It was laid out like an army camp. The Army of the Lord.
Hilkiah was out on the fields planting a series of poles in the ground—planting them deep in quick-setting concrete, so that they’d stay upright during any future tremors. Then he’d string them with loudspeakers, so that everyone, throughout the growing compound, could have the benefit of the Good News simultaneously being broadcast on the radio station. Frankland, Dr. Calhoun, and the Reverend Garb took turns broadcasting, varying their message between urging refugees to make their way to town, asking listeners to donate supplies, and lengthy sermons on the End Times.
Near the church, a portable drilling rig—one Frankland had bought fifth-hand years ago—was putting in a new well. The quake had sheared the pipes from Frankland’s two old wells, but he’d been prepared for that, and his cisterns would be sufficient till they could get new wells dug. Things were much better organized here than in town. Rails Bluff had long since run out of emergency supplies, personnel, food, and fresh water. All Sheriff Gorton could do when refugees straggled in was to advise them to continue up Highway 417 to the Reverend Frankland’s place. He was sending them in shuttles on Dr. Calhoun’s bus, along with as many of Rails Bluff’s own inhabitants as he could persuade to go.
Communication was nonexistent: the telephone exchange had been destroyed, ground lines were down, radios in the sheriff’s cars didn’t carry far enough to reach anywhere else, cellular phone relays were all gone. It was probably a blessing, Frankland thought—he could do his work here without worrying about corruption and evil broadcast from the outside, but he still felt sorry for those worried about loved ones they could not reach.
“Brother Frankland?”
Frankland turned at the sound of Garb’s voice. “Brother Garb?” he smiled.
“Heaven-o,” said Garb.
“Beg pardon?”
Garb gave a shy smile. “Heaven-o. It’s a way of saying ‘hello,’ except it leaves out the ‘hell.’ It always bothered me that there was hell in hello.”
Frankland nodded in admiration. “Heaven-o! That’s great!” he said. “Did you think of that?”
“No, I heard that there was this county in Texas that voted to replace hello with heaven-o, and I thought it was a pretty good idea.”
“Maybe we should make it official here in the camp.”
“I’d be very pleased if we could.” Garb adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I’ve just been speaking to that last bus-load of refugees that came up from town,” he said. “Half of them are from below the bluff, down in the Delta.”
Frankland nodded. “They can hear our message in the Delta? That’s good.” Garb shook his head. “No, they didn’t hear you. They came here because it was the only place they could go. The levees broke, and everyone in the Delta was flooded out.”
Frankland shook his head. All those rich farmers growing cotton and soya in the Arkansas Delta, living off the fat of the land while their neighbors, and their neglected brethren in Rails Bluff, stayed poor. Now the rich farmers were refugees, and Rails Bluff their only hope.
“God bless them,” Frankland said. That Wal-Mart superstore, he thought, must be flooded out, too.
“The ones who got out were those who live close to the bluff,” Garb went on, “or who owned boats that could get them through the flooding. There must be many more people down there who have been stranded.” Garb looked up at Frankland. “I was thinking that we should organize rescue groups with boats, just as we’ve done with jeeps and trucks. Go out there into the flooded country, bring people in.” Frankland put a hand on Garb’s shoulder. “Brother Garb, that’s a brilliant idea. Bless you.” Garb smiled. “Thank you . I can ask some of the refugees to serve as guides, because they know the country. And of course they already have boats.”
“Put our own people in the boats as well, make sure the thing’s done right.”
“Reliable people.”
“Exactly.” Frankland nodded.
It was glorious to have so many people here on his wave-length.
“I will organize it, if you like,” Garb said.
“Thank you, Brother Garb.” He hesitated. “Don’t forget the Wal-Mart. Tools, supplies, food.”
“Guns and ammunition.”
“Amen,” said Frankland.
There was the sound of a horn blaring from the highway, and Frankland looked up to see a pickup truck rolling in from the east. The driver waved a hand from his window as he turned into the church parking lot. Frankland could see another man in the bed of the truck. He and Garb trotted up to the truck as it ground to a halt on the gravel.
The driver hopped out. Frankland recognized him as the sixteen-year-old son of one of his parishioners, a scavenger who had been sent out east with some others. “We’ve got a casualty,” the boy said. “We pulled him out of a wrecked car at the bottom of the Rails River Bridge. He must have been on the bridge when it collapsed.”
“He’s been down there for two days?” Garb said, impressed.
“He was about to drown when we pulled him out. The river’s rising.” The boy walked around the pickup and let down the tailgate. “It was a heck of a job getting him up the riverbank,” he said. “We need a stretcher or something to get him to the infirmary.”
“We don’t have any stretchers,” Garb said, “but I’ll get a canvas cot.” Garb hustled away. Frankland looked into the bed of the truck and felt a rush of cold surprise. Father Guillaume Robitaille. Personal emissary from the Prince of Darkness to Rails Bluff. The priest was pale where he wasn’t sunburned, and crusted with his own blood. His nose was mashed over most of his face, his eyes were black, his front teeth had been knocked out. He looked at the world without comprehension, from rolling, half-slitted eyes. He shivered and trembled and made little whining noises.
Frankland gave silent thanks to the Lord, who had put the great Roman Enemy in his power.
“We’ll take Father Robitaille to my house,” he said. “I want to look after him personally.” He looked down at the priest.
“Heaven-o, Father,” he said. “Heaven-o.”
“Sweet Lord, look at that,” Sheryl said. Frankland nodded.
Father Robitaille trembled and whimpered in their bed. They had given him water, though he’d thrown most of it back up, and they’d tried to feed him, but he hadn’t been hungry, or maybe just hadn’t recognized his meal as food. He seemed pretty far gone.
He was safe enough in Frankland’s house, though. Like his church and broadcast center, it was steel-framed and set firmly on its foundation. It featured steel walls, steel window frames, steel doors and door frames.
Frankland hadn’t intended it that way, but when he was putting the building up, he realized it wouldn’t make a bad jail.
Or a drunk tank.
“When I was growing up in Little Rock,” Frankland said, “there was a little ol’ Catholic church between where I lived and where I went to school. And my folks told me that when I walked to school, I should be sure to cross the street when I got to the Catholic church, and walk on the other side, so that the Devil wouldn’t jump out of the church and get me. And most of the other kids in the neighborhood had been told the same thing, so practically everyone crossed the street to keep clear of the Catholics.” He chuckled. “Some of the braver kids would sneak up to the church, knock on the door, and run. Dare the Devil to come out and chase them.”