Chapter 7: Seeking Answers

May 30, 2027

Several days passed and before the end of the month, Clark returned to plant the corn, as well as replant some sunflowers that didn’t germinate or, despite Sir Normand and Sir Sutherland, the crows got to the tender sprouts.

On the morning of the next day after a quick breakfast of jerky and some canned pickles from the cellar, he fashioned a harrow from a six-foot chain-link gate and weighed it down with cinder blocks. He dragged it twice over the plowed area reserved for wheat and oats, first to break up the clumps and then to smooth out the surface before broadcasting the seed by hand. He removed the cinder blocks and dragged the gate once more over each plot to cover the seeds with a thin layer of soil.

He also decided that this would be the opportune time to investigate what caused the bell to ring and where it came from.

Shortly before noon on the third day, he took his shotgun and hunting knife and headed for the highway, his shadow pinned close beneath his feet. The leaves on trees and bushes were in full bloom and provided the best cover for him to go unnoticed and scout out the area. He stuck close to the side of the road, cloaked against the trees, uncertain of what to expect.

He was well along the uncharted stretch of highway with dense, dark forests crowding in on both sides when suddenly he heard the same bell from four weeks before, only this time louder and close by. He ducked and lay still, hiding in the silhouette of the surroundings, to watch and listen with bated breath. The sun was almost overhead in the midday sky. He wondered who would need to ring a bell to announce the time of day, if that’s what it meant.

Once the sound had died away and not sensing any movement, he cautiously took to the road again. The highway came to a big curve with an abrupt decline toward what sounded like a rushing stream of water. It appeared to be the same stream only wider where Katie had caught trout and he and the girls enjoyed going skinny dipping. Beyond the decline, the forest opened up to patches of green meadows and a bright world of sunshine.

As he wound his way to the bottom of the road, a tall brick wall came into view on his right. It was covered with ivy and looked like a fortification. There was a short driveway which led up to a tall, heavy iron gate with spikes along the top. To the left of the gate stood a large Christian cross hewed out of granite. On the other side, a bronze plaque was mounted on the wall. The ivy covered most of it, but through the leaves one word was recognizable. MONASTERY.

In the perfumy breeze of lilacs, it was impossible to tell if there was anyone inside beyond the gate. It looked peaceful and serene with beautifully trimmed bushes and colorful patches of tulips, daffodils and other spring flowers which certainly didn’t get that way by themselves.

Everything was too perfect, too calm, until he sensed movement behind him. He swiftly turned to face the unexpected. Two figures clad in dark brown robes and wearing large wooden crosses around their necks struggled to climb the embankment on the other side of the road. They were holding fishing rods and carrying several trout that they had caught in the nearby stream. They were startled to see Clark, as much as he was stunned to see them.

“Good day, dear man,” one of them said without hesitation and out of breath. “May the peace of God be with you.”

“Hello,” Clark responded and raised his right hand from the shotgun to show that he meant them no harm. “My name is Clark ... Clark Newman.”

The two figures stepped forward to size up their unexpected visitor but stopped to look both ways like school children before quickly crossing the road.

“I am Brother Matthew and this is Brother Anton. Are you from around here, Clark?”

“No, from the City,” Clark replied, stopping short of revealing too much and realizing the two men before him were peace-loving monks.

“We haven’t seen a living soul in well over a year,” the monk who introduced himself as Brother Matthew said with a benevolent smile.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone in these parts, either,” Clark responded, still bewildered and in disbelief.

Brother Matthew held out his arm pointing toward the gate. “You must be famished and tired. Please come in and join us for our midday meal?”

Clark thanked them for their generosity and hospitality, but said he had to be on his way. The monks would have nothing of it and insisted he join them to recover from his long journey. Seeing he had nothing to fear and curious to know what lay within the fortified walls, Clark accepted their invitation and followed the monks through the gate. The painful screech of rusty hinges pierced the calm air and sent goosebumps up and down his neck.

The narrow cobblestone driveway leading up to the monk’s residence was clean like it had been swept that morning. Gardens with well-trimmed bushes and flowerbeds interspersed with garden benches from a bygone era were laid out along either side of the driveway. Everything was alive with birds singing and butterflies fliting from one flower to another. Clark was impressed with the beauty and serenity as he followed the monks.

The residence was a two-story yellow brick structure with high roofs that clearly housed a third floor. Had it not been for the large pillared veranda that swept along the entire front, the façade reminded Clark of the Richardsonian Romanesque architectural style so often adopted by churches in the late 1800’s.

On one side, a turret rose from the second floor, topped with an open watchtower accessible from the attic floor. At the other corner, a second, more robust tower was embedded in the first and second floor walling. Both towers were capped with typical cone shaped roofs. A cornerstone with the number 1903 chiseled into it gave Clark a clue as to the year the residence was built.

“We would appreciate if you left your rifle outside the door,” Brother Matthew said, welcoming Clark into the residence. Clark also removed his hunting knife to show he understood and respected the monk’s request.

In comparison with the graceful exterior, the inside appeared modest and austere. Clark expected an entrance hall with a polished hardwood floor, walls covered with wood paneling, ornate door frames and bronze handles, and a magnificent staircase with thick railings and ornate finials.

He was rather disappointed to see the floor covered with large grey slates and walls painted white. Then again, it was befitting of the monks who professed to lead very simple lives, dedicated exclusively to prayer and worship of their almighty God. Wisdom, solemnity and reverence were their way of life and path to happiness.

There were only three monks, advanced in years, their gray to white, thinning hair made them look venerable. While Brother Anton and the third monk, Brother John, went to prepare the midday meal, Brother Matthew led Clark to a simple study with an old ham radio sitting on one side of a narrow table next to a large open Bible and a crucifix of Jesus.

Brother Matthew was curious how Clark was able to escape from the City and where he planned to live. Clark felt he could trust the monk and told him the saga of his journey along with Sally and Katie to a cabin up on the mountain the year before.

The monk was intrigued with Clark’s account and delighted to learn that Clark was not alone and that he and his companions were safe and well. However, he was very concerned how they were managing their food supplies to survive.

“We started to till a small plot of land to grow grains and a vegetable garden at the farm about a mile up from the county highway,” Clark explained.

“Oh, you mean the Wheeler farm with the big red barn?” the monk asked. Clark nodded and expected to hear more. Brother Matthew was more than happy to oblige his guest.

“It was at one time the most productive dairy farm around these parts, but over time it became antiquated and inefficient. The youngest of five sons, Charles, took over the farm, sold the cows and most of the farm equipment, and only produced hay for sale. He also started a small apple orchard to keep busy and supply the local market.

“He married his high school sweetheart, Ethel, and they had two children. They were generous people and often brought us apples, eggs, fresh and home canned vegetables. But, after their children left the farm to study and pursue careers, we rarely saw them.

“With no one to help on the farm and college costs rising, Charles and Ethel started selling parts of their land to city folks to build summer homes. They also leased the open fields to nearby farmers to make hay, and rented space in the barn to the summer folks to lodge their horses during the winter.”

“What became of them?” Clark asked.

“The daughter married and moved south, while the son went to work as an electrical engineer for a company in Danville, about 35 miles south of here. Days after the widespread power outage, he came to take Charles and Ethel to stay with him. They stopped by here to say where they were going, but, like everyone else, were confident that the crisis would soon be over.”

“ ... and the horses? I found the barn empty except for a handful of chickens.”

“I recall that they asked a neighbor to look after them. Michel, I believe was his name. Funny though,” Brother Matthew scrunched his eyes, “I do recall seeing a couple of horses outside our gate one day. Maybe the neighbor let them out and they got away.”

Clark remembered the awful smell that filled one of the houses he tried to scavenge for food. Could it have been the dead body of the helpful neighbor? He quickly erased it from his mind and asked the monk about the magnificent brickhouse just down the road from the Wheeler farm.

“I’ve never seen it, but the Wheelers once described it as being the closest they ever came to seeing a mansion in the middle of nowhere. They sold the plot of land to an important figure in the government, a man named Herschel.”

The monk took a deep breath and fell silent for a moment, closing his eyes and shaking his head in disapproval.

“I’ll never forget him,” he continued, his voice sullen and resentful. “He and a handful of armed government agents came to our monastery three months after the complete blackout of electricity and communications. He had a Boston accent, dark deep-set eyes with thick black eyebrows, and receding hair. His lips were drawn in a thin straight line and his pointy nose looked like it had been carved onto his pale face. He was shorter than his armed minions, but commanded them with swift, cold efficiency. Afterwards, I looked at a picture of Joseph Goebbels, the infamous Nazi Minister of Propaganda, and was stunned with the similarities.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if we were giving refuge to anyone. We didn’t, and he left, but three of his men stayed behind to search the rooms. One who held us at gunpoint mocked us saying they had no need for religion in the new order.

“He also boasted that Herschel and an army of agents were going from town to town, including Farrville, using drones and thermal detection devices to flush out anyone who was still holed up in their home. They had orders to remove everyone to Danville. Those who resisted and refused to leave were ... shot.”

“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight,” Clark interrupted. “After three months of freezing temperatures and lack of food, there were still people alive in these parts?”

“A handful of people like the Wheelers left Farrville days after the disruption. A month into the crisis, the situation became dire with people dying of starvation and disease, especially the young and helpless, the old and weak. Bodies had to be burned because the ground was frozen. Groups banded together and left on foot for towns south of here, pushing wheelbarrows, pulling sleds, and dragging travois.

“When the roads were free of snow, a convoy of buses and military trucks arrived to evacuate what amounted to less than 150 people of a population of more than 2900, including surrounding areas. Family members of those who were too ill to travel or bound to wheelchairs were told to bring their loved ones to the school gymnasium with the promise they would be picked up separately.”

The monk closed his eyes and fell silent again, his lips trembling, like he knew something but was too upset to tell.

Knowing what he heard and saw Clark started nodding his head. “That explains the papers I discovered in Herschel’s mansion,” he finally said.

He described how he had gained access to the brickhouse and where he found the documents that gave Herschel directives to depopulate the area. He made no mention of his suspicions about the government’s knowledge of the coming cataclysm. Instead, he described the abundance of food stockpiled in the basement like Herschel was planning on returning.

“I shudder at the thought of him coming back here again,” Brother Matthew exclaimed. He made the sign of the cross and turned to the ham radio to end the conversation.

Brother Matthew became chipper showcasing the equipment which they had salvaged from the basement after their telephone went silent. It looked like something from a bygone era that Clark once saw in a museum. It still used antiquated vacuum tubes which kept it from being fried. Radios that relied on miniature transistors and integrated circuits were permanently damaged. It was through this antique that the monks had been receiving news from around the region and beyond.

“Let’s see how our brothers 30 miles north of here are doing,” the monk said as he began vigorously cranking a lever to charge a small battery.

The radio started crackling with atmospheric static. The monk tuned the dial to a certain frequency and spoke into the microphone.

“This is Brother Matthew speaking. Can anyone hear me? Over.”

He repeated the same message a few times. Suddenly a voice came over the loudspeaker along with a lot of static interference.

“This is Brother Ezequiel here. Are you alright? Over.”

“Yes, the Lord God has blessed us with five fish today and with a visitor. And how are you and Brother Francis doing? Over.”

“We are safe thanks to the love and protection of Jesus Christ. However, the news from the cities and around the world is not good. Millions more perished this past winter due to diseases, lack of food and shelter. God rest their souls. Others were killed at the hands of incompetent leaders and selfish gangs. The government no longer exists in many regions of the country. Electric power has not yet been restored anywhere. I fear there will be more suffering long after we are summoned to heaven. Over.”

After they signed off, Brother Matthew turned and clasped Clark’s hand in both of his aging, boney hands. His face was wrinkled and covered with a look of despair. Clark could see the monk’s tired eyes well up with tears.

“You are still young and I hope you will see the day when the love of God will triumph again on this earth. It is only through the hearts of the willing and the believers that He will come.”

He stood up blinking and squeezing his eyes to clear them of his tears. “But, right now before you go, let’s thank Him for the meal He has provided us today, for humanity and our fellowship.”