by M. L. Banner
Clydeston started to ascend the Kings’ beach access stairs, a revolver in one hand, his two supplicants tentatively following behind him. The pervert brought up the rear, carrying a knife, acting as if that wide-brimmed hat hid his identity, and… Scott Smith?
My God, this was happening just as Max had said on the day of the Event.
Shock and fear fought an emotional battle within Bill for supremacy, and shock was winning. Two of these people (not the pervert) had been to dinner at their home, and were now making demands and threatening violence against them—after barely a month?
This had to stop now. He leveled his gun toward Clyde, prepared to at least fire a warning shot and make his own demands, when he heard a voice to his right. "Freeze right there, Clyde," Lisa roared in a tone of authority he had never heard from her before.
Bill’s head spun. Lisa now held his attention and that of the others as well. She was standing on the other side of the open patio door, aiming one of Max's M4 rifles right at Clyde, using the doorway to steady herself.
“I mean it, Clyde. I will have no problem dropping you where you stand." Her voice and posture, clearly visible to all, made clear her intention.
Bill was filled with both pride and fear for his wife, standing in the open as she was. That door frame wouldn’t do much if shots were fired.
“Hold on Lisa, we were just coming to talk," Clyde pleaded, stopping on the third step, shoving his revolver into his pocket and holding his hands out in a plaintive gesture. He hadn’t expected that from her.
Bill jumped in, his Colt aimed again, this time at Clyde’s torso. “Right, that's why you're making demands while carrying a gun and Judas there is holding a knife.” Judas was so startled at being recognized, thinking his hat hid him, he dropped his knife in the sand.
Lisa nodded toward the beach. “We'll make it simple. Turn around and leave right now and I won’t shoot a hole in your smug face.”
“Come on. We were friends once, you know, before the power went out,” Clyde said, his false grin wide and inviting. He spoke very casually, like he was trying to persuade them to come out for a beer and cigars. He turned his head almost imperceptibly and whispered, “Scott, you go around the front to the other side and take that bitch and her husband by surprise.”
Scott Smith sported bushy red whiskers, the unchecked facial hair now the norm for most men. His face wore a pained look of indecision. He tugged at the back hem of his torn black T-shirt that declared I Got Wrecked at the Reef in Rocky Point.
Clyde filled with anger, spoke through clenched teeth so his voice wouldn’t carry, “Go or I’ll shoot you myself, and your pretty little wife.” Smith went.
“Lisa, come on.” Clyde held his hands up higher, still not advancing, his Cheshire grin widening. “Why won’t you share a little of your food? You know, some of us are starving. How can giving a little hurt you?”
“How do you know we have anything?” Lisa looked over to Bill, who hadn’t moved, keeping his eyes on Clyde.
“Come on, I was there at church too, when you offered the reverend some food. That was very noble of you. I’m only asking you to help some of those you know.”
Her certainty of what to do next was evaporating with every passing moment of this stand-off.
26.
Demands
Laramie, Wyoming
A group of ten men in camo stood outside the eastern gate, just south of the University of Wyoming campus entrance. Their intentions were unmistakable. Each carried an AR15 or other semi-automatic rifle–although they could have been fully automatic–either slung to their side or held at the ready. The lead man stood tall. His features were dark, almost Middle-Eastern, curiously shaved of all facial hair. The black hair on his head was a groomed to perfection, with light sprinkles of white; he looked as if he had just come from the barber. His inky eyes chilled Edgar Raintree, who was charged with the eastern gate when he wasn’t running the town’s only nursery. The Middle-Easterner spoke, in a voice both terrifying and melodic. “I assume I have your attention. Either you let us into your fair city and allow us to take a few things peacefully and go, or we will come at you with everything we have. You may not know me, so you’ll have to trust me when I say that you do not want to mess with us. We will cut you down and kill every last one of your people. It will be as if your little walled town never existed. I will not ask you a second time.”
He turned and whispered something to a short man next to him, who stepped away and walked into the middle of 9th Street. The short man let go of his slung rifle, its deadly weight resting on his chest, and grabbed two rolled-up flags on sticks from his back pocket. He thrust them to the air. As each unfurled, he began to signal by semaphore, his body pointed toward some unseen point in the north. Then, he abruptly stopped, turned the other direction and repeated the same movements with flawless efficiency. Once done, he brought the flags down, twirled them around each other, and returned them to his back pocket. He then took his position next to the Middle-Easterner. Edgar could see several people moving toward their north-eastern wall corner. The opposite boundary was now crowded with another group walking west at the south-eastern corner of their citadel.
Edgar nearly jumped out of his skin when someone tapped him on his shoulder. “What do they want?” the out-of-breath Sheriff Ralf asked. He had just run the mile to this wall in record time.
“They want some of our supplies. If we let them take the stuff, he said they’ll leave, but if we don’t they threatened to level the town and everyone in it. That guy signaled others and now we’re surrounded.” He pointed to the pint-sized flagman. “I think there’s a lot more than the twe-twenty I saw. And Sheriff…” Edgar stopped to take a couple of breaths. “They seem well organized. The GQ Middle-Eastern guy,” Edgar now pointed to him, “told me he wouldn’t offer a second chance. What the hell should we do?” Edgar asked, hyper-ventilating so badly he felt dizzy and was pretty sure he would pass out if this kept up.
Sheriff Ralf’s face dropped, recognizing the leader immediately. He knew right then they were in trouble. Standing up, unprotected, with no weapons in his hand, hands and arms outstretched, Ralf addressed him. “Sylas Luther, how in God’s name did you get out of prison?”
“Sheriff Peterman, so nice to see you again.” The lead man sounded genuine. “The prison’s electric locks didn’t work very well when everything shorted out, and some love-your-neighbor guard didn’t want us to burn to death in the prison fires. So, here I am.” He grinned, satisfied with how this was going.
“The prison’s quite a few miles from here, and there are lots of houses and warehouses in between. So, why choose us, Sylas?”
“Enough small talk, Sheriff. You know what I am capable of. I’ll ask you a simple question. Are you going to give me what I want or would you prefer we kill everybody? It’s your choice.”
Immediately, Ralf said, “No, it is not my choice; it is the town’s choice. I have to put this—”
Sylas cut him off. “It is your choice today. I just need a yes or no answer. What’s it going to be?”
27.
More Demands
Wright Ranch, outside Fossil Ridge, Illinois
A man nobody recognized sauntered up the long, straight, private dirt road of Wilber Wright’s ranch. In most ways, he was very plain looking, of average height and build, with dark hair and a permanent worker’s tan. Yet, he carried himself with a certain confidence and walked with a purpose in his step as he continued towards them. At the top of their hilly compound, Wilber and the others watched from behind an old wall that ran around the circumference of the hill. The man stopped where the drive was bisected by a new fence just erected by Wilber that ran around the base of their hill. Wilber announced, “Stranger, state your business.”
The man held up his arms, probably to show he was unarmed. “I am Thomas, a disciple of the Teacher. Our group is passing through on our way west. All we need is some of your food and one or two days’ res
t on your property, and then we will be off doing God’s work.”
Wilber’s face dropped in disbelief. “Do you believe this guy?” he rhetorically asked Steve who trained a rifle on Thomas, not sure what to trust or believe. Steve shrugged in response.
“Well, instead of that, you can just get moving along. If you need water, there is a trough full of it at the end of a path you passed on your way up my driveway.”
Thomas then repeated the words he was told to say. “I’m afraid, sir, you don’t understand. Do not mistake my words as a request. You have only two choices. You can accept us with open arms, and we will let you live and we may allow you and your people to join our quest; or you can reject us and receive the Teacher’s judgment. God grants you free will. This is the one freedom we will not take from you.”
Wilber’s face was much more serious now. He had no idea how big this group was, but obviously, based on this man’s comments, they believed they had the force to take what they wanted and either kill him, his family, and friends, or induct them all into this Teacher’s cult.
“Can we hold them off if we say no?” Steve asked, his voice betraying his concern.
“Unless he has more than, say a hundred men, we can hold him off with all our defenses. We’ll be fine.” Wilber’s tone held doubt salted with flashes of anger.
He stood up as high as he could over the four-foot wall, so that he could be easily seen. Then he yelled down to the stranger making threats, “How dare you come onto my private property and make demands? This property has been in my family’s hands for generations. So, I’m sure as hell not going to turn it over to some religious narcissistic freak who thinks he’s the Second Coming. Get out of here, and tell your Teacher if I see any of his people anywhere on my property, I will send them to hell.”
Thomas’s face didn’t change at all. Just before he opened his mouth to speak, Wilber was sure he saw a little bit of a smirk on it. “Then beware, as Jesus once said, ‘I came not to bring peace, but to bring a sword.’” He turned and walked away.
“Matthew 10:34?” It was Olive’s voice from behind them. “Why was that man quoting from Matthew?” she asked, after just stepping outside to better overhear the conversation.
“O, I’m sorry to say this, but we need to prepare to defend our home. This asshole just delivered a threat from some religious cult and he seems to have the means to try and carry it out,” Wilber said glumly.
~~~
While Thomas was delivering the Teacher’s ultimatum, almost all two hundred men and women from God’s Army were taking up positions at all points around the perimeter. They were slowly approaching the base of the hill, where they would wait for a signal from him to tell them to start their holy war against these infidel farmers. They were told that they would see some resistance, but that no mere mortal was any match for God’s Army.
Thomas stopped at a table set up on the Wright Ranch, just off the long dirt road. John held up an arm band with their GA insignia, although more professional looking than previous hand-done versions, and slipped it over Thomas’s right arm, who hoisted on a military-type vest at the same time.
“Going according to plan, Brother Thomas?” John asked, as he handed him a rifle.
“Perfectly, Brother John.”
Beside John were two men and two women dressed in their olive drab shirts and GA arm bands, awaiting Thomas’s orders.
Looking at them now, Thomas commanded, “Go tell your squads that they have maybe ten people at the most behind a wall that surrounds the top-part of a hill. That’s where their compound is. Make sure they wait at the base of the hill, at the new fence line, until you hear my shots behind the wall. Then start your assault.”
“Yes, Brother Thomas,” the four said in unison, while bowing in supplication to him, before running toward their pre-determined positions.
He waited until they were out of earshot and then said to John, “Make sure none of our troops leave until this is over.” The look he gave his second in command brooked no disagreement.
“I’ve already dispatched the Loyalty Officers. They’ll keep our people in line or remove them from service permanently.”
“Excellent. Give me about twenty minutes and then you should start hearing the shooting,” Thomas said as he readied his rifle and took one last swig of water, and then faced John, with his hand out.
“I’ll be ready, Brother Thomas.” John sealed the statement with a firm shake.
“Thanks, Brother John.” Thomas jogged back toward the ranch, taking a route around the side where he wouldn’t be seen.
As John watched him disappear into the thick bushes and trees, while he loaded his own weapon and put on his vest, he considered his rival. As much as he hated his “brother,” he had to admit Thomas was a brilliant organizer with an amazing vision. Yet, when he joined their group, he spoke and carried on like the uneducated hick he was bred to be. And that’s what angered John the most: this illiterate hick had been here less than all of them and yet the Teacher had made him his Number One. Yes, Thomas had created and assembled God’s Army and organized this group of followers. That couldn’t have happened simply with the Teacher’s captivating personality. Of course, the greatest growth in the Teacher’s followers had come recently from the takeovers, which John pushed for aggressively.
They had been taking farming towns and individual homes for the last twenty-five miles, over the past dozen days. It was the only way everyone could be fed. But with each town they conquered their numbers increased. Many of the able-bodied were given a choice to volunteer for the GA or leave. Those that became part of the GA were allowed to bring their families. Now they numbered nearly two thousand, growing with each town they absorbed.
The taking of Fossil Ridge was no different than the taking of any other rural farm town. They came in first asking for help, a recon mission by Thomas or John to get a sense of the town’s strength. Then they signaled their people whether to come in full force or with less firepower and fewer numbers. When they advanced on a town, especially one a little more organized, they often had to find the places where food and other supplies were hidden. The key was to select one or two people on whom to apply the right pressure. Often this was the town’s leader, who was either benevolent or dictatorial. Sometimes, as it was in Fossil Ridge, they had to kill the dictator, who was too full of his own machismo to say anything, to make a point and then find someone else from whom to extract the info. It was the town’s pharmacist who told them about Wilber Wright and his farm/ranch, letting them know Wilber was a prepper with storehouses of food. Because of this, they would come in hard before there was a chance to damage the stock. It was also an opportunity to winnow their troops.
They didn’t really need two hundred soldiers. It was almost too much to manage. But, their hope was that those who made it through would receive experience at combat and killing, making them better soldiers for their larger incursions. Those who didn’t … well, that meant fewer mouths to feed.
John smiled at how his end of the plan was working out. He had purposely sabotaged Thomas’s gun. The third bullet was a dud that would plug his rifle barrel, and the next round would explode, killing him or at least rendering him defenseless when the enemy returned fire. Either way, it would look like an accident. Then John would take over God’s Army and be the Teacher’s Number One.
He hit the breech to engage a round and marched toward his destiny.
28.
More Bad Guys
Rocky Point, Mexico
Nine men led by a killer known as Danny “El Diablo” Diaz, carrying Kalashnikov rifles, approached Maxwell Thompson’s beach house with slow, measured, cautious steps. To the untrained eye, it looked like maneuvers by some covert Mexican military. But El Diablo had no formal military or police training; his only connection to either organization was through the inside of a prison cell. Unlike his predecessor, Rodrigo (who made his presence known with gunfire, fancying himself as sort of a Mexican Ra
mbo), El Diablo preferred the element of surprise. Ironically, it was Rodrigo who gave him the alias El Diablo, sending him to jobs that needed quiet precision; just like the devil himself, he would sneak in and leave death and evil behind. El Diablo learned this discipline from years of growing up watching US war movies, an innate sense of strategy, and a lifetime of practicing his craft of killing. When Rodrigo was killed, El Diablo took over and applied his own style of military discipline to the men. They used their skills not for drug smuggling, already an extinct vocation when Los Diablos Verdes started, but for pillaging the town of its supplies and its women. Diablo had considered Thompson’s place, but he also knew its owner by reputation and didn’t want to get blasted from several hundred meters away like Rodrigo. When they found the map of Thompson’s place showing a list of supplies, and considered the Fernandezes’ storehouse of rations, Diablo decided a different approach was in order to justify the risk. So, they approached from the north, through the desert, unseen by anyone who would care.
At the front corner of Thompson’s beach house, the men all took cover behind the street-side wall, squatting down and awaiting their orders just as they’d rehearsed. Diablo held up three fingers to his nearest three men, indicating they would be the first team, and then waved his forefinger in the same direction they had come to the Kings’ far side. He did the same with the next three, also sending them forward but to the far side yard of the Thompson house, and then he sent another two to hang back for rear support on the far corner of each of the two houses across the street, mostly as lookouts. El Diablo led Giagante, his most trusted man, through this southern side yard, between the King and Thompson homes. They would lead the assault.
As they approached, he heard yelling from the beach side—from the rear of the house—where their two forward advancing teams were headed. The crunching footsteps alerted him of a small white man in a black T-shirt approaching their position with a revolver.
