Samuel did his best to mask his surprise. The town of Haid had five working vehicles: three large trailer trucks for the loggers to haul their lumber and two jeeps, one for the sheriff, and one for the mayor. Ordinary citizens were forbidden from owning vehicles; that right was reserved exclusively for the politicians, their sheriffs, and a select few businesses involved in multistate trade. Samuel’s father had told him how, long ago, nearly everyone owned a motor vehicle, regardless of their profession or status. But that was before the blackout, before the technology bans, before the three states were formed, back when there were many religions and their conflicting moralities forced the old governments and their citizens into countless wars. Before, when praying to any god other than Azhuel was permissible, and when it wasn’t against the law to touch a cleric. That was an offense punishable by public flogging, and in some cases, execution.
Like with his mother.
Samuel petted his shaggy hair to the side, brushing his bangs from his eyes. Touching a cleric was one thing; conceiving his bastard son was another. The penalty was death by hanging. The high council, a group of seven clergymen appointed by the states to govern over the clerics according to their own religious laws, oversaw the public execution, and ultimately decided to give his father a harsh beating before reassigning him to a logging town in the whitelands. Someone would need to raise the child, and they weren’t heartless demons.
“Would you mind if the boy comes along?” his father asked. “He’s getting near the age, and he’ll be ordained soon. He could use more observation.”
“Like I care.” The sheriff scooped up his revolver and eased it back inside its holster. “I’ll get the engine running. Be quick.”
The sheriff put on his gloves and hood before exiting the cabin. Samuel dressed himself speedily, donning his coat and knit cap before his father had laced his boots. Samuel had seen the rites performed dozens of times, but he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to ride in a motor vehicle again. He shuffled back and forth on his feet as his father went over to the desk and collected the scriptures, tucking the brown pages inside his jacket.
“Get the knife, Samuel.”
Samuel climbed up the rickety ladder to the loft space that he and his father shared. In his excitement, he’d forgotten the most important tool for the rites, save for the scriptures. There could be no rites without blood.
Samuel reached under the mattress and retrieved the hunting knife, making sure the blade was secured inside its leather sheath before stashing it in his back pocket. As soon as he stepped outside, he could tell the storm was growing worse by the minute. Powdered snow swirled violently around him, and the gusting wind was so sharp it choked the air from his lungs. His glasses fogged, and he could only see white. He held his coat’s furry hood tight against his head as he followed the hazed object he assumed to be his father. He tuned his ears to the strong hum of the jeep’s engine, the wailing of the wind, and his father’s voice beckoning him to keep close.
After twenty steps, Samuel’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The raining snow was seeping through his clothes, numbing his muscles. Before he needed to yell out for assistance, he found the inside of the jeep. The metal door slammed shut, and for the briefest moment, he felt his father’s warm body against his own. His father casually scooted to the opposite side. They weren’t supposed to touch, but every once in a while, it happened. Samuel curled his arms together. How do you raise a child without touching him? His father did his best to try. But in those brief moments when their skin would meet, his father would calmly retract his body and pretend nothing had happened. Had he treated his mother the same way after he spilled his seed inside of her?
Samuel took off his glasses and wiped the lenses clean with the tail end of his jacket. After he put them back on, he glared into the rectangular mirror hanging near the sheriff’s head.
“You don’t have a sensitive stomach, do you?”
The sheriff studied Samuel’s reflection as he reached for the black rod sticking out beside the driver’s seat.
“No, sir.”
“If you hurl, you clean it.”
Two black wipers began to move back and forth across the windshield, knocking away the white powder that had piled on top of it. The engine groaned as the jeep dashed forward, and Samuel sank into his seat. The sheriff guided the rod down, forcing the speed to increase. He angled the wheel slightly and the vehicle moved to the right.
“I feel funny,” Samuel whispered. His stomach bubbled. He had spoken too soon.
His father almost smirked. “Relax.”
Samuel pushed himself deeper into the seat. The nausea didn’t last long since the ride was short. Barely ten minutes had passed, and they’d already ridden over the train tracks and on through the neighborhoods south of the town square. The sheriff parked the jeep next to the house directly behind the butcher’s shop. When he removed the key beside the steering wheel, the engine was silenced, and the black wipers froze in place.
“Let’s see if the old bastard is still kicking.”
Samuel and his father hopped out of the vehicle and went into the rowhome with the sheriff. Samuel was immediately impressed with its size. The living room was nearly as large as his father’s cabin, but it wasn’t luxurious. It was fairly dark and empty, save for a large sofa and several chairs seated alongside the fireplace and a lone mirror with cracked glass hanging on the left side of the wall.
The sheriff stripped off his coat and tossed it onto one of the chairs. His boots thumped as he kicked them against each other. He looked up, stretched his arms, and strolled down the hallway.
“Come on.”
Samuel and his father followed. The narrow hallway was adorned with several lampstands mounted to the sides, the wicks from the candles lit and the flames dancing. Samuel had never seen working electricity before, but neither had most others in Haid. No one in town had access to the ancient power lines buried underground, except for the mayor. The use of electrical energy in the whitelands was expensive and only permitted on a limited basis for ruling politicians and their families.
Samuel thought about the burial rites soon to be performed. How had some of the ancient faiths practiced their burial rituals? Did they care for their gods? Were they as benevolent and kind as Azhuel? Did they, too, require sacrifices of blood?
Passing several closed doors, Samuel and the others came upon a back room with the door cracked open. The sheriff pushed the door farther back before entering the room. A large lantern dangled from the ceiling, and a woman stood near the corner of the bed. She wore a patterned dress and thick sweater tights. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun. With damp eyes and feeble steps, she approached the sheriff.
“Eugene. You’re here.”
“Of course.” In his warmest tone, the sheriff still sounded cold.
“Harold hasn’t come back yet from the estate. I’m worried.”
“This storm is something else, Laura. Your man’s probably just stuck inside the estate waiting for it to blow over.”
“Or the mayor has him working overtime again,” Laura said stiffly. “Well, if you need anything, something to drink or eat, my daughter should be near the kitchen. I didn’t want her in here. My father is not himself.”