The gunfire had woken Jacob and Rashi, who were whimpering in the back seat. They had just lost Rashi's father and mother to gunfire and the sound triggered the memory of the horrors they had experienced in the city. Jacob stuck his head up to look out the window.
"Jacob. Rashi. Get down!” Harold said firmly to them. “And stay down."
Just as he said that, another shot rang out. It struck the front passenger window, blasting it into tiny fragments. Rashi and Jacob shrieked and they fell to the floor of the car.
Harold opened the back door.
"Come on, boys. Out this way. Keep low."
They crawled out the door, practically falling to the pavement. They pulled themselves close to the car, pressing against it, trembling.
Another shot pinged into the metal of Ray's car.
"Ok, that's enough of this shit,” Harold said, through clenched teeth. He stood and emptied both barrels of his shotgun at the direction of the shots. The shots thundered loudly. Rashi and Jacob pressed their hands to their ears.
Arnold attempted another approach.
"We have two children with us,” he called out. “Hold your fire. We just need to get some gas and then we'll be on our way."
Another shot whizzed over their heads. A voice, thick with a southern accent, answered them. “That's mah, gas, y'all are stealin’ boys. Ah cayn't allow that."
Good, Arnold thought. If he was willing to talk, then they might be able to reason with him. The man in the darkness was probably just as frightened as they were.
"Listen,” he hollered. “We aren't going to steal anything. We'll leave you more than enough money to pay for the gas and a few other things we need to take with us. We don't mean you any harm."
"You're money don't mean shit to me. Ah need mah gas, not your money. It ayant wurth sheyit out heyah,” the voice called back. Another shot rang out from the darkness.
Back in the gas station, John and Steven had ducked behind the counter.
"Jesus, Steven,” John said under his breath. “What the fuck are we doing here?"
"My name is Arnold Wills. We just want to buy some gas. The gentlemen with me are Senator Harold Bennett and Ray Cutler."
The firing ceased. Silence hung over the darkness.
"Did you say Senator Bennett?” the voice finally answered.
Harold spoke up. “Yes. I'm Harold Bennett."
"Well, sheyat, whah th’ heyall, din't ya say so befo'? Hol’ yo’ fahr. Ahm gonna come out in th’ open."
Arnold aimed his rifle in the direction of the man's voice and waited, poised for trouble. “Ok. But keep your hands where we can see them."
A moment later, a man emerged from the underbrush. His hands were raised high above his head, his rifle held horizontally in one of them. He was a tall, thin man in his early forties.
"Don’ shoot, Mister Wills. Ah was jus’ protectin’ what wuz mahn.” As he stepped closer, he smiled at them good-naturedly.
"Ahm sorry if ah skeered ya. Ah thought you wuz them Bartlett boys from over acros’ th’ ridge. Them sumabitches been lootin’ me blahnd and ah jus’ got sick an’ tahrd of it."
Arnold lowered his rifle. The man did the same with his. He stepped forward and offered his hand.
"Mah name's Gil Farnsworth,” he said. Arnold accepted the handshake. “Y'all mus’ be Senator Bennett,” he said to Harold.
He nodded. “Yes, I'm Bennett."
"Please let me shake yo’ han', Senator. Ahm a big amahrer of yours. Ah watched yo’ speech from on th’ tv. Ahm mahty sorrowful about yo’ frien', Senator Hatcha. He was a little on th’ pink sahd, but if he was'n a frien’ of yo's, he musta been ok."
Harold shook his hand without smiling.
Arnold hollered out, “Steven, John, it's all clear. You can come out.” After a moment, the two emerged from the storefront, carrying as much as they could hang on to.
"Arnold Wills,” Farnsworth said to himself. His eyes lit up with recognition. “Say, ain't yo’ the fella who's been afta that snake Crowley?"
"Yeah, that's me. Looks like the snake has beaten me, though."
"Woo-ee,” Farnsworth said, “Ain’ that the truth. It's too goddamn bad too. That crook shoulda been hung bah his bahls a long tahm ago."
"You should know better than to shoot at people, Mr. Farnsworth,” Arnold said sternly.
Farnsworth smiled broadly, revealing a mouth absent a few teeth. “Aw, shucks, Mr. Wills. Ah wuz only trahin’ to skeer ya. If'n ah had wanted to shoot ya, yo’ wouldn't be tahkin’ wit’ me now. A man's gotta protect whut's his, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, I suppose I can't argue with that. I'm sorry if we alarmed you. We're on our way to Colorado and were almost out of gas. We intended to leave some money in the store. We didn't even know if the owner of the station was still alive. A lot of people have died the past day or so."
Farnsworth's face fell. “Yo’ mean this has bin hap'nin’ ev'rywhar?"
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Farnsworth. We were in Washington, D.C., and it is totally devastated. Every place we saw between there and here it was the same scene ... dead bodies, buildings in flames, automobiles smashed and shattered along the road. Can you tell us what happened here, Mr. Farnsworth?"
"Call me, Gil, boys,” he smiled. “Mr. Farnsworth was mah daddy, and he was a no good piece of shit, if ya don’ mahnd me sayin’ so."
Just then, Farnsworth noticed the two small boys hugging the leg of the senator.
"Whah, lookey heeyah,” he said. “Who ar these young ‘uns?"
"We found them in a cornfield just outside Washington. The tall one there's father was dead, his mother was killed back in the city. His name's Rashi. The other is Jacob. He was traveling with them. They were visiting from Israel."
"Tha's really horrible what happened theyah, too,” Farnsworth said.
"What happened to Israel?"
"Yo’ mean yo’ haven't heard? It wuz nuked. Whaped raht of'n the face o’ th’ ea'th."
"Oh, my God,” Harold gasped, feeling weak in the knees. Rashi and Jacob grabbed tighter onto him at the news.
"Did anybody survive?” Arnold asked numbly.
"Nobody knows, Mistah Wills. Jus’ sum o’ dem Arab guys saw th’ mushroom cloud and when dey wen’ to inves'igate, they wuzn't nuthin’ lef’ but ashes. It wuz on th’ news befo’ all th’ tv stations wen’ off'n th’ ayah.
"Then afta that, nukes stahted flahin’ all ova th’ place. The whole Middle Eas’ is smolderin’ wreckage, they was sayin’ on the tellyvision."
They stood in stunned disbelief as the news penetrated.
"How many people were killed?” Harold finally asked.
"Ah don’ rahtly know, sir. Tens o’ millyuns, ah reckon."
Harold grew grave. He had known many of the statesmen from that region, including the Israeli Prime Minister. He could not wrap his mind around the reality that not only they, but their entire countries, had been wiped from the face of the earth in a virtual blink of an eye. He fell back against the car weakly. Arnold, Ray, John and Steven stood silently
Farnsworth continued, “Yup. Th’ whole gawdam worl’ has dun gone t’ heyall in a han'basket."
"What happened here, Gil?” Ray finally found his voice.
"Weyall,” Farnsworth began. He stopped for a moment as if trying to organize his thoughts. “Y'all know about how them scientist cloned the Lawd, Jesus from his burial cloth, dontcha?"
Steven said, a bit too sharply, “Yeah, we seem to have read about that somewhere."
"Wha, yo’ that scientist fella', ain't ya?” His face lit up in recognition. “Whoo-ee. Tha’ mus’ a bin sum kin’ a miracle, y'all pulled off theyah."
Steven did not respond but Farnsworth didn't seem to be insulted by his stoney silence. He continued, “Weyal, as ah wuz sayin', th’ people in the heyah pahts wuz all worked up all sorts of happy lahk ova Jesus bein’ born agin, ya know whut ah mean? An’ then afta tha’ speech he made tellin’ us all how he wuz fixin’ to build a great Golden Age, th
’ people aroun’ heyah gots all sorts a excahted. You see, we's always bin a pretty po’ community heyah, eva since the civil wah days. Th’ gummit nevah did shit fo’ us, ya know. They jus’ left us to fen’ fo’ ou'selves. I don’ imagine folks lahk yo’ can unnerstan’ whut that sorta lahf is lahk. It's a hahd lahf, even when yo’ used to it.
"But now, heyah wuz the Lawd hisself tellin’ us simple folk that he wuz gonna look afta us. This wuzn't sum snake-ahd pollytishun tawkin', this wuz Jesus, hisself. That meant sumpin’ to us folk heyah.
"But then, y'all came on the tellyvishun, Senatah ... you an’ that otha Senatah ... that frien’ o’ yo's whut dahd ... whut wuz his name, now?” Farnsworth tried to plumb his memory for the name.
"Stuart Hatcher,” Harold said.
"Yeyah! Tha’ fellah. Weyall, le’ me tell you, sir, whut yo’ had t’ say sure made a lot of us folk thank long an’ hahd about a few thaings. Sum a us felt ashamed at how we wuz so quick to look fo’ the handout. We's always been a po’ community, but we wuz nevah the kahn that wud leech off'n othahs.
"So, anyways, sum a us felt that whut yo’ had to say made a whole lotta sense. Othahs thought yo’ wuz trahin’ to go agin th’ Lawd, hisself. We spent a whole lotta tahm ahguin’ ‘bout this at ol’ Ike Mansfield's general sto'.
"Sum folks wuz so sure tha’ Jesus wuz gonna take ova theyah burdens fo’ them tha’ they stopped tendin’ they fields. They jus’ sat back an’ waited.
"Othahs of us wuz mighy rahled up ‘bout that. We stahted callin’ nayams back an’ fo'th at each othah. Pretty soon, sum folks got to hittin’ on othah folks. Then, befo’ we knew whut wuz happenin', everybody wuz fahtin’ everybody else. Then, people stahted shootin’ and people stahted dahin'. This big black cloud hovered ovah us and it wuz lahk th’ whole damn county went crazy at once.
"Mos’ of the folks scattered into the woods. Ah've bin hahding ovah theyah, protectin’ mah bidness."
He looked over at his shattered gas station. “Yup. It sho’ has bin sumpin',” was all he seemed to have left to say.
A long, heavy silence hung over them. They milled around Ray's car, each deep in his own private thoughts. For each of them, the future seemed dark indeed. In some ways, people like Gil Farnsworth, those who had the least to lose, would be the ones who would be able to adapt the easiest. What did the anti-Christ expect to accomplish by sowing such devastation across the planet?
Ray finally broke the silence. “Gil, can I ask you something?"
"Wha, sure, Mr. Cutler. Fahr away."
"What do you think of the man we know as Jesus?"
"Hmmm,” Farnsworth mulled the question. “Weyall, ah'm not really sure ah know how t’ ansa’ that. Ah, do know, tho, that we din't have any o’ this chaos befo’ he came along. Ah los’ a lot o’ people that ah knew all mah lahf."
They were suddenly interrupted by the screeching tires and roaring engine of a dented light-blue pickup truck that appeared from around a bend in the road. Three or four men were standing in the bed of the pickup, whooping and hollering. They began shooting in the direction of Ray's car.
"Gawdamn, it's the Bartlett bruthuhs,” Farnsworth hissed. “Duck behahnd yo’ cah."
With bullets whizzing past their ears, they did not have to be told a second time. The pickup roared past them and the men in the back of the truck kept firing at them as it rode past. They returned fire.
Farnsworth was yelling at the truck. “Sit still an’ faht, yo’ cowahdly sumabitches!” He stood and began firing repeatedly at the truck.
One of the bullets from the truck hit a gas pump in the other island and it burst into flames.
"Gawdamn sumabitches!” Farnsworth yelled angrily. “Ah've had about enuff o’ them.” He stepped out from behind the car, facing the truck, which was heading away from them at high speed. The men in the truck were still whooping their screeching war cry. He fired several rounds from his rifle at them. They could hear the bullets ping against the metal.
A shot rang out from the pickup. This one found its mark. They all heard the thickening whizzing sound followed by the soft thud of the bullet embedding itself in flesh. Farnsworth was instantly dead as the bullet pierced his head. He collapsed into a pool of his own blood.
Arnold rushed to his side, while Ray and Harold fired a few more shots at the truck, which was disappearing down the road. The men were laughing and hollering in delight. They heard one of them say, “You got ‘im, Roy. Nahc shootin',” as the truck disappeared into the darkness.
Arnold held the lifeless body of Gil Farnsworth in his arms for a moment. He began to seethe with anger. He had seen enough killing to last a lifetime. This was one too many for him. He took a last look at the corpse in his arms, looked down at the ground and then let the body fall gently to the ground. Then he stood up, clenched his fists at his side and let out a scream of rage, releasing the pent-up tensions that had been gnawing at him for the past several days.
The others started, shocked by this abandonment of Arnold's celebrated cool. Harold and Ray exchanged a concerned glance, but neither of them quite knew what to do. Harold finally approached Arnold slowly.
"Arnold, are you okay?” he asked with concern.
"Fuck no, I'm not okay,” Arnold flared back at him. “I'm a fucking lot of things. and ‘okay’ isn't one of them."
"I know. But we need you to keep it together. Once we get to the cabin, we can relax a bit and get our bearings. We've had a few days of pure insanity. It's taking a toll on all of us."
"Don't try to talk to me like I'm some kind of psycho, Harold.” Arnold was still in a state of rage, a time bomb on the verge of detonation, Harold could see.
"Ok, Arnold. Take it easy. We aren't the enemy. Think about the boys here. They need us to keep our wits about us."
This seemed to calm him a bit, but he began pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.
"What the fuck is happening to everybody?” he screamed. “The whole fucking world has gone insane."
Harold had decided the wisest course was to simply allow Arnold to vent, but Ray stepped in.
"Listen, I don't know what's going on with you, Arnold, but we have to get moving. I don't know about you, but I would rather be gone if those Bartlett lunatics decide to double back."
"Bring ‘em on,” Arnold said, his eyes flaring wildly. “I'd like nothing better than to put a bullet right between the eyes of those assholes."
"Arnold,” Ray said sharply. “We don't have time for this shit. Now get in the fucking car. We're leaving."
Arnold glared at Ray for a moment. Harold tensed, not certain what Arnold might do. After a moment, he relented, grumbling. He opened the passenger side of the front seat, slid in, and slammed the door closed, hard. “Let's get the fuck out of here,” he hissed.
The rest of them filed into the car. Harold again took charge of Rashi and Jacob, who appeared shaken but not frightened. He contemplated with sadness how quickly a child could accustom himself to violence. The true toll of what had happened to the world would be exhibited in the psyches of the young ... those very same children who would grow up to be the leaders of tomorrow. That was the true tragedy of all that had happened.
They proceeded, choosing to stay on the back road that had led them to the gas station. They did not want to risk any encounters on the busier highways. The world might be falling apart but that didn't mean a hostage like Senator Bennett wouldn't be of value to people smart enough cash in on him.
The road was dark, lined with thick vegetation on either side. The headlights of the Toyota cut into the darkness. A glint of reflected metal told them something was ahead.
"What's that?” Steven asked from the back seat.
"Shit!” Ray hissed, recognizing the Bartlett brothers’ truck. This was going to be trouble. His heart began to race as adrenaline poured through his system automatically.
"Stop the car, Ray,” Arnold commanded. Ray obeyed. They came to a stop about fifty yards from the pickup truck. They sw
ung the car doors open and crouched behind them for cover, peering through the windows. Harold did the same from the back seat. John and Steven ducked behind the front seat. Rashi and Jacob hugged the floor.
"Hey, boys,” one of the men standing in the bed of the pickup truck yelled out to them. “Where ya headin'?"
"We don't want any trouble, Mister,” Arnold answered, from behind the passenger door. “We're armed, so don't try anything stupid."
The man in the pickup laughed. “Trouble? Who wants trouble? We jus’ want what's ours."
"What's he talking about?” John said quietly from behind the back seat.
"You gotsta pay the toll to continue down our road, Mister,” the man called back with a sardonic chuckle. “This road belongs to us now."
"This isn't good,” Arnold said to the others in a loud whisper. He peered through the window again.
"How much is the toll?” he hollered back, stalling as his mind searched for a way out of this situation.
"How much ya got?” the man laughed. The others hooted.
"You know we can't agree to that,” Arnold said.
"Well, that's too bad,” the man said. He raised his rifle to his eye and fired at the Toyota. The bullet hit the window above Arnold's head, shattering the glass.
Harold returned fire from behind Arnold. The men in the truck jumped off the bed and took cover behind it. Arnold counted them. Three men. He tried to remember how many men he saw when the truck drove past them at the gas station. Three in the bed, one driver. Total of four. Where was the fourth man?
His internal alarm went off. If it were him he would have sent the fourth man to sneak up....
"Okay, boys, drop ‘em,” the voice came from behind them.
Damn! Arnold chided himself. He had been too slow to figure it out. He froze, fuming.
"I said, drop ‘em,” the voice commanded a second time. “Don't make me tell you again."
Ray, Harold and Arnold reluctantly let their weapons fall to the ground.
"Okay,” the man behind them said. “Put your hands where I can see them. You two in the back seat, get your asses out here where I can see you ... slowly."
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