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Hal Dorne. Retired mechanic, professional ne’er-do-well, and sort of between careers at the moment,” Hal said, nodding. “I should be sitting on an island getting drunk and sunburned right now, but it looks like things got a little twisted.”
    “Well, Hal, like I said, we’re open to doing what we can for folks, but we’ve learned a few tough lessons about trust—so if I let you in, you’ll have to surrender your weapons at the police station,” Keaton said.
    The man in the tower next to Keaton leaned over and whispered something frantically.
    “I know that, but it doesn’t mean they’ll be anything like Sherman, does it?” Keaton said back, at normal volume.
    Hal caught Sherman’s name, but brushed it off, certain he’d misheard the Sheriff, or thinking perhaps that he was referring to another individual.
    Harris spoke up, drawing the group’s attention.
    “How about it, men? It’s a risk. If we give up our weapons, we’re all theirs,” Harris said.
    “Nah,” said Rico, shaking his head. “Nah, man. Nah, check it out—if these boys were going to wreck on us, they would have done it by now. I think we can trust them, man.”
    Allen and the deckhands nodded in agreement.
    “Yeah,” nodded Stiles, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I say we trust them.”
    Harris pursed his lips, sighed, and turned to the guard towers. “All right. We agree! We’ll surrender our weapons.”
    “Good to hear it!” Keaton shouted down. He turned, speaking to someone out of sight behind the barricades. “Wes, get the gates open! We’ve got visitors!” Keaton turned back to the road-weary men. “Welcome to Abraham. Enjoy your stay.”
    The gates opened outward with a series of mighty creaks, so heavy was their construction that no amount of grease could ever really ease them up. One civilian appeared behind each gate, ratcheting them outward until they stood wide. They were latched open, and the civilians retreated inside their town. Hal noted the mechanism they’d installed on the gate, which only allowed it to swing one way without a release on the inside being held in.
    Hal and Stiles approached warily as the gate swung shut behind them, closing with a clang. Keaton had climbed down from the guard tower and met them with another man; this one was shorter, thinner, with a long, hooked nose and the appearance of a sharp-eyed hawk.
    “Gentlemen, this is my deputy, Wes,” Keaton said, introducing the newcomer.
    “True pleasure, gents,” said Hal, shaking both men’s hands. “These are my friends—I guess you could call most of them that—right here. This is Harris. Rico, Hillyard, and Allen and the four behind them are Navy working men—not like Harris, the pencil-pusher,” said Hal, earning an eye-roll from Harris, “and this is Mark Stiles, formerly of the Army.”
    Keaton and Wes exchanged unreadable glances.
    “What was that for?” asked Allen, picking up on the civilians’ brief exchange. “You got something to say about the Navy?”
    “Or the Army?” chimed in Stiles, grinning.
    “Nah,” said Wes, “we’ve just been getting more soldiers through these parts than we’re used to, that’s all. Before Morningstar, all we ever got were farmers. Now we’ve got sailors and mechanics and generals—”
    “Generals?” asked Hal and Harris simultaneously. Stiles perked up as well, looking intently at the Sheriff’s deputy.
    “What do you mean, generals?” pressed Harris, speaking quickly. “Who’d you see?”
    “Whoa, it’s nothing,” said Wes, backing up a few steps, misreading Harris’s sudden curiosity as hostility. “It’s just that we had a few guys come through here a while back. One of them said he was a general, that’s all.”
    “What did he say his name was?” asked Hal.
    “Uh, Sherman. General Sherman,” Wes said.
    The little group of survivors let up a whoop. “They’re alive!” Hal said. “I can’t believe they made it this far! Hell, they pulled it