Story Time

by Linell Jeppsen

  “‘What are the questions, Zak?’ I persisted.

  “Zackary turned on me with a snarl. ‘I told you…we’re not supposed to blab. Leave it alone, Nay! The test is fair…it is!’

  “When he turned away I saw tears in his eyes. After that, I didn’t ask any more questions, and honestly, there wasn’t time enough for idle chitchat. There were over 120 people on the ranch now. Every minute of every day was filled with gathering food, cooking food and cleaning up after eating food. When I wasn’t cooking, I was washing clothes or harvesting vegetables in the greenhouse and garden plot.

  “I wasn’t alone. Every one of the men and women pitched in and did their best. I often wondered if the test questions at the gate were designed to illicit an honest response over whether the interviewees were hard workers or not.

  “Pastor Ralph set his tent up as a medical unit and for church services, if anyone was willing. The tent was filled to over-flowing that first Sunday after the dam gave way. His dark round face was grave, and his Harry Potter-style spectacles twinkled in the weak morning sunlight.

  “He lifted his eyes and said, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart; and lean not to your own understanding. Proverbs 3:5.’ He studied his makeshift congregation, more than a third of whom were sobbing openly. ‘I have always believed that there is a reason things happen the way they do. I know though, that sometimes—in times like these—times of sorrow and great loss, some of us think that God has forsaken us.’

  “Cries of mourning stirred the assembly like wind through the trees, and the pastor raised his voice. ‘Do not let your heavy hearts render you blind unto the Lord! He is here, right now…moving among us, making us strong, cleaving us one to the other in fellowship! Let us pray… “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”’

  “His words that day seemed to lift a cloak of darkness that settled over us after the dam fell. The news that came in with the pilgrims was terrible, unbelievable. Millions of people were dead and dying in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho. Roving bands of criminals and outlaws were looting, stealing, and raping innocent victims of the latest catastrophe. There was even talk of some sort of alien invasion taking place, but no one paid that sort of talk too much mind—it was all hear-say. My uncle advised my brothers and I to steer clear of those people who talked too much and stirred the beans of fear, for the effect it would have on the others.

  “‘Some of these folks have seen too much, kids. Now they see boogiemen in every corner. It’s sad, but right now, it’s also counter-productive. Do you hear me, Josh?’

  “My little brother ground the toe of his sneaker into the carpet and shrugged. He was overly excited by the prospect of aliens in our midst. I thought he was envisioning a fleet of friendly E.T.’s, or Yoda’s, coming to earth to rescue us, and the thought of it made my heart pinch in sympathy. I put my arm around his shoulders, and he leaned into me. His hair was dirty, and he smelled like pine sap and sweat.

  “I realized, with a sudden jolt of understanding, that everything really was different now. I used to take a shower every single day, sometimes two showers if the day was hot. Now we were lucky to bathe once a week, and even then, the bath water was shared.

  “We had electricity for about three days after Grand Coulee failed, but then there were brown outs, followed by long blackouts, until finally, nothing. Bringing in wood for the fires took on new significance. Burning wood in the cook-stove and in the fireplace was no longer a means to pay less on the electric bill, or to create ambience in the dusk, but a means to stay alive, to cook, and sterilize water, to clean clothes and bathe. It was one of our most important priorities. Every day, groups of people went out into the woods to cut trees and gather wood.

  “I was restless that morning, unnerved suddenly by the clarity of my understanding, so I asked my uncle if I could go out to gather wood. He raised an eyebrow, but said, ‘I’ll go and talk to your aunt. If you can be spared in the kitchen, you can go with the men.’ I nodded and headed out to the greenhouse. I took drip water out of one of the rain barrels, and was just starting to water the corn plants when my brother Josh poked his head out the door.

  “‘We’re leaving in about a half an hour. Dress warm.’

  “The sky was gray and bulging with the promise of rain. I set the water bucket down on the ground to catch the water as it fell, and dashed inside to grab a flannel, my heavy boots, and a hat. I got dressed, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  “My Aunt Wendy, Lori, Tiffany, and a new lady whose name was Sandra were busy making sandwiches for the crew. Tomato sandwiches, black with pepper, and peanut butter and jelly were lined up on the counter, on Lori’s homemade bread. Tiffany stuffed one of each into old pillowcases that had been cut to size and sewn as lunch bags.

  “‘Thanks for letting me go today, Auntie.’ Wendy looked up and smiled. It was strange to see her without make-up. She had always prided herself on her looks, keeping her figure trim and her hair styled in the latest fashion. Now, she was flushed from the heat in the kitchen and her hair stood up in humid coils.

  “‘You’re young yet, honey. Go and help the men today. That will use up some of that excess energy.’

  “‘Here.’ Tiffany handed the sacked lunches to me.

  “I thanked her and ran outside to join Steve, Josh, David and another man I didn’t know yet, but whose name was Henry Cartwright, out of Colville. All of the men were carrying shotguns and rifles. Josh didn’t have a gun, but he had a knife tucked into the top of his boot. One of our horses was harnessed to the hay wagon, which was filled with axes, mauls, hand-held saws and two chain saws. There was also two five-gallon gas cans filled with the oily gas mixture needed to run the saws. It was another sign of the importance of wood gathering, as the gasoline stores were strictly regulated.

  “‘Let’s go!’ Steve ordered, and our small caravan headed out into the woods. Josh was standing in the hay wagon, holding the horse’s reins. It was nice out, misty and cool, a welcome relief from the hot, July weather. We were walking northeast, toward the Canadian border, to a spot about a half a mile from the main house. It was one of my favorite spots on the property, close to a small lake, ringed with old growth fir and tamarack trees. It occurred to me that these were the trees being harvested. Some of the joy fled from my heart.

  “It didn’t take long to get there. Sure enough, at least five of the giant trees that graced the little lakes shoreline were either gone or lying on the ground, like fallen guardians of this ancient beauty. Immediately, my brother grabbed a saw and hatchet, and moved toward one of the downed trees. Steve and David each picked up a chain saw and walked toward a giant tamarack.

  “Before he left, Steve said, ‘Naomi, Henry…gather all the branches and stack them next to the wagon, okay? Henry, take turns with Josh, but be on the look-out. We’ll holler when we’re ready to fall that tree. You’ll need to spot it as it falls. Also, watch out for trespassers, both of you. Whatever you do, don’t wander off alone, all right?’

  “We nodded obediently, and the two men walked away. Henry was in his mid-forties, tall and stick-thin. He seemed like a nice man. He winked as he picked up the wood saw.

  “‘Well, I guess that tree ain’t going to branch itself!’

  “He headed over to where Josh stood hacking at the tree. I walked a few feet and bent over to pick up the needled branches. I had a pair of loppers in one hand. As I gathered the sticks together, I trimmed each branch of its green crown. After about twenty minutes, my back was sore from stooping over. I fell to my knees and began to shuffle along the forest floor an all fours. I was just getting into a groove when I heard David shout, ‘Timber!’

  “Henry ran past me and waved his arms in David and Steve’s line of sight. I could hear the chain saw roar and I moved away, watching the tree shimmy and shake at the saw’s bite. Josh walked over to stand by my side and murmured, ‘Be ready to run, Nay. Sometimes a tree will fall wrong.’

  “I nodded and watched. A few minutes passed a
s the saw in David’s hand screamed, and paused while David drove wedges into the cut. Then, there was an inarticulate shout, and the tree began to fall. We all watched the tree crash to the ground. I wanted to hang my head and cry. There was a moment of profound silence, as though every creature in the surrounding woods paid silent tribute to the giant tree, and then I heard a sound that made my knees go weak with fear.

  “A low, snarling purr filled the air and I heard Josh gasp. We spun around, searching for the source of that throaty growl, and I saw it. My jaw sagged in disbelief as I spotted the huge African lion crouched above us on a rocky crag. It was a female, sinuous and starving, judging by the ribs that were prominently displayed under the tawny hide in the gray, afternoon light. There was movement to my left, and I saw two more lions; another female, and what I was sure was a big male: mane and all. They were stalking us.

  “Josh grabbed my hand and whispered. ‘Back away, Sis…’ his voice trembled, and he added, ‘Keep eye contact! Don’t look away!’

  “A memory sailed through my mind like a wisp of smoke. One family, who was allowed entrance into the ranch, told an outlandish story of the escape of all the big cats from Cat Tales, a small zoo in north Spokane. That story, in amongst the others of devastation, rape, murder and aliens in the sky, was dismissed as fantastical in the busy frenzy of staying alive. Now, I knew the story to be true.

  “The large female roared and growled, licking her chops and salivating. I felt beads of sweat dot my forehead and upper lip as my brother and I backed away. Then there was a shout. The lion flew into the air, screaming, and I saw that she was shot. The lion limped a few feet and fell to the ground. I turned around and saw both Steve and David taking aim at the other two lions that were circling around us and closing in for the kill.

  “‘Henry, watch out!’ Josh cried.

  “I saw the biggest lion, the male, take a mighty leap and land on one of our newest members, Henry, who went down under the animal’s weight in a tangle of teeth and claws. I couldn’t hear anything past my own screams.”

  Chapter 8

  The following excerpts are compiled from interviews and written accounts of Dwight Engle and his followers (CHURCH OF THE SECOND COMING OF CHRIST) and the faction group (THE ANGEL’S SWORD).

  By no means do the statements reported in the following reflect the opinions of the writers or reporters of the facts herein; furthermore do we note, that most of the accounts recorded here were given by war criminals and enemies of the state prior to EX 2016. Steven Cummings, reporting for The New World Chronicle.

  Mark Cline – 2045

  I watched as the prison guards led Mark Cline into the interview room. As was the case with most of the detainees of the faction group, The Angel’s Sword, Cline was hunched over, almost crippled with injuries sustained during the group’s mad campaign across Montana and Idaho, after the Yellowstone caldera erupted.

  Unlike Frank Engle, who, more than anything seemed sad and broken, Cline’s eyes glittered with malice, and his upper lip curled in disdain. The man’s dark brown irises were abnormally large. As he glanced in my direction, it looked as though an animal was sitting down in the chair across from me, rather than a human being; a bear maybe, or a feral dog.

  “Yeah, faggot, what do you want?” he snarled.

  All of the old fears surfaced, for a moment, as I stared into his mad dog eyes. Of course, Cline and the others knew about me and my partner, Dr. Andy Grossman. News footage was made available to everyone, including prison inmates. It had been so long, though, since I felt the bite of discrimination, I was rendered momentarily speechless with embarrassment.

  I was saved by the bell…specifically, the low chime that signaled the approach of the facilities servo-bots. I sat back and watched as the two little robots swooped into the room with nut-chips and a small barrel of beer. They hovered respectfully and one asked, “Placement please, sir.”

  I nodded toward a table at the back of the room, and watched as Cline’s eyes widened and tracked the servo-bots movements. I, too, had done my research, and knew that beer, chips and cigarettes might loosen this man’s tongue, whereas a hopeful expression on a gay man’s face never would. The little robots paused for a moment, and I said, “That will be all for now. Thank you.”

  The larger of the servo-bots clicked once and replied, “We will wait just outside the door, sir.”

  When the door slid shut behind the robots, I glared at Cline.

  “You will address me as Mr. Cummings. You will give me a factual account of the Angel’s Sword for my report. If you do, you will be rewarded with the items you see behind me. If you don’t…you’ll be escorted back to your cell, and I’ll call in the next witness.”

  Cline stared at me and the table behind me for a few seconds. Finally, he nodded and said, “Fine…whatever I can remember, anyway. It’s been a long—”

  “A long time, I know.” My voice was harsh.

  I took a deep breath, willing my rage to settle. I gazed out the window at the pink sky and the lavender clouds that raced past and thought: I am sixty-three years old. I am a famous journalist, and have been decorated with medals of honor. I am a gay man, living on a planet called Harmony; a man-made utopia, whose society does not discriminate against homosexuals, or people of color. Do NOT let this…this monster—this war criminal—get to you, Steven!

  I cleared my throat. “Shall we start with when the Second Coming Coalition left the compound in Montana and moved west into Idaho and Washington?”

  Mark stared past me at the refreshments on the table. I stood up and poured a large glass of beer. Walking back to the table, I placed the beer in front of Cline, along with a pack of cigarettes and a bowl of nut-chips.

  Cline busied himself with the beer and chips for a few minutes. Then, sitting back in the chair, he belched and said, “We held out for nearly five weeks after the volcano blew. We figured since the winds carried most of the ash southeast, we could wait it out and stay safe enough right where we were. It didn’t work out that way, though.” He lit one of the cigarettes from the pack and made a face, “You people can’t even get this right!” he hissed.

  Cline took another deep pull off his beer glass. Although he stared in my direction, I could see that he was actually looking into his own past, at memories that took root more than thirty-five years ago.

  “Day by day things got worse. I guess that so much ash filled the atmosphere, we were like bugs in a jar.” He focused his gaze on me. “Did you ever do that when you were a kid? Blow smoke into a jar full of ants or spiders?”

  He rolled his eyes at the expression on my face, “Of course not…not you. Anyway, after all of the food was gone and the animals had died and were eaten, Brother Dwight and the rest of us decided we better move on to where the air was better. We had been letting in a lot more people, mainly to seize and make use of their supplies. One day, a man and his family showed up with a short-wave radio.

  “We huddled in Dwight’s house. We sat in a tent, in the living room with gas masks on, and listened as sporadic reports trickled in over the wire. We had to take turns because even with the windows closed there was so much ash in the air that within minutes every surface was black with soot. It took a couple of days, but it finally became clear that one of the best places to be was north of Spokane, and further north into Canada.

  “If it was up to me, I would have said, ‘Let’s go north, up into C’nuck country’, but Dwight wanted to stick to the good, ol’ U.S of A. I don’t know why…maybe because America was the only home he knew, or maybe it was because the Mounties were apparently still alive and well up north. Anyway, he said we were going west.

  “Also, he’d heard about a compound that was about fifty miles north of Spokane. Apparently, it was some sort of big ranch. According to the garbled reports, those folks had everything…wood, water, fuel, food, guns and medicine. The air was clear up there, as well…something to do with the mountain air and prevailing winds from north to sou
th.” He shook his head and sneered.

  “They also had a lot of niggers, spics and chinks. It didn’t take a genius to know that the idea of those kinds of people possessing those kinds of riches was enough to set Brother Dwight’s teeth on edge. As a matter of fact, after he gave the order to move out, no one wanted to be anywhere near him. He was in a rage, and there was blood in his eyes.

  “We were a 130 people strong by now. It took some doing, and it was hard going because there were only about seventy gas masks. We took turns gathering up all of our gear and packing it into our cut down cars and trucks. The horses and cattle were gone by now, so it was understood that men would need to pull the wagons. Only two of the cars and trucks still possessed motors and engine blocks…why bother with all that weight when the engines were stuffed up like bloody noses?

  “Still, when it was announced that men and women were expected to pull the loads, we had some defectors. Seven people got away in the night, before we got wise. After we shot a man and his two young sons for trying to escape and worse yet, for trying to run off with supplies, the rest of the members settled down. We left the compound three days later.”

  Cline stopped speaking and stared at me. The speak globe shuddered in the sudden silence and I looked at the empty beer glass in Cline’s hand. I stood up and walked back to the little cask of beer on the table. While I poured the beer, Cline spoke, “Is there any meat around here, or have all you pussies sworn off it for good?”

  For a second I thought he was referring to me and my sexuality. Then I realized he was talking about the rest of the colonists on Harmony. It was true that animal meat on this planet was unavailable. We had turned into a race of vegetarians. There was a plant on Harmony, called Cow’s Tongue, that actually carried the taste and texture of beefsteak, but the animals on the planet were inedible. Our protein was manufactured in the form of meat-like cubes and cheeses made from the bark of Sheep trees…a tree that grew wooly with sweet pollens, like cotton-balls, twice a cycle (or earth year).