Hell's Fortress

by Michael Wallace

  “Yes,” Jacob said.

  The elder blinked. “That was meant to be a blasted rhetorical question. Of course you don’t let her. Because you preside over your family. And that means you are the king and lord of your own house.”

  “As a general rule, I try not to think of myself as a king. Because my family are not my subjects.”

  “This is the reason,” Smoot said. “This is why a man should never have just one wife. You get a few of them together and they have an outlet for gossip and scheming. Figuring out who has authority, who rules the others. When you’ve only got one wife, her only outlet is her husband. She tries to rule him instead. You see the problem.”

  “Do we have to sit and listen to this patriarchal nonsense?” Rebecca asked from the other end of the table.

  “Elder Smoot is an elder in Israel,” Charity said. “The Lord’s anointed.”

  “The Lord’s self-appointed, you mean,” Rebecca said.

  Charity looked taken aback. “Show respect.”

  “He’s a man with a little authority who thinks the priesthood gives him the right to strut in here crowing like a rooster,” Rebecca continued. “We don’t have to listen to it.”

  The women, Jacob realized, had their own internal struggles. Arguments and personality conflicts ready to play out. What had their meeting looked like? How many women agreed with Fernie, and how many agreed with the men?

  “Excuse me,” he said. “There are fourteen of us in this room. If we all have a turn, we’ll never get anywhere.”

  “Jacob is right,” Fernie said. “The women came to a consensus. It took us hours of arguing. We’re not going to hash it out again. What we’re here for is to come to an agreement between the men and the women.”

  “Eliza is gone,” Jacob said. “And Fernie is her first counselor. She can speak on behalf of the women, and I’ll represent the men.”

  “I will note for the record that she is also your wife,” Rebecca said.

  “Is that a serious objection?” When Rebecca didn’t respond, Jacob looked around the table. “Anyone else? Okay, then. Fernie?”

  “Bottom line is, the women don’t want war,” Fernie said.

  “Neither do we,” Jacob said. “We don’t have a choice.”

  “We do have a choice. They haven’t attacked us, which means your war is preemptive. It’s voluntary. So long as they stay in the cliffs, we’re going to leave them alone.”

  “They’re poisoning the reservoir. That’s a form of attack.”

  “To catch fish, not to kill us. So no, it’s not.”

  “Same result, in the end.”

  “Did you ask them to stop?”

  “We had a battle, remember?”

  “Don’t use that tone, please. I know what happened.”

  “I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know who fired first, or how it started, but people died. I warned them, threatened them. They still haven’t left.”

  “Casualties were one-sided, as I recall. I’m sure they feel they’re in the right.”

  “Fernie, what are we supposed to do? They’re cutting our timber, their latrines are overflowing into our water supply. They’ll eat anything that moves. And they admitted that they’re waiting until their numbers grow large enough and then they’ll overrun the valley and take what they want. If we let them, we’ll all die.”

  “I say that’s a bluff.”

  “You haven’t seen the camp. You don’t know what we’re facing.”

  “I haven’t, but other women have. Lillian was with David, remember? She gave her report. We’re all aware of the grave and growing danger.”

  “And you’re still willing to take that chance? If you’re wrong, all of our homes, our land, our town that we built, will be destroyed. People are dying out there. Towns, cities. Entire countries. Starving to death while armies tear each other apart. Our only hope is to preserve our sanctuary and wait for it to end. Surely you agree with that. I know you believe the Lord has prepared Blister Creek as our refuge. So why can’t we defend it?”

  “I absolutely will defend it. Give me a gun and I will sit out on the porch in my wheelchair and shoot any man who threatens my family. But you’re talking about something else. You’re talking about killing people because of something that might happen. How can that possibly be right?”

  “It’s necessary. I’d never order an attack if I didn’t think so.”

  “Maybe it’s a test,” Fernie said. “Have you considered that?”

  “How do you mean?” Jacob asked, cautious.

  “The Lord has presented you two possibilities. First is violence, bloodshed. Second is peace. Faith that He will guard this sanctuary. That He will soften the hearts of our enemies.”

  “I don’t believe that. If that was the plan, why didn’t God turn away the Kimballs when they repeatedly tried to murder their way to power?”

  “Different time, different challenge. Those men were working for Satan. These people are hungry, innocent refugees.”

  “What do you want?” Jacob asked. “Spell it out. What should I do?”

  “Refortify the entrances to the valley. If they try to force their way in, drive them off. Until they do, leave them alone. That’s my advice.”

  “While they continue to foul our water supply.” Jacob shook his head. “What if I don’t do that? What if I order the Blister Creek Legion to attack the squatter camp anyway?”

  “Then the men will fight alone.”

  Stephen Paul cleared his throat. “May I ask a question?”

  His tone was reasonable. Jacob nodded.

  “Sister Fernie, what would you do if Jacob ordered you to fight, not in his name, but in the name of the Lord?”

  She looked Stephen Paul in the eye. “If my husband stood and said that he had prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to battle, then of course I would sustain him as prophet, seer, and revelator. I would order the women to march forth and utterly annihilate our enemies.”

  “Do it,” Elder Smoot told Jacob. “Raise your arm to the square and order these women to fight. Do it in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the King of Kings.”

  If Jacob did that, Fernie would know he was lying. He might force her compliance in this one case, but he would damage, perhaps destroy his marriage.

  And so Jacob ignored the suggestion. “Fernie, is this truly the consensus of the council, or your own decision?”

  “We voted,” she said. “Five votes for peace. Four for war. One woman abstained.”

  “So there wasn’t a consensus.”

  “The consensus was that we would go with the vote.”

  “But it was close,” he pressed. “And if Miriam were here, she’d vote to attack.”

  “I know.”

  “Eliza would too. That would make it six to five with one abstention. The motion would carry.”

  “But they’re not here. Anyway, I’m not so sure about Eliza. Probably, yes. She trusts you.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “Jacob, please. I love you, I support you. I would follow you to the gates of hell. I just . . . my conscience objects. I can’t do it.”

  “A woman,” Elder Smoot said in a disgusted tone, “will always vote for short-term safety over long-term security. That’s why a woman was never meant to exercise dominion over a man.”

  Jacob didn’t answer. He had no way to counter any of this. And part of him—yes, most of him—wanted to agree with the women. How could he order the deaths of starving refugees? What choice did he have? The squatters were growing in strength, growing bold even as their hunger and desperation spread. Increased numbers meant more fouling of the reservoir too. All too soon he’d be forced into action anyway. Inaction now would mean more killing in the end.

  “Thank you for your time, sisters.”

>   “That’s it?” David asked. He had remained quiet through all of this, his brow furrowed. “But we haven’t agreed on anything.”

  “Oh, I think we all understand,” Smoot said bitterly. “Brother Jacob is going to call another meeting of the quorum. Then he’s going to tell the priesthood body, the men chosen by the Lord, that he is bowing to the will of a gaggle of frightened wives and mothers.”

  “You’re wrong,” Jacob said. He looked not at Smoot as he said this, but at his wife. “Unfortunately, the reality is unchanged. While we’ve sat here arguing, more refugees have been streaming south from Green River to join the squatters. They grow more dangerous day by day. We’ve already wasted valuable time waiting for the Women’s Council to render its verdict. Now that we have it, we can’t wait any longer.”

  Fernie looked horrified. “Don’t do this, Jacob.”

  “I suggest you reconvene your meeting after we’re gone. If we fail, the men of the church will be dead and refugees will flood into the valley by the thousands. The women will need to mount a final defense of their homes and children. Prepare yourselves.”

  He thought of Grandma Cowley’s diary and the founding of Blister Creek. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Blister Creek ended in the same way it had begun? Women and their children, alone in a hostile wilderness.

  He rose to his feet and the three other men followed.

  “Wait, Jacob,” Fernie called. “Please, can we talk alone before you go?”

  “Leave him be, woman,” Smoot said. “He’s got enough weight on his shoulders without you adding to it. Come on, brothers.”

  “Jacob?”

  Jacob continued toward the door, ashamed that he was so frustrated, so twisted up inside that he couldn’t stop long enough to defend his wife against Elder Smoot. It was too much. All of it, more than he could bear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  For several moments Eliza and Steve stood embracing and she didn’t care about the smell, or his filthy clothes, or the fact that he was thin and bony. He was alive. That was enough for now.

  “I never expected to find you here.”

  Steve gave a thin smile. “Where else would we meet? I was heading east, and I assume you were on your way west to look for yours truly. It was either Vegas or nowhere.”

  His breath came out in a wheeze, and he was wobbly on his feet. The very act of standing and holding her seemed to cost him. What had those monsters done to him? And why?

  Steve looked over her shoulder at the other two. “Hey, Miriam. Good to see you again.”

  “And you. Alive, that’s nice to see. I wasn’t sure.” Miriam looked him over. “Of course you look like hell, you know.”

  He grinned back. “I’ve felt better too.” He took in the third member of the group. “Grover Smoot. Hey.” There was an obvious question in this last bit, as in, what the devil was he doing here?

  Miriam grabbed Grover’s arm and dragged him past Eliza and Steve and deeper into the room.

  When they were gone, Eliza looked into Steve’s eyes and put a hand on his bearded cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “I wanted to look for you, but the drones pinned us in the valley all winter. I only broke out a week ago.”

  “I figured it was something like that. You should have stayed. I’d be happier if you were safe.”

  “No way. My place is with you.” She felt suddenly shy and dropped her hand. “Do they give you anything to eat?”

  “Not since they brought us here, no. Those poor fools with the guns don’t even have food.”

  “Water?”

  “Sometimes. Never enough.”

  She took his hand and led him to the side of the room opposite the staring prisoners, where they sat down with their backs against the wall. Miriam and Grover had already leaned against the wall and slid to seated positions on the floor some distance away. Miriam studied the other prisoners. Grover looked at his hands.

  “I didn’t expect Miriam,” Steve said in a low voice. “Didn’t she have a baby? Is it okay?”

  “The baby is fine.”

  “And isn’t that one of Lillian Smoot’s brothers? Why him?”

  Eliza explained what had happened with the refugees and the drone attack. Instead of traveling with Lillian and Stephen Paul, she’d found herself on the road with Miriam, Grover, and Officer Trost. She told how they’d passed through the mountains and down to Cedar City, where Miriam had stolen horses and weapons. Then, about the flight into the deserts of Utah and Nevada.

  Steve chewed on his lip. “And Trost?”

  She shook her head. “There was a sniper. Miriam killed him. But not before Trost . . . he didn’t make it.”

  “Ah, crap. He was a good man.” He stopped, as if expecting her to fill in more details.

  But that was as much as she wanted to tell of the ordeals of the past week. Anyway, they seemed petty compared to the horrors her fiancé must have suffered the past nine months since he’d gone to California to help the FBI and promptly disappeared. Whatever he’d faced had sapped his vitality and left him this starving scarecrow.

  A muffled explosion sounded in one of the floors above them. The building shuddered and people curled into balls with their hands on their heads. A pair of acoustic tiles fell from the ceiling, then the building stopped shaking.

  “Are they shelling the building?” she asked.

  “Yeah, for about three days now. Today is the worst.”

  “The soldiers seemed to think someone spotted our caravan entering the parking garage.”

  “Could be. I figure it’s only a matter of time.”

  Until what? Until the building collapsed? Until a shell flew in the open window and vaporized them all?

  “Can’t the army fight them off?” she asked.

  “I don’t think they have the fuel for a major offensive. I’ve been looking out the window when it’s quiet, and most of the federal troops are on foot. They used to be coming in and out of this building, but most have moved to the mall across the street. It’s taken less damage. I keep hoping they’ll move us too.”

  “You said the shelling has been going on for three days. Were you here long before that?”

  “About a week. Before that, we were in Caesars Palace on the Strip. About a half mile from here.”

  “I’ve been there,” Eliza said, marveling. “That’s where one of my brothers worked when he was a Lost Boy.”

  “It’s rubble now. A pair of missiles flattened it. They evacuated us just in time. After that, they kept us in a warehouse for a couple of days, then they captured this building and moved us up here. They gave us each a full MRE when we arrived. Some people gulped theirs and puked them back up. I was lucky. A soldier warned me it would be the last time we ate in a while, so I made it last. He was right. They haven’t fed us since.”

  She was horrified. “Wait, I thought you said that was a week ago.”

  He gave a weary nod. “You don’t miss it after a while. The thirst is another matter.”

  Miriam rose to her feet a few yards away, apparently having scoped out the conference room to her satisfaction. She made her way over to the prisoners and engaged them in conversation. Grover stayed behind. He met Eliza’s gaze, then he looked away.

  Poor Grover. Miriam was so hard on him, and then Trost had died under horrific circumstances that may or may not have been the boy’s fault. He seemed incapable of pulling himself together.

  It hadn’t been that many years since Eliza was Grover’s age, anxious about finding her place in the community. Uncertain of her future.

  Steve lowered his voice. “He looks terrified.”

  “He is. He has been all along.” She took his hand. “What happened in California?”

  “I can’t remember how much I told you when I called.”

 
“Not much, only that Agent Fayer was in trouble and you needed to go to Los Angeles to help.”

  “That’s right. It’s been so long. So much has happened.” He shook his head. “We had a couple of traitors. Huang, who was from the Bay Area, and some computer guy by the name of Boggs. They were Californians first, and Americans second. When the state turned, so did they. They blew Fayer’s cover and the state arrested her and the rest. The entire L.A. field office was being held as hostages. I came out to negotiate. Then the war broke out and it all went to hell. You remember an agent named Sullivan? Kind of a dick?”

  “Fayer’s partner?” she said, uncertain. “They were on a stakeout of the California governor, or something like that, right?”

  “That’s the guy. Anyway, he and Chambers—he was in on that Zarahemla operation a few years back—broke out and liberated one of our helicopters. The rest of us grabbed guns and shot our way to the roof. The helicopter picked us up and we fled for Nevada. Someone else should have taken the stick. Sullivan didn’t know what the hell he was doing. But I’d torqued my wrist in the fight, and Sully made up some lie about flight experience. We took small-arms fire and went down in Death Valley. Lost some people.”

  “Wow, that’s terrible. Fayer wasn’t one of them, was she?”

  “No, she’s still with us. That’s who Miriam is talking to.”

  Miriam squatted next to the thin, coughing woman in the shorts and tank top. Eliza stared. The FBI agent from Salt Lake had been strong and athletic before; now she looked about ninety pounds, old, and feeble.

  “And the guy with the Yankees cap is Chambers. Don’t think you’ve met him.”

  “No, but I wouldn’t have recognized Fayer either. She looks awful.”

  “Sullivan died in the fire,” Steve continued. “Guess he paid for his BS. Also another agent, who was trying to pull Sully out. Perez.”

  Eliza started. “Eduardo?”

  “That’s right, Eduardo Perez. Did you know him? Wait, he was in Blister Creek once, wasn’t he?”

  Steve went on to describe how the survivors had trekked across the desert on foot. It was winter and cold, but bone-dry.