chance. Now c’mon before I get sicka yer worthless ass an’ empty a clip into it.”
“Uh, yes, OK,” said Justin falteringly. “I’m coming.”
As before, he was led into the church-like building and the Spartan office and told to wait. He sat down and did so, eyeing the banner on the wall with new-found interest (and not a little revulsion), until, after a few minutes, Brother David came in and took his place at the desk.