Hell's Fortress

by Michael Wallace

  David nodded. “You’re right. But I’m going to talk to Lillian tonight anyway. Bring her closer instead of push her away. And you need to talk to Fernie.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Who usually ends the fights, you or her?”

  “What fights?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. We’ve never fought before.”

  David drew back with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, come on.”

  “Really. We’ve squabbled, we’ve disagreed. Of course we have. But we don’t fight. We never have.” Jacob smiled. “I think we’re what you call soul mates.”

  “Five generations of polygamists just rolled over in the Blister Creek graveyard and groaned in perfect harmony.”

  “Some people are wired for polygamy. I am not. Fernie is the only woman I ever wanted. Even when she was married to Elder Kimball, I knew she was the one for me.”

  “I still call baloney on the never fighting, but if it’s true, it’s all the more reason you need to go home tonight and see her.”

  “And talk about what? She’s stubborn, I’m stubborn. Neither of us will change our minds about the battle. The moment we start talking, we’ll argue, and then the fight will be all the worse.”

  “Then don’t talk. Go home and crawl into bed without saying anything. Put your arm around her and tell her you’re sorry and you love her.”

  “But I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “It’s not sorry you made a mistake, it’s just sorry. Sorry that you’re fighting, that you got angry. That this thing came between you.”

  “You think that would work?” Jacob asked.

  “Maybe. It’s hard to say what Fernie will think, but I guarantee you’ll feel a lot better. I don’t care who you are or how many wives you’ve got, there’s nothing more soothing than falling asleep with a warm breast cupped in your hand.”

  The truck was going to be used for the dawn attack, so Jacob left it at the switchback instead of burning more fuel returning to the valley. Instead, he rode home on a borrowed horse. He passed men on horseback, who tipped their hats, or called “Brother Jacob” in gruff voices.

  A wagon of women was pulling onto the ranch road at Yellow Flats as he approached. They called to him and he pulled alongside as a woman stopped the team of horses. The driver was Charity Kimball, her hair pulled into a gray bun, with her daughters Helen Pratt and Jessie Lyn Smoot sitting in the back.

  They carried a disassembled loom, which Charity had found in a dusty corner of a barn on the Kimball ranch. Charity said she remembered how to operate the loom, if someone could figure out how to put it back together.

  Spinning, weaving, candling—the women were reviving old industries. If they could only survive, they had the means to thrive, to reintroduce the old ways to the surrounding communities. Assuming there were any surviving communities.

  “Do you think Sister Rebecca could figure it out?” Charity asked.

  “Probably. And I’ll send my brother to help too,” Jacob said. “If it’s mechanical, David can put it together.”

  “Thank you, Brother Jacob,” Jessie Lyn said, “but we didn’t call you over to show you the loom. We would like to pray with you, if you’ll let us.”

  They looked at him with shining eyes and worried expressions.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “May I choose someone to say the prayer? Charity, would you please?”

  “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice. “I would like that.”

  Charity Kimball was the wife and mother of murderers, her sister wives scattered to other families. Everything she’d known, destroyed. The poor woman lived in fear of being thrown out of Blister Creek, but it was an unnecessary worry. Jacob had no intention of punishing her for the sins of the Kimball men.

  Charity’s voice was thin and cracked with age and emotion. Her prayer was simple and unadorned, but achingly earnest. Jacob listened, overcome with sorrow that he couldn’t share in her faith. These women burned in their convictions, trusted him to lead. At one point he’d dismissed this single-minded devotion as naïve, even dangerous. Like believing in witches or alchemy. Now, faith—whether supported by fact or myth—seemed like a survival mechanism perfectly tailored to outlast the present upheaval. Was that the origin of religion, nothing more than a way to cement group cohesion in the face of existential threats?

  The prayer had ended. Belatedly, he opened his eyes to see the women watching him.

  “Amen!” he said, as if the delay had been caused by the profundity of his spiritual feelings, and not his distracted mind.

  He left the women to their business and continued the long ride through town and to home. When he arrived, his daughter, Leah, stood on the porch ringing the dinner bell. She came running as he slid down from the horse and handed the reins to one of his younger brothers. He swept Leah into his arms and nibbled her neck, making her squeal. When he came inside, a dozen children—his own, his youngest siblings, even cousins being raised in the Christianson compound—came running to greet him. The older children gave him solemn nods and greetings. The younger ones didn’t seem to have quite as solid an understanding of the stakes, but they were jumpy and hyper. They must have heard something, felt it even.

  Fernie wheeled her chair out of the kitchen when he came in, directing the troops to set tables and carry platters of beans and roasted chicken to the table. She did a double take as Jacob turned from putting his hat on the peg.

  “Paul,” she said to one of Jacob’s half brothers, a boy of about fourteen, “set Jacob a place. Quickly, we’re almost ready to bless the food.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Jacob said. “I can set my own place.”

  Fernie wouldn’t hear of it, though, and quickly had a place set for him at the head of the main table. She was polite and friendly, but didn’t wheel herself down to eat next to him like she usually did. Instead, she stayed at the far end with the youngest children.

  Dinner was a buzz of energy from the children, but Jacob settled them by asking about the work. Did the flax get planted? Who was in charge of tying off the tomato plants? Did he need to look at the injured steer after supper, or was it on the mend?

  After dinner, Jacob sat on the porch and sharpened axes and garden shears with his two oldest sons while the sun dropped to the west. It was another gorgeous sunset that used every shade of red, purple, and orange. All across the valley, men would be finishing supper with disapproving wives. Were they arguing? Sharing tender embraces? And what of the women who would be widows by this time tomorrow evening? Did they know, sense somewhere in a black hollow of their stomach that tonight was their last night with their husbands?

  “Have you changed your mind?” a soft voice asked behind him.

  He turned to see that Fernie had wheeled herself quietly onto the porch while he worked.

  “Put the tools away, boys,” he said. “We’ll finish another day.” When they were gone, Jacob swallowed his pride and rose to put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “Be safe, please.”

  Help us. Please, for the love of all that is good.

  They would be so much stronger with the women at their side. This is what the saints had been training for, some of them for a year, others all their lives. To fight and defend this valley, this community, this church. Why would the women hold back now? Couldn’t they see?

  He didn’t voice these thoughts. Instead, he nodded. “I will do my best.”

  “Are you staying here tonight?”

  “Until a quarter to five in the morning. Then David and Elder Smoot are picking me up in the Humvee.”

  “You should go to bed early, then.”

  “I’m too wired,” he said. “I don’t know if I can sleep.”

  “I’ll rub your head. That always relaxes you.”

  And it did
. After twenty minutes in bed, in his pajamas, resting his aching feet, with Fernie massaging his scalp, his eyes felt heavy and he yawned. He wound the clock and set the alarm, but it was an unnecessary precaution; his body would jolt awake in a few hours with or without the alarm.

  Before he allowed himself to sleep, Jacob rolled his wife onto her side so her back was facing him. He reached around, unbuttoned the top three buttons of her nightgown, and slid his hand against her breast. She sighed and nestled into his embrace.

  “I love you,” she said. “Don’t forget that, please.”

  “I love you too.”

  “There’s something I need to tell you before you go to sleep.”

  “You don’t need to say it. I know you haven’t changed your mind. I won’t push.”

  “Not that, Jacob. Something else.” She took a deep breath, as if tensing herself for some big proclamation.

  “Can’t it wait for later?”

  “No. In case anything happens to you tomorrow—shh, let me say it—in case anything happens, I want you to know.”

  He knew that whatever she had to say he wouldn’t like, but there was apparently no stopping her. “Okay, tell me.”

  “I’m pregnant again.”

  Jacob closed his eyes and took his own deep breath. “But we were being so careful.”

  “It would seem that the rhythm method isn’t one hundred percent effective, Dr. Christianson.”

  It was gentle sarcasm, and as she said it, she lifted his hand and kissed it before putting it back against her breast. But there was also a twinge of worry in her tone. She was afraid of his reaction, he could tell.

  “Five children. It sounds like a lot. And on top of everything else.”

  “This will make three of your own,” Fernie said.

  “Daniel and Leah are just as much mine as Nephi and Jake.”

  She rolled over with some effort and put a hand against his cheek. “That’s not what I mean. You love those kids and they love you. But I’m happy to have another with you. I’m proud to be carrying on the Christianson line.”

  Even under the best of circumstances, it would be a high-risk pregnancy. Fernie’s paralysis was low enough that she would be able to feel contractions and push, but he wondered if he shouldn’t deliver via C-section instead of vaginally, just to be safe.

  And what if he wasn’t here to perform it?

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “The timing . . .”

  “Jacob,” she said firmly. “We didn’t plan for it, but now it’s here. Do you remember last time this happened? You said the same thing.”

  Of course he remembered. He had been working for the FBI, and had infiltrated the Zarahemla cult to extract their agent. And worse, the hospital had suspended him for his ties to polygamy and he’d lost both his income and his home.

  “Is now any worse timing?” she asked.

  “Maybe not.”

  “The Bible says to multiply and replenish the earth.”

  “It doesn’t say we have to do it by ourselves.”

  “Funny guy.” She kissed him. “This gives you one more reason to be careful tomorrow. Now get some sleep.”

  He didn’t think that would be possible, not with this grenade tossed into his lap. On top of all the other emotions boiling inside, he found himself curiously excited. He had three boys, but only one daughter. Maybe it would be another girl.

  That was his last conscious thought before his eyes opened several hours later. He grabbed the clock. 4:31. Four minutes before the alarm was set to go off. From outside came the low rumble of a diesel engine. That’s what had awakened him.

  Fernie rolled over and her breathing changed as he slipped into his clothes and pulled on his boots, but she didn’t say anything. He put on his wristwatch.

  Jacob paused at the door, and said to her in a soft voice, “Wake Sister Lillian. Tell her to get the clinic ready for trauma cases.”

  He slipped out of the bedroom. Downstairs, he unlocked the gun safe and strapped on a KA-BAR knife, loaded his pockets with ammunition, then holstered a Glock pistol, grabbed an M16 and a 12-gauge shotgun, and made for the door.

  The Humvee waited for him in the street. It was packed with men and the materiel of death and bloodshed.

  Elder Smoot sat behind the wheel. As Smoot pulled away, the man prayed aloud, “Thou art my king, O God. Through thee will we push down our enemies. Through thy name will we tread them under that rise against us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Eliza had hoped to make a run for it at dusk, but artillery was pounding the north and west side of the city like a thunderstorm rolling in from the desert. The companions hunkered down to wait it out.

  Fayer by now was in a bad way. She drank gallons of their precious water, but it was like there was a straight pipe from her mouth to her backside. Every few minutes, while the others looked away, she squatted over a bucket, filling it with a splattering sound like a pissing horse. After she finished, Grover would take the bucket and cart it away to empty elsewhere in the warehouse.

  But Eliza wouldn’t risk driving out of their hiding spot until the fighting subsided. The artillery rocked the factory again and again. Part of the ceiling collapsed. Twice in the night, vehicles rumbled by outside the factory warehouse. Small-arms fire came and went. Then came quiet that would only last a few minutes.

  It was maybe four in the morning when she couldn’t wait any longer. The fighting hadn’t ended, but it had moved out of their neighborhood. That might be temporary, but she figured they had another hour before dawn caught them in the open. She wanted to put at least fifty miles between themselves and the city before the sun burned over the desert plain.

  They’d been waiting outside the claustrophobic interior of the armored car. Eliza called over Steve, Miriam, and Grover. “Correct me if I’m wrong—I don’t have military experience—but here’s what I’m thinking. I’ll drive. Steve and Miriam man the machine guns. Grover, you can snipe with a rifle. If we get in a big firefight, drop your gun and help with ammo.” She turned her flashlight in Grover’s direction. “You can do that, right?”

  He nodded, pale but determined-looking.

  “I’m going to plow down anything in our way,” she continued. “This thing can take a lot of abuse.”

  “Depends,” Steve said. “Small-arms fire is no problem, and we can muscle aside any standard vehicles blocking our way. But a tank shell will flatten us. You see a tank, or anti-tank guns, you get the hell out of there. As for machine guns, the wrong kind of ammo will punch through our armor, so don’t get us in a position where we’re slugging it out.”

  Miriam shone her own flashlight along the exterior of the armored car, as if looking for weaknesses in the plate armor. “Your old prepper did a fine job. Shame he isn’t around to see how it performs.” She stood off the front bumper. “Look at how the two main guns have almost a 180-degree radius of fire.” She looked up at Eliza. “But the right side is better. More range of motion and stronger armor. If we get bogged down, show that side. Like a battleship giving a broadside. You understand?”

  “Got it,” Eliza said. Give a broadside, don’t slug it out—it was inconsistent advice from the two former FBI agents.

  “With any luck, we won’t get in any firefights,” Steve said.

  “It will take more than luck to get us home in one piece,” Miriam said. She glanced at Fayer, who rested against the front bumper. “It’s going to take divine intervention.”

  “Are we ready?” Eliza asked.

  The woman struggled to her feet.

  “I was hoping Chambers would show up,” Steve said. “Guess he didn’t make it.”

  They helped Fayer inside and tried to fashion her a private corner behind some ammo cans. There she could continue with her miserable rituals. The old survivalist had packed in blan
kets and they wrapped her in one of them to try to make her more comfortable. Then they went outside and tore down the final flats of equipment to clear a path for the truck. Eliza climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Steve sat shotgun. “You know how to work this thing, right?”

  “Please,” she said with considerably more bravado than she felt. “I learned how to drive a tractor before I could ride a bike. This is nothing.”

  “In that case, let’s get going.”

  She kissed him. “This is going to be easy. What do they call it in the military? A milk run?”

  “Great, now quit stalling, kid, and get us out of here.”

  He went back with the others to man the guns. As Eliza slipped the vehicle through the entry into their hiding place and onto the open warehouse floor, they slid open specially cut slots in the side of the armored car to expose the guns. Eliza’s window was a narrow strip of bulletproof glass with limited view. She risked the headlights until she reached the front of the loading bay.

  It took all four of the healthy people to drag over the heavy loading ramp and put it in place. When it was done, Eliza eased the truck down it and the others jumped back inside when she had reached the asphalt outside.

  It was still dark and she didn’t dare use the lights, so she groped her way through the industrial park by the glow of the burning city.

  Eliza had almost reached the end of the complex and the open road when a man came sprinting along the right side of the vehicle. He carried a rifle in his hands and it looked like he was trying to get ahead of them so he could shoot them straight on.

  Startled by the suicidal attacker, she jerked on the wheel to veer away, but before she could get past, he leaped in front, fumbling with his weapon.

  “I got him,” Miriam said in a grim tone. The breech bolt snicked back.

  “Hold your fire!” Steve yelled. “Stop the truck.”

  Confused, Eliza hit the brake. With so much weight, the vehicle came to a sluggish halt. Even before it did, Steve was tossing open the back doors and hopping down. He came around to the front of the truck and clapped the man on the shoulders.