Epitaph Road by David Patneaude Page B

faith in traditional stuff cooled. Church attendance spiraled down. Buildings stood empty.”
    â€œOmaha has Fratheists,” Sunday said. “My mom has a friend who lost her dad, granddad, brother, and two uncles to Elisha. She drives three hours one way to go to the Fratheist service.” Which made sense to me. I’d come across this local group before today, and I’d been curious enough to do some research. What I’d found out was that Fratheists worshipped God, but they did it through prayers to the souls of the men and boys who had perished in Elisha. Friends, fathers, grandfathers, uncles, nephews, husbands, sons, grandsons.
    Brothers.
    According to the Fratheists, all of the dead were our brothers, and now messengers to God.
    Several times a week, Fratheists made a pilgrimage from neighboring churches to Epitaph Road, where they lingered among the crosses until darkness came. They reached high to light their candles from the flames and then marched away, chanting hymns with candlelight playing on their mournful, radiant faces.
    Some people believed they were responsible for ghoulish acts involving the mass gravesite. From time to time, walkers crossing the burial field early in the morning would find signs of grave disturbances: big squares or rounds of cut turf, loose soil below, as deep as the layer of dirt and perhaps beyond, into the bodies themselves. But no one had ever caught the Fratheists doing anything creepier than just hanging around and lighting their candles.
    â€œThey like you,” Sunday said.
    â€œBecause I’m a guy,” I said. “Someone has to.”

Woe to you who long for judgment day…
    That day of the Lord will be darkness, not light.
    It will be as if a man fled the fury of a lion,
    only to encounter the wrath of a bear.
    â€” A MOS , 5:18–19
    â€” EPITAPH FOR N ATHAN G RIGSBY (J ULY 12, 2002–A UGUST 8, 2067),
    BY C HELSEA G RIGSBY , HIS WIFE ,
    N OVEMBER 16, 2068
C HAPTER F IVE
    On the way back, Tia wanted to stop at the library. Sunday and I went along with it. I pretended I was doing Tia a favor, but I’d had a long attraction to libraries. And I needed some books for required reading.
    We left our bikes and baseball gear at the door, but as usual, even though we were in library-visit mode now, the female patrons — almost everyone — gave me unswerving stares as soon as we got inside.
    It was a big structure, converted from an old police station and jail. Since Elisha’s arrival, governments had been able to shut down most station houses and lockups, converting them to libraries, schools, residences, office buildings, and storage. Tia headed for the research room; I headed for fiction. Sunday surprised me by following along.
    â€œWhat’s Tia up to?” I asked as we began meandering through the stacks of books. I made mental notes, titles I wanted to come back to on another day, to read for myself.
    â€œHush-hush,” Sunday said. “She’s checking out some kind of theory she’s dreamed up, but she won’t even tell me what it is.”
    â€œA theory?” I said. “You don’t have any idea what it’s about?”
    â€œWe were just looking at the junkyarddog stuff and she got all serious. Then quiet.” She shrugged. “Be right back.” She headed for a nearby lav. A silhouette of a toilet — no woman, no man — on its door.
    I’d seen old photos taken at a time, PE, when there were separate restrooms for women and men in public places. Now that was no longer practical. Everyone was expected to make do with locks and floor-length stalls and respect for everyone else’s privacy. The urinals still in existence attracted curiosity and giggles and occasionally flowers, but not a lot of urine.
    I spotted a book I needed and pulled it from its shelf and leafed absentmindedly through it, letting my fingers get a feel for the pages. It was an old story,