For hours they walked. Mile after mile until they grew tired and sore. Caleb’s muscles suffered from spasms and soon they had to stop. They took refuge by the lake, just inside the tree line, and shared a canteen of water. It tasted cool and crisp against Caleb’s tongue, and they didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to. With each passing minute, their failure crept up on them. They’d have to go back empty-handed, tell the congregation not to worry, that they’d try again later, the next day and the next and the next if they had to, that God would provide for them if they just trusted in him, but Caleb didn’t quite know if he believed that anymore.
A twig snapped behind them. Branches rattled. Fear gripped Caleb. He reached for his rifle and turned behind him, searching for the cause of the noise. All he saw were trees. Rows and rows of them. But then there was movement, just a flash in his periphery. He scanned the trees back and forth, his tongue swelling in his mouth, and then he saw it. It was a single buck about thirty yards ahead. Caleb exhaled, finally. He could only make out his antlers and hindquarters, sticking out from behind a tree trunk. Thank God, he thought. Thank you, God.
Caleb, Sam, and Mr. Finch ducked behind a ridge. No clear shot. The deer was alone and seemingly lost. It would trot east toward the lake five or six steps, coming closer to them, but then it would turn its nose up into the air as if it was trying to locate something by smell, and turn around. Caleb, Sam, and Mr. Finch stooped about twenty yards from it, downwind so it couldn’t smell them.
“He’s chasing a doe,” Sam said. “Lost her.”
The buck stopped behind some trees, and so they didn’t have a clear shot. Only its stomach showed, and if they hit it there, it would take off and die a slow and agonizing death. It would be much more difficult to find it, and with the OSBI outside their property, they wouldn’t be able to chase it far.
“Who wants the shot?” Sam whispered.
“I got it,” Caleb said.
Sam peered at Caleb. “You sure?” he asked.
Caleb nodded and got into position, his rifle poised on the ridge for balance, and clicked off the safety. The buck was behind some trees but still moving—all Caleb had to do was wait until it stopped in a clearing. Caleb’s mouth watered in anticipation, anxious to take the shot, scared he might miss. The entire congregation was depending on him to come through so they could eat, so they could, for a little while anyway, curb the hunger pains in their stomachs and go to bed full and happy and with one less worry on their minds.
The deer moved again, closer to a clearing. Three more steps and Caleb would have a clear shot. Two. One. Caleb licked his lips, placed his finger on the trigger, and centered the deer at the end of the sight. He aimed a little high and to the left, just above the kill zone, so as to take into consideration wind and distance, and squeezed the trigger. The kick rocketed Caleb back, and his shoulder throbbed. Smoke billowed from the barrel, and the deer shot up in a panic and sprinted into the woods, leaping in a zigzag motion. Caleb had hit it, but well enough to kill it? He wasn’t sure.
The deer headed northwest, and Sam, Mr. Finch, and Caleb stood all at once and took off after it. Where it had been hit, they found a splattering of blood. It was dark and crimson and trailed through the woods. Along the way they found prints. They were erratic and easy to locate at first. The deer weaved as it moved, its prints heavy against the soil, but after a while the blood and the prints were harder to locate. The blood was scarcer, the drops smaller, spread thin, and the prints were lighter as the deer slowed. Eventually they lost the trail; either it wasn’t there or it was too weak to be noticed in the underbrush.
“Looks like you might’ve hit it in the shoulder,” Sam said. “We could be following this thing for hours.”
“I’m sorry,” Caleb said.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Look around for scrapes. Broken limbs, twigs, droppings, anything.”
“I’m sorry,” Caleb said again. “I’m not used to this rifle.”
“It happens,” Sam said. “I should’ve taken the shot.”
Sam laid a heavy hand on Caleb’s shoulder, trying to comfort him, but it only weighed Caleb down.
“I think I have something,” Mr. Finch said. He pointed to a trunk that had been scraped of its bark. It wasn’t a clean scrape but something done haphazardly, leading east toward the edge of the property line.
They followed the trail as quietly as they could, and though they didn’t say anything, Caleb knew they were all thinking it—the OSBI agents and the National Guard would’ve heard Caleb’s rifle shot. They’d search for it, scared and anxious at what they might find, and so Caleb knew they were running against a short clock. They would have to find the deer, field dress it, and carry what meat they could back to the worship hall as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to think what might happen if they didn’t make it back in time.
After about a hundred yards, they came upon the deer. It was still alive, though barely—its breath weak and eyes closed.
“We need to put it out of its misery,” Sam said.
Caleb raised his rifle to his shoulder.
“No,” Sam said and pulled out a knife. “Save the bullet.”
Sam pulled out a knife and placed his hand on the deer’s neck. The deer trembled from shock, and Sam placed the knife’s edge against its jawline, pulled the blade across its neck, and spilled its blood. Warmth emanated from the wound, like opening the hood to an idling car engine. The smell was awful—a mixture of infection and rotting meat and spoiled food. It caused Caleb to gag, dry heave, and finally vomit, but he didn’t have anything in his stomach to really puke. It was just phlegm, thick and gelatinous, choking him.
Sam field dressed the deer. He stabbed the deer in its lower abdomen and sawed upward to its neck. The ribcage gave him trouble, but the blade sliced through. He pulled out the intestines and the bladder, careful not to puncture it and spill out the contents all over the meat. When he pulled out the heart, Caleb couldn’t help but think how large it was, how just a few moments before it had been beating with life. He felt bad about this. He grieved for the deer. He had, after all, just taken its life. But he brushed the sentiment aside. Its utility outweighed its death, and so he said a prayer for its soul and then was done with it.
Sam quartered it so they could carry it back home, and for the first time in weeks, Caleb felt good. They would have a warm meal, a good meal, and he was thankful for that. They placed the meat and the hide into the duffel bag, and Mr. Finch hoisted it again onto his shoulders. The guns didn’t fit, and so they had to carry them back.
They were a couple of miles away from the worship hall, and moving through the woods was slow going. There were no trails to follow, only thick underbrush, spindly and grating. Though it was about noon, it was darker than before, the clouds fully covering the sun. Caleb couldn’t make out the sky through the thick canopy, but it smelled like rain. A storm might be coming, and this worried Caleb. They wouldn’t be able to survive another storm. Of that, he was certain.
After about a half hour, Caleb thought he heard something ahead and to their left. A snap, followed by whispers. Mr. Finch stopped, held up his hand. Caleb scanned the woods, but he couldn’t make anything out. He could still hear it. Whatever it was moved alongside them, and Caleb prayed. He prayed it was another deer, the doe the buck had been chasing, searching for its mate. Please God, he begged, let it be a fox, or a coyote, anything, but then he spotted them. There were five of them, two National Guardsmen and three OSBI agents, wandering the woods, guns drawn, searching for the source of the gunshot, Caleb’s gunshot. Mr. Finch, Sam, and Caleb took cover behind three separate trees, crouching low. The footsteps grew louder until they were right upon them. Caleb shut his eyes and prayed. He prayed the soldiers and agents wouldn’t see them, prayed that God would shield them, but it was to no avail. When he opened his eyes, he saw the agents and soldiers, and they saw him. They froze and pointed their weapons. Sam and Mr. Finch did the same.
&nbs
p; “Listen,” Sam said. “We’re just hunting. We’re hungry.”
The agents and soldiers didn’t say a word. They just pointed their weapons.
“We just want to go back home. That’s all.”
“Put down your weapons,” they said. “Put down your weapons and get on the ground.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Sam said. “We were just hunting. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Put down your weapons!”
They were screaming now, barking orders, and fear rose up into Caleb’s chest. He felt it in his throat and behind his tongue. He choked on it.
“Put down your weapons, or we’ll have to open fire.”
A shot rang out. Caleb wasn’t sure who fired first, if it was the soldiers or agents or Sam or Mr. Finch, but two people went down: one of them, and Sam. There was screaming, and Caleb hid behind a tree. Sam fired and they fired and Caleb froze, but after a few seconds the agents retreated west through the woods toward the property line. When everything was done, Mr. Finch and Caleb stood there breathing, unsure what to do. It was Sam, finally, who told them to move.
“Pick me up,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
SAM HAD BEEN SHOT IN the side, just below the ribcage. It was a clean entry and exit, and Caleb’s mother worked to bandage him up. They were back in the worship hall, and Sam was laid in the first pew. Evelyn dabbed at the wound with gauze, doused it with water, but they didn’t have any antibiotics, no iodine solution, no hydrogen peroxide. The blood just gushed out of it. They applied pressure, wrapping his midsection in white cloth, but the blood soaked it deep. It scared Caleb. Sam turned pale, sweat-drenched. It took a long time to get the bleeding under control, too long, Caleb thought. Sam squirmed from the pain, and they didn’t have much to give him. They didn’t have Tylenol or prescription medication or morphine, and they had no way to get them. All they could do was change his bandages every few hours and pray the wound didn’t get infected.
The OSBI and National Guard doubled in numbers. News vans parked behind the perimeter, filming the worship hall with high-definition, long-range lenses. The FBI were called in. Outside the compound were military vehicles: tanks and Humvees armed with large-caliber machine guns. Helicopters flew overhead. Soldiers in full body armor manned the roadside, pointing assault rifles at the service hall filled with frightened, panicked congregants. They cried more often. The sick moaned, and the others murmured. “We should surrender,” they said. “We should give in to their demands. The Lord would understand.”
“Did he understand the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah?” Evelyn asked. “Did the Lord show mercy when he flooded the world? Tell me, does God show mercy in Revelation, when the final judgment is cast down upon mankind? God is a vengeful God, and we must respect his wrath. We shouldn’t surrender. We should arm ourselves. Give all the men and women rifles. If a child is over thirteen and can shoot, they should be armed, too.”
Caleb’s mother strained as she spoke, like her muscles were trying to pry free from her body. She looked deranged, pupils dilated, fingers curled into hooks. She scared Caleb. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she bit the air while she spoke, or even him if he dared step too close.
“They have tanks, Evelyn. How’re we supposed to fight tanks?”
“We have to defend ourselves. We have to. The Lord requires us. We are to be raised to heaven in a shining ray of light, not gunned down in a hail of gunfire. I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen what mob mentality can do. I’ve been cast away in exile, and I will not bear the shame of it again. I will not let my child live through that again.”
She pointed at Caleb, and he couldn’t help but feel small and powerless and weak. He couldn’t help but think of Jesus when Judas had betrayed him. He couldn’t help but think how Jesus faced the onslaught of the Roman army and accepted his martyrdom with calm and grace. It was a courage he feared he did not possess. Doubt filled him up. It filled him so that he breathed it and tasted it and felt it swimming in the pit of his stomach, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
“They’re just scared,” Sam said. “People fear what they don’t understand. If we explained what happened. If they hear our side of the story—”
“Maybe Sam’s right,” Caleb said. “Maybe we’re wrong.”
“Don’t be a fool, Caleb,” she said. “They’ve already reached their conclusions. No amount of evidence will change their minds. Look how they openly defy God. Look at their continued sloth. Their greed. Their avarice. You can’t deny their abominations. You can’t overlook their lack of reason.”
Sam scratched his forehead and reached for his cigarettes, but they weren’t there, hadn’t been since the storm, but it was a practiced motion, too ingrained into his identity for his hands to let him forget. He was scared, and Caleb was scared, and his mom was angry, and everyone was looking to them for answers. Caleb could feel them waiting. He could feel them huddling next to each other, praying and wondering why they weren’t doing anything, why they weren’t helping them prepare for what they thought might be the final judgment. Even if they were wrong, they needed to be comforted. They needed help to survive the agents tearing down their walls.
“You’re right,” Caleb said. “I’m sorry.”
They armed themselves and barricaded the service hall. They took up hammers and nailed two-by-fours over the windows. They risked their lives when they stood guard on the roof, exposed to the government’s much larger, much deadlier weapons. And Caleb’s mom thanked them for it. She blessed them and prayed for them and told them paradise awaited them in the afterlife, that it wouldn’t be long now; the end was near, and they were doing their part to secure the congregation’s place next to God in the kingdom of heaven.
Some, though, still protested. Rumors spread of defection. Whispers could be heard from some of the members. They harbored doubt, were instilled by it. They questioned the church leadership’s decisions, their fundamental belief system, and Caleb didn’t blame them. He, too, was asking the same questions.
“How certain are you the world is going to end?”
“Absolutely,” Caleb’s mother told them.
“How do you know we’re the chosen ones?”
“He speaks to me.”
“How come we can’t hear him?”
“You have to trust me.”
Agent Lippman called again, and this time Caleb’s mom answered and put the conversation on speakerphone. “The governor wants us to storm the place,” he said. “The public. The media. They’re all telling me to send in troops, but I don’t want it to end that way.”
“It will end how God sees fit.”
“You killed an OSBI agent. You understand that, don’t you? You have to work with me here. Give me something. Give me the children.”
“We obey no other law but God’s.”
“How is that working out for you?”
“You’ll soon see. When the dead rise up and the rivers run with blood. You’ll see how it works out for us.”
There was silence. For a second, Caleb thought the line had been cut off or perhaps Agent Lippman had hung up, resigned to the fact he’d have to give in to the governor’s wishes, but then he spoke.
“You have one day,” he said. “No more.”
That night Caleb volunteered for guard duty and took his post on the roof. He had his rifle in hand, pointed toward the agents, watching them through his scope, safety already off, finger near the trigger, when he heard something. It sounded like a log landing against hard, cracked earth. He looked down where the sound originated and saw a window opening, followed by a bag dropping, and then three people. He couldn’t really recognize them in the dark. There was a man, a woman, and a child. Other than that, their faces were shrouded in darkness. When they hit the ground and gathered their things, they ran. They ran toward the agents as fast as they could, the man carrying the child across the field. It was a disheartening sight. Not because they were leav
ing but rather the method by which they fled, through a window under the darkness of night, as if it was the congregation who they should be scared of, not what waited for them outside the walls.
CHAPTER 11
SCOOT LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GOING TO DIE. Without antibiotics, without IV drips, and without pain medication, he slipped into what seemed like a coma. He hardly woke, and when he did, he only moaned. His breaths were belabored, short, and sporadic. He lost more weight. In his face and his arms, his legs and his stomach. He was just bones. He suffered from bedsores, these quarter-sized infected wounds that smelled like copper and spoiled meat. Despite Caleb’s best attempts not to be, he was scared. He was scared to sit next to him. He was scared to be by his side. He was scared to hold his hand or to comfort him. And others followed. The sick had grown in number from six to eight to ten to twelve, more people coughing, more people suffering from fever, disorientation, diarrhea, vomiting into a bucket. A third of the congregation had fallen ill, and more were catching it each day, becoming infected, becoming weak, susceptible to doubt and fear and hunger, their faith wavering with each hour that passed by.
Scoot’s father hardly left his son’s and wife’s sides. He slept near them. He ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner with them, spooning their meager portions into their mouths, trying to prevent them from choking as they tried to swallow. It was disheartening seeing their transformation. Mr. Finch appeared sickly himself, like he, too, could die at any moment. It made it all that much harder to provide them with hope when they clasped at Caleb’s hands and they cried and they asked him if it was in God’s plan to have them die like this. Caleb had to tell them he didn’t know. He was sorry, but he just didn’t know.
“But you told me they wouldn’t suffer,” Mr. Finch said. There was anger in his voice, sharp and jagged, laced with dismay, desperation, and a deep, abiding sadness. “You told me God would take them. You told me God would comfort us. You told me we’d all be taken in this halo of light. Where is the light, Caleb? Where is God now?”
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