Jason got up from his chair and went looking for his dad. He might need his dad’s help to avoid the biggest mistake of his life.
He found his old man tinkering with the water turbines, trying to pull electrical power from the Homestead’s water loop. A spring almost a mile up the canyon supplied the loop, and it accumulated tons of water pressure on its way down the hill. Burke wanted to turn some of that pressure into electricity.
Burke Ross couldn’t help but tinker, even if it meant needlessly complicating a project. The water turbines were the kind of thing that would keep him up at night, fantasizing about all the “slick” gizmos he could put to use.
“Yo, Dad. You get that done yet? You know it’s the Apocalypse already, right? Time’s up.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Jason always needled his dad about being slow. For decades they’d worked together doing metal fabrication projects. Their predispositions were set. Their opinions about each other were well-established, their banter well-worn and comfortable.
“Can I bug you for a minute?” Jason wanted to talk about something other than Homestead gadgetry. He needed a Mormon thinker.
Burke Ross spent his adult life in the LDS faith, serving in nearly every position in the church. Burke believed Mormon theology through and through. He also knew from personal experience that, even in the “true church,” things could go wrong. When it came to loggerheads with the predominant religion, or even the neighborhood, Jason turned to his dad for perspective.
“Okay.” Burke turned up his hearing aids.
Jason retold the conversation with the bishopric and Masterson, leaving nothing out.
Burke waded in. “I know Masterson. He’s an asshole.”
Mormon or not, Burke had been a metal worker most of his life. He barely hesitated when it came to swearing. “Masterson’s the kind of guy who uses priesthood authority unrighteously whenever it suits him.”
“Jeff Kirkham’s going to recruit new militia from town. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Mormon politics or the neighborhood.”
Burke thought about that for a second. “Bad idea. You should do whatever you can to keep Bishop Decker and the stake president cooperating with the Homestead. We should be working together, not competing.”
“I agree. So what should we do?”
Burke leaned over with a grunt and a tipsy lurch, trying to reach his tools without bending his stove-up knees. Jason helped him pick up the tools, returning them to the tool bucket.
“Let’s go for a walk. Better yet, can we take one of your OHVs?”
“Sure.” Jason headed back to the house, looking for an available OHV.
After a couple of stops around the neighborhood, Burke Ross figured out where the stake president lived.
Jason looked about nervously as he and his dad passed through the Homestead barricade, eyeballing the crowd of hungry people who had gathered just outside the gate. Jason had grabbed his gun belt and an AR-15, sliding the rifle into the scabbard of the OHV. When they passed through the concrete barricades, Jason reached around and pulled the rifle across his lap. The barricade, and the park next door, were packed with squatters. For no apparent reason, hundreds of people were camped at the entryway of the neighborhood below the Homestead. Even the rumor of food, apparently, drew a crowd.
“You might want to leave that gun in the OHV when we knock on the stake president’s door.” Burke glanced at the assault rifle suspiciously. Jason’s dad didn’t mind guns, but he wasn’t a big fan of the military temperament that had overtaken the Homestead. He’d done his time in the military, but he didn’t have much use for guns in his golden years.
A few minutes later, they knocked on the stake president’s door, and his rotund wife answered as though nothing had changed in the last week.
Burke led out. “Good morning, Sister Beckstead. We’re hoping to chat with President Beckstead. Is now a good time?”
“Good morning. I think he’s in the garden. Come on in.”
She led them through the house. Jason noticed white buckets of food storage cracked open on the kitchen counter. A hand-powered grain grinder stood next to an electric grain grinder, but only the hand-powered grinder had wheat dust around its base.
Sister Beckstead caught him looking at her kitchen mess. “I’m baking fresh bread. If you’d come an hour later, I could’ve offered you a slice.”
That made Jason curious, “How’re you baking bread with no electricity?”
“Oh, Randall fixed the oven to run off natural gas. The gas still works. I’m not sure what I’m going to do if it goes out. Oh, well, the Church will fix things by the time that happens, right?”
Jason nodded unconvincingly.
Out back, President Beckstead, wearing a gigantic straw hat, knelt beside a row of cauliflower. He looked up and grinned.
“Gentlemen, forgive the sombrero. Looks like the gardening I’ve been doing all these years is finally paying off.”
“Indeed, President,” Jason spoke first; he was an unrepentant gardening geek himself. “My name’s Jason Ross and this is my dad, Burke.”
“I know who you are, young man.” President Beckstead stood and extended his hand. “You own that beautiful place up the hill. I’ve heard you have one heck of a garden.”
Jason loved to talk gardening. “I do try.”
“Brother Ross Senior…” The stake president shook Burke’s hand. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“President, we’re hoping to help the neighborhood pull through this mess.” Burke cut right to the chase.
Beckstead nodded. “Right now, Church headquarters isn’t providing any food assistance to our stake. They have wards and stakes in worse shape than us in the poorer areas of town, and those members come first. We’re on our own for now. I’m frankly concerned. A lot of our members didn’t prepare very well, and I’m seeing that none of us is totally prepared, not even Sister Beckstead and myself. I’m not sure if my wife can even bake bread once we lose gas to the stove. Without our stove, what will we do with all the wheat? That’s most of our food storage.”
“Have you asked the wards to pool their food?” Burke drilled down, hoping to poke holes in Masterson’s story.
“No, I’ve left decisions like that to the bishops. So far, I don’t think any of my wards have pooled food. Some homes are more prepared than others, and it’s definitely not fair to force them to take food from their families and give it to families who failed to heed the prophets. But, if a ward decides to share, that’s between them and their bishop.”
“I see.” Burke paused, not sure how to approach the question of guns. In the old world, a week ago, talking about protecting a neighborhood with guns would’ve been unseemly. But today? “President, have you thought much about defense?”
The stake president’s expression fell. “Yes. Yes, I have. Guns aren’t something the Brethren have spoken on, but we’ve already had a number of break-ins in the stake. We had a family held at gunpoint for an hour not three streets over. Luckily, nobody was hurt. But the family lost everything—all their valuables and their food storage. Some wards are posting guards now, but many of the streets in and out of the stake have no protection now that the police aren’t taking calls.”
“We’d love to help, President,” Burke said. “We have Special Forces soldiers at Jason’s place, coordinating defense and training security guys. They know exactly what to do and how to train the men to protect the neighborhood. We have plenty of military firearms and ammunition.”