by Shayla Black
If not illegal in the state of Texas.
“The woman helping you in the kitchen didn’t want it. You insisted she take it.” He frowned as if this had just occurred to him. “Should the nectar be given to a pregnant woman?”
Mercy’s smile went stiff as she pinned it in place. “Anna has had a difficult pregnancy. She doesn’t much like anything right now. But there’s no reason to be concerned. We’ve birthed nearly twenty babies here in the past year, all of whom came from mothers who loved the nectar. The children are perfectly healthy and fine. I think as a society, we’ve become paranoid. Humans gave birth for tens of thousands of years without half so many ‘rules’ as we have today.”
He nodded as if he were a typical guy who’d never given babies much thought, rather than a protective brother who knew a lot about pregnancy because his sisters had given him nieces and nephews galore.
No doubt about it; Mercy was fuck-all crazy.
“So who will I meet tonight? What will I learn?”
Mercy threaded her arm through his and drew closer, pressing her breasts against his ribs. Since this seemed to be a favorite trick of hers, it must work on most poor saps. The nearer she came, the more Josiah wanted a shower. At least she’d glued herself to the side sans his weapon.
“You’re a bit early, so why don’t we take a walk until First Enlightenment begins.”
He looked back to see people scurrying around the open space. All the new victims and their suitcases were gone, shuffled to who knew where. Everyone looked as if they had a purpose. At least a quarter of the women were visibly pregnant. Half the men carried semiautomatic rifles. Everyone wore dull, almost automaton expressions that weirded Josiah out.
“Great. I’m eager to learn more.”
“Since you’re interested in our nectar, let’s start in the greenhouse.”
Moments later, she led him in via a side door. Several scents assaulted him at once, mostly rich earth and fertilizer hanging in the humid air. Greenery covered every inch of the space, stretching for nearly half a football field. How much “nectar” did this group need? Were they getting stoned every day?
“Who tends all these plants?”
She smiled and gave him a flirtatious smile. “I do, along with my green warriors. That’s what the people who tend the crops call themselves. I oversee teams of workers who make sure everything is properly planted and rotated, that the soil is rested as need be, that they harvest when everything is ready . . . We’re an efficient operation. Same is true of the outside crops we grow in the spring and summer, things like corn, tomatoes, carrots, okra, onion, peppers . . . I think we’re nearly poised to keep the whole county in vegetables, if need be.”
“Got something against grocery stores?”
Her laughter trilled in the air. “Heavens, no. We use them for what we can’t make or grow. We simply feel it’s our right and our responsibility to grow our own sustenance. Besides the nectar and the vegetables, we have chickens on the other side of the property that give us dozens of eggs every day. We have cows and some lovely ladies who milk them regularly, then make the best butter and cheese. We raise and slaughter our own pork and beef.” She shrugged. “Our way of life strikes people as a bit old-fashioned. I’m sometimes asked questions like yours or why we don’t simply rely on food delivery services. But the foundation of Enlightenment Fields’ beliefs is that the food chain as it exists or society as we know it now will collapse in the near future, and then what?”
Interesting philosophical question, but this cult must have some conviction about what event would kick off the catastrophic degradation of culture and prosperity.
“Hmm. Why would it change? Gas shortage? Magnetic poles reversing? Government coup? Society can recover from those.”
Mercy paused. Her puzzled expression told him none of those situations had ever crossed her mind. His prepper pal had talked about all of those eventualities, so Enlightenment Fields must have a whole different doomsday scenario.
“I suppose, eventually. But how will people eat before order is restored?” She walked slowly through the greenhouse, checking on a hanging group of salvia, then bending to push a group of mushrooms deeper into the cool shade under a table. When she stood again, she sent him a speculative stare. “Do you know what the global population is today? What it was in 1900? What it’s projected to be by the start of the next century?”
Okay, those questions were out of left field. “Can’t say I’ve ever paid much attention.”
“Ah.” She sent him a superior expression, brow raised as she took his arm and led him out of the greenhouse. “Well, let me, um . . . enlighten you.”
She smiled at her little pun. Josiah managed not to roll his eyes.
“I’m all ears.”
Sunset closed around them. Vivid oranges and pinks cast a warm glow on Mercy’s delicate face. She would have been beautiful—if she weren’t so fucking crazy.
“In 1900, the world’s population was one-point-six-five billion people. By 1960, it was three billion. Fast-forward to the year 2000, and globally we had over six billion mouths to feed. By 2025 we’ll have eight billion. Come 2100, this planet will support over eleven billion people.”
“Haven’t birthrates been declining for decades?”
“Sure. But ask yourself, is our current way of life sustainable for that many people? We already have homelessness, joblessness, poverty, and starvation. Most of the population growth in the decades ahead is expected to happen in low-income countries—places that already can’t keep all their healthy citizens alive. Add to that mix all the technology we enjoy and that will continue to develop. It’s wonderful . . . until it begins replacing jobs.”
“I see your point,” he murmured, watching people head toward the barn-church, some carrying folding chairs. Others hauled stacks of pillows. Women held what looked like old-fashioned kerosene lamps. Behind them, a dozen men carted buckets of steaming water.
On the other side of the property’s open expanse was a detached garage of sorts. Every light in the place had been turned on. Four strapping teenage boys soaped down a red car under the supervision of one glowering man. Mercy’s flashy Mercedes? Josiah couldn’t see well enough to tell. The big man admonished the kids about future joyriding as they scrubbed the grill, the tires, the undercarriage. Why bother when the car would have to roll miles down a dirt road before ever hitting pavement? To erase the evidence of Mrs. McIntyre’s murder?
Beside him, Mercy stopped and gripped his chin, focusing him on her once more. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.” He grasped Mercy’s elevator pitch. It was the rest of the Chosen and the behaviors they continually exhibited that made no sense. “You think the world is overpopulated.”
“Sooner than we think, we’ll have millions of people capable of being productive but no longer needed in the workforce. But they’ll still require food for themselves, their partners, and their offspring. Where will the money come from? Where will they find nourishment? Imagine this scenario repeating itself over and over in nearly all industrialized nations where we barely grow our own food anymore. Scarcity will drive costs up to a point where the majority of the people may no longer be able to afford to buy the food they need on a day-to-day basis. What happens when we have a population not eating an adequate number of calories per day but that has absolutely no knowledge of how to feed themselves and their families?”
“Chaos.” If her scenario came true. If no nations banded together to realize this coming problem well before it hit. If nothing was done to improve the human condition before it was too late.
“Exactly. Possibly even civil war. Governments might use food and clean water to control the population. It might also lead to genocide or another rise of feudalism.” She shook her head as if those possibilities troubled her. “The goal of everyone at Enlightenment Fields is
to be prepared for the future, since some scientists think it’s possible the world is already overpopulated and our conditions will deteriorate fast.”
Maybe, but since there was still a McDonald’s and a Starbucks on every corner, that wasn’t a problem in most industrialized countries. Burundi, Sudan, Ethiopia, Haiti, and others weren’t so fortunate. Was she trying to say that those countries’ food insecurities could soon plague the whole world and cause mass starvation? The planet was capable of sustaining people . . . if resources were allocated properly. But in a political climate where populations could be controlled by the food they most needed to live?
“That’s a grim picture.”
“Adam saw abject poverty during his travels in India and Nepal. It affected him deeply. The starving children hurt him most. After some research, he also ventured to the severely stricken parts of Africa. He was already concerned about global overpopulation, but after seeing some of the heartbreakingly hungry people, he was motivated to start a movement that sought to be self-sustaining, of those who could learn to live off the land, even if that meant embracing a bygone way of life. We enjoy electricity and running water and all the modern conveniences today. But we are capable of living a much simpler existence. We have prohibited utility companies from building cell towers on our land. We have one Internet connection so we can communicate with the outside world that’s too shortsighted to grasp why we won’t conform to their way of life. They call us freaks, say we live in a cult.” She sighed sadly. “We tune them out. They simply don’t understand.”
Interesting theories. There was a lot of truth in her global population statistics, the troubles less developed countries had in feeding their citizens, the fact that some governments had used food and clean water to manipulate their people. It wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility. But civilization would have to break down completely before any of this came to pass on a global scale. On the other hand, given the right circumstances, scarcity in food and water could make all of that a reality quickly.
He frowned in thought, relieved when she began to stroll toward the church in the distance. “You have a lot of expectant mothers on the ranch. If overpopulation is a problem, why are so many women here pregnant?”
She smiled his way. “That is an excellent, observant question. We’ll have more time to talk about that after we’ve welcomed our new Chosen into the fold.”
When they entered the church, the place was packed. Every pew was crammed full of people. Others had brought in folding chairs and crowded the outer aisles. More had tossed pillows at the feet of the front row and were sitting expectantly, ready to watch the ceremony.
Mercy nodded at various people as she led him up the aisle. She sent some smiles, held out a hand or two to others. But she never stopped her trek to the front and never released her grip on his arm.
They sat in a seat reserved for them at the very front. Mercy settled between two men, who both cast curious gazes his way. One, a big brute, had shorn blond hair and a host of visible combat scars, along with a severe scowl. The other looked well dressed and perfectly groomed. His dark hair and beard framed cunning blue eyes as he sized Josiah up.
“These are my brothers, Marcus”—she pointed to the mean-looking one—“and Michael.” She gestured to Mr. Suave.
Both nodded his way. He returned their silent acknowledgment, feeling as if he’d been surrounded by a pack of wolves.
Were these two her biological brothers? Josiah’s guess was no. They looked nothing alike. And Marcus glared at her as if he was none too happy that she seemed cozy beside another man.
Inside the church, music suddenly began playing—more of the disturbing, hyperhappy tunes Mercy had recorded. This was a reverent song about acceptance and love and living off the land, which all sounded great on the surface. And she had decent explanations for everything happening on the ranch. But his crazy meter was still pinging at full peal.
At the front, behind the altar, a dozen and a half people walked in single file, wearing head-to-toe flowing robes in white. Four strapping men hefted in a giant wooden tub and set it on what could only be termed a stage. Another cluster carried in those steaming buckets he’d seen earlier and poured them into the tub. Some ladies came behind them with trays of cloudy liquid in mason jars and began passing them out to each of the new converts.
Josiah watched and tried not to shake his head. So the powers that be in this freaky-ass place intended to have everyone tripping before they dunked the new victims like they were undergoing some imitation baptism. Then what?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Through a door at the back of the church another figure walked in. Instinctively, a tremor rolled through Josiah.
Adam Coleman.
He had shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, sported a short-shorn beard, and wore glasses that made him look almost intellectual. He dressed simply in black jeans and a matching vest with a stark white shirt. Plain black boots rounded out the look. He wore no jewelry, had no tattoos, just a focused expression. When the man’s gaze fell on Josiah, the maniacal spark in his dark eyes jolted him to his toes.
“Good evening, brothers and sisters. As you know, it’s a joyous experience when we add to the Enlightenment Fields flock of followers. All of these believers share our worries about the coming collapse and have agreed to dedicate themselves to a brighter, simpler future here. They have shed the worldly chains that have bound them to a futile existence. They have given us their vow to uphold our values and to help us grow the community according to our loving, organized plan. Drink, my children, of the nectar that will give you your first spiritual rapture.”
He paused and watched as the new inductees downed their liquid. The brainwashed believers all clapped as if it were a truly momentous occasion. Josiah pretended rapt fascination as he mentally took apart everything Coleman had spewed. Basically, someone had convinced these incoming Chosen that the sky was falling, so they had surrendered all their worldly goods—and all ways to communicate with the outside world—to the cult. In return, Coleman expected total obedience and . . . what else?
The guy said a few more words about the end of the world and how Enlightenment Fields would weather the storm because they were prepared and united. Their solidarity would keep them strong, blah, blah, blah. Their beliefs would fill them with joy and all that bullshit.
Josiah sent a sidelong glance at Mercy. She smiled happily. Jesus, she was eating this shit up.
Then the windbag began to introduce the newcomers one by one. Most were in their early to midtwenties, with a few closer to thirty. One woman arrived with a daughter who looked maybe three. Another couple held hands, looking excited to embark on their next adventure. One big, well-muscled man looked closer to forty than the others. He remained silent and stoic as Coleman described him as an oil-rig worker from Houston who’d had enough of the difficulties and strife in the outside world. He’d think the guy was looking for a handout if he didn’t look as if he’d already put in years of hard labor.
Beside him, Marcus eyed the burly recruit with a sharply assessing stare. Then he glanced Coleman’s way with a little tilt of his chin. The big man, now looking woozy from his “trip,” was dunked into the water and hustled to the left side of the stage.
Next was a slight blonde, definitely in her early twenties. She looked soft and doe-eyed. Josiah read the earmarks. Compliant, beyond submissive, and looking for a savior. An easy target for these scum.
She emerged from the tub dripping wet, and it wasn’t lost on Josiah that all these robes were basically transparent when wet. Michael looked the woman up and down, then gave their leader an almost imperceptible nod. Coleman acknowledged him by separating the female from the others and setting her stage right.
Soon, Josiah noticed a pattern. Coleman would look to the trio of his most coveted “children” at the front as another new Chosen was introduced. One
of them would make a move—Mercy often held up a tiny field flower he hadn’t noticed pressed in her palm—then the inductee in question would be either shuffled left or right, or clustered into the center. At the end of the silent sorting process, three distinct groups had formed. At the left stood four men, all of whom looked rough-hewn and capable of hard work, along with two curvaceous females. On the right, five young females huddled beside one man who had been an ER nurse in his previous life. In the center, a motley collection of men and women, along with the lone child, milled in the small space. Several had indicated they enjoyed gardening.
As the service ended, the Chosen in the audience drank of the nectar—except Marcus, Michael, and Mercy. Then Coleman dismissed everyone for a night of frolic, food, and dance on the lawn. The new Chosen would join them soon.
The flock rushed out the doors, eager to begin their feast under the moon. Mercy trailed her “brothers” as she led Josiah toward Coleman.
Marcus claimed the group on the left, inspecting them with a dispassionate stare before he acknowledged their leader. “Thank you, sire.”
Coleman nodded. “Teach, guide, and prepare them, as is your duty and your right.” Then he turned to Michael, who eyed the cluster of females with a lascivious once-over. “You as well.”
“Of course. I take my mission very seriously.”
“That you do.” The older man smiled slyly as if they shared some inside joke, then reached for the sweet little blonde shivering near his side, her paper-thin robe plastered to her perky tits. “On second thought, I’ve spoken to this one. She’s in need of additional guidance before she’ll be ready to join the flock.”
Michael ground his teeth, looking pissed off, but he gave Coleman a tight nod. “As you wish, sire.”
Oh, of course the prettiest one needed “special counseling” from the group’s skeevy leader. Josiah wasn’t even surprised.
“I trust your duties to the others will keep you occupied for some time?” Coleman asked.