The Devil's Highway (8 page)

The Town of Delgado lay fifteen miles from the Army of Redemption compound. The compound itself lay far off any main road, and you had to drive in on a service road that was an unpaved pale streak that cut across alkaline and silicate flats, the remnants of the plants and creatures of primeval seas. A brown and orange plume of dust hung behind me in the arid stillness and settled ever so slowly in the wake of my passing. Whoever was out there wouldn’t be taken by surprise, at any rate. That was good, in a way.
 

I didn’t want any of Cushman’s reputedly trigger-happy minions thinking I was up to some sneak attack. This way, they’d know I wasn’t trying to approach them on the sly. Still, I admit to a feeling of queasiness as the compound came into sight. There were a lot of heavily armed people in there with ideas that they were somehow the Chosen Few. People like that are capable of any kind of nastiness, if history is any guide.

The place was a big, sprawling affair, a giant rectangular plot cut off from the surrounding land by a twelve-foot high chain link fence like they put up around prisons.
 

Inside there were the vague outlines of buildings and vehicles, and other things.

There were also two tall watch towers, in opposite corners of the facility, high enough to command an uninterrupted view of the surrounding country. There were three large main structures, visible as I approached the gate. There was surely much more to the giant compound, but the size of those buildings and the flatness of the terrain hid everything else from view, a deliberate arrangement, I was sure. I remembered Andrea’s story about the shots at the helicopter.
Something
out there was worth concealing, that was for sure.

I came up to the gate, and a man in a khaki uniform halted me with an upheld palm; there was a security gate barring my path, so I would have probably stopped, anyway. It was a dinky wooden affair, but I didn’t feel like running through it, right then.
 

Another man watched from inside the guardhouse; he had an AK-47 on a strap hanging over his shoulder. No doubt he’d picked it up as I approached, because nobody lugs a rifle around if they don’t have to; an amateur showing off the hardware. I smiled and waved.

“Your business, sir?”

I offered him my credentials. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me.

“My business here relates to a missing person case. I need to speak to Mr. Cushman.”

“
Colonel
Cushman,” he pointedly corrected me, “usually sees people by appointment only. I’ll put a request in.”

He murmured into a police-style Motorola mike that rode on his shoulder and grunted. He nodded to the lad with the AK-47 on display, who fiddled with something that made the gate rise.

“Pull through and park in the visitor parking on the left, sir. Please remain in your vehicle, someone will be out to escort you around the facility.”

I pulled through and was immediately confronted with a large white sign that indicated visitors should bear to the left, just as I’d been told. To the right was another parking lot, obviously the Compound’s motor pool, which housed several vans and SUVs, most of which had a large “Redemption Army” logo painted on the driver’s door.
 

I parked, and didn’t have to wait, because a man in camouflage BDUs and combat boots was already on his way to me across the pavement, having apparently come from a low building that looked to me like a doctor’s office. I knew he was coming for me, because there were maybe forty parking places in the visitor’s lot, but I was the only visitor. My escort drew up, and I saw that he actually had rank insignia on his shoulder. It was home grown, with some sort of odd symbol in the middle, the three chevrons and rocker underneath made it clear that he was some kind of sergeant.

I got out, and the man, thirty-something and fit, with close-cropped red hair, nodded to me.

“Mr. Longville? I’m Sergeant Palin. Follow me, sir.”

We walked toward the doctor’s office, which in reality, as proclaimed by a large white sign, was the Central Command Post, Redemption Army Headquarters, Colonel Walter E. Cushman, Commanding. Hughes opened the door for me and we walked down a long hall, with windows along one side. Through the windows I could see the center of the compound. Next door to the building we were in, was a large warehouse.
 

“The Colonel’s busy, at the moment, Mr. Longville. He’s making his rounds. He’s graciously agreed to meet with you in a short while. I’ll just escort you to a waiting area. Follow me, please.”

I nodded but said nothing; Palin gestured out a window. “You can see the Colonel and his Aide de Camp there. As you can see, he’s got a lot to attend to.”

We halted and gazed out towards what I realized was the center of the compound proper, although it also seemingly contained a large tract of open landscape in the rear; no doubt, that was where the Redemption Army played their war games, to maintain their state of high alertness, should the Apocalypse arrive ahead of schedule. The Redemption Army was indeed well-equipped; there were several warehouses, marked “Provisions,” “Equipment,” and “Restricted.” Beyond that was a helipad, with two helicopters standing at ready. They were sleek, white commercial helicopters, the kind favored by news agencies for their eye-in-the-sky traffic reports. Unlike the vans around the compound, they bore no Redemption Army insignia on their sides.
 

Closer to the building I was in, though, there was a group of low metal buildings, and beyond, a long row of quaint, smallish homes, painted different colors in an attempt to give them some kind of individuality, but they were otherwise alike in every detail of construction—pre-fabricated housing for the True Believers in the Colonel’s cause. Standing in front of them was a tall, stocky man in a suit, with a thinner man at his side. They were apparently engaged in conversation with a woman in a blue dress, who was holding a baby.

“The Colonel likes to get around the compound and check on his people. He might be a little while, but he’ll make time for you.” We came to a room that was laid out like, what else, a doctor’s office waiting room. Twenty identical chairs, a muted television set high on a wall, playing Fox news; magazines, snack and soda machines, ugly fake plants.

“Just make yourself at home, here, Mr. Longville. I’ll be in the outer office if you need anything.” Palin nodded towards a telephone on a magazine-strewn table. “Just pick up that phone if you need anything further.” With that, he gave me a nod of dismissal and went back up the hall. I waited thirty seconds, and walked out and checked the hall. There were no security cameras that I could see, and there was no one around.

I strolled down the hall as casually as possible, hands in pockets, to the end of the hall past the waiting room. If anyone was looking, I hoped I looked like someone who was restless and was pacing. There were white double doors there, with a big sign on each of them that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” Quite intriguing, I thought. I tried the handle; they were unlocked. Now, that was just plain sloppy security.

I pulled one door open and stepped inside. There was another hallway that led to a four-way intersection of shiny hospital-like corridors. I walked down and looked cautiously each way; no one was in evidence. The floors were immaculate, and the halls smelled, once again, like a hospital. I chose the right turn and followed my nose, and came to another set of doors, with a sign reading
Infirmary.
I pulled the doors open, onto an area with a large low booth with phones, computers, charts, and filing cabinets; a working Nurse’s Station. Behind the desk were two women, a pretty young strawberry-blond girl with freckles wearing a Spongebob Squarepants patterned smock, and an older, thin woman with black hair pulled severely back into a bun, wearing a dark blazer.

They both looked at me with wide eyes, and the older woman made as if to reach under the desk. Mindful that in my current environment that might very well mean she was reaching for a gun, I made a friendly face and held my hands up, causally but deliberately making a show of my empty palms.

“Can I help you, sir?” The older woman asked, also casually but deliberately.

“My name’s Roland Longville. I’m looking for Brad Caldwell.”

The woman hesitated for a second and gave me a well-practiced frown.

That frown said that Brad Caldwell was a bad topic.

“Bradley,” the woman told me in as cold a tone as she could muster, “is ill. He’s currently being cared for in our infirmary.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the nature of his illness?” I asked innocently. The tension in the air was palpable, but I pretended not to notice.

“Sir. Our privacy rules won’t allow me to discuss that, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?” I stood there for a second, certain that this woman was enjoying every second of the stonewalling routine she was giving me. “Well, this is a matter of great importance, ma’am. I want to talk with Brad.”

“That won’t be possible, either,” she quickly responded.

“Let me guess, privacy rules again?”

“The fact is, Mr. Longville, you aren’t on Mr. Caldwell’s visitation list.” She said this without even pretending to consult any sort of list.

“You make it sound like he’s in jail.”

She stiffened. “Of course not. Brad—Mr. Caldwell—would have to add your name to his approved guest list himself, before I could allow you access to our facilities. We have strict security rules in place here.”

“I see. Then, put me on his visitation list.”

“I told you, only Bradley can do that.”

“Well, that would be kind of hard for him to do, wouldn’t it? I mean, since we’ve never even met.”

This brought forth a wan smile. “That is unfortunate.”

Suddenly Sgt. Palin was back, standing with a perturbed expression at my shoulder. So, the reach under the desk had been to press a button and summon security. Palin was a little cross with me, from his tone. “Mr. Longville, I gave you clear instructions to wait in a designated area. This area is prohibited to unauthorized persons. Will you come with me, please?”

I turned and left there, since it was obvious this approach wasn’t going to get me any closer to Brad.
 

As Sgt. Palin and I walked back out into the glare of the eternal tanning lamp that passed for the sun in West Texas, Colonel Cushman and another man appeared from across the parking lot. Cushman hailed me in a voice that reminded me of a car salesman’s tones. Or a lawyer running for office. Or a televangelist. I paused next to my car. The man next to him was a thin white man with a deep tan and shark’s eyes. Kiker, the South African, I bet myself.

I think that I had been expecting Colonel Kurtz in a khaki soldier suit; I couldn’t have been more wrong. In appearance, Colonel Cushman was as far from the neo-fascist stereotype of the radical survivalist as he could get. Unlike Tolbert, this man was clearly no soldier. He had neatly cut, short hair, black with some silver around the edges, and he was wearing an expensive, cobalt-blue suit. He looked more like a politician than the leader of a heavily-armed Doomsday cult.

If my mental image of Cushman had been wildly off the mark, though, the image fit the man at his elbow completely. He was lean, with watchful black eyes and dark hair buzzed down to the scalp. He wore black BDU pants and a gray “Army” t-shirt. There was also a shiny black Glock pistol in a canvas holster on his hip. He had the air about him that he was itching to use it, too.

“Nice militant stronghold you have here, Cushman.” I said, in the nicest tone I could muster, which wasn’t very nice.

“We’re not militants, Mr. Longville. We’re people just like you. There’s only one difference. We’re prepared for the great trial that is coming.”

“Great trial? What’s that? An asteroid? Aliens? Or is it some other tabloid danger that I haven’t heard about?”

“Go ahead, scoff, you certainly aren’t the first. But the truth remains, and every day we see the signs of its coming. This country is about to pass through a Great Tribulation, Mr. Longville. It’s going to be a catastrophe. Many lives will be lost. Yet still there is hope. Though many may die, those who are prepared will stand a fighting chance. Though the country has fallen from grace, and will be purged by flames, yet, it still may be redeemed.”

“Redeemed?”

“Redemption for this great nation and its founding ideas, Mr. Longville. The Constitution has been perverted or discarded outright; we exist as pawns to a government grown too large, a sprawling, corrupt monstrosity. It is a leadership heedless of the voice of its people. There have been great signs; earthquakes, Tsunami, and hurricanes and tornadoes; manifold disasters sent by the Almighty to warn of the coming Apocalypse.”

I had to let all that sink in for a second. “I don’t know about all this gloom and doomsday stuff, Cushman. You’ll have to pardon me if I don’t buy into what you’re pushing. Someone like you always shows up when times are tough, talking a load of this End of the World nonsense, and they always seem to attract the scared and the gullible. Just because you’ve been successful in trolling up a following out here in Nowheresville doesn’t mean you’re any more right than those others have been. Thousands have predicted the End of Everything through the years, Cushman, from Charles Manson to Jim Jones, and it still hasn’t come. We’re still here.”

Cushman nodded like he’d heard it all before, which he doubtlessly had, since he was so unpopular with the locals. “I can tell your mind is set on the matter, then, Mr. Longville. That’s really too bad. We could use a man like you. My people have done a little research on you, in the minutes since you arrived. Your military background and remarkable adaptability would make you well-suited to survive what is coming. You should think it over. No one will be exempted from the Great Tribulation that is going to soon befall the people of this great nation, and of the rest of the world, for that matter. But we must concern ourselves with what will happen here. We must bond together into communities of mutually supportive people. I urge you to think about it, Mr. Longville.”