Scoot’s father remained quiet while she spoke. He stood off to the side, a lighter in his hand. He kept striking it, letting the flame burn for a few seconds, then letting it extinguish, his mouth puckered as if swallowing his own tongue.
DR. COX VISITED THE COMPOUND a couple days later. He came after breakfast, dressed in street clothes. It was the first time Caleb had seen the doctor without his tools, a stethoscope hanging around his neck, smelling of hand sanitizer. The trailer park now had a barbed-wire fence around it, the driveways barricaded by cast-iron gates. When the doctor arrived, he came in a Humvee escorted by three National Guardsmen. They parked at the gate, exited their vehicle, and the doctor stood there with his hands folded in front of him like a paperboy awaiting his holiday tip. It was odd seeing a man of such stature in the community in such a way, sporting a simple blue oxford shirt and chinos, his loafers turning dusty under the harsh wind. It was also odd because his clothes appeared clean, recently pressed, like he’d just picked them up from the dry cleaners. Since the storm, Caleb hadn’t seen a man dress so nicely. It was unnerving in a way—if everyone else had it so poorly, why did the doctor have it so good?
Caleb, his mother, and Sam greeted Dr. Cox at the gate and bid him enter. He accompanied them to Sam’s house. While they walked down the long drive, the doctor took in his surroundings. Compared to the ravages of town, he must have been surprised by what he saw. Instead of crumbled buildings, toppled power lines, and makeshift tent cities, the congregation enjoyed newly built shelters. They had dug wells and tilled fields and raised chickens. Those who were still healthy worked as a community, mending fences, washing clothes, preparing lunches of venison and squirrel. They were still leading a life here, not what they’d been accustomed to prior to the storm, a bit harder, more uncertain, the angst of the end bearing down upon them, but it was a life nonetheless.
Sam brewed the doctor some fresh coffee and served him toast, which the doctor didn’t eat. He picked up a slice, turned it over as if he’d never seen something so insipid before in his life, and laid it back down. They didn’t have much else to offer him, though. Their remaining stores they had to ration and were already running low, and they dared not travel to town for supplies, leery of what they would find, the hatred and judgment and fear in their fellow townspeople’s eyes. If they had learned one thing, it was that a fearful man was most certainly a dangerous man.
“I think you probably have a good understanding of why I’m here,” the doctor said. He had the countenance of a patient man. He leaned forward as if sitting bedside with a terminal patient, comforting her before she passed. Caleb knew his mother wouldn’t take too kindly to such a demeanor, especially in her own community.
“We do not, actually,” Caleb’s mother said. She stirred her coffee with a spoon despite it being served black. They didn’t have any cream or sugar. “Why don’t you enlighten us?”
“I didn’t come here to be confrontational. I don’t mind what you’re doing here. I’m all for a man and woman praying to their god however they see fit. I don’t listen to the rumors, and I don’t care to. My entire reason for being here is the sick. Whoever may be sick. That is all. No more, no less. You have my word.”
“Your word?”
“Yes, ma’am. My word.”
“And what are these rumors you’ve been hearing?”
“Like I said, I don’t care to listen to them.”
“But surely you’ve heard them, whether or not you care to listen. People talk, do they not?”
“Yes, ma’am. They do.” The doctor fidgeted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I’m sure they’re untrue and not worth listing here.”
“No, please. By all means.”
The doctor was obviously uncomfortable. Being a man of medicine, Caleb was sure he’d spent the majority of his days in a position of authority, his word taken as gospel, his advice and care irrefutable. He was the one with the degree, after all. He was the one who’d been elected to the state house for three consecutive terms. Why would any layman ever question him?
“Some say you’re a cult out here,” he said. “Not that I subscribe to that notion.”
“A cult? Really? And what, exactly, makes us a cult?”
“Well,” he said. “People say you’re predicting the end of the world. And that you believe your son is the Second Coming of Jesus.”
The doctor looked at Caleb for the first time since arriving, and in his gaze wasn’t the fear and judgment Caleb had grown accustomed to receiving. Rather, there was a curiosity there, and pity. He felt sorry for Caleb, and Caleb couldn’t help but feel a little comforted by this.
“Are you a God-fearing man, Doctor?” Caleb’s mother asked.
The doctor shrugged. “God-fearing? Probably not.”
“But you believe in God?”
“At different times in my life, I have. I suppose you could call me an agnostic.”
“Then you don’t. You either do or you don’t. There’s no in between with God.”
“If you say so.”
Caleb’s mother dragged her teeth across her bottom lip, turning it a chalky white. “Why are you here really?”
“Like I said, for the wellbeing of the sick. You came to me for help. At the time I couldn’t provide it. Now help has arrived. We have medicine. More doctors. Shelter. You should come with us. Let us help you.”
“And what, exactly, do you mean by the sick’s wellbeing?”
“There’s no denying it. Several are sick. This is dangerous. They need medical attention.”
“Antibiotics, IVs, rehydration therapy?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“You think you can save their lives, is that it?”
“I can’t promise you anything, but I can tell you—”
“You want to play God? You think you know better than God’s plan?”
The doctor sighed loudly through his nose. It was part exasperation, part impatience—he just couldn’t believe he was being questioned over this. Caleb couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the doctor. In his mind it was worth a shot. If it was God’s plan for them to die, then they’d die. If it wasn’t, then they’d live, but he couldn’t speak out against his mother.
“Let me tell you how this will go. If you refuse treatment, I’ll be forced to contact the Department of Human Services. There will be an inquiry, an investigation. If you’re found to be endangering people, children especially, that is a felony.” The doctor turned to Scoot’s father. “Scoot and Brandon and Catherine might very well be taken from you, and you could face prosecution. Mr. Finch, you could go to jail. For a long time. And, worse yet, through all of this, your son and wife will continue to get sicker. Eventually they’ll die because you refused to give them help.”
Scoot’s father hadn’t said anything since the doctor had arrived; instead, he stared at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him, his fingers trembling.
“Are you scared of death, Dr. Cox?” Caleb’s mother asked.
“I’m speaking with Mr. Finch now. You have absolutely no say in this matter, and I’m only allowing this conversation to continue out of deference to Mr. Finch’s wishes.”
“Allowing?”
“Yes. Allowing. I should not be discussing the treatment options of a minor with an uninvolved party.”
Evelyn stood. “We’re a family here, Dr. Cox, whether you understand that notion or not. We do not recognize man’s law over God’s law here, and it’s best you realize that sooner rather than later.”
“I think you should leave, Dr. Cox,” Sam said.
Dr. Cox leaned forward, trying to catch Mr. Finch’s eye, but he refused to look up. He just stared at the carpet as if he were holding a conversation with it, the Berber fibers recalling a story of a love long lost or the passing of a favorite aunt.
“Is that what you want, Mr. Finch? You want me to leave?”
It took awhile for him to answer, the words caught in his throat. “Yes,” he said
. “It would be for the best.”
CHAPTER 9
THE DRILLS STARTED THEREAFTER. AT LEAST once per day the sirens blared. The first time it happened, Caleb was in school with the other kids, seven chairs empty due to more getting sick. Caleb knew the sirens were coming, having been told the night before, but the rest of the students did not. They looked at each other, confused, trying to glean how they should react from their peers, but each one of them was as perplexed as the next. Being from Oklahoma, all of them were accustomed to the tornado sirens that sounded sporadically throughout the spring, both at all hours of the night during freak thunderstorms and also noon on Saturdays for the weekly test, but this was different. It wailed so closely they could feel the soundwaves tickling their skin.
Caleb’s mother rose to her feet and stood at the front of the classroom, instructing everyone to form a single-file line, to do so calmly and in an orderly fashion. Each of the children obeyed. Caleb’s mother was at the front of the line, and Caleb was at the back to ensure no one was lost in transit. The children were instructed to place their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them as they marched. Outside they found similar lines heading toward the worship hall. Sam led one, a few church elders leading others. Every single congregant was rounded up, wherever they happened to be, cutting firewood or mending a fence, tending to a sick child or washing laundry. Many of them had come from inside, their hats left behind, squinting under the blinding sun.
The siren originated from four speakers bolted to the corners of the worship hall and got louder as they approached. Many of the children and some of the adults placed their hands over their ears. Conversation was futile. Even if they were screaming, they wouldn’t be able to hear anything. This was by design, Caleb had been told. Mom and Sam wanted the congregants to be able to hear the siren sounding from the farthest reaches of the compound, even beyond their borders to the lake if need be. They couldn’t afford to lose a single member when the time came. Too much was at stake. They also wanted to drown out anything and everything else that might be around. Keep the congregation focused on one thing, the noise, luring them to safety.
Once they reached the worship hall, they crammed into the pews. The first group moved into the front row where Caleb’s mother stayed, and the next took a seat behind them, new groups coming in one by one until they filled out the remainder. The group leaders then began a head count, and when they gave the all-clear, Caleb’s mother signaled to barricade the windows with storm shutters. It turned pitch black for a moment, and everyone sat in silence, the only noise the soft fidgeting of nervous parishioners in their seats. Then fluorescent lamps hummed on one by one and illuminated the hall in a soft white glow. Shadows fell in every direction, granting the room an eerie quality, reminding Caleb of a house of mirrors. The doors were locked, and Sam and Mr. Finch fortified them with two-by-fours. In a matter of minutes, they were safely inside, barring any intruder who wanted to get in, and then the siren was cut.
When they were finished, Mr. Finch and Sam took down the two-by-fours and removed the storm shutters from the windows. The lamps were extinguished, and the parishioners all blinked and rubbed their eyes, adjusting to the natural light. They then began to exit, meandering through the door one by one, their feet shuffling against the wooden floors.
It wasn’t long before it wasn’t just a drill. A week after Dr. Cox’s visit, the National Guard and the OSBI arrived in camouflaged Humvees and black Suburbans. Their vehicles blocked the only exit from the property. Standing alongside them were soldiers with assault rifles and OSBI agents. They wore wind jackets with the letters emblazoned in yellow, and spoke into cell phones and walkie-talkies. Many of them were smoking, taking turns filling the air with their plumage. When they’d first arrived, Evelyn had tripped the siren, and the congregation filed into the worship hall. Caleb’s mom, Sam, Mr. Finch, and Caleb watched them from the worship hall. It scared Caleb, seeing them out there. He could feel the separation between them, a wide and vast ocean. The soldiers and agents were uneasy and cautious travelers; Caleb and his mother and the rest of the congregation an indigenous people watching them approach.
“What do you think they want?” Caleb asked.
“Nothing good,” his mom said.
“We shouldn’t rush to judgment,” Sam said, though he looked genuinely concerned. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief though his lips and chin were dry.
“It’s not like they’re here to read scripture,” Caleb’s mom said. “They’re here to invade us. They’re here because they’re scared of us, and when people get scared, they get violent.”
“You don’t know that,” Caleb said. “They might just be here to help us, like Dr. Cox said.”
“This isn’t going to end well,” she said. “We need to prepare.”
“We need to remain calm,” Sam said. “Maybe they’ll go away. Leave us in peace.”
“Don’t be naïve. They’re not going to be happy until we’re destroyed.”
There were ten cars in all, about forty agents. They meandered about, huddling in smaller groups of five or six, and stared at the worship hall through binoculars. They took position behind the hoods of their cars like the congregants might at any second open fire. Their sunglasses reflected the morning sun, and Caleb wondered what they thought of the place, if they were, deep down, despite their distrust, their fear of the unknown, impressed. The congregation had risen up after the storm. They’d faced meager food supplies, complete destruction of their homes and livelihoods, but yet they’d built a life there, even if it was in wait of the end of everything. They’d lived despite imminent apocalypse. There had to be some admiration in that fact, even if it was marred by sin.
“Do you think this is it?” Caleb asked his mother. “Do you think this could be the Sixth Seal?”
“There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind.”
The agents didn’t make contact right away. Caleb wasn’t sure why they waited, but he figured they wanted to instill fear into the congregation. The uncertainty their presence caused they wanted to let fester. And it did. It boiled inside of them. Caleb stared at the agents out the window, too worried and afraid of what might happen next to even blink. His mother paced, stopping at different members of the congregation, reassuring them God had everything under control, to trust in him, that soon they’d be arm-in-arm in paradise. Sam sat in the corner with his head in his hands. He had the look of a man facing life in prison with only the slimmest of chances of being set free. The Finches stayed with Scoot and prayed, repeating the Lord’s Prayer while their son slept, moaned, and sweated.
Scoot had been getting worse. He was in a lot of pain, which they couldn’t manage. They didn’t have any more meds to give him, having run out of what Tylenol and Ibuprofen and Aleve they could scrape together, but none of it helped anyway. He just moaned. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t walk. He had to stay in bed. When the agents came, Brandon and Mr. Finch had to carry him. They placed him on the ground in front of the altar atop a couple blankets with a single pillow behind his head, and that was where he remained, along with the rest of the sick. Most of the time he just slept. It was the only relief he got, but he still didn’t seem peaceful. He still was flush, his eyebrows arched into a scowl. Caleb wished he could do something to alleviate his pain, but the only thing he knew was to pray, and so he joined Scoot’s father, hand in hand at the foot of his pallet, and did just that: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.”
A knock came at the door. They all jumped in unison when it did, its thumps reverberating throughout the worship hall, but no one moved to answer it. They just blinked at each other. Eventually, Caleb’s mother went to the door and opened it. No o
ne was there. She returned a few seconds later with a cell phone. It then rang.
Caleb’s mother looked to Sam.
“Should I answer it?” she asked.
Sam bit at a piece of dry skin on his lip. He nodded, and Caleb’s mother pressed a button and put it on speakerphone.
“Hello?” she asked.
It was quiet for a moment. In the background Caleb thought he could hear whispering, or it could’ve just been the wind.
“Hello,” a disembodied voice said. It was younger than Caleb expected, full of energy and angst. “This is Lieutenant Walter Lippman with the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation. May I ask who I’m speaking with?”
“There’s no place for niceties here, Mr. Lippman. You know damn well who you’re speaking with,” Caleb’s mother said. “Just tell us what you want. We’ll tell you we can’t provide it, and then you can go on your merry way.”
“Is this Mrs. Gunter? Evelyn Gunter?”
“Names are unimportant. Tell us what you want and what it will take to get you out of here.”
“First, if I could just understand who I’m speaking with—”
“Fine. Yes, this is Evelyn Gunter.”
“Good. Great. That’s a good start. Let’s just try to keep everything calm. Okay, Mrs. Gunter?”
“It’s hard to keep calm when we have dozens of law enforcement bearing down on our home, Mr. Lippman.”
“I understand. Is it okay if I call you Evelyn?”
“So, we’re getting friendly now, huh?”
“I can continue to call you Mrs. Gunter if that’s what you prefer.”
“Evelyn’s fine if it’ll get this to move any faster.”
“Thank you, Evelyn. First and foremost, we want to remain calm. That’s our overriding concern at this juncture, just for everyone to remain calm. Second, we’d like to know if everyone is safe. Is everyone okay, Evelyn?”
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