Destroying Angel (39 page)

“No, because that’s a different thing than what I just promised.”

“I’m not sure it is,” Stephen Paul said.

“If you discover the women plotting to murder us in our sleep, come and tell me. Or if you think they’re going to smuggle some long-lost Kimball son into the valley, armed with chemical weapons, by all means, raise the alarm. Meanwhile, let’s make sure the men do their part and quit worrying about some hypothetical threat from our wives and sisters.” Jacob looked around. “Now, what is it you wanted to show me?”

He turned back to see Stephen Paul’s scowl deepening, and so he added, “I’m sorry, I’m not angry. But I need to be clear. The women’s quorum is not up for discussion. Or at least it’s not up for discussion with me, because I don’t control what they do.”

“Enough of that,” David said. “Let’s get going before we’re spotted.”

Jacob put his hand on Stephen Paul’s shoulder. “Trust me, at least for a few weeks. If things go wrong, I won’t turn a blind eye.”

At last the other man nodded, then gestured for Jacob and David to follow as he set off on his crutches. They walked across the lot toward the back of the property. The pumps were long gone and the building razed, its foundation a receptacle for
tumbleweeds. Cracks spread across the faded concrete like lines on an old man’s face. Thorny weeds sprawled from the cracks.

A spiny lizard with a ruby-and-maroon throat perched atop a pile of dry, charred lumber. It cocked its head and eyed them suspiciously as they approached. When they got too close, it scampered down and disappeared beneath the rusting body of a 1970s-era station wagon that sagged on flat tires.

At the back side of the foundation, Stephen Paul poked away weeds and empty soda cans with one crutch and then had Jacob brush away dirt and sand until he revealed a cracked sheet of particleboard. Jacob worked it back and forth until he had it dislodged, and David helped him lift it off and to the side. Beneath the board a concrete lid with two metal handles was set into the pavement. A moment later, they had this up to reveal the chained metal lid of an underground tank.

“Interesting,” Jacob said. “So the old fuel tanks are still down there? And full?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Stephen Paul said. “The pavement on this back side isn’t as old as it looks. A few years ago your father and I hid a backhoe behind that hill.” He pointed his crutch at one of the hillocks. “We brought it out at night, digging up one area, burying a tank, then covering it with brush before dawn.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” David said.

“It was. And someone might have discovered us, and the whole exercise would have been pointless.”

“So what are we talking about?” Jacob said.

“There were three smaller, eight-thousand-gallon tanks out here already, still in working order from the service station. At first Abraham thought we’d add three, maybe four, more tanks.
But once he started, he didn’t want to stop—Sister Rebecca kept encouraging him. She came most nights to help us work. I’m not sure why he confided in her and not one of the other men. Abraham and Rebecca didn’t always get along.”

“No, they didn’t,” Jacob said.

“We kept digging,” Stephen Paul continued, “until we’d extended the project west another thirty yards. All of the new tanks were the thirty-five-thousand-gallon containers made for filling stations at big truck stops. When we finished, we poured new cement, covered it with dirt and rocks, and then broke the surface with transplanted sagebrush to make it look old and undisturbed.”

“Must have cost a fortune,” Jacob said. “Not to mention the fuel itself. And you filled the tanks the same way? In secret?”

“Right. Your father leased a tanker and secretly filled one tank a week until it was all down there.”

“How much are we talking about?” David asked.

A smile played at Stephen Paul’s lips. “There is close to a million gallons of diesel down there.”

Jacob stared. “A
million
?”

“Let’s say nine hundred and fifty thousand, give or take.”

“Wow, that’s some kind of investment. Wonder what he was thinking.”

David snorted. “Maybe he planned to build his own refinery.”

“Who knows,” Stephen Paul said. “He didn’t share his plans. But, given the current situation, it was prophetic, wouldn’t you agree? That’s enough diesel to keep our tractors running for years. Even better, if things collapse, that fuel will be as good as gold for trade and barter.”

“That’s if nobody discovers it,” Jacob said. “If they do, it’s sitting out here for the taking. Forget the government—anyone could come, drop a hose, and pump it out.”

“Yes, there is that,” Stephen Paul said. “But unless one of us blabs—or Rebecca, for that matter—there’s no way they would. Come on, let’s get this covered up again before it gets dark.”

Jacob and David got the cement lid back down, then the board, and finally they kicked dirt over it all.

“There’s something else we need,” Stephen Paul said as they walked back to the vehicles. “Weapons.”

“We’re not going to war with the Department of Agriculture, if that’s what you mean.”

“We might not have a choice. Eventually, I mean. Not now, heavens no. But after the collapse.”

“You really think it will come to that?” David asked.

“There’s not going to be a collapse,” Jacob said.

“You’re sure of that?” Stephen Paul asked.

“I’m not sure of anything, but no, I don’t believe it.” Jacob hesitated. “That doesn’t mean you’re not right. Three guys in a Humvee almost outgunned the whole valley.”

“We were like Zulu warriors out there,” David said, “charging the blasted British rifles with our spears.”

“We’d have never taken them out, if not for one guy risking his life.” Jacob put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“The Kimballs may be gone,” Stephen Paul said, “except for one old guy in prison, but there are other Lost Boys. And if things get bad, all those military bases and National Guard armories will fall into the hands of militias and roaming bands of former soldiers. We
need more than deer rifles and handguns if we’re going to survive the collapse.”

Again this talk of collapse.

“Chip Malloy is storing Taylor Junior’s .50-caliber machine gun in the chapel basement,” David said. “One of my sisters was down there retrieving the sacrament trays under armed guard and saw it. Boxes of ammo too.”

“That’s a good start,” Stephen Paul said. “If we can get it. But we need a lot more. We need mines, grenades, assault rifles, antitank guns. Something to take out helicopters, even.”

“The only thing to fight military hardware is more military hardware,” Jacob said. He couldn’t believe these words were coming out his own mouth. He’d spent a good deal of effort breaking up the castle-like appearance of the Zarahemla compound, and now he was imagining where to build bunkers and pillboxes to turn the entire Blister Creek Valley into an armed fortress.

“Jeez,” David said. “I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion. That it’s really coming down to this. And all because of a stupid volcano on the other side of the world.”

“I wish Abraham were still around,” Stephen Paul said. “He’d have seen this coming and gotten us armed. And he’d know how to get his hands on the good stuff.”

“There’s someone else who can help,” Jacob said. “Someone who has been giving this a lot of thought. Sister Rebecca.”

Stephen Paul looked thoughtful. “You think so?”

“I do. And I’ll bet she either knows where to get military-grade weapons or has them already. She was the only one of us with an assault rifle, and I’ll bet she has contacts for getting more
of the same. Tomorrow I’ll go out to Yellow Flats and have a heart-to-heart.”

They returned to their vehicles, and Stephen Paul drove off in his truck. David climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Jacob paused in front of the driver’s-side door.

The sun was a half oval scorching the western horizon, dipping behind the distant mountains in a blaze of purple and maroon, a spectacular sunset almost too beautiful to believe. Volcanic dust. He thought about Grandma Cowley’s dream and what the angel had told her.

It is the earth itself, the mighty forge at its heart, burning brighter at the command of the Lord. Man is but an insect on its skin, and everything he has made shall be swept away. His cities shall lie in dust.

Jacob climbed into the car and started the ignition. The two brothers drove back in silence to Blister Creek, ready to prepare for the end of the world.

I would like to thank my agent, Katherine Boyle, and my team at Thomas & Mercer: Jacque, Rory, Danielle, Andrew, and David. A special thanks goes to Grant Morgan for providing valuable feedback of an early draft of
Destroying Angel
.

David Garten, 2011

Michael Wallace was born in California and raised in a small religious community in Utah, eventually heading east to live in Rhode Island and Vermont. An experienced world traveler, he has trekked through the Andes, ventured into the Sahara on a camel, and traveled through Thailand by elephant. In addition to working as a literary agent and innkeeper, he previously worked as a software engineer for a Department of Defense contractor, programming simulators for nuclear submarines. He is the author of more than a dozen novels.