The Gates of Babylon (7 page)

“Jim,” Parley said. “It’s going to fall over whether we want it to or not. At this point, only God could keep millions of people from dying.”

“Then let’s help God do it. Instead of helping the other side.”

“Only maybe that’s God’s plan all along,” Parley said. “You ever think about that? If this is the sifting of the wheat from the tares, you know what that means, right?”

“It means the tares are going to burn,” Alacrán said. The smuggler didn’t sound particularly upset by the prospect, and the religious language sounded even more cynical coming out of his mouth than Parley’s. “But you know what? There are always survivors. Keep yourself alive, put yourself in the right place at the right time, and you come out on top.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” Jim said. “In case you didn’t notice, you’re sitting in the office of the governor of the State of Utah.”

“Until that phone rings,” Alacrán said. “And you pick it up and it’s the army. One call, that’s all it would take, and you’re out of office. Waiting in line with the rest of them for a chunk of stale bread.”

“Don’t think they’re not tempted,” Parley said. He rolled his pen back and forth over his knuckles. “If it can happen in Nevada and Arizona—Wyoming, too—it can happen here. Utah would make a nice, contiguous stretch of land under military government.”

Jim’s gaze drifted to the two-by-three-foot map of Utah pinned to a corkboard on the far side of the room. It was shaded with colors and marked with crosshatches. Red Xs marked half a dozen refugee camps along the rail lines—federally controlled territory—with the big camp at Green River. More red at the major military bases and the army proving grounds. Yellow for the abandoned or partially abandoned towns on the Colorado Plateau, on minor highways, far from major rail or interstate, and largely inaccessible due to fuel shortages. A green swath ran the length of the state, marking the population centers in the north, down along I-15, through Beaver, Cedar City, and St. George. Safe territory, although the final stretch from Cedar City to the Arizona border was probably optimistic. More green around the major power plants, the coal fields of Carbon County, and the reservoirs in the mountains. Other small towns sprinkled in green as oases of self-sufficiency, hunkered down until the food and fuel shortages resolved themselves.

The problem was the yellow. It had doubled in size in the past six weeks. Fifty percent of the state was now lawless, and that yellow part grew day by awful day. It had nearly engulfed the southern half and was now biting at the population centers to the north.

“Listen,” Parley said, interrupting Jim’s thoughts. “Say you’re right. Things quiet down. You hold the line, keep Utah civil
when half the country panics and flies apart. Keep the refugee camps from meltdown. When life returns to normal in a few years, they’ll
beg
you to run for president. Nobody will care anymore that you have polygamist cousins.”

“Do you really think so?”

“But meanwhile, let’s prepare for the worst. Make sure we’re ready to stay alive on the other side. To thrive.”

“And how do we do that?”

“It’s a contingency plan,” Alacrán cut in. “Nothing big, only a few operations to consolidate power in the hands of the governor and his allies, before the Feds snap it all up.”

Jim felt himself moving past some invisible line, beyond which he would not be able to step back. A point of disloyalty to the government, a point of selfish pursuit of his own survival at the expense of his people and his state. No, that was wrong. It was about building strength. What could he do as a puppet of the federal government? Nothing.

“Go on,” he said at last.

Parley crossed to the window. “When a great empire collapses, it is replaced by fifty or a hundred little kingdoms, each one led by men strong enough to seize power and to hold it against other kings, governors, and warlords.

“We’re practically an island,” Parley continued. “Surrounded by deserts and protected by mountain ranges. Thank Brigham Young for that. That’s exactly what he was thinking when he led the Saints west. And when the federal government pulls out—or we drive them out—”

“Are you kidding?” Jim interrupted.

“What?”

“Drive them out? You’re talking war with the United States. That’s nuts.”

“Of course it’s nuts,” Parley said with a shrug. “We’re talking worst-case scenario. Things have pretty much collapsed by then. The army goes rogue. That kind of thing.”

Jim blinked at him then sighed. “Fine, then what?”

“Assuming all that,” his brother continued, “we have to hold Salt Lake, Ogden, and Provo. That’s the bulk of the population right there.”

“Millions of people in Utah,” Jim said. “We produce what? A third of our own food.”

“Less, once you take away fertilizers, fuel for tractors, and so on.”

“Exactly. No way around that.”

“So? A population reduction is inevitable.”

Jim stared. “Chilling how calmly you say that. Makes the hairs on my arms stand on end to hear you toss out the death of millions of people like we were talking about roadkill.”

“We’re in overshoot,” Parley said. “Once you strip away modern agriculture, look around, and realize we live in a desert, suddenly it feels like we’re living on Easter Island before the collapse.” He shook his head. “We can be sentimental, or we can be practical. There’s no room for both.”

“Anyway, there’s another problem,” Jim said. “The instant we declare independence from Washington, every rural town in the state will declare independence from Salt Lake. We’d need an army. And that means weapons.”

“Agreed,” Parley said. “Feds pull out, we’ll move to secure the army proving grounds. The air force base. Take what’s left from
the National Guard armories.” He nodded at Alacrán. “Lazario diverted some weapons from the arms heading south to Mexico. Assault rifles, grenades, even machine guns.”

Alacrán had been staring up at the colored-in map of Utah but looked over at mention of his name. “And I’ll get more, so long as you’re willing to pay.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jim said. “You’ll be collecting every step of the way, won’t you?” He turned back to his brother. “Weapons aren’t enough if it comes to war between the cities and the countryside. The cities will have two million people. The rural areas a tenth that, but they’ll have the food.”

“Only until we take it,” Parley said. “And then
we’ll
own it,
we’ll
control the land and the labor.”

“And how will we take it when our soldiers will be walking skeletons?
If
the Feds pull out, it will only happen at the end. Only after they’ve fed our boys into their army, stripped us of anything of value, and left us in the desert to starve.”

“And what if we get your army its food?” Parley said. “What if you found yourself with the biggest food stockpile west of the Rockies?”

Jim leaned forward. “What are we talking about?”

“Thirty-five hundred tons of wheat. Eight hundred tons of beans and rice. Eight thousand head of cattle, and three thousand hogs.”

“That’s something,” Jim said. “Not enough to stop your—what did you call it?—overshoot problem, but enough to feed an army.”

“Two small problems,” Parley said.

“Only two?”

“First, the Department of Agriculture guards this stash. It’s not a big force, which is part of the reason they haven’t managed to ship it out yet. Maybe a dozen armed men, is all.”

“Still, we’re talking about the Feds. Stealing that food puts us in open rebellion.”

“Only if we’re caught.”

“Your second problem?” Jim said.

“Raiding the food stores will make dangerous enemies.” Parley rose to his feet and moved toward the color-coded map. “But that’s worth the risk, because all this food is stored in one central, well-protected valley. The perfect spot from which to launch expeditions against rebellious towns on the Colorado Plateau.”

Even as Parley stretched his finger to the green, hundred-square-mile circle south of Panguitch, a sick lurch rose up in Jim’s gut. Anger. Jealousy. Thirst for revenge. Fear of vengeance.

“Blister Creek,” Jim said, voice hollow. “Jacob Christianson.”

CHAPTER SIX

When Jacob returned to the cabin after his meeting with his sister and Officer Trost, he trudged inside on lead feet and found his wife teaching two girls how to use an old-fashioned loom by pumping the treadle with their foot and passing the shuttle by hand. Fernie excused herself when she saw him. Jacob eased her wheelchair down from the porch and then pushed her over the rocky ground, down to the meadow by the creek. A pair of milk cows stared at them with big brown placid eyes, before returning to their grazing. Jacob helped Fernie out and the two sat in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

He explained what Trost was asking. And what he was offering.

“He’s going to pay you ninety pounds of silver coins?” she said when he finished. “What’s silver going for, a hundred dollars an ounce?”

“Something like that, and it’s only going up. More importantly, it’s real currency, in case paper money collapses. If we can get his daughter back here, set her up in a house, it’s ours.”

“Why not Salt Lake or Cedar City?”

“Trost thinks it’s safer in Blister Creek.”

“Why do
we
need to get her? He’s a police officer—why not hitch a ride to Las Vegas, dump the silver in some duffel bags, and then ride north on the next refugee bus?”

“She runs—ran, I mean—a pawnshop in the city. Guns, coins, all sorts of old and interesting stuff. The shop was almost like a Wild West museum, Trost says. She could sell it, but…”

“But it’s stuff we could use,” Fernie completed.

“Exactly. Maybe there’s nowhere else to get it, in fact.”

“A pawn shop,” she said with a frown. “The kind of business that trades in misery.”

“She’s holed up in a storage unit, terrified, needing someone to get her out.”

Fernie studied Jacob’s face. “We’ve welcomed bigger sinners to the valley than that,” she said at last. “Assuming she flies straight when she gets here, I can work on the Women’s Council to get their support.”

“Good, thank you.”

“But Eliza could have told me all this,” Fernie said. “There’s some other reason you hauled me out here when I should be working, and it’s not to enjoy the weather.”

He stroked her arm along the outside of her prairie dress. “You don’t think it’s romantic here with the sound of the creek?” He plucked fluffy white seeds from her hair, cast into the wind by
the desert broom growing in clumps around them. “And the air full of allergens?”

“It might be, if I weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

He sighed.

“Miriam is a good choice,” she said. “Steve, too. They’re former FBI—they’ll know how to navigate the road. Who else can go? David, to keep Miriam settled. Stephen Paul.”

“Not Stephen Paul. He’s leaving on a cattle drive. The other three, yes. Plus one.”

“Plus one. Of course. Jacob, if you want to run from Blister Creek, there are easier ways to do it. I won’t like it, but if you have to leave, we’ll go. We’ll take the family and find a place to ride this out. Maybe Alberta, on your dad’s old ranch.”

He was surprised to hear her say it. “You’d do that?”

“If it’s the Lord’s will. We’d pray about it first, of course. And we’d keep praying while we were gone.”

“Ah. You think the Lord would call me back here. Like Jonah swallowed by the whale.”

Fernie smiled. “Whales are pretty scarce in Alberta. I was thinking a burning bush. No, I don’t think God would let you walk away. Not now, not with the end so near.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “because I wouldn’t risk taking the kids out of here anyway. Remember last week when I went to Panguitch? David and I drove up the highway and faced down those ranchers threatening us with rifles. A National Guard patrol stopped us and put us facedown on the pavement for fifteen minutes. On the way back, I broke an axle going through that spot where the road washed out. Thank goodness we were almost to the reservoir when it happened.”

“You’re not selling this trip very well,” she said.

“I did all that to get medical supplies. And I came back with nothing. Not even Risperidone for our son.”

“There’s a better solution to Daniel’s problem.”

“Another priesthood blessing?”

“Yes,” she said, insistently. “With more faith this time.”

“I gave it everything I could manage,” Jacob said. “Which wasn’t much. You’ll never convince me that the way to treat bipolar behavior is prayer, priesthood blessings, and wishful thinking. Give me psychotropics any day.”

“Oh, Jacob,” Fernie sighed.

Jacob flinched at the disappointment in those two simple words. “It’s not just our son we’re talking about. Everything is running out—diuretics, statins, antibiotics, ACE inhibitors, thyroid hormones. And not only medication, but everything I need. David and I spent an hour in the blasted hospital dumpster digging through medical waste to find something—
anything
that might be useful. People are going to die.

“There’s a working hospital in Las Vegas,” he continued, “and at least two medical supply companies are still operating with stock out of Los Angeles. And several working pharmacies.”

“So give David a list. Write out prescriptions or whatever he’ll need.”

“Filling prescriptions is not like walking into a candy store and scooping out Jelly Bellies and gummy bears. And besides, I have no idea what is or is not available until I look.”

“There is no other way?” she asked, voice anguished.

There is no other way.

Jacob didn’t speak this aloud but stared across the stream, to
the dry, brush-strewn plain on the other side. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the valley floor. The Ghost Cliffs stood silent sentinel a few hundred yards to the north, a looming presence. The red spires and fins of the labyrinthine Witch’s Warts thrust south from the cliffs beyond the highway and toward the heart of the valley.

“This is what it means, isn’t it?” Fernie said at last. “I understand now.”

What
what
means? To be a doctor? Leader of the church? Married to Jacob?