“Okay, fair enough. My say is I never want to see those people again in my life. Except maybe in court or jail.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Did you say there was stew?”
“I did.”
“And water?”
“By the pitcherful.”
GR3 1.0
IT WAS A flip phone, not smart at all, but it had a full charge. Tim handed it to her and said, “All set and everything?”
Ginger huddled in her borrowed parka. Tim was a big man, a plain fact that she nevertheless kept returning to with a sense of wonder. Tall and wide, as big as an NFL linebacker (but without the gut) or an Olympic weightlifter. She could use his old parka for a sleeping bag. She patted the pocket where she’d put the .38, grabbed her rucksack, and said, “Let’s go.”
“You sure you’re up to it? Town’s a long ride.”
“Let’s just go.”
The day was cold but not too cold. Tim’s snowmachine was a relatively late model Arctic Cat, and she resisted the impulse to brag that her dad sold those in Wallis. There was no need to be sociable. She’d thank this man for his help once he safely delivered her to town, and not before. He started the machine and mounted the seat; he almost took up the whole thing. She got on behind him and held on and they were off.
She didn’t recognize the countryside around her until the trail crested a wooded ridge and she saw Stubborn Mountain in the distance, maybe ten miles (6 km) away. Tim followed the ridge to a promontory overlooking a ravine where he stopped and turned off the engine.
“Here’s usually good and everything.”
Ginger dismounted and backtracked a few yards of trail for privacy. The borrowed phone displayed a single bar. It would have to do. She punched in her family’s phone number, the landline, with numb fingers. It rang on the other end for a long time, maybe twenty rings, before someone picked up.
Hello?
“Mom?”
Ginger? Oh, thank You, Jesus; it’s you. Are you all right? Where are you?
Before Ginger could reply, the sound was muffled and she could hear her mother calling for her father. Urgently, desperately, and Ginger wondered what her father was doing at home at that hour. Why wasn’t he at the store? She suddenly realized that she didn’t even know what day of the week it was. Maybe it was Sunday when the store was closed. In a few moments they were both on speakerphone.
Tell me you’re all right, her father said by way of greeting.
Ginger could feel all of her bruises, though they didn’t feel that bad, especially after the bumpy ride she’d just taken.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine. Are you all right?”
Cindy said, Tell us where you are.
But Rex cut her off. No, don’t tell us. They might be listening in. Just tell us if you’re in a safe place.
“Who might be listening in?”
There was a brief argument, of which she understood little, and her father said, Are you in a safe place?
Ginger glanced at Tim still sitting on his snowmachine, humming to himself, watching heavy clouds on the horizon.
“Yes, I guess so. What —”
Are you still where you were the last time we talked?
“You mean with the —”
No, don’t say their name.
Cindy said, You’re wasting time, Rex. Just talk to her. They already know about that family, and they might cut the line any moment.
“What’s going on?” Ginger demanded. “Who are you talking about? Are you okay?”
Rex said, We’re good for now. Rory’s in an internment camp, but we can visit him twice a week, and he’s okay.
“Rory’s in a what?” It was finally sinking in. It was finally happening, the worst-case Sunday-school nightmare, the end of everything she knew, of her life itself.
Please, don’t interrupt. They picked him up because he spoke out against Obama’s state of martial law.
“What are you talking about?”
Quiet, please. There’s no time, and I won’t be able to get through all this. They’re probably listening, but I have to tell you as much as I can. Don’t you get any news at all? The whole country is in a state of emergency. They’re starting to require loyalty pledges just to get food rations! You need a permit to leave town!
She heard her mother in the background telling him not to be shouting so loud.
More calmly, The roads are filled with soldiers. They raid houses in the middle of the night and confiscate all the guns they find. That’s not going over too well with the locals, as you can imagine. They grab people at work or in public and even while at church! But you know Alaskans: people are ending up dead every day of the week and twice on Friday nights. They even took the . . .
His voice turned from the phone.
“Daddy! What did you say? What’s going on?”
Her mother said, They took our neighbors away, the Brinks family?
And Governor Tetlin and her husband and daughter, Rex added. They arrested the governor, and some say they executed her!
How are you, dear? Cindy said. Are you all right? We were so worried.
“I’m good. I’m good. Don’t worry about me.” She had intended to give them a preview of the horrors she’d suffered at the hands of the Prophecys, but that would have to wait. “What did you say about Rory?”
He mouthed off to a civil defense officer and —
Let me talk, Rex said, regaining control of himself. Listen, honey, you know your mother and I were never too thrilled with you staying so long out there with those strange people, but it looks like maybe that was in God’s plan for you. The important thing is —
“I’m not with them anymore,” Ginger said. “They were awful, awful people, and I left and now I’m . . . someplace else.”
Good. That’s good; that’s even better because I think that family is on some sort of hit list. They asked me about them. They interrogated me — twice. I don’t know why they let me go. They’ve already arrested Bishop Thornby and half our church. They kept me in the church basement for two days. It wasn’t so bad, but it worried your mother. I don’t know why they let me go; I don’t know why they picked me up in the first place, except that I’m a Christian. They told your mother — honey, tell her what they told you.
Cindy said, They told me that if I didn’t renounce Jesus as my savior, they’d put me on trial.
“Who told you that? Mom? Who?”
Rex said, McHardy isn’t safe; no town or village is. Try to find a safe place to hide out. Don’t trust any news program — it’s all lies! Pray for us but don’t call again. We should hang up now; we’ve been talking too long. Love you.
Love you, Cindy said. Love you.
The line went dead.
Tim restarted the engine. She must have appeared pretty shaken up because he gave her a concerned look and said, “Everything all right at home and everything?”
“No, everything’s not all right.”
“You want I should take you to the Cobweals’ now?”
She’d heard about the McHardy hotelier but never met him and didn’t know if he was a Christian or not. He had to be one, right? Her dad knew him. But her dad told her that towns weren’t safe. She could go to the Bunyans. They were good people, and Chas was there. But the elder Bunyan was a pastor, and if this was the work of the Antichrist, the Bunyan family would be at the top of the hit list. Chas, with his status as active Naval officer, might even be a special target for arrest.
“Too late,” she said, “Take me back to your place. If that’s all right.”
Tim looked bewildered. His big, open face was quite expressive, given its size and the bushiness of his beard. It was his eyes, crinkled up with care and confusion, that spoke the loudest.
GR4 1.0
REX WAS IN the office juggling phone calls while pulling together 2012 tax stuff for the CPA. Over the intercom Barbie told him a call from his daughter was on line six.
“Ginger?�
�� he said, stabbing the button. “Are you there?”
Hi, Dad! Yes, here I am.
“Is everything all right?”
Everything’s fine. I called the house, but the line was busy and I didn’t want to leave another message.So relax, seriously, Dad.
“Okay. Sorry. Are you in McHardy?”
No, actually, there’s a lookout ridge much closer than town where cell reception is good enough. I’m looking over the back of the Chugach Range even as we speak.
“How is everything out there with that family? Are they treating you all right, or are you ready to come home?”
Slow down, Dad, take a breath . . . I mean it; I’ll wait . . . Okay, now just listen, okay? Don’t interrupt.
So, Bishop Thornby at our church teaches that we must be prepared for the End Times because we’ll probably live to experience them. Right?
“Not in so many words, but go on.”
It’s taken me a while to see it for myself, but ever since the Skyburn, it seems pretty obvious that the Prophecy family is on the right track. I’m not saying that Pastor Poppy — that’s what we settled on I should call him instead of ‘lord’ like everyone else — I’m not saying Pastor Poppy is right about everything, or even most things, but in my opinion he is right about the timing of the End Times, meaning now, and he has put together a most amazing refuge — get this — inside a mountain.
“Ginger, what are you talking about?”
Hush! Shhh! Don’t interrupt. I’m talking about an old abandoned copper mine. We’ve been living inside it full time for a couple of weeks now. It’s just totally amazing. They have enough supplies stashed here to last well more than seven years. In fact, and this is why I’m calling, Dad . . .
I’ve grown so close to them they consider me part of the family, and they grieve that me and my people, meaning you and Mom and Rory and Keagan, are going to needlessly perish out there in Wallis when it doesn’t have to happen that way.
So they came to me the other day and asked me to stay with them when they throw the bolt. Before I could say anything, they went on to say the invitation includes you guys too.
Her voice cracked with emotion. His daughter was crying in his ear. He was paralyzed with longing.
So, what I’m saying is for you guys to think about it. So, what do you say? Dad?
“Uh,” he said. “That’s a lot to process all at once.”
I’m sorry.
“No, no, I’m glad you called. Uh, the Skyburn was impressive, no doubt about it, but I’ve seen a number of solid scientific explanations for it online. I mean, it was a form of the aurora, right? A rare light show, for sure, but not one I’d —”
Dad, you’re missing the point!
“What’s the point?”
The point is Pastor Prophecy saw the Skyburn in his mind during prayers and told us about it. He described it in detail. This was two weeks before it actually happened. When he told us about it, I thought he’d gone off his rocker, but Deut tells me his visions tend to be right most of the time.
The point is Pastor Prophecy foretold the Skyburn. He is so sure of his vision about the End Times that he’s moved his family into a mine. I believe him, and I so much want you to believe him too and come out here with us.
There passed several moments of silence. Then,
Dad? I’ll have to go soon. My battery is beeping at me.
“Yes, yes, I heard you. It’s just I don’t know what to say. Except, are you sure you haven’t been there long enough? I think I should fly in there and get you. Or you could come out on the next mail flight, and we’ll pick you up in Glennallen. How’s that sound?”
It sounds like a mistake, Dad, but if you say so I’ll obey. You’re still my father and all. But I have a better idea. Let’s make a deal, okay?
Another wave of nostalgia. His daughter was a famous deal-maker from the age of seven or eight.
“What’s the deal?” he said.
My battery’s going fast, so it’s take it or leave it. Pastor Prophecy had another vision just yesterday. Sometime soon, this week probably, there’ll be another strange light in the sky. Like a new star or something. Everyone will freak out big time. So let’s wait a week; if there’s no new light in the sky, I come out the following mail flight. If the light does appear, then —”
The line went dead. Redialing brought up her voicemail box, which was maxed out.
GR5 1.0
GINGER SAT AT the small table and gazed around the room as she waited for Tim to return. After her astonishing phone call to her parents, when she asked Tim if she could come back here, he asked if someone was coming out to pick her up.
“No,” she had said. “No one’s coming for me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, and I need some time to think.”
“Well, I have some chores to take care of today,” he replied. “You can come back with me till you figure things out, or I can take you to the Sulzers’. They’re good people; maybe they’ll let you stay.”
“No, that’s the first place they’ll look for me.”
That got his attention. “Um, who’s looking for you?”
She wasn’t sure. The Antichrist’s thugs, whoever they were, the tyrants who already took over Alaska. She didn’t know what to tell him. She had to think.
It was well past noon when they returned to Tim’s cabin. He invited her to make herself some lunch while he fetched water from the creek. Then he went out and didn’t return. After a long while, Ginger got up and went to the windows, both of them, to see if she could see him in the twilight. His snowmachine was right where he’d parked it after her phone call. He was nowhere in sight.
After a while she rose again to light a lamp. There were three kerosene lamps with tall glass chimneys, of the sort her parents used in their remote cabin and called hurricane lamps for some unknown reason. She heated up water in a metal tub, and peeled off her clothes, one by one, to inspect her bruises by lamplight and give herself a quick sponge bath. Though, remarkably she wasn’t rank at all. Had she lost her sense of smell? And for someone who had awakened that morning in agony, had not taken so much as a Tylenol for pain, and went on a rough snowmachine ride, she felt pretty good.
When she went to the window again, she caught a glimpse of someone approaching the cabin on the snowmachine trail. It was Tim hauling a long toboggan by hand, leaning into it with all of his considerable weight. The toboggan was stacked with five-gallon (19-l) plastic jerry jugs, a dozen of them. Why on Earth wasn’t he using the snowmachine for that? That’s what snowmachines were for.
A little while later he came in and seemed startled when he noticed her, like he’d forgotten about her being there. It made her feel self-conscious, like he was saying, Sorry, what was your deal again?
“Would you like some dinner?” she asked without thinking. “After all that work.”
Ginger heard herself say this and was mortified. It was something her mother might say to placate her dad, and she despised it, but it had slipped out on its own, like a defensive block.
Apparently, it sounded off to Tim too. “Figured out the kitchen, did you?” he said, glancing around.
Ginger followed his gaze around the small space where a Coleman two-burner white gas camping stove stood on a little counter next to a sink that drained into a slop bucket. Two plastic tubs on a stand. A blue-and-white Coleman ice cooler below an open cupboard that stored four-each plates, bowls, glasses, and mugs. What was there to figure out?
She’d spent half the time waiting for him fixing herself something to eat. A whole can of pinto beans with cheese on Pilot Bread. Peanut butter on Pilot Bread. A can of syrupy fruit cocktail. A whole can of Spam on Pilot Bread. She was eating him out of house and home, but she couldn’t help herself; she had a bottomless yawning pit to backfill. And as hungry as she was, she was twice as thirsty. She drank a gallon (3.8 l) of water and had to pee only once. Felt a lot better, too.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not? Make myself useful whi
le I’m here.”
But when she looked back, he wasn’t where he’d been standing. He had moved to the opposite side of the room without making a sound, astonishing for such a large man, and was busy measuring the wall and floor under the sleeping loft with a tape measure. He’d already scooched aside the pallet where she had awakened.
Finished taking measurements, Tim went to the door. “Come on,” he said, “and I’ll show you the larder. It’s in the wannigan.”
The “wannigan” was actually a whole second cabin that adjoined the original along one side. It was just as large and served as an unheated storage space for his tools, gold mining gear, bulk food, and supplies. Drums and barrels lined the far wall. Its floor was the gravel pad that both cabins sat on, and you had to pass through it to enter the main cabin.
An insulated closet in one corner of the wannigan served as larder. Inside were stacks of cartons of butter, peanut butter, and other things that liked to stay cool, including a carton of 48 dozen eggs, cans of Crisco, and smoked moose ribs and hindquarter.
“That there’s already cut up,” he said, pointing to a Tupperware bowl, “and your spuds are over there. Carrots, onions, ’bagas.” He handed her a plastic pail. “I haven’t eaten anybody else’s cooking for . . .” he paused to do an accurate calculation, “four years and four months, except for an occasional pie from a neighbor, so I look forward to whatever you succeed in putting together and everything.”
He left her to it. She wasn’t sure how to take his last remark. Was he challenging her? When she carried the fixings through the wannigan in the plastic pail, he was still there, at the far end of the space, sorting lumber stored in the rafters.
In the center of the wannigan, an honest-to-goodness potbelly stove was perched on a stone pedestal. It had a roaring fire in its iron belly. Surrounding the stove was what looked like a woodworking/machine shop. A long sturdy work table, pegboards laden with tools, an anvil on an iron workbench, both from the copper mine. Tanks and welder’s tools. None of the tools, she noticed, were powered, either with batteries or AC. All were hand tools. It made sense probably, or was beginning to.
Glassing the Orgachine Page 24