Hell's Fortress

by Michael Wallace

  “In that case, lucky you. Right now, a draft dodger gets thirty lashes, a uniform, and a gun. And you’ll get fed. Sort of.”

  “I don’t want to join the army. I want to go back to my family.”

  “Nobody from the draft ever came to our town,” Eliza said. “So there’s no way he could be a draft dodger.”

  “They didn’t, huh? Where is this place? Too bad you weren’t smart enough to stay put.”

  “Where are you taking us, anyway?” Eliza asked.

  Ludlow ignored her question and yelled for Yancy, who came and cut their cuffs. Relieved to be free, Eliza flexed her wrists and rubbed her hands. Miriam was looking around, and Eliza knew her well enough to know that she was sizing up the men at the fuel dump, wondering if she could grab a gun and fight her way out. Not likely. In addition to Ludlow’s platoon, a dozen men guarded the fuel tanker, plus a machine gun nest lurked on the side closest to Las Vegas. Miriam relaxed her posture, apparently coming to the same conclusion.

  They climbed in the back of the Humvee and let the soldiers lock them in. They put on the Kevlar vests.

  The vehicle returned to the road and crawled toward Las Vegas. With no view of their surroundings, Eliza could only flinch when the ground shook from a heavy artillery shell. A helicopter thumped overhead. A few minutes later, the roof-mounted machine gun let loose a volley at an unseen enemy. The Humvee picked up speed, then slowed again.

  Something plinked against the doors. The machine gun opened up again. The Humvee stopped. Men yelled. Assault rifles sounded quick, staccato bursts.

  “You idiots,” Miriam said. “Why did you stop? Keep driving.”

  Grover put his face in his hands and took deep breaths.

  Then came explosions, like grenades or mortar rounds. The vehicle shuddered, seemed to lift off the ground. A charred smell penetrated the back. Gunfire slapped against the vehicle armor.

  A muffled shout rose above the other cries. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The Humvee lurched into motion. It picked up speed, more bullets hitting the sides, more answering fire from the machine gun up top. Then it was quiet again, except for the incessant shake and muffled boom of artillery, not quite so distant anymore.

  Several minutes passed and Grover cleared his throat. “They’re not going to make me join, right? That was a bluff. Don’t you think?”

  “I doubt they’re bluffing,” Miriam said.

  “Oh.”

  Eliza wanted to hug him and tell him it would be okay, but she was afraid he’d break down sobbing, and she needed him to be strong.

  “We don’t know that,” she said. “Maybe Ludlow is just trying to scare you.”

  “I can’t join the army,” Grover said. “All those gentiles. And fighting in the army of Satan. I need to stay with the church.”

  “Suck it up,” Miriam said.

  “Oh, let him be.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to escape,” Miriam said. “Then when you get back, you’ll have some military training. That’ll help.”

  “If I don’t get killed.”

  “You won’t get killed. Trust me. No, trust the Lord. Didn’t you get a patriarchal blessing?”

  “Well yeah, but—”

  “And did it say you’d die fighting for Satan?” Miriam asked. “I didn’t think so.”

  “If the U.S. military is Satan’s army,” Eliza said, “what does that make the Californians?”

  “Also Satan’s army,” Miriam said, without a moment of hesitation. “The devil’s forces are too dumb to be consistent. Whoever wins Las Vegas—whoever storms the gates of Babylon—will be the devil’s champion. Mark my words this is—or will be—hell’s fortress. From here, the enemy will march forth to assault Blister Creek.”

  They came under fresh attack, which quieted Miriam’s eschatological rant. Gunfire from the Humvees countered the spray of bullets from the other side. It was terrifying to be locked in the back, with no windows, no way to tell what was happening in the battle or ability to affect its outcome.

  Moments later, they were moving again, the gunfire dying, but they faced one final attack before reaching their destination. This time, the fire was more intense, and only ended when two heavy explosions sounded to the right. Men cheered from the front of their vehicle. Someone was firing in their support. That gave Eliza hope that they might actually emerge unscathed.

  Still, she could hardly believe it when at last the Humvee came to a rest and the doors were flung open. She squinted against the light. Soldiers with M16s ordered them out, then stripped them of their Kevlar vests.

  The Humvees had driven into an underground parking garage. The huge open space was empty except for a few old Jeeps, Land Rovers, and pickup trucks—all painted tan or army green—parked in a neat clump nearby. Metal halide lamps cast the interior in harsh white light. A cord as thick as a whip snake stretched from the lights, curved around concrete pillars, and disappeared through a pair of sliding doors with the glass broken out of them. A machine gun squatted outside the doors behind a row of sandbags.

  If the men at the base outside the city had looked thin, hungry, and dirty, these seemed almost cadaverous. Their clothes were torn and filthy with dried blood and motor oil. Open sores covered one soldier’s cheeks, and another man wore a bloody scarf tied around his head. More blood caked his beard. None of the men had shaved in weeks. And they stank. One skinny guy gave Eliza such a hungry look that she was convinced he was imagining how she tasted.

  “You bring any food?” a soldier asked Ludlow.

  “No, we’ve got nothing.”

  “You look like you been eating plenty,” another said. “How about water?”

  “Couple of jugs. Not enough to share.”

  “Thanks, we’ll take it. And whatever else you got.”

  Without waiting to see if Ludlow had been serious in his objections, they opened the backs of the Humvees and helped themselves to several five-gallon containers of water. They dragged out Kemp’s body and tossed him casually to one side so they could search for food. One of them emerged from the other vehicle with a first aid kit, and two others tried to make off with crates of ammo before Ludlow and his men shouted them back with a good deal of cursing and threats. For a moment it looked like there’d be a fight between the two sides.

  The ground shuddered and men staggered. When the shaking stopped, a quiet stillness took its place.

  “Damn, that was close,” one of Ludlow’s men said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He was a Hispanic kid who couldn’t possibly be old enough to be in the army. He looked no older than Eliza’s half-brother Peter, who was only sixteen.

  “No way,” one of the soldiers from the parking garage said. “You already showed the enemy where we’re hiding. Now we’re going to take a pounding for the rest of the day. Come inside. The colonel will want to see you.”

  Ludlow looked nervous. “I have orders from General Minsk. We’re to return to base ASAP.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, you lazy slobs,” another man said. They didn’t appear to have a leader, or at least no one was taking charge. “Not until dark.”

  “I’m not leaving my vehicles.”

  “Suit yourself. Sleep on the concrete for all I care.”

  “Fine,” Ludlow said. “All I care about is getting rid of the prisoners. Are the others still here?”

  “Yeah, they’re in the conference room.” A man stepped forward and looked over the three companions. Was this their leader? “Who the hell are they?”

  “FBI, I think.” Ludlow produced Miriam’s FBI badge, which he’d confiscated earlier. The man took it. The sergeant stepped back with a look of undisguised relief.

  And then soldiers from the parking garage led Eliza, Miriam, and Grover away at gunpoint. Eliza turned to look at Ludlow, who watched them with a scowl.
The look earned her a rifle barrel jab to the kidney. She’d never guessed that she’d be reluctant to leave Ludlow, but she was suddenly terrified to be under control of these filthy, starving men.

  Miriam stared straight ahead with her face a rigid mask. Grover’s eyes darted from side to side, looking as frantic as a rabbit caught in a snare. A soldier met the boy’s gaze with a hard look and he flinched.

  Sergeant Ludlow, Eliza realized, had done them a favor. He hadn’t said a word about their connection to the dead body. And he hadn’t said anything about Grover. If these vermin had been angry with Ludlow’s men for having food, water, and security, while they crouched starving and thirsty under artillery bombardment, what would they do to a so-called draft dodger? It wouldn’t be pretty.

  Ludlow might very well have saved their lives.

  The filthy soldiers led Eliza, Miriam, and Grover deeper into what turned out to be an enormous hotel and casino. Wires ran up and down the hallways, but there was only enough electricity for the occasional LED light taped to the wall, which cast the hallways in a bluish glow. The elevators were out, and they made their way up three stories via a stairwell of concrete steps. They emerged into a vast room leading past abandoned reception areas and banks of dead video slot machines.

  Light streamed in through blown-out windows. Outside were dry fountains and plaster statues of Greek gods pockmarked with bullets or missing heads and limbs. A row of palm trees ran parallel to the street, their fronds shredded and several of them snapped in two. Inside the room, glass shards and metal game tokens sparkled across a burgundy carpet.

  The building shuddered with a new explosion and the companions threw themselves to the floor along with the soldiers. Moments later the soldiers were up, ordering the prisoners to keep going. They entered a long, windowless hallway. The LED lights were gone and it was too dark to see, but the soldiers seemed to know their way by feel. A door swung open. It revealed another stairwell and more lights.

  They went up four more stories and into another hallway lit with LEDs. Conference rooms lined either side. Two soldiers guarded a pair of padlocked doors at the far end of the hall. One man had a cigarette at his lips and he fumbled with a key to get the lock open. When it opened, the four men who had led the prisoners into the casino pushed into the room, snarling at people on the other side to get out of the way.

  It was a conference room about fifty feet long and twenty wide. Blown-out windows on one side overlooked the street several stories down, but a warm breeze failed to cut the stench of human waste and death. Several dozen chairs lay stacked along one side of the room, which was otherwise bare of furniture. Thin figures lay on blankets and sleeping bags, sweating in the heat. A woman in shorts and a tank top, her collarbone jutting out like a brittle stick, slumped against one wall. She let out a dry, barking cough that shook her thin body. There were maybe thirty people in all.

  The soldiers shoved Eliza, Miriam, and Grover into the room. The doors closed behind them, followed by the sound of clinking chains and the padlock snicking into place.

  “Stick together,” Eliza said. “Be careful until we know what’s what.”

  One of the prisoners staggered toward them. He was a tall, frightening scarecrow of a man with hollow eyes and a scraggly beard. His eyes blazed with such intensity that Eliza flinched and closed in with Miriam and Grover, who tensed by her side.

  The man drew short. “Eliza?”

  “What? Who—?”

  “It’s you. I can’t believe it. Don’t you recognize me?”

  It was a stranger’s face that looked back at her, but the low, gravelly voice was unmistakable and unforgettable.

  Eliza stared, trying to wrap her mind around what she’d heard. Trying to convince herself that it was real, that this half-dead man was who she thought he was.

  “Is that—” she began, then stopped to catch her breath, which was suddenly short. Her heart pounded. “Is that you?”

  A bone-weary smile broke across the man’s face and then she was sure. It was Steve. She had found him. They fell into each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Elder Smoot came striding up the sidewalk to the Christianson house, tall and strong, his eyes blazing above his massive beard. No pretense of needing a cane. Not today. Today he was a patriarch in all his righteous anger. Jacob waited on the porch, bracing himself for the coming storm.

  Jacob had sent his oldest son to call Smoot to the meeting with the Women’s Council. Upon his return, Daniel had described Smoot’s thundering reaction with open-eyed awe. Two hours later, Smoot carried that same anger to the porch.

  “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “In the parlor. But before we go in—”

  “Then let’s get this blasted farce over with.”

  “Before we go in,” Jacob repeated calmly, “I want all four of us here. I expect David and Stephen Paul any minute.”

  “Well, where are they?”

  “They’re coming. They’re not late—you and I are early. Even if they were here, we’d wait another few minutes.”

  “Damn it, Christianson. Let’s get on with this. The others can join us when they come.”

  “I told my wife four thirty. That’s when they expect us. Ten minutes.”

  “Your wife. Your wife. Do you hear how preposterous that sounds?”

  Jacob refused to let Smoot bait him. “Sit down, Elder. Be patient. We won’t get anywhere in this meeting by shouting and carrying on.”

  Smoot yanked over one of the rocking chairs, sat down, and rocked furiously. “This is what comes of giving women their own council. You see now.”

  Jacob thought about waiting inside, but Smoot might very well barge in after him. So he took his own chair and sat down. Smoot rocked like he wanted to launch his chair from the porch.

  Thankfully, the other two men arrived shortly thereafter. It was still a few minutes short of four thirty. The four of them stood in front of the door.

  Jacob put his hand on the knob. “This is not a fight. For heaven’s sake, don’t try to make it one.”

  “Get it over with,” Smoot said.

  Jacob expected to find the women in the parlor. Instead, they were in the kitchen and dining room. Not sitting around pontificating, like the Quorum of the Twelve would have done had they been waiting for a meeting, but working. Charity and Ruthie Kimball made bread. Sister Rebecca and Stephen Paul’s wife Carol sat at the long table teaching two young girls how to disassemble and clean an AR-15 assault rifle. Lillian sat with David and Miriam’s baby, feeding her a bottle. Other women knitted or read old agricultural journals dug out of someone’s attic. Jacob’s wife, Fernie, sat in her wheelchair, cranking the handle on a wooden ice cream maker. The entire Women’s Council was present, minus Eliza and Miriam.

  The men entered and took four empty seats at the far end of the table. None of them spoke. Gradually, the women stopped what they were doing. Carol sent the girls from the room while Rebecca finished reassembling the rifle. One of the girls took David’s baby with her. Only Fernie kept working, her arms straining to turn the handle.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “It’s getting stiff—I’m almost done.”

  Smoot snorted.

  Fifteen, twenty more cranks, and then Fernie stopped. “There. Peach ice cream. Is anyone hungry?”

  “There you go,” Smoot said, not to Fernie, but to the other men. “It’s a blasted ice cream social.”

  Fernie fixed him with a look not unlike the one she gave to mouthy children. “There’s no need to be rude, Elder Smoot. If you don’t want any ice cream, you could simply say ‘No thank you.’ ”

  Smoot didn’t respond. Lillian took the ice cream maker to the kitchen, where she emptied out the ice and removed the canister. Another woman set out bowls, while someone else found a scoop. When the ice cream was dished up, Lillian pas
sed around the bowls. As she passed David, her hand rested on his. He smiled. She returned a shy smile.

  Lillian was an attractive young woman, strongly built, but with a feminine face. Her only flaw was ears that stuck out a little. The ears made her cute, rather than beautiful, but somehow also made her look approachable and friendly. David seemed to legitimately care for her, but there was no disguising that his heart truly belonged to Miriam.

  Lillian approached her father and her smile turned wary as she gave him a bowl of peach ice cream.

  “Thank you,” Smoot grunted. He cleared his throat, then tentatively picked up the spoon.

  Jacob took his own bowl. The ice cream was sweet and rich. The peaches gave it tang. It carried him to his childhood, pouring in ice and salt and cranking the handle until it stiffened and his arm trembled with exhaustion. The reward was a heaping bowl of ice cream devoured on the porch at dusk, when the cool air blew in off the desert. Simpler times.

  If Fernie had hoped to cut the tension by serving ice cream, she had underestimated Smoot’s anger. The church elder ate his in silence, then dropped his spoon with a clank and gave Jacob a hard look.

  “So.”

  Jacob sighed. He looked at Fernie. “You don’t like the plan?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t either. None of us do. We searched for an alternative and couldn’t find one.”

  “It’s an awful situation that defies an easy answer,” his wife agreed. “But killing is not the solution.”

  “Do you have a suggestion?”

  “Pray,” Fernie said. “Wait for the Lord to send us an answer.”

  “What if the answer is to kill the squatters and drive them away?”

  “It won’t be. Anyway, I know you haven’t prayed. Not really.”

  Smoot started. “He’s a prophet. Of course he prayed.”

  “My husband is a prophet when he acts like a prophet. Right now, he’s acting like a man. A frightened, panicky man. And that’s dangerous.” She didn’t say this to Smoot, but to Jacob, meeting and holding his gaze.

  “Christianson, do you let your wife talk to you like that?”