“I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand,” Jess said kindly. “It’s a poison garden. Colonials used to grow them so they would have a way to fight back against enemy troops who commandeered their homes in times of war, when the men were off doing the fighting.” She pointed again at two other raised gardens near the house. “Everything, and I mean everything, I grow in my gardens has a purpose. Those are my apothecary gardens. That’s where we harvest most of our healing plants. You’ve seen a lot of my vegetable gardens already, but there’s also herb gardens growing in the girls’ rooms—I think Desirée has the best one, though. And…I have a witch garden growing in mine.”
Michelle smiled uncomfortably. “I’m afraid to ask—why is that?”
“Because I’m a witch,” Jess joked, getting an immediate reaction from Michelle, one she had expected to see. “Relax, I’m only kidding. I’m not a witch. But I do grow a lot of witchy herbs…rosemary, sage, catnip, henbane, marjoram, thyme, and arnica…along with a freakin’ shitload of basil.”
Michelle, who had finally caught on to Jess’s playful disposition, allowed herself to settle down. She laughed. “Okay, I’ll play along. Why do you grow so much basil in your…witch garden?”
“Why not? It’s the best protection herb,” replied Jess casually.
“What exactly does basil protect you from?”
Jess shot Michelle an eerie glance. “Evil.”
Chapter 7
Royal Harbor Religious Facility
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Woodstock, Virginia
Wednesday, October 27th
A new day had arrived amidst the fifteen-foot-tall razor-wire-crowned fences surrounding FEMA’s Camp Bravo and, with it, another chance to bring about more good into the world. Another Wednesday church service had begun. Another sermon, another message from the Lord—and Faith Gallo was back in her element.
She waved and smiled politely to the gatherers as they filed into her church, greeted one another, and took their seats. It brought Faith joy to see their smiling faces—knowing only months ago, many of those smiles had been forfeited.
Peering into the crowd, Faith searched for the unfeigned gaze of Pastor Hal Wigfield. The esteemed minister had taken ill the week before and hadn’t been present for the preceding Sunday service, and as an alternative, Faith had conducted the proceedings on her own for the first time. She had hoped he would recover quickly enough to be present today, and not seeing him mingling amongst the flock was beginning to worry her.
The aging pastor had been more amiable than Faith had originally envisioned, and hadn’t even so much as hindered her in any fashion since joining his ministry. Even so, in his absence, Faith now felt as though she had been given a set of wings—rudimentary, yet formidable. Standing in the forefront of her sanctuary, she was now stretching them, extending them outward, testing their influence. Soon, they would be capable of flight, and then only one final matter would remain.
It was overwhelming for Faith at times to fill these new shoes she’d been selected to fill—to speak the word of God and of his son Jesus Christ, and minister to those who so desperately needed it most. She had never done anything quite like it before in her life. Faith had gotten so involved with her new calling that there were times she had disremembered where she was—the fences, gates, and armed sentries keeping her and the others confined within seeming to evanesce. Whenever her focus would linger, she would close her eyes, recite the Lord’s Prayer to herself, and remind herself of her husband, Sam, and of his sacrifice. Every effort she was expending now, though rewarding for her in the present, had a grand purpose for the future. She had to keep her eyes on the prize.
Katherine Baker, or Kat as she preferred to be called by most, presented herself just behind and to the right of Faith, who was now standing as tall as her stature would allow at the podium in front of a crowd of over two hundred. Kat had become Faith’s right hand, and Faith considered her to be an essential element to the furtherance of the ministry. Kat had cleaned up her act at bit since her reunification with Faith, and had subsequently become highly involved with the church, rarely leaving Faith’s side.
Kat remained true to herself and, while maintaining custody of her patent masculinity, had started to allow her hair to grow longer and had even chosen, on occasion, to wear more feminine attire. She had even opted to borrow and wear a dress to the service today.
With everyone seated, the murmurs settling down and still no sign of the pastor, Faith opened the Wednesday service by having everyone bow their heads in prayer. The prayer concluding with an ‘amen’, Faith smiled and opened her Bible on the podium. “Good morning, everyone. I’d like to pick up where we left off on Sunday—and continue our discussion on biblical prophecy for the end of times. So, if you would, please open the good book to second Timothy three.” She paused and, listening to the fluttering of Bible pages, placed her finger on the highlighted verses. “‘But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control…brutal…not lovers of the good’—”
Faith paused, her attention diverted briefly by a group of black-uniformed DHS agents. Rudely interrupting her sermon, they entered wearing full-body armor and riot gear, armed with batons, Tasers, and sidearms.
As they marched up the center aisle in her direction, Faith turned her attention back to the verse, picking up where she had left off, speaking with leisure and distinction. “‘Treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power’.” She paused as the team of agents surrounded her podium in a semicircle, then smiled and poetically finished the verse. “‘Have nothing to do with such people’.”
Faith looked up from her Bible, narrowing her eyes at the uniformed men. “Gentlemen, good morning. I take it, by the attire you’ve worn to church today, that you’re not here to participate in or contribute to the service you’ve so inelegantly intruded on. Would any of you care to explain to those of us attending worship today what this is about?”
“You’re to come with us, ma’am,” one of the agents standing nearest the podium said.
“Oh? And where exactly will I be going?” Faith asked, while wondering to herself what could have conceivably brought this about. Then it hit her. Beatrice, she thought. This had that jezebel’s name written all over it. Something must be done about her—something not unlike crucifixion, perhaps.
The agent hesitated while some of his fellow agents grumbled. “Where we’re going is…irrelevant, ma’am.”
Faith’s imagination scrolled through the possibilities of what his response could mean. “Well, I hope you understand why I beg to differ. Please, sir, surely all of you can see that I’m in the middle of a sermon here.”
An agent, baton already in hand and poised to strike, paced forward. “Ma’am, surely you can see that we don’t give a rat’s ass about your sermon.”
“I know I sure don’t,” another agent angrily spat. “My supervisor interrupted my break to send me on this errand.” He pointed to Faith. “The sooner I get you where you need to be, the sooner I can get back to it.”
Faith turned to the complaining agent. “I’m very sorry to hear of your break being intruded upon. It appears now I can commiserate, since we both have something in common today. I’m not fond of interruptions, either.”
An agent with sergeant chevrons on his sleeves emerged. “Ma’am, we don’t want to have to make a scene here, and I’m certain you don’t want us to, either. But trust me when I say this—we will if we have to. We will take you by force if you choose not to come quietly. So let’s just get this over with, shall we? That way, we can all go back to what we were doing. There’s no sense in making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Faith nodded. “I could not ag
ree with you more, Sergeant. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to assume by the rank insignia on your uniform. You are a sergeant, correct?”
The man nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay. How about I offer this alternative…you and your men join us. Take seats with us and allow me to finish today’s service, and after that, I’ll—”
In a flash, the agent with the baton hammered it down onto Faith’s podium, knocking her Bible onto the floor and stopping her sentence dead. “How about this alternative—we stop with the talking and start making a scene!”
Faith’s eyes boggled. She said nothing, a hand moving over her pounding chest, stunned from the baton’s loud impact with her podium.
“Hey, bat man—have you always been this much of a jerk?” Kat hissed at the agent who had attacked the podium, unable to remain silent on the matter. She moved to stand at Faith’s side. “Or did you perfect the act over time?”
Faith half-turned, holding out a hand. “Katherine…”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Mrs. G. But there’s no sense in that crap!” Kat bellowed. Kneeling, she returned Faith’s Bible to the podium, then pointed her finger at the fuming agent. “Put that thing away before you hurt someone, you idiot!”
“Katherine,” Faith said, now facing her fully. “Proverbs fifteen, verse one…‘a gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger’. Remember—we must be ‘quick to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger’.”
Kat hung her head. “That second one was from the book of James, right?”
“Correct.”
“You’re right—I mean He’s right. God is, as usual. And I’m sorry, as usual.”
“That’s quite all right,” Faith whispered, patting her on the shoulder. “However, I think in situations such as these, it’s probably best to…offer up one’s own cheek.”
Faith postured herself and turned to the agents, presenting both hands in surrender, expecting to have restraints slapped on her wrists. One of the agents took hold of her wrist and led her down the aisle behind his team while her congregation looked on helplessly.
Faith did her best to masquerade her fears from her supporters, even though thoughts of the worst were consuming her. She glanced down as they neared the exit, noticing an agent’s sidearm in an unsnapped holster. Turning the other cheek might have been adequate for the Son of God, Faith thought, but that doesn’t mean we should ever preclude the good old-fashioned law of retaliation—an eye for an eye.
Chapter 8
DHS Shenandoah Outpost
Woodstock, Virginia
Wednesday, October 27th
Bronson adjusted his collar and wafted a breath of moist air into his palm to gauge the overall quality of his breath. Grimacing as he drew in a breath through his nostrils, he reached for a tin of wintergreen Altoids sitting on his desk, and tossed three of the mints into his mouth and onto his tongue.
The door opened a minute later, and a petite, distinguished, older woman stepped in hesitantly, her shoulders back and her head held high. She wore a long pleated wool skirt and an off-white, button-up cashmere sweater, neither garment showing stains or signs of excessive wear.
Bronson watched her closely while the woman’s eyes scrutinized every aspect of his office while paying him no mind. He sized her up, giving her a moment before creeping over to her, holding out a hand in an effort to show a gesture of goodwill. “Welcome to the Shenandoah Outpost, Mrs. Gallo. I’m Do—”
“I know full well who you are,” the woman sternly broke in, disregarding his hand, her eyes finally finding his, but not bothering to lock on. “You’re the one who runs the camp.”
His introduction trailed off after the ensuing rejection. “Doug…Bronson…”
“And as appearances go, you must also run Massanutten Military Academy—since I see nothing but vehicles bearing DHS logos outside, similar to the one that brought me here. I think it’s safe for me to assume you’ve acquired the building and grounds by some means.”
Bronson’s eyes narrowed, but his tactful smile remained steadfast as he sluggishly withdrew his hand. “Actually—the military academy ceased operations not long after the onset of the blackout. They didn’t have the means, you see, being a private organization and all. The building and grounds were commandeered by the Department of Homeland Security, and they now serve as our headquarters and base of operations for the Shenandoah Valley.”
Faith still wouldn’t look at him. “I see. So it was acquired by rule of eminent domain, then.”
Bronson shook his balding head. “No, ma’am. It was requisitioned by executive authority—an order was drafted under the emergency powers act by the POTUS—the President of the United States.”
“I’d almost forgotten we had one of those,” said Faith. She turned away, her fingers finding each other and intertwining behind her back. She moved away to observe one of four wood-paneled walls covered with a vast assortment of framed photos and commemorations. “So when you said commandeered, what you really meant to say was misappropriated. Where is he now, by the way?”
“I’m sorry—where is who now? The president?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Ma’am, the country is under a highly classified continuity-of-government-operations plan at this time and has been since the inception of the catastrophe,” said Bronson. “DHS itself is under a strict federal continuity directive to which we must adhere—our intent being to fully rebuild the nation, so I’m sorry, but I cannot speak on those details.”
“Is he running what’s left of the country from a bunker somewhere? Mount Weather, Olney, Cheyenne Mountain, or Raven Rock perhaps?” Faith queried. “Or is he off on yet another family vacation or some golf outing while the rest of his country suffers? That’s the conventional modus operandi for autocrats and members of the politically elite.”
Doug Bronson stirred. “Ma’am, forgive me, but I’m at a loss right now as to why you’re taking this rather combative tone with me. I have invited you here peacefully under no false pretense, and you are free to go as you please—back to the camp, anyway.”
Faith ogled him from the corner of her eye. Was this man kidding? Was he not a regional commander of the DHS—ultimately responsible for the atrocities occurring both inside and outside the steel lattice ramparts of the camp? What about Sam? Was Bronson not accountable for her husband being put to death for his refusal to submit to unjust law, due to his geopolitical and religious beliefs?
Faith sighed, her eyes returning to peruse Bronson’s wall of fame. She knew his type. The man was an inveterate tyrant, through and through. It didn’t matter what he said to her today or any day hereafter, her mind was made up. “Perhaps you should query your goon squad—the ones who barged into my church service today, demanding I come along quietly with them.”
Bronson nodded slightly, his head tilting to the side. “We had a team sent in to retrieve you—I take it by your reaction, they were a little too…forward?”
Faith looked over her shoulder. “I’m not sure. Does invading my church wearing sidearms and full riot gear while verbalizing threats and slamming a baton onto my podium during a sermon sound a little too forward to you?”
Bronson nearly smiled, but caught himself, keeping his delight internalized. “I suppose it does. Mrs. Gallo, you must appreciate though, as I do, that many of my men consider themselves patriots and take their jobs very, very seriously—often too seriously at times, I’m afraid. Please allow me to apologize for their actions today. I promise I’ll have a word with them at some point following the conclusion of this meeting. Will that avowal in itself suffice for now?”
Faith turned away, refusing to buy into Bronson’s rhetoric. Did he really just utter the term patriot with regard to his gestapo-esque storm troopers? The same ones who had ushered her and Sam to this concentration camp? My husband was a patriot, you demagogue. “Since those men aren’t present to offer an apology on their own behalves, I will accept yours in place of theirs.”
Bronson snapped his fingers. “Consider it done, then.”
“Fine. Now, would you care to enlighten me as to why you’ve had me brought here?”
Bronson nodded. He backed away to his desk, leaned forward and made a demonstration of putting his butt in his chair. “Well, first off, I wanted the two of us to become better acquainted. I know you’ve probably heard something about me, but lately, I’ve been hearing quite a lot about you.”
Faith lowered her head and folded her arms over her chest. A name appeared in her mind’s eye as Bronson finished his sentence. It was followed not long after by the word harlot and then the word witch. Several other terms occurred to her afterward, none of which she would ever consider expressing aloud. “All good things, I hope,” Faith droned, playing along.
Bronson’s chair squeaked as he leaned backward, his hands gripping the armrests. “Being completely honest, Mrs. Gallo, no. It hasn’t been all good things.” He reached forward to an ever-present carafe of brandy and poured a glass for himself, pointing to a second empty glass. “Would you care for a drink?”
Faith turned her back to him again. “No. But thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” said Bronson, almost mid-slurp. “I think Sinatra made a good point when he said he felt sorry for people who don’t drink—when they wake up in the morning, it’s the best they’re going to feel all day.” He paused, taking another sip. “You see, Mrs. Gallo, it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been…well, for lack of a better phrase…causing a bit of a disturbance. And that’s why I’ve had you brought here today—to address this little problem we’re having, before matters deteriorate.”
“A disturbance?” Faith questioned, her back still turned.
“Yes.”
“I see,” said Faith. “Well, if preaching the gospel to those in need is considered a disturbance these days, then I would agree with you—that is a problem.”
What's Left of My World (Book 3): We Won't Go Quietly Page 13