Marcus Pike, Secret Freak

“Knock, knock!” A woman’s voice rings out from outside. In a panic, you cast your eyes around for something to use as a weapon. 

That bust of Socrates will do. You’re about to lunge for it, when Marcus lets out a loud, surprised laugh.

“What are you two doing here in all of this snow?” he asks as two people enter the museum, stomping the snow off of their boots and onto the welcome mat. 

“She made me come,” an elderly man grumbles. “Damn woman has spring fever.”

A matronly-looking woman with deep laugh-lines around her eyes gives the man a small shove. “Don’t listen to him, he was just as restless to get out of the house. A snowstorm at the end of March, honestly!”

“It always snows at the end of March,” the man grunts, fishing in his coat pocket. “Got a trade.”

Marcus grins. “I was hoping you’d come around soon, actually. Just finished this.” He opens the drawer of a nearby desk littered with papers and pulls out a small wooden figurine. “It’s a horse. Well, it’s supposed to be. The proportions are a little off.”

You watch as the older man takes it and turns it around and around in his hands just a couple of inches from his face. “Your technique is getting better,” he says gruffly. He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out his own hand-carved piece. 

This piece is expertly carved; a small, smooth sphere trapped inside a little cube frame. Marcus takes it reverently, spinning the sphere around within its cage with a smile. 

“Maybe one day I’ll get as good as you,” he says. 

“Doubt it.”

“Shut up, Harold.” The elderly woman pulls a small canning jar from her satchel. “I brought you some of our peaches.”

“Oh Edith,” Marcus exhales softly. “That’s very generous of you. I’m not sure I have something of the same value to give in return.”

“Do you still have some of those candles you made last summer?” the woman asks. “They made our entire house smell like honeysuckle.”

Marcus brightens. “I do! Let me–” he starts for the door, and then turns around, seeming to only just now remember that you’re still standing there, watching this exchange in dumbfoundment. 

“Whozzat?” The old man grunts. 

“Uh…” you say weakly. 

“A traveler,” Marcus answers quickly. “Staying until… well, until she moves on, I suppose.”

“A traveler!” the woman exclaims. “Where are you from?”

You shake your head, and she gives you an understanding, sympathetic look. “And where are you heading?”

“Away.”

“S’what I figured,” she nods, as though you’d actually given an explanation. “Well, you couldn’t have found a better place to end up, if only temporarily. Marcus and his museum are practically famous for their hospitality.”

Marcus laughs. “I think ‘famous’ is a strong word, unless you’re only counting those within a few country miles from here.”

“Famous is as famous does,” Edith says, which makes absolutely no sense to you. “Go fetch me one of those honeysuckle candles.”

“Damn house is gonna smell like a flower shop,” the old man grumbles.

That night, as you and Marcus share Edith’s jar of peaches, you have to keep yourself from staring at him, wondering what this man’s story is, and how he came to be… him. Marcus. The man with an entire museum sitting in an airplane hangar in the Pennsylvania countryside. 

“How long have you been here?” you can’t help but ask. 

Marcus looks up and to the side with a thoughtful expression. “Must be… seventeen, eighteen years now? Eighteen,” he decides. 

You do the math in your head with a small frown. “That’s five years after everything… you know.”

Marcus nods. “I kicked around for a while, went back home to Austin, where I grew up, but…” he sighs, trailing off.

“But what?”

“But familiarity doesn’t equate with happiness. Guess it took the end of the world for me to figure that one out. I had to let go of it, of… everything, and one day I just… took off. No plan, no nothing. In hindsight it was pretty stupid, but knowing how it ends up, well, I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Marcus leans back onto the tattered couch cushions with a faraway look as he continues. “Got the idea for the museum by chance. I was passing through Kentucky, they’ve got–you know, all those big horse ranches and stuff. I was exploring one, looking for food and found something else entirely.”

“What was it?” you ask, engrossed by his story. 

“A Vermeer. An original. Just sitting in an abandoned mansion in the middle of nowhere, and I just thought… that it was a shame, that it would just degrade and deteriorate with the rest of the house, and that no one would ever see it or appreciate it ever again. And so…” Marcus laughs softly, “I took it.” 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but smile. “So you became an art thief.”

Marcus fixes you with a strange look that you can’t interpret. 

“Yeah,” he finally says with a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. If you want to call it that, that is.”

“What would you call it?”

“I’m an art… liberator.”

“Mmm,” you raise one eyebrow.

Marcus grins. “It’s all in the way you look at things, isn’t it?”

You turn and stare at the crackling fireplace for a few moments. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

The silence that falls between you isn’t nearly as awkward as it was before. It’s almost… cozy. Companionable. Safe. 

“I’m from New York City,” you offer, as a trade of sorts for Marcus’s story. 

“Are you,” he intones softly, the words laden with meaning and sorrow. Apart from maybe the U.S. capitol, New York City was one of the hardest hit. That’s one of the main reasons you don’t offer that information to others; the discomfort, pity, and even horror on their faces is simply more than you can bear. You could never reconcile the fact that you are the one to witness other people’s horror, when you are one of the lucky few who survived. You can’t imagine what it must be like for those who, hypothetically, survived from the capitol. You don’t know–you’ve never heard of anyone who had.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Is that where you were before you came here?”

“No.” You weren’t ready to talk about that yet. 

Marcus nods, always understanding, never pushing. You still wonder how someone as soft as him has survived a world like this without breaking.

It certainly broke you. 

But perhaps that was the problem all along: you coated yourself in sharp spikes and armor, becoming harder to cope with the realities of the world… But hard things will eventually snap in two. You and Marcus adapted to the Now with two completely different strategies… and you’re starting to realize the power of his softness. 

“I’m from D.C.,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. 

“What?”

“Before Austin. I lived in Washington, D.C.” 

The next morning, you awake to the sound of birdsong, a welcome change from the quiet, snow-covered world. Marcus comes down from what must be his bedroom upstairs not long after, and looks out of the window with a soft, contented sigh. 

“That means it should warm up pretty significantly today,” he says by way of greeting. “With any luck, the snow will be gone by tomorrow.”

“Good.” You snuggle further down into your sleeping bag, chasing the last few minutes of warmth before you have to get up. “Sometimes I feel like I never got warm after the night that you found me.”

“The sunshine should change that,” Marcus says with a grin. “That, and a little hard labor.” He playfully shakes his finger at you. “I’ve let you skate along for free here long enough, but it’s time you earn your keep. And it will be nice to have a helping hand.”

You follow Marcus to a small stable tucked away at the edge of his property, where two horses, one black and one dappled brown, are waiting. 

“Meet Rembrandt and Mr. Pickle,” Marcus announces. 

The laugh comes out before you can stifle it. “Mr. Pickle?”

“Rembrandt, because she's dark, mysterious, and moody. And Mr. Pickle, because he's the dumbest, most accident-prone horse I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Constantly knocking over the rain barrels and getting into things he shouldn't be. So he's always getting himself in–”

“Into a pickle,” you both finish in unison. 

Marcus turns to look at you and flashes a wide, warm smile. At once, your entire body feels overheated for the first time in days, but it isn’t the sunshine or the physical activity. You shake your head as you turn over the straw in the stable in the way Marcus instructs you. You’re just lonely. You aren’t used to being in close proximity with another human. It’s only a surface-level fascination because he confuses and intrigues you. These and a hundred other excuses swirl around your mind as reasons for your physical reaction to this man, and you force yourself to promise that you’ll leave when the weather improves enough for things to bloom. As long as you can forage, you can survive on the journey to… wherever it is you’re going. 

Where are you going?

It’s a question that has hovered in the periphery of your awareness since you fled the Colony, always being shoved away as something to worry about later, after this thing, or the other thing, or the other. You haven’t had the time to pull it out and examine it thoroughly. No, that’s a lie. 

Coward. 

It’s far easier to simply keep running than it is to have a destination in mind. All this time on the road, you’ve pretended that you can live like this forever… until you can’t.

This is why we don’t think about this. 

“...should be coming today.”

You shake yourself to try and dispel the dark thoughts, realizing Marcus has probably been speaking this whole time.

“Sorry–what?”

To his credit (not that he needs another checkmark in the ‘amazing guy’ column in your brain), Marcus gives you a patient and understanding smile. 

“I was saying that it’s Monday, and that means a young student from the Amish community north of here should be coming today to study.”

“Study?” you squint in confusion.

“I have a collection of rare bibles,” Marcus explains. He leans closer, looking from side to side before he speaks, as though he was about to tell you a great secret. “I even have a Gutenberg bible.” He says it with such gravitas, and waits expectantly for your reaction.

“...I don’t know what that is.”

“Well,” Marcus exclaims cheerfully. “It’s a good thing you’re here, then, isn’t it?”

He unlocks the door to the museum and gestures you inside the same way as before. This time you don’t wait, giving him a small nod before entering the hangar. 

Yesterday, you were too overwhelmed and too skittish to properly look around, but today you can’t help but move further into the space and explore. You wander in between the artworks, passing by Classic Greek and Roman statues, Native American pottery, sculptures by Rodin and some odd-looking modern art pieces that cause you to tilt your head to the side as you consider them.

There's enough here in the middle of the hangar to keep you occupied for an entire day without even beginning to examine the crowded walls, but you force yourself to peruse the paintings as well, starting with the western wall and slowly moving around. You scan up and down the crowded jumble of artwork; there's something about the eccentric “organization” (and in some places, the lack thereof) that makes this experience far different than any museum field trip you'd taken as a child. The mixing up of styles, eras, and painters isn't disorienting, as you'd expected, but unique and strange and intentional, and it makes you look at the artwork in a new light. It's as if all of history has blended together in one colorful, eccentric heap. You wonder if the walls are a reflection of how Marcus's mind works.

Thinking of him again, you glance over to where he's standing. He's at the large bookshelf, presumably organizing the shelves, but when you turn your head in his direction, he's already looking at you. Then, he blinks and grabs a book at random off the shelf and examines it–you aren't exactly sure for what. He clears his throat awkwardly and sets it back down.

“All right?” he asks. “What do you think?” He shuffles back and forth, seemingly anxious about what your response will be.

“In all the years I've spent on this earth, I think this is the strangest, most interesting… and wonderful thing I've ever seen,” you say truthfully. 

“Yesterday you thought I was crazy.”

“I still think that.”

Marcus presses his lips together and looks down.

“...and I think that makes you the sanest person in the whole world.”

Marcus looks back up again as a smile spreads across his face. “Now who's not making any sense?” he teases. 

“Hallo?” An unfamiliar voice cuts into your conversation, and you jump out of your skin, still unused to random strangers popping in unannounced. 

“Mr. Pike?”

Marcus turns toward the front door with a smile. “Jebediah, there you are.”

A young boy stands in the entrance to the museum wearing dark pants with suspenders, a collared shirt, and straw hat. He looks to be around sixteen or seventeen. He acts around sixteen or seventeen too, you think, when he immediately rolls his eyes.

“Only you and my parents call me that anymore,” he says with an exaggerated sigh.

“Jeb,” Marcus corrects, with a wry glance in your direction. “Glad to see you this morning. I'd like you to meet my new houseguest–she's a traveler, she's staying with me for a little while.”

“There aren't many travelers on this road,” Jeb remarks, tipping his hat in your direction. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—er, Ma'am.” He reaches into a worn leather satchel and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in a checkered kitchen towel and hands it to Marcus. “Some bread from my Mamm. For your troubles.”

As Marcus accepts the loaf with a gracious nod, Jeb reaches back into his pack and sheepishly retrieves a book. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games. Marcus’s smile widens to a boyish grin.

“Finished already? How was it?”

Jeb smiles sheepishly and pulls a worn book out of a small leather satchel. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games.

“I loved it!” the boy exclaims. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Especially the action and the scary bits.”

Marcus grins. “I thought you might.”

“Do you have anything that's scarier?”

Marcus presses a finger to his chin, thinking for a moment. “You like scary stuff, huh? Okay.” He fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of round wire-framed glasses, putting them on before perusing his shelves. “How do you feel about… Stephen King?” He selects a book with a scary-looking clown on the cover and shows it to the boy. You raise one eyebrow–you've definitely read this one, and you aren’t sure if it's the right choice for an Amish teenager.

“Cool,” Jeb breathes, taking the book with enthusiasm. 

“Don't let your mother see that one,” Marcus says, giving the boy a look.

“No shit.” Jeb rolls his eyes. Seeming to remember himself, he straightens and takes on a more polite demeanor. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, Mr. Pike.”

Marcus puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Just remember to keep up with your studies and chores the way you're supposed to.” He lowers his voice and adds, “And let me know what you think of that one. I confess: it scared the shit out of me when I was your age.”

They both laugh, and you can’t help but chuckle along. You've spent time with various groups of survivors over the years, but you haven't ever seen people act like this: sharing resources without expectation and supporting one another. 

Maybe you've been around all the wrong people. 

You laugh humorlessly to yourself. Well, you knew that already, didn't you?

Marcus gently slaps his thighs. “Well, you know the drill. Cloth gloves are in my desk drawer, and you let me know if you need any help.” He turns to you. “I'm going to make a bit of lunch for the three of us. Want to lend a hand?”

You nod eagerly and follow him out of the museum and toward the farmhouse, leaving Jeb to his studies. But almost immediately, Marcus stops, causing you to almost run into him. You aren’t sure why, until you follow his gaze… and see the man standing on the road, staring at you.

Marcus holds his arm out, silently motioning for you to stay back. “Welcome, stranger,” he calls out, maintaining a friendly and open tone. “Come to visit the museum, or just passing through? Either way, we’re happy to trade for whatever you need before you head back on your way.”

You and Marcus both know the man is not here to see the museum. He looks the same as most other travelers you've had the misfortune of encountering: ratty clothes, rotten teeth, and an air of desperation that can't be put into words. 

“Whad'ya got?” the man rasps. 

“I have food, supplies, some clothing… name what you want and I'll see what I can provide,” Marcus answers. 

The stranger looks past him, fixing his gaze on you instead. “How ‘bout the woman?”

“I'm not in the business of trading people,” Marcus says coolly. “I'm happy to trade for food, if that's what you need, but after that I'm afraid you'll need to be on your way.”

The stranger stalks closer, not taking his gaze off of you. “Wasn't askin’.” He spits on the ground. “Foolish man tellin’ all the world he has enough to his name to trade it away. What’s to stop me from taking it, eh? All the spoils to those who walk in the light.”

You physically recoil at the all-to-familiar phrase, but there's nowhere else to go. Where would you run to? Back into the museum? Into the farmhouse to hide under the covers like a child? Would you really let Marcus, the gentlest human you've ever met, face this man on his own?

“You aren’t familiar with the rules of the museum,” Marcus says, his voice firm and unyielding. “That's okay. You're a visitor here, and I am always accommodating of all who come here in search of knowledge or assistance. But I will give you this one warning: The most important rule on these premises is to be respectful of all, and the implications of trading in human beings does not fall within those boundaries. If you'd like to reconsider your statement–”

“Nah,” the other man growls. “I ain't gonna reconsider.” His hand drifts down to his hip, seeking. Reaching. You catch a glint of gunmetal under his hole-ridden jacket.

“Marcus,” you warn, eyeing the movement. 

But Marcus is already tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over to expose his own sidearm. “Let's all calm down,” he says, holding one hand out in a gesture of peace. 

The other man freezes, and for a moment you think he’s going to actually listen to Marcus. He slowly begins to raise both hands over his head, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Then, faster than he has any right to be, one hand keeps going, darting back over his shoulder to reach into a backpack, grabbing the handle of a hatchet, and launching it in Marcus’s direction before you can even scream. 

The gunshot is deafening compared to the quiet country morning.

The sound is still echoing through the trees as the man slumps to the ground, bleeding from the hole in the middle of his forehead.

You tear your gaze away from the sight and look over at Marcus. He’s standing, frozen, his gun still pointed forward. Then, with an expression of utter sorrow and regret, he closes his eyes and sighs as his arms slowly drop. The hatchet is half-buried in the ground several feet behin

“Damnit,” he breathes to himself. 

“Mr. Pike!” Jeb bursts out of the museum and starts to run toward you, but Marcus frantically throws one hand back.

“Stop!” His voice cracks as he shouts. “We’re okay,” he assures, quieter and calmer this time. “It’s over. Jeb, don’t–don’t come closer. You shouldn’t see–”

“Oh my God,” the boy gasps, moving forward anyway. “Who… Who was that?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus says quietly. “Jeb, you should go home as quickly as you can.”

“But I–”

“Jeb. Did you walk here?”

“Yes, but–”

“Take Rembrandt and go home. Tell your father to be on the lookout for strangers on the road, just in case.” 

“You think there’s more of them?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus says firmly. “But there was something unsettling about that man, and I want you to go home and let them know what happened, just to be safe.”

Jeb finally nods and turns toward the stables, breaking out into a run as he crosses the open field. 

Marcus finally turns to you. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. His hand reaches toward you, fingers outstretched as though he wants to touch you, comfort you somehow. 

You swallow. “Yep,” you say quickly, pressing your lips together. “I’m fine.”

Marcus raises one eyebrow slightly but doesn’t push. 

“Let’s get inside the house and keep watch,” he says, face grim. “I want to make sure he doesn’t have any friends following behind.” 

“Knock, knock!” A woman’s voice rings out from outside. In a panic, you cast your eyes around for something to use as a weapon. 

That bust of Socrates will do. You’re about to lunge for it, when Marcus lets out a loud, surprised laugh.

“What are you two doing here in all of this snow?” he asks as two people enter the museum, stomping the snow off of their boots and onto the welcome mat. 

“She made me come,” an elderly man grumbles. “Damn woman has spring fever.”

A matronly-looking woman with deep laugh-lines around her eyes gives the man a small shove. “Don’t listen to him, he was just as restless to get out of the house. A snowstorm at the end of March, honestly!”

“It always snows at the end of March,” the man grunts, fishing in his coat pocket. “Got a trade.”

Marcus grins. “I was hoping you’d come around soon, actually. Just finished this.” He opens the drawer of a nearby desk littered with papers and pulls out a small wooden figurine. “It’s a horse. Well, it’s supposed to be. The proportions are a little off.”

You watch as the older man takes it and turns it around and around in his hands just a couple of inches from his face. “Your technique is getting better,” he says gruffly. He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out his own hand-carved piece. 

This piece is expertly carved; a small, smooth sphere trapped inside a little cube frame. Marcus takes it reverently, spinning the sphere around within its cage with a smile. 

“Maybe one day I’ll get as good as you,” he says. 

“Doubt it.”

“Shut up, Harold.” The elderly woman pulls a small canning jar from her satchel. “I brought you some of our peaches.”

“Oh Edith,” Marcus exhales softly. “That’s very generous of you. I’m not sure I have something of the same value to give in return.”

“Do you still have some of those candles you made last summer?” the woman asks. “They made our entire house smell like honeysuckle.”

Marcus brightens. “I do! Let me–” he starts for the door, and then turns around, seeming to only just now remember that you’re still standing there, watching this exchange in dumbfoundment. 

“Whozzat?” The old man grunts. 

“Uh…” you say weakly. 

“A traveler,” Marcus answers quickly. “Staying until… well, until she moves on, I suppose.”

“A traveler!” the woman exclaims. “Where are you from?”

You shake your head, and she gives you an understanding, sympathetic look. “And where are you heading?”

“Away.”

“S’what I figured,” she nods, as though you’d actually given an explanation. “Well, you couldn’t have found a better place to end up, if only temporarily. Marcus and his museum are practically famous for their hospitality.”

Marcus laughs. “I think ‘famous’ is a strong word, unless you’re only counting those within a few country miles from here.”

“Famous is as famous does,” Edith says, which makes absolutely no sense to you. “Go fetch me one of those honeysuckle candles.”

“Damn house is gonna smell like a flower shop,” the old man grumbles.

That night, as you and Marcus share Edith’s jar of peaches, you have to keep yourself from staring at him, wondering what this man’s story is, and how he came to be… him. Marcus. The man with an entire museum sitting in an airplane hangar in the Pennsylvania countryside. 

“How long have you been here?” you can’t help but ask. 

Marcus looks up and to the side with a thoughtful expression. “Must be… seventeen, eighteen years now? Eighteen,” he decides. 

You do the math in your head with a small frown. “That’s five years after everything… you know.”

Marcus nods. “I kicked around for a while, went back home to Austin, where I grew up, but…” he sighs, trailing off.

“But what?”

“But familiarity doesn’t equate with happiness. Guess it took the end of the world for me to figure that one out. I had to let go of it, of… everything, and one day I just… took off. No plan, no nothing. In hindsight it was pretty stupid, but knowing how it ends up, well, I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Marcus leans back onto the tattered couch cushions with a faraway look as he continues. “Got the idea for the museum by chance. I was passing through Kentucky, they’ve got–you know, all those big horse ranches and stuff. I was exploring one, looking for food and found something else entirely.”

“What was it?” you ask, engrossed by his story. 

“A Vermeer. An original. Just sitting in an abandoned mansion in the middle of nowhere, and I just thought… that it was a shame, that it would just degrade and deteriorate with the rest of the house, and that no one would ever see it or appreciate it ever again. And so…” Marcus laughs softly, “I took it.” 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but smile. “So you became an art thief.”

Marcus fixes you with a strange look that you can’t interpret. 

“Yeah,” he finally says with a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. If you want to call it that, that is.”

“What would you call it?”

“I’m an art… liberator.”

“Mmm,” you raise one eyebrow.

Marcus grins. “It’s all in the way you look at things, isn’t it?”

You turn and stare at the crackling fireplace for a few moments. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

The silence that falls between you isn’t nearly as awkward as it was before. It’s almost… cozy. Companionable. Safe. 

“I’m from New York City,” you offer, as a trade of sorts for Marcus’s story. 

“Are you,” he intones softly, the words laden with meaning and sorrow. Apart from maybe the U.S. capitol, New York City was one of the hardest hit. That’s one of the main reasons you don’t offer that information to others; the discomfort, pity, and even horror on their faces is simply more than you can bear. You could never reconcile the fact that you are the one to witness other people’s horror, when you are one of the lucky few who survived. You can’t imagine what it must be like for those who, hypothetically, survived from the capitol. You don’t know–you’ve never heard of anyone who had.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Is that where you were before you came here?”

“No.” You weren’t ready to talk about that yet. 

Marcus nods, always understanding, never pushing. You still wonder how someone as soft as him has survived a world like this without breaking.

It certainly broke you. 

But perhaps that was the problem all along: you coated yourself in sharp spikes and armor, becoming harder to cope with the realities of the world… But hard things will eventually snap in two. You and Marcus adapted to the Now with two completely different strategies… and you’re starting to realize the power of his softness. 

“I’m from D.C.,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. 

“What?”

“Before Austin. I lived in Washington, D.C.” 

The next morning, you awake to the sound of birdsong, a welcome change from the quiet, snow-covered world. Marcus comes down from what must be his bedroom upstairs not long after, and looks out of the window with a soft, contented sigh. 

“That means it should warm up pretty significantly today,” he says by way of greeting. “With any luck, the snow will be gone by tomorrow.”

“Good.” You snuggle further down into your sleeping bag, chasing the last few minutes of warmth before you have to get up. “Sometimes I feel like I never got warm after the night that you found me.”

“The sunshine should change that,” Marcus says with a grin. “That, and a little hard labor.” He playfully shakes his finger at you. “I’ve let you skate along for free here long enough, but it’s time you earn your keep. And it will be nice to have a helping hand.”

You follow Marcus to a small stable tucked away at the edge of his property, where two horses, one black and one dappled brown, are waiting. 

“Meet Rembrandt and Mr. Pickle,” Marcus announces. 

The laugh comes out before you can stifle it. “Mr. Pickle?”

“Rembrandt, because she's dark, mysterious, and moody. And Mr. Pickle, because he's the dumbest, most accident-prone horse I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Constantly knocking over the rain barrels and getting into things he shouldn't be. So he's always getting himself in–”

“Into a pickle,” you both finish in unison. 

Marcus turns to look at you and flashes a wide, warm smile. At once, your entire body feels overheated for the first time in days, but it isn’t the sunshine or the physical activity. You shake your head as you turn over the straw in the stable in the way Marcus instructs you. You’re just lonely. You aren’t used to being in close proximity with another human. It’s only a surface-level fascination because he confuses and intrigues you. These and a hundred other excuses swirl around your mind as reasons for your physical reaction to this man, and you force yourself to promise that you’ll leave when the weather improves enough for things to bloom. As long as you can forage, you can survive on the journey to… wherever it is you’re going. 

Where are you going?

It’s a question that has hovered in the periphery of your awareness since you fled the Colony, always being shoved away as something to worry about later, after this thing, or the other thing, or the other. You haven’t had the time to pull it out and examine it thoroughly. No, that’s a lie. 

Coward. 

It’s far easier to simply keep running than it is to have a destination in mind. All this time on the road, you’ve pretended that you can live like this forever… until you can’t.

This is why we don’t think about this. 

“...should be coming today.”

You shake yourself to try and dispel the dark thoughts, realizing Marcus has probably been speaking this whole time.

“Sorry–what?”

To his credit (not that he needs another checkmark in the ‘amazing guy’ column in your brain), Marcus gives you a patient and understanding smile. 

“I was saying that it’s Monday, and that means a young student from the Amish community north of here should be coming today to study.”

“Study?” you squint in confusion.

“I have a collection of rare bibles,” Marcus explains. He leans closer, looking from side to side before he speaks, as though he was about to tell you a great secret. “I even have a Gutenberg bible.” He says it with such gravitas, and waits expectantly for your reaction.

“...I don’t know what that is.”

“Well,” Marcus exclaims cheerfully. “It’s a good thing you’re here, then, isn’t it?”

He unlocks the door to the museum and gestures you inside the same way as before. This time you don’t wait, giving him a small nod before entering the hangar. 

Yesterday, you were too overwhelmed and too skittish to properly look around, but today you can’t help but move further into the space and explore. You wander in between the artworks, passing by Classic Greek and Roman statues, Native American pottery, sculptures by Rodin and some odd-looking modern art pieces that cause you to tilt your head to the side as you consider them.

There's enough here in the middle of the hangar to keep you occupied for an entire day without even beginning to examine the crowded walls, but you force yourself to peruse the paintings as well, starting with the western wall and slowly moving around. You scan up and down the crowded jumble of artwork; there's something about the eccentric “organization” (and in some places, the lack thereof) that makes this experience far different than any museum field trip you'd taken as a child. The mixing up of styles, eras, and painters isn't disorienting, as you'd expected, but unique and strange and intentional, and it makes you look at the artwork in a new light. It's as if all of history has blended together in one colorful, eccentric heap. You wonder if the walls are a reflection of how Marcus's mind works.

Thinking of him again, you glance over to where he's standing. He's at the large bookshelf, presumably organizing the shelves, but when you turn your head in his direction, he's already looking at you. Then, he blinks and grabs a book at random off the shelf and examines it–you aren't exactly sure for what. He clears his throat awkwardly and sets it back down.

“All right?” he asks. “What do you think?” He shuffles back and forth, seemingly anxious about what your response will be.

“In all the years I've spent on this earth, I think this is the strangest, most interesting… and wonderful thing I've ever seen,” you say truthfully. 

“Yesterday you thought I was crazy.”

“I still think that.”

Marcus presses his lips together and looks down.

“...and I think that makes you the sanest person in the whole world.”

Marcus looks back up again as a smile spreads across his face. “Now who's not making any sense?” he teases. 

“Hallo?” An unfamiliar voice cuts into your conversation, and you jump out of your skin, still unused to random strangers popping in unannounced. 

“Mr. Pike?”

Marcus turns toward the front door with a smile. “Jebediah, there you are.”

A young boy stands in the entrance to the museum wearing dark pants with suspenders, a collared shirt, and straw hat. He looks to be around sixteen or seventeen. He acts around sixteen or seventeen too, you think, when he immediately rolls his eyes.

“Only you and my parents call me that anymore,” he says with an exaggerated sigh.

“Jeb,” Marcus corrects, with a wry glance in your direction. “Glad to see you this morning. I'd like you to meet my new houseguest–she's a traveler, she's staying with me for a little while.”

“There aren't many travelers on this road,” Jeb remarks, tipping his hat in your direction. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—er, Ma'am.” He reaches into a worn leather satchel and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in a checkered kitchen towel and hands it to Marcus. “Some bread from my Mamm. For your troubles.”

As Marcus accepts the loaf with a gracious nod, Jeb reaches back into his pack and sheepishly retrieves a book. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games. Marcus’s smile widens to a boyish grin.

“Finished already? How was it?”

Jeb smiles sheepishly and pulls a worn book out of a small leather satchel. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games.

“I loved it!” the boy exclaims. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Especially the action and the scary bits.”

Marcus grins. “I thought you might.”

“Do you have anything that's scarier?”

Marcus presses a finger to his chin, thinking for a moment. “You like scary stuff, huh? Okay.” He fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of round wire-framed glasses, putting them on before perusing his shelves. “How do you feel about… Stephen King?” He selects a book with a scary-looking clown on the cover and shows it to the boy. You raise one eyebrow–you've definitely read this one, and you aren’t sure if it's the right choice for an Amish teenager.

“Cool,” Jeb breathes, taking the book with enthusiasm. 

“Don't let your mother see that one,” Marcus says, giving the boy a look.

“No shit.” Jeb rolls his eyes. Seeming to remember himself, he straightens and takes on a more polite demeanor. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, Mr. Pike.”

Marcus puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Just remember to keep up with your studies and chores the way you're supposed to.” He lowers his voice and adds, “And let me know what you think of that one. I confess: it scared the shit out of me when I was your age.”

They both laugh, and you can’t help but chuckle along. You've spent time with various groups of survivors over the years, but you haven't ever seen people act like this: sharing resources without expectation and supporting one another. 

Maybe you've been around all the wrong people. 

You laugh humorlessly to yourself. Well, you knew that already, didn't you?

Marcus gently slaps his thighs. “Well, you know the drill. Cloth gloves are in my desk drawer, and you let me know if you need any help.” He turns to you. “I'm going to make a bit of lunch for the three of us. Want to lend a hand?”

You nod eagerly and follow him out of the museum and toward the farmhouse, leaving Jeb to his studies. But almost immediately, Marcus stops, causing you to almost run into him. You aren’t sure why, until you follow his gaze… and see the man standing on the road, staring at you.

Marcus holds his arm out, silently motioning for you to stay back. “Welcome, stranger,” he calls out, maintaining a friendly and open tone. “Come to visit the museum, or just passing through? Either way, we’re happy to trade for whatever you need before you head back on your way.”

You and Marcus both know the man is not here to see the museum. He looks the same as most other travelers you've had the misfortune of encountering: ratty clothes, rotten teeth, and an air of desperation that can't be put into words. 

“Whad'ya got?” the man rasps. 

“I have food, supplies, some clothing… name what you want and I'll see what I can provide,” Marcus answers. 

The stranger looks past him, fixing his gaze on you instead. “How ‘bout the woman?”

“I'm not in the business of trading people,” Marcus says coolly. “I'm happy to trade for food, if that's what you need, but after that I'm afraid you'll need to be on your way.”

The stranger stalks closer, not taking his gaze off of you. “Wasn't askin’.” He spits on the ground. “Foolish man tellin’ all the world he has enough to his name to trade it away. What’s to stop me from taking it, eh? All the spoils to those who walk in the light.”

You physically recoil at the all-to-familiar phrase, but there's nowhere else to go. Where would you run to? Back into the museum? Into the farmhouse to hide under the covers like a child? Would you really let Marcus, the gentlest human you've ever met, face this man on his own?

“You aren’t familiar with the rules of the museum,” Marcus says, his voice firm and unyielding. “That's okay. You're a visitor here, and I am always accommodating of all who come here in search of knowledge or assistance. But I will give you this one warning: The most important rule on these premises is to be respectful of all, and the implications of trading in human beings does not fall within those boundaries. If you'd like to reconsider your statement–”

“Nah,” the other man growls. “I ain't gonna reconsider.” His hand drifts down to his hip, seeking. Reaching. You catch a glint of gunmetal under his hole-ridden jacket.

“Marcus,” you warn, eyeing the movement. 

But Marcus is already tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over to expose his own sidearm. “Let's all calm down,” he says, holding one hand out in a gesture of peace. 

The other man freezes, and for a moment you think he’s going to actually listen to Marcus. He slowly begins to raise both hands over his head, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Then, faster than he has any right to be, one hand keeps going, darting back over his shoulder to reach into a backpack, grabbing the handle of a hatchet, and launching it in Marcus’s direction before you can even scream. 

The gunshot is deafening compared to the quiet country morning.

The sound is still echoing through the trees as the man slumps to the ground, bleeding from the hole in the middle of his forehead.

You tear your gaze away from the sight and look over at Marcus. He’s standing, frozen, his gun still pointed forward. Then, with an expression of utter sorrow and regret, he closes his eyes and sighs as his arms slowly drop. The hatchet is half-buried in the ground several feet behin

“Damnit,” he breathes to himself. 

“Mr. Pike!” Jeb bursts out of the museum and starts to run toward you, but Marcus frantically throws one hand back.

“Stop!” His voice cracks as he shouts. “We’re okay,” he assures, quieter and calmer this time. “It’s over. Jeb, don’t–don’t come closer. You shouldn’t see–”

“Oh my God,” the boy gasps, moving forward anyway. “Who… Who was that?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus says quietly. “Jeb, you should go home as quickly as you can.”

“But I–”

“Jeb. Did you walk here?”

“Yes, but–”

“Take Rembrandt and go home. Tell your father to be on the lookout for strangers on the road, just in case.” 

“You think there’s more of them?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus says firmly. “But there was something unsettling about that man, and I want you to go home and let them know what happened, just to be safe.”

Jeb finally nods and turns toward the stables, breaking out into a run as he crosses the open field. 

Marcus finally turns to you. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. His hand reaches toward you, fingers outstretched as though he wants to touch you, comfort you somehow. 

You swallow. “Yep,” you say quickly, pressing your lips together. “I’m fine.”

Marcus raises one eyebrow slightly but doesn’t push. 

“Let’s get inside the house and keep watch,” he says, face grim. “I want to make sure he doesn’t have any friends following behind.”