“Better watch yourselves,” James mumbled to the fowl. “Kentucky Fried Chicken will be coming for you.”
Brucius sat down, tugged at his pants, and stiffly crossed his legs. “Feels like winter’s coming early,” he said, his mood matching the coolness in the air.
James looked at the pale, gray sky. Seemed it was never clear or blue now, but washed out with plum-colored rain clouds and dust, though it was sometimes red, especially in the mornings when the night winds had blown. “We can’t afford an early winter,” he answered. “It’s going to be hard enough as it is.”
Brucius leaned forward and rubbed his eyes, his powerful fingers pushing onto the soft skin. “Can you imagine it?” he wondered. “Can you even imagine what it’s going to be like? We’re not prepared. No one’s prepared. We thought we’d planned for everything. We’ve got backups to our backups, redundant military systems all over the place. We’ve got
counterterrorist operations, military operations, intelligence operations, offensive capabilities, and defensive counter-
measures. We’ve got a triad of nuclear deterrence. Allies. NATO. The list goes on. The only thing we don’t have is . . .”
“Food.” James finished his thought for him.
Brucius shook his head in despair. “I don’t know; I just don’t know.”
James kicked at a duck that was pulling on his shoe. “Get some rest, Brucius. Get something to eat. Sleep on it. Things won’t seem quite so bad in the morning.”
Brucius hunched his shoulders and frowned as he kicked another duck.
“Do you have any final questions?” James asked.
Brucius shook his head.
“Okay then, here’s the deal. As I told you, constitutionally, Fuentes has no right to claim the presidency, not as long as you’re alive, but I can’t recommend you go after anything until we understand a little bit more about who’s behind all this: who they really are, how they’re organized, where they come from, what they intend to do. We don’t know any of these things and it’s critical—and apparently very dangerous—that we find out as much as we can before we make a move. Yes, you could rise up and claim the presidency, we could fly you out to Raven Rock tonight, but it would do very little good. We could demand they relinquish power. Maybe they’d even do it, I really don’t know. But even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. As long as you’re not willing to follow the path they have laid out, as long as you’re unwilling to discard the Constitution and discontinue individual rights, as long as you insist upon defending our country, as long as you refuse to pull out of the Middle East or subject our military to the U.N. authority, they won’t allow you to hold onto power. They will kill for this—they’ve proven that already.”
The men fell silent, the evening breeze gusting stronger across the great Nebraska plains. A swirl of dead leaves blew before the wind, scattering brown and yellow across the grass.
“So,” Brucius wondered, “what do you suggest?”
James had been waiting for the question and quickly leaned toward him. “We’ve got to keep you here. Keep you safe. Keep you in hiding. No one’s going to know you’re out here, at least not for a while. As long as they don’t know about you, they won’t know about the threat. And as long as they don’t feel threatened, they won’t come for us. More, a false sense of security will bring them out. That will give us time and opportunity to shadow the government and see what they really intend to do. We’ll watch, see how far they’ll go, try to figure out who is pushing this conspiracy and what they really want. Then, once we understand them, once we really know who they are, we can bring you out of hiding and let you stake your claim. For good or bad, whether you want this thing or not, you are the constitutionally mandated president of the United States. But they have the powerful advantage of operating in secret from inside the government.”
As James talked, two of his security men climbed out of the backseat of the black SUV and leaned against the doors, a signal that he had to go. James caught the lead agent’s eye, nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned back to Brucius.
“To defend our nation against all enemies, whether foreign or domestic,” he said. “That’s the oath we both have taken. Our fathers were wise, Brucius, wise enough to see the possibility of this day. But we can’t defend against domestic enemies until we know for certain who they are. So we let them move, let them act, watch them while they work. When we understand them, we bring you forward and put you in your place.”
Brucius bit his lip. Another duck snapped at his feet. He closed his eyes to the dying light and let his head fall upon his chest. He was hungry and frustrated and weary to the bone. He needed food and rest. He’d been running on only fumes. Fumes and fear.
How long he sat there, deep in thought, he really didn’t know. Time passed and his breathing settled into deep and measured sounds. But though his eyes were closed, his mind was racing. And as he thought, it seemed a deep darkness settled over him. He felt his body becoming heavy, as if he was being crushed by the very air above his head. He swallowed and tried to hide it, but the fear rolled up inside. Opening his eyes, he slowly turned to James, his face tight with dread. “Are you one of the enemy, James?” he wondered. “Are you with them in this accord? Are you really who you say you are, or did they send you here to me to kill me or to keep me out of sight?”
James didn’t move, his dark eyes unfeeling as he stared straight ahead. “I’ve wondered the same thing about you, Brucius. I’ve wondered every day. Will you betray me? Can I trust you with my life? Because it’s going to come down to that one day. If I can’t trust you, is there anyone? Who am I to turn to? How deep does this go?”
Silence. The blowing wind. A car slowly passing by. A jaybird flying overhead. Then Brucius finally answered, turning slightly on the bench. “I guess all we can do is trust our friends.”
James slowly shook his head. “All of those who are dead now made that old mistake.”
Brucius didn’t answer as he wet his lips against the drying wind.
“ . . . for by [their] sorceries were all nations deceived.”
—Revelation 18:23
“And it came to pass that there were sorceries, and witchcrafts, and magics; and the power of the evil one was wrought upon all the face of the land.”
—Mormon 1:19
“And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.”
—Matthew 24:31
Chapter Thirty-One
Four Miles West of Chatfield
Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee
saw an angel last night, Mommy.”
Caelyn looked toward her daughter and listened carefully. “Really, baby. What did she look like?”
“It wasn’t a she, it was a he-angel, Mom.”
Caelyn’s heart skipped a beat and she put her work down, resting the raw potatoes on the plate that was balanced on her knees. “A he-angel? Really. Like what, a little angel, a little boy or something?”
Ellie turned from her mother and looked off, her face crunching as if she were trying to remember. “Not really. He was older. Like a man.”
Caelyn sensed her hands begin to tremble. Don’t do that! she scolded herself. It’s just a little girl’s dream. Don’t read so much into everything.
Still, a strange thought, cold and terrifying, slipped into her mind. “It wasn’t . . . you know, it wasn’t Daddy, was it, Ellie?” she asked in a breathless voice.
The blonde-haired girl shook her head. “No, it wasn’t Daddy.” She seemed puzzled by the question. “Daddy’s not an angel, Mom.”
The two were quiet for a moment. Ellie eyed her mother keenly, as if she knew something so obvious that it confused her how her mother couldn’t know it too. “Daddy’s not an angel, Mom,” she said again.
Caelyn sighed with relief. “Did DoxMax see the angel?” she asked, referring to Ellie’s imaginary
friend. Caelyn didn’t know a lot about DoxMax, how old she was, what she was like, how she had gotten her name—all she knew was Ellie spent hours talking to her, sharing tea parties, playing in the tree swing, hiding under the porch. And it seemed Ellie spent more and more time lately with her invisible friend, which worried Caelyn just a little.
Ellie turned and frowned. “Of course not, Mom.” She shook her head in disbelief. “DoxMax was asleep. You know she has to be in bed by eight.”
Caelyn made a face. “Silly me.” She turned back to her work, cutting the potatoes into cubes for the soup.
Ellie thought while looking off again. “He was a pretty angel.” She turned back to her mom. “And very nice.”
“It was a good dream, then?”
“Was it a dream, Mom?”
“I think so, honey. It must have been.”
Ellie nodded, accepting.
Caelyn watched her again. “Did he talk to you, baby?” Her voice remained tight.
Ellie tried to remember. “No, I don’t think so. But it felt good to have him close. I like him a lot. I hope I see him again tonight.”
Caelyn hesitated. “You mean in your dreams?” she prodded.
The little girl didn’t answer as she reached for a small cube of potato that had fallen onto the ground. She tried to toss the dirt-covered bit into the metal bowl, but Caelyn caught it. She used a dish towel to brush it off, then dropped it into the bowl with the other pieces of cut potatoes. One didn’t throw food away anymore just because of a little dirt.
Ellie frowned, then nodded at the barrel beside the porch that they used for a garbage can now. “It smells bad.” She held her nose.
“It’s some of the fat trimmings from the meat that we were smoking,” Caelyn explained, though she knew her daughter wouldn’t understand.
“Ugh!” Ellie held her nose again and turned away.
Caelyn watched the back of her head, the blonde curls just above her shoulders. The thought of Ellie talking to an angel lingered in her mind. “Did he have wings, Ellie?” she tested. For some inexplicable reason, she desperately wanted to know more.
Ellie fell onto the grass, sitting on her legs. “Angels don’t have wings, Mom.” She shook her head, evidently tired of the conversation.
Caelyn turned back to the potatoes. Three medium-size russets lay cut up in the bowl. A couple of cucumbers were still left in the garden. The family wouldn’t go hungry, but none of them would be overly full after dinner tonight.
Caelyn and her daughter were sitting on the sunny side of the house. It was early afternoon and the sun had passed its peak. Ellie had on a jacket, Caelyn a sweater. The wind had shifted out of the north, bringing a cold chill. Caelyn heard the back door open and looked over her shoulder to see her mom leaning against one of the white pillars that supported the porch roof. She was staring past the line of trees that formed the windbreak fifty yards from the house. After a long moment Gretta called out, “Miller!” She whistled, her fingers in her mouth, looking for the old dog.
Caelyn turned to the empty fields. She didn’t hear
anything, but she could tell her mother did. She followed the older woman’s eyes.
Her mother whistled again, this time more loudly.
Far off in the distance, she heard the dog bark.
Gretta called again, “Miller! Miller, come on!”
Caelyn stood, peering toward the trees. There, in the wind, she heard it, barking and snapping. The dog was out there, past the tree line, beyond the pasture, down toward the hayfields where they had moved the cows.
Her mother cocked her head. “Someone’s down there!” she said in fear. “Someone’s in the herd.”
Caelyn stood up. “Are you sure, Mom?”
Gretta nodded toward the highway. “I saw some trucks go past the house, heading north.”
“What kind of trucks? How would they be working?”
“Big farm trucks. All of them were really old.”
Caelyn stood and moved toward her mother, keeping her eyes on the fields beyond the row of poplar and cottonwood trees. The sound of the barking dog carried toward them on the wind, clearer now, more vicious, more constant.
Then she heard a sudden pop. Short. Loud. The sound echoed against the house.
Her mother’s hand shot to her mouth, her eyes wide, her hands trembling with fear and anger.
Gunshot? Caelyn wondered, cold fear settling over her heart.
Another pop.
And then silence.
Gretta started to run.
Chapter Thirty-Two
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
Sam stood in the apartment courtyard, taking in the growing twilight. The sun was on his right shoulder and his outline cast a long shadow to the east. Luke was well enough to travel, so they had gathered up all of their available supplies. Tonight they were going to leave the city, and he was anxious to get on with it.
It was cold and getting colder with every passing moment. He watched his shadow grow, marking the passing of time. Funny, he thought, how it was all so distorted now. The shortening of days. The shortening of time. Everything seemed to crash together.
Sara watched, then moved to his side. “What is it, Sam?” she asked him, sensing his mood.
He acted as if he didn’t hear her, keeping his eyes on the littered street that ran south. It reminded him of something from medieval London during the height of the plague: garbage and human waste and dead bodies in the street. He shivered, staring down the crowded avenue. Worthless cars and buses, a pile of old clothes—where had that come from?—
broken sacks of garbage trampled by angry people.
The sky was clear of rain now, the heavy clouds having moved off to the east, and a faint red tint began to glow in the west as the sun moved toward the building-lined horizon. He sniffed, smelling the fires. He couldn’t see them, but he knew that half a dozen flaming towers were consuming downtown one high-rise building at a time. The smoke filled the sky with an inky cloak of gray that seemed to drip like hazy fingers toward the ground. An army of people filled the streets, some of them fleeing the fires, some heading toward the ugly smoke, hoping to be entertained. Nothing was quite as exciting as the end of the world, Sam had learned, and the anarchists gathered to watch the destruction with drunken glee. The streets were full of them: drunk, jacked up, an orgy of narcissism, as if it hadn’t yet occurred to them that they were going to die too. “What! I’ve always been against the war. I invented anti-globalization. What do you mean, there isn’t any food?”
He looked carefully at the fools around him, which, he had decided, included pretty much everyone. There were so many now it scared him. How could he not have realized? How could he have been so blind as to what so many of his fellowmen believed in, what they really were inside? Even in his worst expectation, he was completely unaware, but there they were, laughing and cursing and dancing as they waited for death out on the street. “Okay, I’m going to die, but so are you. So come on, dig the show. Pass the peace pipe, eat your last meal, then come on out and take off all your clothes.”
His hand moved toward the canvas holster at his side. When he felt the cool metal of his handgun, his mind flashed back to the evening he’d said good-bye to Bono back at
Langley Air Force Base. He thought about him all the time now, wondering if he was okay, his wife and little girl, hardly able to force them from his mind.
Sara watched her son, then reached out and placed her hand on his arm, gripping his bicep gently. “Sam, are you okay?”
He stared without replying.
“Sam . . .” his mother pressed.
He stood another moment, then shook his head and turned toward her. “I was . . . I don’t know . . . I was thinking about Bono.”
Something in his face worried her and she squeezed again. “Bono?”
“My friend from—”
“I know who you mean. Do you think he’s in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I
see his face all the time now. I see his wife and little girl. Seems I can’t get them out of my mind.”
Sara hesitated, brushing a strand of fine hair from her eyes. “You should pray for them,” she told him.
He kept on staring, watching the smoke drifting closer to the ground.
“Pray for them,” Sara repeated, pulling on his arm. “Sometimes that’s all you can do—but sometimes it’s enough.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Four Miles West of Chatfield
Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee
The two women crawled through the high grass and weeds along the ditch that ran behind the trees. A barbwire fence stretched before them on the other side of the trees. Beyond that lay a large field of hay, grazed down to the nubs, another fence, then a field of brown grass. Caelyn lifted her head above the weeds and peered out. A gravel road ran north and south between the two fields. Three old farm trucks were parked along the road. Beyond the strip of reddish-brown, their herd of mother cows moved about, watching the trucks suspiciously. A dozen men moved around the trucks, maybe sixty yards away. She watched them carefully. Most of them were armed. Shotguns. Short-barrel rifles. A few pistols sticking out from jacket pockets. Two young women waited inside the nearest truck. Their dark hair was tightly braided and they stared ahead, seemingly paying no attention to anything going on outside the trucks. The men were dark-skinned and bushy-haired, but there was something else about them, something unfamiliar, something out of place. Caelyn thought a long moment as she watched from the cover of the grass; then her heart began to race. It was clear now: the
cowboy boots and heavy clothing, the checkered shirts, drooping mustaches, and long black hair. She glanced at the farm trucks—models she’d never seen before. Old. Rusted. Huge, rounded fenders. Like something from a foreign movie. She picked up some of what they were saying, the sound drifting across the open fields, and cocked her head to listen. What she heard wasn’t the Spanish of the border or the Spanglish she had picked up out in California. No, these men came from farther south. Mexico City. The mountains of central Mexico. Someplace far away.
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