“What in the world is happening?” she whispered. Where were the commissars in their big, rumbling Humvees? Where were the fire trucks? “We’ve got to get out of here. Get it together, Allegra!” she scolded herself. The clothes she stuffed into a canvas shoulder bag would have to do. She went in and woke Kyle up. He reached up for her, chubby and stubborn, a big boy four years old with sandy brown hair and big sparkling brown eyes. “Whass all that noise, Mum?” he asked sleepily.
“There’s a fire. We’ve got to go to Grandpa and Grandma’s.”
Instantly, Kyle’s eyes widened and he asked questions steadily as she dressed him. Quickly, Allegra added some of his clothes to her own, and then she took his hand. Together they went outside. The fire was roaring, and now Allegra could see that houses behind hers were burning, too. This was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Hot Springs, and all of the houses were wooden. They weren’t going to last long.
People were aimlessly milling around the street, crying for help, shouting in anger. Almost running, Allegra towed Kyle down the street to an old Victorian house painted sky-blue and decorated with white gingerbread trim. Mounting the stairs to the wraparound porch, she banged the brass knocker. Instantly the door was yanked open by Merrill Stanton. He was fully dressed, and his face was tense. “I was just coming over to get you. Are you two all right?”
“We’re fine. Is Mother okay?”
“Yes, we’re both all right. She’s still getting dressed. The whole town’s on fire and the power’s out. Phones won’t work, either. And another thing—even the cars won’t work. Never saw anything like it!”
Allegra said, “My cottage is probably burning by now. And, Father, I think the fire’s going to spread. Some houses over on the street behind you are already going up. And . . .” With a cautious look down at Kyle, she whispered, “I saw some looters. Everyone’s panicking. Panicky crowds turn into mobs.”
Merrill’s gentle features were grave. He murmured, “This is going to be hard. Especially on your mother.”
Allegra nodded; her parents had lived in this house for thirty-five years. “I brought everything I could put in my backpack.”
“Then, little girl, you can help me load the garden cart. I’m going to gather all the medicine and medical supplies we’ve got. Why don’t you go into the pantry and grab all the food that won’t spoil. Take your time, and think; get stuff that’s solid, like rice and dried beans, but easy to carry. No jars. I’ve got a feeling food’s going to be hard to come by.”
Allegra’s mother, Genevieve, joined her in the roomy pantry. “How are you doing, Mother?” Allegra asked softly.
Genevieve Stanton, a gentle and quiet woman of fifty-seven, sighed but answered gamely, “As well as can be expected, Allegra, considering I can’t find two socks of your father’s that match, he’s lost his favorite wool jacket, and you’re turning my pantry upside down. Other than that, I’m doing very well, thank you.”
Perhaps Allegra had, after all, gotten some of her heart from her mother.
The loading of the garden cart did not take long and finally the four of them went outside. They stood hesitantly on the front walk, looking around blankly. With a shock, they saw that one of the ancient oak trees in the Stantons’ backyard was burning; at that moment, an enormous limb fell on the roof. Part of the roof caved in, and the house started burning with loud crackles and roars. “We’ve got to get away,” Merrill muttered, “but to where?”
Suddenly Kyle began to cry. “I forgot Benny.”
“Oh, no,” Merrill moaned. Benny was his grandson’s stuffed bear.
Allegra said, “We can’t go back in there now, Kyle.”
“But I can’t leave Benny! He’ll burn up!” the child wailed.
“I’ll go get Benny,” Merrill said decisively. “Where is he, Kyle?”
“In the bafroom, I think.”
Merrill made a quick dash into the house and was out almost at once, coughing. He held a stuffed bear, which only had one eye. Kyle took it eagerly, saying politely, “Thank you, Grandfather.”
“You’re welcome, Kyle,” Merrill said, managing a thin smile. He looked around briefly at the inferno that had been his home for so long. “Let’s go. Now.”
“Where will we go?” Genevieve asked. Her voice was even, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Merrill Stanton lifted his head and said in a stronger voice than he’d been able to muster that whole terrible night: “Where we always go when we need help, Genevieve. To the Lord. We’ll go to His house. When we’re there, He’ll give us a sign. I know it.”
Allegra sighed, “A sign? Father, what are you talking about?”
“A sign, Allegra. I don’t know what it will be, but we must look for it, for it will give us hope. It will be a beacon of hope in the darkness.”
Jesse Mitchell started with such violence that the entire bed shook. Confused and disoriented, he pulled himself up and sat staring across the dark room. His wife’s voice was fully aware and alarmed. “What’s wrong, Jess?”
“Something’s happened, Noe. Something bad.”
Throwing the cover back, Noemi lit a coal oil lamp beside the bed and turned to face Jesse. Pushing her braids back, she reached out and anxiously grabbed his thin shoulder. “Are you sick?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Jesse got out of the old bed and stood uncertainly in the middle of the small bedroom. Uncertainty swept across his face and he began to pray silently while Noe waited. Finally he pulled on his favorite overalls and moccasins. “I’m going to go out, Noe. “
“You don’t know what it is or where you’re going?”
“No. Not yet.”
Noe watched as Jesse rose to his feet. “I’m feeling something, too. And you’re right, Jess . . . it’s something bad. Let’s pray before you go.”
The two knelt beside the bed and for ten minutes they prayed, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud. It had become a way of life for the old couple. Prayer was their element as water is a fish’s element. Finally Jesse said, “Amen and amen!” then got to his feet. As he helped Noe up, he urged, “Go back to bed, Noe.”
“No. I’ll stay up. You may want something to eat when you get back. And I’ll keep praying.”
Jesse grinned then pulled her to him, and kissed her resoundingly on the cheek. “It’s not bigger than God, whatever it is.”
Turning, he left the cabin and walked up a well-worn western path. Overhead the stars were crisp and cheerily uncaring of little men and their little problems and fears. A sliver of a moon slunk behind a cloud. Jesse quickened his pace, threading his way easily through the trail he’d so often walked. Finally he arrived at Sky Rock, a big, flat promontory that crested one of the high hills overlooking a vast bowl of a valley. He stopped dead-still and caught his breath in shock.
Hot Springs is burning . . . !
The sight of the cherry red glow could be nothing else. Ordinarily the lights of Hot Springs could be seen, but now there were no lights—just a dull red flickering glow that could only be a massive fire.
He continued to pray unconsciously and when no word came, he muttered, “Lord, why are You hiding Yourself from me? If I ever needed You, I need You now.”
Still no wisdom came to him, so he watched the ominous glow in the west grow brighter. As always, when he reached a point in his life when he was confused or had no guidance, he simply waited. As he watched the city burn, and he thought of his and Noe’s isolation, he felt a tremor of fear. What if . . . the whole world is burning? Something bad is happening, some meanness of the evil one . . .Both Noe and I have sensed it . . . and here we are, two old fools out here all alone, with no help . . .
And he can see us.
This errant thought brought Jesse Mitchell up short. “Who? Who can see me?” he cried into the night.
Still nothing, and no one answered him.
But now Jesse had that old, too-familiar and close skin-crawling feeling he’d had ever since they’d left New
Mexico. He felt as if someone (some thing?) was looking for him—like a searchlight, kind of. It probed here, and then swiveled over there—it might just hone right in on him, standing on this big rock in the wide open— Jesse actually wheeled and started to run back to the house.
Behind him he saw two red eyes.
Jesse stopped, his old heart hammering like a young wild buck’s against his thin chest.
“Oh, God, my God!” Jess managed to cry.
The red eyes disappeared. The searchlight swung by, not even touching a hair of his head.
Jesse turned and threw back his shaggy white head to stare at the uncaring stars. The last few minutes—the fear, the panic, the confusion—was it all an illusion? Was he, perhaps, losing his grip on sanity?
Again he felt a little twinge of fear, but this time he faced it with his whole mind and his strong spirit. “Well, for goodness’s sake, my Lord, how I’m puttering on! And here You are, of course! Right here, right now, and who am I to demand that You talk to me or You show me something or do a trick for me, like You’re my trained pet? Where was I when You laid the foundations of the earth? Who laid the cornerstone and the foundations, and for You all the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Forgive me, dear Lord, I am but a beast before Thee!”
In spite of his harsh self-recrimination, Jesse Mitchell was suddenly filled with joy and even laughed. He turned, dancing a little jig, and called out, “Hey, you, old red-eye! I know what you are, and I know who you answer to! Get thee hence, get thee behind me, Satan, I command you in the name of all power, Jesus Christ!”
Dusting his hands together in a businesslike manner, he said, “So that takes care of that. Now, Lord, what do You want this old fool to do about all these shenanigans?”
Growing somber now, he studied the conflagration in the west. “There’s going to be people who need help. People who are scared, and lost. It looks like the whole city’s burning up.”
As soon as he had muttered these words, the Scripture came into his mind. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.
The thin frame of Jesse Mitchell suddenly grew rigid. “That’s it! A city set on a hill! Of course, now I know what to do. Thank You, Lord.”
Quickly he began gathering dead wood. Old fallen branches were easy to find in these thick piney hills. When he had gathered a large stack, he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a box of small wooden matches. Kneeling, he struck one, cupping the tiny blaze in his hand, savoring the dry, sulfury smell that brought to mind thousands of comforting home fires Jesse Mitchell had lit. Soon it caught and a brisk night breeze fed it quickly to the dead wood. Soon a great bonfire, blazing six feet into the sky, its sparks flying up as high as the stars, was a strong beacon in the gentle old hills.
Jesse Mitchell stood, pulled off his old Stetson hat, lifted his lined face to the heavens, and spoke in a loud voice:
“But ye, brethren, are not in darkness, that that day should overtake you as a thief. Ye are all the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the night, nor of darkness. Therefore let us not sleep, as do others; but let us watch and be sober!”
His voice dropping to a whisper, he finished, “And the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you, amen.”
PART IV
FALL, DYING
The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.
—ISAIAH 57:1
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.
—GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS, NO WORST, THERE IS NONE
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. . .
—JOHN DONNE, HOLY SONNETS
TWENTY-TWO
THOUGH HE MAINTAINED A strict parade-ground stance at attention, and he was supposed to focus straight ahead, Captain Con Slaughter’s sharp brown eyes slid around to take in the changes in his CO’s office.
“That’s right,” Lieutenant Colonel J. P. Nix asserted. “SATphones and drone went out the window. Covered up that useless Cyclops screen with a map.” Chewing on his ever-present cigar stub, he mouthed dourly, “Map still works.”
“Yes, sir!” Con agreed smartly.
“At ease; sit down, Captain. So what’s your bug today?”
“Uh—yes, sir. My bug. It’s my team, sir. They’re restless, I guess you’d say.”
“Yeah?” Nix responded acidly. “Well, Captain, we’re all kind of antsy, sitting here and waiting to get nuked or gassed or anthraxed or for the sky to fall in or the ground to open and swallow us. Suck it up.”
Con swallowed hard but pressed on. “Yes, sir, we know everyone’s optempo stinks right now. But we have an idea for a mission, sir.”
“Con, everybody wants to go kill something, including me,” Nix sighed. “But you know the drill. With no communication, no command, and no intelligence—and I don’t mind admitting that I feel like the least intelligent of anybody—we maintain a defensive posture. That’s our only option. That means sitting here and waiting, playing with our little toy guns.”
“Yes, sir, but our mission isn’t offensive in nature. As a matter of fact, it might help you feel less—er—I mean more—intelligent.” Colonel Nix’s bulldog frown was so forbidding that Con went on hastily, “I mean, sir, that’s what this operation is designed for, actually. To gather intelligence, to research reestablishing communication— and also, maybe to—uh—gather some useful supplies and equipment.”
Nix’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, you got my attention.”
Con still wasn’t too confident. Colonel Nix was a fair man, but sometimes when he looked at you it made you feel as if you were donating bone marrow without anesthesia. “Thank you, sir. If I may use your map? Here’s Fort Carson. Fire Team Eclipse has gathered extremely detailed information about the areas to the southwest, sir. We know that here”—he pointed confidently—“a large herd of wild burros wander about a seven-square-mile area, but they always come to this small canyon to drink. There’s a stream that must be spring-fed instead of rainwater-fed, because it never dries up.”
“Burros, huh?” Nix said slowly, but his dark brown eyes flickered with interest. In these medieval days, pack animals could be very useful.
“Yes, sir,” Con said, his confidence growing. “But even better— over here are horses. Hundreds of them.”
“Horses? What do you mean? Wild mustangs?”
“Yes, sir. You see, there is a ranch right here, right out in the middle of nowhere. But we’ve observed Vindicators and Humvees there several times, and the ranch is quite large and well-equipped.
And then there are the horses. You know no private individual could possibly have gotten licensed to own so many horses. So it must be—”
“A Green-head ranch,” Nix growled. “Maybe some kind of experimental biome station for wildlife management.”
“Has to be, sir.”
Colonel Nix, being the kind of man he was, had scrounged around until he found an old scarred metal desk from the previous century and an old wooden chair with a hard uncushioned seat and slatted back. He wore, and had always worn for his thirty-six years of service, an old Colt M1911 .45 caliber automatic that had been issued to his grandfather back in the 1970s when Jacob Paul Nix joined up with the 101st and was sent to an obscure little Far Eastern country called Vietnam. Now J. P. Nix, his namesake, swung his chair around, and the wheels creaked and the swivel squeaked, and he felt like an old, old man. He stared out the window behind his desk, and the bright wash of sunshine made Con squint to see him clearly.
“Captain Slaughter, I guess you know about General Wallace taking his tank-heads and marching to NORAD the day after the blackout?” the colonel asked in an unusually subdued voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know he got back last night? With not one w
hit of information— except that Cheyenne Mountain is still standing. Anyway, out of that tanker company of one hundred and fifty-three men he started off with, he only got back with sixty-two of them.”
Con merely nodded, and though Nix wasn’t looking at him, he seemed to receive his acknowledgment. “We’ve had over two hundred desertions in just this week, Con,” he continued in a voice deepened with anger. “And I can’t tell you how proud I am that not a single one of them has been from the 502d. So far, anyway.”
Con stiffened and his tawny eyes flashed angrily. “Colonel Nix, I assure you that I and my men have no intention of deserting. If you order us to, we’ll stay here ’til doomsday.”
“Calm down, Con, I wasn’t accusing you of making this elaborate scheme just so you and your team can desert. Blast it, you and I both know you could just walk off if you wanted to,” Nix rasped, now turning to face him. “Besides, boy, you’re a really bad liar. You couldn’t fool a six-year-old kid if you weren’t telling the straight truth. Now sit down, you’re blocking my view of the map.”
Con sat.
Nix studied the map through a dreamy-looking but foul-smelling gray-blue haze of cigar smoke. “So you’re telling me that your team has maps better than Cyclops II recon records? Maps so good that you know where all the little bunnies are, and the yellow flowers as opposed to the red ones, and every anthill?”
“Well, sir, Sergeant David Mitchell—he’s our Everyman—has done some manual observations during our helo exercises,” Con explained enthusiastically. “Sergeant Mitchell’s a very conscientious soldier, sir, and he takes the Cy II recon maps and makes meticulous notes on them. Says he figured it would sharpen his navigational skills, and they also would be good references just in case. Would you like to see?”
“Sure would.”
Con unfolded a detailed topographical map that was actually a perfectly clear satellite photo that Cyclops II had interpolated and labeled. On it, in a tiny and neat block handwriting, were such notes as “Old Graybeard Rock,” and “Eagle’s Dare,” and “The Grove.”
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 33
