Desolation

A group of ten men in camo stood outside the eastern gate, just south of the University of Wyoming campus entrance. Their intentions were unmistakable. Each carried an AR15 or other semi-automatic rifle—although they could have been fully automatic—either slung to their side or held at the ready. The lead man stood tall. His features were dark, almost Middle-Eastern, curiously shaved of all facial hair. The black hair on his head was a groomed to perfection, with light sprinkles of white; he looked as if he had just come from the barber. His inky eyes chilled Edgar Raintree, who was charged with the eastern gate when he wasn’t running the town’s only nursery. The Middle-Easterner spoke, in a voice both terrifying and melodic. “I assume I have your attention. Either you let us into your fair city and allow us to take a few things peacefully and go, or we will come at you with everything we have. You may not know me, so you’ll have to trust me when I say that you do not want to mess with us. We will cut you down and kill every last one of your people. It will be as if your little walled town never existed. I will not ask you a second time.”

He turned and whispered something to a short man next to him, who stepped away and walked into the middle of 9^th Street. The short man let go of his slung rifle, its deadly weight resting on his chest, and grabbed two rolled-up flags on sticks from his back pocket. He thrust them to the air. As each unfurled, he began to signal by semaphore, his body pointed toward some unseen point in the north. Then, he abruptly stopped, turned the other direction and repeated the same movements with flawless efficiency. Once done, he brought the flags down, twirled them around each other, and returned them to his back pocket. He then took his position next to the Middle-Easterner. Edgar could see several people moving toward their north-eastern wall corner. The opposite boundary was now crowded with another group walking west at the south-eastern corner of their citadel.

Edgar nearly jumped out of his skin when someone tapped him on his shoulder. “What do they want?” the out-of-breath Sheriff Ralf asked. He had just run the mile to this wall in record time.

“They want some of our supplies. If we let them take the stuff, he said they’ll leave, but if we don’t they threatened to level the town and everyone in it. That guy signaled others and now we’re surrounded.” He pointed to the pint-sized flagman. “I think there’s a lot more than the twe-twenty I saw. And Sheriff…” Edgar stopped to take a couple of breaths. “They seem well organized. The GQ Middle-Eastern guy,” Edgar now pointed to him, “told me he wouldn’t offer a second chance. What the hell should we do?” Edgar asked, hyper-ventilating so badly he felt dizzy and was pretty sure he would pass out if this kept up.

Sheriff Ralf’s face dropped, recognizing the leader immediately. He knew right then they were in trouble. Standing up, unprotected, with no weapons in his hand, hands and arms outstretched, Ralf addressed him. “Sylas Luther, how in God’s name did you get out of prison?”

“Sheriff Peterman, so nice to see you again.” The lead man sounded genuine. “The prison’s electric locks didn’t work very well when everything shorted out, and some love-your-neighbor guard didn’t want us to burn to death in the prison fires. So, here I am.” He grinned, satisfied with how this was going.

“The prison’s quite a few miles from here, and there are lots of houses and warehouses in between. So, why choose us, Sylas?”

“Enough small talk, Sheriff. You know what I am capable of. I’ll ask you a simple question. Are you going to give me what I want or would you prefer we kill everybody? It’s your choice.”

Immediately, Ralf said, “No, it is not my choice; it is the town’s choice. I have to put this—”

Sylas cut him off. “It is your choice today. I just need a yes or no answer. What’s it going to be?”

27. More Demands

Wright Ranch, outside Fossil Ridge, Illinois

A man nobody recognized sauntered up the long, straight, private dirt road of Wilber Wright’s ranch. In most ways, he was very plain looking, of average height and build, with dark hair and a permanent worker’s tan. Yet, he carried himself with a certain confidence and walked with a purpose in his step as he continued towards them. At the top of their hilly compound, Wilber and the others watched from behind an old wall that ran around the circumference of the hill. The man stopped where the drive was bisected by a new fence just erected by Wilber that ran around the base of their hill. Wilber announced, “Stranger, state your business.”

The man held up his arms, probably to show he was unarmed. “I am Thomas, a disciple of the Teacher. Our group is passing through on our way west. All we need is some of your food and one or two days’ rest on your property, and then we will be off doing God’s work.”