I lost my two youngest children in the 1918 flu epidemic, but the rest of my children survived to adulthood. My daughters have married into every family in the valley, and two of my sons serve on the quorum, trying to keep the Kimballs in check.
Meanwhile, the church in Salt Lake City has slipped into apostasy. It’s easy to say now that I knew it all along, but that isn’t true. Even after 1910, when Salt Lake excommunicated our leaders for continuing to perform plural marriages, I thought it was a trick meant to deceive the world, as polygamy went deeper underground. In the late 1920s, when Jedediah organized the Church of the Lamb and began work on the temple, I joined the faction in opposition. I made new enemies. My second husband died in 1937, and the men pushed me into exile on Yellow Flats a second time. But by then I had nine surviving children and already twenty-four grandchildren, and they couldn’t keep me isolated for long. But I chose not to move back this time, knowing they would only shackle me with another husband, and I wished to live out the rest of my life in peace.
To this day Laura refuses to speak to me about those first few years in the valley, and Annabelle Kimball has made herself the enemy of me and my family since the day Jedediah murdered Maude. Her sons struggle against my own. Some Kimballs go into Witch’s Warts to fast and claim to speak to an angel. Of the conspirators, only Nannie confided in me without reservation in those early years, but she died at the age of twenty-eight, while giving birth to her ninth child.
And so I felt I had failed. Utterly and completely.
Until two nights ago, when I came across the following passage in the Journal of Discourses, written by Jedediah Kimball’s grandfather Heber C. Kimball, who was the prophet Joseph Smith’s closest friend and a confidant of Brigham Young.
What I do not today, when the sun goes down, I lay down to sleep, which is typical of death; and in the morning I rise and commence my work where I left it yesterday.
I turned down the lamp and lay in bed, listening to the chirp of crickets outside my window, a coyote yipping away near the Ghost Cliffs, its voice as lonely as the beating of my heart, ticking away the seconds of my life, year after heartbreaking year. And I thought over that passage. Someday I would die, and then I would rise up again to begin my life anew. Did that mean in the world to come, or would I get another chance on this earth?
In answer, the Lord sent me a dream.
In the dream I stood in the shadow of the temple in Salt Lake City, a place I hadn’t seen in nearly sixty years. Tall buildings rose beyond Temple Square, like skyscrapers I have seen in pictures of New York or Chicago. The square lay deserted, and sheets of paper blew across the pavement to plaster against the windows of the assembly hall opposite the temple. There was no living soul in sight.
It was snowing, but the flakes that fell from the sky were warm and a dirty gray. The snow coated everything—buildings, benches, flower beds.
“Rebecca Cowley!” said a voice like a deep bell.
An angel stood before the front door of the temple. Not the evil spirit of Witch’s Warts, but a being of light and fire, wearing a robe that glowed with white heat. The brightness of his face exceeded that of the sun. He gestured for me to approach, and I trembled as I obeyed.
“You failed,” he said.
“Thou knowest why.”
“Because you gave up. Because you surrendered.”
“They murdered Maude. They would have killed me too. The other women wouldn’t stand by my side. What was I supposed to do?”
He didn’t answer the question, but when he spoke again his voice was kind, rather than condemning. “You have another chance, Rebecca. Not today, not with the years remaining in this mortal existence. But you will bear record of these events, and when you return to this earth, you will read the record by your own hand and you will understand.”
“Understand what? I don’t even understand now.”
“Don’t you? Look around you and understand the vision sent by the Lord. This is the world to come. Something you will face in your next probationary period. This is what you will see, the destruction of human civilization as the earth is swept clean in preparation for the coming of the Great and Dreadful Day of the Lord.”
“But how will it happen?” I asked.
“Look!”
It wasn’t snowing, I saw. The snow was ash, gray and fine. It flecked my skin and dusted my hair. The horizon glowed. The air smelled of sulfur.
“A fire?”
“Yes, but no fire started by man,” the angel said. “It is the earth itself, the mighty forge at its heart, burning at the command of the Lord. Man is but an insect on its skin, and everything he has made shall be swept away. His cities shall lie in dust.”
“And what should I do?”
“Prepare. In the years remaining, and the life to come. Prepare and be ready. And when you return to Blister Creek, do not bow before tyranny.”
I awoke in bed, the stink of sulfur lingering in my nostrils. I rose and threw open the shutters, expecting to see the horizon glowing with fire and ash falling from the sky. But it was a clear day, and warm. Two cows roamed in the orchard, eating fallen apples. A crow broke the still morning air with a harsh, jeering call. Seconds later, a rooster crowed.
I am an old woman now, but my arms are strong and my mind is sharp. I have many years left, perhaps decades, before this mortal probation ends. Time enough to prepare for the life to come.
Lay me up one thousand bushels of wheat.
This valley doesn’t need wheat. We have wheat in abundance, we have the bishop’s storehouse, and every man stores a year or more of food in his cellar. We have food enough and to spare. What we need is a means of protecting ourselves. And we need women and men—yes, men too—who are prepared for the coming of the Great and Dreadful Day.
And when I am reborn, I’ll bring together the women of Blister Creek into a quorum of priestesses and prophetesses. And no man will stand in my way.
Thus sayeth the Lord.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jacob and David arrived at the burned-out gas station to find Stephen Paul already waiting. His pickup truck sat in the shade of a fiberglass brontosaurus that stood next to the road to welcome motorists. It still wore a white grin over faded green, but its tail had snapped off and someone had shot out the bulbous eyes for target practice. The sun dipped into the western horizon, and the dinosaur cast a long shadow that stretched across the highway.
Here on the extreme southern end of the valley, there was little to break the landscape except humps of black volcanic rock and gently sloping hillocks covered in sage and rabbit brush. Mountains and cliffs ringed the distant horizons. Jacob found himself eyeing the landscape with defense in mind—if they blockaded the road, would vehicles be able to cross the open desert?
Stephen Paul waited on his crutches while the brothers walked over to meet him. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Jacob and David shook the other man’s hand.
“I spoke with Carol last night about the women’s quorum,” Stephen Paul said to Jacob. “I don’t like it.”
“In principle, or the implementation?”
“Both. I trust you took this to the Lord first and He told you to do this.”
“Yes,” Jacob said, “or at least God didn’t tell me not to.”
“Not the same thing at all.”
“You know what I am,” Jacob said. “And what I am not.”
“I understand, and I respect you for not pretending. The Lord will speak to you in his own time. But listen, is now the time for big changes? A women’s quorum? The men won’t like it, especially Elder Griggs and Elder Johnson.”
“Doesn’t sound like you care much for it yourself,” David said.
“You know how women are. This is the time to be strong, not to show our kinder and gentler side. Our feminine side.”
“Feminine?” David said. “You clearly don’t know my wife.”
“Sure, there are tough women in the quorum. My own Carol is one of them. Bu
t it won’t take long before the others tell us to cooperate with this government guy.”
“No,” Jacob said. “When the time comes, those women will defend Blister Creek to the death.”
Jacob thought about the women. It wasn’t just Miriam or Carol, but Rebecca. And Lillian, who had stood up to Taylor Junior and helped rescue those people in the abandoned military base. And what about Eliza?
“If they don’t overthrow us first.” Stephen Paul sighed. “I don’t like it, but I’ve said my piece, so I’ll let it drop. Just promise me that if it doesn’t work, if the women stand in open defiance, you’ll abolish their quorum and put things back the way they were.”
“I won’t let them destroy Blister Creek. I’ll promise that.”
“You’re sure? You’re absolutely certain you can stand up to Eliza and Fernie and all the rest of them and tell them that men lead the church and only men can save our people from destruction?”
“No, because that’s a different thing than what I just promised.”
“I’m not sure it is,” Stephen Paul said.
“If you discover the women plotting to murder us in our sleep, come and tell me. Or if you think they’re going to smuggle some long-lost Kimball son into the valley, armed with chemical weapons, by all means, raise the alarm. Meanwhile, let’s make sure the men do their part and quit worrying about some hypothetical threat from our wives and sisters.” Jacob looked around. “Now, what is it you wanted to show me?”
He turned back to see Stephen Paul’s scowl deepening, and so he added, “I’m sorry, I’m not angry. But I need to be clear. The women’s quorum is not up for discussion. Or at least it’s not up for discussion with me, because I don’t control what they do.”
“Enough of that,” David said. “Let’s get going before we’re spotted.”
Jacob put his hand on Stephen Paul’s shoulder. “Trust me, at least for a few weeks. If things go wrong, I won’t turn a blind eye.”
At last the other man nodded, then gestured for Jacob and David to follow as he set off on his crutches. They walked across the lot toward the back of the property. The pumps were long gone and the building razed, its foundation a receptacle for tumbleweeds. Cracks spread across the faded concrete like lines on an old man’s face. Thorny weeds sprawled from the cracks.
A spiny lizard with a ruby-and-maroon throat perched atop a pile of dry, charred lumber. It cocked its head and eyed them suspiciously as they approached. When they got too close, it scampered down and disappeared beneath the rusting body of a 1970s-era station wagon that sagged on flat tires.
At the back side of the foundation, Stephen Paul poked away weeds and empty soda cans with one crutch and then had Jacob brush away dirt and sand until he revealed a cracked sheet of particleboard. Jacob worked it back and forth until he had it dislodged, and David helped him lift it off and to the side. Beneath the board a concrete lid with two metal handles was set into the pavement. A moment later, they had this up to reveal the chained metal lid of an underground tank.
“Interesting,” Jacob said. “So the old fuel tanks are still down there? And full?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Stephen Paul said. “The pavement on this back side isn’t as old as it looks. A few years ago your father and I hid a backhoe behind that hill.” He pointed his crutch at one of the hillocks. “We brought it out at night, digging up one area, burying a tank, then covering it with brush before dawn.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” David said.
“It was. And someone might have discovered us, and the whole exercise would have been pointless.”
“So what are we talking about?” Jacob said.
“There were three smaller, eight-thousand-gallon tanks out here already, still in working order from the service station. At first Abraham thought we’d add three, maybe four, more tanks. But once he started, he didn’t want to stop—Sister Rebecca kept encouraging him. She came most nights to help us work. I’m not sure why he confided in her and not one of the other men. Abraham and Rebecca didn’t always get along.”
“No, they didn’t,” Jacob said.
“We kept digging,” Stephen Paul continued, “until we’d extended the project west another thirty yards. All of the new tanks were the thirty-five-thousand-gallon containers made for filling stations at big truck stops. When we finished, we poured new cement, covered it with dirt and rocks, and then broke the surface with transplanted sagebrush to make it look old and undisturbed.”
“Must have cost a fortune,” Jacob said. “Not to mention the fuel itself. And you filled the tanks the same way? In secret?”
“Right. Your father leased a tanker and secretly filled one tank a week until it was all down there.”
“How much are we talking about?” David asked.
A smile played at Stephen Paul’s lips. “There is close to a million gallons of diesel down there.”
Jacob stared. “A million?”
“Let’s say nine hundred and fifty thousand, give or take.”
“Wow, that’s some kind of investment. Wonder what he was thinking.”
David snorted. “Maybe he planned to build his own refinery.”
“Who knows,” Stephen Paul said. “He didn’t share his plans. But, given the current situation, it was prophetic, wouldn’t you agree? That’s enough diesel to keep our tractors running for years. Even better, if things collapse, that fuel will be as good as gold for trade and barter.”
“That’s if nobody discovers it,” Jacob said. “If they do, it’s sitting out here for the taking. Forget the government—anyone could come, drop a hose, and pump it out.”
“Yes, there is that,” Stephen Paul said. “But unless one of us blabs—or Rebecca, for that matter—there’s no way they would. Come on, let’s get this covered up again before it gets dark.”
Jacob and David got the cement lid back down, then the board, and finally they kicked dirt over it all.
“There’s something else we need,” Stephen Paul said as they walked back to the vehicles. “Weapons.”
“We’re not going to war with the Department of Agriculture, if that’s what you mean.”
“We might not have a choice. Eventually, I mean. Not now, heavens no. But after the collapse.”
“You really think it will come to that?” David asked.
“There’s not going to be a collapse,” Jacob said.
“You’re sure of that?” Stephen Paul asked.
“I’m not sure of anything, but no, I don’t believe it.” Jacob hesitated. “That doesn’t mean you’re not right. Three guys in a Humvee almost outgunned the whole valley.”
“We were like Zulu warriors out there,” David said, “charging the blasted British rifles with our spears.”
“We’d have never taken them out, if not for one guy risking his life.” Jacob put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“The Kimballs may be gone,” Stephen Paul said, “except for one old guy in prison, but there are other Lost Boys. And if things get bad, all those military bases and National Guard armories will fall into the hands of militias and roaming bands of former soldiers. We need more than deer rifles and handguns if we’re going to survive the collapse.”
Again this talk of collapse.
“Chip Malloy is storing Taylor Junior’s .50-caliber machine gun in the chapel basement,” David said. “One of my sisters was down there retrieving the sacrament trays under armed guard and saw it. Boxes of ammo too.”
“That’s a good start,” Stephen Paul said. “If we can get it. But we need a lot more. We need mines, grenades, assault rifles, antitank guns. Something to take out helicopters, even.”
“The only thing to fight military hardware is more military hardware,” Jacob said. He couldn’t believe these words were coming out his own mouth. He’d spent a good deal of effort breaking up the castle-like appearance of the Zarahemla compound, and now he was imagining where to build bunkers and pillboxes to turn the entire Blister
Creek Valley into an armed fortress.
“Jeez,” David said. “I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion. That it’s really coming down to this. And all because of a stupid volcano on the other side of the world.”
“I wish Abraham were still around,” Stephen Paul said. “He’d have seen this coming and gotten us armed. And he’d know how to get his hands on the good stuff.”
“There’s someone else who can help,” Jacob said. “Someone who has been giving this a lot of thought. Sister Rebecca.”
Stephen Paul looked thoughtful. “You think so?”
“I do. And I’ll bet she either knows where to get military-grade weapons or has them already. She was the only one of us with an assault rifle, and I’ll bet she has contacts for getting more of the same. Tomorrow I’ll go out to Yellow Flats and have a heart-to-heart.”
They returned to their vehicles, and Stephen Paul drove off in his truck. David climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Jacob paused in front of the driver’s-side door.
The sun was a half oval scorching the western horizon, dipping behind the distant mountains in a blaze of purple and maroon, a spectacular sunset almost too beautiful to believe. Volcanic dust. He thought about Grandma Cowley’s dream and what the angel had told her.
It is the earth itself, the mighty forge at its heart, burning brighter at the command of the Lord. Man is but an insect on its skin, and everything he has made shall be swept away. His cities shall lie in dust.
Jacob climbed into the car and started the ignition. The two brothers drove back in silence to Blister Creek, ready to prepare for the end of the world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my agent, Katherine Boyle, and my team at Thomas & Mercer: Jacque, Rory, Danielle, Andrew, and David. A special thanks goes to Grant Morgan for providing valuable feedback of an early draft of Destroying Angel.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Garten, 2011
Michael Wallace was born in California and raised in a small religious community in Utah, eventually heading east to live in Rhode Island and Vermont. An experienced world traveler, he has trekked through the Andes, ventured into the Sahara on a camel, and traveled through Thailand by elephant. In addition to working as a literary agent and innkeeper, he previously worked as a software engineer for a Department of Defense contractor, programming simulators for nuclear submarines. He is the author of more than a dozen novels.
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