"What are you suggesting?" Samson moves to loom over him with brawny arms crossed, straining the seams of his extra-large sleeves. "You think something attacked us? By sprinkling a little ash in our shelters?" He scoffs, and some of the men chuckle.
"They could go either way," Plato mutters to me. "If they panic, they'll want to return to the bunker."
"Not an option." I clench my jaw.
"We should seal it shut." He grabs hold of my arm as the attention of the men divides between Holmes and Samson, shouts flying from both supporting factions. "There's still time. I can set off the charges."
Will the bunker be the death of us? Already I see the line drawn between the men. Will they split up—some remaining on the surface to face what comes while others go below, back to the familiar security of concrete and steel where we spent the past two decades?
I can't allow them to do so. We must move forward. We must overcome this fear of the unknown rearing its ugly head and press on. There's no viable alternative.
"Do it." Resignation weighs heavy in my tone.
Plato squeezes my arm and moves quickly down the hill.
I watch the men as they argue, turned in on themselves, oblivious to anything else. They've overcome so much, only to fall apart at the first sign of the unexpected. Where is our unity? Where is our strength? Was it only a brave facade?
If we're being watched, we undoubtedly appear weak. If this is a test, then we've failed. If this was merely a preliminary strike of some sort, we may not be strong enough to survive what comes next.
"Are you watching us?" I whisper. I feel the Presence now close around me, encompassing our village. My heart quickens as my senses tingle. "What do you want?"
"We should've never left the bunker—not so soon after All-Clear." Holmes has a good number of the men on his side, gathered around him and nodding, murmuring their assent. "We should've made sure it was safe first before we started setting up camp."
"We did." Samson's posture hasn't changed, and the men siding with him—including Rip—have also adopted it, arms crossed as they nod their approval. "Everything checked out: O2 levels, toxicity, radiation, all of it. We're fine out here."
"You're sure about that? You've made certain there aren't any fallout freaks anywhere in the vicinity?"
Is that what he's worried about? I feel myself relax. At least he doesn't share my concerns. It may be better for the men to think they're up against some band of mutant pranksters instead of an indescribable force of nature—if the nature that remains has any force left in it.
"So that's what's got you scared, Holmes?" Samson laughs heartily, throwing back his head. "You think a bunch of mutants came through here while we were sleeping and—"
"Have you got a better explanation?" Holmes demands. "Well? What does the mighty Samson have to say?"
Samson shakes his head slowly, no doubt scowling behind his face shield. "It was just some crazy dust storm, man. You act like we've been attacked or something."
"Maybe we have!" Holmes shouts. "No one knows exactly what's happened, but it happened while we were sleeping. All of us. And if they come again—I don't want to be killed in my sleep!"
The men on his side echo "That's right!"
"They who?" Rip retorts, dwarfed at Samson's side. "Did you see any footprints in your shelter? Cuz I sure as hell didn't. You've got no evidence for these worries of yours, son. And that's not like you at all. Get a grip on yourself!"
Holmes backs away, pointing at the older man. "You can stay out here and die if you want, but I'm taking my stuff back into the bunker. At least in there I can sleep in peace!" He reels to face the men behind him and shouts, "Who's with me?"
A roar of approval answers him, and they disband to retrieve their belongings from their shelters. I've seen enough.
"Wait!" Hands raised again, I approach them, pleading with them. "My friends—my brothers—please, hear me!"
They stop and turn, but they don't join Samson and the others. They remain scattered, each headed toward his own shelter. Holmes turns away.
"My friends...Holmes—" His face shield turns back toward me. "You have a valid concern, and you're right: We don't know what's happened. But we can't allow it to divide us. We must stay together, for it's in our unity that we've always found our strength." I gesture with my arms outstretched as if to embrace them all. "We're brothers, and if there is an adversary who wishes us harm, then it's only together as one that we can—"
"Preach it to your choir, Luther." Holmes shakes his head. "We don't want to die out here."
They go to their shelters and disappear inside. My arms drop to my sides as I stare after them. I won't attempt to persuade them anymore. Is it because part of me agrees with Holmes? Do we even belong out here on the surface?
This world is no longer our own.
Regardless, the bunker will be sealed shut, and we'll have to move forward with a breach among us the likes of which we've never dealt with before. I'll have to do my best to convince them there is nothing to fear...while convincing myself of the same thing.
Am I the only one who feels this Presence pressing in? I can't be.
"What are you?" I whisper. "Spirit of the wounded earth? Souls of the departed?"
Was there no room in the Afterlife for the billions of lives suddenly extinguished all at once on D-Day? That couldn't be. The Creator exists outside of time and space and would have been able to foresee all the horrific acts His creation were doomed to commit. He would have made room in Heaven for the victims. Hell would have been reserved for those responsible.
What about the
