Windkill

Seeing a familiar face at the fence, Brock walked to the mass of people and stood just outside of the gate. Father Doran smiled at the reporter.

“Did you find what you are looking for?” the white collar of the short priest luminous in the fading light. The breeze disarrayed his salt and pepper hair, yet the priest seemed perfectly composed.

The normally verbose Brock searched for the right words but found none.

“I see.” the priest understood the look. “You are uncertain what you found and you want to probe my memory for more information.”

“Yes,” Brock replied contritely. The priest was one of the few people in the town who agreed to talk immediately. He did not warn the show away from the valley, rather, he wished them the best of luck and suggested they write a will. His status in the town was obviously above reproach, for the people at the gate went silent when the priest talked.

“Ask away.”

“What happened to all the ammunition that was left unexploded?”

“Army units from Fort Ripley arrived within a few hours of the explosion and began a search of the valley. Several thousand men were in there for three days as they looked for survivors and dangerous remnants of production. We still find a few shells every year in the surrounding fields, but the valley is clean.”

“Then why did you tell me to write a will?” Brock stepped closer to the fence, his face contorted in puzzlement.

“You spent time in the valley,” the priest spoke kindly. “Can you tell me you did not see or feel something was wrong?”

Brock made no reply. The priest smiled.

“I thought so. You never asked why we avoid the valley. Even our most adventurous teenagers may visit once, and most of them never go back in. Very few people can walk in that valley and not feel the dead.” The priest placed his hand on the fence and curled his fingers in the gaps of mesh. “We avoid the valley because we fear hell may come again to a place so close to death’s realm.”