"Sure, why not?"
"I hope, Sam, that you will support me after our long conversations. It seems to me that we are of like mind in many things."
Sam nodded. "We are. I only spent a few days with the Amish, but it was enough to know that they are right about many things."
He smiled at her, then handed over her coat as she pulled on her boots and they headed out into a brisk spring morning.
"I bring a message of hope to the people of Hope!"
It seemed to Sam that half the city was here, gathered around the intersection outside Bowie's store which had been closed for a week or so now. Ward McAndrew stood on the middle rung of a stepladder so he could see above them, and Sam was perched on a picnic bench that had been dragged out of the back of the store. Hungry faces looked up at the pastor; empty stomachs and thirsty souls.
But it was a reluctant cheer that rose into the crisp air. Above them, a perfect blue Nevada sky spread like a dome from mountain range to mountain range.
"You are starving, are you not?" he cried.
This time, a roar of confirmation rose from them as more and more joined the back of the crowd.
McAndrew paused theatrically, hand on chin. "Why are you starving?"
A man near the front called out, "There ain't enough food to go around."
"Lies!" the pastor called out. "There is ample for everyone, but it is locked up in the school and the warehouse. While you starve, our leaders go off on foolhardy missions that will only attract the attention of our enemies.
"I have the key to the warehouse. I have the key to the school," he said, holding a bunch above his head, to a tumultuous cheer, "and I have the key to our safety and prosperity!"
He waited for the noise to die down a little. "We have been betrayed by our so-called leaders. While they seek to return to the bad old days when the rich had plenty and the poor tightened their belts, I propose a new way of life. A new beginning! A community of equals!"
Another roar went up.
Then a hand rose above the heads. "That sounds a awful lot like communism to me, Pastor."
There was a hint of panic to the way McAndrew shook his head. "No, Elias. We will each be able to better ourselves, but we will do so from a level playing field. Everyone gets the same chance. Work hard and reap the reward.
"Now, who is with me? Who will help me build a better life for our children? A place of safety? A life of peace and prosperity for all? Who will follow me as we stride into a future of hope for the people of Hope?"
This time, the roar was unrestrained, hands waving in the air. Sam watched all of this in disbelief. What were they so excited about? McAndrew had promised almost nothing concrete. She agreed with him that a simpler lifestyle, such as the Amish practiced, was a better way than the likely vain attempt to rebuild their old society. If only she hadn't been there when Crawford had arrived the previous night, she might just have believed it. She might even have been cheering with the others.
She knew what the plan was. Having thrown Rusty into his own jail along with the few deputies who'd remained loyal to him, McAndrew would use the mob to ambush the trucks when they returned from wherever they'd gone. If they had succeeded in returning with supplies, he would hand them out as evidence of his new regime's generosity. Then, when Devon resisted, Gert Bekmann would reveal himself as Ezra's agent and side with the pastor. The coup would be complete and Hope would be under new ownership when her father returned.
Her father. What would he say?
She stepped over to the ladder and climbed up behind McAndrew, then raised her hand. She gazed out over the crowd, spotting some movement at the periphery. The pastor put his finger to his lip, and the crowd quieted down.
"My name is Sam Hickman." At that, a gentle whisper went through the crowd. "You all know my father, and you know he won't be happy when he gets back and finds out what's happened here."
They were practically silent now.
"And, frankly, I don't give a damn!"
The roar went up again as she searched the crowd. Time was running out.
Still, in for a penny.
She raised her hands, a surge of guilt washing through her as she sensed McAndrew's gaze, a smile on his desiccated face.
"But," she yelled, cutting through the residual murmuring, "this is wrong!"
Silence dropped like a blanket, muffling the crowd that looked up at her.
"What are you doing, child?" McAndrew hissed, but she ignored him
"Yes, things must change, but not this way. We are Americans! We voted for our leaders and we should hear what they have to say!"
A voice called out, "You're daddy's girl after all. I say when the cat's away, the mice get to play!"
Another cheer, and Sam thought she'd lost them. McAndrew tried to speak, but Sam yelled over him. "Do you know what happened to me? What I have seen in the world? Amputations, executions and brutality. And the pastor is one of them!"
She hadn't expected laughter.
"I was there when he met with one of their leaders. It was that man who ordered we throw our town sheriff in jail and break open the food stores."
Again a voice called out, "Yeah, and now my wife and child have somethin' in their bellies for the first time in days. Don't seem so bad to me."
Another voice, this time a woman. "You're only sayin' it 'cause you're Paul Hickman's daughter. How dare you talk of our pastor like that? You should be ashamed of yerself."
"I think you've said enough," McAndrew whispered. "I suggest you leave it to the grown-ups from now on." He pushed down on her shoulder and she began to give way.
Bang!
She froze as the heads in the crowd turned as one. A figure had climbed up onto the back of a pickup outside the grocery store. It was Jessie Summers, shotgun pointed at the sky. She looked at Sam, nodded, then bent down to offer a hand to someone else who was being manhandled onto the back of the truck.
A gasp washed over the crowd, but the whispers stopped as the newcomer spoke.
"What in the name of all the blessed saints is goin' on here? I get a touch of the flu, turn my back for five minutes and everything goes to hell? What is wrong with you folks?"
Martha Bowie, one arm clamped tight onto Jessie's, the other stabbing accusingly at the crowd and somehow managing to point at them all simultaneously, paused for a moment to get her breath back. She looked painfully thin and as white as the clouds gathering on the skyline, but her voice had lost none of its power.
"Ward McAndrew," she said. "You are a yellow-bellied traitor and I reckon you're even deeper in this mess than anyone realizes. But I tell you this. You ain't draggin' me, my family or this town into the dirt with you. We will face this together, and when your friends come a'knockin' we'll send them runnin' with a butt full of buckshot."
Sam watched as heads in the crowd snapped back and forth between Martha and the unresponsive McAndrew. Finally, he snapped out of his shock.
"Do not listen to her. She has been misinformed. Or perhaps her illness has affected her mind. This is the dawn of a new era, a better future for Hope. Now, please disperse while I secure the town." He nodded at a group of men and women standing off to one side. They were armed with a motley assortment of rifles, shotguns and pistols, and each wore a red armband. They fanned out, holding their weapons high.
Cries of protest went up from the crowd, but they began to break into clumps as McAndrew's squads pushed their way through. Most of them headed for the food warehouse opposite the jail and museum. Two shots ripped the air and people started running. Sam jumped down from the ladder as someone cried out in pain. She fought her way through the stampede to where an old woman lay on the ground, hands over her head. Sam helped the woman onto her feet and then turned toward the intersection as the rumble of approaching trucks rose above the panicking crowd.
#
"Something's going on," Devon said as he crossed to the other lane of the highway and brought his truck to a halt alongside Bekma
nn's.
He'd been looking forward to getting inside his apartment and then visiting Jessie, but as soon as they'd passed the empty gas station on one side of the road and the Church of the Latter-Day Saints on the other, he'd spotted movement at the intersection.
Gil leaned forward in his seat, pulling a grumbling Dorothy up over his shoulder as he squinted. "Ward." He nodded at a tall figure halfway up a stepladder.
Devon cursed under his breath and then glanced across at Gert Bekmann who was also staring at the crowd. Suddenly, the Dutchman opened his door and jumped down. He ran to the back of the truck and, seconds later, he'd formed a squad of armed CDF volunteers.
"Dammit!" Devon spat, opening the door and jumping down. He ignored Gil's questions and ran to follow the soldiers who were now jogging behind their leader.
By the time Devon caught up with him, Bekmann was within shouting distance of McAndrew, who'd turned and, after a moment's surprise, now wore an expression of relief. The crowd had largely dissipated, but people began emerging from the shadows as they saw the soldiers approach. Devon spotted Martha Bowie being pushed in a wheelchair from the direction of the grocery store. His heart leaped as Jessie emerged into the sunlight. She looked stressed, and then she saw him and smiled. Sam Hickman was with her.
"Ah, Captain Bekmann!" McAndrew called. "You have arrived at the perfect time. I have taken control, but we are shorthanded. Would you please assist my people in securing the warehouse and jail?"
So, it was true. There was a connection between Bekmann and McAndrew, and that meant he really had been sent by Mayor Hawkins to help gain control of Hope. At first, Devon had been convinced by Hickman's suspicions, but as he'd grown to know and like the Dutchman, he'd had his doubts.
Bekmann nodded to McAndrew and then whispered instructions to the soldier behind him who ran off back to the trucks.
"Gert!" Devon called, but Bekmann simply put up his hand to silence him.
"Which facilities do you have control of at present, Reverend?"
McAndrew climbed down and raised his voice, as if proud of his achievement. "The school, jail and warehouse."
"He's a traitor!" Sam shouted as they got closer. "He's working with the Sons of Solomon!"
McAndrew waved a hand dismissively. "Go away, child. This is work for adults."
"One came to his house last night!" Sam said.
"Captain, I suggest you ignore this girl. Now, do your duty."
Devon watched as a squad of CDF soldiers ran past the crowd toward the warehouse. Gil Summers moved to his shoulder, the baby snuggled within his coat.
"Gert!"
This time, Bekmann looked back at him. "What is it?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"He's on the right side!" McAndrew squealed. "This is the only path to peace for us. We can choose to fight a hopeless battle against an overwhelming force, or we can join with it."
Bekmann nodded, then glanced across to a point beyond the rapidly re-forming crowd to where someone was waving at him.
"We have control of the warehouse," he said, before looking over to the left. "And the jail."
"Very good," McAndrew said. "Now we will convene a new council and appraise the Ezrans of the situation. Hope is under our control."
Devon felt his stomach drop into his boots. How wrong could he be? Bekmann had been a friend during their mission—backing him up and even taking revenge on his behalf. And yet it had all been a fraud that had led to this point. They could be under the boot of the Sons—and he'd seen what that would mean—or the dictatorial Mayor Hawkins of Ezra. He didn't like either of his chances.
"What's goin' on here?" Martha Bowie looked up at Bekmann from her wheelchair as she tried to control the hacking cough that followed every sentence.
Bekmann didn't respond, so the sick woman continued, "Seems to me you need to make your own choice." She looked from him to Devon to McAndrew.
"I am under orders," he said.
Bowie shrugged. "How many times has that excuse been hidden behind? I thought you had more about you than that."
This brought a thin smile from the Dutchman, and he gestured at the CDF soldiers waiting behind Devon to come forward.
"I have done my duty," he said as the soldiers gathered around him. "Hope is under my control. I have returned with ample supplies for the next few weeks and have secured the warehouse where they will be stored. Like all good soldiers, I recognize when authority must be passed back to the civilians."
"Quite right! Now, I will have my people clear the square and I will then send a message that Hope is secure." McAndrew said. "But before that, I order you to arrest these people." His arm swept in an arc that included Sam, Jessie, Martha and Devon. "They are agitators and will remain in custody."
Bekmann moved toward Devon, who stepped back and went for his weapon.
"No need for that, my friend," he said, before looking beyond Devon. "Mr. Summers, I believe you are best equipped to act as temporary council leader until Mr. Hickman returns or Mrs. Strickland can be located."
Devon could hear Gil's jaw hit the ground.
McAndrew was the first to react. "What is this? No! I am in charge here now! That is our agreement. Those were your orders!"
Bekmann turned to the red-faced preacher. "As Mrs. Bowie said, only the weak hide behind orders. A strong man—a strong person—judges for himself. And you are weak. You are a traitor and if it was up to me, I'd string you from a lamppost. But for now a lumpy mattress awaits you. Take him to the jail and, while you're there, let the sheriff out." A CDF soldier nodded, grabbed McAndrew by the arm and led him away.
"Thank God," Devon said.
Bekmann grinned. "He had nothing to do with it. I had no intention of betraying you or the people here, but I did not know of the tactical situation so I sent my people to disable his forces. Given the lack of gunfire, it seems to have been simple enough."
Devon grabbed his hand. "Thank you." Then he staggered as Jessie threw herself at him.
She held him for a moment, then raised her head and froze. "Dad. Why are you holding a baby?"
Chapter 11: Cowpoke
Paul Hickman groaned as he rolled over, hauling himself upright against the bottom of a charred post. He'd decided he would not have made a good cowboy. Not because he couldn't handle the animals—they were docile beasts who seemed content enough as long as they had someone to follow. No, it was having to live in the outdoors that Hickman found so hard.
It had been dark by the time they'd made it to the neighboring farm, but at least they'd been able to find a pen to keep the animals overnight. Now, after an incredibly uncomfortable and fitful sleep, the cows themselves had decided that it was time for him to be awake.
He looked over to where Cassie had been sleeping, then transferred his gaze when he heard a splashing sound. She was standing at a rain barrel, bent forward as she poured cold water over her upper torso. He looked away again immediately, shocked by her nakedness, and fought to keep his eyes where they should be.
"Morning, Mr. Hickman," she said. He wiped off the water drops that had showered him as she turned around, but kept his gaze firmly on the rotten straw coating the floor of the barn. "Oh, I'm sorry. I ain't decent yet."
He tried desperately to think about pink elephants as he listened to her pulling something over her head.
"There. Did you sleep alright?" She was standing in front of the rain barrel wringing the water out of her strawberry-blonde hair and looking for all the world like an extra in some pornographic version of The Little House on the Prairie as her cotton T-shirt clung in places Hickman couldn't help but notice. "Oh, Mr. Hickman, you stop your blushin'. I ain't ashamed, so you shouldn't be neither." Though what either of them should be ashamed of, she didn't explain.
She strode off across the barn, boots splashing in fetid puddles, as he got up and used the same rain barrel to wash himself. He could hear her clanking around behind him, and by the time he'd dried his face on his shirt
, she'd set up the camping stove and had balanced a frying pan on it. "There's some chickens livin' loose across the yard there, so I found some eggs. Fresh as a daisy," she said as she broke two in one hand. "You reckon we should round 'em up and bring 'em back with us?"
Hick had an immediate mental image of trying to drive the Land Rover with a flock of chickens flying around and was about to dismiss the suggestion. But she was right. A few residents of Hope had chickens in their backyards and a couple of the farms had small flocks, but they could use some more and they'd breed quickly enough. "Good idea," he said, knowing he'd regret it.
But he didn't regret the eggs. Cassie slid them both onto an aluminum plate and handed them to him before cracking another two for herself. They were delicious, and he finished them quickly before going off behind the barn to dig a hole.
When he returned, he found Cassie entombed again in her thick working coat, her rapidly drying hair running in ringlets down her back. How old was she? Nineteen? Twenty? He felt himself flush with shame and went to join her as she was throwing handfuls of hay into the pen from the back of the Land Rover.
"So, what's the plan?" she said, swinging around to him as he approached.
Hick shrugged. "I'm not sure. Easiest way would be by road, but if we go south toward Ezra we're bound to run into a patrol, but goin' north would mean skirtin' the mountains and adding fifty miles to the journey."
"So we gotta go cross-country?" She gazed out of the barn. "Direct route to Hope is thataway," she said, pointing at the peaks that huddled along the horizon.
"Can the animals make it?"
She patted the back of the nearest beast, sending dust into the air. "I reckon so. Biggest risk is gonna be fallin' down a hole or suchlike. If any of them breaks a leg, then that'll be the end."
He looked out of the dark barn at the mountain range. The peaks weren't as high or as sharply defined as they were when they reached Ezra to the south, but they didn't exactly look inviting, either. He didn't like the idea of trying to pick a way through with the Land Rover, much less having to guide a herd of cattle along behind it. But he couldn't see that they had a choice.
The Last City (Book 3): Last Stand Page 9