The Alliance (22 page)

Ten-year-old Ezekiel Lapp asks if we are ready. At his mother’s affirming nod, he hustles inside the schoolhouse to ring the bell. Members of the community, halted in their packing by this sound, soon stream out of their cabins and barns. They converge into a throng of downcast expressions, generated by the quandary: How can we leave almost everything to climb into the national forest surrounding the community? And yet, how can we fight back if we stay?

For the first time in my life, I not only yearn to stare straight into my assailant’s face, instead of turning my other cheek to his abuse, but also to defend what I perceive is rightfully mine . . . rightfully my family’s. Part of this is because I crave a steam vent for my anger, which is boiling within me, making my insides feel like they are ready to burst. Part of this is because I am also angry at the community for turning themselves over to an unseen enemy rather than attempting to stay and, if necessary, put up a fight. If we each took up a weapon, would Mt. Hebron stand a chance against this supposed violent gang? The truth is, no one in our community would defend himself, and so we will flee without knowing if we could’ve remained.

Taking this into account, folding napkins and placing knives, spoons, and forks in the correct order seems trivial
compared to what challenges lie ahead, and yet the predictable movements keep me from analyzing to the point of insanity. Anna, sensing that I am not acting myself, remains by my side as the rest of the Mennonites and the few
Englischers
gather around the tables. Two of the women, Esther Glick and Marta Good, grip the chairs with one hand while jiggling their newborns with the other. As I watch them fighting back emotion, I am reminded of the biblical warning that the last days will be hardest for those with babes pressed to their breasts. But I believe it is also hard for those who find themselves falling in love for the first time, when one’s heart cannot be given the priority it deserves. I always imagined that, when confronted with the end of life, other desires would fade beyond those needed for survival. This is not the case. In fact, I’ve found the opposite is true. I yearn to be with Moses, as if he is my North Star in this black hole of madness, but my duty to my family forces me to remain lost.

Bishop Lowell must sense the community’s growing discomfort, for he assumes his place at the head of the far-right table. A summer wind blows across the acreage, offering relief as I swelter in my dark cape dress. Behind me, I can hear the swings’ ropes creaking in this same wind, and I recall that first day Moses and I sat swing by swing and talked as though I had thoughts worthy of sharing. I set the basket on the table. It has grown too heavy, though its
weight has not changed. Anna and Seth stand behind the seats next to me. Jabil and Moses stand behind the seats across from me. I meet Moses’s eyes and then force myself to look down the table.

One of the women has placed tea light candles down the center of the tables, reminding me of the runway lights I once saw at the airport in Kalispell. Though it is late afternoon, and therefore a waste to burn candles, it soothes my soul to view such beauty. The minuscule flames waver in the wind, about to be snuffed out. Bishop Lowell motions for us to be seated. I drop my hands from around a tea light to pull out my chair and watch the wind extinguish the flame.

“I called for this celebration today,” he begins, “because regardless of what the future holds, I want us to remember that we are a community of people who trust
Gott
to provide, just as he provided for the Israelites in the desert. We are not guaranteed to have it easy, nor that we will even survive. But we are guaranteed that, regardless of how bad it gets, he can take it and use it for good. We must trust him with our provisions and our lives. Therefore, we will not hoard our manna for ourselves but will continue to share with those in need and expect
Gott
to bring manna tomorrow and in the days ahead.” The bishop runs his maimed fingers over the tablecloth’s pattern. “It has been my honor to serve you these years, and if the Lord wills it, I hope that
when we reestablish ourselves as a community—whether it is here or up in the mountains—I will have the honor of serving you again.”

Esther’s baby begins to
brutz
. Bishop Lowell raises his head and looks at the child. He smiles, the worry momentarily leaving his face. “I would like to sing a prayer over our meal,” he says, “to show
Gott
our appreciation for the bounty he has given, even in this season of want.”

The bishop extends his hands and hums a note that is surprisingly steady for someone of his age. The Mt. Hebron Community—composed of the neighbors I have known for years—then begins to sing hymn 131: “‘We thank thee, Lord, for this our food, but more because of Jesus’ blood; let manna to our souls be given, the Bread of Life sent down from heaven.’”

As we continue through the simple verses, I can hear our disparate voices uniting into one resonant chorus that rises on the same wind that extinguished the flame. Tears fill my eyes as I listen to Jabil’s bass voice harmonizing with my alto. I look over, and our gazes communicate every bittersweet emotion without a word being said. He is my friend, and I care for him, but unless the Lord intervenes and changes my heart, I can never care for him in that way.

The singing stops, and we begin passing bowls to each other. I savor a mouthful of creamed corn and lima beans,
a slice of ham with gravy made from canned pineapple, and a sourdough roll slathered with butter, wondering how long it’s going to be until I can taste these flavors again. I scoop cranberry sauce onto my china plate and pass the bowl to my sister, whose table manners are superb for someone who cannot communicate well.

I haven’t finished my meal when black smoke starts to rise at the beginning of the lane, first as the leavings of a smokestack and then as a cloud. Moses alone is impervious to the inertia that is affecting the rest of us. He leaps up so abruptly, his chair tips back. He runs down the lane with such adrenaline fueling his steps that, for the first time, I see no trace of a limp. Within seconds, our stunned silence dissipates, and everyone bolts into action. Water spills as cups fall over. Napkins twirl to the ground like severed wings. Children begin crying as they sense their parents’ panic, and I know this vortex of terror could be the exact thing we were hoping to escape.

I watch, helpless, as Anna rocks in her chair and claps hands over her ears, keening at the riot of sound. I sit beside her and pull her onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her as I would a child. Jabil’s wagon wheels fling gravel as he careers past us over the schoolhouse lane. Jerking back on the reins, he jumps out and ties the mare to the hitching post. He touches my shoulder as he walks past. “You and Anna should go,” he says. “We have no idea who’s—”

“I’ll send her with you,” I interrupt. “But I’m staying here until everyone’s safe.”

He nods and turns from me toward
Grossmammi
Eunice. In her black cape dress and outdated pince-nez glasses, she appears unruffled by this sudden unrest, just as she’s appeared unruffled from the commencement of the EMP. For the past ten minutes, during which the community has been darting to and fro, trying to salvage what they were packing before the ringing of the schoolhouse bell, she has continued to sit and eat. Part of this is probably due to her visual impairment, which barred her from seeing the smoke at the gate and now bars her from seeing the pandemonium erupting around her table. But some of this languor could possibly be because of how long she’s lived her life—and how much she’s lost during its duration—so she doesn’t feel the need to preserve it with the same intensity the rest of us do.

It requires mental and physical effort to lift Anna into Jabil’s wagon. Trying to abate her shivering, I wrap a feed sack around her legs and realize it is one of the same feed sacks Old Man Henri used to cover up the shotgun that night we went to the museum. Decades seem to have passed between then and now, and I cannot even remember the person I was in comparison to the person I’ve become. I am less of a butterfly freed from her cocoon, and more of a predatory bird free-falling from the safety of her nest. Breathing deeply, I help Jabil load everyone
left around the table into the wagon, and then we go back for
Grossmammi
Eunice.

She at first refuses to budge because she hasn’t finished her pie, but Jabil leans down and smiles, convincing her with a masculine charm that would be impossible for me. She strides across the schoolhouse yard with her thin shoulders back and a china plate balanced in her hands. Batting away Jabil’s assistance, she climbs into the rear of the wagon and sits ramrod straight beside the children, who have been separated from their parents in an attempt to let the parents use their wagons to load the last of their goods. My
grossmammi
sighs and blindly reaches for the most heartbroken toddler, Suzie Stoltzfus, who throws herself across her lap. Stroking Suzie’s sweaty hair, she takes the spoon and begrudgingly feeds her the last bites of pie.

Climbing up into the wagon, Jabil turns to make sure everyone’s safely seated, then glances over at me. I shake my head to let him know I haven’t changed my mind. He nods and begins directing the horse toward the old logging trail that wends up into the forest. Bracing my arms across my chest, I watch him go before I survey the abundance of food discarded on gold-rimmed plates, at the heirloom platter with the filigreed edge now broken in half, at the ornate tablecloth I admired earlier tainted with cranberry sauce the color of blood. None of the tea light candles have withstood the unpredictable gusts.

Behind me, but still far too close, I hear the sky being frayed by gunfire. My heart thuds so hard it hurts. I glance at the abandoned feast once more before I sprint across the lane toward the woods, praying that at the perimeter, Moses Hughes—the pilot with a death wish—is alive.

Moses

T
HE GUNSHOTS ECHO
around me, and it’s as though these past three weeks didn’t happen—as though
none
of this happened—and I am back in the desert, straining to see black-and-white as I listen for the whiz of the bullet that heralds the moment I die. My fingers shake as I take up a position on the perimeter and level the crosshairs on the man closest to us, shooting from a ditch on the lane.

I remind myself of what my veteran grandpa said when I was debating about reenlisting or staying with him on his Bonners Ferry farm: “Us dreamy types—” he’d bumped my shoulder with his—“we don’t do so well on the front lines ’cause we can’t see the world in black-and-white enough to do what needs done.” But the problem is, even such guileless understanding is no longer simple. I have to see the world as black-and-white again, because I have to be on the front lines again, trying to protect a homestead filled with people I’m beginning to love.

Charlie yells, “Snap out of it, Moses!” Definitely a frontline guy.

I stop remembering then and start thinking. I think of Leora somewhere in the community, the wind pulling a few strands of her dark hair loose from her
kapp
as she runs.
For her, a pacifist, I raise my gun and steady it on the log in front of me, but the man in the ditch is already gone. The refugees who’ve come from Liberty are dispersing in every direction, being driven back by the volley of gunshots hailing from the gang across the road. Most of the gang are taking cover behind their five windowless vehicles. Sean and Old Man Henri are on the scaffolding across from Charlie and me. Sean opens fire on the conversion van and swears, ducks low to wait for the return fire, and then rises to his feet, blinking back sweat.

Some of the Mennonite boys—too young to join the church, but old enough to know better than to fight—climb up the scaffolding to bring us more ammo and even a drink of cool water from the well. I take a cup Leora’s brother, Seth, has handed to me from below.

“Need some help?” he asks, jerking his smooth chin toward the perimeter.

Not about to get him mixed up in this, I lie, “No, son. We got all the help we need.”

I turn my attention to a heavyset man darting from behind one of the vehicles toward the cover of the ditch. I assume he’s trying to get around to our side so he can make his way closer to our flank. But my reaction and speed on the trigger is faster than the speed he uses to cover the short distance. I let two shots loose: the first right on him and the second just in front. The second shot takes him down just
short of his destination. I watch as he crawls—still trying to get to cover—but his effort is short-lived.

“Good shooting!” Charlie hollers. “We’re holding ’em back, boys!”

Right now, it seems we’re not only holding them back, but we’re also winning. I do not fool myself. We’re outnumbered and only have so much ammo. At this pace, it’s only a matter of time before our luck changes and we are taken out and the community is overrun. Old Man Henri jerks back from his position. He cusses and growls, “I’m hit.” I can see the wound on his shoulder, and his shirt turning red as the flannel soaks the blood up like a sponge. Sean helps Henri lie back on the plank of the scaffolding. I turn to climb down to help as well, but the Mennonite boys who’ve been assisting us take hold of Henri and gently lower him from the scaffolding to the ground. They lead him away to what was supposed to be the makeshift hospital, though I doubt any adults are around anymore to assist.

One boy remains with us: Seth.

“I know how to shoot,” he calls, but his voice sounds too young to support his claim.

Sean waves a hand, inviting the boy up, even though—behind Seth—I am frantically waving my hands and shaking my head. If anything were to happen to him, Leora would never forgive me. And I would never forgive myself. Seth clambers up the scaffolding’s rungs. His suspenders
are crisp lines against the blue shirt. He takes Henri’s rifle and wipes the stock against his side, cleaning the sticky red with his pants. The image of that boy holding the rifle, his hands stained with someone else’s blood—even if it’s just Henri’s—makes me feel sick. Swallowing the burn in my throat, I call over to him, “You don’t need to be up here, Seth. Not if it’s against your beliefs. You could get killed.”

Seth straightens his shoulders and casts his hat to the side. Tucking down in the hole that Henri was shooting from, he snaps the safety off and looks over at me. “Who says I believe the same as everyone else?”

I nod at him, relinquishing my big brother stance, as I recall how important it was to be taken seriously at his age. “Okay, then. Make your shots count.” I point to the spot behind the van where our enemies are gathered. I haven’t talked to God in a long time—not since I walked away from every relationship I had before I left for the desert, including the one I had with him. But as this sheltered young man readies to shoot at the enemy through the very hole that Henri took a bullet from, I find myself praying. I pray for the boy’s safety; I pray that the shedding of blood won’t scar him the way it’s scarred me. And then I pray that this community—composed of families I once perceived as eccentric oddities but now perceive as neighbors and friends—can survive against all odds. For I know that, in
order to endure this assault, we’re going to need a miracle of drastic proportions.

Then, over the chaos and noise, I hear someone call Seth’s name from behind the scaffolding. But Seth doesn’t hear it. I turn and see Luke—Leora’s father,
Seth’s
father—shambling toward us. When he sees me, his bearded face cracks into a grin. Sean and Charlie both glance at me and use the moment of stillness to reload, wondering if this rough-looking character—despite his smile—is friend or foe. I am not sure myself. Why on earth did he come wandering in during the fight of our lives? And how did he
get
in here in the first place?

Charlie must decide that Luke Ebersole’s not too threatening, because he sets his rifle on the plank and climbs down. “Hold ’em back for a second without me, boys,” he says. “Gotta get something from my truck.”

From the base of our perch, Luke calls to Seth, “Jabil sent me to tell you he needs help loading the wagon.” Seth lowers his rifle and stares back at Luke—a wasted, gray figure of a man—but his face remains impassive. “You should go, Seth,” Luke prods. “He needs you right away.” The boy appears reluctant to abandon his post, but sweat glistens around the rim of his patchy bowl cut and his face is blanched with fear.

Another barrage of bullets thwacks the wall of the perimeter, making us all duck down below our shooting ports.
Seth quickly hands Henri’s rifle back to Sean, grabs his hat, and scrambles down the scaffolding. At the base, Luke pats his son awkwardly on the back. “You made the right decision,” he says. But Seth, ashamed, doesn’t even raise his head to look at his father, and I can tell that he either hasn’t made the connection or else he’s acting like he hasn’t. All four of us watch Seth put his hat on and walk down the lane toward the schoolhouse—not wanting to be part of that world, but also not wanting to be part of ours.

Luke motions to the scaffolding and looks at Sean. Sean looks at me.

“He’s all right,” I say, unsure of my judgment.

Sean waves him up just like he waved up Seth. Luke climbs the scaffolding and sits with his legs hanging over the side.

“So, you’re not a pacifist?” I ask him as he checks out Henri’s gun.

“Think I’m a little too far gone for all that,” he says.

Charlie, now back from his truck, ignores us while trying to climb up the scaffolding with a large metal ammo box and the four-foot-long metal pipe that he’s been lugging around since the EMP. He says to me, “Here, grab this box and give me a hand, will ya?”

I reach down and take the ammo box by the handle and heave it onto the walk plank. “What else you gonna bust out today?” I ask. “A tommy gun?”

Charlie, still grinning, opens the box and takes something out. I’m not sure whether it should be called a grenade, a mortar, or just an accident waiting to happen. Sliding the homemade ordnance into the back of the improvised weapon, he then uses a lighter to ignite the fuse protruding out the side. “This should give ’em something to think about,” he says, winking at me before steadying the beast on the wall. I am seriously thinking of diving for cover, because anything you have to light a fuse on, and then hold, is no better than suicide.

There is a low wallop as the first charge goes off, sending the object flying in slow motion, like a softball through the air. It lands just short of the vehicles, and then skips and bounces on the ground and goes right underneath the closest one. There is a second or two of silence. I turn to look at Charlie—who raises his eyebrow and shrugs, thinking it’s a dud—but then the mortar explodes under the car, sending a shock wave throughout the area.

“Meet Bessie, my pipe-bomb launcher,” he quips, setting it down beside him and picking his rifle back up. “That thing had over three hundred ball bearings.”

“That it?” I dryly reply.

Peering over the wall, I can see that the pipe bomb has lived up to the devastation it was created to inflict. The men who are left are dragging one of their wounded as they retreat from the front to cover farther back. I doubt they
were expecting this kind of defense when they tried penetrating our compound, for we have dropped them like flies. There are now about ten of them. We’ve killed twenty. Maybe more. The smoke pouring out of the burning vehicle makes it almost impossible to tell. I try but can’t desensitize myself like I did during that savage fifteen-minute span, seeing these men as fragments of people—skullcaps, tattered T-shirts, and jailhouse tattoos—rather than souls that will one day have to pay the price for the blood they’ve shed. The same as I will have to pay the price for the blood that’s on my hands.

All at once, the bile that has been building in my throat since I watched young Seth preparing to take part in the violence, is more than I can hold back. I lean over the scaffolding. Whatever meager portion of food I consumed during the feast splatters on the ground.

Rising to my knees, I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my shirt and take a drink from the canteen Charlie tosses to me, swishing the liquid around before spitting it back out.

I rasp, “Ever heard the quote, ‘An eye for an eye will make the world blind’?”

“Sure have,” Charlie says, even as he turns around to peer over the perimeter, trying to see who’s left in the open to kill. “I also heard something like, ‘A man’s heart is desperately wicked. Who can know it?’ That don’t make me want to sit around singing ‘Kumbaya’ and holding hands. Does it you?”

“Of
course
not. But sometimes I wonder if we’re becoming the same kind of evil we’re trying to fight against, so we’re going to end up also fighting ourselves. If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be better to turn the other cheek, even if it means dying?”

Charlie hocks over the scaffolding before looking at the scope again. “I ain’t about to turn no cheek. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep myself alive, even if that means picking off a cat.”

“A cat?” I look over at him, thinking he’s joking.

“Yes. A cat. I shot a cat that I found eating a can of tuna.”

“Whose cat?”

“Never you mind whose cat,” he says, lifting his jaw at me in defiance. “The point is, we can’t be feeding strays. Feline
or
human.”

Charlie’s making a point, all right. A point not to look at me, despite the fact that I’m staring a hole through his head. “You know exactly whose cat that was, don’t you?”

“Don’t matter. I didn’t eat it, did I? Just tossed it up in the woods, humane-like.”

“You shot somebody’s pet and you think that’s humane? When did you shoot it?”

He shrugs.

“Was it the night we were guarding the gate and everybody else was out searching?”

“My word, Moses. It’s like you work for PETA.”

“I could care less about the stupid cat. Who I care about is Leora. She thinks her sister was raped that night they went out searching for that woman, ’cause later she found her wandering around in the field with blood all over her pajamas.” Now Charlie meets my eyes. I nod at him as his comprehension dawns. “That’s right. Leora thinks
you
did it.”

“Don’t look at me like that, all high and mighty. You woulda done the same. I saw it there beside their greenhouse when I was out making my rounds, eating tuna as happy as you please, tail twitching and all. It had the nerve to growl when I stopped, so I shot it. Never felt a thing. I didn’t know your Four-Eyes’ kid sister was watching me, or I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Yes, you would’ve.”

He shrugs again. “Okay, I probably would’ve. But then that girl came out of the house and started cuddling the cat like it was still . . . alive or something, so I had to pry it from her hands and carry it up in the woods. I felt bad, swear I did. I would’ve taken the time to bury it and put a little cross and flowers marking its grave if I wasn’t supposed to be helping
you
guard the gate from a band of bloodthirsty thieves. So if she hiked up there in the woods after I left and cuddled the corpse some more, that’s her own stinkin’ fault. We can’t be having some worm-infested cat eating our food when we barely got nothing to eat! We’re talking
albacore
tuna, not even chunk light! My word, Moses, what was she thinking?”