Gun Mage 3: Surviving a Post Apocalyptic Magic Earth by Logan Jacobs

Author:Logan Jacobs [Jacobs, Logan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-13T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Frederick’s household was not filled with night owls. The kids ran amok for another hour or so, then disappeared into their bedrooms. Frederick and Sarah finished a few chores and spent some time talking with me about our attempt to reach the west coast, then quietly slipped into their own bedroom and closed the door. I went back to my own room and flopped onto the bed, still fully clothed, and waited for the house to settle.

When no one had moved inside the house for an hour, I crept quietly from the bed and stepped into the kitchen. There was a back door nearby that led into a small yard where Sarah grew herbs and spices, but there was no fence to be climbed or gate to be opened, and I could slip away with no one the wiser. I closed the door to the sewing room, then tiptoed to the kitchen door. The door squeaked when I tugged it open and I froze in place, but the house remained still and silent. I exhaled the breath I had been holding and slipped out into the night.

It didn’t take long to discover that the Amish, as a rule, were not ones for late night activities. I spotted lamplight in a few homes, but the town itself was still and silent. I was alone under the vast star-filled sky as I hurried along the road, and I’ll admit that I took a moment to stop near one of the street corners and drink in the view.

Sorcha’s hosts lived in a small one-story house that sat next to the church grounds. It wasn’t much bigger than the stable I saw nearby, and like the rest of the town, it laid dark and quiet. I crept around the side of the house, and spotted the shed that Sorcha had mentioned in her note, though the term shed was a disservice to the building. It had windows, a sturdy door, a shingled roof, and a fresh coat of paint, even if it was the size of a shed.

I scurried across the brown grass and patches of ice to the door. After a quick check for wandering Amish, I tapped on the door. It opened a crack, and Sorcha’s emerald eyes peered out at me. She smiled, then opened the door the rest of the way.

Like my room, Sorcha’s shed also served a dual purpose. The bed and a small bookcase sat under a window with a view of a large elm, while the other side of the room was taken up with an array of cabinets, an easel and stool, and a large collection of painting supplies.

“Helga paints when she and Leonard aren’t tending to the church,” Sorcha stated as she closed the door.

“I can guess why she does it out here,” I noted as I wrinkled my nose. “I wouldn’t want that smell in my house, either.”

“You get used to it,” Sorcha laughed as she led me toward the bed.

She peeled off the white nightgown she was wearing, no doubt provided by Helga and Leonard.

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