Hell's Fortress (15 page)

When Miriam returned, the women held the injured horse’s head back to expose the neck while Grover took a deep breath and approached with the knife clenched in trembling hands. No more than thirty minutes had passed since they charged the hill, but it seemed like hours.

“Keep your hand steady,” Eliza said. “Don’t flinch or hesitate. You owe it to the animal to do it confidently and quickly.”

Grover nodded grimly. Miraculously, his hand steadied. He found the vein and began. It took too long, involved too much blood and struggling. But at last the awful task was over.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jacob entered the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum of the temple. The quorum stood, and the dozen men already waiting greeted him with murmurs of “Brother Jacob.” It was a solemn meeting and they wore their white robes, white sashes, white hats, and green aprons.

The men looked tense and frightened. From the older men his father’s age with their slate-gray beards halfway to their sternums to younger men like David and Stephen Paul, not one of them looked like he’d slept well in days.

David leaned in. “I was at the cliffs all day. Any word?”

Jacob knew he meant Miriam. “No, I’m sorry.”

David gave a tired nod.

In fact, there had been nothing from Eliza, Miriam, and the others since they disappeared in the wake of the drone attack a full week earlier. David had a baby in the house without her mother. And his second wife, Lillian, was now pregnant. Or so Fernie had suggested, and Jacob’s wife was never wrong about such things.

Jacob turned from his brother to address the group. “You know why I’ve called you.”

“The Blister Creek Legion is ready,” Elder Smoot said. “They await your orders.”

“Not yet we don’t. Everyone sit down.”

The men took their seats on the wooden benches. The Holy of Holies was a windowless room beneath the temple spire, with high, cathedral-like ceilings. The brass chandelier overhead had once decorated Joseph Smith’s temple in Nauvoo, Illinois, before the prophet died at the hands of a mob. Varnished wainscoting covered the lower half of the wall.

A four-feet-by-six-feet cedar chest sat in the center of the room. It was carved with the compass and square, a moon with a face, all-seeing eyes, and other symbols. Carved wooden cherubim, their wings overlaid with gold leaf, perched on either end of the chest. And what about the contents of the chest? Jacob had never opened it and never heard of anyone who had. His father claimed that among its treasures were the sword and breastplate of Laban, ancient relics mentioned in the Book of Mormon. Some claimed that in the Last Days, the One Mighty and Strong would wield them and lead the saints into battle against the very forces of Satan.

Jacob didn’t know much, but he was convinced that part was nonsense, as was much of the other lore surrounding this room. If not for tradition, he’d have held this meeting amidst the rock spires of Witch’s Warts instead.

Eight years ago, when Jacob was still a medical student trying to solve his cousin’s murder, this room had been the site of horrific violence at the hand of the Kimballs, pursuing their vision of the end of the world. At the time, Jacob had wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole church. Marry Fernie, help his sister Eliza escape the community, and get as far from Blister Creek as possible. Now he was its leader.

The men formed a prayer circle and Jacob offered a plea for divine aid. When he finished praying, he remained standing while the others took their seats.

“Before we move,” he said, “we must exhaust all possible alternatives.”

“We did,” Smoot said. “We warned them, they attacked us, and we warned them again. Four days later they’re more numerous than ever. They’re digging in for the long haul.” Smoot thumped his cane against the floor. “Now it’s time to act.”

Jacob glared at him. “Elder Smoot, would you like to lead this meeting? In fact, if you can get the votes, I will step down as head of this quorum and you can take my place.”

Smoot dropped his eyes. “I apologize, brother.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Jacob said. “If I could, I’d bring back my father. He would be more confident. He would march you into battle and, Lord willing, lead you to victory. I am not my father.”

“You are the man chosen by God,” Stephen Paul said. “That is enough for me.”

Jacob turned to his counselor. “You need a general. A prophet. I am a doctor and unqualified to lead. My faith is weak, maybe weaker than any other person’s in this room. So if you want someone who will lift his sword and call you to war with no doubts, with pure certainty in his righteous calling, you need another man.”

“You are Jacob Christianson, the favored son of Abraham Christianson,” Stephen Paul said in a calm tone. “He ordained you to step into his shoes. The Lord has confirmed that calling in my heart.”

“Mine too,” Elder Johnson said, his voice shaky with age. “When you spoke at your father’s funeral, I saw your father’s visage reflected in your countenance. My bosom burned with the spirit. I knew you were the prophet. I
knew
it.”

Murmurs of assent passed among the other men, including Smoot.

“You know my limitations,” Jacob said. “If you want me to lead, I will. But if that’s the case, you have to let me move at my own pace. We have a hard decision to make and I want to exhaust every possibility. Elder Young?”

Stephen Paul rose. “Yes, brother?”

“Have you and your wife had any luck with the shortwave?”

“Carol reached Durango this morning.”

“That sounds promising.”

“Colorado is under martial law, but Durango at least still has a mayor. They’re flooded with refugees from Green River, and there’s a typhoid outbreak. Denver is starving and they’re sending out refugees. Some of them are headed in this direction.”

“What about Utah?” Jacob asked.

“I raised Salt Lake again. They told me to shove off. Nothing from St. George or Cedar City.”

Even more discouraging. “Nevada?”

Stephen Paul shook his head. “We couldn’t get Mesquite or Henderson. Didn’t try Las Vegas. Whoever is in charge there, it seemed like a bad idea to remind them about Blister Creek.”

Jacob didn’t know what he’d been hoping. Maybe to find another town like Blister Creek still holding on. Even if it were a hundred miles away it might form a partnership against the collapse. Blister Creek could share its expertise and organization, and a larger town could provide manpower for a mutual defense. From there, an expanding circle of towns, farms, and ranches could form a core of stability as the global mess worked itself out. Hold on for two, three more years and the weather crisis would pass, the wars would die down, and civilization could reassert itself.

Was that a fantasy? What if there was nowhere left to go but down?

“Elder Smoot. Tell me about the south valley.”

“We rebuilt the bunker, gave it better earth sheltering. Installed a new machine gun. We’re going to mine the road between mile twelve and the old Gunderson ranch, but it will take a couple of weeks. Anyone comes up the highway, the mines will blow them to kingdom come.”

“Everyone hear that? Nobody use the road south of mile twelve.” Jacob turned back to Smoot. “Where is the new ammo dump?”

“It’s three hundred yards north of the bunker. We should have it dug out by Saturday. We’ll get about fifty crates in there, good and concealed. Enough to fight a battle or two.”

“Good. David? Recon report?”

Smoot sat down and David rose.

“Lillian and I used a few of our remaining batteries last night and infiltrated the reservoir camp with night vision goggles. There was a half-moon, but it was overcast, so I don’t think we were spotted.”

The other men leaned forward at this. Three days earlier, Jacob had sent a dozen riders into the Ghost Cliffs, only to be met by gunfire. The squatters hadn’t abandoned their camp at all, but had reinforced their position. And there seemed to be more of them. After a brief skirmish, the riders retreated to Blister Creek. This was the first new information since then.

“It’s bad,” David continued. “The camp has grown to several hundred tents, plus overturned carts, lean-tos, and other makeshift shelters. They’ve whacked up the hillside pretty bad, but they don’t seem to be using the trees for much else but firewood. Nobody is building anything with any permanence. They guard the perimeter with bonfires and several dozen armed men.”

“Bottom line?” Jacob asked. “How many are we talking?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say a couple of thousand people, maybe more.”

“We can’t leave them up there,” Smoot said.

“They’re not planning to stay,” David said. “If they were, they’d be building something more permanent.”

“That’s because they’re planning to occupy the valley,” Jacob said.

Angry mutters at this. Smoot gave Jacob a hard look and a curt nod.

See,
that look said.
There’s nothing to discuss. We drive them off or they overwhelm us.

Was Smoot right? Couldn’t Blister Creek maintain its vigil and prevent the mob from descending into town? The cliffs provided the most heavily guarded, easily defended entrance to the valley floor. Jacob had set up gun emplacements at six different locations along the switchbacks. There were two heavy machine guns, automatic and semiautomatic rifles for sniping, and caches of ammo. Whenever the enemy approached, drive them off. Meanwhile, the squatters had no farms, no food except what they could scavenge or hunt. And no shelter. Wait for winter and the problem would solve itself.

Except for those barrels of pesticide. All to kill a few fish. Or maybe the squatters were even deliberately poisoning the water supply. Then there were the latrines right up near the water line, filled to overflowing by a growing camp of sick and dying refugees. How long until cholera swept through Blister Creek?

“Give me ideas, brothers,” Jacob said. “Anything we can try that doesn’t involve bloodshed, I want to hear it.”

Nobody spoke.

“Please. I need suggestions. Even dumb ones. Anything.” More silence. “Fine, I’ll start. What if we sent riders to Green River? We’ll find out who is in charge of the army camp and beg them to take back their refugees.”

“Why would they do that?” David said. “The government
wants
the refugees to come here. That’s why they let it be known we have food.”

“We could pray for the Lord to send them away,” Elder Potts said. He’d been a large man not so long ago, but the creeping ravages of age had left him hunched over, his bones aching with arthritis and with no analgesics to ease the pain. “He will soften their hearts and make them forget about attacking us.”

“Is there a man in this room who hasn’t prayed for that already?” Stephen Paul said.

“Then we redouble our pleas,” Potts said.

“How about sending riders to Salt Lake?” Jacob suggested. “The state government still had a pulse, last we checked.”

“You’d ask the McKay brothers for help?” David said.

“We don’t know if they’re still in charge. Anyway, yes, I would.”

“The language the radio operator used when I called would not be fit for polite company,” Stephen Paul said. “If we send riders, they’ll be arrested or shot.”

“How about Cedar City?” Jacob said. “I know they didn’t answer the radio, but they were still alive last fall and we haven’t seen any refugees from that direction.”

“Except Joe Kemp and his crew,” David said.

“They didn’t pass through Cedar City, they cut across north of St. George.”

“Say we go,” Smoot said, twisting his hands on his cane. “What do we ask them to do? Take the refugees off our hands? That’s the only possible way they could help.”

“Could be the army is in charge over there,” Jacob said. “Maybe a different division than the Green River people.”

“Could be,” Stephen Paul said. “We could send someone over the mountain by truck to see. That would take less than a day.”

“We’re mining the road,” Smoot reminded them. “And even then, we’d be admitting to people in Cedar City that we still have fuel enough to drive around town. Which rais
es the question, do we have fuel?” He shrugged, as if he didn’t want to know the answer. “Say we do. The army finds out we have fuel to burn and they’ll be far more interested in that than in helping with our refugee problem.”

“There’s one other option,” Jacob began. “Follow the example of Brigham Young.”

Scowls deepened. Jaws clenched.

“You mean flee into the wilderness?” Smoot said. “Abandon our farms, our homes, everything?”

“That’s right. Look for a sanctuary in the desert.”

“This
is
our sanctuary in the desert.” Smoot’s voice was as tight as a rubber band stretched to the breaking point.

“There are forty-two hundred people living in Blister Creek,” David added in a quieter tone. “This isn’t the Kimball cult. We can’t find a box canyon with a few Anasazi ruins and hide for the next five years.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And how would we feed them, anyway?” Stephen Paul asked.

“We’ll carry as much as we can. Plus seed to plant anew. And our herds. More than enough to live on while we find a new home, lay out homesteads, and clear fields.”

“This isn’t the Old West,” Smoot said. “There’s no undiscovered wilderness awaiting us.”

“Wherever we go,” Stephen Paul said, “we’ll simply provide a new target. Those squatters at the reservoir are locusts. They’ll come through Blister Creek after we’re gone, eat up everything, then look around until they find us.”

“Yes, I’m grasping,” Jacob said. “But there has to be something that doesn’t involve more bloodshed.”

“If you think of a solution,” David said, “I’m there. Tell me what it is. Convince me. This is the last thing I want.”

“The last thing any of us want,” Elder Johnson said.

“You can look, Brother Jacob, but you won’t find it,” Smoot said. “This is our home, this is where we make our stand. It’s the End of Days. We’re the only thing standing between the forces of Satan and the utter destruction of the earth.”

Jacob stared. There were ten million Americans in arms, backed by fighter jets, tanks, artillery,
nuclear weapons,
for heaven’s sake, but a few fools in the desert armed with rifles were going to hold the line?

What choice do I have?

“Anyone else? Please, anyone. Any ideas? Anything?”

None of the men answered. There were twelve men in the room, all waiting for him to lead.

The silence thickened until at last Jacob cleared his throat. “Two thousand squatters?”

David nodded. “So far. That’s my guess.”

“Elder Smoot, how many in the militia?”