“Maybe you get overwhelmed by a need the Lord drops on your heart and so you pray it through! You do spiritual warfare; you pray for the sad state of the country, or for that person you’ve lost touch with since the pulse. You pray,” she said, with eyes full of conviction, “for whatever the Lord puts on your heart. If you feel the need to agree in prayer with someone, then you do that, ask them to join you for that need.”
There was silence for a moment. My father and Mr. Wasserman looked doubtful. “You really think people can do that for an hour and a half?” my dad asked.
She eyed him steadily. “Oh, yes! People can do that for forty days and forty nights—(She met my eyes and winked.)—if God calls them to. Ninety minutes will seem like nothing when we ask God to fill our prayers! And I don’t think anyone here would deny that we certainly have enough to pray for!”
“I like this idea!” said tall Mr. Prendergast. “Except that speaking in tongues part. I’m a Southern Baptist. We don’t go for that stuff.”
Cecily nodded. “I understand.” She searched our faces. “If anyone here feels led to speak in tongues, please remember to do it in a low voice, or to yourself, or somewhere solitary. That is how the Apostle Paul says it should be done, unless there’s to be an interpretation. I want to encourage you, if you do feel the need to pray aloud in a tongue, it may be someone else will interpret.” She looked around. “Has anyone here experienced the gift of interpretation of tongues?”
A shy hand went up. It was Mr. Wasserman’s wife! She had her sleeping baby on her lap. Her husband looked at her, his face blank, but slowly he nodded.
“Well, I like Cecily’s idea too,” my mom said. “If there are no other objections?” She was looking chiefly to my dad and Mr. Wasserman. When they said nothing, she got to her feet. “I’ll get our home-school chalkboard. People can use it to write requests if they want.” Before leaving she stopped and added, “I’d love to find you all in prayer when I get back.”
Wow! What a difference after that. The room came alive with the sounds of murmured prayers, here or there getting loud and impassioned at times. I fell to my knees with every intention of praying through my stubbornness in not forgiving Andrea; but in a moment, Blake tapped my shoulder and said, “Wanna pray with me?” His question seemed shy and cute. I felt a surge of happy freedom.
I was glad to pray with Blake. We learn more about each other when we pray together. But I have to confess it’s easier for me to lose myself in prayer when I’m praying by myself. I did ask for help in forgiving Andrea. I did not get a feeling of forgiveness for her. But it’s coming. How do I know? Because I know God answers prayer that is according to his will. And he tells us to forgive others, so we know it’s his will.
One last note about our prayer meetings. My dad was fine with the format, but once I heard my mom say she wished it was more open so we could pray more. That was exactly how I felt. (It's not that I'm super holy and praying all the time, either! I'm definitely prone to skip praying all too often.)
In the end, I consider prayer like exercise. The more you do it, the better you get at it. Like, I’m getting better able to focus on God, not myself, and not those around me. And I’ve noticed that when Blake and I pray together, it brings us closer! It’s like, while you pray with someone, God is there pouring glue between the two of you. It’s weird, right? But it works!
I want to get to know Cecily. She’s been taking lessons from Mrs. Philpot, our sole nurse, on first aid and medical care so I don’t see much of her. Maybe I’ll volunteer to learn first-aid too. But I still want to do lookout with Blake.
After the meeting it was time for lights out but I went and found my dad. He and Mr. Buchanan were cleaning firearms in the mudroom. They had folding tables set up and the windows open for ventilation.
“Dad, the marauders have moved on—can I do lookout with Blake tomorrow?”
“Lex, you know there’ll be more. Unless we move to some inaccessible jungle in the middle of Africa, we will never be immune to roving marauders until there is rule of law again.”
“Which means you need good lookouts.” I pulled out my strongest argument: “Blake said Mr. Prendergast fell asleep up there again the other day.” He and Mr. Buchanan paused to look at each other. I knew this was a concern.
Mr. Buchanan said, “We oughta replace him.” But he looked at me and added, “With another adult.”
I frowned. “Why not let me have a turn? I won’t sleep on the job!”
Dad turned to face me, giving me a doubtful look. He lowered the glasses on his nose to see me clearly. “You may not fall asleep, but you and Blake are far too interested in each other to keep a good watch.”
I think I blushed to the roots of my hair. “That’s not true!”
Mr. Buchanan said, “No one ever thinks it’s true when they’re the ones involved.”
My dad added, “Right. And I’m telling you as your father, I’ve seen the way you look at each other and I don’t think it’s a good idea to put you together on guard duty. Now that’s final.” The two men continued their work as if the conversation was over.
“So I’m being punished because Blake and I have feelings for each other?” Without turning to look at me, dad said, “You know better than that. Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
“I’m just saying what it looks like to me, is all.”
“Then you’re not seeing the situation correctly. And if you went out and the two of you got distracted and someone down here got hurt, how would you feel about that?”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“No, it’s not, because you’re not doing lookout. Now, isn’t it time for curfew?” I hated being dismissed by my father and I hated that in my heart I saw he might have a point. At the same time, I was perfectly sure Blake and I would make a great team as lookouts. I had a good eye for movement on the field or in the brush—dad had said so himself, in the past. I was as good at hunting squirrel and raccoon as anyone on account of my sharp eyes. I guess it hurt my pride because the bottom line is this:
My father doesn’t trust me.
Chapter 29
SARAH
I awoke blinking. My eyes stung. Smoke! I scrambled out of bed, noticing the heavy, acrid air, grabbed my pack, and ran to wake Richard. “Richard, get up!”
He jumped out of bed as though he’d been stung by a scorpion. “What is it?”
“There’s a fire somewhere!” We’d begun to relax so much lately that we slept in the upstairs bedrooms. Richard’s room was across from mine and faced the street. Suddenly, I heard voices—on the street! Richard clamped his hand over my mouth as if I didn’t have the brains to keep silent. I shot him a look and he took his hand away.
We crept to the window and peeked out.
“They don’t sound American,” Richard whispered.
I strained to hear but there wasn’t a whole lot of talking. It came in snatches, carried on the wind—I couldn’t tell.
A truck stood in the street, not the same as most of the ones we’d seen. The back was covered, for one thing; we couldn’t tell if civilians were in there or not. Then we saw them: soldiers—carrying torches!—moving down the street, throwing the flaming brands into the houses! Others were going before them, dousing the homes with gasoline or some other fuel. The smoke wasn’t just from outside—they’d set our house on fire, too!
“The food!” Richard said. “C’mon!” We crouched down long enough to be safely out of anyone’s view and then ran to the steps. The living-room was on fire, one sofa and another small section of flames on a throw rug.
I followed Richard around to the door to the basement but I grabbed his arm. “What if we get trapped down there? We could suffocate or burn to death!”
“We’ll hurry—but there are two windows! Don’t worry!”
“Yeah, with a board across them!” I followed with a heavy heart.
While we were still on the stairs a loud crash told us a basement window
had just been broken. We saw a torch land on a pile of old paint cans and rags, and other of the debris, all of it flammable. A roar of flames followed quickly. I grabbed Richard’s arm. “Richard! We can’t! We’ll die down here!”
He gave me an agonized look. “The food, Sarah! We have to save some of it!”
“No!” Our gazes locked in a contest of wills. I had always followed Richard; he was the reason we were still alive. He was older and smarter than me. But this time I knew I was right.
“I’ll just grab one bucket,” he said. “I’ll be quick. You get the ones we brought upstairs. Wait for the truck to leave and get in the yard.”
“No! I won’t go without you!” I was already starting to choke from the smoke and heat. I just knew if my brother went to that storage room, I’d lose him.
“Then wait here,” he said, and he turned. He stood looking, measuring the distance between us and the little door which led to the life-sustaining food. But the flames licked across the floor, feeding on anything and everything in their path—and there was all that debris to feed on. I could see if Richard hurried to the door he might make it.
But he wouldn’t make it back.
“Don’t go!”
He hesitated.
“Don’t go, I need you, Richard!”
“The water bricks! I can use them to put out the flames!”
“No, you can’t! The fire’s too big!”
He gave me a deeply troubled look, then turned and surveyed the flames that were almost at our feet. I could see his mind working, the struggle going on inside. I could almost feel his body moving, wanting to leave the safety of the stairs so badly. I saw it on his face.
“Please,” I said. “Please.”
Finally he turned back, his face like granite. “Okay.” We hurried upstairs. Richard grabbed two buckets we’d brought up the day before and I grabbed another. The fire had spread considerably! We both started to cough, and I’m sure Richard’s eyes stung like mine. We had no choice but to exit the house or suffocate. We made it out the back door with our lungs bursting for air. The heat was awful. We ran off the porch.
“Get down! Hurry!”
Richard forced me low to the ground beside him, where the porch gave us cover. He had to drag me down because I had stopped in sheer amazement at what I saw around me. Flames. Flames everywhere!
The whole line of houses, of which ours was next to last, was burning. The houses to the rear of us, burning. The trees, which were just in bud, burning. Any minute the flames would leap into our yard and it would burn, too. I realized why we’d seen so many dark plumes of smoke since we’d been on the road. These soldiers, whoever they were, had done it! They were burning everything!
“We can’t stay here,” I said. “The flames are gonna take over this yard, like those.” I nodded at the row of yards attached to our row, all raging flames.
“I know. Let’s just wait and make sure they’ve gone.”
We waited as long as we dared but we could feel the heat approaching.
Cautiously, we traversed the side of the house. Flames, smoke, and heat poured from the windows, so we kept to the far side of the drive, stopping when we came in sight of the street. The truck was gone.
Richard turned to me. “You were right. I wouldn’t have made it.”
I looked back at the burning house. It would never be livable again. The shelter and sustenance we’d found there? Gone, too.
Chapter 30
LEXIE
I am fit to be tied. When I went to the barn for morning chores, I found Rhema gone! I was concerned, but figured someone had put her in the pasture. But no, she wasn’t there. It took me half an hour to find my dad—who checked with the lookouts—who saw Mrs. Patterson and Mr. Washington leaving the compound yesterday. On two horses! I am so mad I could spit! Now and then I let people borrow her—but they didn’t ask permission! They just left and without even telling anyone here where they were off to!
I am almost sorry we ever saved their stupid lives. Besides the fact I dearly love my horse, we need every animal on this compound. Which reminded me—before the hostage situation with Aiden, Blake and I saw one of the looters running, holding his stomach—a high school kid! Blake said, “That’s Miles Jernigan.”
We couldn’t tell if he was stealing something or was injured. Anyways, we sent out a warning shot. (I MUCH prefer sending out warning shots than having to shoot someone. And this was a kid! Even if he came to loot us, we couldn’t bring ourselves to hurt a fellow teen. ) Later when I found out we’d lost our only adult rooster, I realized Miles must have taken it.
I felt morose all morning. At lunch I wanted to see Blake, who was on the hill today. The lookouts don’t get a lunch break—they either bring food with them or somebody carries it up. (I volunteered.) So guess what? Even before I got there, I heard snoring! Sure enough, Mr. Prendergast was leaning against a wall of the shed, eyes closed, not even lying down, and in dreamland! Being a lookout is a big deal. Our safety depends on good lookouts. Even some gangs go away when they realize we’re guarded and ready to fight. They want an easy target. So if a lookout doesn’t see them coming and they have an early victory, like, say, nabbing a chicken or two—they are much harder to fight off. People end up dead.
“He wakes up easily, watch this,” Blake said, after we’d chatted a few minutes. He leaned towards the sleeping man. “Boo!”
Mr. Prendergast came awake with a vengeance, brandishing his rifle. “Wha-what! Who! Where!” He turned in frantic circles to locate the enemy.
“Whoa! It’s just our lunch,” Blake said, lowering the man’s rifle with one hand.
Mr. Prendergast smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
I handed out the food. Mr. Prendergast, perhaps because he’d been caught sleeping on the job, took his binoculars and did a reconnaissance of the property, going completely around, taking a full minute. Now and then it rather unnerved me, knowing the lookouts probably watched me heading to the barn and back, or giving Rhema her exercise. They could see a good deal of the back, the path to the barn, the riding pasture, and the back of a few cabins. More importantly, they could see the road and whether anyone turned onto our drive. Gone were the days of enjoying a beautiful sense of privacy on our own land.
But the hill was our best look point. It was from there we’d first seen Roy’s gang approaching and it was the hill that gave more early warning alarms than the other two lookout posts. Thanks to Dad’s ham radio, we were in touch with people from neighboring areas who gave us a heads up on things coming our way, but the hill told us when they’d arrived.
Here’s the latest regarding the sightings of military: Bands of Islamic soldiers are out there setting fire to everything and killing anyone they come across who doesn’t renounce Christianity (or any other belief) and embrace Allah; others said the U.S. military was around, and not just to fight terrorists—they threatened anyone who wouldn’t join their FEMA camps. We aren’t sure what to believe. But I envy dad and his ham radio. It’s an astonishingly complicated piece of equipment—too much for me to understand! I wish I could use it, though, because I miss my stuff, I miss being in touch with the rest of the world, I miss movies and music and talking on my cell phone! When dad comes upstairs after being on his radio, he holds what Andrea and I call a “news brief.” It’s the closest thing to media we’ve got. Everyone scrambles to hear the scoop.
Anyways, after catching Mr. Prendergast asleep—again—I returned to the house determined to make my dad see reason and let me be a lookout with Blake for his next shift. I saw Andrea when I got back to the house and averted my gaze the moment she looked at me. I knew it was wrong but I can’t believe that NOW she thinks I might talk to her—when her mother took my horse! I’m still working on forgiving her. Right now my feeling is, we’ll never be close friends again because I can’t trust her. She’s jealous of me and Blake, and I don’t need to hang out with someone who is jealous of me instead of happy for me.
I
remembered she was raiding our storage buckets. As soon as I got the chance I went down to move the ones with special treats. All I was gonna do was hide them behind other buckets so access wouldn’t be so easy. When I opened the door to the storage room where most—though not all—of our supplies are stashed, I stood there for a moment, blinking, trying to grasp what I saw.
Roughly half of the buckets were gone.
I knew we’d been steadily going through flour, sugar, rice and beans. Feeding this household takes a good deal of food. But it was too empty. All the buckets of “goodies” were gone, as well as an entire row which I’d seen only recently, and half of another row.
I ran to accuse Andrea.
“I didn’t touch them!” she cried, her eyes wide with indignation.
“You’ve been into them before!” I returned.
“But I didn’t move them! Ever! I don’t know what happened to them!” I turned and ran to find my folks. I hoped they’d been the ones to move the stuff, but no such luck. After hurrying down to look for himself, my father called an immediate council meeting. Anyone not on lookout duty had to attend. But no one had any idea what happened to the missing buckets.
Afterward, I remembered about Mr. Prendergast and told my parents—and guess what! My dad reluctantly agreed that until he can find a substitute for Mr. Prendergast, I could do it! I can be a lookout! I’m psyched! When Blake got off duty, I found him. We celebrated with a kiss. Now, if only my horse would return with Andrea’s mom, safe and sound, this would actually be a really good day.
So here I am with my journal remembering that kiss with a silly grin on my face, and looking forward to tomorrow—my first opportunity to join Blake on lookout! Sometimes before bed when I write in this journal I think about the old days and want to cry. I wish I could go to school and get bummed out over a math quiz, or worry about whether I’d finished all my homework for history class. Instead I have to worry about whether marauders are coming or a foreign invasion which would wipe us out.
The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set Page 43