Aurelia added, “To die like Aaron?”
Roper said, gently, “To care for us through the generosity and kindness of his people, and through his Creation.”
“His Creation is killing us,” said Jackie.
“I don’t see provision happening,” said Jocelyn.
“It’s been happening all along! We’re still here, right? We’re almost in Ohio—we’re almost a state closer to home! We can do this.”
He reminded them how Jesus on one occasion had sent His disciples out with orders not to bring anything with them. He read the Scripture from Mark chapter six, “Take nothing for your journey except a staff: no bread, no bag, no money in your belts.”
He also reminded them that God’s very name, Jehovah Jireh, means, The God Who Provides. He pointed out that thus far they’d never gone so much as one full day without some nutrition, even if it was only crusty bread (such as what they’d been given that very day by a homeowner whose house they’d passed and inquired at—a full loaf!). Another day a woman offered a small plastic bag of little black seeds— “chia seeds” she called them, saying that in Colonial days a teaspoonful was regarded as sufficient nutrition to sustain an Indian brave for a day’s forced march.
It didn’t make their stomachs happy but they did indeed keep going on the strength of those seeds for days. At night they’d slept in the pews or basement of churches, in garages or in barns. Even the occasional empty house such as the one where Aaron had died afforded shelter for days at a time while outdoors the snow and sleet made travel unthinkable. Somehow, some way, provision was happening. They always found a place to lay their heads, a bite of something to nourish the body, and Roper recited scripture to feed their souls. Roper was always good for reciting things—he had a near photographic memory.
But despite all that, when they saw they were in Amish country, the girls refused to keep traveling. Aaron’s death was still keenly felt. They were demoralized.
“A pilgrimage is always filled with uncertainty,” Roper said. “If it was easy it wouldn’t be a pilgrimage. Our faith is being tested; our souls are being tested.” His look became imploring. “The only way I can do this is if I do it for God,” he said. “That’s the only way this has meaning. Right now this is our calling! Don’t give that up.”
“This is too much testing,” Aurelia said. The others nodded. “We need a break. We’re stopping at the next farm.”
“What will you do? How can I leave you there?” he’d asked.
“We’ll find an Amish family to take us in.”
“Why would they do that?”
“We’ll offer manual labor in exchange for upkeep,” Jocelyn, one of the back-up singers, said.
“A million other people probably done that by now,” Roper said. “They can’t take in endless people. We ought to keep going.”
“We’ve talked it out, Roper; come with us.”
“Look, if the Amish are going to help people, it’ll be their neighbors, not strangers.” That fell on deaf ears. He tried another tactic. “Think of your people back home. They are wondering if you’re still alive. Don’t do this to them, don’t keep them wondering. We can get back. We can go home.”
“Come with us,” was their response. “We’ll travel in the spring when it’s warm. You ought to do what we're doing.”
Roper sighed. “Look” he said, “I didn’t want to say this but think about it. It’s only a matter of time and the Amish are going to be forced to give up whatever supplies they have. MIGHT will win over RIGHT. It’s what happens, if you look at history. When a society collapses, whether it’s caused by war or a natural disaster, the strong thrive at the expense of the weak.”
“So you’re saying the Amish are weak?” asked Aurelia.
“They’re pacifists,” Roper said, shrugging. “They don’t believe in weapons. Not even for self-defense. And you saw what was going on in Pittsburgh. That’s bound to spread here as well.”
The girls however, persisted in their desire to seek out a compassionate Amish homestead. He shook his head. “Then I’ll go with you. I need to know you’re getting help before I move on.”
But after being turned down at a couple of homes, they told Roper, “Go on without us. We’ve noticed how they’re looking at you. We think we’d have a better chance of getting help without you.”
At the next farmhouse he hung back but stayed waiting nearby until he knew for sure the women had secured lodging for at least the night. They had assured him they could make themselves useful enough to earn their keep and stay on. Roper wasn’t so sure, but he committed them to the Lord. What else could he do?
So then he’d been on his own. And things on the road had gotten so ugly that he stopped moving during the day. Dead bodies and mean looking men were common sights. Roper prayed, walked, prayed, and walked.
And kept heading west.
In cold, lonely moments he began to suspect that perhaps he’d been misguided to trust God for safety in such circumstances, that he would never make it—there were too many dangers in a world without rule of law. His stamina was bound to run out. His survival skills were practically nonexistent—all he remembered, vaguely, was from reading Hatchet as a boy. And, My Side of the Mountain. Something about you could make flour out of acorns. That was it. Sure, living off the land was possible. If you happened to be Davy Crockett.
As it turned out, you could live off the goodness of God, too, if you happened to have the faith of St. Francis. Or of a Roper. He repeated verses to himself as he walked, such as, “You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance, Psalm 32:7.” Or, “Our God is a God who saves; from the Sovereign LORD comes escape from death, Psalm 68:28.”
The days passed, and he reluctantly discarded his cell phone and any supplies that weren’t necessary for survival like a notebook, sheet music, and a foldable music stand. He kept only his trumpet and a small Bible he’d picked up at one of the churches where they’d found shelter; it was half the size of the old leather Bible he’d been carrying, which had belonged originally to his grandfather.
The trumpet was heavy and common sense told him he ought to ditch it. But he found he could not. Instead he tied a bungee cord around the case and attached it to his backpack. It was extra weight, but it was part of him. He’d been playing the instrument since the age of four. Somehow hanging onto it gave him a feeling of normalcy. Even now when the world seemed to be ending, he still had his trumpet.
He kept lighters, matches, socks, gloves, flashlights—anything he came across that aided him on his journey. Nevertheless, with so little possessions, he did seem to personify St. Francis, the famous mendicant. He even had the hair and beard to look the part, and lacked only a brown cowl robe with a rope belt to do justice to the Catholic saint.
He made a mysterious-looking figure, shrouded in a large anorak that he was given at the very outset of the pulse by the pastor whose church they’d been ministering in. The hood was fur-lined and surrounded his face so that when it got encrusted by snow, the frozen outline of fur framed him, making a wide border. It dwarfed what could be seen of his head, which wasn’t much to begin with thanks to the beard and mustache. These also got snow-encrusted and formidable. He looked like a walking, snow-covered Yeti.
A stark difference between him and the gentle 12th century monk became evident when he was able to acquire a rifle and handgun: Roper accepted them as part of the divine provisions. He had wearily entered a run-down, abandoned building to get out of a sudden snowfall. He hadn’t eaten that day and was famished. But he spoke to a stranger who was sitting face-down, his head upon his knees, recognizing, he thought, the look of the downtrodden. He was instantly ready to minister to him as a Christian, pray with him, when he discovered—to his chagrin—that he was dead!
The cold had preserved him beautifully. Roper thought at first that he had to be alive. Closer inspection proved otherwise; and revealed a rifle, still partially slun
g over one shoulder, which Roper retrieved. He wasn’t happy about the man’s fate, but he couldn’t be sorry to get his hands on the firearm, not after witnessing so much violence out there.
Why the man died, he did not know. There was a crumpled Mylar blanket beside him, as if he’d thrown it off. Roper gently retrieved it, sighing. The world was full of death. But this one death provided more than a rifle; he marveled how, like the cycle of life in nature, this man’s passing instantly bequeathed his belongings to whatever soul found them—and Roper was that soul. And, because he had a backpack that contained real treasure, his death gave Roper life.
He’d almost missed the backpack because the man was sitting on it, but it contained a pistol, two mags of bullets, a sharp knife, a water filter, ice pick, a bundle of kindling, matches, a nail clipper—Roper grabbed that as if it were gold—and, most amazing of all—ten MREs.
MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—were military rations, as the labels clearly explained. He’d never handled one before. But it was food—with such supplies the man hadn’t starved to death. Why had he allowed himself to freeze? He even had kindling and matches—Roper surmised that he’d probably not intended to die; had likely stopped to rest and succumbed to hypothermia. It was a fresh reminder that hypothermia was a constant threat. Falling into it would remove a man’s judgment, cause him to simply sit and freeze to death.
He debated whether to make a fire and cremate him, for burial was out of the question; but in the end, after removing the man’s coat—an effort that turned out to be more difficult than he anticipated since the body was stiff—and closing his eyes, he left him.
He managed to fit the coat beneath his anorak, knowing every layer was added safety from the cold. He moved to another part of the building and eagerly tore into the first MRE. It delighted him that it came with not only an entree, but crackers, a candy bar, matches, salt and pepper, instant coffee and powdered creamer, a wet wipe and a tissue! It didn’t even require building a fire to heat, as the entrees came in a self-heating pouch. Sweet!
Soon he was munching with unbelievable appreciation for every bite and giving thanks as he ate. It wasn’t his ideal manner of finding nourishment—to take it from a dead man—but it was food and it was Providence that had led him to it.
He forced himself not to gorge on that first meal. His body wasn’t accustomed to calorie-rich food. He collected snow in an old tin can, melted it over a small fire, and drank the coffee. Even instant coffee with powdered creamer tasted wonderful. With rising excitement Roper realized that if he rationed these meals they would last him for perhaps ten days. If he ate only one a day—and he could do that, because each meal promised a minimum calorie-count of 1,250—he'd still be eating more per day than he’d had since the pulse.
In the morning he was ready to be off. There was fresh snow, glittering in the cold, but a clear sky. Beautiful walking weather—or so it seemed to a guy who’d been trudging through gray days and ice storms for weeks. With the candy bar from last night’s MRE as the day’s portion, he started off on a long stretch of lonely road, framed on either side by woods. It went on for miles like that.
Judging by signs he passed periodically, Roper figured he was covering about eight miles a day—not too bad for winter walking. Dark moments made him figure it was just a matter of time until he’d be the one to freeze to death but each night found him in some kind of shelter, just as it had happened for him all along. God was still providing.
Older people, much to his surprise, were usually less helpless than younger folks. They had memories of life before electricity or knew stories from their parents about how to get by without it. Some, to his utter shock, even had outhouses on their properties. In the United States! He’d no idea that outhouses were still in use in some places. But he was discovering that these remote outposts were better prepared for the grid being down than their wealthy, techno-loaded counterparts. They had wood stoves, small rooms that kept the heat in, stores of firewood near the house, dried meat and beans—things the wealthy often lacked.
In late February when the weather seemed at its worst, one man gave him shelter for several weeks in exchange for labor. Roper chopped wood, gutted, skinned and cleaned small game, tended the fire, even cooked for this guy, Jeff. When he finally left in late March, he had snowshoes and two packages of jerky for the journey, which Jeff insisted he take—things he credited his survival with. He made it through a long stretch of forested roads between Pennsylvania and Ohio, thanks to those provisions.
Many weeks later, by the time he reached the perimeter of the Martins’ property and came across two lookouts—one of whom was Blake—he carried little else but his weapons, trumpet, and now a guitar as well. He’d found it in the last house he’d stayed in, an abandoned older home that had the usual broken windows and ransacked disorder. Pure stubbornness had kept him from ditching the instruments, but even that turned out to be providential.
Blake later said when he saw the trumpet and guitar, he figured Roper couldn’t be all bad.
It was another God-thing, just like his survival, he told Andrea later. At the compound, Roper’s journey would become almost legendary.
Legendary, that is, to everyone except Jared.
Chapter 13
JARED
To Jared, the abandoned flea market was a wind-fall of potentially weapon-able items, things necessary for building the bombs he could make to help protect the compound. But every foot forward was dangerous. Each forsaken stall, store, or counter had places anyone could be hiding behind. If someone had made this warehouse home, he and Roper could be killed quickly and easily as they made their way down the wide aisles.
He said nothing to Roper about it since the man was incapable of caution to begin with. Anyone who would hesitate to take quick action when faced with a threat was unlikely to be alert to them in the first place.
As they led the horses along, he mentally rehearsed the recipe he’d learned in the military for making IEDs, “Improvised Explosive Devices.” All terrorists were well-versed in how to build them and he’d learned what they were made of and how to mix them, too. He hadn’t actually built anything except homemade grenades before, but was sure he could reproduce the methods to make the bigger stuff.
If.
If he could find what he needed to make them.
Well, there was more than one way to build Rome. Different recipes meant that if he failed to find the exact ingredients for one, they might luck out with what was needed for another.
“So what else are we looking for?” Roper suddenly asked, his voice muffled behind the bandana. It was as though he’d read Jared’s mind, and he glanced quickly at the man. But Roper’s eyes were scanning the walls, counters, and stalls they were passing, not even looking at Jared.
“Lead pipes—or any thick metal pipes,” he answered. “Jerry cans would be handy. Magnesium powder; and some potassium chlorate and potassium perchlorate.”
“Whoa! What?”
“Well, if I knew how to remove an airbag initiator, we could get the perchlorate from dead cars. Unfortunately, I haven’t ever done that, so—”
“Oh, there I can help you,” said Roper. “I used to work as an auto mechanic—while I was waiting to get a job in the ministry.”
Jared stared at him. “Why didn’t you say so? We’ve passed about a hundred cars already!”
Roper stared back. “Why didn’t you say so? I didn’t know you could use airbag initiators!”
Frowning, Jared moved on. Secretly he was impressed. He did not work on cars himself and it was the first thing he’d seen in Roper that garnered respect—mechanical ability. It sure beat his claim to fame as a trumpet player!
“I can get initiators out easy enough,” Roper continued. “But you gotta be careful with those things, man. They’ll explode on you in a heartbeat if you don’t—.”
“I can handle the explosives—.” Jared interjected. “Just get me the parts.”
Roper nodde
d. But he remembered the warning he’d seen on numerous airbags, especially newer model ones. DANGER—POISON. Contains sodium azide and potassium nitrate. Contents are poisonous and extremely flammable. Due to his photographic memory he could recall the full warning: Do not dismantle or incinerate this unit. Do not probe with electrical test devices. Dispose as instructed in the airbag shop manual.
Most of the airbags he’d removed had been deployed in a car accident. They no longer posed a danger. Jared wanted to remove ones that hadn’t deployed in order to access the chemical cocktails inside them. As he thought about the careful steps he’d take to do this, Jared said, “We could get potassium chlorate from firecrackers, maybe sodium chlorate, too. And magnesium powder is an industrial lubricant, but lots of farmers use it.” He glanced at Roper. “Not the Martins, unfortunately. We’ll look in abandoned factories.” He paused. “A little petroleum jelly and red phosphorous will help, too.”
“Is that all?” Roper asked, drily. He had no idea where or how to find such ingredients.
“If we can find us a whole bunch of pyrotechnics, we’ll have it all,” Jared said. “Keep an eye out for fireworks.”
“What’ll you use to hold the mixture, when you make these bombs?”
Jared shrugged. “I can use a few jerry cans, or empty fire extinguishers. If push comes to shove I can make do with empty 2 liter soda bottles. But I’d rather have the heavier stuff.”
Roper was silent for a moment, thinking. “What about empty oxygen containers? I saw some at the compound.”
“You sure?” Jared looked doubtful.
“They were for an old lady who died. A friend of the family.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know; at least a dozen, maybe more.”
“They’d be perfect,” Jared grunted. He added, “You look for stuff like work gloves, dust masks and safety glasses—I’ll look for the other stuff.”
Roper’s horse nickered and pulled back, then came to a halt. Roper was puzzled for only a second, for suddenly the stench was worse and even his bandana could not mask its strength. Calming the animal with one hand, he coaxed her along. Jared’s horse didn’t seem bothered but they each kept a tight hold on the reins.
The Pulse Effex Series: Box Set Page 68