The Gates of Babylon

by Michael Wallace

  “I got that,” she said. She took a plastic camouflage poncho from Krantz and slipped it over her head. “But we’re fighting for our lives.” Her mind searched for something these men would understand. “So if I have to be Teancum and shove my spear through Amalikiah’s throat, I’ll do it. And I won’t feel bad.”

  Teancum was a hero from the Book of Mormon who had assassinated an evil general in his sleep and saved the righteous army of Nephites from destruction. Alfred nodded grimly, while Krantz only looked confused. The skepticism spread across Jacob’s face.

  “Come here for a moment,” he said.

  Miriam followed him away from the others, heart pounding. Could he see? Did he know?

  “Come on, Jacob. We don’t have time for this.”

  He turned off the flashlight and stood in the darkness for a few seconds before speaking. “Something is going on with you.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I want you to tell me,” he said, “because if I guess, it’s not going to sound very pretty.”

  “It’s cold and it’s starting to rain, and we’re wasting time. If you have something to say, why don’t you spit it out and get it over with?”

  Miriam dreaded Jacob’s answer. If he knew, if he pushed, she would have to answer truthfully. And what was the truth?

  I’m terrified. I don’t think I can do this.

  Even thinking those words sent a sick feeling to her gut, and churned with her fear to make her lightheaded and nauseated.

  What was wrong with her? What had changed that night outside the Taylor Junior compound a few months earlier, when Eliza had coaxed her into the tunnels to save those women and children from suffocating? Oh, Miriam had done it. She’d helped Eliza, Krantz, and Lillian rescue all those people, had fought through her terror, even shot and killed one cult member who tried to stop them at the last minute.

  But she’d been afraid that day in the desert. And not the usual, tense feeling she recognized from her FBI days, like a rubber band stretched too far, but actual fear. That had never happened to her before.

  And as the summer continued, and the global food crisis turned into a Middle Eastern war over agricultural and oil trade, as Blister Creek hunkered down to prepare for the end, her fear spread. Became terror. She kept replaying those moments in the tunnels, and in her dreams faced starving children and piles of dead bodies. Sometimes she woke in the night, sweating, heart pounding, while David slept next to her, oblivious.

  Miriam had always been the one to keep her head when others were running around screaming and waving their hands. In a crisis, things slowed down and she could look around, pick out threats, coolly decide how and where to react. That was who she was. That was what she was. No longer. She didn’t recognize this frightened, trembling woman.

  She put her hand on her belly before she could think about it. It couldn’t be pregnancy hormones, could it? No, she thought. That was ridiculous. But what, then?

  Jacob didn’t speak, and she felt the urge to fill the silence. To explain. She had almost surrendered to that need when he let out a long, slow sigh.

  “I don’t know what to do with you, Miriam. We’ve had our differences—we’re both so damn stubborn. But I thought that was behind us. You’re good for my brother, you’re good for Blister Creek. I feel safer when you’re around. Or I used to, anyway.”

  “Is that what this is about?” she asked. “You don’t trust me anymore to get the job done? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “You’re way off base. You can get the job done. I’ve never doubted that. It’s knowing when to start the job that’s the problem. I didn’t want you to blow up that tanker, and then you almost killed Chip Malloy.”

  “So?”

  “So that scares me. You’re going to go kill a bunch of people and that’s blood on my hands, because I’m sending you to do it.”

  “The Holy Ghost will guide my hand.” She slid the knife halfway out of its sheath and then pushed it down again. “And if a few extra men die, the Lord will fix it on the other side.”

  “Kill them all and let God sort it out? That’s your plan?”

  “Jacob, we’re standing in a ghost town in the middle of the desert, surrounded by enemies. If you want to have a theological discussion you’re barking up the wrong cactus. Save it for your sister, she likes that sort of thing. Me, I’m a problem solver.”

  “Give me the night vision goggles. And the knife. I’ll go instead.”

  “You’re not leaving me behind,” she said.

  “If I’m willing to kill, I’d better be willing to pull the trigger myself.”

  “Go to Krantz and take his goggles if you want. I’m going.”

  “Miriam…”

  “Forget it.” Miriam glanced back to the shadows of Krantz and Alfred, where the men were talking in low voices. “Come on, I have some questions to put to your cousin about how to get to this ravine without being spotted.”

  Jacob had one last chance to call her out, but didn’t. Instead he turned on his heel and walked back to the trucks. Miriam followed, relieved.

  You can do this. You have to.

  Miriam and Krantz cut through the block on foot, opening fences and passing through yards. Alfred had sent orders ahead of them, to the snipers in attics and men watching from filthy cellar windows, but it wasn’t until they reached the deserted, trash-strewn street on the other side that Miriam stopped worrying about friendly fire.

  “What was all that arguing?” Krantz asked.

  He loomed next to her shoulder, eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier. A former hammer thrower in college before his stints in the army rangers and the FBI, he still carried all his bulk and most of his muscle and Miriam found his presence comforting, not oppressive.

  “Jacob thinks I’m a loose cannon.”

  “You are, of course.”

  “Don’t you start, too.”

  “Nothing new there,” he said. “You’ve always been trouble. Like when you joined these polygamists in the first place. You went underground so deep you never came out.”

  “Something about pots and kettles comes to mind.”

  “My motives are shallow, I admit it. I’m in love with a pretty girl—that’s what keeps me here. The minute Eliza is ready to go, we’re gone. Well, assuming there’s anywhere to go to, when this is all over. But you, you’re a true believer, and that’s dangerous. To you and to your partners.”

  “Whatever.”

  “But that’s not what’s bugging me,” Krantz said.

  “I get it—you’re worried I’ll go on a killing spree. Like I told Jacob—”

  “You think I care about a few dead outlaws? That’s not it at all.”

  “What is this, rag on Miriam night? Get it out.”

  “I served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. I fast-roped from a helicopter over a doomsday cult. I know when a man is ready to break.”

  “What are you saying, I’ve lost my nerve?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Shut up, Krantz. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  He started to say something else, then apparently thought better of it and fell silent.

  They rounded the corner and came upon the dirt road described by Alfred. It continued across the scrub-covered plain, he’d told them, before ending at an abandoned ranch house several hundred yards west of town. They couldn’t see any of that in the dark and tried not to stumble. The goggles had plenty of battery power, but these days you didn’t want to waste what you couldn’t easily replace.

  Miriam regretted her strong language. Like alcohol, cursing was something she’d put behind her when she joined the Saints and accepted their difficult lifestyle. But these back-to-back conversations with Jacob and Krantz had her rattled. Neither man had guessed her problem exactly, but between them, they’d come close enough.

  There was something wrong inside her head. She didn’t know how to fix it. She didn’t even know what it
was.

  Krantz put a hand on her arm and they stopped. She heard nothing but the sound of the wind knifing down from the mountains. He tapped her goggles, and she lowered them into place and flipped them on as he fiddled with his own.

  The landscape came into focus in green and gray. They’d walked some distance now and the house at the end of the road was only a few dozen yards in front of them. Two trees, limbs bare of leaves with the approach of winter, waved their branches.

  “What do you see?” she whispered.

  “I heard something. Off to the right. Never mind.”

  She looked to the right and saw a movement, two glowing eyes staring in her direction. It was a deer, maybe thirty or forty feet distant.

  Miriam turned off the goggles, impressed. “You have good ears. I didn’t hear anything but the wind.”

  They continued walking.

  “This always happens when I go on a mission,” he said. “It’s like I’m back in Afghanistan and every mud hut holds a sniper. Every donkey is rigged with a bomb. Lot of guys earn a nasty case of PTSD. I came back with heightened senses. I’ll take it.”

  PTSD. Maybe that was her problem, Miriam thought. Not the pregnancy screwing with her emotions, but post-traumatic stress disorder from the shootout in the tunnel. She’d been nervous that day—who knew why?—and now she couldn’t shake it.

  They gave the house a wide berth and followed in a straight line across the desert as Alfred had told them. That ranch road had run parallel to the highway before ending, and if they continued in that direction, they would eventually reach the gulch, upstream from the bridge.

  The terrain turned rocky, and they stumbled through sagebrush and turned their ankles in rodent holes. Every once in a while they put on the goggles to reorient themselves, and it was like flipping on a green light that illuminated the terrain, right down to the glowing eyes of jackrabbits, but then they turned off the light and continued to stumble and flail. It was still only drizzling, but the wind drove it at their faces like cold, stinging sand.

  Once, Krantz stopped with a grunt and curse, and she came to his side to find him snarled on a barbed wire fence that stretched across their path. She scratched her hands getting him free and lifting the fence for him to pass between the wires. When he was through, he held it up for her in turn.

  The rain picked up, and the ground turned muddy and soaked her shoes until she was squishing along uncomfortably, with her feet turning numb and miserable. She struggled to keep up with Krantz, who was a dark, silent shape constantly pushing ahead.

  He stopped and she stumbled into him. This time he didn’t speak but pulled her down until they were both squatting.

  Miriam put on her goggles. A ravine cut across the desert plain in front of them. It would be filling with water.

  Krantz tapped her arm and pointed. She picked out two tents on the far side. Scanning up and down the ridge, she spotted a van or panel truck on the road, which she pointed out to her partner.

  He leaned down. “That van looks familiar. Think it’s our friend from Bryce Canyon?”

  “I hope so,” she said. “I’ve got a score to settle.”

  “After you blew up their driver, it seems to me that they’re the ones with the beef, not you. What time have you got?”

  She looked at her watch. “Five after eleven. We’d better get going.”

  Krantz glanced left. “Follow me.”

  He led her to a clump of junipers, where they spent a few minutes breaking off dead branches and gathering sticks to form a makeshift blind between a pair of low-growing trees. Krantz set up his sniper rifle on a tripod, with the scope peering over the top of the sticks and the muzzle poking out between the branches. With any luck, he’d get off a couple of shots before they figured out they were under fire from a distance. And by then, Miriam would give their enemies something else to worry about.

  While they worked, they refined their plan.

  Miriam would cross the ravine and scope out the enemy camp. If she found more men, she’d return to give a report. If not, she would come into those tents and try to finish off their occupants while they slept. Krantz would cover her with the sniper rifle against guards or sudden movement from either the tents or the van.

  “And if you take care of the tents without raising the alarm,” Krantz said, “what do we do about the van? A night like this, you know there’s someone sleeping in there.”

  “I’ll take a look around and make sure I don’t see anyone else, then roll a grenade underneath the van and run like hell.”

  “Yeah, all right.” He sounded uncertain.

  “Don’t worry, by then Jacob and the others will be coming at the bridge top speed. We’ll have fire support.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Couple of tents, a van—can’t be more than ten people out there. Not much of a force to hold Alfred and his friends captive.”

  “They had a machine gun, remember? One guy with a .50-cal would be enough to stop a hundred farmers and ranchers with deer rifles.”

  “But what about those men from the dunes?” Krantz persisted. “Or all those burned-out houses? It can’t be so easy as going in and knifing a few jerks in their sleep and tossing a couple of grenades.”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  He stared at her, his night vision goggles making him look like a giant insect. “You missed your calling in life, you know that? You should have enlisted, gone special forces.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re a machine. You—” He stopped. “Never mind. I thought you were feeling nerves, but maybe I was wrong.” He shrugged. “Last thing I want to do is talk you into it.”

  And in that moment Miriam almost admitted it. The fear was now vibrating close to the surface, and if it had been her husband next to her she would have confessed. The moment passed.

  She glanced at her watch. “Eleven twenty. I’d better go.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t get cocky. And don’t take any risks. You see something funny, you come right back.”

  “Just keep me covered,” she said. “That’s all you need to worry about.”

  Miriam stripped off her poncho. It crinkled when she moved and would restrict her movement. She checked the battery on her goggles, double-checked her Beretta and her knife, and then accepted a couple of green fragmentation grenades from Krantz, which she stuffed into her jacket pockets.

  Then she left him behind, moving in a direct line toward the ravine, which lay swathed in an eerie green glow through her goggles. Behind, Krantz’s knees popped as he settled to the ground to watch her through his scope.

  Miriam approached the ravine upstream from the tents and the van. She scanned the opposite bank for movement, saw none, then half climbed, half slid down the muddy bank to the stream. She took off her shoes and socks, and tentatively stepped into the current. Sand and icy water swirled around her ankles. The water was no more than eight or ten inches deep yet but already moving swiftly. She took care in placing her feet. A dozen paces took her across.

  Miriam squatted on the other side and pulled on her socks and shoes again then rose to her feet and continued up the hillside to the ridge. Something moved to her left with a creak. She dropped to her belly. When she looked up, her pistol had somehow found its way to her hand. When she saw what it was, she lowered her gun and very carefully put it away, afraid that her hand, so steady with the gun, would start to tremble.

  Miriam looked back at the objects and shuddered. There were two people moving to her left. But they were not alive.

  Instead, they dangled in the air, suspended several feet off the ground, with nooses around their necks, and hanging from the arm of a bent electrical pole. Their heads lolled forward and their dresses flapped in the breeze. The wind shifted and the rope creaked as the women twisted the opposite direction.

  Miriam couldn’t look away, but she couldn’t sta
nd to see those dead faces any longer and so she pulled off the goggles and let her vision blacken into night again. She lay panting and trembling, while cold rain splattered on her face and mud soaked through her pants. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it would hammer right through her rib cage.

  You’re a machine, Krantz had told her.

  But as she thought of those two women turning in the breeze like some horrific wind chime, dead for the crime of breaking some mysterious quarantine—Miriam thought Krantz couldn’t be more wrong.

  She wasn’t a machine. She wasn’t even a highly skilled ex-FBI agent whose training would take over at the first hint of danger. At the moment, she felt like nothing more than a pregnant, terrified woman with a husband and child who needed her alive.

  The only thing that got her moving again was the knowledge that Krantz would be watching through his scope, already growing alarmed at her delay. Had she sprained her ankle? Were the goggles malfunctioning? Any moment and he’d leave his blind to come after her.

  Miriam summoned the last of her will, put on the goggles again, and wiped water from the lenses. She climbed shakily to her feet. Then she picked her way along the ridge toward the tents, where her enemies were waiting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Jacob sorted the Colorado City refugees’ possessions, hauled out of the houses by women and children, and covered with tarps and plastic bags from the rain. He rejected most of it. Blankets, clothing, furniture, photo albums, even scriptures—all had to stay behind.

  “No,” he said again and again. “Put it in the house. We’ll come back for it if we can. No, I’m sorry. No room. Not that either. No, I’m sorry.”

  “Please,” one elderly woman begged him. “This was my husband’s uniform from the war. Everything else burned up in the house. Even his pictures. I don’t have anything else to remember him by.”

  Jacob looked at the pain in her eyes. He was so tired of saying no that he decided to relent, just this once.

  “Can you keep it with you?” he asked. “Okay, then. In your possession at all times.”

  She clutched the uniform to her chest and put a dry, cold hand against his cheek. “Bless you, Brother Jacob.”