With every stroke, the word echoed -- not in his ears, but through his head and down into his very soul.
He switched his grip, and swung the ax in a long arc downward from his left side. Whap! Alone.
Switching again to the other side. Thunk! Alone.
Another stroke. Whack! Alone.
The tree shuddered, and shifted its angle, almost imperceptibly. Dropping his double-bit ax into the sandy soil, he planted his back foot at a different angle, then leaned into the tree with both hands just above the height of his head. Shoving mightily, he made the tree begin to tip. A couple more quick shoves, and it fell until it was leaning against the lip of the hole. It froze, caught because one last strip of wood remained stubbornly attached to the tap root.
His chest heaving, he slowly bent down to pick up the ax. One more stroke on the root now fully exposed and it crashed completely to the ground. Alone.
He dropped the ax from his gloved grip. The right hand shook with each heartbeat, swollen from the shoulder down with arthritis. The fingers of his left hand twitched involuntarily from the sudden end of heavy effort. Panting even harder, he turned and sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree. Sweat poured from his face. No one but he knew there were tear drops mixed with the perspiration. He was very much alone.
The Pastor's Study was almost packed. Larry leafed through the book in his hands, then decided it would go. He placed it in the box on his desk, and reached for another. His hand stopped in the air, as there came a sudden, frantic rapping on the window. Turning his head, he saw the face of Boyd, clearly distraught. The elder man was motioning dramatically for Larry to come open the window. Just as he reached for the latches in the aluminum frame, Boyd pried the screen off from the outside and disappeared for just a second. Before Larry could open the window quite all the way, Boyd reappeared and reached in with both hands. He grabbed his pastor by the front of the shirt and nearly dragged him out the window.
Boyd was the chairman of the deacons. Already well past retirement age, the big man was still surprisingly stout. Just about everything that happened in the little church had Boyd's fingerprints on it. Not because Boyd demanded full control. It was never necessary; hardly anyone else would do the work. So it was, Boyd had been laboring alone out on the roof of the education building, blending in the new walkway covering. It connected this building to the lower roof of the ground floor on the back of the main building. The Pastor's Study was on the second floor, with a window facing out over this new construction.
Larry just caught himself before tumbling out onto the lower roof. Boyd helped him to his feet. Easily a foot taller and forty pounds heavier than the pastor, he had one hand free to place over his lips. In a hoarse whisper he said, "Feds!"
No sooner had the word escaped his lips, when they heard sound of several vehicles coming to a stop in the gravel parking lot on the far side of the building. This was followed by some shouting and loud knocking on the front door. Boyd led his pastor along the crown of the low-pitched roof and across the new covering. They heard a loud slam from wooden doors.
Trying to match Boyd's quiet tone, "What about Christie?" Larry was naturally worried about his wife, who had been removing hymnals from the pews in the auditorium.
Without looking back, Boyd answered, "The best thing you can do for her right now is escape!"
Larry couldn't argue with that. Indeed, long before discussing any of this with the church members, he and Christie had spent a lot of time in prayer and discussion about their personal choices. Independently, they had come to the conclusion it was God's will for them to resist. Not with violence, of course. Rather, they were going to refuse to cooperate, and would flee if necessary.
Christie was a very level-headed woman, which was a major reason Larry married her. She seemed untouched by modern feminism, yet was hardly a prissy "Suzie Homemaker" type. If there was a chance to wrestle with the Feds and get away, she most certainly would take it. If Larry got away, he would be in the best position to ensure she got that chance.
Thus, he followed Boyd across the roof of the second building, stepping over several unopened bundles of roofing shingles. Boyd had moved his ladder to the far side of the this building, next to the fence. No doubt it was from this vantage point he had spotted the big black SUVs speeding down the dirt road toward the church. By the time Larry touched ground and turned to look, Boyd was holding the two middle strands of barbed wire apart. He motioned Larry through, who then returned the favor from the other side for Boyd.
For once, they both thanked God the owner of the neighboring field had not mowed in a year. The tall grass and weeds were a perfect cover as they withdrew into the trees. The trees ran around to the back side of the church property. Boyd stopped them in a small clearing behind a screen of small cedars. "We can watch from here. If it gets too hot, we can still high-tail it out of here pretty easily."
Larry had no doubt this was accurate. Boyd had retired from the Army, then from a hunting guide business he built from scratch. All the while he remained active in the Army National Guard until a couple of years ago. If anyone knew about such things, Boyd did. The noise from inside the church had peaked, and there was less shouting, but a bit of crying. Larry suddenly remembered: The song leader's daughter, Heather, had volunteered to help Christie pack the hymnals. Would the Feds rough up a ten-year-old girl? Larry couldn't be sure, but was held back by Boyd's big hands. To his immense relief, the girl came scrambling out of a window herself, one of the tiny bathroom windows. A shout from inside followed the girl, but she made a beeline for the woods.
Only a girl who grew up in the country could have slipped between the strands of barbed wire that quickly. She ran around behind a large tree, then peeked from behind to see if there was any pursuit. For now there was none. When she turned, Boyd had walked within a few feet and gotten her attention. She ran to embrace the big man, who lifted her off her feet and hustled her to the place he and Larry were hiding. By now she was sobbing, though attempting to restrain the sound.
Larry was about the explode with the question of his wife's fate. With a meaningful look at Larry, Boyd asked in his hoarse whisper, "Did you see Christie?"
At this, she burst into renewed weeping, and Larry's world began to turn dark. "She's dead! She's laying on the floor by the front door, and she's dead!" She was shaking and sobbing in Boyd's arms.
Eventually, Larry caught his breath. Standing up from his seat on the downed tree trunk, he turned and gazed at his handiwork. Starting with the damp spot where he had sat, he looked up the length of the tree. Alone.
In his mind, he imagined the scene Heather had described. Like the tree, his sweet wife Christie had been felled. After knocking hard on the door, the Feds had waited but a few seconds. This was just long enough for Christie to step up to the paired twin doors to open them. When working during the week, everyone used the side door. The main front entrance at the back of the auditorium was usually left locked. As she put her hand on one door knob, the doors were burst open. Since they swung inward, they caught Christie between the eyes, and she went down on her back. Heather heard the solid impact of Christie's head, then saw the blood pool underneath almost immediately.
Hiding under a pew, she watched as the troops stormed in, shouting and running. One stopped and took Christie's pulse. He turned his head and yelled out the door, "One dead, unidentified female, middle aged." They eventually found Heather and sat her down on the piano bench. She persuaded the man guarding her to let her go to the restroom. The rest was history.
Larry had never seen his wife after climbing the stairs to clear out his study, so he could only imagine. He stood, staring at the tree on the ground, but not seeing it. He saw an image of Christie, lying on the floor of the church foyer.
And he was alone.
From that afternoon in rural Garfield County, Oklahoma, things happened too fast. Boyd led them through the hundred-some-odd acres of woods on a path only he would know. They came out on an oil field road, all deep and loose white gravel. After the road ended at a slow moving oil pump, with its storage tank and the high gravel embankment around the whole thing, they climbed a hill. At the top was another barbed wire fence, then back down the hill they scrambled on the other side. Larry stumbled along in shock, feeling totally lost. He had not even reached the state of anger or revenge, just numbness. For the next couple of hours, they played hide and seek with the afternoon sun in a series of large gullies, festooned with slabs of redrock and dry grasses.
At that point, things got completely fuzzy for Larry. He remembered resting in a barn. Then there came a night ride in the back of a pickup. Whether he slept, he couldn't say. By morning, he was in East Texas somewhere. He still didn't know exactly. There was some sort of discussion with a man who would let Larry stay on the ranch in exchange for some help. Larry more or less recovered some sense, and it turned out the help the man needed most was something Larry knew how to do.
For many years as a teen helping with his dad, then off and on through Bible college, Larry had worked cutting small trees and underbrush with hand tools. The man who owned the land was concerned about an infestation of Honey Locust trees. The wood was soft and easy to cut, but the darned trees grew like weeds. One established shrub would send out runners. Every few feet, they would plant a node, running roots down and shoots up. Left to themselves, the strongest would grow into massive trees, with huge fat runners just an inch or two under the sandy soil. Larry was to cut all he could, and was free to work anywhere he could find the Honey Locusts standing.
The owner understood Larry had early arthritis, and didn't expect too much. Eventually Larry remembered to call the man Mr. Bradson. For the past four months, through the brutal heat of East Texas summer, Larry went out early each day, digging and chopping until his joints hurt too much. The arthritis wasn't crippling, just limiting. Larry could work only a couple of hours per day at first. After four months, he was putting in five or six hours daily. He was still a little chunky around the middle, but his muscles were toned like never before. Not even weight lifting for football had seen him this powerful.
Yet inside, he was broken. With all the time to think while his body worked pretty much on auto-pilot, he had spent most of his days just trying to find God again. The loss of Christie had sent him into a depression. Not suicidal, just not fully functioning. He avoided people. Gone was the upstanding pastor in rural Central Oklahoma. Now was the laboring hermit in East Texas. The depression was like a fog, a heavy cloud, in which he never could quite find the God he had vowed to serve since just after reaching puberty.
It was not as if he had come to doubt God. He was anxious to follow Jesus, hoping he could get past this dark valley and get back to leading and teaching the flock. The vague memory of what had brought the Feds to his church that day was on the shelf. Aside from the imperative of hiding out here in boonies digging and chopping trees, that concern was part of another world. He was lost in a time warp, crippled mildly by arthritis, but crippled severely by the complete lack of closure on losing Christie. Without that sense of assurance from God's active love and power in his soul, he was wandering in that spiritual fog. Where are You, Lord?
Then it hit him: Today would have been their twentieth anniversary. The tears flowed afresh. God was far away, the wind was nearly still, and he stood at the edge of a field. The tree was laying on the ground, the flies buzzed around, and he was alone.
He had leaned over to retrieve his ax, when he heard that sound. It was the unmistakable thunk of a car door. In fact, it was a new car door. He froze. Mr. Bradson didn't have a new car, just an old pickup. Neither door shut properly, and rattled loosely when slammed. No, this was a nice, new vehicle, with the distinct, clean thunk of another door. There were no public roads within two miles, and no reason for anyone but Larry and his host to be out here.
Instinct took over. His heart racing, he glanced about him. Quietly and quickly, he picked up his machete, then the shovel, adding them to the ax. There was no plan, no expectations, just fear. Cold hard fear, the same fear he felt standing outside the church, out in the trees, as the heavily armed and armored troops ransacked the church house. They were looking for Larry.
First, there were the pamphlets. They came about the time Larry had just started pastoring the little country church, his third pastorate. He was one of the few who managed to stay in a church for quite some years before moving. He believed it was because he had developed the habit of openness. That is, he laid bare all his flaws, and all his concerns with every pulpit committee he faced. In most cases, this ended the conversation. For the few how stuck it out, and answered his concerns, there was room to explore the possibilities. He never left a church to run from trouble. He left because he couldn't do much more for them, and someone else needed him.
Those pamphlets were from a local volunteer organization. They went on about wanting churches and other community groups to organize in case of terrorist attacks, specifically with chemical weapons. The idea was to convince these community organizations to send representatives for training, then use their facilities as area distribution points for antidotes and other emergency medical treatment, mainly as triage for evacuation. The hook was a promise any cooperating groups could expect to be first in line for the antidotes, along with their families.
As with all such things, Larry took it up with the deacons. Of the four men, one was all for it. He was young, ambitious, and liked to pretend he could run the show. The problem was, he too often didn't show. The other two men were against it as much because they were grumpy curmudgeons as any other reason. Boyd was the one who could explain what was wrong with it.
Having taken a large number of FEMA courses as part of his National Guard training, Boyd explained this program was sponsored by FEMA. He further revealed it was tied to a lot of things not mentioned in the pamphlets. Any participating community organizations should expect their facilities would be commandeered very soon after any real emergency hit. Every member of the organization could expect their property to be confiscated, if FEMA saw any use for it. Part of the registration process for this program included meeting with a FEMA representative, who would find some way of gathering information about the property owned by the members. While still active in the National Guard, that was one of Boyd's duties. Membership rolls would be copied, addresses matched to county property surveys, along with registered livestock, vehicles registered, etc. A survey form would require names listed for certain critical skills, and these would be forcibly drafted. Anyone who cooperated with this program stood to be the first to suffer such heavy-handed actions.
The pamphlets were summarily tossed in the trash. Not long after, it was followed by another appeal, slipped in a different back door. The various churches in the county had a pastor's council. The primary purpose was typical of independent country folks who didn't like expensive welfare programs. The churches banded together to pool charitable resources, and coordinate with the county to provide some basic human needs. This prevented heavy state and federal mandates for programs known to breed dependency. The pastors met quarterly, and at one such meeting, there was a letter read. Under the guise of preparing for natural disaster, such as the frequent tornadoes in Oklahoma, the letter invited pastors to join in training to help their communities cope better.
Larry had gotten a copy of the training packet proposed for a conference in conjunction with the meeting for the following quarter. It was loaded with Scripture and carefully constructed to appeal to a pastor's instinct to engage in counseling. There were small group exercises for discussing theological applications, all rather well done. It included a frightening section on a possible flu pandemic, but also the same bogus promise of getting cooperating volunteers first in line for treatment. However, only after reading through it twice did Larry realize the intent was to persuade pastors to soothe ruffled feathers when FEMA came to confiscate private property. In essence, it was their pastoral duty to prod folks into cooperating.
Had Larry's first act as pastor not included consoling one of the church families after a bogus drug raid, he might not have resisted so much. The family in question had been fighting the IRS in court, and seemed on the verge of winning. The man was an independent heating, air conditioning, and plumbing repairman, and the case had something to do with obscure rules of subcontracting versus direct employment. The wife was his accountant, who home-schooled the three children. Thus, they were a poster-perfect representation of everything bureaucrats hated. Two weeks before the next scheduled court appearance, a mixed team of federal and local law enforcement conducted a raid on his house, on the pretext of looking for various illegal substances. The man was working, which left the wife and children to face the horrific destruction of property. They were forced to stand outside in light rain. In the raid, several boxes of financial records were taken as evidence, along with both computers in the house. This would have crippled their case against the IRS, had not the man made it a point to keep all his records in electronic format. Incoming letters were scanned as images and saved. Everything had been burned to a couple of DVDs, updated weekly. Three copies were distributed between another lawyer, a computer shop owner in another town, and a friend of the family.
Afterward, the Garfield County Sheriff personally called and apologized for supporting a raid which later was found based on a fraudulent warrant. While such false federal warrants were now routinely unpunished, seldom even investigated, there was a backlash building in rural counties all across the the US. The whole thing set Larry's teeth on edge. He was in no mood to become a volunteer federal enforcer. Then came that awful series of events.
Tensions were rising significantly over the continuing troop casualties in the Middle East. There was a huge increase in disabled veterans turned away because military and veteran medical facilities were packed, completely over-extended. Funding for their needs plummeted, while more and more of the federal budget was diverted to the wars. Veterans groups began demonstrating, adding to various other protesting groups which were losing their slice of the federal pie. Mid-term elections brought on a surprising number of third party Congressmen, each demanding complete reform, and refusing to participate in the previous collusions of the two major parties. Congressional sessions bogged down in chaos; whole sections of the federal government were shut down for lack of funds.
The Administration simply went on about its concerns by force of edict. This was nothing new, just applied in more ways. There was a new agency created, mostly by renaming FEMA to Homeland Management Agency (HMA). It resulted in a de facto declaration of martial law, justifying all manner of violent crushing of resistance. Without any real authority to appropriate and spend money, the Administration began outright confiscation of necessary supplies. Most galling were the likes of cattle herds rounded up and taken to contracted slaughter houses. These were "paid" by keeping a portion of the products for their own use, while the rest was forwarded to food processing plants which supplied the military. Again, each step of the way, the contracts were paid by negotiated percentages skimmed off in the process. This was used for just about anything the military used. Thus, products, labor and facilities were simply commandeered as needed. Yet, somehow a select few industries continued to receive fat payoffs in dollars from some unknown revenue source.
Perhaps most diabolical of all was the sudden clamp down on communications. The Internet bogged down to pre-dialup speeds at times, and only those adept at older protocols with plain text communications were getting through with their traffic. Initial private efforts at re-routing using broadband wireless nodes chained across urban areas resulted in confiscation of everything emitting a signal. Suddenly everyone wanted to learn Unix and Linux, where compact and obscure communication protocols flourished still. Meanwhile, cellphones were plagued with very intermittent service, phone lines often went silent for long periods, and ham and CB radio frequencies suffered jamming. Even snail mail was slowed, and much was simply lost and destroyed. More and more of the normal government activity was buried under vast blankets of secrecy. It became increasingly difficult to get news from other parts of the country.
In Garfield County, the few hints available from "outside" indicated wide spread resistance, mostly passive. Herd animals were moved to wooded areas, internal pasture fences were removed, and huge feeding barns were replaced with farming out significant numbers of stock to individuals who kept them in their yards. Many now empty barns were cannibalized for small sheds sprouting everywhere. Similar measures were applied to crops: seeds and seedlings were distributed, and large fields were suddenly highly diversified. The purpose was to reduce concentrating in any one place large amounts of targeted agricultural products. Even equipment shops and supply houses copied this to some degree.
Community leaders of every kind were under pressure. Larry decided it was his calling to encourage this sort of thing, so it was no surprise he was informed the church property was slated for confiscation for a new federally-run community center. It was pursuant to that notice he was preparing to remove the most valuable items for the continued operation of the church some other place. This, even while a lawyer had volunteered to fight it in federal court. The case was entered on the docket, along with a request for emergency stay. This was about a month before the HMA team was to arrive. However, it was that next day the feds sent the assault team.
Only after he was safely in Texas did he learn that team had come out to arrest him. From scant news passed around, indications were quite a few pastors were rounded up that week in Oklahoma.
Larry noted his water jug was hanging against a cedar tree, and out of sight. Dodging the poison ivy and thorn vines, he retreated back among the trees and underbrush. He set his tools down carefully in the shadow of a shrub growing against a huge fallen oak tree. Unconsciously, he kept his left hand on the shovel, holding it at the joint between the wooden handle and the metal socket. Despite their care, the two made enough noise for Larry to discern their progress. They were coming around the edge of the wooded area, trying to stay in the shadow next to the open pasture. It was a large woman, a good bit older than Larry, it appeared. He companion was an even older man, nearly bald. Larry had heard a huge number of federal law enforcement officers had been called out of retirement.
The man bore a relatively new black t-shirt, bearing large white letters, "FBI." He carried an old military issue shotgun at port arms. The woman wore a brown t-shirt, with the letters "HMA," and had a side arm clipped to her belt. Larry thought she was too relaxed, because her hand was nowhere near the pistol. Both wore older military "BDU" pants, with matching older-style black combat boots. They were sweating profusely, and the man seemed to have a little trouble breathing in the stifling heat of the late morning. Still, he was doing his best to remain alert. Larry removed his protective eyewear, which doubled as sun glasses, and placed them with the tools on the ground. If he could separate them...
What passed through his mind in a moment's time was hardly structured, and probably did not qualify as conscious or rational. It might be possible to kill them, but more than anything, he wanted to ask about Christie. What had happened to her? If they were here pursuing Larry, they surely knew about that. Without closing his eyes, he prayed. It wasn't as if God suddenly felt closer; it was a matter Larry had no place else to turn. Lord, deliver them into my hands. He decided the man was more dangerous, simply because of the apparent difference in experience. Without any tactical training, Larry relied on the old football player's instincts. Fake `em out, and break up their play.
They were approaching the downed tree, slowing a bit. He glanced around and spotted a broken limb from the oak. Before he picked it up, he realized it would be clumsy to throw, having been half broken in the middle. Taking great care, he stood on one end, and pulled the other toward him. The crackle was almost quiet, but not quiet enough. The pair had stopped, and were looking around in Larry's general direction. He waited, frozen, able to just see them through the foliage close to the ground. The woman took a couple of steps toward the downed tree, and her movement diverted the man's attention. Larry threw one end of the limb at a small tree some thirty feet back the way they had come. At the crashing sound of whipping foliage, the man spun around and half raised the shotgun to a firing position. Quickly Larry tossed the other chunk of wood about the same distance further ahead on their path.
To his chagrin, the woman put her hand on her pistol and backed up toward her partner. What now, Lord? A large bird chose that moment to land on a limb just above where Larry had tossed the second chunk, and she visibly relaxed. Her partner did not. He advanced slowly toward the place he heard the sound of the first toss, but was sidling out into the open pasture. This is not working, Lord!
In his crouched position, Larry's arthritic knees began screaming silently. Directly, the woman said something which sounded like an order. They were too far away for Larry to make out any words. Her partner ignored her, it seemed, and continued stalking the sound he had heard. She said something else, even more insistent. His response was dismissive, and her reaction was very telling. Apparently she was supposed to be in charge of this manhunt, but her partner was clearly better trained for it, and knew it. She said something which sounded rather snippy, then walked closer to the downed tree, looking at the pit dug around the base. The man had closed on the small tree Larry targeted with his missile. He stepped back into the shadow of the trees, circling around. His shotgun was nearly back to a relaxed port arms.
Suddenly Larry realized the distance between the two was increasing, as the woman seemed to be following footprints out toward the top of the tree. The man was sweating and wheezing more than ever, and was coming around into the woods. Too entirely focused on the clump of bushes just a few yards away, the man nearly had his back to Larry. Measuring the distance between with his eyes, Larry reached out and his hand found the shovel. Ignoring the howls of protest from his knees, Larry launched himself at the man, swinging the shovel back with both hands. By the time the old fellow realized someone was behind him, Larry swung the shovel with full force, catching his right elbow. The shovel sounded with a dull "clonk" and the arm went limp. Releasing the shovel to rebound away, Larry tackled the man and snatched the shotgun from his left hand. The impact of their collision sent the old man sprawling into a patch of thorn vines.
It would have been a scream, but the voice was too hoarse and wheezy. The woman spun around and ran -- sort of -- toward the sound. She must have assumed her partner caught Larry, for she still seemed too relaxed. Coming around the shrubbery, she skidded to a halt as Larry was pointing the shotgun at her. He had dropped to one knee, some few yards back from where he had collided with the old man. The latter was crawling painfully out of the thorns, bleeding all over, his FBI t-shirt half shredded. It was catching on the thorns and hindered his progress. Worse, he couldn't use his right arm at all. Finally, he sat on the ground, his left leg folded up near him, the right extended. He cradled his right arm in his left, wheezing and moaning. It was truly a pitiful sight.
"Hands up!" he told the woman. She complied, while her eyes poured forth venom. "Now, slowly, with your left hand, reach across and take the gun and holster off your belt. That's it... Now drop it in the thorns." She complied, and the venom drained out of her eyes. She started to speak, but Larry cut her off. "Shut up! I know who you are. Do you know who I am?"
"Larry Box," she replied flatly, then added, "known terrorist sympathizer."
It was too funny, but he merely smiled. His eyes cut briefly to the man on the ground, but he hadn't moved. "You know me, then. Do you know my dearly beloved and deceased wife?"
The woman raised one eyebrow slightly. "She died resisting arrest."
That was all he needed to hear.
Had she said something about an unfortunate accident, Larry would have been far more friendly. Instead, the burning lie filled him with wrath. Still, he couldn't bring himself to kill. "Get your partner out of here. He needs first aid."
The man wheezed out, "I'll say!"
She attempted to put her hands under the man's armpits and lift him, but lacked sufficient strength. The old man cursed, and demanded she step around to his right side. Reaching across his body with his left, he grabbed both her hands and told her to pull slowly. He then shifted his legs under himself and stood slowly. Larry then marched them about halfway back to the road. The old man nearly tripped and the woman caught his bad arm. The man dropped to one knee, cursing in rage at her incompetence. While they were thus distracted, Larry slipped back into the woods. He carefully fished the handgun and holster out of the thorns, and clipped it to his shorts. As quickly as possible, he retrieved the water jug. Using the hanging line, he bound the tools together and shouldered them on his left side. The water jug swung loosely at the end of the bundle. Keeping the shotgun in his right hand, he took a path parallel to the road. The woman was still trying to close the door where the old man had lain down across the back seat. The woman seemed in no hurry at all, so Larry set the tool bundle down and pulled the shotgun into the pocket of his right shoulder. From this angle, he faced the right rear corner, so aimed at the trunk latch of the big car. He pulled the trigger. BOOM!
The woman jumped quickly in the driver's seat, gunned the motor and took off, throwing gravel with her tires. He came out to the edge of the road to watch them go. The barrel of the shotgun had a choke on it, so most of the impact hit the trunk lid around the latch. It must have been loaded with the standard double-ought buckshot, because the trunk lid came up a bit when she braked for a turn.
As he hiked back to the cabin where he'd been staying, he realized his season of isolation was over. First, he was surprised how thin the feds must be stretched, sending such a team to arrest him. His sources hadn't said much about that.
Larry had been one of those who decided he needed the Internet enough he could learn Linux after the crackdown. The church back in Oklahoma had been right next to a phone switch box, so his dial-up connection was better than most in that area. One of the teenagers in his congregation showed him how to go completely secure, by running strictly from the console. He learned to alternate between calling the ISP and direct-dialing other systems, because many had resurrected the old bulletin board system. Gopher became popular again, along with some new trick using FTP for email. It allowed encrypted messages to be passed without all the extra tracking information the feds might find in an email header. Someone in the county was tracking outage cycles, and was keeping neighbors posted when statistics indicated they'd be most likely to get messages through. Because folks really needed to trust each other, the system of trust worked far better.
Out here in the woods, he had gotten an ancient Pentium system. Someone was able to pass him a CD with Linux tweaked to run on that. Mr. Bradson had patched some bits of phone wire he found here and there, and ran a line to Larry's cabin, along with electricity. The quarter-mile of lines were buried most of the way, but the patching made the line noisy. The phone lines were already rather poor out there in East Texas, and there was no ISP taking new customers anywhere near him. Thus, Larry had been limited to late nights reading a handful of bulletin boards he could reach. During his four-month exile, things had really changed, and very much for the worse.
Congress had begun functioning a little, if only to compete with the Administration. However, the President usually ignored Congress and simply used them to direct appropriations, in exchange for signing into law bills he continued to ignore, using the "National Security" claim. Not that there was much to appropriate. The US economy began grinding to a halt. The Fed had ordered several trillion dollars printed for redemption of debts with foreign trade partners, with whom the US had a severe trade imbalance. Most of them rejected the buyout. They had already begun dumping their virtual dollar holdings for other currencies, especially the Euro. While the EU had stagnated with partisan wrangling, petty bickering between member nations, and the general inertia of incompetent bureaucratic management, the European economy was running rather well. People in their daily business pursuits did fine without additional regulations, and enjoyed a rather poor enforcement of the recent ones. Thus, the dollar fell quickly, and imports were simply too expensive. Major chains like Wal-Mart collapsed due to lack of cheap imported Asian goods. Trucking fell rapidly as fuel prices doubled. Without quick shipping, many factories were idled, agricultural products rotted in the fields, and so on. Officially, unemployment was soaring. Actually, people began bartering, trading labor for whatever they could use. Several communities had already established a form of exchange without cash, using a local scrip for trade credits, and this spread like wildfire.
Meanwhile, the President ordered a nuclear bombing run on Iran. He also ordered the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan to redeploy across the borders into Iran. Perhaps it looked like the perfect opportunity to invade from two sides. The original nuclear strike was heavily resisted by most of the military commanders. Once it was done, the field commanders pretty much went into open revolt. Most of the vehicles on the ground were ragged, damaged, and lacking spare parts to keep them in shape. Pay was fine, because there were plenty of dollars, but these now bought almost nothing. Very few federal paychecks went up with inflation. Morale had sunk into the Abyss, until the theater commanders announced they were going to try and extract the troops via nuclear ships. These were about the only ones still running. Suddenly, there was such a tremendous outpouring of effort and cooperation, you'd think inter-service rivalry had never existed. There was no one willing to block them from the ports, and troops were simply de-mobilizing. While plenty of them were coaxed into HMA service, most melted back into the population. This made community resistance much stronger in places.
The population of Europe went berserk upon hearing about the nuclear attack on Iran. Every national government which had been supporting the US was forced to withdraw future help. Most were actually forced to repudiate the attack. The UN became even more toothless, having already shut down most daily operations due to lack of funds. The President simply cut the UN from his budget. With federal troops engaged just about everywhere else, there were no escorts protecting diplomats passing through hostile urban crowds. Asian nations remained ostensibly friendly to the US, but had also participated in dumping US currency reserves. Without the US buying their production, they were also struggling with economic troubles.
With the US now pretty much isolated, and the big military stick gone, Israel began full mobilization, calling up all reserves. US troops were thinning as quickly as ships could haul them out, there was talk of Israel keeping their officially non-existent nuclear missiles on a hair trigger. Tensions with the Palestinians mounted, as did atrocities on both sides. However, much of this information was guess work. There was so very much contradictory propaganda from both sides, and so few trusted news reporting sources, no one in the US could be sure for awhile.
While avidly reading all these things during that long summer in East Texas, Larry's depression and emotional fog made it all seem distant. It as like reading a series of fictional short stories and novels. It was all far away, and his heart and mind was elsewhere. He learned that night there had been a federal sweep of sorts in East Texas. Two large towns were forcibly restored to federal control, because they sat on either side of a major rail switching yard, east and west. For a time, the sheer anger at their attitude toward Christie's death made him contemplate more concrete revenge. The federal presence in those two towns seemed an opportune target.
As soon as the thought occurred to him, he knew it was wrong. There was no vengeance for him. Christie was God's child, and while death was hardly His original plan for humans, He had surely saved her from a harsh fate by taking her home to Heaven. Stories of the concentration camps varied only in the details of what made them awful. Many of Larry's friends from Bible college were there. While other groups of people ended up there -- such as agnostic libertarian theorists -- it seemed the bulk of them were principled Christians who refused to bow the knee to Caesar. If there was to be any active fighting, it would be shutting down those camps. The only way he had any hope of that was to get lots of help.
Even though his emotions felt nothing, Larry knew deep in his soul the answers were from God, speaking softly in his spirit, slipping out through his sub-conscious mind. It didn't feel right, but it was enough to act on. It as time to create new church.
In one pan were two eggs, boiling. In the other was a hot cereal of crushed grains grown somewhere in the area. The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon, setting the wall to his left ablaze with the colors of dawn. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw movement. Without thinking, he grabbed the shotgun he had taken during the attempted arrest. Dropping below the window sill, he peered out through bottom of the window. He glimpsed the movement again, and was sure it was human. After a few moments, he saw her. It was a young girl, chased by an even younger boy. They were darting in and out of the bushes on the high spot, almost invisible with the sun rising behind them.
He hadn't seen a human child since Heather, who had joined them on the long hike away from the captured church house. He continued cooking, keeping an eye on them. Eventually, what he took to be their mother and father stepped out of the brush. He watched from his window. It was a good chance they had not yet noticed his cabin, since it was hidden behind some rather large oak trees, was covered part way with harmless vines. Setting the breakfast on his little table, he stopped and pray, "Okay Lord, now what?"
He had no more eggs, but plenty of the crushed ceral. So he filled his biggest pan with water and cereal, and turned on the burner. He left the shotgun by the door, and clipped the pistol holster behind his back. Then he stepped out the door and came around the end to confront the strangers. The young woman caught her breath when she saw Larry. They froze, waiting to see what he'd do. To Larry's eyes, they had had a very rough night. They were carrying a few possessions in small bags. At one time, they had probably been middle-class, he judged by their clothing, but were surely homeless, now. He beamed his best pastor's smile and raised his hands in front of him, palms up. "Welcome. I hope you came in peace."
Larry noticed the man carried a makeshift walking stick, but somehow it didn't appear the man could use it very effectively as a weapon. "Sure," the man started. They all watched Larry carefully.
Larry grasped his right hand in his left, and dropped them in front of himself. "I'll bet you folks could use a bite to eat."
The kids suddenly began pleading with their eyes. Their mouths opened just a bit at the idea, and the woman shook her head in the affirmative. The man said, "We can't offer money or anything, but we'd be glad to work for it."
Tilting his head to one side, Larry responded, "We can discuss that later. Right now, it's on me." He stepped back, indicating the packed path to the door with his right hand. "Please, join me."
Still hesitant, they walked where he pointed, and went in the door still hanging open. Larry followed them in, waving his left hand at the single bed and two chairs. "Please, have a seat." He hoped they didn't notice he had slipped the gun from behind his back and onto a shelf. He checked the cereal pan, stirring the contents. Pulling out a kitchen knife, he divided the eggs into halves, and carried the plate over to the kids. "This is your appetizer. It's not much, but I gladly share what God has given me."
They visibly relaxed at the mention of God, and each took their share. The kids hardly hesitated, stuffing the egg in their mouths, while the parents were only slightly more reserved. "I'm afraid I don't have glasses, so you'll have to make do passing this around," he said handing them his water jug. They took turns, and the half-gallon container was clearly empty when the man was finished.
Stirring the cereal, Larry introduced himself. What he told them about himself was true, though hardly detailed. He mentioned being one of the many preachers who had their church facilities confiscated, but not where it had been. They were starting to relax, and when it was their turn, explained they had been evicted from their home from one of the two towns nearby. The HMA decided their large house, with all its contents, was perfect quarters for the senior staff. With the sound of occasional shooting in the background, they hardly resisted. The officer said when he came back to the door, they had better be gone. He turned and walked toward his pickup truck. As soon as his back was turned, they grabbed a few things and ran out the back door.
They were grateful to be alive at that point. There was a substantial foot traffic heading west out of town. The few who tried to drive cars on the spare gallons of gas they managed to hoard were rousted out of them. Just about the whole town on that side was being commandeered, and only those who worked the rail yard were allowed to stay, along with a few shop owners, restaurant, and cafe staff. About half tried to stay near the town and near the road, in vain hope of recovering some of their property.
As Larry dished up bowls of hot cereal for the kids, the adults told their story. They explained how they had heard what happened to serious Christians. They mentioned stories where the feds would drive people out, then set up operations. Within a week, they always came back and swept up every able-bodied man and woman for conscript labor, from these crowds which clustered. They were kept in large open buildings, fed just enough to stay alive, and generally treated roughly while working in harsh conditions up to eighteen hours per day. Christians were mocked for wanting some time off on Sundays. Anyone failing to espouse that particular brand of Statist Christianity favored by the feds was likely to be sent to one of the concentration camps.
Thus, they had simply walked late into the night, not exactly sure where they were going. What made it harder was knowing about fire ants. Almost any place you can lie down on the ground becomes an open invitation for the nasty little creatures. They had prayed for a safe place to sleep, and eventually stumbled upon a house which had burned down some time ago. In the back yard was a trampoline. It had suffered sun rot, and was just barely able to hold the weight of all four of them. Huddled together, they were awakened before dawn by the sound of a convoy on the highway -- it turned out they were closer than they thought. They headed further away from the traffic sounds, and crossed several fences. Apparently Larry found them just after they had stopped in the bushes for a potty break.
The kids were asleep, now. Having sat on the edge of the bed, once they had their tummies filled, it was impossible to prevent. The mother picked up their bowls, and offered to wash the dishes. Larry smiled, "I think that would be a blessing." He pointed out the shotgun to the woman, in case it was needed for defense. Then Larry asked the man to accompany him to Mr. Bradson's house. Outside, they headed down the tractor path, and Larry turned to ask, "What would you think of building an independent community out here, centered around a church?"
For the most part, federal officers could travel freely. However, they often had a tough time getting cooperation. Cities were the most likely to support federal actions, largely because urbanites were desperate for food. Whole sections of some cities were vacant, or nearly so, from people fleeing to the country side. Small towns, then, swelled overnight. Only a few actually went out into rural living. Naturally, large numbers died from neglect, and many simple medical problems suddenly became fatal. Still, over all, the bulk of the population appeared to be adjusting. Only those poor who had avoided government assistance all along saw no significant change in their situation. An amazing number of folks learned to become farm and ranch hands, since that's where the food was. The price of fuel and parts idled most all agricultural machinery.
Oddly, major utilities survived. The primary reason at first was the efforts by the federal government to maintain control by squelching resistance. With pockets of HMA officers and their friends scattered broadly, they demanded at the point of a gun the utilities providers keep working. Eventually, most of these found ways to stay open and provide a living for their employees. In most rural areas, many were already cooperatives of various kinds, so the bartering economy simply gained a new trader in the market. As the federal enforcement slowly foundered, these utilities were able to keep serving clients on their own. City governments learned about bartering, too, behind the backs of the feds still abundant in urban areas.
From time to time, there were fresh efforts to reassert federal control. New crack-downs were enacted on this or that area to "send a message." Most resistance was more passive than combative. There was very little real sabotage of the infrastructure as an act of resistance. Rather, it betrayed the attitude the federal officers were just another bunch of people who needed to pay their way like everyone else. The crumbling unity under Washington, DC, saw a rise in something resembling feudalism, more of a meritocracy than a democracy. The types and flavors of communities varied widely. There were certain observable trends, though. Effective community leadership, able to organize, provide a stable life, and defend their members, were a natural magnet for the dispossessed. They learned quickly to screen these incoming refugees, and many locations had a probationary program of sorts. At the same time, many threads of the old national cooperation continued.
Eventually, the crumbling federal presence was forced to withdraw into an every tightening cordon around the old centers of power. The continuity of government bunkers became home to a dwindling number hoping to somehow recover the super-power glory of America. However, by no means did anyone use the term "United States" except as a meaningless relic. As the sycophants died or defected, the concentrations camps were abandoned to the inmates. Many were converted into the anchor or a new independent Christian community.
For one tantalizing moment, the New World Order very nearly had the entire planet in their grasp. They were too greedy, too determined to control all, unwilling to stand back and simply reap the benefits of free human activity. They had tried to enslave the world to their feverish vision of a revived Israel, trying to force the hand of Jehovah so He would finally send the Messiah. They never understood they had missed Him. Having rejected Him when He came long before, the land was taken from them, their nationhood was removed, and their legacy of promises passed to a New Israel. The New Israel was in the spirits of humans who turned to Christ. The Covenant of Moses was fulfilled, and the Covenant of the Lamb of God had displaced it.
By Ed Hurst
08 June 2006
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