What's Left of My World (Book 2): This We Will Defend

by C. A. Rudolph

  “It’s no problem, really,” Alan said as he sized the old man up. He had a slender, muscular build that was almost completely devoid of body fat. His glasses hung at the tip of his nose, and the lenses, while large in diameter, were paper thin. His smile was as genuine as they came.

  “Would the two of you like to join us?” Lauren asked.

  The old man offered a toothy grin. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Lauren.

  The old man motioned to his companion, and she moved to stand with him.

  “This is my wife, Ruth,” he said. “I’m Bernard…but please, call me Bernie.”

  “It’s nice to meet you both,” Alan said. Out of habit, he was ready to respond with trail names but decided against it this time. “I’m Alan. This is my daughter, Lauren.”

  The group exchanged pleasantries as Bernie and Ruth took seats on the ground on the opposite side of the campfire.

  “We live on a farm alongside the Potomac River not far away in Pendleton County,” Bernie said. “We come here a lot, especially this time of year, to find peace.” He paused. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I think you’re doing a marvelous thing. The way you talk to your daughter is the way all fathers should talk to their girls.”

  “Thank you,” said Alan. “I really appreciate that. I’ve always felt that being honest, open, and direct is best.”

  “Well, sir—we definitely agree on that. Young lady, you listen to your dad,” Bernie said as he pointed his finger at Lauren. “Everything I heard him say to you tonight has merit. He’s a smart man, and you’d be doing yourself a disservice if you chose not to heed his words.”

  Lauren smiled. “No need to worry about that,” she said. “My dad is my best friend.”

  “That’s so sweet,” Ruth said. Her voice rattled and, unlike her husband’s, showed her age. “I was like that with my daddy, too. He was an honorable man. God rest him.”

  After a moment, the look on Bernie’s face changed. It was as if a thought occurred to him that caused him to lose every last bit of joy he had left in the world. Noticing his silence, Ruth turned to him. She reached for his hand, and he took hers into his. Then they both just sat there together and trembled.

  “Is something wrong?” Alan asked.

  “Yes, there is,” Bernie said. “I don’t talk about this much, especially with strangers, but in light of what I heard you say to your daughter tonight, I think it may be something she needs to hear. It might do her some good, if you’ll allow me.”

  “By all means, then,” Alan invited.

  Bernie turned his attention to Lauren. “It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long ago, but it has. Ruth and I had a little girl…she was just as pretty as you, Lauren. She lived with us on the farm for a while until she was…taken,” he began concisely, as if concentrating on the pain each word caused him. “She was abducted not long after she turned thirteen years old. When the police finally found her, they discovered that she’d been tortured, sexually assaulted, and murdered.”

  No one said anything as Bernie spilled his guts to all present. He’d been carrying this story with him every day since it had happened, and his voice conveyed his agony.

  “I didn’t want to read the police report at first—in fact, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t. But I just couldn’t continue on without knowing. It said that she’d been attacked and that she’d fought back against her attacker,” Bernie said. “She was covered in what they called defensive wounds—I guess that meant she put up a fight. The man that killed her apparently had some defensive wounds of his own.” He paused. “She wasn’t his first victim…and he was killed by another inmate while awaiting trial for several counts of capital murder. Guess in the end, he got what he deserved.”

  “We never got to say goodbye to her,” Ruth said while sniffling and wiping her nose with a bandana. “For whatever reason, they wouldn’t let us be present to formally identify her. They said her body was…badly decomposed. We never saw her after she died.”

  “A lot of things happened that didn’t make sense. They told us a lot of things in some sort of effort to make us feel better, I suppose. If that was their intention though, it didn’t work. I figured time would help us heal, but that hasn’t worked either.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alan grieved, “for your loss. If that ever happened to me, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” said Lauren.

  “We’ve never been able to find closure after all these years. I think that’s why we spend so much time in the woods—searching for some sort of enlightenment from God or something,” Bernie said. “It makes it real hard to have faith in God when he allows things like that to happen to people—and even worse, to a child. But there’s one thing that’s glowingly evident in this world…there’s men out there capable of undeniably abominable things.” He pointed to Lauren again. “You keep that in mind, young lady. You carry it with you every single day. You listen to your father. And don’t you ever stop fighting no matter what happens, you understand me? If someone tries to hurt you, you make them wish they never crossed the likes of you. If they do hurt you, you make them pay. You…fucking…bury them.”

  Lauren nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said as she filed away everything she’d heard.

  “Good girl,” Bernie said. “You’ll do fine. You have a look about you—I can tell you’re different than most other girls your age.”

  Lauren smiled at the compliment. She watched as Bernie and Ruth exchanged endearing looks at each other and sobbed occasionally. They held hands like it was the only thing keeping them attached to the Earth.

  “Bernie, Ruth? If you don’t mind me asking, what was her name?” Lauren asked.

  Ruth smiled through her thin tears as if years of good memories had begun to fill her mind. Bernie did the same and placed a kiss onto his wife’s wrinkled cheek.

  “Sasha,” Ruth said with a faint smile. “Her name’s Sasha.”

  Chapter 16

  FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo

  Woodstock, Virginia

  Thursday, August 5th (Several months earlier)

  After spending the first night in her new room within the confines of senior quarters, Faith sat quietly while transferring her personal items into her new footlocker from a pile of crumpled boxes that had been delivered to her. For all her efforts, she still hadn’t been able to find her Bible, and that displeased her a great deal. She had no idea where it could be, where to look for it, or even how to get it replaced. It had accompanied her to the camp and had been her constant companion until recently. She felt alone without it.

  Faith hadn’t seen any familiar faces since she’d been returned here and she occasionally wondered if her friend Debbie and her husband, Ben, were still around. She didn’t know anyone else here, but that didn’t bother her. Faith wasn’t feeling very social. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of what to do with her life now, and the things her husband had said to her when she’d last seen him. In their last conversation, Sam had instilled a puzzle within her, and she was now in the process of laying out all the fragments in her mind. Some pieces were still missing, but she had faith that the Lord would show her the way—in time.

  A man approached her from behind. He called Faith by her first name and said hello to her in a sincere tenor. Faith stood up slowly, her joints fighting her. She stretched her back and turned to face the man. He was dressed in a loose-fitting suit. He had a button-up shirt on that carried the DHS logo, but wasn’t wearing a tie. His hair was mostly white with some gray undertones. His skin showed signs of weathering, and he wore a pair of plastic-framed reading glasses that hung on the tip of his nose. He held a genuine smile and appeared distinguished and kind.

  “I’m Reverend Hal Wigfield,” he said, introducing himself with an open hand and a gentle voice. “Camp pastor.”

  Faith smiled and took his hand into hers. “Faith Gallo—but you already knew that. It’s a pleasure to meet
you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Pastor Wigfield said. “Do you mind if I have a seat?”

  Faith nodded and sat as Pastor Wigfield took a seat beside her on her bunk.

  “I have to admit this comes as a major surprise to me,” he began, “but I was told that you’re interested in helping me with the ministry here.” He paused and coughed a few times, then removed a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Sorry—I’ve had a cold for a while that I can’t seem to shake. My immune system isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Sorry you’re not feeling well,” Faith said. “And yes—I’m very interested in offering whatever I can. I think I could be an asset.” She paused. “Besides, there’s not much else I’m allowed to do here anymore.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Pastor Wigfield said, followed by another small coughing fit. “What kind of experience do you have?”

  “My husband and I were both assistant pastors in our church for several years,” Faith said. “We planned and hosted prayer meetings in our home, and I occasionally assisted the children’s church sermons as well.”

  “So you’ve been walking the Lord’s path for a while, I take it?”

  Faith smiled. “I’ve been studying the Bible and attending church before I was even old enough to walk it.”

  Pastor Wigfield smiled genuinely and his partial plate clicked out of place. He used his tongue to put it back into position.

  “I think we have a great deal in common,” he said. “This has been my calling ever since I was young. I graduated with honors from Wheaton College—Illinois, not Massachusetts. I majored in biblical studies and minored in Christian education. I started my own ministry not long after that and then applied to become part of the pastoral staff at a few Pentecostal churches. Before I took my current position, I was the lead pastor at First Assembly of God in Winchester.”

  “I’m surprised that we’ve never met before,” said Faith while tilting her head to the side.

  Pastor Wigfield placed a folder that he had been holding in his hand down on the bunk and crossed his arms. “We don’t have a very large congregation here, Faith, and as much as I’ve tried to get more people involved, nothing’s worked thus far. Honestly, I don’t have the energy I used to. And I’m not sure if the lack of interest is due to me losing my touch or not. I’m getting too old, I guess.”

  “Maybe I could help you offer a different approach,” Faith said. “I’ve always been successful at getting people’s attention. I’ve been known to be persistent.”

  Pastor Wigfield nodded and smiled. “My dear, if you could find a way to do that, I’d be forever indebted to you,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I miss having a large group to minister to. Aside from the twenty or so that come to service each Sunday, no one else really seems interested. I think they feel lost—and that God has somehow abandoned them in these troubled times.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth,” Faith asserted. “He is everywhere.”

  “You and I know that,” Pastor Wigfield agreed. “The question is, how do we get the attention of the folks who’ve lost everything…including their faith? So many are hurting now.”

  “Then it’s our job to give them something to believe in,” she said astutely. “There’s always a way—and I’ll help you locate it. If you allow me.”

  The old pastor gazed at Faith. His lips pursed and his brow furrowed. “What do you mean…if I allow you?”

  “I meant just that,” Faith said. “You’re not just a pastor. You’re a DHS employee. I can only assume that means you have orders to follow, above and beyond your calling to God.”

  Pastor Wigfield’s face contorted. He reached for his handkerchief, coughed into it, and wiped his nose. “Mrs. Gallo, I’m going to ask you to kindly not judge me based on the uniform I wear or who I work for,” he requested. “I am a man of God first and foremost. My only concern is making sure these people know God’s word and His love. I am a shepherd to my flock and I want to lead them in any way I can into the Kingdom of God.”

  Faith nodded and smiled, but didn’t respond. The aging man hadn’t said anything yet that she didn’t agree with. The fact was, she wanted the same thing. She just didn’t think her definition of the ‘promised land’ was the same as the pastor’s. As they sat quietly for a moment, he rifled through some papers in a manila folder beside him.

  “There’s a note in here…that says I’m supposed to keep close watch over you,” offered the pastor. He paused and looked at Faith, his eyes peering over his reading glasses. “Any idea why that might be?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest.”

  “Seems you made quite the impression on Mrs. Carter,” he said shrewdly. “The note carries her signature.”

  Faith contemplated for a moment. She’d gotten the impression that the new queen of the women’s detention center was not her biggest fan, even though they’d had only moments to get to know one another. Beatrice had a mediocre poker face at best and Faith could easily sense what kind of person she was. She knew that Chief Carter was a person capable of saying one thing while thinking another. She had in all probability made a living of getting whatever she wanted by following through with her ulterior motives. People like Beatrice didn’t impress Faith in the least, but Faith had no other choice than to assign her as an adversary.

  “I can’t expect everyone to like me, I guess,” Faith muttered. “I don’t mince words. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I speak truthfully and as intelligently as I’m able in any context.”

  “Assertiveness can be…a bit of a curse,” Pastor Wigfield joked. “But it can also do marvelous things if used appropriately.” He paused and closed the folder. “I like you, Faith. I think you being here and the two of us being brought together is God’s will.”

  Faith smiled. “It’s a good thing, then…me being here.”

  The old pastor smiled. “Oh, I agree,” he said. “I pray that it becomes a great thing.”

  He spent the next few minutes explaining the arrangements to Faith and helping her get accustomed to the roles she’d play in her new work detail. They would spend time together off and on each day to discuss plans for Sunday’s sermon and, at times, to pray with those in need. Faith was pleased with what she heard and was elated at knowing how much freedom she’d be allowed. She would be permitted ample time for Bible study and she would eventually be able to preach her own sermons to the congregation. The puzzle was starting to come together now. This was going to be her way, Faith thought. She was going to empower these people and help them find their faith again. She would show them how to escape the chains of bondage using God’s word. This was going to be her way to make things right—her way to avenge her husband.

  Faith was certain that even under the watchful eye of the DHS’s pastor in her new work detail, Beatrice Carter wasn’t going to let her out of her sight. She’d known that, even if she hadn’t been privy to the note that the new CCO had given to the pastor. Pastor Wigfield was a trusting man and she guessed it wouldn’t take long for him to develop a level of confidence with her. She had already seen the seeds she’d sown today start to sprout. She knew that she couldn’t fully trust him, though. As long as he took orders from the Department of Homeland Security, just like Beatrice, he was to be considered an enemy—and it didn’t matter how much of a man of God he truly was or proclaimed to be. Faith needed to be subtle in her approach with this and with everything she did from here on out. She was taking a step in the right direction, she thought. She hoped she’d find a way to get it done and she prayed she could get it done before she wound up dead.

  Chapter 17

  “Among the natural rights of the colonists are these: First a right to life, secondly to liberty, and thirdly to property; together with the right to defend them in the best manner they can.”

  —Samuel Adams

  St. James Church

  Trout Run Valley

  Hardy County, West Virginia

  Sunday,
October 17th (Present day)

  A table had been assembled in the sanctuary of St. James Church between the pews and the altar. A laminated USGS topographical map displaying Trout Run Valley and the areas surrounding it had been placed on top. Fred Mason, who usually ran the weekly meetings from the pulpit, was standing tall now between the altar and the table, his arms crossed in front of him, his eyes moving between the map and the familiar faces that had begun filing into the building. This was an all-hands meeting, and the topics of discussion today were of a very serious nature. Some of his neighbors would be more receptive than others to the information that he was about to share. As such, Fred had made it a point to set the tone. He did so today by displaying a chiseled expression that only a military veteran of his caliber could muster. He’d even donned his ACU fatigues, complete with name tape, rank insignia, and other patches that were indicative of his career.

  As group members entered, made small talk, and offered donations of clothing and other items to the Schmidt family, Fred was busy scanning the faces in the room. He was impressed to see members of the Brady family in attendance for the first time since meetings had begun being held here. Bo, Junior, and the youngest of George Brady’s sons, Ricky, had taken seats among the regulars. When his eye caught theirs, he nodded and smiled to them graciously and then waited a moment for the noise to die down before finally clearing his throat and calling the meeting to order.

  “People, we have some items of dire importance that we unfortunately need to discuss today. I know we’ve all been through a lot in the past week—especially considering the most recent attack,” Fred began. “I’d like to take a second, though, to thank you all for donating items to the Schmidts. Lord knows, it will go a long way toward helping them get back on their feet again.” He paused and altered his tone to one of gentle sarcasm. “Lord knows, it will definitely lighten the load on my family’s slightly overloaded shoulders as well.”