It was difficult to estimate the enormous cost to build a compound to house the holdouts, let alone to sustain them and provide what they needed in order to minister to the people they had been called to serve. They would need food, clothing, medical supplies, water, vehicles, fuel, power, and they would also need to make clandestine supply runs to the closest state—Arizona.
This proved the perfect opportunity, in Doc’s opinion, for Pastor Bob to audition him as an alternate speaker/teacher. So Rev. Gill had Dr. Xavier make the pitch for the project in a morning service via a ten- minute devotional before the offering was taken. No surprise, Doc proved effective and helped raise a massive amount. And he became a frequent substitute speaker for Pastor Bob.
Most stimulating to Zeke about the weekly planning meetings was that Doc had a knack for asking the right questions. He mined Zeke and Mahir’s brains for everything about surviving in desert-like conditions. Then they matched their needs and their budget to the available funds, scouted locations, and found the perfect spot: The navy had abandoned a former site at Seal Beach that had housed weapons bunkers. The installation sat in a dense suburban housing complex of adjoining communities that had been annihilated by a one-two punch of an earthquake-ignited wildfire.
The massive tremors had left cul-de-sacs and parched lawns mere repositories for debris, then the conflagrations swept through. That left nothing for the earthmoving equipment assigned to cart away the rubble, the area now endless square miles of ash that either drifted into the Pacific or served as a powdery base for a cadaverous wilderness.
Even vultures detoured around it.
But where Washington had bid adieu, Zeke’s colleagues saw opportunity, particularly in the Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station. They rented earthmoving equipment and hired subcontractors to construct an entirely self-contained underground complex for up to forty people.
Why not more? Because atop everything they hoped to provide those they felt called to serve, God had simply not put on their hearts to shelter up to four hundred thousand people. Few would have chosen to remain unless they had somewhere to stay, especially with the federal government offering alternatives in bordering states.
The holdouts’ priorities were to offer people the message of the Bible while ministering to their physical needs. They would trade with them, teach them to sustain themselves, and try to keep them healthy.
The holdouts themselves would learn through study and experience how people had survived in deserts for centuries. Their needs would be simple and basic, but not easy to meet. Their compound had to have room to store food, water, clothing, and vehicles, and it had to provide shelter, sanitation, and space to artificially produce what nature would no longer provide. In addition, it had to be sustainable, and no one knew for how long. The resulting facility—which took a year to build—was a hidden marvel.
Where naval personnel had looked out over miles of suburban houses, the holdouts’ periscopes in each corner allowed unobstructed views seemingly all the way to the horizon. Inside was where the magic lay. Eight years into the experiment, Zeke still marveled at the design that somehow overcame claustrophobia.
Generators for power, light, and ventilation had been non-negotiables, as had strength and security against natural and man-made calamity. But the genius was in the sheer size and sense of space. Every room was larger than those in a normal house. Corridors were wider. Ceilings were taller. Every surface—floor, wall, and ceiling—consisted of easily washable white synthetic.
The massive floor plan flowed from a central Commons—a multi-purpose area used for eating, meeting, learning, and recreation—that fed into wings containing residence quarters (with living and dining rooms, bedrooms, private baths, and kitchens), one with a fully stocked medical facility (with lab and infirmary), one with laboratories for growing food and producing synthetic fuels and even water, and another with a community kitchen and food storage area.
The largest single area was a garage that could house a dozen vehicles and accommodate miscellaneous storage, and which led to a hidden incline to the surface. Zeke and Doc and Mahir knew the single greatest threat would be desperate people wanting to live with them—which space forced them to limit. Attrition had seen them shrink to fourteen. The Muscadins had brought them back to sixteen.
Though they had room for up to forty, the more they allowed in, the more difficult it would be to protect their hidden location. Danger from the Mongers alone could end their mission.
That could not happen.
It was time to move out. Zeke’s team was to find Mahir and Danley and Cristelle Muscadin, get back to the compound even if they had to walk the eight miles, pick up at least two vehicles and some food, and determine what the Mongers were up to while steering clear of them. Doc’s team was to lie low, stay safe, and protect the sanctuary. Worst-case scenario: The former tattoo parlor basement might become their new home.
Worst-case was right, Zeke thought. The best thing about their base was that fewer than half the number it was designed for actually lived there. After all he and Mahir and Doc had gone through to cover all the bases in the EOTWAWKI (End of the World as We Know It) literature and design the best underground bunker possible, the last thing he wanted was to abandon it.
If they really had to relocate to the Long Beach ghost town of crumbling office buildings and retail shop shells, they wouldn’t survive long, let alone be able to help anyone else. Where else but in their own bunker could they control the climate, conduct their experiments, tend their own gardens, grow their own fish?
They had been able to plan strategic forays into settlements of Native American tribes where, because they had taught the people how to survive under the new reality without government assistance, the tribes were also open to hearing about Christ. The holdouts had also been able to minister and share the gospel with indigents, impoverished people without the means to relocate, regardless of how badly they wanted to.
Beyond sharing their faith and teaching people the Bible when they allowed it, the holdouts also taught the tribes better ways to survive and subsist off the land—which became more difficult by the day. Progress had been slow and not without suspicion and danger, but Zeke knew if their own compound were compromised they might never recover.
“Let’s pace ourselves,” Zeke said as he, Katashi, Raoul, Benita, and Pastor Bob ventured out. He positioned the Gutierrezes at the rear, facing backward, as the five stayed tightly bunched and moved steadily. The plan was to follow the tracks of Mahir, Danley, and Cristelle’s dirt bikes to see if they reached the base, or how close they got.
“You know I served in the military, right?” Pastor Bob said.
“You’ve mentioned that,” Zeke said.
“I mean, I didn’t see combat or anything . . .”
“Something you want to say, Pastor?”
“I just have to ask. You’ve known Mahir a long time, but Danley and Cristelle . . .”
“They’ve been with us what, six months or so, right?” Katashi said. “You don’t trust them?”
“I sure want to. I’ve heard their testimonies, but there just aren’t that many Haitians who come to California. They weren’t even here before the drought. But they said they got here when most people were leaving.”
Zeke shrugged. “And we stayed when most were leaving. People have their reasons.”
Pastor Bob nodded. “But you have to agree it’s strange that all our vehicles were trashed but theirs.”
“What’re you saying?” Benita said, her back still to the others. “They tip off the Mongers where we are, but for what? What do they get out of it? And is Mahir in on it?”
“No way,” Zeke said. “If there’s anything to this, Mahir’s a victim—and in big trouble.”
“That’s my fear,” Pastor Bob said.
Zeke didn’t give it any credence, but he realized he had unintentionally picked up the pace. When they reached where the three had parked their dirt bikes, the tracks were ea
sy to follow on the cracked ground. Zeke and the others followed them east for several miles in a virtual straight line—three tracks for when they had come from the compound, and three for when they returned. That meant they hadn’t been followed or didn’t think they had, so they had no reason to try to mislead anyone by taking another route back.
Zeke had learned a lot living in the desert that LA had become, including that it wasn’t smart to be out in the sun at this time of day. Normally he’d have ridden back in his Jeep and spent the hottest part of the day underground. Now he felt vulnerable, and not only to the heat and radiation. As carefully as he and his companions walked, there was no avoiding kicking up swirls of dust. Neither was there anywhere to hide. Even if a Hydro Monger contingent was limited to the one big rig and two mediums Katashi had seen a couple of hours before, Zeke’s quintet would be hard-pressed to defend themselves in the open with only their sidearms.
“I’m no military strategist, Zeke,” Pastor Bob said, “but Doc said we were sitting ducks back there. Truthfully, I’d trade places with them right about now. It’s as if we’ve got targets on our backs here.”
“I’m with you,” Katashi said.
“Speak for Me now.”
“What’s that, Raoul?” Zeke said.
“I didn’t say nothin’, man.”
“Speak for Me now.”
“Say what?” Zeke said.
“I said I didn’t say nothing,” Raoul said.
“Hearing things?” Pastor Bob said with a smile.
“Matter of fact, I am.”
“If I was gonna say anything,” Raoul said, “I was gonna say I’m scared too.”
“I’ll give you the words.”
“Okay, Lord,” Zeke said.
Pastor Bob chuckled. “Who’s on first?”
“What’re you crazy gringos talkin’ about?” Benita said.
“It’s an old Ameri—” Zeke began. Then, “The Lord of hosts, Him you shall hallow. Let Him be your fear, and let Him be your dread.”
“Isaiah,” Pastor Bob said. “Nice.”
“That’s heavy, man,” Raoul said. “What’s it mean?”
“It means we don’t have to be afraid,” Pastor Bob said. “Worship God and He will take over.”
“Well, He better,” Benita said. “Look here.”
Zeke turned with the others and saw a cloud on the horizon much too large for walkers or even three dirt bikes to produce.
“Weapons out, boss?” Katashi said.
“Not yet. We don’t know who it is, but let’s not provoke. Just be ready. Pray for me, Pastor.”
“Lord, give him holy boldness. And me too. Amen.”
Dark hulks morphed into black tanker trucks through the shimmering heat waves. Billowing dust clouds twenty and thirty feet high trailed them as they raced over the hard-packed ground.
“They’re not gonna run us down, are they?” Benita said.
“I can’t imagine,” Zeke said. “There’s no point.”
As the tankers drew closer he could tell from how they bounced and swayed that they carried full loads. They appeared to be traveling at least sixty miles per hour and would need a lot of stopping distance. Zeke wondered if they planned to just hurtle on by, but then he heard the roar of the engines abate. “Give ’em some room, people.”
They stepped aside as the drivers appeared to rhythmically pump their brakes. The lead driver calculated perfectly and drifted to a stop right next to Zeke, the other two trucks in tandem. The lead driver emerged and clambered down, a tall man with shaggy blond hair and wearing a sleeveless black vest. He appeared unarmed.
“Afternoon!” he said with a grin. “Wicked day to be walkin’. Need a lift? Got room fer all y’all.”
“Appreciate it,” Zeke said. “But no, we’re all right, thanks.”
“C’mon, no secret ya lost yer rides.”
“That so?”
“All’s I know is we come up on a pickum-up truck, a Jeeper, and a Rover yonder what all been wasted, and we know who done it.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Three foreigners on rice rockets.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t b’lieve me, suit yerself.”
“You saw them do this?”
“Saw ’em hightailin’ away’s all I know.”
“Thanks for the info.”
“Ride offer’s still open.”
“Answer’s still no, thanks.”
“Don’t wanna insult me, do ya?”
“I know who you are,” Zeke said. “I’ve bought from you before.”
The man squinted. “Then ya know m’ name?”
“I know you go by WatDoc.”
“Right! Get it? Water Doctor?”
“I get it.”
“An’ ya don’t wanna ride with a man you done bid’ness with?”
“Have a good day, WatDoc.”
“You too then, man. What’s yer name?”
“You don’t need to know my name.”
“How come?”
“You just don’t.”
“I’ll jes’ call you Spokesman, then.”
“That’ll work.”
“A’ight then.”
To Zeke’s relief, the Mongers crossed the dirt bike tracks and raced away. He still held out hope they hadn’t followed Mahir, Danley, and Cristelle back to base.
“We didn’t see no bike tracks around our vehicles, did we, Zeke?” Raoul said.
“We sure didn’t. WatDoc and his crew did that damage.”
“I don’t want to think about what they might have done to our people,” Pastor Bob said.
“I don’t either,” Zeke said. “But finding them is our only job now.”
6
RUN DOWN
“EVERYBODY TAKE A SIP,” Zeke said, “and Raoul and Benita face forward. I’m not worried about anything behind us anymore, and we’ve got to start making time. We’re about three miles from base and we’ve got to find our people. Jogging wouldn’t be smart, but let’s hurry.”
“Yeah,” Katashi said, “let’s not be rash. WatDoc was trying to tell us something. We know he and his guys have seen Mahir and the Muscadins. What did they do with them?”
“Or to them?” Benita said.
Half an hour later, Zeke and the others were panting. He stopped short when he noticed the dirt bike tracks had deviated. The men seemed to turn as one toward Benita, who had proved herself over and over an innate tracker—at least of animals. “How are you with tire tracks?” Zeke said.
She stepped forward and squatted to examine the ground.
“Watch this,” Raoul said. “Go, cariño.”
Benita said the three tire tracks on the left had come from their compound. “See?” she said, pointing. “The small part o’ the nubs face west. These over here? The other way.”
“Tol’ you, man,” Raoul said.
Zeke shook his head. “So on their way back, they veer off to the right here and split up. Why?”
“Not only that,” Benita said, jogging ahead and kneeling again, “but they sped up. Look at this.”
As the rest joined her, she pointed out that the tracks were shallower and less distinct, the sandy surface more scattered. “They were tryin’ to get away from something. Look far enough ahead and I bet we’re gonna see it.”
Zeke knew they shouldn’t be jogging in the heat, but he couldn’t stop himself either. He and Katashi followed the tracks that went left while the others followed the one that went right. Soon they all saw the heavy treads of truck tires. “Benita!” he called out, “make sense of this for me!”
“C’mere!” she hollered, but as he hurried over, all four guys had trouble keeping up as she raced from spot to spot, crouching to study the patterns of circling and crossing truck tires and dirt bike tracks. She stopped, hands on her knees, breathing deeply.
“Take your time,” Zeke said. “Let’s get it right.”
Benita straightened and rested her hands on her hips. �
�Pretty sure it was those same three tanker trucks,” she said. “All three have duallys on the back, and even as fast as they’re goin’, they’re leavin’ flat, broad marks like they’re carrying heavy loads. I’m guessin’ Mahir and them saw the trucks and tried to dodge ’em, and the truck started circling them. This one here tried to make a break for it.”
“Think whoever it was got away?”
Benita shrugged. “Gotta follow the tracks till we find out.”
Pastor Bob shook his head. “Hope they kept the scoundrels from finding the compound.”
“Let’s go!” Katashi said.
“Slow down,” Zeke said. “We really have to conserve our strength. We don’t know what we’re going to find, and we have to be ready for anything.”
“Come on!” Katashi said. “These are our friends.”
Zeke put a hand on his shoulder. “I just want us all at our strongest.”
“Oh, no,” Raoul said, pointing. “What’s that?”
A little more than a quarter mile away lay a crumpled wreck. There would be no stopping his friends now. Zeke had to run too.
It took a couple of minutes to reach the mangled dirt bike, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Its fenders and spokes were blood splattered. Unfortunately, the three bikes owned by the troop were identical, so it was impossible to know who had been riding and might have been injured, captured, or killed.
Again, Benita immediately went to work, striding about, surveying the area, kneeling here and there. “There’s good news, boss,” she said. “Least I think there is.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t think nobody got shot. I think the blood came from when whoever was riding got knocked off, and then the bike got ran over after that.”
“How can you tell?”
“I don’t wanna be too graphic, but if the rider got ran over too, there’d be more than blood, you know what I mean? Like flesh and bone maybe. But there’s more good news too.”
“I’m listening.”
“Looks like the trucks all left together, and look over here,” she said. Benita moved to where the ground was disturbed and bloody. “The other two bikes come over here too. Then one goes off toward base and the other goes back toward town, but look at this.”
The Valley of Dry Bones Page 5