(Wrath-06)-Smoke & Dust (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  “What’s the option?” Ammon whispered back. “Leave it here? If we do that, we abandon it; I guarantee you none of it will be here by the time we come back.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Ammon reached down and grabbed his own blade of grass. “What do you think about that little girl?”

  Luke shook his head sadly. “I don’t know. I’m sure no doctor, but I’m telling you, she looks terrible to me. Thin as a rail. Sleeping all the time. I mean, can you imagine! Can you even begin to fathom what that poor woman and little girl have been going through? What they’re going to go through still? I’m as unfeeling and stupid as the next guy, but man, it tears my heart out just to look at her.”

  They were silent another moment. “I think she’s dying,” Ammon said.

  Luke bit his lip and didn’t say anything.

  “I think poor ol’ Mrs. Dupree was taking her daughter home to die. I think she knows. I think she’s given up any hope. Did you hear what she said about the clinic? She went down for some kind of special treatment but the doctors wouldn’t do it. They said there was no reason. That can’t be good.”

  “So what do we do?” Luke asked, his voice beginning to choke.

  Ammon studied his brother, the broad-shouldered, high-school fullback, the guy who could pound through any hole in the offensive line no matter the cost to his body. The harder the hit, the more it hurt, the more a man it meant he was and the more he loved the game. Under the sweatshirts and the sandals and the hang-by-the-edge-of-the-cliff-without-any-rope, hard-guy exterior, Luke was at least as soft as any guy he knew. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “All I know is we can’t leave them here.”

  “Of course not. I know that.” Luke considered the darkening sky. “I was thinking maybe we should bury some of the gear, some of the more, you know, precious but dangerous stuff—the gold, maybe some of the cash and canned food. Let’s cram everything we can into our packs. We could jury-rig some pouches around our stomachs, improvise a little in order to take as much we can, then,” he nodded toward the tree line, “bury the rest. We’ll be careful, wipe out our tracks and conceal the hiding place. We’ll wrap the little girl—what’s her name, Kelly Beth?—in a couple blankets and push her home.”

  “OK,” Ammon answered. “But one thing we haven’t thought of. Once we get to her place in Chicago, what are we going to do then? What’s our long-term plan?”

  Luke shook his head. “I’ve got absolutely no idea.”

  “What about Mom? Have you talked to her?”

  “We talked a little bit this morning. She has no idea either. Still, it’s kind of funny, she seems in a pretty good mood.”

  Ammon glanced back toward their mother. “OK,” he said, “let’s do it. Let’s gather and organize our gear. Take everything we can, conceal or bury the rest. We’ll make Kelly Beth as comfortable as possible and start out walking. The freeway, if you haven’t noticed, is full of people. We won’t be the only ones walking toward the city.”

  Luke considered. “Twenty, maybe twenty-five miles. We can do that in a day.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ammon countered. “Two days, maybe, with our gear. If we keep going and don’t have any problems, we can be there by tomorrow night.”

  Luke looked at him and shuddered. “Listen, dude, I don’t mean to sound pessimistic or overly morbid, but I don’t know if that little girl is going to make it that long.”

  “I’ve wondered that,” Ammon said sadly. “But if she doesn’t, then let’s do this. Let’s make certain she is being held by someone who cares about her when she passes from this world. Let’s make certain she can say good-bye to her mother. Let’s keep her safe and warm. That might be all we can do, but let’s make sure we at least do that.”

  Luke closed his shiny eyes, a small tear forming on the corner of his eyelid. He lowered his head a long moment. “I wish Dad were here,” he said.

  “I know,” Ammon answered. “If not him, I wish we could talk to Sam. I’d give anything to know where he was. Is he OK? Is he back here in the States?”

  Luke turned and looked east. “Do you think he’ll try to find us?”

  “I don’t know, dude. I mean, he’s in the middle of a war, after all.” Ammon glanced toward the freeway. “I wish he were here,” he repeated. “I wish Dad were here. I feel so uncertain.”

  Luke slapped him on the back. “Come on,” he said.

  The two brothers turned and walked back toward their mother.

  Sara was staring down the road toward the freeway, firm as stone. She lifted her hand to her eyes to shield them against the gusting wind and squinted.

  “Mom,” Ammon started, but she quickly held out her hand to cut him off.

  “Look at that,” she whispered. Ammon turned, looking into the distance. Crowds of people crammed the freeway, most of them heading north toward Chicago. Some were dragging suitcases, some holding boxes and bags, briefcases and sacks, a great migration of lost and lonely souls.

  “That’s an awful lot of people,” Ammon said.

  “Shhh,” Sara interrupted again.

  Ammon fell silent.

  “I thought I heard gunshots,” Sara whispered.

  Ammon waited, holding his breath.

  Then he heard it, a distant crack!

  “Oh no,” was all he said.

  EIGHT

  Washington, D.C.

  Morning came. Sam awoke the moment the sun began to lighten the room. He got up, checked the lights, walked into the bathroom, checked the water, pulled on some pants but no shirt, and walked downstairs.

  Bono followed. Sam grabbed a large bowl, went into the basement, and drained some water from the water heater tank. The two men cleaned up and finished dressing. To most people it would have been an inconvenience to wash up from a bowl of barely warm water, but after months in the desert it seemed a luxury to them. They opened a couple of cans of fruit, found some nuts and beef jerky in the basement, and ate until they were full.

  After they had eaten, Sam asked tentatively, “What would you think about saying morning prayer together?”

  Bono didn’t hesitate to fall to his knees. Sam prayed, his eyes clenched tight. After he said amen, Bono continued kneeling. “That was kind of cool,” he said.

  Sam’s face was expressionless. “What’s that?”

  “What you said. In your prayer. The thing you asked for.”

  Sam thought. He really didn’t know what Bono was talking about.

  “That angels would guide and help us.”

  Sam blushed. “It wasn’t an original thought. I’m not capable of that. I got it from a Scripture my dad showed me one day. I was just a kid, but you know how some things kind of stick in your mind. Believe me, with my background with my real old man and lady—you know what I’m talking about—fights, beer and drugs were lots more common in my home than any Scriptures, I can promise you that. So it took a while after I came to the Brightons’ before I paid much attention to this whole Scripture thing. There were lots of times when the Scriptures went way over my head. But there was this one time when Dad said something that I remembered: “The Spirit itself bears witness with our spirit that we are the children of God. And he will send angels to bear us up.” I’ve always believed that. Don’t know why, it doesn’t make any sense, but sometimes it’s almost like I felt their presence, angels, old friends, standing at my side. So I just figured, you know, if we’re going to find my family, if we’re going to get you home to your wife, we could use a little help.”

  Bono was amazed. “I love your faith,” he said.

  Sam shrugged. “Is that what that is?”

  Sam searched the house. Five minutes later, he found a letter on his father’s desk in the study. Sara had placed it underneath a set of Scriptures with the corner of the paper poking out, his name on it. The note was dated just a few days before.

  Dear Sam:

  Time is short. We feel a sense of urgency to get moving now that we have decided wh
at to do, so this letter will be not be long. More, the things I really want to tell you, I want to say face-to-face when I can hold you and tell you how much I love you, how proud I am of you, and how much you mean to me, to our entire family. Because of this, and for other reasons I can’t go into right now, this letter will be fairly brief and to the point.

  First, I want you to know that we have tried to call you, left you email, messages at the army, everything we could think of to get in touch with you. Having not been able to talk to you since the explosion in the city, I leave you this letter with a prayer that you will find it, that you are OK and healthy, and that we all will very soon see you again.

  By now you must know that your father is dead. We know that he was on duty at the White House when the nuclear detonation took place. Although we don’t know for certain, it appears that he didn’t even make it into the underground command post. Most of those who made it didn’t survive anyway—the floors and ceilings collapsed, trapping many inside. There was a fire, it wasn’t pretty, though a few people did escape. Two days after the explosion we got a short letter from our good friend General May. (He had to send it by private messenger.) He said Neil was last seen at his desk, calling the Pentagon to warn them of the impending attack. That was just seconds before the detonation. It appears he waited too late to seek out shelter.

  Your father died trying save the lives of others. Tell me, does that surprise you? Frankly, I would have been surprised if it hadn’t ended that way.

  He loved you, Sam, I hope you know that. From the first time he saw you, he felt that you were one of his sons. He would often talk about the strange path God took in order to bring you to our family. He also understood that the bonds of family must have started before this life. You have been as much a part of our family as any of our other sons. Ammon and Luke look to you as their older brother, and in many ways, you are now the leader of our family. I know that’s kind of a bummer, putting all that on you right now, but it’s just how it is.

  The rest of us are OK. A couple of days before the attack on D.C. we were warned to leave the city. We took what we could and left, and were well clear of danger by the time of the attack. It was a miracle, Sam, it really was, how the Spirit warned us to leave. The afternoon of the explosion, I had scheduled a lunch appointment with a friend at Union Station—Luke and Ammon would have been downtown on the campus—we all would have been in the center of the explosion—I just don’t what know what might have been.

  We were saved by the Spirit, and we continue to feel His gentle guidance in our lives and the decisions we must make.

  It’s been a week since the explosion. We’ve done all we can do here and have spent the last few days just wondering what to do. Last night I got the answer. We are heading west to Salt Lake City. But the funny thing is—and I haven’t said this to anyone, not even Ammon or Luke—I don’t think we’re going to get there. Something’s going to happen on the way. What it is or what we will do, I don’t know for certain. We’ll take it one step a time and see what happens, always relying on the Lord.

  I do know this, however: He didn’t bring us to this point to fail. He didn’t protect us for no purpose. There are great days still ahead.

  So, Captain Brighton! (Yes, General May sent us word in the same message that he told us about your dad), don’t lose faith or give up hope. This is not the end, but the beginning. There is so much left to do yet, so many happy days still ahead. I know it won’t be easy. I simply can’t imagine ever being happy without Neil, but that is my challenge now, and I’ll do the best I can. I’ll say the words, even when I don’t see how they could be true. I’ll keep my faith and keep on going, believing there is a purpose and some happiness yet to live.

  We will be on the road for six or seven days, depending on how it goes. We have our cell phones. You can call us. If not, try to reach us in SLC. I’m leaving a home phone and address where we’ll be staying at the bottom of this page. Try to reach us there.

  In closing, let me tell you what I told Luke and Ammon just a few hours ago. It isn’t fair that your father died. Believe me, no one understands that more than I. But sometimes life isn’t fair. God never promised that only the evil ones would die in these days. Even the good, sometimes especially the good, will be asked to sacrifice. I think there is more to come, maybe much more, a few heartaches, I suppose, but some incredibly good things are coming too. There will be more opportunities to help and teach other people than we’ve ever had before.

  Sam, you are the fulfillment of Scripture. I know that might not mean a lot to you, and you may not understand what that means right now, but you were sent into this day for a reason and a purpose. You are a light unto the world. You were sent here to be a savior of men.

  It won’t be easy. It never is. But the things you’re going to do, the good you’re going to do, the good you have already done, it staggers me, leaving me weak but so, so proud.

  Find us, Sam. Whether in Utah or en route, find us. We will need you. Do for us what you can.

  Until that time, know how much I love you. Keep the faith. Say your prayers. NO ONE loves you more than God does, but I love you pretty close.

  Mom

  Sam sat on the edge of the leather couch and read the letter over again. Bono stood near the doorway, giving him time. After reading it the third time, he passed it to Bono.

  While Bono read, Sam found another piece of paper on the neatly tidied desk, a note that Luke had hidden under Sara’s letter, which read:

  Sammy, dude, you Cherokees or Sioux or whatever your top-secret, he-man Special Forces unit is called these days are REALLY hard to get a hold of. Like Mom said, we’ve tried everything to get in contact with you, but nothing yet. (By the way, I read her letter. Three-pages long. Good thing she said she’d keep it brief, huh.)

  Anyway, it’s been a hard couple days, Sam, and I get the feeling we might not be on the back end of the storm. Things have gotten kind of weird here. Like REALLY kind of weird. As you can see from Mom’s letter, we’re heading west. Try to contact us when you can. I’d really like to talk to you.

  By the way, the main reason I am writing is to tell you that I made it over the ledge on that rock down on the Potomac River. You know, the one you couldn’t get over when you tried, the one with the six-foot ledge that juts almost straight out. Yeah, I did it. And I did it without a rope. Let’s see you do that, dude. I’ll tell you the story sometime. It was an interesting experience.

  Ammon says to tell you he’s up to 248 in the bench press. I’ve never seen him do it, but that’s what he says.

  We miss you and love you. Dad was proud of you. We’re proud of you, too.

  Hugs and kisses,

  Your studly bros

  Sam read the letter, smiled, then read it again. Then he began to chuckle, the laughter building into great, heaving sobs. Tears of relief, joy, and pain combined together and streamed down his face.

  “What is it?” Bono asked him, reaching for the note.

  Sam passed it to him. “Just my stupid little brothers,” he stuttered with relief. “You said your family has a lot of storage?” Bono asked when Sam had finally stopped laughing.

  “Pretty much,” Sam answered.

  “They kept it in the basement?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of a dungeon down there. You know these old homes—walk-out, sunlit basements weren’t the norm.”

  Bono looked satisfied. “That’s good. It actually gives me some hope.” He stomped his foot on the floor. “Thick walls. Thick foundations. These houses were built to last five hundred years. It might be enough . . . .”

  Sam watched him carefully, not sure of what he meant.

  “Do you think your parents had an emergency radio in their storage?”

  “I’m sure they did. But with the EMP, it won’t matter anyway.”

  “Maybe so. But let’s give it a try.”

  The two soldiers rooted around the basement. The cement and rock foundation was old
and dry and at least two feet thick. The house, built more than a hundred years before, had been designed for a former plantation owner and army officer as his summer home. The labor and materials were meticulous in quality even if growing old. The men found the two-year supply: jugs of water, cans of grain, all the normal stuff. A windup radio was sitting on a shelf at the back of the room. Bono wound it, turned it on, heard the static, and smiled. “Give me a few minutes with this,” he told Sam. “Take a final look around the house to make sure we haven’t missed anything, then we’ll make our plan.”

  Sam went through the house, looking for another message from his family, checking for any valuables that might have been left behind, making sure all the windows and doors were locked. Then he sat down on the sofa. Bono had brought the radio upstairs and tinkered with it some more. Now he switched it off and turned to Sam.

  “You realize what’s happened, don’t you, Sam?” he started.

  “You mean with what . . . my family . . . ?”

  “No. I’m talking bigger picture now. Last night, the loss of power.”

  “An EMP, I thought we decided.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. A world-class blast of destructive electromagnetic power. Anything unprotected that’s electronic, it takes it out. Fries the circuits through and through. It’s a miracle, if you ask me, that this radio is still working, but these thick walls must have been enough to blunt the pulse.

  “So far, I’ve only been able to pick up one station, a government emergency broadcast. Right now it’s repeating the same message again and again, nothing live, just the same recording. Yes, it was an EMP. Four nuclear detonations, evenly spaced across the entire United States. They won’t say yet, but I know what that means. A single detonation, at the right altitude, and with enough power, would have been enough to take out most of the country. With four, they would have reached from central Canada to central Mexico, which means that what we see here is pretty much what we’re going to find across the nation.”