Chapter Seventeen
What a glorious night! Standing behind one of the personnel carriers, Trent stretched his arms wide and embraced the darkness. Water snaked down his face and dripped off his nose. Above the gush of the raging river, rain tapped the Bible as if God himself wanted his attention.
He turned his face up and opened his mouth. Cold dotted his tongue, stung the back of his throat.
Message received.
With the bitch doctor and her flunky soldiers on the other side of Fossil Creek, he was in charge.
As it should be.
Opening his eyes, Trent surveyed his kingdom. Four trucks packed with supplies and people. The medic helped an old woman hobble into the building on his left. Of course, there must be sacrifices. He intended to uphold God’s rule of survival of the strongest.
The old, the sick and the ugly would be purged.
Even if Goth Lolita was beyond his reach, he wouldn’t waste his plan. Such brilliance should be carried out.
“Reverend Trent?”
He stiffened. Now what? Couldn’t the moron see he was out here thanking his Creator for the gifts he was about to receive?
“Reverend?”
Trent lowered his arms to his side and turned to the gnat disturbing his peace. The oversized silhouette faced the building. Light blistered the fat-swollen features. Dirk Benedict. With his skin slick with rain, he resembled a pale slug. How could he not have recognized the whine of his devoted minion? “Yes?”
“We need to talk.” Benedict swiped at the water dripping from the first of his three chins.
Weren’t they already? He bit back the sarcasm, the slug wouldn’t appreciate it. “Of course. Of course.”
He didn’t move. Voices rose above the sucking noise of the river. More people were coming. Perhaps they’d be more acceptable than the others. He should inspect his stock.
Benedict hitched up his jeans. His bowl of a belly jiggled and rippled around his frame a couple of times before shoving his waistband back where it had been. “Come on then.”
The fat man stomped through the puddles forming in the ruts of the gravel road and lumbered away from the light.
Did the slug really think he was in charge? Trent thumped the Bible against his leg. Well, since so much was going his way, he’d humor the fat fool. Besides, maybe he’d found more recruits. He would need some cannon fodder to throw at the soldiers who’d remained on this side. Mud sucked at his work boots. The blisters on his heels burned.
But they wouldn’t be walking far.
Benedict disappeared around the side of the truck.
Trent turned the corner and stopped. Four men and Benedict encircled a glowing drum, eating food out of brown bags. Meals-Ready-to-Eat. Trent shuddered. How could any civilized person expect to exist on such inedible pap? Obviously his minions didn’t mind. He met them after the funerals but now he studied them.
Gary Everett, the first man on his left grunted. Rain hissed when it hit the fire. Flames erupted from the drum as he fed it a piece of wood. He licked bloated lips. The shadows played over his hooked nose and the teardrop tattoo on his cheek. “The chicken and dumplings are my favorite.”
Trent shuddered. Obviously Gary lacked tastebuds.
Another piece disappeared inside the drum; nails studded this one. Trent recognized it as having covered the windows of the building. Good, his flock was resourceful. He hoped it mitigated their stupidity.
“Gentlemen.” He bowed his head. It never hurt to be kind to the help.
“Reverend.” They chorused. Two, the brothers from Alabama, Robert E. and Ernest Pyle threw their brown sacks in the fire. Gary stirred his Chicken and Dumplings and shoveled another bite into his mouth. The fourth crushed his empty water bottle in his fist. When he hurled it into the bin, a silver crucifix gleamed from his matted chest hair. Ah, yes, Jake Turner. And unknown entity.
He gave Benedict his attention, at least until he could figure out which of these men would replace the Lardass. “You wanted to speak with me?”
Benedict puffed up his chest, momentarily slimming his bulging gut. “We see this…” he gestured to the parked trucks, “as an opportunity.”
“As a sign,” Turner corrected. “From God.”
“Yes, yes as a sign,” Benedict parroted.
Trent clasped both hands over the Bible. So Benedict had another pulling his strings. Of course, it was easy to manipulate the stupid and weak, but a man must have only one master. He must study Turner a bit more, deciding his fate. “I had just concluded the same thing.”
Turner frowned.
Obviously, he was not used to dealing with intelligence. Trent eyed Gary as the man turned his MRE bag upside down and caught the last drops of gravy on his tongue. With confusion furrowing their foreheads, the other two watched the exchange. Good, Turner only had Benedict’s allegiance. Still, it wouldn’t do to alienate the Catholic too soon. Once he knew what Turner wanted, he’d use it to either kill or control him. Schooling his features, he aped humility. The posture itched.
“I was about to pray to ask God how He wanted me to proceed when Mr. Benedict asked me over.”
Ernest, Robert E. and Gary nodded—neutral parties in the tug-of-war.
Turner squinted at him and played with his crucifix.
Benedict scratched his belly. His pug features scrunched up as if he strained to remember something. “I’m sure the Almighty wants you to take charge, lead us from the desert like Moses did his people.”
Trent blinked. Anger roiled through him, heating his blood until he was surprised the rain didn’t sizzle when it hit his skin. Were they testing him? The fuckers would have to go. He wouldn’t tolerate such insolence. “Moses and his people wandered around the desert for years. I don’t think we want to do that.”
He focused on Turner.
The man stroked his pointed chin. “We want a home. Where we can live according to the dictates of the Good Book.”
Trent’s book. The hair on his neck rose. Did the man plan to steal it? No one stole from a Powers. The swell of voices grew into the high pitched notes of women, the yappy noise of young children and the grumble of males. He wanted to step back, to inspect his stock, but to retreat now would be a show of weakness.
“I heard tell we’re going to Colorado.” Gary dumped his dinner remains in the trash and wiped his hands on his baggy jeans.
“We’re being forced to relocate.” Benedict rephrased the truth for maximum effect. “No telling what the government will do to us once we’re there.”
Gary, Robert E. and Ernest nodded.
Trent inhaled deeply. He loved the smell of paranoia. Too bad, he wasn’t the one wielding it. Yet. “They say it’s the only safe place.”
He added the emphasis for maximum doubt.
All five men muttered.
They responded like fish on a professional angler’s line.
Turner held his palms over the fire. “I don’t see why we’d have to go all the way to Colorado. There have to be some small towns in Arizona that don’t have a Burgers in a Basket. They wouldn’t have the anthrax and we could settle there.”
Yes! They were behaving just as he wanted. “The soldiers wouldn’t take to kindly to us changing their plans.”
“Fuck ‘em. I’m not too keen on being under the government’s thumb.” Gary swept the moisture off his tear drop tattoo. “They have too many stupid laws.”
And he was obviously not smart enough to avoid being arrested. That wouldn’t be a problem in his new world, provided he followed orders.
“We’re citizens,” Robert E. piped up. “We have rights. If we don’t want to go with them, they can’t force us.”