Hell's Fortress

by Michael Wallace

  He grabbed the remaining horse. Below them, torches and flashlights were flickering to life. Eliza turned the horse around and rode in the opposite direction from the lights. The others followed.

  They finally had some luck as they rode along the foothills. Instead of being forced back into the mountains, a second road led down into the town, this one trending north. As they trotted down darkened streets lined with little brick houses, people appeared on porches to watch. Many of them were armed. But nobody challenged them. The pursuit was searching for them back up the mountain highway, but no word appeared to have reached this part of town.

  Before long they were on the ranch roads north of town and searching for a way west to cross the freeway and flee into the western desert. Still no challenges.

  “Don’t they have a way to raise the general alarm?” Grover asked.

  “They’re idiots,” Miriam said. “So no, it appears they don’t.”

  “We could have helped,” Eliza said. “If only Gibson hadn’t been so blasted unreasonable. We could have shown them how to organize a defense.”

  “Instead, here we are on stolen horses with stolen food and stolen firearms,” Trost said. “Fugitives. Nice work.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  “We got away, didn’t we?” Miriam said.

  “Not yet we haven’t.”

  “And with a minimum of bloodshed too. Liz, did you kill that guy?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.”

  “There you go,” Miriam said.

  “You think that matters?” he said. “They’ll be after us, don’t you worry. And plenty of people saw us riding north. Even if we get out of town, we’re not in the clear.”

  “We’ll ride all night,” Eliza said. “Once we get in the desert, we can hold our own.”

  “Stop avoiding the issue,” he said. “If someone pulled a stunt like this in Blister Creek we’d hunt them to the ends of the earth. You turned us into thieves and bandits. No better than Joe Kemp.”

  “I’m not trying to avoid it. This is not what I wanted. Miriam is out of control. Believe me, I know.”

  “Please stop fighting,” Grover said.

  Miriam snorted. “By out of control you mean pulling our chestnuts out of the fire while everyone else sat around chatting? You’re welcome, no thanks necessary.”

  “I should have known it was your fault,” Trost said. “Sorry, Eliza. Of course it was her, not you.”

  “Please,” Grover said. “They’re going to catch us.”

  “Grover’s right,” Eliza said. “We keep arguing and we’ll find nooses around our necks. What do you think, left at the next intersection?”

  They picked their way west in silence. They crossed the freeway, dark and empty. On the opposite side, ranch houses gave way to flat dirt roads. Alfalfa fields, grazing land. Finally, sagebrush and rabbit grass, then the flat desert plain. Still they continued.

  When morning broke, they’d penetrated the desert hills many miles west of the city. It was dry, barren land, with rattlesnakes underfoot and patient, circling vultures overhead. Finding water for man and beast would be difficult.

  But Eliza’s heart lifted with the sun as they rode toward the brown, shimmering Indian Peak Range on the other side of the Escalante Desert.

  War, famine, disease, bandits, a barren wasteland—nothing could stop her now. Steve was out there and she was going to find him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the third day after leaving Colorado City, Kemp had climbed into the mountains on the opposite side from Cedar City. He’d entered the dunes on the first night, followed the highway north the following day, then spent another night camping in the desert. On the third afternoon the highway lifted him into cooler elevations. In late afternoon he discovered a luxurious log home next to a crystalline mountain lake. He left his rifle with the horse, drew his Beretta, and approached the house.

  There was nothing of value inside. Not that he needed food, thanks to Shepherd and Alacrán, but after two lean years he’d developed the finely tuned senses of a scavenger. People appeared to have squatted in the house over the winter. In a shed around back, he discovered what remained of them, more than a dozen bodies, thin and starved. And stinking. He shut the shed door and turned away, fighting nausea and anger.

  What kind of world was this? People starving—children, even—and yet in Blister Creek they sat down every night to dinners of roast chicken, potatoes, and gravy. No, they weren’t responsible for this crisis, but maybe if people in general weren’t so damn selfish there would be enough for everyone.

  Kemp came around to where his two horses were grazing on what remained of the front lawn. Even though he’d been changing mounts, three days of riding had left the animals exhausted. Especially the chestnut mare; she could use a day grazing at the lake and resting. And maybe he could spare it; the roadside campfire he’d spotted earlier in the day was two days cold. Even on foot his quarry had made remarkable strides climbing the mountain road. He didn’t think he’d catch them before they got to Cedar City on the other side of the mountains. Better to enter the desert well rested.

  He eyed the abandoned vehicles in the driveway. Too bad he couldn’t drive out of here. But if the inside of the house was scavenged clean, what chance did he have of finding gas in one of the trucks?

  Boot prints.

  There they were, stomped in the dirt on the driveway. It hadn’t rained in a few days and they were still clear. Kemp measured one of his boots against them. He identified at least three different prints, maybe four, one of which belonged to either a woman or a younger boy. He’d bet anything that it belonged to one of the Christianson women. Could be Jacob’s sister, or the one who’d drawn a gun on him when he was standing over his mother’s dead body.

  He drew his gaze up the driveway, where he made an even more startling discovery: a large rectangle on the pavement. It was a cleaner spot where a missing vehicle had sat without moving for months. The vehicle was now missing.

  “You bastards. You grabbed a set of wheels, didn’t you?” He took a closer look. The other trucks had their gas caps removed. “And enough gas to drive out of here. Damn.”

  Kemp came around the truck and drew short in surprise. A man jogged down the highway toward the house, coming from the direction of Cedar City. He wore a light backpack and carried a rifle. He spotted Kemp and staggered to a halt. He lifted his rifle and fumbled with the safety. The two men were no more than forty feet apart.

  Kemp dropped to one knee as he drew his Beretta. His opponent was slow to bring his rifle to bear and this gave Kemp a chance to aim. He snapped off two shots.

  The other man collapsed. As he fell, Kemp got a good look at his face, now contorting in pain. A stranger.

  Kemp approached the man warily. He’d seen all manner of tricks among Islamist militias in the war. The enemy might have a bulletproof vest, be lying there uninjured and waiting, then produce a gun and blow off Kemp’s head when he got too close.

  But when Kemp rolled the man over, he forgot those worries. The man groaned in pain. His hands clutched at his stomach. Kemp dropped to his knees and pulled away the hands. The man’s guts looked like hamburger meat stirred up with a jar of strawberry jam.

  Kemp let out his breath. “Damn it. Why did you draw? I didn’t want to shoot you.”

  “I didn’t know, I—” The man stopped with a grimace.

  The man looked to be in his early thirties, with a receding hairline and auburn stubble on his chin. Slender, but with loose skin around his neck like a man who had once been huskier. Sweat drenched his clothing as if he’d been jogging for some time.

  “It didn’t have to go this way,” Kemp said. “What were you thinking?”

  “Thought you were . . . one of the polygs.”

  “Why would you think—? Wait, are they still up here?”
r />   “Don’t know. Escaped.”

  “You were hunting them?” Kemp asked. “Did they do something? Tell me, I’m not your enemy.”

  “Thieves. Gibson wants them dead. Please.”

  “He sent up one guy?”

  “There’s a reward.” He winced. “Need the food. Others searching desert. I thought . . . help me.”

  Ah, so this man had set off on his own. No doubt the fundamentalists had continued west. Christianson’s sister was on her way to Los Angeles. But this particular man thought maybe they’d doubled back to the east to lose the pursuit. Not a crazy idea.

  What was crazy was thinking he’d take them on his own. And on foot so many miles from town. Kemp was one person and had easily taken this man down. What chance would the man have had against the four from Blister Creek? Zero.

  Another groan from the injured man. “Don’t let me die. Please.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. You came around the corner so fast, and then you were drawing your rifle. What was I supposed to do? Man’s got to protect himself.”

  “Need a doctor.” His face was turning white with shock.

  “The one doctor I know only takes care of his own. He wouldn’t help you. And he’s a three-day ride from here anyway.” Kemp shook his head sadly. “There’s nothing I could do.”

  “I can’t die. My kids, if I don’t work—”

  Kemp couldn’t take any more. Before the man could finish that thought, explain why it was so important that he, in particular, live, he sprang to his feet and paced back toward the horses. Behind him, the man stopped talking and cried out in pain.

  Dammit. Why?

  When Kemp reached his horses, back to grazing now that they’d calmed from the noise of the gunshots, he turned around and looked at the poor fool writhing on the ground. Kemp was no medic, but he’d seen plenty in the war. The man was as good as dead. His body may not know it, may struggle on for an hour or two, but it was inevitable.

  He drew his rifle from its holster on the mare’s saddle and pulled back the bolt to chamber a round. The M40 had an effective range of almost one thousand feet, but the injured man was only thirty feet away. Kemp didn’t bother fishing out the scope. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  It’s a mercy. It will save him pain.

  The man lifted his head to look for Kemp. When he saw the rifle, he stared.

  Kemp squeezed the trigger. The 7.62 mm round took off the man’s forehead. The rifle shot rolled through the mountains, echoing for several long seconds. The man lay motionless on the ground in a mess of brains and blood.

  It was with a heavy heart that Kemp walked back up the road to squat by the dead man and search his possessions. His bag held a canteen and some homemade fruit leather—apricot by the smell of it. A box of shells and two books of matches. A hunting knife in a sheath. And a wallet.

  Inside the wallet Kemp found several hundred dollars (worthless), credit cards (worthless), and a Utah driver’s license. Andrew La Salle. Thirty-three years old. Five foot eleven, 220 pounds. Two hundred twenty? Not recently.

  La Salle. Kemp had a buddy from the army with that name. He hadn’t looked anything like this guy, but the name took Kemp back to Iran. The shelling, the gunfire, the death everywhere. He pocketed the wallet and stood looking down at the dead man. What a waste of life.

  After a few minutes of consideration, Kemp hoisted La Salle’s body over the back of his spare horse and tied him down. It wasn’t sentimentality over the shared name with his army buddy that made him do it, and it wasn’t guilt. He’d begun to form a plan.

  The horse flared its nostrils and danced around before Kemp could calm it. When he had, he retrieved the dead man’s rifle, climbed into the saddle of the other horse, and set off again.

  Kemp crossed the summit after dark and fought his way downhill another two miles before stopping for the night. He slept a few yards from the dead body to keep it safe from scavengers. An animal kept snuffling through camp—maybe a bear—and he slept fitfully, his pistol under his bedroll. When he did sleep, he dreamed about his dead buddies from the war: Bentley, Eibling, Harlow. And La Salle, with his round glasses and the harmonica he’d play at night to calm their nerves. He’d been playing that harmonica at the campfire one night when the mortar rounds came flying into the base. One minute La Salle was there, the next there was nothing. Kemp found the man’s glasses the next morning about thirty feet away from their campfire. Not broken, not so much as scratched.

  The following morning, Kemp discovered that what he’d taken for the top had only been a false summit, and another climb, this time through snow-covered heights, awaited him. It was midmorning before he reached the true summit and late afternoon before he rode down from the foothills into the outskirts of Cedar City. He rounded a switchback and came upon a cemetery with hundreds of fresh graves. Three men with rifles were lurking in the scrub oak and shouted a challenge as he approached.

  He dismounted with his hands held high. When they approached and discovered the dead body, he shared a sad story. Kemp had sent La Salle into an abandoned home to forage for food while he checked out the vehicles to see if they had any salvageable fuel. The polygamists had ambushed them and murdered La Salle in cold blood.

  The gunmen listened with their faces hardening into skepticism. La Salle they may know, but who the hell was this guy?

  “Name is Joe Kemp. I’m an army scout and sniper. Been watching Blister Creek for a long time. I know where they went. Let me talk to Gibson. You let me see him and I swear to God I’ll bring these fundies to justice.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jacob was at the cabin at Yellow Flats, trying to raise St. George or Cedar City on the shortwave, when two men came galloping down the dirt road from the direction of the highway. His wife, Fernie, sat at a card table on the porch, transplanting tomato seedlings. Other women and teenagers worked around the property taking plants out of Sister Rebecca’s greenhouse or turning spades in the vegetable garden. It was time to take a risk and do some planting. Other women worked at an old-fashioned loom or dipped tallow candles.

  Fernie was the first to spot the men on horseback. “Riders!”

  Jacob snatched up his rifle and shouted for the women and children to arm themselves. The Kellen boys came running in from the fields, abandoning their plow and mule team. Within moments, the cabin bristled with weapons. Then Rebecca, binoculars raised, called out that it was two of their own. Safeties clicked and rifles lowered.

  The only news that came by galloping horse was bad news, so Jacob turned off the radio, which crackled with static, and came down from the porch. Work resumed behind him. The riders stopped near the creek, their horses lathered and blowing, and waited for him to approach. It was Stephen Paul and Jacob’s brother David.

  David slid out of the saddle and Stephen Paul followed, but stiffly, with a hand at his back. Yesterday, in surgery, Jacob had removed a splinter of wood from the erector spinae muscles in his lower back.

  David wiped sweat and dust from his face. “We tried to signal you from the cliffs. I must have flashed fifty times.”

  Batteries were scarce and Jacob only used the hand radios in an emergency, but they’d worked out a system for flashing mirrors in the daytime, and blinking electric lights at night. From the Ghost Cliffs you could signal the northern edge of the valley (including Yellow Flats), then to the temple spire in the center of town, and from there anywhere in the valley.

  “I wasn’t watching,” he admitted. “I’ve been on the shortwave trying to get through to Cedar City. What’s going on?”

  “There are strangers at the reservoir,” David said. “Squatters.”

  The reservoir? That was above the northern edge of the valley, which Jacob had assumed was still sealed by the quarantine.

  “We rode up to check out the dam,” David continued. “The smaller turbine h
as been acting funky. We thought we’d have a ride around the reservoir while we were at it.”

  “That’s when we found the camp,” Stephen Paul said.

  “How many are we talking about?” Jacob asked. “Like Kemp’s group?”

  David shrugged. “Maybe twice as big? Hard to say. We didn’t stick around to count. Two men whipped out guns the moment they caught sight of us.”

  “You know the old picnic area on the north side?” Stephen Paul said. “They’re dug in pretty good. Fishing, hunting. Pitched tents and lean-tos. Someone is building a cabin out of a couple of turned-over wagons.”

  Jacob let out his breath. Where had they come from? Panguitch was the nearest town to the north, and it had been abandoned since last fall. So had all the ranching and farming communities throughout south central Utah on this side of the mountains. The nearest population center was—where?—the Green River refugee camp? Suddenly, he had his answer.

  “Want me to gather the quorum?” Stephen Paul asked. “Most of the men are in town already. I can fetch the others quick enough. We could meet in the temple this afternoon.”

  “If we do that, Smoot will agitate to send a raiding party and drive them off.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Stephen Paul said. “And maybe he’d be right. Remember what happened with the school bus? Smoot’s son is dead, another son missing.”

  “That was a drone attack, not the fault of the refugees. We told them to leave and they left.”

  “You bribed them to leave,” David said. “We can’t do that every time.”

  “No, we can’t,” Jacob admitted. “And it seems that the quarantine is lifting or these people wouldn’t be so close. This might be only the beginning.”

  “What is today, May thirty-first?” Stephen Paul asked. “It’s been four days since the school bus showed up. These squatters at the reservoir have been there at least a week, based on what I saw. I can’t figure out what drew them here. It’s the middle of nowhere.”