The Days of Elijah, Book One: Apocalypse: A Novel of the Great Tribulation in America

by Goodwin,Mark

  Elijah said a quick prayer and lifted his head. “Be wise, and hurry home.”

  Kevin looked up. “That’s it? That wasn’t very long.”

  Elijah was already walking toward the house. “It’ not the length of the prayer, but the fact that you sought God’s blessing in your endeavor.”

  Everett was also suppressed by the brevity. “I suppose if you want a longer prayer, you’ll have to do it yourself. Let’s hit the road. I’m ready to get this quest over with.”

  Kevin tossed the keys to Everett. “You know the area better, you drive.”

  The two of them were soon on the road and headed toward Winchester, which was about a one-hour drive. They listened to the local GRBN radio station, since it was the only one playing. It streamed a persistent flow of propaganda, telling of the wonders of Angelo Luz and his new utopia that would radiate out from the New Atlantis to the four corners of the world. Very little actual news was disseminated and none of it was new to Everett or Kevin. They saw very few vehicles on the road. Despite the promises of the New World Order, fuel was still hard to come by, and even for those with the Mark, it was prohibitively expensive.

  Everett turned off the highway. His intention was to take Valley Pike into town. Valley Pike ran parallel to the highway. They were more exposed driving through the suburbs of Winchester, but it would allow them to get a better feel of what was going on in the town. As soon as he exited I-81, he pointed up Valley Pike. “We’ll drive by the Gander Mountain store where we stocked up, right when everything was falling apart last November.” As they approached the intersection to turn off for Gander Mountain, Everett pointed at the abandoned Citgo Station. “I bought gas from a crazy old man, right there. By then the pumps were empty from the attacks, but he was selling it for $50 a gallon. He was selling it out of an old rusted-out white van.”

  Kevin pointed at a white van in the run-down motel parking lot, next to the gas station. “Like that one?”

  Everett looked over his shoulder. “Exactly like that one.” Everett pulled a sharp U-turn. He slowly pulled into the lot of the seedy little hotel, which other than the old white van, was completely abandoned. Between the disappearances and the massive die-offs from starvation, typhoid, and violence, there were plenty of unoccupied homes, making a resurgence in demand for such unsavory establishments as this dirty little motel, highly unlikely.

  An old man emerged from the door of one of the rooms, carrying a cardboard box toward the van. “Scratchy!” Everett pulled up next to the van.

  “You know this guy?” Kevin sounded surprised.

  “That’s the guy I bought my gas from.” Everett rolled his window down. “Hey, old-timer.”

  The man wore dingy overalls, and a faded ball cap. He had shifty eyes and stood near the back door of the van, with one hand concealed behind the door as he looked at Everett and Kevin. “I don’t want no trouble, but I got somethin’ for you if n’ want some.”

  Everett smiled. “Let me guess, you’ve got a big shiny cowboy gun, a revolver with an eight-inch barrel behind that door.”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Who are you? State your business!”

  Everett was having fun with the old man, but he was still careful not to make any sudden moves that might make the man nervous. Few people still around had come to live this long without having to kill someone. “Seriously? You don’t remember me? I bought gas from you right there, in the parking lot next door.”

  The old man walked out from behind the van, sticking the long-barreled revolver in a shoulder holster that looked like he’d fashioned it himself from a regular holster, and a series of belts. “You’re that city slicker ain’t you?” The old man chuckled, revealing two uneven rows of heavily stained teeth. “Boy, I didn’t recognize you in that truck. You’re a fittin’ in right nice. What’d you do with that smart-aleck hot rod you had last time?”

  “Hot rods are great for the city, but a man needs a truck around these parts.” Everett grinned.

  “He might, he might. What cha lookin’ fer? I bet you still got a pocket full of them dead presidents, but they ain’t gonna do you a bit a good round here. If you want to trade, you need somethin’ nice.”

  Everett cut the engine. “What do you have?”

  “What do you have?” The old man pointed at Everett.

  Everett knew Scratchy had something in the box he’d just loaded into the back of the van. And if he was still driving around, he had access to fuel. He decided to lay a card on the table, but not show his entire hand. He pulled four one-ounce silver American eagle coins out of his pocket and held them out the window for the old man to see.

  “These real?” The man took two of them and clanked them around in his hand.

  “You tell me.” Everett held his hand out for the man to return the coins.

  He dropped them in Everett’s hand. “Yep. I can tell by the sound. That’s what they made money out of when I was a boy. Then they came out with them government slugs. Never did get used to the sound of that funny money a janglin’ around in my pocket. I’ll give ya a quart of liquor for one of them. Best liquor to ever come out of these hills here. It was my grandpappy’s recipe, and his grandpappy’s before him.”

  Of course Everett had no need of moonshine, they had a bottle and a half of whiskey at the house, for medicinal purposes. But, he’d broken the ice with Scratchy who had turned out to be just the sort of person they’d hoped to meet. “What about gas?”

  The old man adjusted his ball cap. “Gas is a tight commodity round here. I don’t know if I could get any or not. Probably need something besides silver for that.”

  “I might have something. Do you have anywhere more private we could talk?”

  “Let me get another box then you follow me around the corner.” Scratchy went back into the motel room and came out with another box, which he put in the back of the van.

  As they waited, Kevin stared curiously at the van. “So, that’s his name? Scratchy?”

  Everett shrugged as he followed the white van out of the lot. “I don’t know. That was the nickname Courtney gave him when we bought the gas.”

  Everett followed the van up the street several blocks then turned off onto a side street, passing through a small neighborhood, and then driving past a sign, which read Kearnstown Battlefield. They continued up the narrow one-lane road.

  “I guess this is an old Civil War historical site.” Kevin looked out the window as they approached a three-story antebellum brick house.

  “Jackson fought here.” Everett continued following Scratchy’s van, past the house and down another path which was not paved. They drove by another, more recently constructed farmhouse, several out buildings, a large barn, and stables, all empty. Everett considered what must have happened to the horses. “Well, it’s a delicacy in France,” he muttered to himself. After another two hundred yards down the dirt road, they arrived at a rustic barn, tucked back in the middle of a thick clump of trees. Five, or maybe six other vehicles were parked back amongst the trees.

  Scratchy got out and walked up to Everett’s truck. “This here is the new Grey Fox Saloon. The fellow who ran the old Blue Fox in town took his followin’ over here. Y’all grab one of them boxes out the back of my van, and come on in.”

  Everett surveyed the area before getting out and complying with Sctratchy’s request. “I’m Everett, by the way.”

  Scratchy held out his hand. “Lloyd. Much obliged.”

  Kevin shook his hand next. “I’m Kevin, pleased to meet you.”

  “You think the boys in here will be all right with you bringing company?” Everett took the cardboard box that Lloyd handed him. He could hear the distinct sound of glass jars clanking against each other.

  “They better be. I ain’t never had no problem getting’ rid of my liquor. If they don’t like the company I keep, they can find somebody else to sell em’ the liquor.” Lloyd handed another box to Kevin to carry and led the way, empty handed.

 
; Lloyd slid the door open. Inside the barn was a rudimentary wooden bar lined with a row of stools, and four men sitting on them. Another man stood behind the bar. Several tables of various styles, made of diverse materials, and surrounded by mismatch chairs filled the open area adjacent to the bar. A small, battery-operated AM/FM radio playing the news from the local GRBN affiliate constituted the establishment’s sound system.

  Lloyd closed the door after they were inside. “Put them boxes over yonder on that table in the back.”

  The bartender gave Lloyd a nod and gave Everett and Kevin a suspicious look. “How y’all?”

  Everett smiled uneasily. “Hey.”

  “This here’s my friend, Everett. He’s from the city, but he’s good folk.” Lloyd patted Everett on the back without introducing Kevin.

  Kevin stuck his hand out to the bartender. “I’m Kevin.”

  The bartender appeared reluctant, but finally stepped forward to shake his hand. “Devon. Good to meet you.”

  “Is Tommy around?” Lloyd looked around the bar.

  “He said to tell you he’d be back in an hour. He had to go pick up a BBQ pit smoker. One of them big devils, mounted on a trailer.”

  “All right, give us three Cokes.”

  “They ain’t cold. You know we don’t get no ice til after six. Tommy said it’s a waste.”

  “They ain’t hot, is they?”

  “Cool, I reckon.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  The bartender placed three Coca Colas in cans on the bar. Lloyd picked them up and carried them to a table against the wall, and out of earshot of the rest of the people inside. He handed a can to Kevin and another to Everett.

  Everett took the can, sat down, and popped the top. “Thanks. This is a rare treat.”

  “I appreciate it.” Kevin did the same.

  “I don’t see no Mark on neither of you boys’ hands.” Lloyd sipped his Coke.

  “I don’t see one on you either,” Everett replied.

  Lloyd sat back in his chair and took off his dusty old ball cap. “I ain’t never been the conformin’ sort.”

  Everett feigned a look of surprise. “You don’t say?”

  Lloyd chuckled. “I didn’t have much endearment for the old government. I plum detest this new one, this Global Republic, or whatever they are. Some of these old boys round here ain’t taken too kindly to ‘em neither.

  “Some folks took the Mark to get their free money, but couldn’t hardly buy nothin’ with it cause they’ve got the darn prices jacked up so high. Other ones took it and got themselves reassigned to work farms out west. ‘Course they won’t tell ya that on the radio.

  “I reckon this snake in DC, or New Whatchamacallit has gone and confiscated most all the farm land across the country. He’s takin’ anyone he sees fit to, and sendin’ ‘em out to work them farms.”

  Lloyd chuckled. “Hee hee! Serves ‘em right. They thought they was a gonna sit round here and do nothin’ but cash checks like they did when this last bunch of snakes was runnin’ the show. Ain’t never had no time for nobody who’d sit around and leech off the rest of us, paying taxes.”

  Everett laughed. “You paid taxes?”

  “Dern right! I had to pay taxes on everything I bought. Taxes on my farm, taxes on my van, taxes on the gas, taxes, taxes, taxes. I might not’ve paid much to them devils at the IRS, but I didn’t sit around with my hand out neither. I got up and made my own livin’.

  “Anyhow, some of these ol’ boys round here ain’t plannin’ on takin’ no Mark. Some thinks it’s of the devil, and other ones, like Tommy and me, don’t have no hankerin’ to be relocated or have them up in our business, tellin’ us how to live. And I reckon all of us together can make our own way.”

  “What do you think about the disappearances?” Everett asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you. Radio said the aliens got em’, other ones says Jesus got em’, and other ones says Jesus is an alien.”

  Everett rolled his eyes. “It was Jesus. This was all prophesied of in the Bible. It even tells what’s coming. The next major event is a global earthquake.”

  Lloyd rubbed his head and put his hat back on. “That’s what Preacher says. We got to callin’ him Preacher long time ago. He’d be in the Blue Fox chuggin’ down the beer with the rest of em’, a goin’ on about this, that, and the other, what the Bible said. After all them folks disappeared, he quit drinkin’. He got ol’ Stewart to quit drinkin’, too. Reckon he practices what he preaches now. They still come around some nights, tellin’ the rest of us to repent. He’s claimin’ there’s a big quake comin’. If it comes, I might believe him. I might quit drinkin’ too, or I might not.

  “Anyhow, Tommy will be along directly. If anybody can get gas, it’ll be Tommy. Course the only things anybody’d want to trade would be either, liquor, drugs, food, or guns. He might take silver. Folks who’ve got more than they need are usin’ it for money, but most folks are lookin’ for things they can use. Now them boys who drive for the new army, they’ll take your silver. Couple of em’ come in here from time to time. We do a lot of tradin’ with them.

  “If you ain’t got nothin’ else to trade, we might work out something with them army boys for your silver then swap that with Tommy for your gas. But I’ll tell you, gas ain’t cheap.”

  Everett pointed toward Lloyd’s large revolver hanging under his coat. “You need something a little more discreet. Once the GR gets a good foothold in town, they’ll be ramping up patrols. And that cannon is pretty easy to spot.”

  Lloyd tugged at the bottom of his coat to better conceal the tip of his holster. “Like I said. Guns is a top commodity these days.”

  “Top, like better than gas?” Everett asked.

  Lloyd grimaced. “Yep.”

  “So if I could help you out with something a little more discreet, you think it’d get me a fill up?” Everett put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

  “Well a fill up may be askin’ a might much, but let’s see what you have in mind.” Lloyd’s face showed his excitement.

  Lloyd was a great networker, but Everett was sure that poker wasn’t his game. Everett stood up. “Come on out to the truck.”

  Kevin and Lloyd followed Everett back outside. Everett dropped the tailgate. “Wait here.” He walked to the back door, retrieved the duffle bag with the three pistols and brought it back to the tailgate.

  Kevin unzipped the duffle bag and took out a small semi-automatic pistol. “This is a Berretta Cheetah, .380.”

  Lloyd smiled. “I like it, but it is a little small, you got anything else?”

  Kevin pulled out the Springfield XD. “How about a 9mm?”

  “Now you’re talkin’. You got ammo for all these?”

  Everett nodded. “Yep. We’ve got ammo.”

  Kevin pulled the last pistol out. “Now this one is similar to what you have, but a shorter barrel. This barrel is just over four inches.”

  Lloyd took the revolver. “357?”

  “Yes, sir.” Kevin pulled a box of shells out of the bag and set them on the tailgate.

  Lloyd held the revolver like a baby. “I believe we can work something out.”

  “Full tank?” Everett asked.

  Lloyd seemed anxious to close the deal. “How many shells can you give me?”

  Kevin pulled out two more 50-round boxes and stacked them next to the first box. “150, if you can fill us up.”

  Lloyd grinned, showing his grubby teeth. “I reckon we got ourselves a deal.”

  “So you’ll work it out with Tommy?”

  “Oh yeah. He swaps me gas for liquor all the time. He owes me for this load. That’ll be a full tank. We’ll settle up just as soon as he gets here.”

  Kevin put the shells back in the duffle. “Sounds great.”

  Everett held his hand out for the pistol and winked. “It’s just good business.”

  Lloyd looked as though it pained him to hand the pistol back, even for a short time.

  Ev
erett and Kevin followed their new friend back into the make-shift saloon and returned to their table.

  Everett looked at the nearly empty bar. “You said something about drivers for the new army. What do they drive?”

  “Supply trucks. They don’t want no ‘mericans havin’ guns so they put ‘em to work drivin’ food, medical supplies, or whatever. Anybody recruited as a gun-totin’ soldier for the new government is shipped out, assigned overseas. All the soldiers brought in to this country is from somewhere else. I reckon they think that’ll keep the soldiers from sidin’ with the rebels in the case of a revolt. It’s a mite easier to shoot somebody that ain’t from your country; ‘specially for ‘mericans.”

  “So the GR drivers who come in here, they’re all American?” Kevin asked.

  Lloyd finished the last sip of his Coke. “Yep. And they ain’t got no love for these sons-a-bucks neither.”

  “How well guarded are the supply trucks?” Everett inquired.

  “Depends what they’re haulin’. If it’s guns or ammo, they’re in a full military convoy. Drugs and alcohol shipments have armed escorts.”

  Everett furrowed his brow. “The government is shipping drugs and alcohol?”

  “Oh yeah, pot, heroin, cocaine, they sell it all. ‘Course, like everything else, it ain’t cheap. Some of Tommy’s boys, they grow the marijuana, and they got all upset about the government sellin’ it. But I told ‘em, my grandpappy went through the same thing when they ended prohibition. You know, it didn’t hurt us one bit. Ain’t never been a day in my life when there wasn’t somebody wantin’ my liquor over what they could get at the package store.”

  Everett half-smiled. He was quickly getting a feel for who this guy Tommy was. Prior to the War on Drugs, a loose organization of marijuana producers, known as the Cornbread Mafia had operated all through the Appalachians of Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. They’d funded candidates in most all elections in the small towns, insuring they were free to operate without harassment of the local police or courts. Everett was deeply apprehensive about getting any more involved with this lot who hung around the Grey Fox Saloon. He glanced over at Kevin and thought to himself about how he’d been heavily involved with the militia movement and the uprising against the old government. Kevin and his crew of conservative constitutionalists had been termed by the liberal media as Y’all Qaeda, a derogatory term painting them as hillbilly domestic terrorists. Everett had come around to their way of thinking, despite his heavy indoctrination by his schooling, and his time at the CIA. And while they’d been viewed no differently than the Cornbread Mafia by the former government, Everett knew there was a vast difference between the patriots and the drug runners. But to borrow a morsel of wisdom from Muslim extremists, he also knew that his enemy’s enemy could be his friend.