Righteous Gathering: Book 1 of the Righteous Survival EMP Saga

by Timothy Van Sickel

  "I don’t want to roll up on that checkpoint without seeing what's going on," I state. "Jerry, step out and look around. See if you can get a feel for what's going on up there. I'm going to scope them out a bit." I pull out my Pentax 8 x 40 binoculars that my wife gave me many years ago and start to study the checkpoint and the surrounding terrain.

  The roadblock looks pretty harmless, even helpful. It's set up in front of a large Catholic church. They seem to have an aid and supply station set up similar to what we did in Central City. There looks to be a food line set up and some people handing out water and providing directions and information. I don’t see anyone being detained or harassed.

  "Looks like St Francis' has set up an aid station." I say to Jerry.

  "Looks pretty kosher to me, too," Jerry responds. "But look at those smoke plumes."

  Taking down the binocs, I look at where Jerry is pointing. There are at least three large fires burning and several small fires. One of the large smoke plumes could be coming from where Janie saw the fuel truck catch the hillside on fire. I can't tell where the others may be coming from, but there are several obviously big fires burning. This is not good. Many homes in Johnstown were built well over a hundred years ago. There are many abandoned and blighted homes. A large fire could raze entire blocks, even entire neighborhoods, without an active fire department. And I doubt very much that the firetrucks were hardened against an EMP.

  Again, I say a silent prayer. Again, I ask God why. But it is obvious why. Like the Israelites who turned away from God time and time again, we have turned away from God. Freedom of religion has been turned into freedom from religion. Our country's founding, based on Old Testament scriptures, has been debased and ridiculed. Faith has been ridiculed as extreme, while immorality, entitlement and greed have been praised.

  "Our God is a loving God," I say out loud, "Until you turn your back on him, piss him off." I think of 'Pissed Christ' and shake my head.

  "Okay, everyone." I say loud enough for our passengers to hear, "We are going to roll up to this roadblock. Some of you may want out there. It looks like an aid and supply effort. I'm going about a mile further into town, which will be closer to the hospital. But as you can see, a lot of smoke is coming up from town. There are at least two or three big fires. You all can decide what to do when we get up to the church's aid station."

  Jerry loads back in and we head down to the checkpoint. A couple of locals stop us, both armed with long guns.

  "Hey, friend," I state as a middle-aged man steps up to my window. "I need to get to Roxbury, to get my daughter and grandkids. We also got a few people here who would like to get to the hospital or through town to the airport. What's it look like up that way?"

  He looks us over, a bit grimly but with no ill will. "It's clear up to the hospital. But more people are being taken out of there than are going in. All the systems are shut down and they can't do much more than emergency procedures, like stitches and burns. Gettin' through the city would be a pipe dream. Big fire in Moxham, nothing going to stop it, unless it rains. People are fleeing across the river and up the hill. I wouldn’t advise going that way, liable to lose your vehicle in the panic. We got some of their residents here now, and they say it's pretty bad, everyone for themselves."

  "We just came in from Central City, took the back roads. You got several thousand people heading this way from the Flight 93 Memorial, but most of them should end up in Richland. God bless you all for setting up this aid station. Is it okay for us to pull over up ahead, so my passengers can decide what to do?" He nods and we pull off up the road a bit.

  The woman with the ailing mother wants to get her to the hospital, so she will ride on with us. One of the couples is from New Jersey and they want to try and get home, despite the odds against that. They have children there and are petrified at this point. They are still clinging to the hope that they can fly home or get a bus. We let them off here at the church, as there is some aid and they can get a game plan together.

  The last couple are in their fifties and childless. Their home is in upstate New York, and they came to the Flight 93 Memorial as a bucket list thing. They now realize how hopeless it is to get home. He is a mechanical engineer and she is a retired schoolteacher. They ask about returning to Central City with us. They let us know they are willing to help in anyway they can. These two are intelligent people, they have not been demanding, more hopeful than anything. I make a gut decision and agree to help them out.

  We proceed into town, to my stepdaughter's house, dropping off the daughter and mom about a quarter mile from the hospital. From Britt's house, high on the hill, we are overlooking Moxham. A large fire is burning. It has consumed about four blocks and is spreading. We see people moving across the bridges, heading away from the danger. We see people gathering at the high school stadium. It is chaos in slow motion. We can hear the occasional gunshot and boom as something blows up. Looking through the binocs, I see an older car get stopped by three people with guns. I see three people in the car get shot and pulled from the car. I see the three thugs jump in the car and head off--anarchy.

  Moxham is a beautiful old neighborhood of Johnstown. It is named after the founder of Moxham Steel, which later became part of Bethlehem Steel that helped build America. The history is rich and the homes are diverse and beautiful. There are the mansions built by the Moxham family high on the bluff. There are beautiful homes on almost every corner with the original detailed woodwork and gingerbread porches. These would have been the homes of the foremen, engineers and accountants. Mixed in are the row homes of the workers. Some singles homes, some double homes. If these homes weren’t in a blighted neighborhood in Johnstown, they would sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe even be put on the list of historical homes.

  But the steel industry collapsed, and the jobs left, and these beautiful homes fell into disrepair. Yesterday these three-story, four-bedroom houses with exquisite woodwork could be bought for a song. Today they are worth nothing and burning to the ground.

  This entire neighborhood was built over one hundred years ago, from the vast Pennsylvania forests. The row homes are only five to ten feet apart so the fire quickly jumps from home to home with nothing to stop it. There are also trees over one hundred years old that line the streets. Trees so large they form a canopy over the streets which also forms a bridge for the fire to jump the street when the trees are consumed by the intense heat.

  It is surreal. From high on the bluff, I am watching this inferno, violence and chaos. The strong sunlight from the east, mixed with the heavy plumes of smoke from the fires, combine to make an eerie and oppressive sight.

  As I scan the area, I see something odd. It seems to have been a tree falling down. Through the binocs I search the area more thoroughly. I can see several trees have been cut down, and limbed, and the limbs are being hauled away. There are work crews! Firemen, neighbors, friends, whoever, are working together to cut a fire block! That could work; I pray that it works. I think that Herc, my steady worker, is leading one of those work crews, helping to save his neighborhood, helping to save his home and family.

  Despite the fact that there are no firetrucks, I can see that the firemen have hauled their hoses from the Hornerstown firehouse and are spraying down what they can. Johnstown's water system is fed by the Quemahoning Dam, which is high in the mountains. The steel mills used over ten million gallons a day when they were operating. The water pressure and supply will be strong, despite the power outage; electricity doesn’t affect gravity. Despite the violence and chaos around them, a group of people have banded together to stop the destruction of the fire. Praise God! The entire scene is unnerving. One of my best workers lives down there. His family lives down there. It is too much to comprehend.

  I refocus on the mission at hand when Britt, Kenny and their kids come running out of their home and embrace us. Britt is in tears. "Oh my God, you have to get us out of here!" she exclaims. "Look, freaking Moxham is on fire!" she says, p
ointing over the hill, "It's been a freakin' war down there all night! Let's get this old heap loaded up and get out of here. Come on boys, load up the trailer and van. Now! Now! Now!"

  Linc, the engineer, and his wife, Kim, the school teacher, stand mesmerized by what they are seeing. A small town in the middle of America is burning to the ground and violence is taking place before their eyes. What would Rochester be like now, they wonder. What about Philadelphia and New York? They realize even more that going home right now is not an option. I get them started on helping to load the trailer and van as bins and luggage are brought out by the kids.

  "Britt," I say to my stepdaughter, as she comes out with another bin of clothes, "You all may never get back here again. Make sure you grab stuff that you will really miss. We have food and all that. Make sure you grab pictures and the like."

  "You old freak! That's already been loaded. Get with the program, old man! Step it up! I don’t want to be around here when the crazy shit happening down there gets up here!"

  That's my wife's daughter, semi-hysterical, but totally in control. I help with the loading and strapping down while a few neighbors look on. Kenny talks with the neighbors to let them know he and the family are bugging out to Central City. At my suggestion he lets them know to use anything in the house that might help them get through this chaos, but to also keep an eye on the house, keep strangers away.

  As Britt and the boys are doing a final check of the house and what's been loaded, the newly formed foursome of men walk back over and look down on the Moxham section of the city. A clear firebreak can be seen forming up Ohio Street where the trees are being cut down. It looks as if another firebreak is being cut to save the homes higher on the bluff. We can see people streaming away from the fire ravaged area. It is chaos, but a more controlled chaos than I expected.

  Chapter 15 Returning Home, September 12, 2018

  As we head back out of town, we are a little more loaded down than I expected to be. We have eight people. Me driving, Jerry riding shotgun, Linc and Kim, our rescued stragglers, and Britt, Kenny, Larson and Grace, as well as a fully loaded trailer, and travel bags strapped to the roof.

  We pull up to the checkpoint at Bens Creek on Route 403. The men there remember us from a few hours earlier. I request to pull aside again, so I can talk with them a bit about what's going on in town. They agree to that, eager for reliable information. I suggest they bring over the pastor or whoever is in charge.

  I let Jerry know he is in charge and not to let anyone near the van. Kenny, Britt and Linc step out also, and though unarmed, take up guard positions. I grab an AR 15 out of the back and hand it to Kenny. A little shocked, he checks the load and safety, then stands ready. I smile grimly, he smiles back. He's a city boy, but he is a Boy Scout, literally.

  I walk over to where one of the checkpoint guards stands with another middle-aged man. He is nicely dressed, but his clothes are dirty and disheveled. It's been a long day for this man.

  "I'll try to be brief, friend. I can see you have your hands full, but good information will be key, since we have no phones or radios. I thought you might want to hear what I saw, no rumors, no bullshit." He nods for me to go on. "It was clear from here to the park, but a lot of people are walking and riding bikes, a couple of old cars and trucks were on the road too. I picked my kids up on the bluff overlooking Moxham. It’s bad down there. I saw some people get shot and car jacked. Several blocks are on fire, and the fire is jumping the streets over the tree canopy. There are several work crews cutting down trees on Ohio Street to make a fire break. They also seemed to be working across Highland or Cypress to stop the fire from moving up the bluff. Many people are crossing the bridges to Ferndale and Hornerstown. They are probably showing up here already. More seem to be heading to Hornerstown and Kernville. It looks like an aid station has been set up at Trojan Stadium, a lot people are congregating there."

  "Any sign of the police or fire department?" he asks.

  "Yeah, it looked like the fire department walked in from the Hornerstown Station with hoses and are trying to slow the fire down. No sign of police anywhere, not to say they weren’t there, just no cars with lights.

  "The woods above Moxham are on fire, too. That’s heading up towards Belmont, it's a big fire. There was also a fire in Kernville or downtown, I couldn't tell which. I hope it's lower Kernville, less buildings to burn as most have already been torn down. It will burn out quickly.

  "They were also flying people out of Murtha Airport yesterday, but that has stopped as far as I know."

  The well dressed, but worn down, man sizes me up. He looks me in the eye. "You know more than most. You are working on what you know, not rumor and bullshit. I can see that. Tell me what you know, what the hell is going on here," he asks forlornly, almost pleadingly.

  "Armageddon, and there was no Rapture, my brother." I state. "God has showed his displeasure with us. America has been attacked. Nuclear I am sure. High altitude electro-magnetic-pulse device, EMP, knocked out everything electrical or electronic. I have heard that there were ground level nukes too. We are in world war three. I am sure we retaliated, so nothing works anywhere. Don’t expect FEMA or the Armed Services or any national government agency to be riding in to help out. They're shut down too. That’s more my opinion thn fact, but it's the best answer I can give you."

  The man looks at me, then looks down and shakes his head. "I have to go," he says, "I have to go." He slowly turns and walks away. Several people come up to him, asking questions, tugging at him for attention. He keeps plodding aimlessly across the parking lot, ignoring their pleas for help, for guidance. He can only get guidance from above at this point. He is not the first one to be overwhelmed by what has happened, and he certainly won't be the last.

  I turn to the checkpoint guard. "Pray with him, comfort him if you can. Remember what I just told you and tell the people who need to know. Things may be bad now, but they are going to get worse. Even good people will start to get violent when they start to get hungry. And with the grid being down, that's going to happen very soon."

  He looks at me with determination in his eyes, but also a look of bewilderment. He looks lost, seeing a parishioner that he looked up to so defeated. I hug him compassionately and whisper to him that God will be with him. These are words that have come to me easily over my many years of faith and trials, and I still believe them now. I think briefly of our brethren Christians in the Middle East and the persecution they faced against the Taliban and ISIS, and how I used to pray for faith such as theirs. That test is coming now. I again pray that I have faith that strong.

  I head back towards our van. Britt, Kenny, Linc and Jerry still stand guard, determined looking, but not threatening. Twenty-four hours in and they get the gravity of the situation. They have seen a neighborhood on fire and seen or heard the gunfire. They know this is serious and to keep alert.

  "Time to go guys. Kenny, keep that AR handy." We load up and head back towards the farmstead. Just like the day before, we see some older trucks, cars and motorcycles; for the most part they are as loaded down as we are. But a few seem to be out joy riding, partying it up. Firearms are visible everywhere. Riding shotgun is no longer just a phrase from the past. In the hills of western Pennsylvania, where 'we cling to our guns and our Bibles,' I worry some don’t have the Bible with them anymore.

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  State Route 403 winds along the valley of the Stoney Creek River for about ten miles between Hollsopple and Hooversville, crossing the river a few times. It is a good road, but seldom traveled, except by locals. A few of the Flight 93 stragglers have figured out that it's a shorter walking route with less hills than taking Route 30 to 219. They must have been the few with a real map, because GPS is no longer working. We pass several groups heading the opposite way, towards Johnstown. They look tired and desperate. Some try to flag us down, but I can’t help them.

  I get an idea. I pull off the road alo
ng an open stretch and go to the back of the van. There are still a few cases of water there from the day before. I set one out on the side of the road and jump back in. It's not much, but I hope it helps out someone.

  As I get back in the van, an older truck barrels down the road from the opposite direction. The driver veers into my lane and lays on the horn, nearly hitting my door as I jump back in the van. I see the driver clearly laughing as he passes. Four guys in the back are hooting and hollering. One takes some pots shots at us with a semi- automatic rifle. I hear a couple of thunks and Grace screams out in pain.

  "Son of a bitch!" I yell. "Britt, Grace's been hit, check on him. Jerry, there's a first aid kit under your seat. We got to get going before those hyped-up bastards come back."

  "Sonna bitch! Assholes shot my son! Sonna bitchin' assholes! Kenny, you better know how to use that gun you got there!" Britt is in full mother hen mode, already turned in the seat and checking out her younger son.

  "It's my arm, Mom, it’s my arm," Grace grits. "My left arm, oh that friggin' hurts."

  I keep looking in my rearview mirror to see if these hyped-up bastards are coming back. As I do we cross the first bridge across the Stoneycreek River. Before I can even think to slow down we pass four people on the side of the road, shot dead from the looks of it, blood still spreading on the road. Not good, those hyped-up evil bastards have already got the taste of blood, anarchy, no retaliation for their evil deeds. Not good.

  As we come off the turn from the bridge, I hit the gas. Eight people, a trailer and a loaded van, we slowly gain speed. It's four miles to the next town where the thought of all the people around may cause these country junkies to hold off.

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  I say country junkies, because drugs is by no means only an inner-city problem. And I'm not talking about some weed here. Meth has been a serious problem for decades, but what has finally come to light is that heroin addiction in small town America is rampant. Hopelessness has led to despair, which has led to drugs.