Righteous Gathering: Book 1 of the Righteous Survival EMP Saga

by Timothy Van Sickel

  This roadblock is much different than what we passed the day before. They have moved several newer model cars into position to completely block the road from tree line to tree line. Two working farm trucks are set up behind the roadblock. A smaller car blocks an opening through the middle. I can see at least four armed guys manning the roadblock, and they scurry for cover as we approach. I stop a hundred yards short of them, glad to see their caution, but worried that someone might get an itchy finger. I should have thought to bring a white flag!

  I step out of the van, unarmed, except for my pistol, hands held up. "Yo to the roadblock!" I holler. "Peaceful citizen wishing to pass through to see Reverend Wysinger!"

  I see a guy from behind one of the farm trucks talking to another guy I didn't see before. After a few seconds, one of them hollers for me to come forward on foot, hands raised. I tell Larson not to worry, and I walk up to the roadblock, hands held high.

  When I get about halfway there I hear someone holler to the man at the farm truck. "Hey, Jimmy, he's okay. That’s the guy that bought all the water and food for the stragglers from me on the day this started." They talk a bit amongst themselves, and then the guy by the farm truck hollers for me to bring the van on up.

  I hustle back to the van, and we drive up to the roadblock. The blocking car remains in place as I step out to greet the two men coming from the roadblock.

  "Yep, Jimmy, this is the guy, he bought all that stuff, and gave it to the church for the relief effort." I recognize the young man from the store. I don’t recognize Jimmy. Even in a small town, if you didn't grow up there, you're an outsider.

  I stick out my hand, "Mark Mays, I got a farmstead outside of town. I was hoping to talk to Reverend Wysinger, and maybe whoever else is in charge here." The man takes my hand warily. "Jimmy Younger, and I'm in charge here. What's your business comin' here?"

  "Well, Jim, like your friend over there said, I bought a bunch of supplies for the church to help some of the stragglers make it on to Johnstown. I also talked with Reverend Wysinger about setting up a relay system with the old farm trucks that are still running to move people on to Windber, or the Murtha Airport. I just wanted to see how that all worked out."

  "Well, it worked out okay till those biker drug heads started killin' and rapin’ anyone on the road. One of my boys got shot runnin' some of those stragglers to Windber. Good idea you had there, Saint Mark!" he says with anger. "And all that food and water, we supposed to give it away to strangers cause you say so? And now you want to say you're my friend!? Why don't you turn your ass around and get the hell out of my town, Saint Mark!"

  I am taken aback by the hostility. This was not expected. I pause, as I silently ask God for guidance. Only open honesty and sincerity will diffuse this standoff. "You may not consider me your friend, Jimmy, but I am not your enemy. I didn’t shoot your son. Your son was brave to help those strangers. And I bought those supplies for the stragglers to help move them through town. It's bad here right now, Jimmy. If the electricity doesn’t come back on, how bad do you think it will be in a couple of weeks, if we have a few thousand extra people here?"

  "We coulda turned those folks back at the other roadblocks," Jimmy replies. "Don’t matter anyhow now. Ain't no one moving nowhere. Those druggie bikers got all the roads shut down. Been a bunch of people robbed and killed up on Route 30. "

  "Well, those druggies shot his brother yesterday," I say pointing at Larson in the van. "Come look at these bullet holes," I say, showing him where we got shot up. "And his old man," I say, pointing at Larson again, "He shot five of them assholes on the other side of Hooversville. They tried to ambush us, but we ambushed them. I might not be your friend, Jimmy, but I ain't your enemy."

  Jimmy fingers the holes in the side of the van, and ponders for a bit. He turns, and eyes me up again, silently, anger still in his eyes. "Mark Mays, you say. I heard you're a stand up man. You did work for my sister. I remember her saying you stood by your work, did a good job." He stares off into the distance for a bit. "You're right, Mark, you didn't shoot my son. He was trying to do good, and those meth heads shot him. He'll be okay, and it wasn't your fault. I'm just pissed as hell at what's going on. People are dying, people are gettin' kilt for no reason! Guess I'm taking out my anger on you. We need to band together, to keep out these bad folks. You go on into town, maybe you can help all these folks get things straightened out."

  I shake Jimmy's hand again, this time with warmth. He waves the blocking car away from the roadblock and we move on through.

  We have barely seen any human activity out on the county roads, but here in town, things are happening. People are moving cars off to the side of the road, An old tow truck is moving some of the cars, presumably for more roadblocks. Many people are visibly carrying side arms, and some are carrying long guns. There is an orderly line in front of the pharmacy, and the doctor’s office; armed civilians watching over both establishments. There is a large crowd of people at the fire hall and their community barbeque pit is billowing smoke. I see another large group of people at the Baptist Church, as well as the two other churches.

  I pull into the church parking lot, next to two older farm trucks. Each truck has an armed civilian standing next to it. "Let's see what's going on here, Larson. Sling that rifle like you know what you're doing, son. Stand tall, okay?" I say seriously.

  He looks at me, gives a serious nod, and steps out of the van. We introduce ourselves to the other vehicle guards, and are soon on friendly terms. They indicate that things are pretty much okay, but that a few stragglers tried to take a vehicle yesterday, so everyone is being very watchful. I leave Larson with his new friends, to watch our van, and I head into the church. There are close to several hundred people waiting in food lines, or curled up in blankets around the church. It's mainly calm, but surreal and depressing. The despair is seen on the faces of those waiting for help, stranded, with no way home.

  I'm met at the church door by a smiling woman I recognize, but I can't remember her name. "Come on in, Mark," she says. "What can we do for you?"

  "I'd like to speak with Reverend Wysinger, if he's available."

  "He and the deacons are just finishing up a meeting. I'll let him know you are here. By the way, what you did with all those supplies for the needy, I think you have a heart of gold." She quickly turns, and heads down a side hallway.

  Another man is standing just outside the door, seemingly guarding the place, but he is unarmed. He stares silently over the church property, barely even taking notice of me, keeping his attention on what's going on outside. I wait silently.

  I see several men coming from the hallway the woman went down. One is Jerry, my shotgun rider from yesterday. "Hey, Jerry! Nice to see you, friend!" We grasp each other in a big bear hug. "How are things here?" I ask.

  He steps back and frowns, "Not good, not good. Those meth heads we ran into yesterday, that was just one group of many. They're terrorizing the countryside. A few of those relay trucks we set up got shot up, and they have Route 30 shut down from what we can figure. These refugees, those that made it here, they're stuck here for now. We can take care of them for a few days, but we need to look after our own, too. And there is probably a couple thousand still at Flight 93, with no food and limited water. Those meth heads, they're highway bandits on drugs, literally. We got to do something about them."

  "I'm about to meet with the reverend. I know you got a good head on your shoulders, come back with me, help me get up to speed on the situation, maybe figure some things out." He nods and turns to head back with me to see the reverend.

  The woman whose name I can't remember lets us know the reverend can see us, and smiles as we enter his office. Reverend Wysinger stands and shakes my hand warmly. "Good to see you, Mark, good to see you. And thank you so much for what you have done. We'll be able to take care of these folks for a few more days, thanks to you and a few donations from some of our farmers." He stands back. "It's bad, Mark, real bad. Jerry told me what you we
nt through. Those bandits hit the outskirts of town, and ran up on one of our roadblocks, too. Thank God we moved the roadblocks out to the town limits, or they would have shot up the town, like they did in Hooversville. Still, they shot up a couple of our trucks runnin' folks to Windber. That was a good idea, but we had to shut it down. Now we're trying to figure out what we can do. Those yahoos have us hemmed in, and we have a bunch of people here that we won’t be able to feed soon."

  He sits down, exasperated. We all look at each other silently, the enormity of the situation setting in. Why are we still here? I ask myself. "Let's pray, Reverend, we need God's guidance. We need to pray." I reach my hands out, and the three of us clasp hands and bow our heads.

  I begin, "Dear Lord, we are here for a reason, and you have a path you want us to follow, show us the path, allow us to use the talents you have blessed us with to glorify your kingdom, allow us to help those in need, and make wise decisions in dealing with those who would pursue a path of evil"… for ten minutes, the three of us pour out our hearts to the Lord. We pray that the power may be restored, that the people who wish evil upon us may turn their hearts, and give up their path of evil. We pray that we might find the resources to feed those in our care, the locals and the refugees. We ask for wisdom and guidance, forgiveness and grace. The reverend finishes,"We ask your mercy, Lord, in Christ's name we do pray, Amen."

  We break hands, and sit back silently, calmly. No miracles have suddenly happened, the electricity didn’t suddenly come back on. The drug addicts didn’t all lay down their arms, and come to the church. A truckload of food didn't just roll into town.

  "So what do we do now?" Jerry asks.

  "Who's in charge, Jerry? I know some of the things you and I suggested on the roadblocks have happened. The churches are helping with the refugees and the fire department has food for the people. Who is organizing all that?"

  "Chief Speigle and me kind of got the roadblocks organized. I set up the roadblocks, and he set up the manpower, just from local folk who wanted to help. There where plenty of men once word of what happened in Hooversville and the killin's on Route 30 got around. The mayor has been trying to help out, but he has been more of a nuisance than anything else."

  "The mayor did get the fire department to start the free barbeque with the food from the grocery that’s for locals and volunteers," says the reverend. "And the three churches banded together to set up the refugee stations. We are a bit frowned on by some of the locals, figuring we ought to save the food and water for them. Father Keith shot himself, so that has added some turmoil, but the congregation is still trying to help out."

  "You had a guy with a Ham radio, any word from him?" I ask. The reverend shakes his head.

  "So we got food and water for people for now, and we got security set up. But with these meth heads runnin' the roads, everything is bottled up. We can't sit here waiting to starve to death because some road warriors from Mad Max want to kill and rape. We have to put a stop to that. There's plenty of farms with food, so we can take care of ourselves, but we need freedom to move and trade."

  We all sit quietly again for a spell. "Anyone talk to Johnny at the VFW?" Jerry asks. We both look at him quizzically. "There are a bunch of young vets from around here," he responds. "They won’t take lightly to the country they fought for being taken over by a bunch of druggies. We need to talk with him."

  "Johnny who?" I ask.

  "John Fisher, Johnny, he's a retired First Seargeant, Army Ranger. Everyone calls him Top. He is a solid guy, everyone respects him, the vets at the VFW, that is."

  We make plans. The reverend will continue to unite the churches in helping the refugees, and coordinate with the mayor to keep tensions down. Jerry will talk with the VFW about recruiting some concerned vets to deal with the road bandits. I'm going to try and find out more about what's going on in the countryside, and see if we can get more food to the town for the locals, and the refugees. We agree to meet at the township building the next day, at noon. Reverend Wysinger is a little leery of having his church used as a base of operations.

  As we break up our little meeting, the lights come on in the church. We all look around, Huh, is it over? The nice lady opens the door excitedly. "Sorry to interrupt, but one of our parishioners just finished setting up a generator for us, we should be able to run everything in the church, including the kitchen and refrigerators! Thank God for small miracles!" We all look at each other and smile in disbelief.

  I talk with Larson a bit outside the church to find out what news he heard while we were inside. He tells me the farm trucks were able to run about a hundred people to Windber before they got ambushed, which happened yesterday afternoon. He points out a guy who was driving one of the trucks. He also points out a group of people sitting on a large blanket under a tree, refugees. He tells me their story. Their group was ambushed on the road. They ran into the woods to escape. They saw four men shot, two were alive but the bandits executed them. Three woman and two children were carried off in a van. The women were violated right there on the road, before they loaded them up. He has the look in his eye that his father did, after we got ambushed. He should be looking forward to his senior year in high school, thinking about college and a career. He's a talented musician and loves the theater. Now he is dealing with the chaos that comes when there is no law, no morality.

  I look him straight in the eye. "We'll get through this, Larson. God has not left us, but this is what happens when you have no God. The people that ambushed those folks, they are godless. But God will prevail, the good in all of us will prevail."

  He looks at me sternly, "Bad shit is happening, Pap, bad shit. We got to stop them."

  I walk over to talk with the driver who was in the refugee caravan that got ambushed. Then I spend some time talking with the group of refugees. Both tales are similar in that it was chaos. No organization on either side. In the truck ambush, two trucks came up on the caravan form the opposite direction, and just started shooting. Our guys were on their way back to Central City so the lead truck just gunned it, and the other three followed suit. The bandits didn't have enough time to turn around, and inflict any real damage. But that was when Jimmy's son got hit, he was driving the second truck in line. The refugees report a similar tale. Two trucks pulled up and just started shooting, total chaos. They ran into the woods, and those left on the road were killed or taken. The bandits hollered at them from the road, but never pursued them into the woods. Then they mounted up, and just took off, shootin' and hollerin' as they went. I question as to whether the attackers were drinkin' or looked hyped up. The answer is a definite yes. I also get descriptions of the trucks they were driving. Each time the bandits had two trucks, but they were not the same trucks in each attack.

  I hook back up with Larson, and we head out to the roadblock where they had a run-in with the bandits. The roadblock is on Route 160, just outside of town, and a few miles north of Route 30, the road that Flight 93 Memorial is on. The roadblock is well placed, at a wooded chokepoint; four cars block the road from wood line to wood line. The road is very straight here, and rises slightly away from town. There is a working farm truck placed heading into town. I see several people in a heated discussion. They all stop and turn to us as we drive up. I stop about twenty yards short of their position, arriving from the protected side. There is no hostility towards us, but they are alert and curious.

  I step out, leaving my long gun in the van. "Yo friends, Jerry sent me up here to check on you all, and ask about your run-in with the druggies." The Jerry reference calms things a bit, a few smiles appear. I recognize one of the four men from a local lumber store. "Barry! What's up, friend! Great to see you." I give him a big bro hug, then step back, and assess the crew. Three have deer rifles, one a pump shotgun. Two have side arms. I see two more on lookout with scoped deer rifles. They have a water jug set up in the back of a farm truck. I see some debris from snacks they had been eating, probably from the gas station a few hundred yards back.<
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  Barry introduces me to his three compadres. I have Larson fetch some apples from our van for everyone. The mood lightens. We begin to exchange stories and news. I offer up a brief version of the Moxham fire, and our ambush outside of Hooversville. They look at Larson, impressed, even though it was his dad who took the shots. He swells a bit with pride, but still has a bit of grimness about him that I have never seen before.

  They start talking about the run-in they had yesterday. Two of the guys were here when it all went down. They had set up the roadblock about noon. Just two cars across the pavement. People had been coming in from the Flight 93 Memorial, and they had talked of some bad things happening on Route 30, so hief Speigle had them set up the roadblocks.

  About noon, they heard shooting, kind of far away. They would hear more shooting now and again, sometimes closer, sometime farther away. Then there was a bit of a rush of refugees, all of them talking about a couple of trucks shootin' up people on the road, and lootin' the stores, taking hostages. Then the refugees stopped, at about six o'clock. No more people coming down the road. By this time they had six guys up on the roadblock, and had sent a couple into the woods on both sides of the road. Shortly later, two trucks came over the rise, traveling fast. They slowed, and stopped about five hundred yards away when they saw the roadblock. Then they just sped up straight at the roadblock. They started shootin' the whole place up, but wild like. One of the guys at the roadblock had served in Afghanistan, and kept them all cool. He had them all start firing when the druggies were about one hundred yards out. When the druggies realized they were getting shot at, they did quick one-eighties and turned tail. Two fell dead out of one of the trucks when they turned, and one truck almost crashed heading back out, like the driver had been shot. The description of the trucks matched that of what the refugees had described on Route 30.

  I congratulated them on turning back this impromptu assault, told them that it would keep the druggies back, looking for softer targets. I also warned them that they may get scouted, and to make sure they keep people posted about two hundred yards ahead of the roadblock in the woods.