“That’s right,” she said, nodding brightly.
Bullshit.
* * *
Prior to the plague,Promised Land was one of those insular planned communities with the residential houses built around a quaint town center that included shops and restaurants and included its own city hall, school, and police department, all of it designed to be self-sufficient and exclusionary. It was the polar opposite of where I’d grown up in the rabble and din of D.C., which was transient by nature with the revolving doors of research and politics, where all different types of people and cultures commingled.
Promised Land had been built with homogeneity in mind.
The houses were constructed in the craftsman style with gable roofs, eaves with exposed beams, big windows, and covered front porches. Charming and a little old fashioned, the homes seemed to harken back to the good ole days, when women knew their place, gays and minorities were relegated to the fringes of society, and children respected their elders. Not to mention the binary system of calling everyone brother or sister, which didn’t even touch on the incestuous nature of the naming convention itself.
Perhaps that was just the cynic in me.
According to Juniper, Brother Larry (like Jesus) was a carpenter by trade, more specifically, a cabinet installer, and knew about this housing development (formerly known as DSMD Homes) because he’d worked on the planned community during its construction. When the proverbial shit hit the fan, Brother Larry grabbed his tools, his guns, and his gasoline-powered generator, and squatted in one of the vacant homes, sniping Rabids and barricading his doors as the world around us devolved into chaos.
Only a few of the houses had been purchased at that point, none of them were occupied, and several were still in the final stages of construction. Living in relative remoteness and without another neighbor in sight, Brother Larry learned to live off the land, hunting and fishing and corralling stray livestock to eventually breed. He slowly built a community of fellow desperate wanderers, selecting them for the skills and talents needed to sustain their growing population, all of which accumulated in the shining example of communal living we were witnessing today within the hallowed gates of Promised Land.
Juniper walked us through the downtown, which housed a large cafeteria where we were encouraged to eat our meals in community with the Fellowship, as well as a town library and a general store. There were also a few artisanal shops, their windows displayed with soaps, candles, and leather goods, the latter of which I intended to investigate more thoroughly at a later date. There was a hardware store, a shoe cobbler, and a dress shop where Teresa’s eyes lingered on the mannequins displaying the latest Promised Land fashions. Modest, to say the least.
“Where do you get your water?” Artemis asked when we’d stopped at a hand pump to refill our water bottles.
“From the underground wells,” Juniper said.
“Is it safe for drinking?”
“One hundred percent safe, Sister Artemis.”
“You test it for lead and other heavy metals?” I asked.
“Regularly, Brother Cipher.”
“Were your shoes made here too?” I asked Juniper.
“Yep. We make our clothing from the wool we harvest from our sheep, and we reuse and repurpose whatever fabric we receive through trade. There’s also a barber shop and a beauty salon. We’re permitted one appointment every twelve weeks.”
“Do you scavenge?” I asked, thinking perhaps I could join whatever crew plundered from the neighboring abandoned subdivisions.
“No, Brother Cipher, our town is almost entirely self-sufficient, and whatever we cannot make ourselves, we purchase or barter for it.”
“How do you pay for things here?” Artemis asked.
“There is no payment, Sister Artemis. Food is rationed on a week-to-week basis, and as for the other items you may need, you simply file a request with the Provisions Committee, and as long as you’re a contributing member of the Fellowship, your request will be granted.”
“What about those who are too young or too old to work, or people who have disabilities?” Artemis asked.
“The Fellowship cares for all its members, and we all contribute. Upon arrival, each individual is assessed and assigned a job or trade by the Placement Committee.” She then gestured vaguely to the downtown. “We do insist that you do not hoard goods. Everything in moderation, as they say.”
“And what happens if you do?” I asked, wanting to get a sense of their penal system.
“Then you’ll have to go before the Council,” Juniper responded.
“And then what?”
“The Council will determine your reparation.”
“And what might that be?”
“Something fair and fitting of your transgression,” she replied with maddening patience.
