by Ken Benton
Others weren’t so lucky. Two of Bryce’s workers were killed while foolishly resisting the hijackers. Another two were injured, and currently in the process of being loaded onto a second medevac copter in the field. They both had serious gunshot wounds, but were in stable condition and expected to live.
On the opposite side of the parking lot four prisoners sat handcuffed on the tailgate of a 5-ton truck, surrounded by dozens of military personnel and several local police cars.
In the woods, and across the far side of the pea field, lay the corpses of nine additional foiled hijackers.
“You seem to handle yourselves well,” Captain Martinez said. “We’re in need of guards for food delivery trucks. Any of you interested in a short-term gig?”
“This man is my pastor!” Bryce exclaimed.
“Right,” Pastor Green said. “And I’ve got sermons to preach.”
The captain tilted his head at Pastor Green for a moment, before looking back at Malcolm and Ryan expectantly.
“We’re traveling,” Ryan said. “Trying to get to my land in Pennsboro. Only…” he looked across the parking lot. “Our mode of transportation has been turned into modern art.”
“Where’s Pennsboro?”
“North-central West Virginia. About 250 miles from here, I think.”
Captain Martinez turned and shouted: “Corporal!”
A tall guardsman standing next to a Humvee responded to the captain’s call, jogging over with a clipboard in his hand. Captain Martinez appropriated the clipboard when he arrived.
“Is that anywhere near Clarksburg?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ryan replied. “Very near. Pennsboro is about twenty miles west of there, on the main highway.”
“That ought to work out fine. We have a load of spinach headed that way tomorrow morning. The driver is picking up an escort in Clarksburg. You two can guard the load between here and there. They can drop you at Pennsboro.”
Ryan looked at Malcolm. Malcolm shrugged.
“That sounds like a decent solution,” Ryan said. “Guess we’ll have to find a place in town to spend the night.”
Pastor Green spoke. “You’ve got one.” He turned to the captain. “Have the driver pick them up at the Ninety-nine Sheep Baptist Church in Carlisle.”
“Excellent.” Captain Martinez wrote something on the clipboard and walked away.
* * *
“The nurses must like you.” Darian opened his sandwich package. “They’ve been feeding me okay, but the sandwiches are better than the dinners.”
“I think they’re just scared of me,” Hannah said. “Which works. Whatever gets the job done.”
Darian chuckled. “Speaking of that, how’d it go today?”
“I talked to everyone I could find in five towns within riding distance of the crime scene.”
“No luck, huh?”
“Not yet. Passed out a lot of business cards, though.”
“Maybe you should have gone into sales, Hannah.”
“That’s what my husband tells me.”
“You mean your ex-husband.”
“Right.” Hannah pointed to the crutch leaning against the wall. “Used that yet?”
“Heck yeah. The nurses made me take four trips up and down the hallway. Then I took a fifth one on my own initiative.”
“How’d you do?”
“Good enough for them to be discharging me tomorrow. Flesh wounds. I was lucky.”
“That’s great, Darian.”
“Great for me. For you, I’m not so sure.”
Hannah frowned. “How are you getting home?”
“Don’t worry.” Darian laughed. “My Director’s driving down to pick me up himself. I know better than to ask you to leave a hot trail. Steve’s funeral is Tuesday. You’d be most welcome to attend, of course, but…”
“Thanks, dude.” Hannah smiled. “For understanding, mostly.”
“I get it. I hate to leave you without a partner, but I get it. Wish I could help you out another day or two.”
“No. It’s best you go back and attend the funeral. This trail doesn’t feel all that hot, anyway. With everything going on in the world, I’m afraid I’ll lose them. There are a thousand cabins in these mountains they could be hiding out in.”
“How long you gonna stay with it?”
Hannah gazed out the window. “Until the trail feels cold.”
“Then what? Back to New York?”
“No.” Hannah shook her head. “That place is in turmoil. No sense in being there. I called my Director from the police station this morning. He said there’s plenty of protection work available in DC, if I care to show up there.”
“That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
Hannah hesitated before answering. “Yes, but no.”
“Why no?”
“I’m seven years in, Darian. I’m supposed to get promoted to phase two, and receive the prestige and recognition that goes with it. It’s something I want to feel I earned, you know? If every agent in the service is suddenly guarding congressmen, there’s no sense of accomplishment in it.”
Darian nodded. “I see what you mean. I’m sure I’d feel the same way if this happened when I was so close. So what are you going to do, then? I’m happy to be leaving tomorrow if for no other reason than to keep you from spending any more nights on that tiny sofa.”
Hannah stretched her back at the mention of the sofa. “There’s always the SUV.”
“Seriously, Hannah. You’re welcome at the Pittsburgh office. I’m sure my Director would be ecstatic if you decided to transfer there.”
“You’ll probably all be sent to DC or Harrisburg,” Hannah said.
“Beats New York. Or sleeping in a car.”
Hannah sighed. “I have unfinished business in West Virginia. You’re sweet, but don’t worry about me. I called my hus—I mean my ex, today, too, to check on him. He got out of the city, thank God. Was smart enough to leave me an outgoing answering machine greeting, letting me know where he and his best friend are holing up. Guess where?”
“Locally?”
“Extremely. Right down the road. In fact, I plan on harassing the townsfolk there tomorrow.”
“Well that’s convenient.”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “Yes, it is.”
* * *
Pastor Green’s “home” turned out to be a small living quarters attached to the side of his church. It featured a tiny kitchen and a bedroom the size of a closet.
But he did have two full-size couches for entertaining guests, one of which folded out to a bed. Malcolm insisted Ryan take the bed. They were both so tired the sound of Pastor Green snoring from the open bedroom didn’t keep them awake.
“Normally I’d have been up late working on my sermon,” Pastor Green said in the morning as he cooked up the eggs and toast Bryce sent him home with. “But I was so wiped out last night it wouldn’t have been any good. I’m just going to have to wing it today. Sometimes those work out to be my best.”
Malcolm wiped the sleep from his eyes and worked on the crick in his neck while Ryan took the first shower. This would likely be the last modern shower either of them enjoyed for a long time. The smell of cooking food helped bring him to his full senses.
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “That was …some day we had yesterday.”
“I’ll be praying for you boys, that you won’t have any more like it—and if you must, that the outcome will be similar.”
After breakfast the doorbell rang. Malcolm figured the two men on the porch for ushers, judging by the conversation they had with the pastor. Pastor Green opened the church doors for them, and then returned with a cardboard box in his arms.
“My usual greeter is out of town today,” he said. “So, it looks like I have one more small task for you gentlemen before we part ways.”
An hour later, an astonished Malcolm found himself standing before a church door greeting service attendees while Ryan handed them programs. Never
in a million years…
The parish of this little church was an interesting melting pot of local farmers, businessmen, well-dressed black women, blue collar workers, and one or two haggardly types who probably lived in a homeless camp. They all had some undefinable trait in common, though. Perhaps it was hope, or appreciation for each other’s company on what was the worst Sunday morning in America since World War Two.
Several soldiers also showed up. They were obviously first-time visitors. One of them thanked Malcolm and Ryan for their “help yesterday” before going inside, though Malcolm didn’t recognize him.
Bryce, the owner of Oak Grove Farms, was one of the last to arrive. He parked his beautifully-restored old Ford pickup in the rear of the half-filled, broken-asphalt parking lot. The church was already alive with singing and organ music when he walked up to the door with a pretty brunette on his arm. He, too, eagerly thanked Malcolm and Ryan before entering, and assured them “their ride” would be here shortly. Only upon entering the sanctuary did he finally remove those dark sunglasses.
After several hymns had been sung, it seemed that everyone who was coming had arrived. That’s when Malcolm heard Pastor Green’s voice. It was that same recognizable deep tone he always spoke with, but especially booming when coming from the pulpit. Malcolm found himself drawn to it.
“I’m going inside,” Malcolm said to Ryan, “and hang out in the back.”
“Heck, I’ll go with you. Might as well hear what the man has to say.”
The two of them stood in the foyer area at the rear of the church. It was mostly behind a glass window, but the pastor’s voice could be clearly heard through the center aisle opening.
“As some of you are probably aware,” Pastor Green said, “there’s been an aggressive atheist movement in America, for the last decade or so, of folks attempting to get the words In God We Trust removed from our currency.”
Murmurs of acknowledgment could be heard in places.
“These efforts have been defeated in the Supreme Court time after time, but each successive attempt gains more supporters. How interesting that this same currency has suddenly become so devalued as to almost be worthless. Does it make you wonder? Do you wonder if God is saying, ‘You want to take me off the money, so now I’m taking the money off you?’”
“That’s right,” one of the black women said. Others chimed in with sounds of agreement. Malcolm chuckled.
“And as a result,” Pastor Green continued in a more somber tone, “we have entered into a time of suffering and need. Food is harder to get, causing some to turn to crime, and others who require little excuse to engage in criminal activity have elevated their sinful lusts to the level of madness. The condition of our once-great country is not unlike that of Old Testament Israel during those times they turned their backs on God. We would do well to remember that God eventually removed them from the Promised Land in his just and perfect judgment.”
More positive affirmations from the peanut gallery.
Pastor Green raised his voice again. “Which brings up the issue of violence, and in turn raises the question of self-defense.”
Absolute silence. The pastor scanned the audience, briefly making eye contact with Malcolm and finally settling his gaze on Bryce, sitting in the third row, before continuing. Bryce’s tall bald head was hard to miss.
“The first verse of Psalm 144 comes to mind: Praise be to the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle.” The pastor’s voice boomed like a cannon when he quoted scripture he wanted to make a point from.
“Many liberal theologians have criticized this psalm of David, as if they had any business questioning a jot or a tittle of God’s Word. They call it warmongering, and say it promotes violence. Does it?”
Some replied with a loud “no” while others made confused sounds.
“I would remind those critics that this same David was a gentle man, a shepherd boy who wrote many of the most peaceful and serene passages found in all of scripture, including our beloved 23rd Psalm. God even referred to him as a man after His own heart.
“But David was also called to be a warrior! He knew he had the Lord on his side, and wasn’t afraid to fight his enemies—who were also the enemies of God. David was a man’s man. Many Philistines died at his hands.”
The black women especially responded with verbal approval.
“But you say to me: Pastor Green, that’s in the Old Testament. We’re New Testament Christians. We’re supposed to turn the other cheek, and if someone takes our jacket we’re to give them our overcoat, too.”
Crickets.
“I’ll tell you what else is in the New Testament, my friends. Our Lord and Savior, this same Jesus who told us to turn the other cheek, Himself displayed a righteous indignation when he came upon the wicked profiteers in the temple. There is a righteous anger! Jesus threw the tables of the money changers over, and chased the bad guys out of the temple with a whip!”
“That’s right,” Malcolm found himself saying, joining in with many others. Ryan looked at him, smiled, and shook his head.
The pastor continued. “The Apostle Paul tells us in First Timothy, in no uncertain terms, that a man who fails to provide for his household has denied the true faith and is worse than an unbeliever! Now, the word ‘provide’ in this verse is, in the Greek, pronoeo—and literally means to maintain, protect, and look out for. It does not simply mean putting food on the table! It specifically means to also protect, just as Christ protects us.”
The pastor paused long enough for the crowd response to grow loud. Malcolm remembered from his youth that the one thing he liked about going to the Baptist church in his home town was the audience participation in the sermons.
Someone tapped Malcolm on the shoulder. Malcolm turned. A middle-aged man wearing jeans, a long-sleeve collared shirt, and a baseball cap now stood behind him.
“Are you my guards?” he asked.
“Yes,” Malcolm said. “We’re ready.”
He and Ryan followed the man out as the organist began playing again.
Chapter Eighteen
The small extended cab of the refrigerated truck offered a fold-down seat in the middle, which wasn’t tremendously comfortable. Malcolm volunteered to take the first “shift” in the rear seat. There was room on one side of it for both their backpacks.
Ryan rode shotgun—literally. He made a point to hold it so it was visible. The driver, whose name was Morris, seemed to appreciate it.
“No,” Morris said replying to Malcolm’s first question. “On the route we’re taking, the most populated city we’ll go through is Hagerstown.”
“What’s your final destination?” Malcolm asked.
“Lexington. Sure am glad to have some company for the first part of the trip. Especially …your kind of company.”
“Well, we needed the ride,” Ryan said.
Morris shifted gears. “Heard about you guys—and your pastor—out at Oak Grove yesterday. Story’s getting around already. That’s a nice little church I pulled you out of. Your pastor might see an influx of new members soon. Nothing like word of mouth.”
Malcolm heard the refrigeration unit turn on over his head as they pulled onto Interstate 81.
“How cold does is get back there?” he asked.
“It’s all spinach, so I have it set just above freezing. If you were locked back there, you probably wouldn’t survive the trip. Yep.” Morris patted the dashboard. “These TRUs are really something. I’ve been driving them for twenty years now.”
“Do you belong to a union?” Malcolm asked.
Morris laughed. “I did. We’ll see if I still do when I get back. Broke my own picket line, so to speak, after the President’s appeal Friday night for food trucking to resume. Of course, I’m not the lone rebel. The union’s done a good job for us over the years, but a lot of drivers don’t agree with them on this one. Heck, they don’t even know what they’re holding out for at the moment. This job does come with
especially useful perks, being as I’m in charge of large quantities of food. Also, the federal government is covering all food and gas expenses for commercial truckers until further notice, whatever the cost—assuming I can actually find food for sale somewhere. I’m only truly happy when I’m on the road, so crossing the line was an easy decision for me. I’ve always been that way. Even now, knowing it’s become more dangerous, I’d still rather be out here than anywhere else.”
“Interesting,” Malcolm said. “So the government is attempting to solve the problem in the usual fashion, by simply printing more money, adding more to the national debt, hoping it will somehow settle everything down.”
“What else can they do?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t know.”
The southbound highway shortly had them driving through the midst of the Amish farmlands of Southern Pennsylvania. This time of year the cornfields stood about waist-high. Ears would not appear on the stalks for at least another month, so there was no reason for anyone to be bothering the crops.
And not much reason for people to be traveling this particular road. As Morris stated, it didn’t immediately lead to any big cities. Malcolm was glad for that. Traffic was light. They encountered more Amish horse-drawn buggies than motor vehicles. Sometimes those were tricky to navigate past.
“Maybe the whole dang country will revert to that style of transportation,” Morris said as he passed one. “Be kind of funny, wouldn’t it? Probably make the Amish feel vindicated, like, ‘see, we told you so.’”
At that moment a small electric car passed them.
“What do you guys usually do for a living?” Morris asked.
“I’m a securities analyst at a Wall Street bank,” Ryan said. “Or at least, I was.”
“And I…” Malcolm thought for a second. “…sit in front of a computer all day and make bets on the stock market.”
Morris shook his head. “Ain’t that something? Well, you both have my deepest sympathies. I know I’m a lucky man. Not everyone gets to do this.”