Jimmy’s whole hope, shamefully, rested on the verdict of his ward leader, the bishop, now speaking at the front of the chapel. The question of food weighed on everyone. So far, water still flowed through the pipes in Federal Heights, though the bishop asked them to use it only for drinking, as the concrete reservoir above their neighborhood would soon run dry.
Jimmy wished the bishop would quit dancing around the topic and just tell them: would the Church provide food?
“I’ve been instructed by the stake president to let you know that the Church doesn’t have enough food in Salt Lake City to help all the wards. We must rely upon our own food storage to get us through these troubled times until help arrives.”
The chapel erupted in angry chatter, which would normally never happen. Of course, many of those in attendance weren’t regular churchgoers.
Someone shouted, “What if my family doesn’t have food?” While Jimmy never spoke out of turn in the chapel, it had been the question on his mind, too.
The bishop shifted his weight on his feet before speaking. “We can figure that out between neighbors,” he answered.
The bishop must have his own year’s supply handled, Jimmy concluded.
The same guy from before shouted again. “But what if my neighbors won’t share? Will Mormons be sharing only with other Mormons?” Jimmy figured the guy talking must be a non-member. This meeting wouldn’t take long to get ugly, he realized. When the bishop didn’t answer, the non-member guy continued. “You could make the Mormons share their food with the whole neighborhood.”
The room exploded with angry conversation, and a member of Jimmy’s ward, Bert Johanssen, shouted, “Those of us who followed the commandment to store food shouldn’t be forced to do anything. It’s our family’s food.”
People began shouting over one another, drowning out the bishop.
“Bishop! You can’t ask us to put our families in jeopardy to feed the whole ward—even the non-members…”
“You FUCKING Mormons with your high and mighty bullshit…”
“How dare you come into this chapel only when it serves your interests and use language like that…”
“How dare YOU think your children are the only ones worthy to eat your precious food…”
The bishop tried to restore order, but he had nothing new to add. The crowd continued in its fear and rage until a scuffle broke out, probably for the first time ever in the history of the Federal Heights chapel. Jimmy couldn’t see who was fighting nor did he really want to know. The whole scene made him sick to his stomach.
“Please leave,” the bishop shouted from the pulpit. “Please go home and work this out between neighbors.”
The fight broke up and people streamed out of the chapel, grumbling.
Jimmy walked home alone. He felt the crushing weight of a man failing his family.
Jimmy knew obedience was an all-or-nothing equation. He couldn’t count himself among the faithful if he obeyed most of the commandments. While he had always known this, today he knew it on a new level. His stomach twisted precariously. For a moment, he felt like he might vomit on Sister Nelson’s lawn. He had failed his family by sloughing off a commandment of the Lord, by ignoring the prophets.
He walked through his front door and came face to face with his wife, who had stayed home with the children, her hands slowly curling around each other. Luckily, the kids were someplace else.
“What did the bishop say?” she demanded.
“The Church doesn’t have food right now.” He softened the bad news. “They can’t help just yet. We need to make our food storage stretch.”
She looked in his eyes. “James, we do not have food storage. That little Boy Scout bucket doesn’t count as food storage. We can’t eat dried beans and wheat kernels.”
“We’re going to have to make do, at least until help arrives.” Jimmy studied the floorboards.
7
“GOOD MORNING, AMERICA. BY THE way, you’re on fire.
“Baltimore, New York, Boston, D.C., Detroit… I’m hearing chatter all night long about cities lighting up the sky like bonfires. A National Guard Bro-ette in Maryland just called in to say that they went to retake D.C. from the criminal element but they couldn’t get out the gates of the base because of gridlock.
“I got a bounce off the ionosphere from our boys in Afghanistan and they tell me that the U.S. is flying sorties in support of the Saudis against Iran. Stick a fork in them. Iran is done. BUT, not before they scored chemical weapons hits against Mecca and Tabuk.
“For all of you fleeing out of the shit-show of southern California, don’t head south. Camp Pendleton’s closed the freeway. And why would you want to go to Mexico anyway? Pretty sure the cartels control northern Mexico by now…”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
“Did I hear correctly? Did one of our men shoot at a hiker?” Nurse Alena was like a brushfire, whipping through the Homestead, igniting anything that would burn.
Jeff looked straight at her. “Yes. Only it wasn’t a hiker.”
“Were they on Ross property?”
“They were within our zone of control,” Jeff replied stonily.
Alena’s eyes widened with disbelief. “And what the hell is a ‘zone of control,’ if I may ask?”
“It’s the buffer zone we patrol to turn people around before they disappear into our AO… our Area of Operation. If we don’t stop them there, then we have to shoot them on our doorstep, here.” Jeff pointed down at the ground.
“Why,” Alena paused for effect, “is it necessary to shoot anyone?”
“Because, if we don’t hold our boundaries, we’ll be overrun and we’ll all die.”
“So let me get this straight,” Alena said, “you’ve instructed your men to shoot at people passing by on public land just so there’s no chance that we’re overrun by the hordes that we haven’t actually seen yet. Is that right?”
“Affirmative,” Jeff said. “I don’t expect you to understand.
“Don’t talk down to me,” Alena fumed. “I’ve been saving lives as long as you’ve been taking them, so don’t act like I’m a child who doesn’t understand how things work. You’re going to start killing the neighbors here in a few days and I’m going to be complicit in murder because I’m part of this group. I’m telling you right now, I won’t let that happen.”
Alena had more experience than just saving lives, but she wasn’t going to mention her experience with violent, controlling men in this conversation with Jeff Kirkham. She had been raised by what people called a “mean drunk.” Her father never laid a hand on her, but he had beaten her brothers senseless on numerous occasions. A few times, he had sent their mother to the emergency room for stitches.
When Alena was sixteen, she called the police while her father delivered a savage beating to her younger brother for leaving a screwdriver to rust in the yard. The police arrived and things got complicated. Her father served as a policeman himself in a neighboring town and the local cops caught him red-handed, beating the boy.