Blood of the Faithful

by Michael Wallace

  Miriam took out her pistol. She swung to the right of the road, then crept up to the sentry at the tree stump. The camp had chosen their guard positions well; it was the narrowest point between the reservoir and the hillside.

  But she was quiet and careful, and he didn’t turn toward her. She passed behind the man at the stump, no more than a dozen feet away at the closest, moving step by step, placing her feet with extra caution so she wouldn’t kick a stone or crunch gravel. The man cleared his throat and she froze. But he didn’t move or look in her direction.

  It took several minutes before she was past the sentries and approaching the outer tents of the camp. One final survey showed numerous people milling around the camp or gathering at the fire, but no more sentries. She turned off the goggles and shoved them into an inner pocket of her jacket.

  That had been surprisingly easy. She’d learned how difficult it was to maintain an endless vigil, but she’d expect to find the camp still in turmoil from the loss of their food source last night, plus Ezekiel’s no-doubt unexpected arrival.

  A panel truck sat directly ahead of her, its tires missing, a tarp stretching from the side to form a crude canopy over the ground. Someone’s home, but it was dark and quiet, and she thought it would be a good place to hide and study the camp from closer range. She stepped up to the back bumper.

  “Hold it, there,” a woman’s voice said. A figure stepped from behind the truck, a rifle or shotgun in hand.

  Miriam’s stomach flipped over, and she had a hard time not grabbing for her pistol. She forced herself to remain calm. “Holy shit, you scared me.”

  “What are you doing, where did you come from?” The woman sounded nervous. And young.

  “Chill out, it’s just me.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone thought they saw something, so McQueen sent me around the reservoir to check things out. Of course it was nothing. Look, I already checked in back at the checkpoint. Are you going to give me crap too?”

  Without waiting to see if the woman would challenge her further, Miriam resumed walking toward camp. She didn’t know if the young woman was watching her or if she’d already turned back to study the road emerging from behind the reservoir, convinced by Miriam’s casual behavior that she wasn’t a real intruder.

  Again, the long months since the last attack on the reservoir worked to Miriam’s advantage. They must have had a million false alarms. And it was still a camp of strangers—no way to know all fifteen hundred people, or however many they were now.

  Miriam walked between rows of tents. A harmonica wailed somewhere to her right, accompanied by the strum of a guitar that seemed to be missing a string. The wind picked up, flapping tents and snapping the edges of poorly secured tarps.

  Someone, presumably McQueen, had drawn out the campers and tents from the water’s edge and arranged them in rows, with footpaths between. It looked more like an actual, organized refugee camp than the chaotic jumble of the previous year. To keep the Humvee from simply driving through and mowing people down again, they’d buried tree stumps in strategic places. Those would trip up any vehicles, but posed no obstacle to an intruder on foot.

  The moon rose behind the mountains to the northeast, and she could suddenly pick out figures. Two people sat on lawn chairs in front of a tent, smoking. She saw the harmonica player and his guitar-playing friend. A woman sat next to the guitar player. Maybe she was his wife. Maybe she’d come to listen to the music.

  A man stood down by the shore, fishing. Miriam couldn’t imagine there were any fish left after all this time. Even if they were no longer poisoning the lake to send fish floating to the surface, surely they’d used every other tactic to catch and eat the last few fish. She couldn’t see any trout leaping for flies in the moonlight, or the little pools of water that showed them stirring below the surface. No doubt any other animal that could be eaten had been, from deer and rabbits down to crickets and meadow voles.

  Fifteen or twenty people stood around the fire in the center of camp. She expected to see some of them cooking, but there were no pots and nothing going in and out of what she now recognized as a crudely built bread oven sitting to one side. All the bread in that oven, she realized, had been made from grain and flour pilfered from Blister Creek.

  But why weren’t they cooking anything now? Could they already be out of food? They must have truly been living day to day if less than twenty-four hours after Chambers’s last delivery they had nothing whatsoever to eat.

  Well, sure. A thousand, fifteen hundred people. What did a person need to survive, maybe a pound of grain per day? Even adding what they could hunt and fish from their surroundings, that stolen food had been barely enough to keep them alive.

  The discussion at the campfire rose in volume. It was animated—almost, but not quite an argument. She was suddenly sure they were discussing Ezekiel and Blister Creek. Food supply gone, now what do we do? And will those polygamist whackos attack us again?

  Miriam was itching to get closer and eavesdrop on their conversation, so she wandered back and forth through camp, coming at the clearing from several directions. But she couldn’t find any way to approach without stepping into the firelight. She didn’t see Ezekiel, so she didn’t worry about getting recognized. But with so many men and women, it wouldn’t take long to figure out that nobody knew her. Two seconds after that there’d be trouble.

  Instead, she gave up and went looking for Jacob’s truck. She picked her way through the tents until she found a fifth-wheel trailer up by the road, two of its windows broken out and taped with old newspapers instead. There was nobody lurking around it, and so she pressed herself against the side and put on the night vision goggles, dialing them down to compensate for the moonlight. She looked up toward the highway.

  Jacob’s stolen truck sat off the shoulder of the road, several yards down the muddy slope, roughly a hundred yards distant from the edge of camp. A man with a long-barreled gun stood guard. He wore a long, scraggly beard, but he was too skinny and short to be Ezekiel. She was wondering where to look next when she spotted movement inside the truck cabin. There was someone in there. And that could only be one person.

  There was her quarry. She’d found him, a prisoner inside the pickup truck. And the truck sat isolated from the camp, with only one guard standing watch. Miriam allowed herself a smile.

  The Lord had delivered Ezekiel Smoot into her hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Miriam put the goggles away as she looped back into camp. She needed to think about what to do and couldn’t stand here gawking while she did. She kept her head down as she walked back through. After a few minutes she cut back around to get another look at the truck.

  If there had been any doubt before, it evaporated when she saw the posture of the armed guard relative to the pickup truck. The man wasn’t guarding it from outsiders, he was there to keep the man in the truck cabin from getting out.

  And look at how they’d placed the truck. Off the road, but set apart from the camp. They didn’t want Ezekiel in their midst, not while they argued about what to do with him. Ezekiel had probably driven up covered in blood and making demands. They’d taken his keys, told him to stay in the truck, then put someone to guard it.

  But yes, they’d have taken the keys. That burst her fantasy of simply jumping inside, holding Ezekiel at gunpoint, and forcing him to drive back to Jacob and David. They could hold a church court instead of Miriam executing him on the spot; Jacob would like that. The guard would be collateral damage, but that couldn’t be helped. But no, not if Ezekiel didn’t have the keys. Probably McQueen had them. And who knew where he was or if she could even get to him.

  By the third time she circled through the camp, she was sure the guard was alone. She’d inspected the truck from several angles and had a chance to look along the edge of the camp to make sure nobody else was keeping watch.

 
Go back. Tell Jacob what you’ve seen. Let him decide.

  It was a strong impression, seemingly coming from nowhere. She froze, uncertain if she were hearing her own doubts or the warning of the spirit.

  Insofar as thou art faithful and true, thou shalt be protected from harm.

  “I am faithful and true,” she whispered. “Always.”

  It was too good an opportunity to pass up. If she went back, Ezekiel would escape. McQueen and his fellow squatters would find a way to put him to use after they’d gained the valley floor. Maybe they’d mount the .50-cal on the truck, or maybe they’d aim it down from the cliffs while others assaulted the bunker from the road. Maybe they’d even try the rope trick on the cliffs again. Either way, once they reached Blister Creek, Ezekiel could show them every weakness, every vulnerability.

  And here she was. One guard plus the traitor. Easy.

  But she couldn’t use her gun. She was too close to camp and too far from where Jacob and David could help her escape. There would be other guards south on the road, and she’d have to run that gauntlet with an uproar caused by her gunfire.

  Two women walked past carrying firewood toward the fire ring at the center of camp. When they were gone, Miriam reached under her denim jacket and eased her KA-BAR knife from its sheath, then walked with it tucked and hidden along the inside of her forearm.

  She strolled out of the camp toward the pickup truck sitting quietly by the highway. Forcing herself to walk at a normal pace, which felt almost melodramatically slow, she approached the truck with no attempt at stealth. The guard spotted her and watched as she approached.

  “Hey,” she called. “I have something for you. Are you hungry?”

  The guy snorted, as if the question were not worth answering. But he sounded eager when he spoke. “What have you got?”

  “Some guy came in from the mountains from cutting wood and turns out they’d trapped a couple of squirrels. Gamey, but it’s fresh.”

  “In other words, the same old slop,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’ll take it.”

  He propped his gun against the back of the truck as she approached with her left hand outstretched as if it held something. The man’s weapon was a double-barreled shotgun. Definitely for keeping the truck occupant under control, not protecting the vehicle itself from outside attack. But at short range it could turn her to hamburger. Only now his gun was out of reach as she let him step the last few feet toward her. Deluded by his hunger, that mistake would prove to be his death.

  Miriam waited until the man reached out his hand, then grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He staggered, off balance. She swung the knife around with the other hand and thrust up and in.

  He gave a surprised yelp as he came up against her. She shoved the knife into his belly as hard as she could. The force of his movement and her thrust got the first two inches in. Then she pushed off with her feet while hooking him around the neck with her left hand and dragging him down. A groan came out of his mouth and the knife slid up to the haft, all seven inches of blade now under his rib cage. She jerked it viciously back and forth as his legs went out from under him. When she pulled the blade out, he was dead at her feet and her hand was slick with blood.

  Miriam shuddered and allowed a moment to recover as she looked down at him. The poor fool had been doing his job; he wasn’t to blame. If she could have spared him, she would have. But it was life and death, the people of God arrayed against the forces of Satan. Circumstances had forced her hand.

  A quick glance at the camp showed nothing amiss. Figures moved about in the darkness, but nobody cried out or ran toward her. The guard was dead on the ground. Out of sight. If they looked toward her, they would see only a solitary figure moving in the moonlight outside the truck, exactly as expected.

  What now? Sneaking up and gutting a guard was one thing. Trying to knife Ezekiel in the confines of the truck cab another. Miriam was strong for a woman, but Ezekiel was a man and a rancher, six feet tall with broad shoulders and arms. In the open, she had no doubt she could take him, but the cramped space would negate her advantages in training and maneuverability.

  And she couldn’t shoot him here. Not so close to the squatters. She had to get him away from camp first.

  Miriam sheathed the bloody knife and walked slowly around to the opposite side of the truck so she could come in from the driver-side door out of view of the camp. She couldn’t risk someone catching a glint of moonlight off the door window as she opened the truck. When she passed the back bumper, she grabbed the shotgun propped where the guard had left it. She confirmed that both barrels were loaded.

  There was one final concern as she reached for the door handle. Had Jacob set the cab lights to turn on automatically when the door opened? She guessed not—that would be a risk to the battery at a time when it would be hard to recharge—but she wasn’t sure. If so, the cab light would attract interest from the camp, and she’d have no choice but to shoot and run.

  Miriam took a deep breath and swung open the door. No lights came on. She aimed the shotgun into the darkened interior, her knee holding the door open. The moonlight caught movement in the interior. A person had been lying down on the bench seat and now raised himself to a sitting position.

  “Don’t move,” she said.

  The man inside made a small, frightened noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t shoot me.”

  Miriam’s heart leaped in triumph. Yes. It was the apostate and traitor.

  “Ezekiel Smoot. You will come with me.”

  “If I do, will you kill me?”

  “No,” she lied. “We’ll go back to Blister Creek.”

  “And they’ll kill me there.”

  “Brother Jacob will make that decision, not me. He is a merciful man.”

  She meant to give him hope. He must know that the others in the Quorum of the Twelve and the Women’s Council would be calling for his death. Slit the throat of the murderer so that his blood would atone for his crimes. But Jacob would argue for compassion. If Ezekiel came peacefully, he had a chance. Or so he would imagine.

  “You can’t shoot me,” he said after a few seconds. “It will make too much noise.”

  Miriam hardened her voice. “I can and I will. The prophet sent me to bring you back. If I must die to obey him, so be it. The Lord will welcome me on the other side of the veil with open arms.”

  “You’re a woman! You’ve got a husband and children. You can’t throw your life away.”

  “And I will see them again someday. Try me, Ezekiel. I already killed your guard. I will kill you too.”

  None of this was a bluff. She lifted the gun to shoot.

  “No! I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Miriam stepped back two paces while he came out. Her movement was automatic, muscle memory from years of FBI training, from all those drug raids. Give sufficient space so that if the enemy did something stupid, he’d have no time to close before she could fire.

  That training saved her life.

  Ezekiel came out attacking. Shockingly, he still had his machete, and it was this that he swung in a wide arc toward Miriam’s head. It hadn’t occurred to her that McQueen would leave Ezekiel armed. But she wasn’t so shocked she was left without time to pull the trigger. Indeed, her finger was tightening automatically before she remembered not to shoot. At this range, the shotgun would blow a hole right through him. But then the entire camp would come running.

  Miriam ducked to one side as the blade whooshed past her head. Ezekiel was off balance, his charge hasty and without skill. She sidestepped him and smashed him in the ribs with the gun butt as he stumbled past.

  He came back around, flailing madly. His technique—or lack of it—may have served him well hacking through an unarmed crowd of children and their mothers, but it was helpless against Miriam’s training. She again ducked aside and this time bashed him on
the kneecap. He stumbled and fell with a cry, and she hit him between the shoulder blades. He fell flat on his face.

  Miriam dropped the shotgun, reached behind her back, and whipped out the KA-BAR knife from its sheath. She drove her knee against the small of Ezekiel’s back as she fell on him. Then she grabbed his hair with her left hand and yanked back his head. At the same time she reached around with the knife and jerked it across his throat.

  The blade bit deeply, and Ezekiel’s gathering scream turned into a gurgle and a spasm that nearly pitched her off. Blood gushed onto her hand. He flopped violently. She got the knife free and dragged it across his throat one more time to be sure.

  Miriam threw herself backward, gasping and panting from the exertion. Ezekiel struggled on, but within mere seconds he was stilling. His hand twitched, still holding the machete. Then he lay motionless, his throat cut, his blood spilled onto the ground through a severed artery in his neck. The manner of his death hit her.

  Without meaning to do so, Miriam had rendered the blood atonement on Ezekiel Smoot. His crime of apostasy was so great that only the spilling of his own blood would allow him some measure of mercy in the world to come. Otherwise, his soul would be cast into Outer Darkness for all eternity.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered. She wiped the knife clean on Ezekiel’s pant leg, then sheathed it as she rose to her feet.

  In spite of her hard words, she felt shaky and sick. It was one thing to kill a gentile, another to cut the throat of a man she’d known for years. A saint. Fallen, yes. Apostate, certainly. But still a member of her own community. It took effort to fight down the churning sensation in her gut.

  Her left leg hurt, and when she felt at it with her hand was surprised to discover a ragged hole in her jeans, and a superficial, but painful, cut along her thigh. She had no memory of being struck, but he’d apparently grazed her with the machete on one of his lunges. But it was nothing, wouldn’t even require stitches.