9. The Bishop Arrives

Summer gave way to fall. The sky still looked weird. The air still smelled fermented and greasy. My beard remained braided and trimmed with charms. And although stragglers had been spotted and dispatched over the past six weeks, the zombies had yet to resume their swarming attacks.

The neighborhood… relaxed. We harvested our gardens, canned our vegetables, and dried our meats. We stocked our firewood and fuel. We took turns going on salvage runs to make sure our cupboards and larders and guns were full for the winter. But despite all the preparation and attention to detail, I sensed a dangerous complacency in our community. Anxiety gnawed at me.

“Gray House; Sentry North,” the radio squawked. “Umm… There’s a squad of clergy heading your way. The leader says he knows you, Jack.”

Fuck!

I brought my coffee to my front porch and looked up the street. From the early morning mist emerged two mule-drawn wagons flanked by a dozen blacked-out priests on horseback. Their tactical vests were laden with magazines, blades, and grenades. Bullpups and carbines were slung over their backs and their helmets were emblazoned with a red cross inside the Greek letter Omega.

At the head of the column, on a prancing white stallion, rode a man I knew well. He wore not a helmet, but a wide brimmed black hat. Not a vest full of gear, but a dichromatic cape: red on his right side, black on his left. A red cross and Omega emblem was embroidered over his heart. Instead of a rifle, a saber was strapped to his back.

My wife and son joined me.

“Is it him?” Betty asked.

Who else would it be?

“Liam,” I said, “get Mina and Marcus —“

“Who is that?” Liam interrupted.

“Get the dogs,” I continued, “and the cat if you can find her. Keep them quiet. Bring them through the basement and out back to the bunker. Just do it. I’ll explain later.”

Liam frowned, “Yeah, but who is that?”

“You wouldn’t remember him. Just do as I ask. Now.”

“Yeah, but —“

“Now!”

Liam relented and went back inside.

“Are you getting one of your hunches?” Betty asked me.

“And I looked,” I answered, “and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”

“Son of a bitch,” Betty grumbled. “I’ll go help Liam.”

The column came to a halt and then he was there. In the middle of my street. In front of my house. In my autumn fog. My first cousin — William Alexander Gray — the bishop.

William dismounted and moved to the lead wagon. He retrieved an oak box about three feet long and maybe twelve inches wide. He carried it onto my porch and smiled, “It’s been a long time, Jack. I see your beard has crossed over into the absurd. How are you?”

“No more absurd than your hat. I’m well,” I sipped my coffee. “Who are your friends, William?”

“Ah, yes,” he beamed, “may I present to you the Knights of the Crimson Confession.”

I sat down and invited William to do the same. He sank into the rocker and laid the wooden box across his lap. I offered him coffee; he declined. He offered a cigarette; I accepted.

“Hey, Jack!” Kyle yelled. He crossed my driveway in his Voltron pajamas, splashing coffee out of his mug as he hurried to my porch. “What the fuck is going on here,” he grimaced at William, “and who the fuck are you?”

William stood and faced Kyle.

“This is my first cousin, Bishop William Gray,” I said. “William, this is my friend and neighbor, Kyle Zlogowicz.”

William clumsily shifted the long box under his left arm and extended his right hand, “A pleasure.”

Kyle laughed and shook William’s hand, “Whatever you say. What you got in the box, Bill?”

William feigned a smile and sat back down. “It’s a belated birthday gift for my twin cousin here.”

“Twin cousin?” Kyle coughed as he lit a cigarette.

“An old joke,” I explained. “William and I were born on the exact same day and in the same hospital, about three minutes apart. So our fathers joked that we were twin cousins.”

“Yes,” William nodded, “very droll. Anyway, my father was a blade smith.”

“Was?” I interrupted.

“Yes,” William frowned, “I’m sorry. Anyway, for what would've been our fortieth birthday celebration had not the zombies come, he decided to make each of us a weapon. The saber that I carry now, and this for you, which I've kept safe for nearly four years.”

I accepted the box and opened it. I found a hand forged war hammer inside: polished steel from tip to pommel, wrapped in leather at its handholds. Its head was flat and concussive on one side, beaked and piercing on the other. As with all my uncle’s creations, it was simple but elegant, delicate but indestructible.

“It’s wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

“He so wanted to give it to you himself,” William said. “He was proud of these two pieces. His last two pieces. I promised that I would deliver it to you. I’m sorry it’s late. You probably had use of it these last few years.”

I laughed, “Your father’s characterizations of us expressed even in his forging.”

“How’s that?” Kyle asked.

“I was always the precise one,” William said, “hence the saber. Jack here was always the blunt one and so the hammer.”

“Yeah,” Kyle mused, “that’s one way to look at it. Maybe, though, he was trying to say that you, Billy, were the sharp one and Jack was the dull one. The fuck do I know? I’m just spit balling. But I do have to say, Bill, you are dressed rather sharp and our Jack here is known to wear some boring shit, even for the apocalypse. And don’t let his beard fool you. Those braids and charms are all his wife’s doing. Yup… Sharp versus Dull.”

“Well,” William began, “I’m not sure that —“

Kyle pointed at me and laughed, “Ha, Jack! You should see your fucking face. You never would have considered that, huh? Oh, well. Like I said, I don’t know shit. I don’t know your ‘twin cousin’ here or his father or what he thought or why the fuck there’s a squad of scary-ass priest knights in the middle of the street. I’m going to go eat breakfast and maybe you’ll explain it to me later.”

Kyle flicked his spent cigarette and stomped back home.

“He asks a good question,” I said. “What’s up with your little army there?”

“Hardly an army,” William replied. “They are my most trusted knights. We call the monastery at Red River our home. A hundred and fifty of us live there, all warriors for Christ. Go ahead, Jack, roll your eyes, but we have slain thousands and at a great cost.”

“Red River?” I asked. “And what brings you two hundred miles northeast to my humble little valley? If you’re missing Scranton that much, I have The Office box set on Blu-ray. We can trade for it.”

“I’m here on a mission,” he half whispered, “about which I can tell you later. For now, my knights are tired. Would anyone in your neighborhood be opposed to us setting up camp in the field across the street? We are well provisioned and would not be a drain on your resources.”

“Sure, go ahead,” I shrugged and grabbed the war hammer from its box. It was perfectly balanced… light… but it felt unstoppable. I stared at it and said, “I don’t want to have to shoot through your camp if any zombies decide to come. So be sure to set up well south of my door. This position is the right flank. Keep that in mind when you pitch your tents.”

“Very well, Jack,” he stood. “We carry an altar and tabernacle with us. I will say mass at noon. All are welcome.”

I stood and met his gaze, “Just keep your brand of crazy away from my son, Your Excellency.”