Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters

by Gilbert, Morris

  “But what about all the teachings we’ve heard over the years, Brother Mitchell?” Merrill persisted. “I mean, I’ve always heard that the book of Revelation told us what was going to happen in the future.”

  “That’s right.” Genevieve nodded. “Pastor Colfax once brought in a lecturer on Revelation. He had all kinds of charts and pictures of beasts and timetables. If I remember right, he said that all these things had to happen in order.”

  “Well, you have to be careful with teaching like that. For example,” Jesse said kindly, “in the book of Revelation one section discusses herds of horses and locusts that are like scorpions. But the book of Revelation is a book of symbols. Anybody who makes those horses literal or those scorpions literal is pathetic, for a symbol is not the reality. The book speaks of Jesus as a lamb, but He doesn’t run around on four feet and eat grass!”

  Merrill said, “That Revelation man—what was his name, Genevieve? Lawson? Lawless? Something like that. Anyway, he said those scorpions in the book of Revelation were Scorpion helicopter gunships.”

  “Big, big error there,” David said with an air of superiority. “The Scorpions have been out of service for three decades now. Your Mr. Lawson or whatever his name is needs to update himself on our technological advances.”

  “Wouldn’t do him much good,” Jesse said, sighing a little. “Us trying to make out the Bible to mean what we want it to mean is always a mistake. You must let God teach you Himself. Always. Study. Test the spirits. Find it in the Word of God.”

  David said in a troubled voice, “Still, Grandpa, these are hard times with harder times comin’. America—” He swallowed hard. “America may be gone. We—we don’t even know about the rest of the world. But it sure seems that everything’s going wrong. Bad wrong. In a hurry.”

  “Son, I guess you put your finger on what I think is the heart of the scripture about the end times. As I’ve said, it’s always been the end times ever since John was preaching.” Jesse held the Bible up high. “You go through the book of Revelation, and you find over and over and over again the same thing. God’s people are coming under persecution, and then the Lord Jesus comes and rescues them. That doesn’t happen just once at the end of time, folks.

  It happens in every generation. That’s the comfort of this book . . .

  When God’s people are persecuted, the Lord Jesus Christ will pull them out of it. Not after a thousand years or two thousand, but when they’re in it. Why, what difference does it make to people whether they’re being persecuted by the Jewish Sanhedrin or the Roman Empire or Fascists? Whatever it is, it’s tribulation—and only Jesus can pull us out of it.”

  The Bible session went on for an hour more. Finally weariness caught up with the visitors, and the women went upstairs with Kyle. Noe went back to the single bedroom, but Jesse sat at the table for a long time reading the Scriptures.

  Jesse was startled when Riley spoke up. The man hadn’t said a single word during the Bible study, and though the room was small, Jesse had become so absorbed in his reading that he’d forgotten Riley was there.

  “I guess I’ll be in your crosshairs, won’t I, Preacher?”

  Jesse smiled and motioned to the empty rocker across from him. “Brother, it’s not me who’s aiming for you.”

  “Well, who is it then?” Riley asked, warily seating himself at the table.

  “It’s the Lord God almighty. So you don’t have to worry about my beating you over the head.”

  Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, Riley clasped his large hands together and stared at them for a long time. Eventually he said, “I’m not here to join God’s little army, Preacher. I came here because I want to be free. Free from the sorry government and the commissars and the stupid laws that keep men from being men.”

  “What brought you here? I mean right here to this exact place?”

  “I decided to help these people, that’s all, and I’ll keep on helping them, and you, too, if you want. With food and shelter and things like that. It’s—sort of a promise I made, and I’m going to stick by it.”

  Jesse nodded. “So you stand by your promises, do you?”

  “A man should.”

  Jesse studied Riley, and the husky man looked back at him with something like bluster. Riley took a deep breath, held it, then expelled it. “There were two who died—besides that pilot. No one knows that but me. So how did you know, Preacher?”

  “The Lord told me,” Jesse said quietly. “I don’t know why He told me unless it’s to be a witness to you, son. Make no mistakes, I’m not a magician. I don’t have any interest in doing magic tricks. Neither does the almighty God. If He does something that goes against natural laws, there’s a reason for it—and usually that reason is to touch someone’s heart and to bring him to Jesus Christ.”

  Riley drew his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t see it quite like that, Preacher. All I see is that people died—and died horribly— and it looks like they died for your God.” He ran his hands through his thick black hair. “That’s not much of an attraction to me at this moment.”

  Jesse did not answer for a time, and when he did, his voice was soft as a summer breeze. “They made their decisions, young man, both of them. You see, that young man who died in the camp . . . what was his name?”

  “His name was Perry. Perry Hammett. He was only seventeen.”

  “Yes, Perry. Well, he made a decision. A promise, you might say, and he stuck by it. He died, but he’s with Jesus and the saints in heaven. Some might not view that as a tragedy. For sure he doesn’t.”

  Riley thought on that a moment. “Maybe. But what about that other one? The one who was alone outside the camp.”

  Jesse stared into space and then answered slowly. “That poor young man thought he had made a decision. When he left the town, he started for the group, but somehow he never could quite commit himself to joining them. He could have caught up with them quite easily, couldn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose he could.”

  “You did when you made up your mind. I think, brother, he just got caught up in the shadowlands. Indecision and confusion got him. And then the old Devourer got him.”

  Riley sat very still. A log burned through and fell, showering sparks and startling him. He almost growled, “So Perry did the right thing, and he died. And that guy in the woods, he did nothing, and he died. But if you do the wrong thing—if you’re on that other side—the bad guys—they’re dying in Hot Springs right now.”

  Jesse leaned over and put his hands on Riley’s clasped fists. His hands looked frail against the strong hands of the younger man.

  Surprise washed across Riley’s face at the unexpected touch and the uncommon warmth of Jesse’s hands.

  “We’re all going to die, son,” Jesse said intently. “No choice about that. In this life we’ve got lots of choices every day all day, but all of us have only one life-or-death decision, just one—and that’s how we spend our eternity.”

  Riley could see the love in the old man’s eyes. He had not seen much love in his life. It drew him, but he was still unsure and a bit rebellious. Riley Case was a cautious man. He drew his hands back and shook his head, saying nothing.

  “That’s a decision you haven’t made yet, son,” Jesse said firmly.

  He got up, picked up his Bible, and started for the bedroom. Just before he entered, he turned his head and looked at Case. “But you soon will, Mr. Case. Soon everyone will!”

  SEVEN

  ATOUGH WIND tore down from the distant sere mountains, and the desert wanderer shivered and pulled the motley blanket closer around him. The loneliest of figures, a single man on the vastness of the treeless and barren plain, he lifted his head and sniffed as if with appreciation. The Milky Way was like a filmy veil studded with diamonds draped gracefully across the heavens. Such a spectacular view of the galaxies was one of the few beneficial side effects of the world going dark.

  Captain Concord Slaughter found the inhospitable desert n
ight bracing, even like a cleansing after the squalor and despondency of the Albuquerque refugee camp. He felt so invigorated, so light of body and mind, that immediately he felt guilty.

  Stupid. Self-defeating reasoning. They can’t be free until I figure out how to get them out. I can’t figure out how to get them out unless I come out here and see for myself.

  He walked in a straight line toward the nearest line of hills. His gait was odd; he walked fast, but he was taking small steps. After a while he unconsciously sped up into a long-limbed half-jog in his desperate straining to get away from the camp, looming like a ghastly rotten corpse behind him. The backlighting from Kirtland Air Force Base, a cheery glow directly to the east, somehow made the decrepit slum look even worse. As Slaughter walked, he never looked back at the sight.

  He was jogging again. Cursing under his breath, he made himself slow down and start the peculiar quick mincing again, checking his watch, carefully shielding the green glow in the crystalline night.

  Right on time. Big surprise for Germans to keep to a strict schedule . . .

  The two helicopters came from behind him, making a wide loop around the refugee camp that was the southwest quadrant of Albuquerque. One was in front, one behind and slightly to the west. They flew low and slow. Great searchlights swept the ground in concentrated arcs.

  Slaughter threw himself to the ground and pulled his poncho, which was actually a blanket, over him, completely covering his body from head to toe. This, he had found on his night surveil-lances the last four nights, was the hardest part. The searchlights always threw their harsh light all over him. He could see the glaring light plainly under the thin blanket, and it made him feel hot and cold at the same time. His muscles always tightened up to breaking point, expecting the .60 caliber shells from the machine guns mounted on the choppers to explode into his body at any moment.

  But they never did. The lights always passed, the low roar of the helos always faded, leaving him freezing and exhausted.

  Captain Slaughter, when the silence and darkness were well closed in around him again, got up and began his strange trek, staring at his watch and cursing under his breath like a rather crude White Rabbit.

  He was checking his watch and watching his gait when the black figures rose up from the hard bare earth right in front of him.

  One grabbed his right arm, twisted, and swept his legs out from under him in a deadly swift motion. The other fell on him, pinning his other arm and clapping a hand across his mouth.

  Slaughter, though much mended in the days since he’d been hurt, was still not in top form. If he had been, the two of them would never have been able to either sneak up on him or down him. Even at less than peak, however, he easily threw off the one attacker, who was much lighter and smaller than he, but couldn’t get a good grip on the other, who was much heavier and stockier, and felt like a concrete piling. Neatly he flipped Slaughter and got him in a complicated arm-breaking, neck-stretching hold. “Just stay frosty, man,” he said. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

  “Try harder,” Slaughter gasped.

  The attacker jerked, then heaved off Slaughter’s back as if he’d been burned. “Cap’n? Captain Slaughter? Aw, man, is it you?”

  “Yeah,” Slaughter said, rolling over and rubbing his neck. “Rio, you really need to work on your nonlethal submission techniques. You almost killed—”

  The stocky sergeant almost smothered Slaughter in a bear hug. “It’s Captain Slaughter, that’s for sure. Cool as death.”

  Slaughter hated male hugs, but there was nothing he could do about it, short of breaking Rio’s neck. “Man, oh man, Cap’n, am I glad to see you!” Rio was saying.

  The smaller mugger came close and extended a black-gloved hand. “Hello, Captain Slaughter,” Vashti Nicanor said coolly. “Later I would like to discuss that maneuver you just did. I’ve never been thrown six feet before.”

  “Sorry about that, ma’am. Colonel. But you two shouldn’t have jumped me like that. Uh—why did you?”

  A faint gray shadow, barely visible as he always was, spoke for the first time. “We’ve been watching you, Captain Slaughter,” Zoan said. “But we didn’t know it was you. We still don’t.”

  “Huh? What’d you say?” Immediately Slaughter tried to adjust to Zoan’s surreal conversational technique.

  “That mask you’re wearing,” Zoan said patiently.

  Slaughter was still wearing the black ski mask he’d borrowed from Victorine. “Oh, yeah . . . no camo makeup in the camp,” Slaughter growled, pulling off the mask.

  Rio and Vashti started talking, but from long years of habit, Slaughter took charge. He held up his hand for quiet, then checked his watch and looked around, squinting. “Might as well sit down here and jaw, I guess,” he said. He sounded tired. “No sense in me trying to go farther tonight. Everyone belly-down and under your camo blankets.”

  Like teenagers at a sleepover, they all lay down in a loose circle, heads close together. Even though no one was around for miles, by much training they rarely spoke above a whisper.

  “Permission, Captain,” Rio said eagerly. “How about Lieutenant Fong? And Mitchell?”

  “Fong’s dead,” Slaughter said bluntly. “We picked up a German pilot when we stole the Messerschmitt. He got the jump on me and nailed Fong.” The raw bitterness in his tone was plain. No one said anything. Rio dropped his head and rubbed his eyes.

  “What about Sergeant Mitchell, Captain Slaughter?” Zoan asked.

  “Far as I know, he’s okay. Last time I saw him he was winging toward Hot Springs.”

  “I hope he’s not dead,” Zoan said in his childlike way. “I liked him. I miss him.”

  “Yeah,” Slaughter rasped. “I liked him, and I miss him too, Zoan. And Deacon Fong.”

  A long silence ensued. Slaughter couldn’t see the faces of his soldiers, for Vashti applied camouflage makeup so expertly, they were almost invisible. Interestingly Zoan wore none, but somehow he blended into the earth, the sky, the very air. Slaughter wondered exactly what kind of man he was, but then he brought himself back to the problems at hand. “What are you people doing out here anyway?”

  “Surveillance of the refugee camp,” Vashti answered, her voice tight. “We started it last month. We had to do something. We had to have a mission. This is it. The beginning, at least.”

  “Darmstedt? And Colonel Ben-ammi? They’re all right, are they?”

  “They’re okay, Captain Slaughter,” Vashti assured him. “They’re on the same mission to Santa Fe.”

  Slaughter’s slow gaze slid to Zoan. “They have anybody with them?”

  “He’s our guide and our front man, Captain,” Rio said defensively. “He’s like some kind of—of—spirit. But a smart one. No, that’s not it. He’s kind of like Cat. He can sneak up on and see and smell anything. Course, Zoan’s not a killer like Cat. I guess he’s—”

  “Never mind, Rio,” Slaughter said with exasperated affection. “I think I understand what Zoan’s here for. The other team have a guide?”

  “My friend Cody Bent Knife takes care of them,” Zoan offered. Slaughter thought this was mildly amusing—Zoan and a nineteen-year-old renegade Apache were “taking care” of Fire Team Eclipse. Neither Vashti nor Rio objected, however, so Slaughter went on, “Okay, so what’s your situation here? You ride from Chaco? And then what?”

  “Camp in those hills,” Vashti answered, jutting her chin toward them. “We stay two or three nights. This is our third tour. We’ve been watching you for two nights, Captain. I decided that if you came out of the camp tonight, we’d try to make contact.”

  “Yeah, you did make contact, Colonel,” Slaughter muttered. “So what’s your plan? What’s your mission objective?”

  “Neither team has formulated one yet,” Vashti answered in a professional tone. “We’re just observing right now. We really wanted to talk to someone who could tell us about what’s going on, but so far no one’s left either Albuquerque or Santa Fe.”


  “They putting refugees in Santa Fe, too?”

  “Yes, sir, thousands of them. Just like they have here. It must be making for very crowded conditions.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Slaughter said quietly. “And I don’t have time to talk about it right now. So what you’re saying is that you’ve just got your own supplies for two days?”

  Vashti sounded mystified. “Yes, Captain. And you know Chaco’s a two-day ride from here.”

  “Yeah . . . that doesn’t help me . . . and I haven’t got much time.” He checked his watch again.

  Rio couldn’t stand it. “Sir, what’s up? Why don’t we just trek, Captain? We can go light on the food and water, and take turns on foot. Get you back to Chaco in three days, tops!”

  Slaughter shook his head. “No. I’ve got to go back to the camp.”

  “But why, sir?”

  “Because I’m not leaving until I can figure out how to get some people out. Some friends of mine.”

  “Just bring ’em on, man!” Rio grunted. “You’ve already figured the patrols, and you can make it to the hills in one night.”

  “I could,” Slaughter said slowly, “and maybe other men could.”

  There was a stunned silence. Then Rio whistled softly. “Oh, I get it. It’s a woman . . . you gotta figure out how to get a woman outta there. That’s tough.”

  “Actually,” Slaughter said dryly, “the woman’s not the problem.

  As tough as she is, she’d probably beat me to the hills. And she probably would’ve beat you two down, not like some ninety-pound weaklings.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Vashti asked.

  “The problem is her daughter,” Slaughter replied. “She’s— little and—kinda—delicate, I guess you’d say. No way she could cover the ground in one night.” He sighed, a sound of exaggerated exasperation. “And then there’s all her orphans she’s adopted. She won’t leave without them. An old woman, a little boy, and a teenage boy who’s kinda gotten lost in never-never land.”