Righteous Gathering: Book 1 of the Righteous Survival EMP Saga

by Timothy Van Sickel

  I look around as we sit silently together. The light dimly shines through the kitchen window. A couple of bull cows moan and moo at each other, the pigs grunt and snort as they do. The few clouds in the sky part, to let the moonlight dance over our fruit trees, garden and meadows. And I feel great comfort, God is here!

  I stand up abruptly as the moon shines on what God has blessed us with and say, no shout. "Look Becca, God is right here! He is lighting the path! Look! It is all right here!"

  "Stand up, baby doll! Look, even in the darkness God is showing us the path he has provided for us. It may be dark everywhere else, but there is light here. God is with us, who can stand against us! Hallelujah, praise the Lord!" I shout and do a silly dance on the porch, my wife looking at me like I'm a bit crazy.

  She looks at me again hopefully, then she looks at the scene being illuminated before her. The fruit trees, the garden, the big pond, the meadow with the cows and the pigs and how it is all being lit up briefly by the moon. "Oh my God, Mark!, Oh my God, he is with us, he is right here with us!" The clouds close in again, as they do on a brisk September night. But it was enough for me, and it was enough for Becca. We both saw the light. God is here. He has provided for us. We doubted in the face of difficulty, but He has been with us for years, getting us ready for this moment.

  Now we both know: we must use what He has blessed us with in a way that He would find righteous and just, with kindness and love. This will be a fine line to walk.

  Becca and I pray together, we pray for wisdom, patience, love and compassion. We pray for our family and extended family. We pray for our country. I silently thank God for my wife, and her compassion. I know it will be a balance for me.

  Becca and I sit on the porch for a long while, looking over the farmstead. She sips her wine, I enjoy another beer. We both enjoy a cigarette.

  "You know, hon, we're going to have to finally quit," Becca says.

  "Yep," I reply.

  "Is that going to be a problem?" she asks.

  "Yep," I say again. "But we got bigger things to worry about, so I have to let it go."

  "You're worried about my meds, aren't you?"

  "Yep." I say forlornly.

  My wife has rheumatoid arthritis. It's not like your regular arthritis where your joints wear down with age. RA is an autoimmune disease; for some reason, your own body starts to attack the cartilage and membranes between your joints. It is very debilitating and painful if not controlled. Thanks to modern medicine, my wife's RA has been in remission. Those pharmaceutical companies are shut down now….

  Rebecca responds, "I'm worried, too. I still can't process that. I don't want to go back to that pain. It's been twenty years with no pain, other than flare-ups. You have no idea babe, you have no idea of the constant pain…"

  "I know, babe. I don't know the pain, but I know how it affects you. And I know how you bear down and work through it. We have a six-month supply of the biologics. And maybe a year's worth of the rest of your meds. We are going to have to go homeopathic after that."

  "Wine and whiskey, huh?"

  "And teas and ointments and rubs. Maybe we can try out a rub tonight? Along with some candlelight?" I say sultrily.

  "The world just tumbled down around us and you want to go and get all flirty with me?"

  "Go forth and multiply, sayeth the Lord," I say enthusiastically.

  "It's a little too late to start multiplying now, old man!"

  "Tell that to Sarah and Abraham," I say as we gently hold hands and head into the house.

  Chapter 11 Second Morning, Farmstead, September 12, 2018

  I sleep surprisingly well the first night of the new world. The love of my wife and the love from God, as always, keeps my heart at peace. I know bad things have happened in the world, and things are going to get even worse. This causes me to wake a good hour before my normal internal alarm clock would have awakened me.

  It is before 5:00 AM, and as my mind kicks in gear, very quickly the situation at hand begins to overcome me. Mobs of hungry people may soon be coming through Central City. My step-daughter, her husband and kids are still in Johnstown. America has been attacked and we are at war, but with who? Thousands, no millions, of people are going to soon go hungry and die, mobs of desperate people from the city will start migrating to the country in search of food.

  "Dear Lord," I begin to pray once again. "Thank you for the blessings you have granted me and my family. Grant me wisdom, patience, morality, righteousness and peace. May I follow the path that you have laid before me and may your glory, Lord, prevail in all things. Touch the hearts of those in need, dear Lord, and change the hearts of those who do not know you, who wish evil upon their fellow man."

  I continue my silent prayer for several more minutes as I start a pot of coffee in the percolator pot, not the drip machine. Might as well toss that drip machine out, I think to myself. My prayer ends and a conversation begins. I ask questions, sometimes I get answers. Yes, I talk to God, and yes he does answer. Some may call it thinking out loud, or talking to themselves, or working things out in their head. I think of it as talking to God. He created us, he created our souls, who do you think that inner voice is that guides you?

  The overwhelming answer is all big problems are a series of small problems. Tackle the small things, one step at a time. Take care of family first, which means take care of the farm, too.

  I wake Becca with a cup of fresh hot coffee. She smiles and kisses me warmly. I let her know of my plans for the day. We need to get the normal farm chores done. She needs to feed the kids, and get them settled. We need to finish unloading the van and trailer, but that will entail deciding if the kids are staying in the new house or at the old farmhouse. With the idea that Britt, Kenny and the boys are coming too, I suggest they all move into the larger farmhouse.

  But the most important mission of the day is to get Britt, Kenny and the boys. They are in Johnstown. The normal way to go to their part of town would be west on Route 30 then north on 219 towards town. That is right past the Flight 93 Memorial, where thousands of people are now hungry, tired, thirsty and confused. Some will be getting desperate and angry by now, as well. We both agree, I need to avoid those crowds.

  I also want to swing through Central City and talk with Reverend Wysinger. I am hoping he has laid plans for moving stragglers through town. It bothers my conscience, but we can only do so much. Feeding them and sending them along is the best I can think to do right now. Maybe we can set up some sort of work for food and a security program for those who want to stay or have nowhere to go. Too much to think through. Again I silently ask the Lord for wisdom.

  Becca and I move to the front porch. We have a beautiful view to the east, over the mountains, and the sunrise is spectacular. It is hard to comprehend that America has been attacked. I know that looting and killing and riots have already started, but here, it is so calm and peaceful. As the sun rises over the horizon, reality sets in. Two obviously large fires are burning on the other side of the ridge, the large plumes of smoke had contributed to the brilliance of the sunrise. Another large fire to the north is probably from the coal truck accident we passed the day before. Because of the westerly winds, these fires won't threaten the farm, but they bring us back to the reality of the present situation.

  Becca and I decide that the kids should all move into the old farmhouse. Becca and Janie will oversee that operation. I will take the van with the trailer to get Britt and her family. First I'll stop by the church and see how things are shaping up there. I hope to recruit someone to ride shotgun with me into town. Becca, Janie, Rusty and Blake are to keep a watch on the front drive and not let anyone in that we don’t know.

  We rustle up the kids for breakfast and send the two young boys out to get fresh eggs. We all have scrambled eggs and bacon with toast; the toast is soon to be a luxury.

  After unloading the van and trailer I sit down on the front porch of the farmhouse with Becca, Janie, Rusty and Blake. "Guys, things are a
bit different than they were a few days ago. America has been attacked and it has shut down our electrical system. It's early yet, but since we have a farm, small as it is, people may want to take our food. We can't let people take what we have, otherwise we will go hungry. So we are going to set up a guard system, okay?

  "Rusty and Blake, you both know how to shoot the 12 gauge pump and the 30/30. I want one of you on the front porch of the farmhouse all day, with the shotgun at your side. You can see the lane real good from here. If anyone comes down that lane that you don’t know, you ring this big old school bell real loud and then you tell them to stop. You let them know you got a gun. Tell them we don’t want no strangers comin' on our land.

  "Becca and Janie, you both keep your side arms on you all the times, and I'm going to put the 30/30 and one AR 15 in the living room of the farmhouse. If you hear that bell ring, you come in the back door and come out the front door loaded to stop anyone on the road.

  "Anyone looking for help, send them on to the church in town. Tell them that there is water and food there. If needed, give them a couple of our throw away bottles of water. But do not let them past the fence line. No need letting people we don’t know see what we have back here."

  "So Pap, what do we do if someone comes down the lane?" asks Blake.

  "Ya tell em to stop and ya ring the bell, you knucklehead. Ain't that what I just said?"

  "What if they try to come on our property, if they don’t stop?" asks Rusty.

  "Fire a shot in the air and then point the barrel at them. By that time your mom or Grammy will be here. But if you feel threatened, if they point a gun at you, then don’t hesitate, shoot 'em."

  "Whoa, really, like in Mortal Combat?"

  "No, not like in Mortal Combat. In Mortal Combat no one gets hurt, no one dies. This is real, guys. I don’t think anything like that will happen. But I want you to be ready if it does."

  I look at Rebecca and Janie. They are a bit ashen faced. "This is real, ladies. Stay close and be prepared. I don’t think it will happen today, but we need to be ready, to be thinking about it. Someday, someone bad will come down that lane wanting our stuff. We have to be ready when that happens."

  Becca turns away sharply and heads back into the house. Janie stares at me sternly and nods her head. Becca is pissed that she has to do this, but she knows that she does. Janie is being a momma grizzly.

  Before I leave, I go in and hug my wife and tell her I love her, and she responds in kind. We have done that for twenty years and we are not going to stop now. I jump in the van and head out the lane. I see the boys sitting on the front porch in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 12 Second Morning, Central City, September 12, 2018

  I pass the house on the corner before hitting the paved road. No activity. I hope they make it home from wherever they are. Further down the road I pass Thad's house. I can tell they are home and active. Good, he is a good man, they are a good family. I keep heading towards Central City, still swerving past the same stalled cars as yesterday.

  I enter Central City through a back road. I see a lot of people out walking and pass several old farm trucks going this way and that, many loaded with people and supplies. There are a few quads, bikes and bicycles moving about. People can be resourceful in finding means of transportation.

  Before I turn onto the main road that will take me out of Central City and onto the state route towards Windber and Johnstown, I encounter a makeshift road block, two cars and a picnic table with a couple of guys armed with hunting rifles. The church is just up ahead. I can see a few dozen people already lined up there, many obviously out-of-towners heading away from the Flight 93 Memorial.

  I recognize one of the guys at the roadblock as I pull up. "Hey Jimmy, I see you all are trying to get organized here. What's going on?" I ask.

  "Hey Mark, good to see you," he responds. "It's gone to shit, Mark. No power nowhere. I hear we been attacked, nukes. Freakin' Iranians, maybe the Russians, too! I hear the whole freakin' world has been hit. They say when we got nuked, we nuked everyone else. Dude, this is freaking end times shit. Now we got these city folk from the Shanksville Memorial starting to move through here. Chief Wills said we need to move them to the church for food and water and then to move them along. Says we need to try and protect our own while moving these city folk along. It's nuts, man! What do you know? I hear you supplied the church to help out these city folk."

  "I ain't sure about all that nuclear war shit, but maybe you ain't wrong," I respond. "We definitely got attacked, and it was definitely nukes, but probably high altitude nukes, no radiation, but it kills all the power grid. Old trucks and stuff will work, but nothing with computer parts. So you all are organized to move the city folk towards Windber and Johnstown?"

  "Yep, but most of these people are from New York, Baltimore, D.C. They keep askin' for the FEMA representative or our National Security representative. I tell them we ain't got that and send them to the church. It's only been a few people so far, but they're feisty!"

  "Keep sending them to the church. It's the only place they will find nourishment, in more ways than one!" Jimmy laughs along with me at the truthful pun.

  "I see you're armed, stay alert for bad asses. If someone threatens you, defend yourself. We can't let people think we're pansies. As you said, we were attacked, You are now our homeland security. I ain't relying on FEMA, I'm relying on you, you got that, brother?"

  "You can rely on us, Mark," Jimmy and his friends respond. "I don’t want no FEMA shit around here anyway. We can take care of our own."

  This roadblock is in the wrong place, I think. But at least they are implementing some kind of control, some kind of authority. Better plans need to be worked out. I don’t think we'll see armed bandits on the second day, but they will be coming.

  The guys move the table out of the way and I proceed down Main Street to the church where a couple of dozen people are resting, eating and drinking bottled of water. Another dozen or more are heading towards the church. By their dress and demeanor, I can tell they are refugees from the Flight 93 ceremony. I pull into the church's parking lot and several people approach asking if I am part of FEMA and if I can give them a ride. I hide a laugh as I tell them that FEMA left them behind when the last chopper left Shanksville. I let them know I will help them, if I can, but that I'm here to talk with the reverend.

  A well dressed man, a bit out of shape, demands of me that I take him and his family to the Murtha Airport, that as an American citizen, I owe him that. I look at him and see he has a plate of mac and cheese in one hand and two bottles of water in the other. What I assume to be his wife and slightly overweight kids are similarly well supplied from the church.

  "Sir, my name is Mark Mays, and I'd be glad to help you out. But I have to ask you where you got the food and water?"

  A bit confused at the question, he responds "Why this church here must have been a FEMA depot and they were ready for us. You know, the Flight 93 Memorial is just a few miles away, so FEMA had it set up."

  "Well, let me set you straight on that, my friend. Your help came from this church, not FEMA. The food and water you are eating and drinking came from this community not from the federal government. You have asked for help and we have helped you. I suggest that you quit relying on the government to help you and that you rely on yourself and your faith, if you have any. Be grateful for what you have, and think twice before you demand more. Murtha Airport is about twenty miles north. I suggest if you start walking now, you can be there by nightfall. But don’t expect no airlift out, the airport is pretty much shut down, too."

  The well-dressed man looks at me indignantly and responds, "What! You expect us to walk twenty miles! You have to help us!"

  "You have food on your plate and water to travel with. That's more than you got from your esteemed FEMA at Shanksville, isn't it? But I'll see if some of these farm boys will start a relay system to get you closer, sir. Do you have anything to offer in return for the ride?"
/>
  "Offer something in return for a ride? I'm the Second Under Secretary of State for Environmental Protection liaisoned to the Department of Defense! You people work for me! I demand a ride to Murtha Airport!"

  "Sir, the office of the second under secretary of state for environmental whatever doesn't exist any more. In fact, you and your regulations probably put a lot of these men out of work. A lot of the men driving the old trucks that could get you closer to Johnstown, they're former loggers and coal miners. I suggest you keep your former occupation quiet."

  "This is nonsense! I demand to see the FEMA representative! I deserve respect!"

  "Sir, a silly ass title deserves nothing. Your FEMA representative probably got the hell out of Dodge on the last airlift out of Shanksville. I suggest you start thinking about respecting the people who are helping you. I wish you well, sir. I have more important things at hand. I have to move on." I turn and walk away as he sputters indignantly.

  I am not going to leave my van and trailer in this parking lot with this crowd, especially after dressing down mister high falutin and his hefty family. Our little commotion with mister fancy pants must have been heard by Pastor Wysinger. He comes out of the church with two parishioners beside him. One, Jerry, I know from a large bear hunting group I've hunted with.

  "Jerry, you know how this works, don’t you?" I say as I hold up my Remington 870. He nods and grins broadly. I hand it to him and tell him no one is to come close to my van. He nods and checks the load as a true sportsman would.

  I bear hug Reverend Wysinger before we head into his church. "Mark, you were right. Stragglers have been showin' up here since early this morning."

  "Let's talk in private, Reverend," I say as we head into his office.

  After closing the door to his office, the reverend opens up. "Mark, what you sent us from the Dollar General, that was God moving in you! How did you know? How did you know all these people would be coming through town?" he states questioningly.