Chapter 23
Before dawn, the town was already awake.
The sky was the color of ash, the air heavy with heat that hadn’t yet arrived.
Mary Anne stepped out of the clinic and saw a line of dim lanterns moving toward the church.
At first, she thought it was another fever call, another body to tend, but the line didn’t stop.
It wound through the square in silence, a slow river of people.
She started walking. Gravel crunched under her boots.
The closer she got, the more she saw faces hollowed by hunger but lit with something else, a kind of certainty she no longer recognized.
They carried almost nothing. A few had blankets; a few had jugs of water.
One woman held a Bible so worn its cover hung by a thread.
The smell of sweat and oil drifted in the still air.
The sound of sandals and bare feet scraping the dust was the only thing breaking the quiet.
On the church steps, Father Harlan stood with his hands raised. The candles behind him burned steadily, casting a yellow light across his face. He looked tired but peaceful, like a man who had already made his choice.
Mary Anne pushed through the crowd until she reached the base of the stairs. Her heart was pounding. “Harlan,” she said. “What are you doing?”
He smiled when he saw her. “Good morning, Nurse.”
“You’re leaving?”
“We are answering the call. The light has come. You’ve seen it yourself. The mountain burns every night. That is where the Lord waits for us.”
“You’ll never make it there. The heat will kill you. There’s no food, shade, or wells. You’re sending them to die.”
“I’m sending them to be saved,” he said. “You’ve seen what happens when man tries to survive on his own strength. This is not our world anymore. It belongs to Him now.”
Mary Anne looked past him. The pews inside were empty except for a few candles flickering along the altar. Whatever faith they’d found, it was enough to empty the town of its working hands. “You told them to leave their supplies,” she said. “Blankets, tools, food…all of it.”
Harlan’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “The Lord will provide.”
“He won’t provide water. Or medicine…shelter.”
“You still think salvation can be boiled and bottled. Your science is small, Mary Anne. You save bodies that still rot in the end. I’m saving souls.”
“You think this is faith,” she said. “It’s suicide.”
Harlan stepped down one step, so they stood nearly level. “It’s obedience, and that’s something you never learned.”
Behind her, the sky began to lighten. A thin band of gold touched the horizon, revealing the long stretch of desert beyond the ridge.
The procession of followers stretched farther than she’d realized, rows of people waiting patiently, children half asleep on their parents’ shoulders.
Mary Anne turned and saw Emily near the back, her arms wrapped around her mother’s shoulders.
Emily’s father carried two jugs of water.
“Emily,” Mary Anne called. “Talk to them. They’ll listen to you.”
Emily shook her head. “They won’t.”
“They’re your parents.”
“They’re his flock now.”
Emily’s mother reached them. “We’re going to the mountain. You should come.”
“There’s nothing there,” Mary Anne said. “Just rock and dust.”
“The light is there. He showed us.”
“It’s fire. Maybe campfires, maybe worse. You walk into that heat, you won’t come back.”
Emily’s father placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve heard enough of this. Let her stay with her doubts. We’ve chosen faith.”
Emily’s lips trembled. “Mom, Dad, please don’t go.”
“You’ll understand when you see what waits for us.”
Mary Anne looked at Emily. “If you want to stop them, this is the moment.”
“I can’t. I already tried.”
Harlan raised his hands again. “Brothers and sisters, the hour has come. The world has taken everything from us, but the Lord gives freely. Leave behind what is heavy. Leave behind the sins of comfort. Walk light and walk together.”
The crowd responded as one. Amen. The sound carried across the square.
Mary Anne stepped forward, blocking his path. “You can’t take them into the desert. They’ll starve before they ever reach the ridge.”
“You care for their bodies. I care for their souls. We each have our purpose.”
“If their souls die with them?” she asked.
Emily grabbed Mary Anne’s arm. “Come on. He’s not listening.”
The hymn began, low at first, then louder.
Harlan turned toward the road and began to walk, while the others followed.
Mary Anne stood frozen as they filed past. She counted as best she could—dozens, maybe more than a hundred.
Each carried only what they could hold. The line stretched toward the ridge, a slow-moving column of dust and color in the rising light.
Hale appeared beside her, breathless. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, rifle slung over his shoulder. “They’re really doing it,” he said.
“They’re gone,” Mary Anne said.
“You try to stop them?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She looked at the trail of bodies fading into the heat. “I wasn’t loud enough.”
Hale spat in the dirt. “Idiots’ march. They’ll be lucky to make it two miles before someone collapses.”
“They won’t turn back.”
“You want me to send men after them? Drag them back by force?”
“Better that than watch them die.”
“They’d fight you,” she said. “You’d be shooting at neighbors.”
He swore under his breath. “Fine. We’ll stay here and starve more slowly.”
“They left everything.”
“I saw. They dropped half their stores at the church. Food, tools, canteens. Enough to keep us alive for a while.”
Mary Anne turned on him. “Don’t sound grateful.”
“I’m being practical. They made their choice.”
“It’s still a grave they’re digging, and we’re standing on the edge.”
He rubbed his jaw. “You want to go after them, don’t you? They made their bed. If you follow, you’ll die with them.”
She looked toward the ridge. The sun had fully risen now, a pale orange disk behind the haze. The dust of the procession hung like smoke, already fading.
Emily stood a few steps away, watching the trail. Her hands shook. “They left everything,” she said. “Even their buckets.”
“They think they won’t need them,” Mary Anne said.
“They think they’re walking to heaven.”
“They’re walking into the desert. Heaven’s not waiting there.”
Emily turned to her. “You could have stopped him.”
“I tried.”
“You’re the one people still listen to.”
“Not anymore,” Mary Anne said.
Emily sank onto the clinic steps. “Then it’s just us now.”
For the rest of the day, the square stayed empty.
The few who remained worked in silence. Children gathered what food was left.
Hale organized guards along the wells, though there was no one to guard against. The sun climbed higher, turning the air to fire.
By afternoon, the church stood open, its doors wide.
Mary Anne walked down the aisle, footsteps echoing in the stillness.
She stopped at the front pew. A Bible lay open on the bench, a single page fluttering in the warm wind. The verse was underlined in pencil: He that endureth to the end shall be saved. She closed the book.
As darkness came, the wind picked up. It blew through the empty streets, lifting scraps of paper and the smell of cooling metal. The lanterns outside the clinic flickered weakly before dying out.
Hale’s men lit a small fire near the well, the flames low and steady. Mary Anne sat on the clinic steps with Emily beside her. The town was too quiet. Even the insects seemed to have given up on making any noise.
“I keep thinking I’ll see their lights come back over the ridge,” Emily said.
“You won’t,” Mary Anne said.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because belief doesn’t change the sun. It just blinds you to how hot it burns.”
Emily leaned her head against her knees. “You think they’re happy right now?”
“They’re thirsty,” Mary Anne said.
“You always tell the truth, even when it hurts.”
“It’s the only thing I have left.”
They sat in silence until the fire burned down. Later, Mary Anne walked toward the church again. She stood in the doorway.
She thought about the food stacked in the storehouse, the tools left behind, the empty houses waiting for their owners.
She thought about the footprints leading into the desert, and how the wind would erase them by morning.
When she turned to leave, the sky above Rosewood was clear and empty.
The stars were faint, swallowed by haze.
The silence that followed wasn’t holy. It was just silence, the kind left behind when too many people had walked away. That night, the church stood empty, its candles still burning. Their light stretched across the square, weak but steady. Rosewood had split again, maybe for good.