 
HEAVEN ON EARTH

William White-acre

Copyright 2017 by William White-acre

Smashwords Edition

white-acre.wixsite.com/photography

*other books by the author:

Surrounded By Mythology

I, The Hero

True For X

Forgotten Faces

A Rush Of Silence

Memory 2.0

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1 Before The Ending

Chapter 2 Unto Him

Chapter 3 When The Walls Came Crumbling Down

Chapter 4 Spiritual Flames

Chapter 5 God's Custodians

Chapter 6 Found But Lost

Chapter 7 Turn Turn Turn

Chapter 8 Behold Elysium

Chapter 9 Listen To John

And from the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.

Matthew 11:12

Chapter 1 Before The Ending

The Hawkins were a three member family, with the only child being a son. A daughter had died. Stillbirth, leaving the mother, Deborah, to mourn alone. Micah, her husband, had moved on from the tiny tragedy, choosing to accept God's will. Death, as in life, was preordained, one more minuscule piece in the puzzle that was the Lord's plan. Grief was, ultimately, unproductive. While his wife grieved, he took quiet solace in the words of the Bible.

As if in reward for his implacable stoicism, Ben, the son, had been born a full decade later after a difficult delivery, bearing out Genesis 3:16: I will greatly multiply your pain in childbearing, a pain you shall bring forth children. At last joy returned to Deborah's heart, as she clutched her new born son to her chest, returning the mid-wife's smile, who now knew unfathomable relief after the harrowing childbirth. God had blessed them, Micah and Deborah. Their prayers were answered. They had not been forsaken.

Ben grew into a tall young man, with his father's blue eyes and sturdy shoulders. He had also been bequeathed the gift from God, an ability he was to share with the flock because he too had the calling. Religious succession ran in the family, with Grandfather Hawkins having also been a man of the Word. Their congregation had been formed almost a hundred years ago, founded by disillusioned parishioners from several Protestant denominations centered around a small town outside of Oklahoma City.

The more mainstream religions, Methodist, Baptist, and the like, had been abandoned so as to further embrace the dictates of the Bible, establishing a closer connection to Jesus through a Pentecostal interpretation of scripture. "The Methodist are too sterile with the Lord and the Baptist too contradictory," Micah Hawkins was fond of stating, always with a gleam in his eye, like he knew something you didn't. As far as he was concerned, he did. He was a man of the cloth, as they liked to say, but he was a humble servant of God, a man who understood the import of his conversations with the Holy Spirit.

He came from Sooner stock, people who sought out a living on barren soil, throwing caution to the wind, with only their indomitable faith in Jesus and a strong back. Holding firm to the Bible kept them from perishing under the strain of a hardscrabble life where the fierce winds might blow you clear away, scattering your ashes to all corners of the country. It was an existence that challenged you each and every day, bringing your will to a low ebb. Scripture was like an anchor, something that served as their roots in order to dig down deep, deeper, so they wouldn't succumb to the hardship.

Even through the Dust Bowl days, when it seemed as if the Lord was punishing them all for sinful transgressions of every description, they held on to their faith. In a tiny church, no more than a shack really, they listened to Grandfather Hawkins expound on the gravity of the trespasses each one of them had committed. God was angry. The very land was drying up and flying away, leaving behind a frightening subsistence. Then came the plague of grasshoppers, visiting upon them Old Testament horrors. An infestation of spiders followed that and still they clung to their faith.

A once fertile land had been decimated, shorn of all sustenance. Farmers could till no land. Howling winds and blinding sand storms buffeted the region, carrying away more and more topsoil. An ecological nightmare had been visited upon them. People fled anyway they could, riding dying horses off into the horizon, hoping the beast would make it far enough away that they would never have to ever again see nature's apocalyptic mayhem they had left in their wake.

The ones who stayed behind hunkered down, praying for one more day of food and then another. Towns disappeared, buried under insidious dirt, covering up corpses, wasted bodies unable to endure. Grandfather Hawkins, with his congregation having dwindled down to only a dozen or so true believers, finally made a decision. After a marathon of praying, indulging himself in numerous Old and New Testament passages, searching for guidance, he opted to leave.

Like a Captain abandoning ship, he felt the full weight of his decision. Others would be left behind to fend for themselves without his link to the Lord. "My conscience is heavy," he would tell them that last Sunday, looking out into the tiny church, where the congregation coughed and sputtered from the omniscient dust. How many will die? he pondered, as he talked of the writings of Paul and how in times of travail one must maintain their faith. They were all being tested by the Lord, he assured them and would be the recipient of His reward.

Even though it was little solace at the time and didn't ring true, the parishioners clung to the belief that, in due time, they would come out the other side. Sin would be extinguished. God...Jesus would save them.

Grandfather Hawkins packed up his Ford truck and with his fearful wife and two young sons, drove west, away from the sun that was trying to pierce the clouded sky. The dust storm made it seem like night, even though it was just past noon. He drove on, blinded by the swirling dirt, creeping along the unpaved road, hoping they wouldn't fall off the end of the earth. His worried wife wondered aloud about their future, trying to suppress her mounting consternation. "We will know when to stop when we get there," he answered her, forcing a smile, patting the Bible that lay on the seat between them. The plan took them as far as eastern Arizona, where they stopped in a small farming town that had been settled by Mormons in the previous century.

O God thou art my God I seek thee,

my soul thirsts for thee;

my flesh faints for thee,

as in a dry and weary land where no water is.

Psalms 63:1

The Old Testament passage marked their new beginning, a place to raise the family. It would not come easy. Biblical infighting marred their fresh start, with a complicated and uneasy truce existing between the rival religious entities of the area. Distrust amongst the Mormons and the more established Christian religions festered, further exacerbated by the divisions already present between the Catholics and the mainstream Protestant denominations.

Differences were usually put aside in order to compete against nature, which could be, at times, hostile to their pursuits. Life giving rain could be sparse and they still had to withstand the omnipresent wind, which swept across the terrain unencumbered by any mountains. Yet they clung to the land, living from respite to respite, provided by a fickle weather pattern that gave them just enough to stay ahead of the next calamity.

Strong wills grew out there just beyond the Indian land, bolstered by hard work and indomitable beliefs. It hadn't been that long ago that the native population had been herded westward, forced to live cloistered on their reservations, leaving behind lingering resentment and simmering hatred. Battles and skirmishes between the warring parties had flared for decades, instilling in their shared psyches a witches brew of uneasiness. The Whites took to the land, bolstered by their religion, using it to lay psychological breastworks for the community's collective safe keeping.

Micah, the second of two sons, soon adopted his new homeland, forgetting the despoiled prairie land of his youth back in Oklahoma. Arizona brought him fresh adventures as a young boy, where he hunted in the White Mountains for deer and elk, and learned to appreciate the Lord's handiwork, spending more and more of his time out of doors in the wilderness. Then came 1941.

He had been slated to be a farmer, tilling the land that his father had purchased adjacent to his church, The Church of the Apostles. The ongoing family argument had been centered around his continuance of the family lineage, forwarding the Word at the pulpit. It had never been fully discussed, only assumed. Micah would follow his father's example, devoting himself to doing God's work. The gift was hereditary. The Hawkins men had been chosen.

The World War encroached on that plan, leaving Micah with a different pathway. Patriotism had taken root in the country after the attack on Pearl Harbor. There was no question that he would sign up, enlist in the Armed Forces and go fight in the war that had been raging for several years. Except that his father showed no ambivalence about this turn of events. Grandfather Hawkins placed the Bible before national duty. God had not sanctioned any such action. Wanton killing had been decreed by the State, not the Lord.

"But father, the Japs attacked us...I have to go and fight," Micah declared, his face flush with anger at his father's intransigence, unable to understand why he didn't share in his sense of patriotism.

"Matthew 5:44 says: Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you," his father stated, holding both of his hands before him in the pose he used every Sunday on the pulpit.

Micah hated when his father invoked the Bible, mostly because he knew that his father could outwit him easily by utilizing tracts from the scriptures. He was at a distinct disadvantage simply for the reason that he knew only a fraction of the Bible that his father did. There was always a certain finality to the spoken word as well, not unlike a hammer being slammed against an anvil.

Drawing on what he knew of the New Testament, Micah countered: It says in Mark 13: When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed, this must take place, but the end is still to come."

Biblical tug of wars were never productive, especially between a father and son. As before in history, religion had been co-opted, molded, fashioned into a springboard for battle. Grandfather Hawkins sensed this, knew that his son would leave, march off to war. Jesus had known it was inevitable. Young men fulfilled prophesy, "bringing evil unto the land" as he liked to say. Darkness was as much a part of creation as daylight.

Micah became a Marine, destined for the select barbarity of the Pacific war theatre. The Japanese fought a hellish, scorched earth campaign. From island to island the war coursed, inflicting death, until an unholy stench rose up over the ocean. Through it all Micah forged ahead, mentally cataloguing the deaths of his friends as they fell by his side.

And then the war was over, extinguished by two dropped bombs of unimaginable dimensions. The aftermath shook Micah to his core, leaving him adrift, grasping at his religion that seemed to be in tatters. He had lived within the confines of the Old Testament dictates and was now clinging to the New Testament for some sort of deliverance, something that would allow him to accept his role in the slow motion horror that he had just participated in. And he was one of the fortunate ones, able to return physically intact.

He was still a young man but with memories that scored the inside of his brain, leaving scars that may never heal. A sense of world weariness followed him back home. Micah had "sown death," as his father labeled it to his wife, fearing that God would extract vengeance in due time. Even though his son possessed a drawer full of medals bestowed on him by the US military, Grandfather Hawkins heard Exodus 22: 21 echoing in his ears: You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him.

The transition from war weighed on Micah, as he rejoined his brother on the ranch. He had lost four years of his life. The Germans, and then the Japanese, had been defeated, sparing the world from fascism. Peace had to be instituted, leaving behind the art of war, where extinguishing life was the object. Although he had been wounded, and recovered physically, his soul had been bruised, abraded by bullets and bombs.

It was hoped that he would join his father at the pulpit. His older brother had chosen not to take up the cloth, deeming himself unworthy of the Word, bequeathing the mantel to his younger brother, Micah. Grandfather Hawkins lobbied hard, directing his youngest son to pray for guidance. "Jesus will come to you," he assured his son confidently.

And it came, his guidance. One cold morning in January, as he was providing hay for the cattle in the fallow pasture, Micah felt a warm breeze on his face. Startled, he looked around, surprised, wondering where the warmth was coming from. Then, as he would later tell his family, he knew.

Like his father, he would be self-taught. A divinity education was irrelevant. The Holy Spirit had chosen him. Grandfather Hawkins recited Second Timothy 3:16: "All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for instruction in righteousness." It was as simple as that.

His apprenticeship began almost immediately, with him studying nightly with his father. "Like a Bible boot camp," Micah would say to his brother, as they lay in their beds reliving the activities of the day. Grandfather Hawkins was a taskmaster when it came to the dissemination of the Word. Sin had to be elucidated, and combated. The answers were in the books of the Bible. "You must be able to interpret, Micah," he would declare in a stern but understanding voice.

"But Matthew 18:8 says: If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off," Micah countered, confused by the cruel finality of the written Word. "How are we to interpret that?"

There were many bridges for him to cross before he could digest the import of the Bible. Grandfather Hawkins led Micah, patiently providing commentary when needed, nudging his son in the right direction so he could grab a piece of divinity. Mosaic law evolved into the strictures of the Gospels, establishing a foundation for him to carry the load a minister had to shoulder in order to impart Jesus' message.

Micah, on his part, was a natural preacher, able to cross the divide from ordinary citizen, and sinner, to scriptural wisdom. The congregation grew as his reputation began to take hold in the area. Word of a new, young man with a charismatic personality percolated, reaching as far as Phoenix. His sermons took on more and more importance as Grandfather Hawkins relinquished his duties, bowing to his son's prowess up on the pulpit.

Friction was minimal though. It was the natural order of things. Another disciple was taking up the reins. The Lord would continue to be served. Grandfather Hawkins lent a hand when needed, while his son honed his skills. Before long, as Micah's fame as a homespun Reverend reached further and further, tapes of his sermons began to be circulated. "We live in a land without the concept of luck, because chance doesn't exist in our Christian world, where God's intentions are a blueprint," he would preach, drawing nods from the congregation, people who were intimately familiar with capricious nature. "You, my people, are redolent of fear," he would gently chastise them. "I say unto you, let Jesus absorb that fear...replacing it with the joy of his love."

Grandfather Hawkins died a peaceful death, slipping away during the night. His generation had known the travails of the Great Depression, where man and nature combined to "render the land inhospitable," so he would declare from the pulpit. He had been a devout Democrat for most of his life, locked into a vigil against the powers that be who populated the Republican Party and were determined to keep "the common man in their place." FDR was the standard bearer for his kind, a man who saw the divide that existed in the country. As a result, the Democrats controlled the country for a generation, continually beating back the "venal vipers" at the door.

That sentiment changed later in his life, as he embraced the Republicans because he believed that they took the Word of God into account when they governed. The Democrats had become godless, beholden to the secular times. It was a sea change in his personal philosophy, one that he inculcated seamlessly into his homilies on Sunday, bringing his congregation along with him. At long last religion and politics didn't have to be separate. "Caesar is not our God!" he would thunder from the pulpit, as he pounded his fist on the lectern, frightening the children sitting with their parents in the front pews.

Legions of Christians had crossed over around the same point in time, leaving behind their former convictions, shedding them like soiled garments. God would no longer reside outside the State. The United States of America was destined to be a nation of believers again, absorbing the inerrant Word of the Bible so as to lay the foundation for His return. There would be a new covenant, one that would prepare the people.

"In the beginning was the Word, so says John 1:1," Grandfather Hawkins intoned, clutching a well worn leather Bible in one hand, as he raised it over his head. Although he was only of middle stature, with a wiry frame, his voice cascaded off the walls of the small church, leaving all sinners to quake in their pews. "And the Lord said to me, 'Arise, go on your journey,' so be it." His wife muttered under her breath, "Deuteronomy 10:11," as if she needed to be reassured, convinced that what they were doing was right, leaving all of their friends behind.

That was all part of the Hawkins family history, like pioneers looking back on their fateful decision to leave and come West. It defined them as a group as much as their faith. The Lord had brought them to Arizona, a desert land, where they could be a part of His creation. Micah would joke: "It is like having foreknowledge of the preordained." His mild blasphemy would incite nervous giggles among the family, confident of their standing in the Holy order.

Yet there was little or no smugness in the family of self taught pastors, an informal guild of Bible interpreters. Grandfather Hawkins, Micah, and Ben had been selected. In Hebrews 2:9, the New Testament spoke of Jesus' ultimate sacrifice, of how he had tasted death for every man. The Hawkins men were the vanguard from the Holy Spirit, where Timothy 2:2 prevailed: I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent.

The Hawkins women were obedient. Micah, after returning from the war, met his future wife at a Sunday sermon. Deborah, five years his junior, was visiting from another congregation in Colorado, traveling with her minister father. She would often tell the story of her first encounter with Micah, who, as fate would have it, was just beginning his ministry. "I was spellbound by his voice," she would go on to say, smiling sheepishly even years later at the memory. "The Bible came alive when he preached," she added, echoing the comments of so many other people who heard him on Sundays.

They were married not a month later, after a world wind courtship, a match made by God, so said their respective fathers. Deborah would serve as his confessor, and silent therapist, able to guide him back when the nightmares of war invaded his sleep. Theirs was a good, solid union, made whole by scripture and the pursuit of God's work.

Ben, the only child, would be born at the tail end of the giant baby boomer surge, coming into the world in 1963. He would be a large baby, with his mother's aquiline nose. The groundwork had already been laid out for him. Micah, now in his forties, was a well known pastor, with a congregation that stretched all the way to Phoenix. His father's voice could be heard on radio and he was often on several TV shows that popped up on the far reaches of cable TV. Destiny had never been so designed before.

There had been rumblings about sending Ben to divinity school when he reached eighteen, breaking the Hawkins mold of autodidactic men of the cloth. In many ways, as their family tradition dictated, finding Jesus didn't come in the class room. You, as an individual, were called to the pulpit. Religious academia was counterproductive. Scripture couldn't be spoon fed. In the end, Grandfather Hawkins and Micah decided to uphold their tradition and Ben entered into an apprenticeship just as his father had done.

They flourished. Their congregation grew and a new church was built, one that housed hundreds of worshippers. Along side the church a compound was erected, housing the Hawkins clan. In time, Ben married Leah and added several children to their number. The new millennium brought their last child, the only son. After the birth of three daughters, they were joyous. Ben and Leah had delivered the next generation of the Hawkins ministry.

He was named Isaac and he was his father's son, tall, slender, with those distinctive pellucid blue eyes. The line of succession was strong. Grandfather Hawkins had left his mark, his legacy. Micah, Ben, and on through Isaac the Holy Spirit would have a representative on earth. As the end times drew near, they were prepared.

Chapter 2 Unto Him

Isaac proved to be different, "not cut from the same cloth," as his mother was fond of saying. Perhaps it was the times, or, more likely, the usual mutation of an evolving gene. Micah and Deborah's prodigal grandson somehow didn't share in their pursuit of the Lord's work. He had been born at the dawn of a new Millennium and the next thousand years stretched out before him like a beckoning siren. Modernity's tech world took precedence.

"Where there is no vision, the people perish," Isaac liked to taunt his parents, chuckling, enjoying his youthful disobedience. "Check it out, Proverbs 29:18. It's in the Bible."

"He will grow out of this youthful disobedience," Micah assured his son, Ben, adding, "Soon Isaac will be called."

Yet, as time went by, Isaac proved to be recalcitrant. "Teenage rebellion," his mother muttered, as she listened to her son decry what was the family business, ashamed by his mild blasphemy.

"The more you know, the more complicated it is," Isaac informed his mother, not wanting to encroach on her sense of spiritual well being. "And that makes the ambiguities of faith worse," he stated, filching an idea from a writer he had read on the internet, at a site no one in his family would approve of. He was born into an information age, one where he had access to thousands and thousands of tracts about anything and everything. His travels on line had brought him an avenue of discovery that his parents had never encountered. They were a product of an insular family structure, one where their roles were well defined and contained. His life didn't need or desire pious validation.

"I think maybe Proverbs 23:14 might have been helpful back before," Micah suggested lightheartedly to Ben, as they both recited in unison: "Thou shalt beat him with the rod and shalt deliver his soul from hell." They shared a laugh, a closed ended joke tucked away within the boundaries of Biblical reference. That time had passed. Isaac was now a twenty-three year old man, with a stint in the military behind him. He was now trying to transition to the next level in his life, hoping to find some definitive direction.

Like his grandfather, he had served in the Marines, doing more than one tour of duty overseas in yet another international skirmish without any proposed parameters. The War was a perpetual exercise in geo-political leveraging, keeping the nation battle ready. Even though the treasury had long since been exhausted, leaving the country's economic stature sapped and continually on the brink of collapse, the campaigns continued. Isaac had served his time, honing his skills, able to escape the madness physically unscathed as grandfather Micah had done.

It was during this stretch of his life that he turned inward, assembling psychological walls to keep the mental realization out, the face to face reality that he was conducting grudge matches against the next amorphous foe. As the bombs went off and the rifle fire resounded in his ears, Isaac began to see that his religion failed to appease the voices that screamed in his head. Each new day brought more of the same, a grinding pursuit of shadows.

His squad leader was a jocular twenty-five year old, who had seen more than his share of conflict around the world and had a uncanny ability to distill life down into a well blended concoction of sarcasm and droll commentary. Life, for him, had become nothing but revolving way stations, places for him to enact carnage to advance a position. "Life is an accidental adventure!" he would invariably shout, as they were called into another dangerous life threatening predicament. "Let's bring peace to these mutterfuckers with a smile!"

The countries changed, along with the villains, each tagged with a derogatory name plate, something to dehumanize the people shooting back at you. Humans were, after you scraped away all the history and applied civilization, mostly tribal by nature. Each locality on the map presented just another friction point, where the power brokers saw a need to relieve the pressure. Man's expanding intelligence had been retarded by an insidious misunderstanding. Simple fear had metastasized and formed into a mutual warping of any shared intent, leaving behind brutal reactions to any perceived divergent views.

Isaac, about six months in, realized the culprits in the deadly drama shared one thing in common and that was a maniacal pursuit of spiritual explanation. Religion, he told himself, was at the root of so much destruction. "It is nothing but an absurd circularity," he told his squad leader one day, as they sat behind the Hescos, a line of sand filled bags arranged for protection, listening to the ordinance being lobbed their way explode nearby.

The squad leader scratched at the two inch scar on his right cheek, a souvenir from another tour of duty in a dusty region he couldn't even pronounce and replied, "What, are you a fucking philosopher now?" They laughed, sharing in that bond young men have who are locked into battle and know that death is less than a fifty/fifty proposition.

Perhaps his parents should have gotten an inkling of their son's slow transformation by the emails he dashed off, arriving in their in-boxes sporadically, each one more disconnected than the last. At first, when Isaac had first arrived in country, and his fatigues were still unsoiled by sweat and blood, he wrote about his duty and how happy he was to be doing something for his country. As with Micah, his parents had been against him enlisting, choosing to believe that his rightful place for home and country was with the Lord. The Hawkins would uphold the bargain they had made with Jesus and bring scripture to light.

It wasn't a month later when they got a video call and got a glimpse of their son they became worried. His haggard face loomed on the LCD screen. His eyes seemed lifeless, as Isaac seemed to stare through them, offering enough of a foreshadowing to see that his mind had been tipped, leading him astray. He said in a monotone, weary voice: "Irony is a concept I am well aware of. Our living over here represents that. We all live in hell. Our daily lives are nothing but survival, as if we have descended into the netherworld. Unquenchable fire, per Matthew 18:8. Who will save our souls?"

A chill went up his mother's spine. Ben told his son to pray, suggesting a few stray passages from the Gospels to heal his mounting disillusionment. Isaac seemed oblivious while his mother fought back tears. "Oh Isaac, our prayers are with you...and your fellow Marines," she told him, as she ran her finger along the screen, tracing her son's face.

The War on Terror had morphed into a revolving ethos, one where the nation sent a small percentage of its population off to foreign lands to prevent the next homeland attack. Each enemy was succeeded by another. Lives were lost, while hundreds then thousands returned home broken and then put back together by modern medicine, where technological advancement kept the human body functioning like mended tinker toys. Artificial limbs and space age grafted skin became common place as the doctors reassembled torn and shredded body parts, making science fiction as important on the battle field as an assault rifle.

Isaac saw it up close. Dying men cried out to their gods, hoping for last minute redemption. He would go on to see five of his friends perish, as the persistent war claimed more and more lives. Yet the bloodlust of the nation wasn't appeased. Organized violence had become ingrained in the national psyche, where the populace expected results and used Biblical tracts as justification for their group think. Blunting the terrorists' resolve had become interwoven with wholesale politics, and politicians inculcated a suitable message in turn.

The citizens, over ninety-nine percent, were never exposed to the scale of reduced turpitude, leaving the small, tiny percentage to wage the battles. Participation had been privatized, incorporated. Treasury had been siphoned off, skimmed by the corporations in order to keep the war machines operational. Butter and guns had become indistinguishable, leaving the economy sputtering along, valiantly trying not to sink under its own weight.

Economists groaned, while they complained about dissected economic models and predicted gloom, accompanied by scientists who harped about ecological ruin. Still, the nation chugged along, one step ahead of the omnipresent scythe swooping over everyone. Two Decades passed. The historical record was constantly being updated, overridden by ideology of whatever stripe was pulling the strings at the time.

Leaders came and went, leaving in their wake broken promises and forgotten plans. The people lurched from belief to faith, and back again. Creeds were fragmented, fractured by competing philosophies and slippery punditry. Money flowed to the next solution, lapping over the edge of reason in a quest to offer deliverance. America's vaunted Constitution was disemboweled in route to another promise land.

Isaac saw all of this unfolding from his perch on the perimeter of madness, a precipice really, one step away from oblivion. More and more of his superiors were becoming disgruntled, letting morale deteriorate more and more. Motivation was scarce, as camaraderie dwindled and marine on marine conflict increased. The enemy had become a shadow concept and they couldn't be assured who it really was.

During his last week, when his tour was rapidly winding down, he had a strange encounter with a Captain. The man was standing outside a village, one they had conquered the day before, wresting it away from mountain tribesmen who had controlled it for hundreds of years. An airstrike had leveled most of the stone hovels, leaving behind rubble decorated with crimson blood stains. A donkey lay half dying a few yards away, snuffling, trying to bray in pain. Black smoke still rose all around them and the smell of burning flesh stung the air.

"Corporal," the Captain asked over his shoulder, "did you do a count?"

Isaac scanned the desolation in front of them, then replied, "Does it matter?"

The Captain turned to face him and said: "Don't count the donkey...it's still alive."

This was what passed as macabre humor after a year of combat, days, weeks, and months of concentrated intent. Isaac smiled briefly and mumbled, "Let me fix that." He leveled his assault rifle at the dying animal and fired off a round, placing the bullet right in the donkey's head. As the report of the rifle slipped away on the breeze, a pressing silence seeped in. Isaac could hear himself breathing. Then the quiet was pierced by squawking on a nearby radio receiver.

"Another job well done," the Captain stated, shielding his eyes against the setting sun.

Isaac then went on to canvas the village, knowing there wouldn't be anyone alive. "And we captured all his cities at that time and devoted to destruction every city, men, women, and children. We left no survivors," he whispered, remembering a passage from Deuteronomy, because for him viewing life was always punctuated by a biblical veneer after a childhood among several generations of preachers. Yet, ultimately, war, for him, had been distilled into grisly arithmetic where subtraction was paramount. His comrades in arms thought in terms of: One less. The equal sign always had to precede a declining number. The dynamics of war were simplistic. "Addition by subtraction," so said his Gunnery Sergeant, a man who liked his mind clutter free so he would be able to enforce the next twist and turn in their mission.

I don't think I can recognize myself in the mirror any longer, Isaac thought that evening, as he curled up next to a crumbling stone mud wall, one more night of terror as he waited to depart. His one friend remaining from Basic, Jose, a short, stocky guy from Fresno, California, lay nearby scrabbling around in the dirt, muttering in his disturbed sleep. It was their second tour of duty and their emotions had plateaued, leaving them with little mental reserves to maintain any sense of proportion. Global politics dictated their future, so said the Sergeant, in so many words, smirking, showing the world weariness of a career military man used to being dispatched to unknown parts of the omnipresent combat zone.

Iraq and over ten years of war in Afghanistan, along with unpublicized skirmishes in various continents, left the US Military in disarray, spent by the constant friction of a wartime footing. America had been at war for over two decades. Orwellian speak had become the norm, as politicians and the Brass communicated in a refined form of circuitous vernacular that all circled back to the need for confrontation. Even though the treasury had been depleted and lives extinguished on a steady basis, the momentum of systematic violence had not abated.

"I'm counting the hours," Isaac told another marine, as they sat in on yet another pre-patrol briefing.

"Zounds 'bout right," the other marine said, nodding, hiding his own thousand yard stare behind a pair of new sunglasses his father had sent him for his birthday, which had passed just the week before. He had turned nineteen and already killed four men, snuffing out their lives with the deft pull of the trigger on his sniper rifle. Making a hazy mental note to add that latest kill to his social page, another notch in his virtual belt, he started humming the tune to a song he heard recently, a bleak album of songs by a former marine who had lost both of his legs to a roadside bomb. More and more he found himself humming to himself, even adding lyrics when he could remember any. He still had six months to go on this latest tour of duty.

Huddled together by the command center was a small group of marines, with a stocky lance corporeal speaking in hushed tones. Isaac looked over at them and grimaced, knowing that they would be into their third or fourth string of scripture, anything to bolster their confidence. After a few months of carnage everyone went in search of something to prop up their personal beliefs, to push back against the mounting tide of doubt that was creeping into your over all perception that what they had told you back in Basic Training had been valuable instruction and not vile propaganda.

Isaac too had been among those who reached out to the Bible for guidance in those early days when he was trying to make sense of it all. God, the vengeful incarnation from the Old Testament, steered them in the right direction, allowing any semblance of morality to be tamped down so they could fulfill the mission. Of course the other guy, the one who fit nicely into supplied stereotypes and was intent on your destruction, was simultaneously beseeching his god to deliver him to paradise. It was best not to think about the spiritual competition under way. There was no need for nuance. The struggle was well illustrated, with a surfeit of history to fall back on. Just and Right, so said the poster on the barracks wall, encapsulating all the justification anyone needed.

He would chopper out days later, looking down on the slow motion devastation as the helicopter took him away. A sense of relief swept over him, then a pernicious sorrow enveloped his mind, as he tried not to think about those friends--comrades--who had left before him, secreted from view, swept away in shrouded forensic black bags containing the remains. Isaac hoped it was over, finished. Let the opposing Gods exchange blows. The global chess board had taken its toll for too long. Hardened ideologies needed to be marginalized if there was to be any future.

His family met him at the Phoenix airport. Another returning warrior the public ignored or gave a vague nod of thanks. The war effort had become ingrained in the collective national conscience, a derivative of necessity and inevitability. Centuries of bias had been applied, woven into an intractable culture that relied on ignorance and elementary fear.

"Look at you!" his mother chirped, hugging him again for the third or fourth time, wiping away a tear. "You look so thin, honey. Didn't they feed you in the Army?"

"Marines," Isaac corrected, again, smiling weakly back at her.

"Good to have you back," his father exclaimed, awkwardly shaking his hand, then embracing him. "I'm proud of you, son."

Isaac knew this was, technically, a lie because his father had wanted him to continue the family tradition. Although his grandfather had fought in World War II, the military aspect of the Hawkins' family history was scant, an anomaly really. The real battle was on the frontlines of the spiritual wars being waged out there.

Then there was a chorus of giggling greetings from his sisters, who lined up to offer their homecoming welcome. In tow were a gaggle of children, all wonderfully inattentive to an uncle they had mostly forgotten over the past few years. His absence had made them shy, even bewildered by the all the fuss, more interested in the trip to the airport than seeing someone they barely remembered. It wasn't long before Isaac felt overwhelmed by all the attention, the first sign of his mounting consternation at the immediate transition back into a civilian world.

The long drive back to the homestead calmed him somewhat, as he watched the Arizonan scenery pass by, another desert landscape he was thankful didn't conceal any hidden IUD's or L shaped ambushes. Isaac tried to relax, only partially listening to his family try to engage him in conversation. There was something vastly surreal about the night and day aspect of being back on a peacetime footing. Physically, his body had to readjust, as his mind settled into a rhythm, one that would allow him to accept a different set of stimuli. A counselor back when he was getting separated from the Service, yet another Chaplain fresh out of Divinity school, trained to ease the service member back into society after years of living absent any societal restrictions for the most part, had told him to expect a slow metamorphosis. To Isaac's confused look, the Chaplain had added: "You have done your duty, now it is time to forward your life with Christ."

This was the new Armed Forces, where the Military Code of Conduct had been co-opted by an arm of Christianity that slowly persevered over the other branches of religion, eventually precluding them from having any influence. Although America was ostensibly a country of inclusion, in practice it wasn't. Far from it. The military had been the vanguard of the change in the country that swept through in the second decade of the new century. Waging war allowed a lowering of constitutional safeguards. In time, they were totally abandoned, leaving a hallowed out Bill of Rights, to be replaced by theological stopgaps.

When Isaac had enlisted, signing on to fight the creeping tide of anti-Christian sentiments around the world, he had been told by a Major with a Powerpoint mentality: "I say to you now, Psalm 144:1: Praise be to the LORD my rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle." That was before, when he was just another warm body able to carry the load of the cause. The Bible had been his motivator. Now, as he sat in the family van and anticipated seeing the White Mountains again, he wondered what would come next in his life.

"Dad!" he heard one of his sisters cry out, "I think I see a haboob coming."

They all craned their necks to look towards the southeast, where in the distance they could just make out the outlines of a menacing brown cloud forming, taking shape over the desiccated land. Drought conditions were now an everyday reality for the Southwest, leaving municipalities to fight over water rights and farmers to abandon their crops in mid-season. In the last decade, while politicians and scientists engaged in a battle of words, quibbling about data and ideology, the region was on life support. With water now being rationed and food climbing in price, people suffered as they pursued different approaches to enduring their changed lifestyles.

Climatic catastrophes had become commonplace, from menacingly large Hurricanes that pulverized the coastlines to huge tornadoes ripping through unprepared communities at all times of the year to scorching temperatures reaching well into a rapidly vanishing winter. Biblical proclamations did little to assuage the people's trepidation. Every day someone of note would proclaim the Second Coming, lending very little comfort to those who believed the other side offered a better world.

"Can we out run it?" another sister wondered aloud, with fear in her eyes. "Remember what happened to Constance and her husband."

They were neighbors, who were driving home from Tempe one day the year before and had been overtaken by an approaching haboob. The dust storm had enveloped their car and caused them to crash into an eighteen wheeler. They had died, at the scene, crushed by tons of rolling steel. When the dust storms arrived, like a cosmic monster, wide swaths of swirling dirt where visibility was nil, destruction followed. If seemed as if Pharaoh had returned to earth and the Old Testament God was in a punishing mood. People died from car crashes, while others succumbed to air born particulates full of bacteria, which entered their lungs and sucked the life out of them.

"I think we are far enough away to make a run for it," Ben informed them, stepping harder on the accelerator.

Isaac chuckled to himself, amused by the idea that even at home he faced the prospect of his own demise. After surviving months and months on the battlefield he might be killed by a climatic blob of dirt seemed somehow absurd, some bit of macabre humor he knew his platoon buddies would appreciate. There would be no medals forthcoming for dying on the road from Phoenix, Arizona.

Behind the Hawkins family, as they climbed up into the high country of Arizona, passing through small, desolate towns that were no more than functioning ghost towns now after years and years of hard economic times, the haboob descended on Phoenix like some science fiction creature. The particles of dirt clogged airways and blinded people's eyes, slipping in cracks and blanketing whole neighborhoods. A miasma of pollution coated the area, leaving the frazzled newscasters to report on yet another weather event, the tenth or eleventh of that year, complementing the hundred and twenty degree temperature like another ring of hell.

A perky, bleached blond meteorologist on the local news channel announced: "The haboob is only three miles across this time around. Please try to stay indoors." The sheer ordinariness of the mini-catastrophe spoke volumes about the locals ability to absorb their changing environment. There would still be days ahead where the weather was acceptable, although the ideal Chamber of Commerce day had become a flexible commodity, one where just breathing slightly polluted air was deemed desirable. Life went on, as everyone lived with a lowered standard.

The country had become remarkably resilient in the ensuing decade, as the global weather patterns turned almost evil, where you could be excused for thinking mother nature hated you personally. Floods and droughts went hand in hand in a contrary dance of dueling meteorological climate thrusts. "The Lord is visiting upon the land his displeasure," so said the National Chaplain, a position established in a previous Republican administration when the country had settled into a permanent one party rule. He was a younger man then and was now into the final stages of his lifetime appointment, teetering, wracked by cancer from some unknown environmental cause but widely believed to be from pesticides he used on his family's farm in Iowa. Due to the seasonal increase in temperatures, insects had metastasized into hybrid pests that arrived earlier in the growing season and stayed later throughout the harvest.

God, the Lord, even Jesus had seemed to forsake America, and the world. Isaac remembered as a small boy being told that he was special as an American because they had been selected to be above everyone, examples to the other nationalities of what could be. This egocentric view was a source of pride, something to cultivate and perfect. The men who wrote the constitution had been ordained by God to illuminate, to instruct. They were the extension of the Lord, sent to inform and establish a working order until which time the Savior would return.

Luck was with them, as Ben sped northward. Isaac saw his beloved mountains come into view and was startled to see gnarled and blackened tree stumps where the forests used to flourish. A fire two months before had devastated vast tracts of land, leaving in its wake a sea of charred debris. In among the tar black wood lay rotting animal carcasses. Mounds of ash undulated across the landscape, interrupted here and there by the skeletal scorched frames of ruined homes. The land had gotten so dry that they now had a fire season with a tally of how many acres had been burned, and lives lost. Firefighters had become an army, with a mindset like a combat battalion.

They passed through a small town, one where Isaac had played football in High School. It was deserted, except for two emaciated dogs lingering by a dilapidated gas station. The fire had roared through the town, leaving behind nothing but the "remnants of hell," so said his father in a pensive almost vacant tone. He wondered if anyone had survived, as he stared out the window at the lumps of melted architecture that still remained. In the distance, he could just make out the facade of the High School, the only piece of the building still standing. A charred school bus stood guard at the entrance to the school, the name of the school barely visible on the side panel.

My mood, my state of mind, didn't need to take this hit, he thought, realizing that a different method of war was occurring on the homefront. His reorientation session hadn't mentioned any of this. East, West, North, and South, everyone was experiencing "the ordeal," as he soon learned they were now calling it, the national predicament. Apocalyptic-light, so some humorists were saying, trying to put a happy face on it, the global slow motion holocaust.

Isaac, like so many others, instinctually knew that the world had become a place where the living envied the dead. Life expectancy had for the first time in centuries dropped. Child birth was in decline. War became the norm. Pestilence was on the rise. Even large scale hunger loomed. "It's like being in one of those lame sci-fy movies," he lamented to friends, shaking his head, while his father spent his time thinking of ways to shake his son out of his post combat funk.

That very first Sunday after his son's return from the battlefield Ben spoke behind the family Bible, a large, leather bound tome, telling the congregation: "The Homeland is a mosaic of many pieces, but we are of one color." He peered down at them from his raised pulpit. His weekly sermons had taken on more of a cheerleading aspect in recent months. Homilies went only so far. A bleak reality grew worse outside the church doors. Faith in Jesus had to be a constant.

Yet there was nothing sustainable about institutionalized hate. It rotted the core of people's will, breaking down the fabric which covered the collective mindset. "It's called creative destruction, dad," Isaac had told his father, smirking, secretly pleased by his father's discomfort at the turn of events unfolding everywhere. He now knew that religion had been a catalyst for conflict. It's ingrained doctrine fostered distrust and led to blood letting in the name of a nebulous ideal. Although Isaac didn't think of himself as a philosopher, he sensed the inner trappings of a predicament, especially one that operated on such a large scale.

"Luke 12:48, To whom much is given, of him God will require the more." Quoting scripture didn't have the effect on him that it did on his family. For him it had become the ultimate inside joke, something to recite so he could laugh in silence, appeasing the voices in his head that told him the length and breadth of absurdity.

Back in the war, as mortar rounds eviscerated their firebase, dismembering at random, a marine next to him suddenly started writhing on the ground and babbling. The others thought he had been hit by shrapnel and called out for a corpsman. As it turned out the marine had taken that moment to accept Jesus Christ as his savior and was mimicking what he had seen his relatives doing in his home state of Georgia. "It's called glossolalia," Isaac had shouted out to a confused fellow marine, trying not to laugh. "Speaking in tongues, it's from Romans...in the New Testament." The marine looked on for a moment, involuntarily ducking as another round exploded nearby, then said, "That's some fucked up shit, dude."

"You got that right," Isaac agreed, pulling his helmet down tighter on his head. His family were "Bible thumpers" but he was glad they had never gone that route. His father and grand father lived by the Good Book but they had never gone to the extreme; but then again it was all relative. He could see that now. When you had seen a military chaplain offer scriptural assurance for the next installment of destruction you knew the rules were pliable.

Chapter 3 When The Walls Came Crumbling Down

"She's dying," Isaac's mother announced to no one in particular, as the family sat around the dinner table, dismayed by the recent turn of events.

"Let's pray," Ben intoned, reaching his hands out and bending his head.

"What for?" Isaac asked, looking at his father defiantly.

He had been back from the war for almost six months and tensions had risen in the family structure. Isaac saw his home life in a different light, one that passed through the prism of the catalogued horror he had participated in. No longer could he ignore what he saw everyday. Since the age of thirteen, when the financial shock of a collapsed economy made its impact on the US, leaving gaping holes in the societal fabric, he had been witness to the dismantling of a way of life. Austerity measures by the new administration wreaked havoc and structural stopgaps that had helped the people in the past disappeared almost overnight. For almost a decade he had known nothing but the slow motion decomposing of a nation. Now, after he had returned to find the homeland teetering, close to ruin, he refused to accept any lip service from Biblical excuses.

"Isaac," his mother protested, aghast, unable to understand why and how her only son had changed.

"Mother," Ben said calmly, forever composed by his strength at the hands of his savior, "Isaac is in the midst of a personal struggle and as soon as he accepts Christ into his heart it will--"

"What, dad? Give me strength...explain to me why your God has seen fit to slowly annihilate all of us...and now one of my sisters too."

"He has His plan," Ben stated, picking up the Bible that was seldom out of reach. "Perhaps we should read some scripture."

"Are you kidding me?" Isaac bellowed out. "That's insane. My sister is dying. Right now...this minute. Don't you get that? Some fucking disease nobody's ever heard of before is killing her. Ask your damn God what's up with that. Do it! I'd certainly like to know why Christ would want to take my sister's life--wouldn't you?"

His sister's husband said in a quavering voice, "Isaac, God has his reasons. It is not for us to dispute them."

"Really," Isaac spat out, laughing. "Why the fuck not?"

"Isaac, your language," his mother scolded.

The changing climate had brought with it untold diseases and maladies, riding the warm currents from the south, depositing bacteria and pestilence into different latitudes. A carnivorous nematode winnowed its way into the desert terrain, infecting more and more people, leaving them with painful boils on their skin, then an agonizing death. Tropical disease specialists strived to keep ahead of the next outbreak but were swamped after most of the Health Department had been reduced due to cutbacks by the State government. Antibiotics were in short supply and most of them had long since been outstripped by the mutating bacteria left behind by voracious insects.

His sister would die in a few short weeks, breathing her last breath in an over crowded regional hospital with a skeletal staff of health care workers. Her last hours on earth had passed in agony, feverish, with her calls out to Jesus going unanswered. A few minutes later her lifeless body was whisked away to make room for the next patient, a man who would go on to die from a home invasion by a roving band of criminals on dirt bikes and ATV's. They lived in the White Mountains and preyed on nearby towns, returning back to the wilderness after their raids. Death had never been so economized, a columnist in the Phoenix paper wrote after his wife had been attacked and killed by a gang of teenagers on a rampage in a park.

The Have nots are coming for theirs, he went on to write in his weekly column, which had become mostly a screed against the prevailing conditions. The sociological nightmare could have been traced to the advent of a new theology, one inculcated by the theologians who perverted the New Testament, turning it in on itself. Wealth and piety had not been so linked since the Florentine era, except that this time in history the wealthy only wanted to amass more capital while they strangled the democratic framework.

A parallel process of class distinction and the diminishing of individual rights worked inversely. Religion, the newly established State religion, worked as the engine that supplied a feedback loop to the culture. The citizenry became docile victims, eager to be included in the freshly birthed regime. Pastors carried the official governmental decrees every Sunday, working as the vanguard to supply orders to the shock troops across the nation. Behavior is driven by personal beliefs, and, as a result of that psychological dynamic, the movement moved to instill a strong core of functioning ethics in order to maximize the effect of their intrusive power.

All of these vast changes could be traced to the Spiritual Consensus Council of 2019, held in Little Rock, Arkansas. Internecine warfare between the religious communities--where the Dominionists and the Reconstructionists battled ferociously for influence--played itself out. From that meeting, attended by almost all of the Republican members of Congress, came a Religious Contract, one that established a committee to oversee the formation of America's New Direction. It was content specific and defined what the United States of America aspired to be.

News of the conference drew many catcalls from the media and was roundly criticized, even openly mocked by Democratic sites on the internet. Cries of Theocracy were voiced by civil libertarians. The American Constitution was ironclad and didn't leave any room for divergent forays into the hazy world of political and religious mixing, or so said a Liberal columnist from the New York Times. Constitutional scholars scoffed. Harrabbi, Moses, even secular arbiters, had laid the framework for the advancement of a Human code of conduct. In those matters, things had been settled. Written law was more than a blueprint. It was the painstaking culmination of civil and criminal prohibition accumulated in the vast arena of human history.

Fear and keep His commandments--Ecclesiastes 12:13 first started appearing across the country sometime in the latter part of 2019, showing up on the side of warehouses, barns, and emblazoned on billboards. Their appearance was, at first, mocked by comedians and late night talk show hosts. They were mysterious in that they were ubiquitous, "Like crop circles on steroids," so joked a pundit on one of the Sunday morning political shows. It was only the beginning.

"I do not pretend to know what ignorant men are sure of," so said a stand up comic, quoting Clarence Darrow, laughing along with the audience, who were blissfully unaware that their lives were about to be co-opted by the coming religious revolution. As more and more politicians and federal judges were elected and selected from the new strain of pious candidates, the dynamics of politics transitioned into a theocratic model of government. The national focus was on the declining standard of living and the slow upheaval in governance went unnoticed. Imperceptibly, the evangelical strain of governance seeped into power establishing a silent coup d' etat. Secularism slowly withered away.

Isaac, personally, could remember seeing the tag: It is inerrant. It began to appear everywhere just before he went off to war. Revolutions were often started by persistent graffiti, or, at least, legitimized by it. On TV and radio you would hear more and more references to the bible in everyday transactions. One of the major television networks reworked their logo to include a trinity symbol, a subtle sign that they were in step with the changing times.

In a few short years all of the broadcast channels were forced to air a morning show at the same time called The Good News. It was a compilation of the government's actions, all slanted with a bias handed down from a council comprised of approved clergymen. The message was inescapable. All forms of media were controlled, from cell phone messages to print media. Each day the tone was set, administered from Washington.

"You can trace it back to that fucked up town in Arkansas," a fellow marine had told Isaac. "Yeah, that's right. They started all this whacked out shit."

"Too late to bitch now," Isaac had told him, laughing uneasily, knowing full well that his family was part of the problem.

"When I get back they'd better not get up in my shit," he announced portentously, fingering the trigger on his assault rifle. "It's not gonna end too good."

"I hear ya," Isaac replied, grinning, knowing the usual ebb and flow of combat adrenaline was always bubbling near the surface. "America doesn't have a clue, really. I mean what's gonna happen when they unleash all of us bad-ass mutter-fuckers Stateside? Boom!" He pretended to take a shot at something, or someone.

His buddy laughed and said, "I hear that."

Then Leviticus 18:24 was instituted: Do not defile yourselves in any of these ways, because this is how the nations that I am going to drive out before you became defiled. Constitutional law had been augmented by Biblical passages in order to "rearrange the laws," so said a Supreme Court justice, one of the legal opinions that permitted the inexorable slide into theological jurisprudence.

Armed with the new law, State governments, with Federal approval, began rounding up dissidents and non-believers, including people from other religions. Camps were set up for the re-education process, a program for reparative therapy that leaned heavily on the coerced intake of Protestant doctrine. At first, when the laws were being implemented, Catholics were excluded, deemed "in close approximation" to the national faith. Later, after the camps were well established and fully operational, the prevailing theology disallowed them as well and they were rounded up and carted away, while priests were imprisoned, levied with fines and prison terms stretching into the decades.

Even cries of protest against the draconian measures went generally unanswered. The media had been muzzled for the most part, with the more vociferous opponents silenced by threats of violence against them and their families by a mob of devotees, true believers in the new order. Others who still resisted vanished, spirited away to the nearest camp.

Isaac had turned a blind eye to most of this. He knew of no one in his town that had been treated harshly by the authorities. His father, Ben, had been an early advisor to the transition from a secular world. Input from many pastors in the State had been requested. It was God's will. Preparations needed to be devised.

Another passage from Leviticus changed the complexion of the revolution. Isaac returned home one day after working on the family ranch to find his father and mother locked into an argument. It was rare to see his parents argue. His mother was a Christian wife who followed the Biblical dictum that women should be subservient to their husbands. She might have chafed under the rule but deferred to a higher authority.

"It is in Leviticus 20:10, father," his mother cried out, pointing to the family Bible on the kitchen table. "God ordains it to be."

Flustered, Ben turned on his wife and almost shouted: "I know what it says. Please don't quote the Bible back at me, mother."

"Hey now, you two, what gives?" Isaac called out, trying to make light of their obvious anger.

Before he could say anything else his mother stated: "If a man commits adultery with another man's wife both the adulterer and the adulteress must be put to death. You can only interpret that one way, dear."

"What, are we now having theological debates before dinner," he joked, grabbing his mother in a bear hug in an attempt to defuse the situation.

Her name was Gloria Belkins and she was married to the owner of the small hardware store in town. Joseph Belkins had inherited the business from his father, who succumbed to cancer before he was fifty years old, leaving his son to run the store. They were a young couple, with two small children, a boy and a girl. They attended Ben's church and were believed to be "God fearing Christians," so everyone thought.

The population of their hometown hovered around ten thousand people, mostly ranchers. Belkins Hardware had been in existence for over twenty years, hanging on through all the regions hardships, supplying the community with their necessary needs. Joe had spent many hours in his father's store, learning the trade at his father's side. Although it wasn't a lucrative source of income it nevertheless fed the family and gave them a mostly comfortable life.

After Joe's father passed away, his mother followed a few years later, victim of a freak lightning storm, which had become more and more prevalent in recent years, arriving unexpectedly with the unpredictable nature of the weather. Joe had been an only child, so he was left alone to man the store, bringing his wife in to do the books. She would sit behind the cash register most times and chat with the customers. And that is where it all began.

Matthew, Matt, was a handy man and came into to the store often for supplies. He was an affable guy, tall, with longish hair that gave him the look of a man some ten years younger than his age. He had never been married and, in fact, liked being single. His particular lifestyle leaned heavily on spur of the moment thinking, which more often than not meant that he found himself out in the forest hunting or driving his ATV when he got the need to be away from people. This wrinkle in his personality precluded any form of a married life. Not that Matt didn't enjoy some degree of companionship.

He had an on again off again relationship with a woman who lived in a neighboring town. She was a divorced woman who was lonely and accepted Matt for what he was. Their relationship revolved, for the most part, around hurriedly arranged meetings, where sex played a central part and their commingling was usually short lived. This arrangement worked for both of them, supplying them with their basic needs.

Matthew enjoyed their times together and welcomed the open ended nature of their elementary romance. It allowed him to "function," as he liked to call it. There were little if no prohibitions to circumvent, leaving him the freedom he thrived on. Keeping complications to a minimum kept them together, but apart. Until he starting chatting with Gloria Belkins, everything in his life was on an even keel.

"Who are you doing work for now?" she asked with professional congeniality, smiling.

Matthew glanced at her, noticing her for probably the first time and replied, "The Andersons need me to hang a new door on their barn."

The exchange was innocent enough, nothing that offered any foreshadowing of what was to come. Slowly, imperceptibly, they began to exchange more and more conversation when he came into the store. Before long, Matthew found himself being drawn to the hardware store, as he lingered longer so he could chat with Gloria. Although she had never thought of herself as being particularly flirtatious, Gloria couldn't help herself as she began to enjoy their encounters.

A month or two later, after they had been edging towards more personal tidbits about their lives, she ran into Matthew at the grocery in another town. It was pure happenstance but she couldn't help but think otherwise. Both of them had driven the twenty miles to that particular store because it had a better selection of food than the one did back in their hometown.

"What are you doing here?" she exclaimed when she looked up to see him standing next to her in the produce section. "Oh, silly question," she added, laughing.

"I needed some fresh fruit," he answered, smiling back at her, feeling the usual tingle in his spine that he always got when he would see her. "That store back in our place seems to be getting worse and worse with their stock of food. Right?"

She smiled and said, "All of the groceries are going to hell." They looked at each other for a moment then she blushed a little. Trying not to stammer, she stated: "I don't know where it's all going to end. I really don't. The weather has gone crazy...and the wars. Maybe we should all pray harder or something."

Matthew grinned back at her, suppressing the urge to say something hostile about religion. He had lived in the area long enough to know that religion was a serious aspect of most people lives. For him, it wasn't. His parents had been non-committal about the pursuit of righteousness. He had been baptized in a local church as a child but had never attended church regularly. In fact, he had been baptized by Micah, Isaac's grandfather. For that matter, so had Gloria.

She attended the Sunday services on a regular basis, and sent her two children to Sunday School there. Religion, for her, was a fixture in her life, something she simultaneously accepted and took for granted. Her morals were intertwined with the strictures handed down by Ben and in turn the Bible. Her soul was going to be saved. Heaven was on the horizon.

Matthew hardly if ever thought about the metaphysical prospect of his soul surviving him. He chose not to think much about an afterlife. It seemed, when you stripped it down to its essence, counter productive. He lived through his experiences and what was tangible. Religion and its trappings seemed fanciful and, if he was being honest with himself, a waste of time. Not that he was so intrepid and didn't fear any unsorted out wrath of the Lord. Retribution, divine or otherwise, would be dealt with when the time came.

Before he realized what he was doing he asked: "Wanta get some coffee?"

Gloria paused for a minute before she answered, glancing around the store, looking to see if any of her neighbors might be within earshot. She wanted to think that it had only been a benign request, a friendly gesture between two people who have a cordial friendship. When she looked into his eyes for a moment she could see that it had been something more.

She hesitated for a minute, pretending to look at some carrots, and said, "That sounds nice."

Unlike Matthew, she had not been with anyone besides her husband in a very long time. Her husband had been only the second man she went out with and the first and only she had ever had sex with. His overture had electrified her more than she wanted to admit.

They went to a nearby cafe and talked. Afterwards he drove her to a back road and they had sex in the back of his SUV, lying among all the tools, most of which had been purchased at her husband's store. It had all been so easy. Sexual ecstasy, she thought, remembering how one of her friends had told her about a risqué romance novel all her friends were reading and passing around, a book that had been officially banned by the Council of Pastors in Washington. Gloria had begged off, telling her friend that she didn't care for smut. Like naughty school girls, they would recite some of the lines from the book, tittering, rolling their eyes and pretending to be the love starved woman in the novel.

She brooded all the way back to her house, trying to suppress the mounting guilt. Two weeks later, when he appeared at the store, she agreed on another tryst, this time at his home. They were careful at first, devising numerous excuses and devices to meet. Come Sunday, she would pray extra longer, hoping to minimize the sin. While Matthew found himself falling in love with her.

Gloria realized a few months later that it was only an outlet for her, a sexual release. Matthew was a lover, someone she could express herself differently with. He could never replace her husband, the father of her children. By then it was too late. They had been seen together by a friend of hers.

"You have been fucking that guy!" her husband confronted her with one day when she walked in the door. "Don't deny it."

She didn't. In some ways it was a relief to have the weight lifted off her conscience. The punishment she would endure would be just. There was a price to pay. Gloria talked her husband out of doing physical harm to Matthew. He had talked of taking his hand gun over to his house and shooting him point blank. Justice would be done.

Three years before the Council had instituted Mitzvot, the Law of Moses, all 613 Mosaic Laws. In fact, all of the military uniforms carried the red patch with gold numbers: 613. It was a reminder of their ordained right to carry forth the message to the rest of the world as they conquered another country. The laws were unyielding. Each certified pastor was to carry out the orders, applying Biblical justice with "measurable precision," so stated the Theocratic Handbook each church adhered to.

A week later a notice was posted on Gloria and Matthew's homes. It was a passage from Deuteronomy: 22:22: If a man is found sleeping with another man's wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die. It had been signed by the local Religious Association. A date had been affixed to the bottom of the page of the bulletin. There was no recourse. It had been decided.

Matthew packed up his SUV and drove by Gloria's house, hoping to convince her to go away with him, to flee the harsh decision. Accepting her fate, she had turned herself over to her local church. Her husband had acquiesced, taking their two children and traveled to stay with some relatives in New Mexico. The will of God, and the people, was to be obeyed. Matthew couldn't leave without her. They were interned in the local police station while a pastoral summit was called.

For the most part a media blackout had hidden the enactment of the new Mosaic Law. Word of mouth told of lives lost for violating the commandments. Communities large and small across the country had brought the new brand of capital punishment into being, each one harboring the stain of their brutal enactments. "Society will slowly be purged," so said the new National Chaplain, glowering into the TV camera.

"Dad, tell me you aren't going to carry out this crazy ass shit?" Isaac asked Ben, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "I went to war against this kind of fucked up bullshit."

"Isaac, your language," his mother scolded sternly.

"Come on, mom, you can't be serious about this," he countered, eyeing her angrily.

"We are talking about a higher order here, son," his father stated resolutely. "We are in the times of the Great Tribulation and we have to fight back. The anti-Christ has taken root. Why do you think all of these awful things have been happening to everybody? 'Cause the Lord is preparing all of us."

"Are you kidding me?" Isaac screeched, throwing his hands up. "So you think we have to kill off people who were getting something on the side. Dad, that's nuts."

"John :3:3, Isaac," his mother warned, wagging her finger at him.

That specific passage in the New Testament was always used by Leah Hawkins as a code, something to remind him that people who didn't go along with the new regime would be sent to camps for re-education. He stared at his mother for a minute and then said, "Whoa, now I'm scared. Do you really think that after what I've been through overseas I'd be scared of some dickheads in a phony prison camp?"

"No one can see the Kingdom of God unless they are reborn," she announced, driving her point home about the camps and everyone who didn't comply.

"I'll take my chances," he sneered, laughing.

The course of action was underway, speeding along towards a conclusion. The machinations of theological import had become an inexorable force. Few people in the town raised their voices to complain. "The will of the government has spread over the land," Micah was fond of declaring in his last years, as the government and religion became more and more entwined, masking his disapproval with sarcasm.

"If Grand dad was alive I know he wouldn't be on board with any of this crazy-ass shit," Isaac announced one day at the dinner table. I thought he was the big patriarch of this family. Right? He had divine guidance. Well, what's up with that?"

"Isaac, the council has spoken on this matter," his father said, trying to remain patient with his son's outbursts and recalcitrance.

"I'm pretty sure there must be something in the Gospels that covers this crap," Isaac spat out, eyeing his father.

"Son, we have already been down this road before," Ben exclaimed, trying not to raise his voice. "It is out of my hands anyway."

"Kinda like that Pilate dude, huh?" Isaac needled, laughing.

"That's enough of that, Isaac," his mother interjected coldly, eyeing her son.

The order was to be carried out in two weeks time. Participants were rounded up, drawn from a list of names and picked from a hat. The method of selection had never been officially designed. Each community elected the executioners differently. They were all notified, an equal mix of male and female.

"Dad, you have known Gloria since she was a little girl," one of the sisters offered timidly. I think we need to pray on this. All of us. Call the congregation together and we will--"

"It is done," Ben stated with a note of finality, as he left the room, leaving his family to struggle with the inevitable.

"Mom, tell me this isn't happening," Isaac almost shouted out. "Do something."

His mother rose from the table and turned to her son and said, "The Tribulations are upon us, Isaac. We must all abide by the Lord's expectations."

"That's crap, mom," he bellowed out, shaking his head. "This doesn't make any sense. Come on, I fought against people overseas who did nutty stuff like this. Aren't we suppose to be better than this? Really, aren't we?"

She ignored his remarks and went into the kitchen. The rest of the family stared straight ahead. Never before had their faith been tested in this way. Isaac pounded his fist on the table, while his mind whirled, pushing back thoughts of his exploits in the Marines. He knew. He had seen the face of religious dictated cruelty before.

"Is this the moral grandeur everybody is talking about?" Isaac asked in a mocking tone of voice stricken by emotion. "How did all of our prayers get so misdirected? Oh, I don't know, maybe when they started following Leviticus 15:19 and all of the women had to be isolated when they were on their periods," Isaac spat out, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't hear you saying anything when the women had to be shuffled off for seven days to keep all of us clean."

His sisters looked away and one of them said in hushed tones: "The Bible can be used as a weapon, I admit."

"You think," Isaac muttered. "Remember when Grand dad used to tell all of us that life can't be pointless...a pointless exercise? It ain't pointless now, huh. Nobody expects to live very long anyway. Maybe that's why they are just saying: fuck it! Take the Jesus crap and shove it up your ass."

"Isaac, I know this all seems like, like it's all coming undone but--"

"You might say that," Isaac interjected. "I mean we are now stoning people for having affairs. I think that comes under the heading of--"

"Isaac, listen, we must marshal our thoughts and through prayer we will come out of this," another sister assured him. "We must accept what Jesus would want."

"Good luck with that," Isaac sneered, getting up from the table and retreating to his room, his sanctuary from the outside influences that were destroying his world.

"We have heard your concerns," a council member informed Ben, motioning to the other members that the meeting had been concluded.

"All of us are born with an evil nature, from Ephesians 2:3," Ben continued, holding his ground. "We must be deliberate in our judgement. American Babbitry is upon us and we must--"

"Excuse me?" another council member asked, turning his attention to Ben. "Are you insinuating that we are somehow unduly complicit here?"

"No, of course not," Ben replied, shaking his head wearily. He had been reluctant to approach the council, going against his wife's advice, but he couldn't bring himself to not at least lodge a protest. After Isaac's outburst at the family dinner, he had second thoughts about his duty. He wondered what Micah would have done and decided to contest the council's order. "It's just that we must have balance between the Old and the New. I think some sort of arrangement can be reached with the guilty parties...some punishment other than what has been meted out. I have prayed on this."

"As have we, Brother Ben," the leader of the council suggested sternly.

Ben looked at the man for a moment, remembering how his father had taught him in Sunday Bible school so many years before, wondering if Micah had been somehow responsible for the man's almost irrational zealotry. The members exchanged comments, talking over each other.

"Perhaps I could oversee an instruction for the sinners," Ben offered hopefully, holding eye contact with the leader. "You know me and what I stand for. My father and I taught most of you over the years. We have taken a Biblical journey together. I baptized some of you, if I'm not mistaken. Let me do this. I am up to the challenge. I can bring Jesus back into their hearts...save their souls. I know it."

"They are beyond your powers, Ben," the leader announced almost angrily. "Let it be."

"I can not!"

"I am warning your, Brother Ben," he intoned, glowering. "Your words will come back to harm you. Leave off."

He didn't. Ben spoke to a different God. His God could be merciful. He persisted. The council was in an uproar, as they squabbled among themselves. No one had been defiant before them. Justice had been leveled with little or no resistance.

"You have perverted scripture," Ben stated solemnly.

"Ben, you have stepped over the boundary," the leader told him in an angry voice. "You risk being branded as a heretic. This is your last warning."

"My God speaks to me," he said, clasping his hands in front of him.

Ben was detained, ordered to undergo an evaluation. The other council members were reluctant to pass such a judgment because of their respect for his reputation. In the end, they had no choice but to rubber stamp the decision. He was led away and interned in a cell at the local police station.

Back at the Hawkins residence there was an uproar when news of Ben's incarceration arrived. Isaac was livid, threatening to unleash the pent up aggression that had been simmering ever since he returned from war. Ben tried to be stoic, as his wife gathered up her daughters and held a group prayer; while back in town the event was on schedule.

Matthew and Gloria had been sequestered in separate buildings, held without any contact with their families. News of their stoning spiraled out to the surrounding communities. Their condemnation and punishment was met with a silent ambivalence. It had been decreed by the Lord and was not to be critiqued. Protestations were minimal.

For the "committee," as the people who were doing the actual stoning were called, trepidation grew. Moral clarity had its cost. The implementation of God's will was unexpectedly arduous. They would have to carry the burden in order to maintain the Word of God.

A dozen people had been chosen, six women and six men. They would not enjoy the luxury of anonymity as an executioner might. No hoods to conceal their identities. There would be no guilt, no shame. They were there to do the chore, the act that provided all of them with a path to salvation. The glory of God would be visited on you, so said the covenant they all accepted, a pact that kept them in the eternal family.

Stones were selected for their heft and sharp edges. The council debated about the merits of destruction when applied by a projectile from short range. A manual had been supplied, a primer on the most efficient method of extinguishing a life, handed down to them from the seat of the State theocratic congress. Diagrams had been added, with precise dimensions, a blueprint for ending a life.

No one balked, pausing to reconsider. The community was strongly urged to attend, with the cut off being thirteen for exemption. Retribution is to be public and as immediate as reasonably possible, so said the manual. A carpenter was brought in to construct two sturdy posts to stake the sinners to, with mounting hardware. They were anchored in the dirt and tested for durability.

A site had been chosen near the town square, on a flat piece of land with rolling hills next to it, making for a natural amphitheater. Sunday, after the Sabbath sermon, was the designated time of the stoning. Ben had repented before the council after his wife had convinced him to volunteer to be the Pastor in attendance, there to usher their souls into heaven if and when they accepted Jesus as their savior. He had been held for a couple days in the local jail, where he was given time to reconsider and to pray.

"Savior of what?" Isaac wanted to know, as he needled his father for his participation in the barbarity. His father had rushed home after the Sunday sermon to prep for his role in the stoning.

"Isaac, son, don't speak if you can't comprehend the implications," his father warned ominously.

"You got to be kidding me," Isaac spat out, laughing. "I tell you what I know, I know that you've gone nuts. More than usual."

"Calm down, son," Ben said, trying to soothe his son with his voice. "It is going to take time for you to understand the ways of the Bible. I don't expect you to get it all at once--especially after what you've been through. I, too, had to struggle with the decision."

"Yeah, that's right, my time in the Marines has got me all fucked up. Sure," Isaac said, shaking his head in disbelief. "What I know right now is that you're as crazy as those nutcases overseas. I mean it, dad. Your religion is one fucked up mess."

Ben ignored his son, continuing his preparations for the event in town. His mother entered the room and chided her husband for not being ready. The daughters and their family were already in route to the town square. Isaac looked out the window at the prairie like landscape, where the wind rolled across the terrain unimpeded. He thought back to all of those times when he was at war and dreamed of being back home. Now, his mind rebelled as he wanted to be anywhere but there.

"Coming?" Isaac's mother asked, motioning for him to hurry.

"Not likely," Isaac answered over his shoulder, turning to look out the window again.

"It's not going to look good for your father if his only son doesn't make an appearance," she hectored, eyeing her son.

"Hey, I think I've seen enough death for all of us," he muttered, not bothering to turn around.

Ben silently motioned for his wife to go on, then said, "It is your choice, son."

"Got that right," Isaac mumbled.

Thousands had gathered, craning their necks to see the execution site. More than several were using binoculars to get a better look. Next to the two posts, on the eastern side, a video camera had been set up and a nervous man was fingering the lens cap while he waited to record every thing because it had been ordained that the stoning must be documented. The council were seated in chairs lined up to the right. Anticipation rifled through the crowd.

Then Matthew and Gloria were led into the makeshift arena, followed by catcalls and boos. Their hands were bound behind their backs and they were dressed in all white smocks, better to showcase the blood, another tip from the manual. Matthew looked straight ahead, keeping his eyes focused in the distance. Gloria fell several times and was helped up by two women who had volunteered to lend aid in her time of need. She sobbed uncontrollably.

The Sheriff aided in securing them to the posts, facing the council, then blew a whistle to quiet the onlookers. Ben was called forward and he gave a short, concise prayer, one that he hoped would alleviate the town's guilt as it justified their actions. "I read from James 1:15: Then the lust, when it has conceived, bears sin; and the sin, when it is full grown, brings forth death." His wife and daughters stood nearby, stock still, simultaneously proud and ashamed. After the prayer a buzz drifted through the crowd. So as to connect their actions and the sinners' act, to show that they were linked, Ben added: "From John 3:4: Everyone who sins also commits lawlessness. Sin is lawlessness."

At that moment the committee was led to their positions in front of Matthew and Gloria. Tears streamed down her face and she was blubbering. Matthew looked out at the crowd disdainfully, profanely telling them what he thought of his ultimate fate, before adding: "Let him who cast the first stone..." His words were drowned out by boos and rounds of condemnation. The first stone landed against his chest, bouncing off harmlessly. Matthew laughed again and asked: "Is that all you got?"

Several more stones were thrown, only making glancing blows. Matthew told them they could all rot in hell. Then a stone made impact with Gloria's forehead and the crowd cheered. A trickle of blood oozed down her face. Stunned, she called out: "You are the real monsters!" Another barrage of stones were thrown, hitting their target. Matthew felt a sharp pain over his left eye and was momentarily dazed. Turning to Gloria, he called out: "I love you." Another rock bounced off the top of his head and his vision went dark for a moment. The crowd edged closer.

The committee, now feverish from their exertion, threw more and more stones. Blood began to seep through the white smocks, as Gloria finally slumped over, with her head against her chest. Still the stones came. Matthew had gone silent now and was twitching from the pain. A few well placed stones hit their target. Both of them were now on their knees. A sharp edged stone sliced away Matthew's right eye and he grunted from the agony.

Ben and Leah tried to remain composed, as they watched the slow motion death. Their daughters tried not to turn away, having been ordered by their mother not to show weakness in the face of sin. A few people in the crowd began to fervently pray, even as they looked on.

Finally, an EMT from the local fire department stepped forward and checked for any remaining life. Gloria had perished, saved by the finality of death; but Matthew lingered, almost as if in spite. He signaled that he was still alive and they threw more stones, which landed with a disturbing thud on his near lifeless body. A pool of blood seeped into the desert soil next to their bodies. Matthew clung to life for a little longer then too expired. Ben stepped forward again, said another prayer and told everyone that sin had been extinguished.

Chapter 4 Spiritual Flames

Life was somber at the Hawkins home. Isaac had been incarcerated at the local police station, held in solitary confinement after being labeled a heretic. The rules and regulations handed down by the current council dictated that all people who were designated as being "incorrigibles" should be separated from the population until which time they were processed for reparative therapy. Isaac had been singled out for not attending the stoning, then brought before the council. Despite Ben's intervening on his behalf he was ordered into confinement.

"He will be corrected," an officious police officer informed him when Ben and Leah appeared at the police station to see Isaac.

"What in the hell does that mean exactly?" Isaac shouted from his cell when he heard his parent's voices out in the squad room.

"It means you will find out soon enough," the police officer replied, glowering, trying to intimidate Isaac. Then he turned to Ben and said, "Like father...like son?"

Ben glanced around the small police station, taking in the flyers and bulletins tacked up on a cork board next to the police officer's desk. Then he heard his son yell out: "Are you proud of yourself, dumbfuck?"

The police officer stood up from his desk and angrily stated: "You have about two seconds to shut your mouth or I'm going to shut it for you."

"Really," Isaac mused, laughing.

"Really," the police officer repeated, trying to stare Isaac down.

"What is done, is done," Isaac's mother whispered to her husband, pulling him towards the front door.

Isaac had fantasies of marching into the police station, rifle in hand, and raining down some "hurt." Another war veteran gone berserk, he could imagine the media saying. There would be a short choppy film clip, taken with a camera phone, depicting his heroic assault. The voice over from the network talking head would tell the audience that "a madman" went on a rampage and is thought to be an avowed heretic. Photos of his face would be plastered on the TV screen, with a short description of his transgressions against religion, translation: Enemy of the State.

All laws passed through the Magistrate of Religion, a body of the political system that had been tacked on as almost a fourth branch of government. Most said it was the real seat of power. Congress, the President, and the Supreme court were only a tripartite figure head. No one knew who sat on the board of religious leaders that comprised the Magistrate. The process of selection had been determined by a little known entity called the Word Disciples.

Over the decades different religious groups and organizations had merged to form a more powerful political influence. The end result had been an amalgamation of denominations that morphed into a power broker in the business world and on Capitol Hill. Before, when the religious parties were more decentralized and tended to concentrate on moral issues, their power had been fragmented, easily manipulated by money interests. Some time after the beginning of the 21st century the two disparate powers in the Republican Party blended their mutually advantageous strengths and created a voting block of indomitable political will.

Money and religious zeal made for a tidal wave of electoral victories. Carrying a biblical covenant that permitted them to foster wealth, while carving out narrowly defined mores and values, established the neo-constitution, a document that was unveiled in Philadelphia in the Fall of 2019. Hereafter, the United States of America turned a corner.

"Fuck that," he said over his shoulder, as he slotted a magazine into his assault rifle, the one he had conveniently converted to automatic. The rifle had been a gift from his father when he returned from war, something his father hoped he would use for some innocuous target shooting out in the woods. This was before the word had come down to his parents that Isaac was a person of interest and needed to be vouched for by the council. Town gossip had reached their ears. People were talking about Isaac. He had been heard saying some irreligious comments, particularly about the stoning.

"Isaac," his sister uttered, shocked. "I'm going to tell dad what you are up to."

Isaac looked up to see his sister disappear down the hall. She was the sister closest in age to him. They were only fourteen months apart, but light years away in outlook. He then, for that instant, realized he had never been close to any of his sisters. Being the youngest, and the only son, he had never really gotten close to any of his sisters. He thought about that for a moment, then shook his head, thinking, How had it gotten like this?

Less than a week passed after the stoning and two police officers appeared at the Hawkins' home. They politely requested that Isaac accompany them to the police station for questioning. Ben had gotten word that there would probably be some kind of reparative instruction forced on his son, which was to be carried out on a former Army Post, where the interned were made to endure hours and hours of lectures, complete with instructional religious videos. They were housed in old barracks and kept to a strict regimen of classroom learning and physical labor. Their days were long and hard, starting at five in the morning and going through six or seven at night.

In the end, Isaac was to be sentenced to two months of reparative therapy. In his group, thirty men of all ages, he was singled out as the most incorrigible because he had once been the son of a minister. He happened to be the youngest too. His harsh treatment had begun the very first day in camp, when the instructor, a short, muscular man with a cross tattooed on both of his forearms, ordered him to read aloud from the Bible for a complete hour. While Isaac read the scriptures, the instructor went around the classroom administering sharp blows from a riding crop to the back of the heads of anyone he deemed not to be paying sufficient attention.

From there, Isaac was made an example of, demonstrating to the others that even those from a religious family can backslide. The devil was everywhere working against them. Each day they recited from first the Old Testament and then at night they switched to the New Testament. They were quizzed and if the results weren't satisfactory punishment was meted out by a man wearing black overalls. Many of the inmates were beaten by him, after they were shocked by a taser into submission. The ones who objected were led away, disappearing for a few days until which time they reappeared with bruises on their faces and looks of fear.

"Isaiah 1:19: If you are willing and obedient, You shall eat the good of the land," they would have to recite before each meal, as they sat down to stale cereals and white rice. No one talked among themselves. Each man was made to be an island, lost to his own thoughts, as they drilled scripture into their minds. All anyone heard day in and day out were passages from the Bible. In a few days time each and every one had succumbed, buried under a deluge of religious propaganda, clinging, trying to maintain some sort of mental equilibrium as they beat back a mounting omniscient dread.

Isaac was different than the others from the beginning. Biblical tracts resided in his consciousness easily. He knew far more than his captors about the arcana of Christianity. It had been his family's chosen profession. He wouldn't be browbeaten by the words of Jesus.

"You there," one of the guards addressed him one day after they had been in camp for almost three weeks, "how are you progressing?"

Conducting a conversation on any level after a few weeks of constant brainwashing seemed unnatural, so Isaac stared at the man for a moment, getting his verbal footing and replied: "How do you mean?"

Unintentional or not, Isaac's response had a ring of impudence to it and the guard leveled a smack to the back of his head with an open hand, and stated again: "I want to know how you are progressing?"

"Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ--"

Another smack was delivered to the back of his head, as the guard tried to figure out whether or not he was being mocked. He grabbed Isaac by the shirt front and sneered, saying: "Preacher's son, huh, think you know all about God--do you?"

Isaac laughed defiantly, waiting for another blow to the head, then, gathering up his courage again, stated: "It is from Ephesians 6. I urge you to look it up."

The guard pulled out his cell phone and clicked on the Bible application, squinting as he read, then scoffed, telling Isaac: "I know what you are up to. You are perverting the Word for your own gains. I was warned about you. I guess it is going to take a little longer to get the devil out of you. Huh?" With that comment he laughed and pulled out his taser, zapping Isaac.

He awoke some time later and realized he had been transferred to the "cave," a dark and dank cell they used for solitary confinement. Disheartened, he realized he wasn't going to see sunshine for however long it took him to get out of the cell block. There were no windows, even in the iron cast door. His toilet was a bucket by the door. He would be down to one meal a day. Most inmates didn't come back from a stay in the "cave."

"Here you go Preacher's son, maybe you can resurrect yourself," the guard had joked, slamming the door to the cell behind him.

It wasn't surprising that his sentence had been extended. Most of the people in his barracks had been rehabilitated, released, sent back home as model citizens with new Bibles under their arms. A few had vanished. One man, in his early thirties, wouldn't accept any order and was frequently beaten. He was Indian, Apache, and taunted the guards, inviting abuse. He spoke of Ga an and how the mountain spirits were going to get their revenge on the Holy White men, telling the instructors that the creator was Mescalero and he had nothing to do with Jesus. He was beaten routinely and spent most of his time in the "cave." Eventually, his will never bent and he disappeared entirely.

Another man, a little older than Isaac, a former drug addict, tried to reason with the guards, cajoling them, using his street smarts to lighten his load in the camp. It all backfired as the guards saw him as a slacker and part of the problem, one of the people who was "poisoning the well," their favorite phrase for anyone who they thought was subverting the religious cause. His act crumbled quickly, even though he pretended to embrace the scripture and spouted out tracts of the Bible he had memorized. He too went away to never return.

After Isaac's stint in solitary confinement, he was taken to another part of the camp, a place he discovered was sectioned off for the trouble makers, the ones who needed extra attention, more "instructional tutoring," as he was told by the warden in an ominous tone of voice. "We are disappointed in you, Isaac," the warden had told him, clucking his tongue. "A man with such a religious background shouldn't be so troublesome for us. Your father is a living paragon. And at your age, it is all so, you know, disappointing. But we will get your mind on tract. It may take a little longer than usual. We are used to dealing with you stiff-necks," he told him, using the term from the Bible for anyone who resisted the will of the Holy Spirit.

Isaac had no response. The one lesson he had learned was not to verbalize his thoughts. Silence. Let that yawning quiet fill up your mind. Perhaps the Lord was testing him. Strength came with faith.

He reached back to his days in Boot camp, where they molded boys into Marines. He had to endure weeks of mental and physical abuse, finally graduating and moving on towards the battlefield. He was used to physical privation. Several tours of duty had left him with an indomitable will. They were never going to break him down.

After two weeks in the "cave" he was released, taken back to the separate compound where the more troublesome inmates were housed. Their instruction leaned heavily on manual labor, with the guards driving them hard all day in work gangs. The goal was exhaustion. With physical debilitation came docility. "Recalcitrant minds will come around," so said the warden, a former minister at a church in Prescott. He often appeared to remind the inmates that their path to redemption passed through him.

At night, as they collapsed into their bunks, spent from another day in the hot sun doing back straining chores, Biblical passages were piped into the barracks over a loud speaker all night. Isaac drifted off to sleep that first night back from the "cave", with Romans 6:23 echoing in his ears. For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life.

One month passed. All of them were being held incommunicado from their families. The outside world didn't exist, except for their work details around the county to repair roads. They would see people in their cars, easing by as the work gang laid more asphalt in the hot sun. Most people would ignore them, looking away, but some would sneer and call them heretics, boldly mocking them as the guards laughed, calling them a stain on America.

"I went to war for this fucking country!" Isaac screamed back at one car load of teenagers one day, who were pestering them, taunting.

"Sinners!" one boy cried out, pointing.

A guard hurried over and whacked Isaac in the back of the head with his riding crop, sending him to his knees. The teenagers ridiculed him, laughing, urging the guard to strike him again. The other inmates cowered, stepping away from Isaac in fear of receiving some punishment too. The car drove on, as the guard ordered Isaac to his feet. Then he punched Isaac in the stomach several times, telling him he knew he wasn't supposed to talk to the public, that heretics were to remain silent.

Another month was tacked onto his sentence when he got back to the camp. The warden warned him that he was teetering, close to being "revamped." Isaac protested and was beaten until he collapsed to his knees. "Son, you are a hard nut to crack," the warden stated, poking Isaac with his cane. "You must understand, we have to be custodians of God's will here on earth. You understand that, don't you son?" Isaac muttered something under his breath and the guard hit him again with the riding crop. "I don't think I heard what you had to say. Do you care to repeat that?" the warden asked mockingly.

Isaac staggered to his feet, noticing the cross lapel pin the warden always wore, a trinket only worn by someone from the feared Maintenance of Religious Order Brigade, and announced in a strained voice: Somewhere in Peter it says: Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect--"

There was a glancing blow to the side of his head and he stumbled, holding his hands up for protection. Another guard had taken out his taser and was preparing to immobilize Isaac. The warden waved him away and said: "You do know, Isaac, that you will remain here indefinitely until which time you give testimony. You are clear about that, correct?"

Isaac could feel his left eye beginning to swell from the blow to his head. He felt unsteady on his feet, dizzy. "Let me get this straight," he exclaimed, smirking, "Is it one God in three spirits or three Gods in one?"

The warden raised his cane and poked Isaac in the chest, then said, "Jesus tasted death for everyman, Hebrews 2:9."

"I should know, warden, I killed enough fuckers for twenty Jesus Christs," Isaac announced, grinning.

The familiar sting enveloped his body, as the taser riddled his limbs with an electrical charge. His muscles flinched and he went down. The warden's stony expression was the last thing he remembered. He knew from experience the next thing he would see was the dank darkness of the "cave."

It was early in the morning when he awoke, still dark. Although it was summer there was a lingering coolness in his cell. He could hear the usual sound of rodents scrabbling around his bunk. The smell of his own excrement filled the small room from when he had defecated in his pants the night before from the short torture session he had endured. Mercifully, he had lost consciousness, which swallowed up the pain.

He had an intense headache and remembered being beaten by the riding crop on the side of his head. Pain was riveted to his right side and he gingerly probed the area, gasping. Isaac knew his ribs must be cracked from the repeated blows that had been delivered by the man in the black overalls. "I guess you want me to die for your sins too," he had joked, which brought on more physical punishment.

I'll die before they break me, he thought, trying to find some degree of solace in bravado. He had been through combat and knew how to focus his mind in order to thwart any infiltration of doubt, or weakness. They weren't ever going to get the pleasure of seeing him buckle. His defiance would be his badge of honor. Their perversion of religion wouldn't succeed with him.

He thought about that tiny pewter cross on the warden's lapel. The Maintenance of Religious Order Brigade was responsible for policing any subversive behavior by the populace. No rebellious attitude was to be tolerated. Neighbors were encouraged to be vigilant, and then rewarded, for reporting on friends and relatives. They would receive privileges, such as extra time for using electricity because the power grid had declined so much brown outs and black outs were common place, leaving sporadic power. Strict quotas for usage kept business going. Everyone was a potential vigilante, snitching on anyone that might gain them some extra merit with the authorities. Every mechanism of totalitarianism was being utilized to keep order.

"We can't keep doing this, Isaac," the warden announced, stepping into the small cell, flanked by two guards. He was ordered to his feet, which he did, staggering slightly, still unstable after the beating inflicted on him a few days before. "The devil has a good hold on you, son. But with prayer and some good old fashion discipline, well, we won't fail."

"Your methods are worthless, warden, I'm telling you," Isaac boasted, forcing a grin. "I've been through a lot worse before--trust me."

The warden eyed him for a moment, then said, "God has a plan for you, Isaac, but you just don't know it yet."

"Does that plan include you guys beating the shit out of me?" Isaac demanded to know.

Recoiling from the profane word, the warden prodded Isaac with his cane and said, "I'm not one to spare the rod, you know." He snorted out a laugh and added, "Some violence is justified."

"Maybe in your fucked up little world," Isaac spat out, grinning mockingly.

The warden brought his cane down on Isaac's head several times, as the two guards moved in with their tasers. Again he was on the ground, squirming, as his limbs spasmodically jerked in all directions. Then there was a kick to his stomach and he hoped for unconsciousness.

The beatings continued on and off for a week. Isaac remained surly to the guards, unbending. They cut his rations, leaving him on the verge of starvation. Still, he taunted them through the bars, telling them they were scum and ridiculing their brand of religious righteousness. Frustrated, the warden would appear from time to time, flanked by his men, to pass on more punishment.

Isaac would know when the warden was coming because he could hear the click-clack of his cane on the cement floor. Then he would be there, in the doorway, glaring at him, impatiently tapping his cane on the ground. The last time he had paid a visit Isaac had called out to him: "And Isaac gave up the ghost and died, Genesis 35:29, I believe." You could see the annoyance on the warden's face. He particularly didn't care for Isaac's utilization of the Bible for his own purposes. "It won't be long, warden."

The warden muttered something under his breath and gave his men a weary command, one that revealed just how defeated he felt. No one had ever resisted as much as Isaac before. Most men would buckle, mentally and physically, then succumb to the siren call of the scriptures. The warden was sure many of them had taken the convenient route and just simply embraced the program to avoid any more punishment. Torture wasn't full proof. His job was to bring them to the water, to let them taste what Jesus had to offer.

It was a week later that Isaac was unexpectedly released from the "cave" and returned to what the guards called Camp Purgatory. A former inmate, a Catholic, a man who had been charged with heresy because he continued to make the sign of the cross whenever he sat down for his meals, had labeled the area after Catholicism's peculiar division of the afterlife. The guards adopted it after that, thinking it was hilarious to be using the Catholics' own perverted design on God's plan.

Catholics, like the Jews, Muslims, and Eastern religions had mostly disappeared from the religious landscape in the latter part of the century's second decade, victims of the Protestant purge. At first, the Jews and Catholics had been co-opted into the new religious order, deemed to be the foundation for the New Faith, which was only a fresh term to use for the old guard religions populated by Evangelicals, Baptists, and Pentecostals. Slowly, inexorably, the Jews were marginalizes, pushed out of governmental positions and ostracized in the private sector. Jew baiting became acceptable before long and many from the Hebraic faith were forcibly converted, drawing comparisons to Spain during the Inquisition. Many emigrated to Israel, while a substantial number died in re-education camps set up in remote locations, far from any population centers.

The train tracks of the American West took boxcar loads of Jews to North Dakota, Idaho, and Wyoming. There was an outcry from the press at first, led by journalist who were themselves in danger of being transported, taken in the dark of night by a paramilitary force wearing riot gear. The media fell quiet after a few years, turning a blind eye to the machinations at work.

This left the Catholics to protest against the inhumane activity and they too were silenced, starting with the Bishops across the country. Some were found murdered, hanging from the rafters of their church's, which had been looted. Several from the "learned class," as the college professors were labeled by the disciples of the New Faith, voiced their disapproval, vocally and through print, but they too were cut off from the information stream. Even the internet had been neutered, brought down by an act of Congress, which handed over control to the Corporations. All content went through a few servers and was censored.

A cry of Nazi Germany fell on deaf ears. History had been reassembled, passed through a religious filter. The written word began and ended with the Bible. Simultaneously, the scientists were marginalized and their lab work shelved. Profitable companies, in league with the Council of Pastors, dictated what was to be taught in schools, with the bottom line always in view. Entire Government agencies were excised and conglomerates put in charge of the environment and development. Never before in history had a society undergone such a metamorphosis, or so said a Catholic Cardinal, referencing the role his church played in the past during the Middle-Ages, a milestone of monumental ignorance. He was in turn sentenced to die for his recalcitrance and for being a purveyor of "organized paganism." He would be burned at the stake at the football stadium in Washington DC, while over 80 thousand people cheered.

Isaac had ignored much of what had happened in America, lost in his own world sequestered in the military. Before his time in the Marines he just hadn't noticed or paid much attention. First Jews, then Catholics, along with Muslims had been eliminated. It didn't register because there were no Jews, no Catholics, and certainly no Muslims represented in his small town. The only glimmer he had of the upheaval was when the Mormons in the neighboring town all decamped for Utah, the last bastion for their branch of Christianity. Utah had never been totally subjugated and was now a quasi-legal entity among the other States. Besides, as he liked to think, Isaac was from a family that perpetrated the malignancy everyday and believed in what they were doing. His very own father was a small but vital cog in the transformation from withering democracy to growing theocracy. Isaac had been, for the most part, along for the ride, hiding behind his youthful indiscretions and mounting apathy after several years of combat all around the globe.

Now, he was paying the price for his non-chalance and lack of intellectual curiosity. Even his pious, Bible toting father couldn't redeem his soul. The State, guided by the New Faith, deemed him an outsider, with consequences. A tiny voice in his head, insistent and persistent, asked him over and over again where were the dividends in maintaining a defense against the New Faith. After all, the small voice wanted to point out, you are one of them.

Was he? he wondered. The scripture rolled around in his head all the time but he had never embraced any of it. Like a person who has memorized a song, he only knew the words, and not much of the import. Secretly, as well as subconsciously, he suspected that all of it, the crucifixion, the resurrection, all of it, was a fairy tale. It was something you might tell a child. Surely God, any higher power, would be more consistent, if not merciful. We are weak minded, he told himself, as over the years he played along with his family, especially his father, who held sway with his command of the byways that ran through the scripture. Best not to think about it too much, he assured himself, laughing, hoping to not ever take it seriously.

"Hawkins! On your feet," the guard commanded, swinging the cell door open, where it banged against the metal bars loudly. "You've gotten a reprieve--for now," he said portentously. "God was smiling down on you."

Isaac staggered to his feet, faint from lack of food, steadying himself by placing his hand against the wall. "Small miracles do happen, centurion," he called out in a hoarse voice, dry from too little water. He had taken to calling all of his jailers that to needle them, letting them know he thought they would make wonderful Romans.

"If I was really a centurion I'd have nailed your ass to a cross by now," the guard spat back, poking Isaac with his policeman's night stick. "Come on, get moving, we got things to do, ya know."

"I've been pardoned?" Isaac sang out, coughing violently, stopping for a moment to bend over.

"You wish," the guard muttered, prodding him. "You ain't never gonna be wearing that yellow cross on your shirt," he taunted, laughing, referring to how all the parolees were made to wear a patch with a cross embossed on it for a entire year after being released.

He was returned to Camp Purgatory, arriving, to his delight, in time for lunch. Dried, stale, bread and musty, rancid margarine had never tasted so good before. There was also canned corn and half of a rotten banana. He ate all of it, even nibbling on the banana peel until one of the guards took it away from him, smacking the back of his head with his baton. A blinding headache had slipped into his forehead from squinting so much. After being in the "cave" so long his eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the sunlight filtering in through the dirty cafeteria windows. He had never missed the infamous Arizonan sun so much.

While he was eating he looked around and noticed he didn't recognize anyone. There were no familiar faces except the guards. Men were continually being rotated in and out of the camp, as the deprogramming never ceased. You have to admire these zealots efficiency, he thought, scanning the cafeteria, glad to have some other stimuli to look at than his small, dark cell. He had been certain he would never to see the outside again.

The very next morning he was with the road gang as they made their way to a work site on a side road in the National Forest. Autumn had arrived in Northern Arizona and the leaves on the Aspens were a glaring shade of yellow. He had always loved the Fall. In the past, when he was a young boy, before the drastic climatic changes, he would eagerly anticipate the first snowfall. Most everyone would grumble about the cold winds and below freezing temperatures over night but he had looked forward to it every year when he was growing up.

As they were slowly driving down a forest road, still rutted by the summer monsoon rains, the driver suddenly pulled to a stop. One of the guards asked what the problem was. Then the inmates were ordered to stay in the passenger van, while he investigated what was blocking the road. Through the open driver's window Isaac could smell the sweet, over ripe aroma of death, and decay.

"What's that stinkin' smell," one of the inmates called out, gagging dramatically.

"Shut up!" the driver ordered, shifting in his seat to stare at the man.

"Must be a dead deer or something," another inmate offered, peering out the window. "Probably got hit by a car."

Isaac knew better. He had smelled that scent before on the battle field, the fetid compost of a dead human body in the open air. Through the windshield, up ahead, they could see a pickup truck parked off to the side of the forest road. The passenger door was wide open. Isaac recognized the light green color as that of a a Forest Ranger's truck.

The guard walked slowly towards the pickup truck, unshouldering his rifle as he went. One of the inmates sitting in the back row of seats wanted to know what was happening and was told by the second guard to keep quiet, as he too eased his way out of the van, unhooking the latch on the holster that held his side arm securely in place. He rested his hand on the top of the revolver.

"Get on the radio...now," the other guard called out, as he hurried back to the van. "Call the cops!"

"What's up," the other guard asked, looking back at the pickup truck. "What's down there?"

"You don't wanta know," the other guard replied, shaking his head. "God have mercy on their--"

A bullet ripped through his neck, severing his vocal chords, and he went down, sliding against the hood of the van. He clutched at his neck with both hands, dropping his rifle on the ground. Blood percolated out of his throat. Then several more rounds made impact against the van, shattering several windows. The other guard tried to pull out his pistol but was cut down. He doubled over, dropping to his knees, as another round penetrated his head, cracking the skull as it exited out the back. The driver was holding his hands on the steering wheel, prayer fashion, praying loudly.

Isaac, through ingrained instinct, had immediately scurried to the floor of the van. Next to him a bullet pierced an inmate's wrist, shattering the bones, leaving his hand limp. He screamed in pain and was blubbering about Jesus and asking for forgiveness. Pieces of glass showered over Isaac, as he tried to get under the seat. Another inmate was hit in the leg from a ricochet. He grabbed his calf and called out for help.

Then the shooting was over and they could hear the sound of engines buzzing around the van, with whoops of excitement. When the motors died down, they could hear people speaking Spanish. Isaac knew who they were. They had killed a friend of his the year before, ambushing him on his way back from a hunting trip. You didn't have to travel very far to encounter the ramifications of functioning anarchy. The authorities' reach only went so far, which seldom stretched beyond cities and towns. It was as if the Wild West had been reintroduced.

"Zapatistas," Isaac whispered to the others, adding, "see you in hell."

"Hola," someone called out from outside the van, "you can come out now, gringos."

No one moved. Isaac looked over at the driver, who was catatonic from fear. His hand gun was still in his holster. It would be nice to go down firing, Isaac thought, thinking about all the times he had been in combat, fully armed, and wondered what it would be like to blaze away while enemy rounds shredded your body. Someone whispered in the back that he wasn't leaving the van. Another one said they were going to shoot everyone.

The Zapatistas were a gang of Mexican-Americans and illegals who terrorized the open land, driving around on ATVs and dirt bikes. They were elusive and ruthless. Their leader, a former ASU student named Jorge, had formed the group and fashioned it after the Mexican Revolutionary bandit. He used his tactics and unique barbarity to stay uncaptured going on three years. They were homegrown terrorists who were making their own stand against the new, repressive government. Their only religion, even though they had all been raised Catholics, was shaped by violence that came at the end of a gun. This was the end result of being disenfranchised by the authorities.

Jorge had been raised in Phoenix, born to parents who had made their way illegally across the border. The family lived a twilight existence in the city, fearing deportation every day. Jorge was brought up without any official governmental status, subject to the retroactive laws that had been enacted in 2012, put into place when the legal wrangling between the States and the Federal government was decided by the Supreme Court, permitting anyone to be removed from the country even if they had been born within the borders of the United States. The 14th Amendment to the Constitution was completed reworked, abrogating previous case law. Hundred of thousands were eventually deported to their parent's country of origin.

Jorge, like so many others, became expert at blending in, residing in a country that no longer tolerated their existence. He functioned with fabricated identifications and guile, disguising his heritage as much as possible. Large American cities were fertile ground for the undocumented to exist, able to eke out a lifestyle that leaned heavily towards deception and being invisible.

By the time he was in his late teens, Jorge had become George and was the all American boy, playing football in High School, dating, and looking forward to college. He was able to land a scholarship to ASU through a civic organization that aided young scholars with their tuition. Just going to college was a milestone of sorts because the avenue to a higher education had contracted so much that the next step in an educational career was unattainable for almost everyone but the rich.

His brother had been left with the only other option and that was to enlist. Upward mobility had long since been extinguished, replaced by a stratification that broke along income lines. America's youth were sectioned off into classes, strata's, tracked into work categories. In the interest of industrial efficiency, the corporations had a hand in crafting a social streaming, where future workers would be trained, groomed for their established lifestyle.

Jorge played the game well. He excelled at being what was expected of him. Then after his brother was killed overseas, dying in yet another war begun by the military contractors eager to land more Congressional largess, he had an emotional epiphany. Two months before his brother had died on a stretch of sand in Africa, dismembered by a landmine, his parents had been escorted out of the country, deposited on the Mexican border and left to fend for themselves in the open desert. He was left utterly alone.

Several of his Hispanic friends had long ago become disillusioned, left battered by the New Faith's relentless pursuit of their agenda. The local Catholic church in their neighborhood had been forced to close its doors, with the parish priest carted away for reparative therapy. Father Mendez would never be seen again. More and more of them were being rounded up and taken away. A Spanish surname meant continual hassles from the police. Late night knocks on the door were common place. Raids happened everyday, with helicopters hovering overhead, while the ICE squads, dressed in SWAT gear, swept entire neighborhoods, from one end of the street to the other.

Jorge's militant stance came easily, fueled by his mounting anger. He had been there when the police broke down his friend's door, fleeing out the back in time to escape but not before his friend shot one of the policeman dead. As he ran through the neighborhood streets, one step ahead of the pursuing police, Jorge knew that he could never go back.

Months later, after he had encountered others just like him, he started the gang that would later become the Zapatistas, but not before he had joined up with a group calling themselves the Trentonites. They were a resistance group of devout Catholics who had named themselves after the town where the Catholic church had first condemned Martin Luther for his transgressions. The Trentonites were holed up in the Superstition Mountains and staged raids into Phoenix regularly. Although they were well organized and effective in their way, they were too religious for Jorge. He saw them as the flip side of the problem, more religiosity with a different veneer. After several months with them, he decided to leave and headed out on his own.

With the Zapatistas, he soon discovered that he was a natural leader that the others would follow. They stole weapons whenever and where ever they could, then eventually migrated north into the mountains, away from the urban police force who they were overmatched against. The learning curve was difficult, in which they lost a dozen or more members, killed in shoot outs as they carved out their territory. It left them with a credo that began and ended with homicide. There was no gray area. The tenets of morality was set in stone, encased in the prospect of survival.

"Mr. Gringos, you can come out now," one of the Zapatistas called out, laughing, knocking on the side door of the van with the muzzle of his rifle. "We just want to talk to you."

The driver's side door was yanked open and the driver pulled out of the van. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to stay in his seat. Then one of the Zapatistas pulverized the driver's face with the butt of his rifle, knocking him unconscious. Another one snatched him out, tossing the driver to ground. "Check it out, nice pistola!" they heard one of them call out. Then a gun went off and someone announced: "Works too." They rolled the driver's lifeless body under the van.

One by one they were dragged out of the van and lined up by the side of the road. A short woman, late twenties, wearing a bright red bandana around her neck that she used when they were going off road so as to keep the dust out of her face, walked down the line, eyeing each man separately as she went. Several others went through the van looking for anything that might be of value.

They spoke in rapid fire Spanglish among themselves. Isaac stood in line, scanning the area, wondering if there was any way he could make a break for it. He had counted ten or eleven Zapatistas, with three women in the group. They were all heavily armed and it was obvious they weren't shy about using their weapons. Isaac knew he wouldn't get very far because they were carrying fully automatic assault rifles that were easily capable of taking him out up to four hundred meters away. He would have to rely on them being inept, hoping that they hadn't even bothered to zero in the sights on their rifles. Then again, he knew that some of them had probably served in the military at one time or another. Besides, they had dirt bikes and could easily track him down and slit his throat. It's better than standing here and taking a bullet, he thought, quickly looking over at a wash to the east that he might make it to before they shot him.

The girl was taunting an inmate at the other end of the line, a short, heavy set guy in his forties who had been a car salesman before being sent up for reprogramming. Isaac knew him as, basically, a soft guy who was obsequious to the camp staff, trying to make points in whatever way he could. As with some of the other inmates, he had been turned in by a person who saw an easy way to get revenge by reporting him to the local council for being a non-believer. Many times the person in question had no recourse once the accusation had been lodged. The die had been set. They were labeled heretics and needed to be dealt with.

"Gordo, don't you look at me," she commanded, placing the barrel of her hand gun under the man's chin. "You're disgusting, like a really fat pig." Some of the other Zapatistas laughed at this exchange, obviously used to tormenting their victims. "Here, chew on this." There was a short, loud report and the man fell to the ground. "Jesus fucking Christ!" she almost screamed. "I got the mutter-fucker's blood all over my gun."

"Don't stick your gun where it don't belong, momma-seeta," one of them called out, laughing. "You gotta be cool about it." He stepped back from the line, leveled his rifle, and fired off a round into the head of the man standing next to Isaac. "Mira, check it out."

"You guys got religion yet?" a man wanted to know, stepping off a dirt bike he had been sitting on, watching the scene unfold. "I mean ain't you guys from that camp...that place where they make sure you find Jesus?"

No one answered. Isaac could see with his peripheral vision that their was only three of them left standing in the line. He didn't want to make any sudden movements, as he continued to eye the wash just over the shoulder of the man by the dirt bike. He noticed he seemed to be the one in charge. One of the other Zapatistas answered his question, wondering where Jesus was. They all laughed.

"We're on your side," one of the inmates offered, stammering. "They had us locked up for not following what the State wanted."

"Is that right," the leader, Jorge, exclaimed, grinning. "You want to join up with us...maybe go on a raid or something? Something like that?"

"Yeah, I want payback for what they did to me," the inmate eagerly replied.

"Don't think so," the leader announced, dispatching the inmate with three rapid shots from the rifle he had slung over his shoulder. "And now we have dos."

"Make that uno," a Zapatista stated, firing his assault rifle on auto, riddling the inmate's body standing on the other side of Isaac with a dozen rounds.

"Cabron!" the leader shouted, annoyed. "My ears, man. You shot that fucking gun off right in my ear. Are you loco or what?"

"Lo siento, Jefe," the man apologized sheepishly, stepping back.

"Let me do him," the girl pleaded, stepping up to Isaac and pointing her gun at his head. "Por favor."

Jorge looked at her for a moment, smiled, and said, "La Prima, uno momento. Let me talk to the man for a minute at least."

"Nice rifle," Isaac said, returning Jorge's gaze.

"Oh, so you're a guy who appreciates guns," Jorge said, smiling. "You have good taste."

"I carried it on my last tour," Isaac told him, pointing at the assault rifle. "Great action."

"So you are a connoisseur of fine weaponry," Jorge mumbled, raising his eyebrows. "Army?"

"Fuck no, Marines," Isaac answered.

"My brother was a jar head," Jorge informed him, fingering the safety on his assault rifle.

"What unit?"

Jorge stared at him for a moment, not accustomed to speaking to his victims for any length of time. A few of the others requested permission to "waste him." The leader waved them off, stepping closer to Isaac. "He was in the Knights."

Isaac couldn't believe his ears. The Knights had been created five years ago specifically to track down Muslim terrorists and it had been his battalion. Most of the men had been handpicked from recruits born and raised in the desert southwest. The entire company was comprised of less than two hundred and fifty men. Maybe he knew Jorge's brother.

"You gotta be kidding me, so was I," Isaac told him, hoping that he might be spared.

"You wouldn't be lying to me, bro, would you?" Jorge asked, taking out a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt and applying the blade to Isaac's neck. "I don't want to have to slice and dice your ass."

"No way, man, look, check out my tatt," Isaac explained, rolling up the sleeve on his shirt.

Jorge grabbed his right arm and turned it over to reveal the tattoo. All of the Knights got tattoos, an image of a blood red cross with KNIGHTS over it in black lettering. "His name was Manny," Jorge said, placing the knife against Isaac's stomach.

"Manny Juarez?" Isaac asked.

"Yeah, you knew him?"

"We were on the horn together...before...you know," Isaac answered, vaguely remembering his brother, even though they hadn't been buddies. He had died in an amphibious landing, blown up my a land mind.

"He got his ass blown up," Jorge said in a sad voice.

"He was a good Marine," Isaac added.

"He's a dead Marine," Jorge stated, stepping back and putting the knife away.

"Fuck the Marines," the girl exclaimed. "Let me off this gringo."

Jorge with lightning reflexes back slapped the girl, sending her reeling. "You stupid chulo. What do you think, you know anything about the fucking Corps? This man has been there, you psycho."

Blubbering, she slinked away, rubbing her face where he had hit her. The other Zapatistas looked confused. The thought process in their raids was always on track, in one direction. Murdering was simple when you didn't make decisions. The world had become a land of polar opposites to them. They owed their existence to a violent set of rules, ones where they processed death that had been carried out by their own hands. Individual acts of destruction gave them more access to life.

"For what it's worth now, your brother died a hero, doing what he thought was going to make it better for everybody else," Isaac said in a solemn tone.

Jorge looked back at him, then said, "He died a sucker. This world is fucked up beyond belief. It's everybody for himself now. Fuck the New Faith. Fuck the sand niggers. Fuck you."

Isaac felt a spark of adrenaline course up his spine. He had probably stepped over the line with that last comment and cursed himself for being so presumptuous. Now he debated whether or not he should lunged for the Jorge's rifle, maybe get off a few rounds. There would be a shoot out but he knew he was much more experienced than they were in fire fights. It might be his only chance to survive.

Then Jorge said something in Spanish and jumped on his dirt bike. The others scrambled to their bikes and then they were gone, disappearing in a cloud of dust down the road. Isaac couldn't believe his good fortune. All around him lay dead bodies and he was still standing there. He looked down at the tattoo on the inside of his forearm and raised it up and gave it a kiss.

Chapter 5 God's Custodians

He was free. Temporary mayhem had released him from the religious bondage that awaited him back at the re-education camp. Isaac knew that was never any intent of letting him return to the society at large. He was branded forever. In time, he would perish back at the camp, another quiet statistic. Any trace of him would be crossed out. His family, shamed by his reputation as a heretic, would soon put the disgrace behind them, moving on in step with the new direction. He imagined they would have removed all traces of him around the house. Officially, he had become a non-person. Even his time as a Marine had been expunged, wiped clean. Christian forgiveness only extended so far.

Isaac jumped in the van and drove away. To where? He had no plans. Being an outcast, one of the ones who failed to be rehabilitated, brought back into the good graces of the State Church, there was little or no possibility that he could find work. Right to Religion, the federal labor law, prevented anyone from gaining employment if you weren't sanctioned by the local theological councils. All he could think about was the warden and how he was always quoting 2 Chronicles 15:13: That whosoever would not seek the LORD God of Israel should be put to death, whether small or great, whether man or woman.

Then again, he knew that there was an undergound society that functioned out there. He had read about it when he was in the Marines. At the time, he dismissed it as a piece of propaganda put out there by the government to make the people more fearful. There always had to be an enemy to hate, so said Petronius, who wrote in an unofficial blog about the venality of the government, often times skewering the religious authorities in the process. His underground book, How Can Your Shallowness Be So Deep?, was an instant scandal, resulting in a nationwide manhunt for the writer. He was never found and continued to write blistering attacks against the theocracy with impunity. He was a thorn in the State's side and he always brought the situational predicament into focus, which helped encourage the small but growing legions of disenchanted groups who were shocked and dismayed by the current condition of the government.

Yet Isaac knew he didn't fit in with any resistant groups that he knew of. Some were other religionists bent on overturning the present set of theocratic laws and replacing it with their own. Others were, basically, criminals or terrorists, taking advantage of the hard times to wreak havoc. Some were atheists, who called themselves humanists and just wanted everyone to gain some sort of social equilibrium. Then again, he could just hunker down and hope that the climate would correct itself and Constitutional sanity would be restored.

"Not gonna happen!" he shouted out the window of the van, as he sped along the forest road, wondering where he should go. His decision was soon decided for him when he came upon two women walking along the road towards him. One seemed to be limping, with the other one helping her along. He pulled up next to them and asked if they needed any help.

"A ride would be nice," the one who was limping said, smiling at him.

"I can do that," Isaac offered cheerfully, telling them to get in.

One sat in the passenger seat next to him and the other one got in the seat directly behind him. Both of them were about his age and were wearing desert fatigues. It should have been a tip off but Isaac ignored the sign. They hadn't gone half a mile before the girl seated behind him placed a hand gun against his neck and told him to make a right turn at the next cross road.

"This van is going to come in handy," the one sitting in the passenger seat crowed, adding, "even with the shot up windows."

"Yeah, what happened to your van anyway?" the other one asked.

Isaac could feel the cold steel of the gun barrel against his neck. He couldn't believe how fickle his luck was becoming and how he shouldn't have been so trusting. "I had a little run in with the Zapatistas," he told them, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl in the back seat.

The other girl exclaimed, "No way! Those are some fucked up hombres."

"Tell me about it," Isaac agreed, forcing a smile. "I was the only one who survived. They shot everybody else."

"What makes you so special?" the one in the back wanted to know.

"I knew one of them's brother way back when," he answered. "We were in the Service together."

"We have a real Army man here," the one in the passenger seat called out, grinning. "You're kinda cute too."

"We're Hutchinsonians," the one in the back seat announced, pulling the gun back from his neck. "Don't try anything and I won't have to pull a bullet in you."

Isaac looked in the rearview mirror and nodded, then asked, "What's a Hutchin...Hutchinsony?"

The girls laughed and the front seat girl replied: "You don't get out much do you? We're like the Amazons, you know, in ancient Greece or Rome. We're an all girl resistance fighters group. I can't believe you never heard of us before. That's weird."

"Been overseas alot, I guess," Isaac explained, smiling sheepishly.

"Hutchinson was a woman from back East, who fought against the Puritans," the one in the back seat said. "She kicked ass most of the time. Drove the looney uptight Puritans crazy."

"Is that what you are trying to do to the New Faith idiots?" Isaac wanted to know.

"I hope you aren't mocking me," the one in the back seat stated angrily, placing the gun against his neck again. "Please tell me you ain't doing that."

"No...no, I'm not," he protested, glancing at her in the rear view mirror. "Sorry I never heard of you guys before. I guess I don't keep up with the news much anymore. I should have."

"Turn down here, to the left," the one in the front ordered, leaning forward to peer through the cracked windshield. "We should probably let him off around here somewhere, huh?"

"We could blindfold him," the girl in the back seat suggested, exchanging glances with the other one. "What do you think?"

"Irene would have our ass if we showed up with a man in camp, come on," she exclaimed. "Think about it for a minute."

"He could be valuable though," the one in the back countered. "He's ex-military and we need some, like, training and stuff."

"Training and stuff," the other one hooted, rolling her eyes. "I know what training you are talking about, Carly. There'd be a lot of boom boom all right." They both laughed. "Seriously though. Irene would kill us, right, if we bring him back to camp."

"She'd take him for herself you mean," the one in the back seat stated, laughing.

"Ladies, let me just say here that I'd be glad to offer my expertise in any way I can," he proposed, grinning.

"Shut up!" they said in unison, then laughed.

"I don't mind showing you girls what's what," he said, hoping they were getting on a more friendly footing.

"Irene will show you what obedience is all about, dude," the one in the back seat stated, poking him with the gun.

"I think it was in 1 Timothy 2 something or other: I do not permit a woman to teach or assume authority over a man; she must be quiet," Isaac recited, laughing.

"Are you for real?" the one in the front asked. "Irene will eat you up and spit you out--go to the bank on it. And she knows all that Bible mumbo-jumbo frontwards and backwards too. You don't know what you are getting into to, dude."

He was ordered to pull over and they tied his hands behind his back and blind folded him. Then they drove on for another twenty minutes as he bounced around on the floor of the van, listening to them debate whether or not what they were doing would be well received by Irene when they eventually got there. Besides the humiliation of being abducted by two women, Isaac now feared he would face another death defying moment with a different tormentor.

The whole country side seemed to be seething with resisters of one stripe or another. Everyone had a philosophical ax to grind against the theocratic government. It was fortunate for the people in power that all of their adversaries were fragmented and unable to mount much of an organized resistance. He wondered if it was the same everywhere else in America, or was it just out in the West, where an individualist spirit thrived.

"We're here, numbnuts," one of the girls announced, kicking him in the leg. "Don't make me regret bringing you here, right? You hear me?"

They pushed him out of the van and he fell to the ground. He was still blindfolded and could only hear some whistling and catcalls. "Ladies, mind your manners," one of them called out, laughing. He struggled to get to his feet and felt a swift kick to his butt. More laughter.

Then there was a hush and he heard a woman say: "What have we here?"

"He gave us a lift," one of the girls in the van explained, poking him in the ribs with her hand gun. "Thought he might come in handy."

"I know what I want to do with him," some girl called out, while the others laughed.

"What purpose did you have in mind besides the obvious?" the woman wanted to know, reaching over to remove the blindfold.

"Says he was in the military so maybe he could teach us some things, you know, about fighting," one of them said hesitantly.

"Is that right? Did you see some combat before?" the woman wanted to know, walking around him, eyeing him up and down. "You look pretty young."

"I did two tours in the Marines,." he declared in his defense.

"At least he's legal!" someone shouted out from the back of the crowd of women gathered around him gawking.

"Where?" she asked, eyeing him closely. He named the countries and she nodded. "What were you doing out here?"

"Work detail," he answered, unsure whether or not to tell them he was from the reparative therapy camp, not knowing whether or not that would be to his advantage.

"Working on what?" she pressed.

"The roads," he replied, scanning the group of women around him, judging the number, guessing there to be around fifty or more.

"Roads? For the government?"

"Not exactly," he said, trying to remain evasive.

"What does that mean?"

"I know that van," someone yelled out, "it's from that camp off Interstate 40, where they retool their minds when they go off the rails."

The crowd grew quiet, waiting for Isaac's response. He glanced around. His hands were still tied behind him and there didn't seem any avenue for escape. "I was an inmate there."

There was a hubbub from the group and Irene held up her hand to quiet them. She stepped up close to him and said, "So, you're a heretic then, right?"

"That depends on who is making that determination," Isaac said, smiling, then shrugging.

"Ladies, what we have here is an outcast, somebody the Council goons think is irreligious," she called out, turning to face them for a moment. "Maybe he's an atheist, maybe not, but any enemy of our enemy is a friend of ours."

There was some cheering and one of them cut the rope off his hands. A few walked up to shake his hand, while some more kissed him on the cheek. Isaac felt like he was in a really bad movie, and he was the star. Irene motioned for him to follow her. They walked over to a large tent that had been set up in the middle of the clearing. Scattered around the campsite were several other tents, with makeshift tables and camping stoves. He counted three or four vehicles, SUVs with damaged fenders and broken windows from overuse. The Hutchinsonians seemed to be living barely above a subsistence level.

Isaac recognized the area. It was a popular spot for snowmobilers back when the region got snow. The climate change had altered that. There hadn't been any significant snowfall in over five years. The persistent drought conditions had almost dried up the water sources in the area. He noticed they had a spotter scope set up and it was trained on the peaks in the distance. They could probably see the remnants of the ski slopes that used to be on the mountain, long since defunct after no measurable precipitation had fallen in years. The slopes were now reclaimed by forest growth.

"Sit," Irene said, introducing herself and asking him if he wanted anything to drink.

"Kinda parched," he said, smiling, hoping to win her over because he knew she held all the cards.

They sat down on a picnic bench that had been set up in the tent. He noticed now that she was in her early thirties and was very pretty, with long blond hair that she kept pulled back in a loose pony tail, almost as if it had been an afterthought. She had blue eyes and he guessed her to be about five foot six or seven. Her movements were athletic showing that she had probably been physically active, maybe a runner or skier or mountain biker. Looking closer, he saw that she had a small, jagged scar on her forehead. He wanted to ask her about it but thought better of it.

"We need some instruction," she began, handing him a glass of water. "Sorry if it doesn't taste too good but it has been purified. Trust me." They exchanged smiles and she continued, "Your expertise is sorely needed, I'm afraid."

"For what?"

Surprised for a moment, she replied, "To fight, of course."

"Fight?"

"Oh please don't tell me you are one of those sexist types, the ones who think women can't accomplish certain things? Have you ever heard the Taoist saying that says water is the softest substance, but over time it can wear down the hardest rock?"

Isaac didn't reply, but looked around the camp again, watching the women go about their assigned chores, almost all of them dressed in mismatched sets of camouflaged fatigues and he thought about Deuteronomy 22:5: A woman must not wear men's clothing, nor a man wear women's clothing for the Lord your God detests anyone who does this. His father used to use that verse often whenever his wife chose to wear slacks and not the modest dresses she usually wore. He looked at Irene then asked: "Who are you fighting anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious? The pious."

Isaac thought for a moment, almost gagging at the sour taste of the water. He glanced around the tent and saw two bolt action rifles leaning against a large cooler. It was something he was accustomed to. His second tour had been a mission where he provided training to a group of tribesman who had never fired a weapon before; but then he was well stocked with supplies and weaponry.

"You are going to need some serious weapons, you know. I can't train you with a few hunting rifles and flick knives. How are you going to get what I need?"

"Let me worry about that," she said confidently.

They issued him a tent for himself, a musty backpack tent barely big enough for one person. He pitched it away from the others, hoping that in time he could simply slip away undetected. Several women kept a watchful eye on him, even though Irene had declared that he was to be treated as a guest. Other women flirted with him, passing on salacious comments in a warping of the usual man and woman interaction. He smiled back at them, disciplining his urges, knowing that he didn't need any complications.

To his surprise, they were yet another religious group, one that hewed to a more mainstream Protestant religion. Most of them had come from places where the local church served as a meeting place and not a political magnet. Religion, for them, was a personal matter and not to be co-opted by government. Religious freedom was an American character trait and should never have fallen victim to a decree from a corrupt Congress.

There were too many wrinkles to this madness, Isaac thought, as he went to sleep that first night, uneasy, not certain what he should do. Homicidal lunatics, religious goons, women crusaders, it all was like a bad dream, a nightmare that he was going to have to figure out. Should I even help them? he wondered, listening to the night time sounds from inside his small tent. He didn't really want to be a part of any of it, the insanity that the world had become. Then again, he had little choice. He couldn't return to his parents house, back there where the New Faith held sway and was intent on turning back the clock to a time when superstition reigned and cruelty was sanctioned by the village elders.

He was sure his parents would only turn him over to the authorities and if not he would be putting them in jeopardy. There was no possibility he could go south, to Phoenix. He would sooner or later be discovered and be subject to a capital punishment conviction, probably resulting in a burning at the stake sentence. West to California was a possibility but then he would have to get there somehow, maybe hop a train. He had heard back at the camp from a fellow inmate that Northern California was in full revolt and the Army had to be brought in to quell the rebellion. He could join up and fight. Back East, vast swaths of the land had been devastated by violent weather, leaving ghost towns behind. Parts of Kansas and Nebraska had never recovered from the tornados that passed through several years before. Scores of the twisters had registered off the Fujita scale, obliterating entire cities and towns, killing hundreds of thousands. Floods had washed away entire communities along the Mississippi River. Then there were the Hurricanes that had destroyed the coast line, reducing Miami to nothing, like something after a World War II air raid.

"Options are pretty nil," he said aloud in a whisper, deciding he was going to have to stay on with the Hutchinsonians for at least a little while until he could decide what his next step was going to be.

"You awake?" he heard suddenly, as someone knelt down by the tent.

"Who's that?" he called out.

"Shhh," she hissed, "don't wake everybody up."

"What do you want?" he whispered, zipping the tent flap down a little ways.

"Thought you might want some company," the voice suggested.

It was pitch black so he couldn't make out who it was but she sounded familiar. Then she leaned in the tent and he saw that it was the girl, Carly, from the van, the one who was holding the gun to his neck. She giggled. He looked around, trying to see if anyone else was within earshot.

"I hope you're not doing what I think you are," a voice boomed out in the dark.

She scrambled away, disappearing into the shadows. Another woman stepped up to the tent and told him to zip up the tent flap. He squelched a laugh and did as he was told. The voice told him: "Sweet dreams." A moment later he could hear her walking away, back to her sentry position.

Morning brought sunlight into his tent. He had spent half the night deciding on whether or not he should try to escape into the night. Although he hadn't been taken prisoner, his status was still up in the air. Irene did seem like a reasonable woman, if not suffering from some of the same failings as the New Faith adherents. She embraced religion, though one that had a milder set of doctrines and wasn't as repressive. Still, Isaac knew how pernicious religion could be and how it had a tendency to mutate, changing into a shape and form that didn't resemble where it had begun.

He wondered about the camp of women, asking himself where all the men had gone. Irene, he discovered, had been a COO of a Fortune 500 company before becoming a revolutionary. She knew how the Corporate world worked, what made it tick. Life, for her, had been going along smoothly before the laws began to transition to what they were living under now. Irene had been a career woman, with little or no time for a family. Her husband had left her five years ago, abandoning their lifestyle to take up with the vanguard of the New Faith, a group deceptively called: The Nucleus. Their marriage had been constructed around their jobs, as they both pursued more advancement.

"I should have seen the signs," she told Isaac that next morning, while they sat around the campfire eating breakfast, after Irene had said a lengthy prayer in which she implored God to keep them safe and lead them to victory. "They were all there," she added, looking off into the distance. "He began to quote scripture more and more--every day."

Isaac looked around the camp, watching the women go about their daily chores. Several women off to his right were squabbling about doing the dishes, accusing each other of shirking their duty. He recognized one of the women from the day before, she was cleaning a shotgun, staring down the inside of the barrel, bragging about how clean it was. Another woman was underneath the van checking for any damage to the engine from all of the gun shots that had penetrated the metal.

"So he became one of them?" Isaac inquired, finishing up his breakfast of cold oatmeal.

She looked at him for a moment, then replied, "Yeah, he wanted us to quit our jobs and go to Washington...for orientation."

"For what?"

She laughed and said, "He had been offered a position with some Think tank or something. Anyway, we were supposed to travel there and go through some course, something that was going to make us prepared for the transition. Back then, well, you know, I didn't have any idea what was coming. Did I? If I knew then what I know now..." Her voice trailed off, then she turned to a couple of women who were trying to fix a flat on one of their vehicles and told them to go get some other woman to help them.

"My father's a minister," Isaac revealed, smirking. "He's one of them, for sure." She made a face and forced a laugh. "They stoned a man and a woman back in my town right before I was sent away. Killed them. That was one of the reasons I was shipped off, because I refused to attend the stoning. They thought I wasn't sufficiently bloodthirsty, I guess."

Irene stared at him for a moment, then asked, "They actually stoned somebody? For what?"

"Adultery. They were getting it on and got caught. The Old Testament rules," he muttered sarcastically.

"We live in a world now where what is supposedly sacrosanct is backed up by force," Irene stated, shaking her head in disbelief, and he could see her blue eyes shining. "The pastors have control over popular sovereignty, or at least enough to control us."

"Not us," a woman walking by interjected, raising her rifle over her head in defiance.

Irene smiled back at her and then announced: "We're, if not anything else, focused on what we need to do." She stood up and stretched, something she probably did back when she was getting in runs before going off to work. "Look, our raison de'tre is to defeat the zealots and take back our country. Understand?" Isaac looked up at her for a moment, then nodded, now understanding why the other women followed her. She had that quality some people possessed, something intangible but effective. "Let's get started on this reclamation project, shall we?"

It was about then, as Irene was about to lay out her plan for the future of her group, that a young woman appeared. She rode up on a horse, alone. The other women crowded around, shouting questions at the rider. Irene called out to her and she dismounted then walked over.

"I made it back," she announced excitedly, grinning.

"So I see," Irene said, hugging the girl briefly. "No trouble?"

"Piece of cake," she replied, staring at Isaac, surprised. "Who is he?"

"Haley, this is Isaac, he's going to be helping us out for a little while," Irene explained.

"I thought we agreed on having no men around, Irene," Haley complained, frowning at Isaac. "Did we have a meet on this?"

"We did, last night, and we decided that it was in our interest to bring in some...you know, expert help," Irene told her, slipping into her command voice for a minute.

"Did we?" she muttered skeptically. "He doesn't look like much."

"Hurt my feelings much?" Isaac joked, returning her stare, judging her to be a few years older than he was.

"Sensitive?"

"Some times."

"Haley is our resident scholar, here to keep history in perspective," Irene told him, smiling. "She was a graduate student back in California before joining our cause. History major. We are glad to have her."

"Vet?" she wanted to know, eyeing him closely. "Don't have an Agamemnon Complex I hope?."

"I don't think so," Isaac answered, adding, "even though I don't know what in the hell that is."

Haley snorted and said, "Not big on Greek myth making, huh?"

"She can be too cerebral for her own good sometimes," Irene joked. "She has just returned from scouting one of our quadrants and, apparently, all went well. Right?"

"Right," she agreed, pulling out a piece of paper from her jeans pocket. "Wrote down how many trucks and jeeps I saw pass by. Nothing really suspicious. I don't think the Flaggers are on to us."

"Flaggers?" Isaac mumbled, confused.

"That's what we call the local chapter of religious goons," she said, making a face. "They have been trying to track us down for over six months now--ever since we scored on that raid."

"Really, I'm still trying to figure out what a Agame...whatever is," Isaac told her, laughing.

Haley threw up her hands and said, "It's when a guy comes back from war and is paranoid about being betrayed by his loved ones. Get it now?"

"Is she always so hostile or is it because I'm a guy? Is she a--"

"No, I'm not a lesbian," Haley shot back, irritated. "I just don't think we need some outsider here telling us what to do. We have been doing alright on our own up until now."

"Sure looks like it," Isaac said before he could catch himself.

"Were you even in combat? I bet he was some clerical weanie or something. Probably never even fired a gun before," she spat out, laughing.

"That's enough," Irene ordered, holding up her hand. "He was a Marine and has some background in training so let's leave it at that. I don't think we have to make him show his battle scars--do we? I'm going to need you to show him our set up here, Haley. Can you do that for me?"
Half of these women want to fuck me and the other half want to string me up, Isaac thought, as Haley led him over to where they kept their meager supply of weaponry. It wasn't much of an arsenal, as he had taken note of the day before. They only had one assault rifle and even that had very little ammunition. There wasn't even enough weapons to arm everyone in the camp. Several women were trying to master the use of the half dozen hunting bows they had on hand. Fortunately, Isaac had experience with bows as well, having hunting with them since he was in High School. They could prove to be effective in certain situations but were difficult to master.

"We have two or three Glocks," Haley said over her shoulder as she walked him around the camp pointing out their defenses.

"I'm guessing you don't really have enough ammo to actually train on these weapons do you?" Isaac pointed out, trying to smooth the critical edge in his voice.

She stopped and turned around to look at him. He could tell that she was comfortable with her looks, having probably long ago realized her attractiveness could be an asset when she needed it to be. Her long, brown hair was braided into a single pony tail and hung down below her shoulders. She had dark features, a carry over from her Armenian ancestry. Isaac noticed she was several inches shorter than he was and he guessed her to be around five feet eight. He knew she was probably used to getting what she wanted, either with her looks or her intellect.

"We do what we can," she informed him curtly.

"Look, Haley, I can only do so much," Isaac exclaimed, trying to muster up a cordial tone. "You do know that if the shit hits the fan you guys are...you know, history," he said in a whisper.

"We can fight," she stated coldly. "Most of these women have been up against it."

Isaac laughed, even though he tried not to. She put her hands on her hips and glowered at him. Isaac couldn't believe how his life had made a wrong turn. It wasn't that long ago that he was working on his family ranch and life seemed to be on hold as he adapted to civilian life again. Now, he was living in a bizarre landscape, like a mental video game. Marauders had taken over most of his home State, leaving Arizona at the mercy of dueling sets of the insane.

"By up against it you mean they have been in firefights with the police or the military?" Isaac scoffed.

"Fuck off," she shot back, stomping away.

Isaac thought about the dynamics of a firefight, one where he had never actually had to shoot a woman. There had been plenty of instances where women, and children, had been killed but they usually came under the heading of collateral damage, the military's way of labeling war's roulette style cruelty. Innocent bystanders normally died in explosions, as dropped ordinance spread its deadly tentacles over non-combatants. He had never leveled his rifle, sighted, and squeezed off a round that was headed for a woman as its target. Several of his fellow Marines had crossed that Rubicon, watching through the scope, seeing, knowing full well that they had just passed judgement on a female human being.

"The vagaries of war, bud," a friend had told him, assuring him that they were all guilty of the stain of war, that the enemy came in all shapes and sizes. "Tomorrow she'll be strapping on a suicide vest and then--BOOM! Out go the lights."

Isaac accepted the parameters of wartime decisions, but he had never trespassed on fungible morality in that manner. He had been lucky in that way. As he peered through that scope his eye had never had to "flip the switch," as his squad leader like to say, grinning, always grinning. It was like that. You had to flip that mental switch buried deep inside your brain in order to enact another minuscule milestone in the war on terror, stopping more religious sponsored aggression down the road.

He wondered if the cops, or the military, these women would encounter would be like him or his comrades in arms, able to set aside ingrained prejudices in order to complete the task. Would there be any transitory hesitation as their brains decided on the current course of immediate history? The vision filling that rifle scope would be a woman, her disheveled hair shining in the afternoon sunlight, maybe some rosiness to her cheeks, and they would be squeezing the trigger. The individual as executioner, so Isaac remembered his commanding officer telling him one day as they shared a chopper ride back to the ever changing front. Tiny incidences of mayhem soon assembled to create the war effort. So many had tried to intellectualize it, the instrumentation of organized horror.

Two days later he was riding a horse along side Haley, as they made their way up the steep side of a mountain. Although Isaac was the training officer, Irene was making the decisions. She had paired them up to scout the nearby high ground, hoping to get a better view of where the enemy might be. War, with all of its variables, was mainly a simple exercise in information. Being forewarned took on "significant significance," so said a gunnery sergeant Isaac served under back in his training. The military relied heavily on acronyms, but, in the end, it was always the less than pithy sayings that were the underpinning for any learning strategy.

It had been a long while since Isaac had ridden a horse. His family's ranch was one in name only. The only two horses they owned were confined to a pasture with their riding days long passed. Modern ranching leaned heavily on ATVs and pickups. The cowboy had long since faded away into history, replaced by noisy machinery and technology laden animal husbandry. Ironically, now the horses were advantageous because they were relatively quiet and didn't require a petroleum product to run.

Haley rode on up ahead. She was good on a horse, a skill she had picked up as a young girl living near Santa Barbara. Poor, little rich girl, Isaac thought, as he watched her charge up a steep embankment, stopping at the top to look back at him. She waved him forward, impatient. He shook his head and laughed.

"What's your hurry?" he asked her when he had gotten to the top of the hill.

She ignored him for a moment, then replied, "You ride like a little girl."

"You know we're out here to do some reconnoitering, right?" he said, grinning at her. "Scouting takes patience, Haley. You have to--"

"Oh brother," she muttered, exhaling dramatically. "Now I'm going to get a lecture on how to scout--from you."

"Which one of us has been to war? Oh, yeah, that would be me," he sang out, laughing. "You're just an amateur."

"And you're an asshole," she shot back, galloping away.

He shook his head then laughed. Trying to train these women is like suicide, he thought. He couldn't imagine what it was going to be like to actually be in a fire fight with any of them. They were all going to die. Not that he hadn't been in combat along side women before. During his first tour of duty he had lasted through three or four extended battles with several female troops and they had equipped themselves admirably. Then again, they had been trained.

They worked their way along a ridge, keeping an eye out for any government officials who might be in the area. No one was to be trusted. Several women a few weeks before had been abducted as they were returning to camp by a band of renegades. Everything's coming apart at the seams, Isaac thought when Haley told him the story about her friends being kidnapped. She had almost been snared herself but managed to run away and hide in the forest.

"Hellatoria," Isaac muttered, shaking his head.

"What?" she wanted to know, confused.

"That's what one of my sergeants used to say about when things got all fucked up," he explained, smiling. "He was a good Christian and didn't like to curse all that much so he like to say--"

"I get it," she said, frowning back at him. "As women we are doubly at risk, you know. Those bastards most likely raped them...and then killed them."

They were quiet for a moment. Isaac thought about what to say, then said, "It's lucky you got away."

"You might say that," she stated, then prodded her horse to continue on.

They were miles from the camp at this point. Isaac had been trusted with a rifle, with all of three rounds, while Haley was carrying a side arm, a semi-automatic, with a full clip. The opportunity was there. He could easily disarm her and then ride away, disappear. The odds were stacked against him any way he looked at it but he might be better off on his own. If he wanted to maximize his chances it would be better if he became a loner. Then it was gnawing at him about leaving them, essentially, undefended. At the very least he could try to train them, bring them up to a level of competency that might give them a better chance at survival.

Then in the distance he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He hurried to catch up with Haley and make sure she got out of sight. She had heard the helicopter too and was heading into a nearby stand of pine trees. The autumn temperatures had depleted the leaves on the aspen trees and there wasn't much overhead cover to conceal them. Isaac jumped off his horse and pulled on the reins, getting as close to the nearest tree trunk as he could.

"Police chopper," he told her, peering through the branches. "Probably looking for whoever killed all those guys on the forest road. Not good."

"Really," she said sarcastically, but then smiled at him. "Maybe you should turn yourself in, huh. After all, you are a heretic, right?"

"Funny," he shot back, forcing a smile.

"How's it feel not to believe in god--any god?" she wanted to know.

"What? Who said I was an atheist anyway?" he countered, eyeing the progress of the helicopter.

"You were in that camp weren't you?"

"Oh, and I guess you are Miss Religious, right?" he asked, noticing that the helicopter had disappeared over a ridge in the distance. The sound of the rotors died away.

"Yes, I happen to think there is a god out there," she explained, eyeing him closely.

"Where? That's what I'd like to know. Have you seen what's going on out there lately? The world's going to shit--and fast," he stated, stepping out to see if he could see the helicopter reappear.

"Like I don't know that," she shot back, hands on hips. "I lost my parents in a flash fire, my sister too."

Isaac stepped back for a moment, knowing that she was from California, where five years before wild fires had raced out of the mountains and incinerated entire towns in walls of rapidly moving flame. Thousands had died in the conflagration, charred beyond recognition. It had been the worst natural fire in the history of California. The global climate change had made weather patterns harbingers of disaster.

"Sorry," he said in almost a whisper.

They stood for a moment by their horses, in silence. Far off they could hear the faint sound of the helicopter rotors returning. Isaac knew they were probably doing a grid search, hoping to locate the missing van. Back at the camp the warden would have put out a regional warning. Escapees from reparative therapy were treated like common criminals. Two years before two people, a man and a woman, had been shot down as they tried to hijack a citizen's car to make their escape. Almost everyone in Arizona carried a gun. The driver had leveled his fully functional cowboy six shooter and killed them on the spot, like in the Old West. He had been on TV after the failed attempt to steal his car, grinning, showing off his Colt model P Peacemaker from the late 1800's to the audience, re-enacting the crime scene after being encouraged by the newscaster. He was never charged, even though he had shot two unarmed people. The county attorney shrugged it off, telling the media that he had been protecting his property from "vermin."

There had been a movie made a decade ago called Desert Angel that Isaac stumbled across one night while watching a nostalgia channel on his computer. It had been categorized as a SiFi genre special, with sophisticated special effects and a known actor. The plot revolved around the protagonist traveling by car to see a relative before they died. His car is run off the road in route by a gang of miscreants, young mixed race youths driving modified off-road vehicles. The film had been shot in neighboring Utah, dipping into Northern Arizona for some of the chase scenes. All in all, it had been a forgettable film, lost among more palatable fare at the time.

Yet, now, it had an almost eerie time cast to it, a projection and soothsayer quality about the plot. America, as the movie unfolds, is in the grips of a cataclysmic change, one where the government has lost control and anarchy rules in parts of the US. It was a plot line that had been attempted before and successfully, but this one seemed to have an insider's quality to it, as if the director was completing a documentary without even knowing it. In the end, the lead actor dies, killed by a marauding band of cultists who have wrested control of Utah away from the Mormons and replaced it with neo-Christian rule. At that particular time there had been an outcry from the Mormon community because they were portrayed as sharing top billing with the villains.

Ironically, Utah was currently Fortress Utah, perpetually battling the Christian government, often times violently, in order to maintain their identity. Federal troops had on several occasions skirmished with the State guard, which had been purged of any non-Mormons over five years ago. All gentiles, as the Mormons labeled them, had been evicted from the State over a eight year period, ordered out by the governor, given a month to vacate the territory. Washington had been deliberating every since, threatening, warning of the coming retribution if the Mormons did not capitulate.

Isaac hoped that the helicopter wouldn't discover the Hutchinsonian encampment. Although they were well concealed by tree cover, someone on the helicopter might get lucky and catch a glimpse of them. There would be a coordinated raid between the police and the local National Guard and they would all be incarcerated or, worse, killed. He knew some of them would make an attempt to fight back. The police SWAT team would take them out systematically. Irene, as the obvious leader, would be executed, tied to a post and burned at the stake.

He could see that Haley was worried. She was thinking the same thing he was. The hazards of being a revolutionary was being seized, or shot. They all had bounties on their heads as well, posted on line, with photos, bios, and specifics. Isaac had seen some of the bounty hunters at the reparative camp, where they would arrive with captives in tow, usually bound and gagged because they didn't want to hear any of their poisonous words. Most of them were former ministers or deacons in their church, called to action by the wanton nature of the inmates, people who wanted to undermine God's work. They were paid by the head, like something from the days of the territorial United States. Governed by laws that facilitated their chosen profession, making it easier and easier to complete their task.

The warden was friends with many of them, offering them intel when he could and always a place to stay if they were in the area. The bounty hunters were men, and some women, who had sublimated their Christian side in order to bring heretics into custody, even when it meant their payout said: Dead or Alive. Morality was on a sliding scale. Putting a bullet in the back of a person's head only made their mission easier. The Biblical verse, Matthew 5:47 was printed on a poster outside the warden's office. It read: And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.

Isaac was also thinking about the "flaggers," as Haley called them, the people who lived in nearby Flagstaff and were mostly on the government's side. The resistance movement was so fragmented that it was easy for the authorities to maintain an upper hand. The power of religion went only so far and was augmented by bounty payouts, bribes, and coercion. "A rogue's gallery of vile bastards on the payroll," was how Irene termed it, sneering. Ironically, with the coming of the New Faith, morality was flexible and most times leaned towards venality more often than not.

There was an immediate problem though, one that he hoped Haley hadn't thought of just yet. Sooner or later that helicopter recon mission was going to stumble on their camp and when they did spot the damaged van action was going to be taken. There would be a raid, an attack. The Patriot Act of the previous decade had devolved into a streamlined set of actionable rules, steps that the government no longer had to adhered to. Personal freedom had been over the ensuing years rolled up, truncated, in order that the power lay with the aggressors. The dissembling of civil liberties had all been in the interest of accelerating the transition process from a secular State to a theocracy.

Miranda Rights were abandoned, expunged from the law books. Habeas Corpus dissolved into a patchwork of functioning ordinances that changed with the complexion and earnestness of the local chapter of the New Faith. In some regions the public stocks from the Puritan times had been reconstituted, where local Judges were free to hand down sentences for however they saw fit. People had actually died in the public square from lack of water and exposure to the elements. Harsh retribution, in many locales, was seen as the necessary bulwark against the creeping tide of heathen sentiment.

Isaac didn't want to think about what the shock troops would do when and if they raided the camp; and he would be partially responsible because of his link to the van. Vengeance would be in the air. Perpetrators had been murdered, brutally slaughtered. The women back at the camp would be seen as the perpetrators of the grisly crimes.

"Haley, listen, I was thinking that maybe we might want to be getting back to the camp," Isaac offered, scanning the tree line for the helicopter, hoping that he sounded non-chalant enough not to raise any alarms.

She looked at him for a moment, then said, "I know what you're thinking. I'm not stupid. You think they are looking for us, right? That they are going to attack?"

He didn't answer for a moment, then said in a low voice, "Yeah, it did cross my mind. I mean obviously they are out looking for pay back. Their men were cut down, you know. It stands to reason that--"

"Let's get going then," she announced, climbing back up on her horse.

"Wait, hold up," he stated, grabbing her boot in the stirrup. "We can't go charging in there. We have to scope it out first. It's not going to do any of us any good if we gallop in without first--"

"Fuck off," she spat out, slapping at the horses' flanks.

"Son of a bitch," he cursed, watching her head over the ridge line.

It took him almost twenty minutes to catch up with her. He pulled up close to her and pleaded with her to stop for a moment, then finally leaned over and pulled up on her horses' reins. She tried to smack him with her riding crop but he warded off the blows with his forearm. Struggling to stay in his saddle, he managed to get her to stop.

"What are you doing?" she demanded to know, pulling out her side arm and pointing it at him. "I will shoot you."

"Okay, I don't doubt that you would," he stammered, holding up both of his hands. "We have to be smart about this, that's all. Think. We should check out the circumstances before we go barging in there. Right? What good would it do if we get ourselves captured--or killed?"

She muttered something under her breath, then said, "I should be there...fighting with them. I can't let them die, can I?"

"No, of course not, but sometimes you have to think it through," he told her, putting his hands down. "I thought we might sneak in there and see what's up. And if--if--they are under attack then we are going to have to make a decision."

"They aren't your friends," she mumbled, sliding her gun back into the holster. "I would die for any one of them. I would."

"I believe you, I do, but you have to know when to lay low and when not to," he explained. "I know. I've been in enough situations to know the difference. It's hard to not be there...for them."

After he calmed her down they rode on, taking a circuitous route back to the camp, stopping often to monitor the sky and listen for explosions or gunfire. Isaac was indecisive, unable to decide what to do if they did return to a camp under siege. He wasn't about to ride in like the cavalry and get shot. He knew it was going to be difficult to convince her otherwise. Haley was going to die in a firefight if she had to. I'm not a coward, he told himself as they edged closer and closer to the camp but he also wasn't suicidal. There had been times during his tours when he had faced impossible odds but that was in a unit, where military cohesion demanded a certain level of bravery. This was different.

"You don't have to stick around," Haley informed him, stopping her horse for a moment. "I won't shoot you if you go. I understand. This isn't really your fight."

Isaac smiled back at her and said, "I don't know, I was just getting to like you."

She actually laughed and scoffed, before saying, "People do die for what they believe in."

He didn't respond, as he thought about the import of that statement. He had seen men and women die for something they believed in and he had seen people die for just being in the wrong place, a victim of bad choices and callous luck. His belief system had never really developed over the years of fighting enemies on the other side of the religious debate. Isaac's early years, the formative time of a boy's life, had been spent enmeshed within the confines of a world view that was one dimensional, one that leaned heavily on what was precluded and not included. He had never had time to analyze it or what his values portended for his life that stretched out before him. After the Marines, he found that he couldn't function without the superstructure of well defined training, hours and hours of organized repetition that inculcated predictable responses. "You are not here to think," an instructor had bellowed into his face one day during advanced training, "you are here to react the way we want you to."

In the distance they heard a loud explosion. He grabbed onto her reins and held tight. She looked over at him. The horses were nervous, uneasy. There was another loud report that echoed up through the nearest ravine. His horse reared up and he tried to calm her.

"Haley...you might have to prepare yourself," he started to say, then stopped himself.

She sucked in her breath, then exhaled deeply. They could see the helicopter appear over the trees in the distance. It hovered there like an insect, with the rotor wash blowing the tree branches. Now they could hear gunfire. Haley's face had turned ashen, as she rocked slowly in her saddle. He could see the anger, and the fear, on her face. Isaac could remember once seeing five Marines in his platoon get shot simultaneously as they attempted to cross an open expanse of desert. Dumb luck had spared him the same fate, as he had stopped to tie his boot lace, bending down just in time as the hail of bullets passed over his head. An attack helicopter had then taken out the enemy fighters who were firing from a nearby hilltop.

Chance had saved his life. War, as in life, was nothing but a string of probabilities, only skewered by random possibility. Time and place. Most of his fellow Marines attributed their longevity in a war theater to God's temperament, but he knew better. The Holy Spirit might have been the time keeper and referee, yet the game pieces were interchangeable and totally devoid of autonomy.

They waited in a thick stand of trees, concealed by the underbrush. Haley stifled a few tears and then told herself to be strong. Isaac tried to think a few steps ahead. If it were the camp under fire, and they were being annihilated as he believed, then he was going to have to work out a plan for their immediate future. They had two tired and underfed horses, two ineffectual weapons, with little ammunition, practically no food, and a simmering hostility between them. Whether she liked it or not he was going to have to be her protector, or, at the very least, comrade in arms.

Automatic fire could be heard as it echoed through the mountains. Isaac knew they had called in the National Guard and they were laying waste to the camp. It was an all or nothing operation. The order had been given. No one was to be left alive. The local commander had chosen the easiest route. Next would come the removal of the bodies. Battles had there own rules, where simplicity was the most effective stratagem.

Soon the firing died away, replaced by the steady beat of the rotors. The women hadn't been capable of putting up much of a fight. Snipers would have taken out most of the armed ones and then a few launched grenades to finish off the remaining Hutchinsonians. It was a textbook assault, clean and decisive.

Isaac convinced Haley that they had to find a place to hold up for the night. The clean up phase would be underway soon. If they could stay undetected for a little longer they might be in the clear. Irene and her followers would be blamed for the atrocities committed. It would give them an exit and time to escape, flee to where ever they could find sanctuary.

Nearby they found a small natural cave carved out of the mountain side and camped for the night. They were low on water and hadn't taken any camping gear with them when they left the camp. Isaac fashioned out a sleeping area and told her that they couldn't risk lighting a fire. She was fighting off a bout of despair, trying to remain strong. He didn't want to face what they were going to see the next time they returned to the camp.

"Keep your hands to yourself," she warned, turning onto her right side.

"If we don't use our combined body heat out here we are probably going to die from hypothermia," he informed her, thrusting his hands down into his coat pockets. "Spooning is the preferred method for--"

"Just keep your hard on away from me," she ordered, pulling her legs up into a fetal position.

He laughed and replied, "I'll do my best but you are incredibly hot, you know."

"Oh shut up and go to sleep," she shot back.

They shivered through the night, managing to stay just warm enough to survive. Isaac convinced her to leave the horses behind as they made their way back to camp, telling her that it would be quieter on foot. It was good to be moving after the cold night. She followed close behind him as they skirted the ridge line and headed for a position overlooking the camp.

Isaac stopped often and listened. The helicopter was gone so he knew they wouldn't have eyes on them as they hiked in. As they got closer they could hear the sound of engines droning. It was eerie for him to think that his government was sanctioning the killing of its own citizens, carrying out missions that weren't that different than what he had participated in during his tours of duty.

"Look, check it out," he whispered to Haley, handing her the binoculars.

She took the binoculars and scanned where he had pointed, then said in hushed tones: "They killed them all."

Several humvees were just pulling out of the camp. Smoke was rising from several tents where the grenades had landed. Bodies lay everywhere. Isaac had been wrong. In the new calculus of battle they didn't bother to dispose of the remnants. The dead enemy lay where they had been killed, left to rot. The steps of war had been abbreviated.

"What kind of fucking mission was that?" Isaac asked the sky, shaking his head.

"I gotta go down there...to see them," Haley announced. "Somebody has to bury them."

"Are you nuts? We can't bury that many bodies...besides it's not safe to go down there now," he told her, making a face.

"We can't leave their bodies like that," she protested. "It's not right. They need to be, you know, properly dealt with. A eulogy needs to be said."

Isaac looked at her for a moment, then said, "The best we can do is burn the bodies. Maybe. Crap, even that is risky now."

"Burn them?" she exclaimed. "That's insane."

"And digging forty or fifty graves isn't?"

"I know," she said in a tired voice, as she looked through the binoculars again. "I hope they didn't torture any of them."

"No, I doubt it," he assured her. "It looked like they weren't going after any kind of surgical type OP. Instead they just wanted to finish the job as quick as possible. Tactically these guys were in the let's get this done business. Intel didn't seem to be on the table. At all."

Haley had a sour look on her face as she muttered under her breath, "I want to kill those bastards."

They waited a few hours, scanning the area for any signs of the "flaggers" returning. Then when Isaac was relatively sure they weren't coming back they slowly made their way down to the camp. He could smell the unmistakable odor of burning flesh as they got nearer, reminding him of the time during his first tour of duty when his squad had come upon a burned out vehicle in the road that had been hit by a predator drone hellfire missile. Inside the smoldering car were four people, three adults and a small child. They were burned beyond recognition, with smoke still rising from their charred flesh. He knew then that he would never forget that smell.

"Listen, Haley, I can do this, you don't have to go any further," he told her, grabbing her by the arm.

She pulled her arm away and exclaimed, "I can do this. I have to. I want to remember all of this."

Isaac shook his head, knowing that she was not ever going to be able to forget what she was about to see. It would burrow into the recesses of her brain, latching onto her mind and never let go. He knew. He had experienced it and the aftermath. Undulating mental flashes would riddle her future thoughts, affecting the way she would see and feel stimuli. He hoped it wouldn't cripple her as he had seen it do some of his fellow Marines, victims of war, helpless against cerebral mechanisms that malfunction as they try to assimilate violent memories.

They found Irene in the command tent, on her cot as if she were taking a nap. A bullet had entered her forehead. One stray bullet had ended her life. She had been one of the fortunate ones, killed instantly. Others lay where they had fallen, piecemeal, torn asunder by exploding grenades, with bloody death masks showing the horror of their last breath. An arm hung from a low lying tree branch, still dripping blood, leaving a slow, inexorable crimson splatter on the ground. Carly, the girl who had held a gun to his neck, was propped up against the van with her gun still in her hand. Her body was pock marked with bullet holes in a burgundy mosaic of dried blood. One round had taken her right ear completely off.

Haley hurried from body to body, hoping to find someone left alive. Isaac could see that they had a clean up detail come through emptying rounds into the lifeless bodies. Nothing had been left to chance. Most of the bodies had a tidy, neat little hole to the forehead, the superfluous coup de grace. There would be no survivors. Biblical vengeance prevailed.

Quickly, they secured a can of gasoline and went about the gruesome business of a hasty mass funeral. While Haley offered some prayers, Isaac doused the bodies with accelerant and lighted the corpses on fire. He rushed around the camp, leaving in his wake a fiery tableau of reclaimed souls. Tears streamed down Haley's face. Soon the acrid smoke enveloped the camp. Isaac knew the smoke might attract attention so he urged Haley to finish her eulogy as quickly as possible.

Then they hurried away, stopping on the ridge to look back at the hellish scene below. "Like Vikings," Haley muttered, turning to go. Isaac scanned the surrounding area with the binoculars then he too hiked away, whispering, "Penance of fire."

Chapter 6 Found But Lost

They were on the run, two "lost souls," as Haley liked to joke. Thrown together, she had begun to appreciate Isaac, as a comrade and a companion. Their hand to mouth existence made their bonding all that much stronger. His wilderness skills kept them alive, one step ahead of starvation and the authorities.

"Getting colder," she called out to him, as they slowly made their way around to the north side of the Four Peaks area, the highest elevation in Arizona.

He nodded, patting the side of his horse, then replied, "We're going to have to think about winter...our winter bivouac situation."

"I just love it when you use military terms," she joked, smiling back at him.

Their relationship was inevitable, she told herself; although she had wanted to maintain her distance. Before long she realized she liked him, even though they came from different worlds, worlds that would never have collided. That was before. Now, under current conditions, all the rules had changed. They were like a modern day Adam and Eve, left to recreate.

Recently they had been making quick raids into Flagstaff in order to resupply, sneaking into town and pilfering what they could to replenish their supplies. The town had become a magnet for believers, drawn there by the religious atmosphere. The town had been awarded special status by the Holy Council in Washington DC, a coveted achievement only given to communities that met certain stringent standards. Isaac remembered his father being disappointed when their municipal area was turned down a few years back because they didn't meet the criterion set by the cadre of territorial scouts who compiled and delivered quarterly reports to the regional chapter for theocratics. His father had delivered several presentations, in person, down in Phoenix, certain that he had done everything to get over the hurdle and be labeled a worthy township.

Isaac was there when the letter arrived from the Holy Council, with the gold cross embossed on the envelope. Nervously, his father had opened the envelope then read the news aloud to his wife. It was the usual bureaucrat speak, with numerous mentions of thwarting the creeping tide of Satanism across the land that was encroaching on everyone's way of life. Ultimately it was a rejection notice, nothing more. Team 999, the scouts who fanned out around the country in search of unwavering piety, had found them lacking, failing to have enough ardor to combat the latest installment of Armageddon.

His father had been further crushed when Flagstaff had been given the prize, designated as a Covenant City. A Reverend Worthy had put them over the top, drawing praise for his crusade to rid Flagstaff of all homosexuals. It didn't help that the Reverend was one of Ben's rivals throughout the years for influence among the faithful. They were close in age, having started their ministries a few years apart. Reverend Worthy had always been a firebrand, not afraid to politicize his sermons and use the Bible to buttress his hardened conservative ideology.

So the people of Flagstaff were called "Flaggers" by Haley and her fellow resisters because after the National Council of Biblical Adherence had bestowed the city with the much sought after religious designation every resident was permitted to wear the prestigious patch on their clothes with the Holy Flag of three interlinking crosses to depict the crucifixion and God, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus Christ.

The transformation from Flagstaff being a college town, with tourists bound for the Grand Canyon, to a religious redoubt was complete after the charter for Northern Arizona University was revoked, soon replaced by the Tabernacle Baptist Seminary. Any liberal and dissenting voices were purged, expelled from the city limits, often times violently by the local police force, which had been taken over by members of Reverend Worthy's church. It was a method called "spiritual co ordinance" by the Council, replicated all over the nation, the one governmental program that was mostly instrumental in staging the metamorphosis that changed the United States of America from a constitutional framework to a functioning theocracy.

"What's going on?" Isaac asked a passing woman, who stared at him then rushed away without answering.

"Are you crazy?" Haley chastised him, wondering why he had asked one of the locals anything because they seldom spoke to anyone when they came into town, choosing to remain as low profile as possible.

Isaac glanced at Haley then back at the woman who disappeared into a crowd that had gathered in the small square nestled in the middle part of the old section of Flagstaff dating from the late 1800's and early 1900's. They came there often to rummage through the dumpsters behind the restaurants for discarded food. Winter was coming on rapidly so they were slipping into town during the warmer daylight hours.

"Looks like something's going on," Isaac said more to himself than to her.

Haley looked up and down the street, always on the look out for any police. They had been on the run for so long it came as second nature to her. Evidently, so they believed, the authorities had abandoned any other search and destroy missions because they thought they had killed everyone involved in the massacre on the Forest Road. Still, they were outlaws, living outside the rules. If they were captured there would be no reparative therapy. They would, in all likelihood, be sentenced to a much more severe punishment, probably including a long prison term and physical abuse, even death.

"Come on, let's go down the other street, to be safe," she whispered, grabbing his hand.

"I'm gonna check it out," he told her, pulling away.

"Don't," she protested, cursing under her breath, hoping no one overheard her because profanity was a punishable offense in Flagstaff. People had been flogged in public by the squad of Moral Men for taking the Lord's name in vain. They had been deputized by the Police Chief to maintain religious order in all public places. Fortunately they were easy to spot because they wore white helmets with a crimson cross painted on the front.

Isaac slowly made his way up to the square, keeping an eye out for any undercover police. He stopped by a large billboard that had been erected next to a devotional shop that sold religious artifacts. Billboards had been placed all over the city, each with a Biblical passage exhorting the public to keep the faith. Glancing up, he read aloud in a low voice: "This is how we know that we love the children of God: by loving God and carrying out his commands. 1 John 5:2."

Haley caught up to him and latched onto his arm. They moved through the crowd, staying on the periphery. Then they heard the booming voice of Reverend Worthy, who had taken up a position on a small stage in the middle of the square. He was speaking through a bullhorn, giving his voice a strained timber, almost an animalistic wailing. The people were arriving from every direction, pushing into the square, anticipating.

"We have to destroy the demons among us," Reverend Worthy intoned, waving his left arm over his head, eyes closed, as he beseeched the heavens. "These young men have to be eliminated in order to maintain the moral fabric of our community. The devil has entered them and--" The bullhorn died away for a minute as his finger slipped off the button. He smiled at the crowd. A few people laughed. "There," his voice again boomed out, "now I have it right." Dozens in the gathering crowd clapped. A few cheered. "Today we are going to make this right, Praise the Lord.

"I read to you from Romans," Reverend Worthy screeched through the bullhorn, as an assistant scurried forward with a large Bible, holding it while the Reverend read. "In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error." A few in the crowd booed, as a sibilant murmuring snaked through the bystanders. "These sodomites must be punished...before they contaminate all of us--praise the Lord." Several women called out hallelujah.

"Time to go," Isaac mumbled to himself, having seen enough public demonstrations of applied justice during his tours of duty, including the time when he had seen a man execute his wife on a street corner because he thought she had been unfaithful to him. He had held a handgun to her head and pulled the trigger. The women's chadri had concealed the impact of the bullet as it tore through her skull. She had fallen to the street from the impact, where the man then kicked her several times. Isaac had protested to his squad leader, wanting to take the man into custody but had been over ruled, told that it wasn't any of their business what consequences were meted out. They were there to do one narrowly defined mission, nothing less, nothing more.

Before they could turn to go the crowd surged forward, pushing them closer to the stage. Two men were led out onto the stage, where Reverend Worthy poked them with a cattle prod several times. Someone in the crowd called out that he knew where he liked to stick the cattle prod. Everyone laughed. The two men had their hands bound behind their backs and their legs shackled.

"Didn't Jesus die for our sins too?" one of the men called out, sneering.

Reverend Worthy's assistant smacked the man across the face with the large Bible and Reverend Worthy zapped him with the cattle prod again. "That's the devil talking through you, young man. He has taken over your very soul. I'm afraid even Jesus can't save you now. We must cauterize the wound to our community so the disease does not spread. The Lord is working through me now, son. I have been sent here to protect all of us."

"You are a fraud!" the man cried out. "We should be allowed to love who we want to."

"Blasphemy!" a woman standing next to them shouted, shaking her tiny fists in the air. "Sodomite."

"Burn them!" another woman yelled behind them. "I don't want them to infect my children."

Reverend Worthy raised his hands over his head to quiet the crowd, then spoke into the bullhorn again. He said in a low, even voice, "The Lord has counseled me on these matters. I know what has to be done. These men are incorrigible heathens, vile, and not accepting of the way to Christ. They have chosen to disobey the Bible by their disgusting habits, a man laying with another man."

"It's not natural," someone called out angrily.

"It is not," the Reverend agreed, turning to the two men, prodding them both. "They have no regard for decency and therefore should be punished. The religious decree has been handed down and signed by God himself. There should be no forgiveness."

"Didn't Christ die on the cross for our sins?" the man demanded to know, while his partner sunk to his knees and started to pray.

"Look, my people, the man thinks he can now pray to God...after what he has done," Reverend Worthy mocked. "The devil never gives up--right?" There was a tittering through the crowd and someone threw a can up on the stage, just missing the two men. "Now, we will have none of that, please. The order has come down. These two sinning sodomites are going to face retribution from the community. We will cut out the infection, right here and now." The crowd cheered.

Several men appeared on stage and forced the other one down on his knees. He fought back and they punched him repeatedly until he complied. The crowd was now at a fevered pitch. Isaac and Haley were trapped, unable to push through the crowd without being noticed. This was a communal exercise of the penal code. The public will was unanimous.

"Lord, Jesus Christ, I ask you to look over these two men's souls for they have committed grave acts of disobedience to you--our savior," Reverend Worthy said, eyes closed, as he gave a short prayer. Everyone around them nodded their heads. Isaac and Haley pretended to pray. "We hope that you will take the devil away from our town and give us a chance to make amends for these two sinners who have defiled your name. Let our collective prayers rise up to your ears...hear us...as we seek forgiveness while we offer our never ending love. Amen."

There were two gun shots. A cheer rose up through the crowd, then they began chanting: Jesus. Jesus. The two bodies were dragged off the stage, leaving behind a smear of blood dripping down from the fatal wounds in the side of their heads. Reverend Worthy took the Bible from his assistant, tucked it under his arm, and exited out the other side of the stage to his waiting car. He drove away with a police escort.

The Testament Enactment Act of 2015 had instituted the changes in the Constitution that began the transformational slide into a radically different governance. The Supreme Court rubber stamped it, seven to two, with the only two dissenting opinions being ridiculed for months and months by the media for their "narrow mindedness." Irony, as with so many things, was in short supply. The Bill of Rights had been abbreviated and brought more in line with the Ten Commandments. The President, Paul R. Serling, was a Pastor first, and foremost, having been elected in the last election by a large margin. Voting by the latter part of the decade had been winnowed down to only a select few after the States had been encouraged over time to restrict the voting process, finally resulting in a de facto caste system when it came to eligibility. Although there still remained a two party system, the Democrats had been reduced to token players in the political process, left to vote in a meaningless procedural showcase that only further disenfranchised them.

Almost daily, Isaac was given history lessons on his own country, a nation that he had spent a large part of his early adult years fighting for. His ignorance had shielded him from the realities as he endured dangerous entanglements around the world, all in the name of freedom, a concept he only had a hazy concept of. Patriotism had been grafted onto religion so completely that war was the extension of spirituality, another aspect of seeking God's grace. Prayers united them, the fighting force, against the aggressors who dared contradict their indomitable credo. They would fight and die for Jesus. Isaac had to laugh when he would think back on those comrades in arms he had known, the ones who the very first thing they did when they were given their initial liberty off the base was head for the nearest tattoo parlor to get some bit of scripture inked on a body part. The most popular was from Ephesians 6:11: Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.

Now, as they made their way back to their hideout, shaken by the swift execution of the two men, Isaac cursed himself for being so naive and uninformed. Haley hiked on up ahead of him, angry that he had insisted on staying to see what would happen. She was a woman with many sharp edges to her personality. He was attracted to her from the beginning because she was so pretty but, in time, he realized that she was a complicated person, with her own terrors to confront. Recently, they had established a truce between them, realizing they had to help each other in order to get by.

Their relationship was evolving, slowly. She had become his teacher as to contemporary history, informing him of so many things that escaped his attention before. Just the day before she had said to him as they were seeking out some fallen trees to cut for the fire that kept them warm at night: "Algos caused it." She winced at the thought as if just thinking about it caused her pain.

"What in the hell is that?" Isaac asked, laughing. "Sounds like a brand of dog food."

"Funny," she said, sometimes exasperated by the holes in Isaac's knowledge, gaps that had been caused by his two tours of duty in far off places, removing him from his homeland, the same place he was laying his life on the line for. "The market crash back in 18," she explained, gently pinching his arm. "It took down almost every large corporation after some traders in a back room dreamed up an algorithm that had flaws in the code. Wall Street buckled in less than an hour. People were wiped out just like that," she snapped her fingers. "Millions flushed down the toilet. Even the prayers they made before every trading session couldn't help some of those bastards. They were penniless. I'd liked to have seen their faces when they realized they were broke."

"I missed out on that," Isaac said, laughing. "I'd liked to see some of them get reamed. Too busy getting shot at, so I missed out on all the fun."

"The toothless SEC came in and tried to clean up the mess but it was too late," Haley said, shaking her head. "Computerized chaos...that's what it was. Technology run amok, with a bunch of brain wizards trying to game the system...all in the name of making money. What would Jesus have to say about that?"

Isaac laughed at her little joke and they traded glances. They had been sharing the campsite for over a month now and romance was becoming unavoidable. She had mentioned to him once that even during the Stalingrad invasion by the Germans back in World War II the city residents were coupling as the artillery rounds roared all around them, crashing into buildings at a frightening rate. Isaac had laughed, telling her that his war experiences never included any extracurricular activities.

They both sensed that it was inevitable, as sure as the winter winds would begin to blow. It surprised both of them. "Like in a really bad romance novel," Haley said, laughing at her own description. "More like a late night movie," Isaac added, smiling.

As usual, they had been squabbling, made more irritable than usual because their tent had collapsed during the early morning hours, leaving them both cold as the bitter wind blew through an opening in one of the seams. It was an old tent they had scavenged from a shed behind one of the houses in Flagstaff. It smelled of mildew and had a broken zipper on one of the side windows; but it gave them needed shelter and a certain degree of warmth.

"I told you to fix that pole last week!" she shouted at him, scrambling out of her sleeping bag to try to correct the problem.

"I'll do it," he mumbled, unzipping his sleeping bag, which stuck half the way open. He tried to squirm out but the bag got caught around his waist. He asked her to help him out and she laughed at him, so he tried to stand up but fell over in a heap.

"Here, let me undo the zipper for you," she said, exasperated. "Sometimes you are like a little kid."

"I don't think I've ever been called a little boy before," he mused, frowning.

Then she was yanking on the zipper and he was trying to slide out of the bag. Finally the zipper gave way and they tumbled to the ground, laughing. He kissed her. She hesitated, pulling back. She kissed him. The proverbial dam had been broken.

Afterwards, as the wind howled outside the tent, they lay in each other's arms, each bewildered by the suddenness of their love making. Their life had revolved around survival for so long it didn't seem to have any room for any carnal pursuits. Life had been pared down to the essentials, where just seeking food to avoid starvation kept them exhausted, mentally and physically.

"We have to be careful," she finally said in a quiet voice, as daylight seeped into the tent. "There's no way I can get pregnant. That would be a disaster--right?"

He looked at her for a moment, then joked, "Who says it's going to happen again?"

She smacked him on the head and chided, "I think I'm going to be the one who decides that, Isaac." He laughed, ducking to avoid her hand. "No, really, we have to be smart about this. We both know that abstinence isn't going to work. Okay? Let's be honest here."

"You know we can't get any condoms anywhere since the new laws were put in," Isaac informed her, waiting for her response. "Every since the States put in the anti-contraception laws the only place you can get a rubber is on the black market. And it costs a bundle."

"Maybe we could break into a pharmacy and snatch some--"

"Won't work," he interjected, shaking his head no. "Can't get birth control pills either. Not in God's plan. Got to have those babies. Need more psychos to brainwash in the future."

"Great," Haley muttered, adding, "I finally get laid after a long drought and I can't even enjoy it."

Chapter 7 Turn Turn Turn

They endured the winter months, sequestered on the mountain in an abandoned cabin they were lucky enough to stumble upon one day when they were exploring around. Isaac worked to make it more livable for the both of them, repairing an old wood stove that provided them with heat to ward off the cold nights. He knew, though, that their predicament was precarious and the future was uncertain. Living a day to day existence was a mental, as well as physical hardship. Uncertainty worked to undermine your thoughts, leaving each of them with a diminished outlook.

And Haley hadn't given up her rebellious spirit. She still wanted revenge, in whatever shape and form she could enact. For Isaac, he had settled into a survivalist mode, intent on staying one step ahead of starvation and capture. Distill it down, he often told himself, remembering what an instructor would say during his advance training classes back in the Marines. One vital element in succeeding was to mark your goals, define them so they can be accomplished more easily. At the time he had thought it was more military nonsense, just another gambit to make a killer out of the next human being. Then later, when he was able to use the training, he saw the value in the instruction.

They had their skirmishes over the winter, escaping time and time again. Luck was on their side. Isaac was forced to kill two men, bounty hunters, after they had gotten too close to the cabin. His profile was out there, posted for anyone with a desire to pick up some extra cash or favors to make good on. The amateurs weren't that much of a problem, weekenders out to seek out some quick money. Some of them were also driven by a religious fervor, ginned up by local ministers who delivered fiery sermons on Sunday, inciting the congregation to be on alert for "stiff-necks" lurking in their midst.

It was the professional ones that were more worrisome. They went by a different code, one that revolved around recompense. The religious angle was just a bonus. They were cunning and deceitful, living by their own set of rules, quick to pull the trigger if need be. Most of them had also served in the military and were acutely aware of what it took to track down the enemy.

Isaac and Haley were the enemy. They represented what the government hated, and feared. Anti-religious sentiment was a cancer that had to be eradicated. Biblical error didn't exist. EXCISE THEM! was a popular slogan plastered on billboards around the State, with the customary web address of the local religious organization tacked on at the bottom. Everyone was urged to call the tip line. Report any heathen activity. It will bring you closer to God.

"Can we go now?" Haley called out, impatient. "You are worse than a woman sometimes."

"Hold your horses," he retorted, regretting it immediately because their two animals had died during the winter months from lack of feed and she hadn't really gotten over it. One of the horses had gotten so emaciated and sick he was force to shoot it in a mercy killing. "I can't find my binoculars," he called out, hoping to divert her attention.

"They are hanging from the peg behind the door--like they always are," she chided, shaking her head.

They were heading out on another foraging patrol. In a raid on a homestead a few miles from Flagstaff Isaac had appropriated a combat ready assault rifle, with plenty of ammo. It was a "find" that dramatically increased their firepower capability. They had also pilfered two semi-automatic hand guns and night vision equipment. From the photos on the wall in the house Isaac could see that the owner was a Colonel in the National Guard. In one of the photographs he was standing next to Reverend Worthy, receiving some kind of award. Haley smashed the photo with the butt of the hand gun she found in the Colonel's desk. She wanted to burn down the house but Isaac talked her out of it, not wanting to incite some sort of vendetta by the National Guard.

Not two weeks later the rifle had come in handy when Isaac spied the two bounty hunters through the scope searching the trails that lead up to the cabin where they were hiding out. He had taken them out, one after the other, placing a round a piece in their foreheads. "And the war goes on," he mumbled, closing the dust cover on the scope.

There had been other close calls as well, ones where they managed to talk their way out of the situation by artful lying. Haley was adept at bending the conversation when need be. If it were a man questioning why and what they were doing, she was coquettish, using her looks to win him over. With women, she invoked the bible when need be, using it to cast aspersions on the pagans. Your skill set began to take on different talents, all in order to survive.

They took different routes into town each time they went in search of supplies.

The night vision goggles made it easier to get around undetected. The forest, at night, was darker than dark, inky black, where only the nocturnal animals felt at ease. Black bear and mountain lions roamed the mountain side and were predators they had to give wide birth. Once they reached town they would make their way along the back streets, seeking out whatever they could use to get through another day, week, month. Their life was basic, nothing more, nothing less.

They had each other, as they were fond of saying, laughing, trying to minimize the banality of living a twilight existence. Sometimes Isaac would wonder about their relationship, one born out of necessity, and hardship. Haley came from a different world, one linked to the sea, where her life had revolved around privilege. Her stories about her home life had come slowly after several weeks. She was uncomfortable talking about her past because it always circled back to the catastrophe that severed her happiness.

"They were my family," she would state, then most times slip back into a laconic personality she resorted to so as to ward off any more scrutiny. Although they were now a couple she still didn't feel mentally steady, able to work through any painful memories. In bits and pieces, she finally opened up to him, after he had told her everything about his family background, leaving nothing out. His life story was peculiar to her, but interesting in an almost anthropological way. He had been, more or less, one of them, a person steeped in religious dogma; while she had come from the other side.

"So you are telling me your family never went to church...at all," he exclaimed when she first told him, amazed. "What did your family do on Sundays?"

Laughing, she had replied, "Slept in, I guess."

Haley's father had been a doctor, a cardiologist. He was a man who believed in science and saw little need for any spiritual interference. Her mother bred and raised horses and saw life as a turnstile of sorts, where nature was to be respected as it dictated the winners and losers.

"No God?" he wanted to know, puzzled.

"Maybe a creator of some sort, I suppose," she replied, smiling back at him. "They were humanists, what can I say?"

Isaac laughed, because the term humanist had been the pejorative term used for anyone who disagreed with the religionists that eventually took over America. "Hearing you say something like this would totally boggle my parent's brains. Really. I mean they thought Methodists were strange."

Nature had reared up and taken her family away. Almost in one fell swoop the fire had descended out of the canyons and across the hills, devouring everything in its path. Haley's two siblings had perished as well. Her brother and sister had been summoned to the family ranch by her mother to try to save some of the horses. The growing, raging fire was swept along by the fierce Santa Ana winds, leaving them all unprepared. There was no time to evacuate.

Haley had been spared because she was away at college, down in LA anxiously watching the news reports about the out of control wild fire. She stayed on her cell phone begging her mother to get out. She knew how obstinate her mother could be. She could almost see them scurrying around the barn, in and out of the numerous stalls, all in an attempt to free the horses.

"I heard her last words," Haley had told him, sobbing quietly, overwhelmed by the memory and her survivor's guilt. "She was screaming at my father to open the gate, to let them run free."

Thousands had died that day. The fire department lost dozens of fire fighters in the blaze, which roared on towards the Pacific Ocean, a behemoth that the nation could see on the news, as the weather forecasters predicted more and more wind, turning to their satellite images to show that the forest fire could be seen from space. The nation was stunned by the velocity of the winds and the voracious appetite of the blaze, as it ate through community after community, a juggernaut of hellish temperatures and unforgiving flames.

Isaac had been out of the country when it happened but he could remember a buddy of his saying: "Check it out, bro, California is going up in smoke!" He held up his smart phone with a photo on the screen a friend had sent him. He hadn't thought much about it at the time. Weather had become so unpredictable and destructive, from earthquakes that disemboweled the earth's crust to hurricanes that crushed entire coast lines, no one gave it much thought any longer. It was God's plan, laying the groundwork for the end times. "Render asunder, Corporal," one of the officers in his regiment would always say with a glint in his eye, one of the ones certain about his place in the coming redistribution, as he liked to call it.

Haley had raced up the 101 in hopes of helping her family. Roadblocks prevented her from getting very far. She sat in her car and cried, as plumbs of smoke bloated out the sky. Ash swirled in the air. Sirens wailed. A steady stream of traffic flowed the other way, towards LA, the retreating inhabitants fleeing nature's cataclysm. She was ordered to return, back to the relative safety of all points south.

Isaac thought of Numbers 11:1, when she first told him about the fire. The people began complaining out loud to the LORD about their troubles. When the LORD heard them, he became angry, and fire from the LORD began to burn among them. It destroyed some people on the outskirts of the camp. He hated sometimes that his initial response to some things was always to reach back to a Biblical passage. It had been ingrained in his psyche, like another human sense. He knew what his father would have told Haley, soothing words from a "dead script," as an atheist in hiding had once written. Isaac had read it in a pamphlet, one of the underground flyers you came across a few years back before the Council gained full control of the country.

What Isaac didn't understand was how Haley had ended up with the band of women fighting the authorities, all in the name of the same God. Different branding, same results, he thought. Rituals, homilies, unwavering doctrine, it all amounted to the same thing to him. He had witnessed it, lived among its boundaries and fought its enemies. "If you don't like the construct, Marine, then kiss your soul good-bye," was what his sergeant would often say, pointing skyward for effect. Isaac wasn't sure his soul was intact. Not now. Words, the written word, had a way of warping, not unlike wood that had gotten wet and was in the decomposing process of rotting.

Yet he didn't understand fully Haley's mental decompression after the fatal events of that fateful day. She had been living an idyllic life, one attuned to time fulfilled by her family and environment. Being raised close to the coast but in the mountains, she had spent her youth free to roam the landscape, riding her horse towards the wilderness. An appreciation of the outdoors was ingrained in her young mind. The whole family embraced their lifestyle and were settled into an evolving contentment.

Then the video age encroached on her life, like an intruder. Down in LA, attending college, tolerating a city she generally disliked, Haley witnesses her family perish, drowned in flames. It was on a newscast, seen as she was preparing to leave for home, that she saw feed from the hovering helicopter. Below, embedded in the wild fire's rising smoke, the camera's lens captured the finality. Horses, just released from their stalls, galloped away, racing to escape the coming fire. As the cameraman refocused, with the thumping sound of the rotors blanketing the tape with an almost evil soundtrack, she could see her parents engulfed by the advancing fire. Minutes later, as the helicopter moved ever closer to the monstrous fire, a vehicle could be seen bursting into flames, followed by an explosion.

"Imprints on the brain," Isaac could remember a fellow Marine telling him, referring to the sight of some villagers on fire from the falling ordinance. It was a lasting reminder that there would always be a cerebral connection, a link between the eyes and the soul. "A little bit of you dies every time you fucking see something like that," he added, grinning incongruously. He knew that memories would become daggers, forever piercing his brain.

It was no different for Haley. She could never delete that video footage. Cries of agony, like an aria from angry fallen angels, would continue to accompany her, shadowing her every thought. There would be no respite. It would be a struggle to climb out of her despair.

When California eventually succumbed to the rising tide of religious coercion, one of the last States to eventually abrogate their constitution, she was vulnerable to a change. At first, as with any new acolyte, she accepted the New Order whole heartedly. God would lend her a hand, stabilize and point her in the right direction. Coming from a secular mindset, she had much to learn, to digest. Biblical passages brought welcome relief, as she reached deeper and deeper into scripture for answers, for relief from the mental quagmire she was enmeshed in.

Theology had a long history, one that she could plumb for direction. Scholars throughout the ages had left their tracks and were easily summoned for guidance. Her training as a budding historian dovetailed nicely with her scholarly pursuit. The new government needed people to keep an ongoing log of their progress, a written document that would bring forth a roadmap to the celestial.

Haley was diligent, a transcriber, hired by some local chapter of the regional council. Everything must be documented, with the Bible as a primer, a key, so as to better understand the Lord's work. It was a process seen through a distorted prism that soon left her confused, then academically agitated. History had an almost inviolable precision, where recorded events meshed with the succeeding seasons. Although stogy, and generally dry, the discipline did operate within the confines of reason. She knew this and found it refreshingly self supporting. Chronicling time through documents and inherited myth was almost divine in itself. Mankind's journey left clues and was a pulsating mystery waiting to be solved, so a college professor had once told her, hoping his infectious encouragement would spur his student to become one of the tribe because the world was on fast forward and no one was advocating anyone look back.

The Bible, with its interlocking inconsistencies and overlapping chronology, was frustrating for Haley, who came armed with a sense of direction that leaned heavily on reason. She had adroitly overlooked the fact that the Bible was dribbled down from the heavens, choosing to accept its over all power derived from historical providence. Stones, war, famine, cultural shifts, they were all represented, proving that God resided somewhere in those pages, imbued by a celestial force.

Then she began to falter after a few years, unable to overcome her nagging doubts. She wavered, then dug deeper in an attempt to maintain the bible's therapeutic benefit. Psychological damage, once inflicted, waxes and wanes, riding the crest of mental cuts and bruises before sliding down the wave of recovery into a trough carved out by evolving experiences. Jesus was there to catch her, keep her from drowning.

For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. Romans 10:13 spoke to Haley, injecting an antidote in her mind, soothing the coarse and shrill shouts of guilt that resounded. Accepting a higher power was simple, easy. It was like balm to the consciousness, which was often buffeted by contrary winds. Religion is poetry, something to lift the soul, her confessor told her that day she entered a church in LA, after being whipped sawed by competing thoughts that had grown darker and darker. He was a short, stocky man with large glasses that made him look almost cartoonish.

"Need some help?" he had asked, as she was thumbing through a hymn book she had found sitting next to her on the pew.

Haley had wandered in the open church on a warm day, drawn there by a message placed on the marquee on the front lawn to the church. It had read: GOD KNOWS THE TIME. At first, she had laughed at the absurdity of the message, then thought better of it. Did he? she wondered, smiling. It seemed almost comical, in a staged performance art sort of way, as if the perpetrator knew you might be in on the joke.

Once inside the church, the first church she had been in since one of her relatives had gotten married some three years before, she found it calming, almost paradisiacal. This seemed odd to her. The church wasn't noteworthy, just another pre-fab building with an ersatz steeple and cheap stain glass. She had been in churches all over Europe, ones that were steeped in historical prerogatives that reached back to before Luther. Christianity had been bolstered throughout the centuries in some of them, where the facade wore its decades and decades of climatic abuse with pride. Some of the most renowned architects had sweated blood to complete the holy edifice.

This was Southern California, a place of temporal excellence and permanency seemed oddly irrelevant. In a decade or so the church would most probably be torn down and replaced with an In and Out burger fast food restaurant or trendy boutique. The remains of the church would be discarded in the nearest landfill, deemed worthless, not even worth recycling.

There she was though, looking from the lyrics in a hymn book to the altar bathed in multicolored light cast by the stain glass window over head and back again. Haley felt the hard pew against her back, sturdy wood, varnished to perfection, probably the only valuable item in the entire church. God, the Holy Spirit, couldn't possibly reside in such a place, a place totally devoid of charm and character.

The pastor, with the owlish manner, smiled at her, giving off an air of understanding, compassion. They exchanged pleasantries. Outside LA's busy streets echoed, penetrating the quiet. Haley didn't know why she was there, except that she felt she needed to separate herself from her usual surroundings, something, anything to alleviate her sorrow.

That particular place in time began her own personal odyssey, a journey that would start in a small, non-descript church in the environs of LA and lead to a small band of revolutionaries in the high country of Arizona. The mind can be supple, she believed, able to afford many travails when need be; except that it is always in need of sustenance. Buried deep in her mind she knew her parents, and family as well, would not have approved. The imperial nature of logic had ruled them, as they functioned in a defined set of empirical boundaries. Religion, as a concept, was, in a word, silly. It bespoke of desperation, and weakness. "Mental midgets," was how her father had labeled those who sought divine explanations.

That was before the onslaught of grief, where living had become a tenuous endeavor that required a person to absolve fate for being demonstrably cruel. Glib, cerebral polemics were of no help. They only complicated the festering problem. Besides, so Haley liked to remind herself, religion was in mankind's DNA, harking back to even those caves in the south of France, where primitive forbearers transferred their fears and tribulations onto dank rock walls in the shape of animals representations that linked to a spiritual connection. We need that connection, she thought, something to prove to ourselves that life has an extrinsic meaning. The mind relishes an answer, like a sum to a difficult equation.

It didn't last. Haley was the type of person who questions, forever seeking out answers. America's new order wasn't an answer. To the contrary, it was just another layer of obfuscation, an organized smokescreen that obscured the truth. God, their supreme being, was corruptible, engineered by the avaricious and venal to bring a complete subjugation to the unsuspecting. Morals and commerce, two parts of the stratagem, worked to subdue the populace.

Then Haley met a woman at her church. She was ten years her senior. They would talk after the sermons, eager to impart their survivor's stories to willing listeners. Grief, to a certain degree, could be ameliorated by unloading the built up residue of lingering guilt. Before long, as they became friends away from Sunday sermons, the woman told her of a movement that was breaking away from the governmental brand. Haley, at first, didn't want to hear about any alternative direction in the pursuit of Grace from God. It was forbidden. Against the law. Punishable by the courts.

"Come to one of the meetings," her new friend had encouraged. "You can decide for yourself whether or not it's to your liking. God willing."

Haley eventually gave in, like she might have heard a siren call beckoning her. She realized she was vulnerable. Her life revolved around a small coterie of new friends connected to the church. She had never returned up the coast to her hometown after the fire, as she shrank her life down to a size that she could function in. I'm like an orphan, she told herself, even though their were members to her extended family who had tried to reach out to her many times. She turned away, withdrew. It was infinitely easier to exist within a framework that encompassed so little space.

The first meeting she attended she was flabbergasted to hear some of the rhetoric coming from the speakers, seditious, and legally actionable. The authorities could have raided the gathering and placed them all in jail, confined them without any legal recourse. Blasphemy was beyond the bounds of elementary jurisprudence. A person's Bill of Rights had been severed some years before by order of the Supreme Court. Indefinite detention was routine. For some people any sort of arraignment never came.

She first heard Irene speak on her third or fourth time to a meeting. It was almost electrifying to hear a woman, or anyone, speak as she did. Clarity was a hallmark of her speaking style. Irene distilled the message down into a concise idea, leaving little doubt as to the misdirection the country was heading. All signs pointed to a rebellion. The current administration was not only advancing an erroneous concept but worshipping a false god as well. Haley almost audibly gasped when she first heard her declare this idea. She was sure there might be infiltrators in the group, sent there by the omniscient government. They would all be arrested before long, tracked down where they worked or at their homes, carted away and publicly lambasted as traitors to the cause.

Then again Irene was opening her eyes, and her mind. Haley knew she had been led astray. Scripture was malleable, able to be molded to fit any number of doctrines. Feeling duped, she tried to retreat, pull away from her church; but she had passed the point of no return. Like an enlistee, she had committed herself and was locked in. No one simply changed course. Everyone had been conscripted.

Haley's friend from the church disappeared one Sunday. She tried to contact her but her phone had been disconnected. Going by her apartment, she found the tell tale sign that the government authorities had been there, the unmistakable red tape with the devil logo emblazoned on it, like the yellow tape the police used to mark a crime scene. And it was a crime scene, another enforcement of the religious laws. Her church friend had been taken away by the city team of doctrine enforcers, spirited away in the middle of the night. The fire red tape served two purposes: to warn anyone foolish enough to enter the premises that they were violating State law, a felony, and to demonstrate to the neighbors that they were being watched and were always under surveillance.

Haley had stopped at the second floor landing when she saw the red tape, hoping that it wasn't attached to her friend's apartment. When she saw that it was her heart sank and then she immediately began to worry about herself. It was widely known that whom ever was apprehended by the authorities began a process that spiraled outward, sooner or later encompassing anyone who even knew the suspect. They would be knocking on her door soon, probably within 48 hours.

Her fate was decided for her the very next morning as she was about to head off to work. There was a knock on her door. She froze, not wanting to answer the door, even though she knew that the shock troops of the government didn't need a warrant to enter her home. Everyone suspected of religious disobedience forfeited any rights. Due process was illusory. The judicial system had become a legal functioning appendage of the Council, staffed by seminarians and practicing clergy. She had no escape route.

Hesitantly, she opened the door, fearing the worse and saw Irene standing there. "Yes? Oh, hello. I didn't expect to see you."

Irene smiled briefly, glancing up and down the street, then said, "We must talk. Now."

It all began then. Irene slipped inside Haley's house, giving the interior a quick look over. She lowered her voice and told Haley that she was leaving immediately and that she was in trouble, that she was in the cross hairs of the Council. Word had come down that they were in route to her house to arrest her. She was an accomplice. She had been labeled a heretic. She was in danger.

"I knew it wouldn't take long," Haley told her, looking out the window, scanning the street for any activity. "What am I supposed to do?"

"We have to leave right now," Irene informed her. "Pack a bag--quickly. There's somebody ready to take us out of the city."

"Where? Where can we go that they won't find us?" Haley wanted to know, hurrying into her bedroom to pack.

"Let me worry about that," Irene replied, moving to the front window to keep watch. "Please hurry!"

Haley's life would never be the same again. She had been fingered by an informer at one of the meetings she attended, marked for internment, thought to be a member of a radical non-sanctioned religious organization. There was no going back.

A woman picked them up in a truck and they headed out of the city, one step ahead of the team sent to arrest Haley. Irene had been avoiding the authorities for almost two years, living a twilight existence with false identities and disguises. She had become adept at avoiding any traps, able to slip in and out of tight situations with the help of a network of sympathizers who were becoming more and more disillusioned with the official religion. Cells of resistors had been organized, kept loosely connected in order to thwart the government task force that had been set up specifically to dismantle the new threat to the State religion. Irene was the ring leader and had been slated as a common criminal up for a capital offense. A burning pyre awaited her if they were to capture her, made an example of to ward off any more who wanted to defy the government.

A few hours later they were up in the San Gabriel mountains. After going off road for over an hour, they finally made it to the current camp of the recently formed Hutchinsonians. Two long years of living on the run had made Irene eager to assemble a group to strike a blow against the government, to go on the offense instead of being perennially on the defensive. Several months in the making, they had finally set up a camp in the wilderness for all of the adherents of the cause to flee to and be relatively safe. Haley was the newest member.

In time, as the government troops became more and more aggressive against the Hutchinsonians, their camp became less and less of a refuge. Members still in the community at large were being arrested more frequently and some of them had divulged the hideout's location after some torture sessions that skirted the law because the prisoners were labeled combatants against the religious order. They were eventually forced out and fled to neighboring Nevada, before finally ending up in Northern Arizona.

It was in Arizona that Irene, after a collective meeting with all of the members, decided that the time had come for them to abandoned their philosophical and intellectual approach to the existing problem and take up arms. The vote had been close but after a few of their fellow resisters had been executed in Flagstaff's town square, the fondness for civil disobedience and the written protest lost out to the allure of basic revenge. Irene had spent several years pursuing the semination of a specific message that leaned heavily on discourse, and reason. It was particularly difficult for her to toss that aside and take up weapons with the intent of violence as a counter measure.

Isaac and Haley had come to the same point from different directions. They now had to mesh their differences as they endured the inhospitable climate and the reach of the authorities. He had been abandoned by his family, left to rot, another miscreant who didn't seek out the Lord. Biblical recrimination would rain down on him forever, so his relatives believed. There was no middle ground. God dealt in unwavering absolutes, truths that were enumerated in scripture like a blueprint for appeasing the higher power. Haley, with her family having been victims of a heinous act of God, had stepped out of bounds, ungrateful for what the Holy Spirit devised, left to assuage her grief and guilt by accepting another course to the promise benefit of God's earthly manifestation.

Chapter 8 Behold Elysium

For the great day of their wrath has come, and who is able to survive.

Revelations 6:17

Late Spring was slowly giving way to Summer. Many months lay ahead with rising temperatures and the constant threat of forest fires. Isaac and Haley had to abandon their cabin in the mountains because federal troops had begun running search and destroy missions in an attempt to root out the heretics. There was a push on by Reverend Worthy to rid the entire region of non-believers. Troops had been marshaled to sweep the forest and surrounding terrain, rousting dissenters and rounding up anyone who was living out of bounds, away from the tentacles of the new government. There had been numerous fire fights, with disastrous results for anyone who was resisting. Hundreds of people had been rounded up and brought back to the camp off Interstate 40. Selective executions were staged in downtown Flagstaff, as the Reverend presided over his systematic dissolution of any contrary theology.

"I hear something," Haley hissed in a whisper, stopping on the trail to listen. "Voices."

"Let's get off the trail," Isaac warned, looking around for some ground cover in case there were soldiers heading their way. "Might be another patrol."

They had managed to evade the government patrols for over a month, keeping on the move constantly, traveling as light and quiet as they possibly could. It was beginning to wear them down physically, and mentally. Even though now, after months and months of being on the run, they were accustomed to living a certain lifestyle perpetually on edge it still worked against them. They were exhausted, forever hungry, and rapidly becoming victims of their own burgeoning paranoia. Every stray sound could be the harbinger of their demise. The bounty hunters often shot first, trigger happy after being ginned up by sermons by Reverend Worthy which they listened to every night after a day of searching.

Scripture was an efficient motivator, able to drive men and women to do things they normally wouldn't decide to do. They were given monetary bonuses on top of the spiritual fulfillment that went with eradicating the devil's standard bearers. They would all be rewarded when the time came. The Reverend was quick to remind them that the time was near. Paradise would be kind to the advancing soldiers for the cause.

"Sounds like a hymn...or something," Haley whispered, pointing off in the direction that she thought the voices might be coming from.

"Probably some combat chaplain juicing up the troops," Isaac said disdainfully, remembering all the times the Marine Chaplains had whipped the leathernecks into a frenzy so they would go out and annihilate the enemy minus the inconvenience of a conscience.

They could also hear sounds of the rushing river, swollen by the spring melt off. Their canteens were almost empty and they needed to refill them. Two days before circumstances had forced them to head southward, through the Oak Creek canyon. Bushwhacking through rocky terrain had slowed their progress. Below they caught glimpses of the road that snaked through the canyon, where numerous cars filed slowly north and south. Despite the current conditions, life went on, with tourists arriving daily. Isaac and Haley had been off the grid for so long sometimes it didn't seem possible there was still a normal world that existed out there.

"We need more water, you know," Haley muttered, more to herself than to him. "My shoulders are killing me too...from this damn pack. And I feel nauseous. Weird feeling, like...I don't know what."

Isaac walked over to the edge and took a peek down at the river bed. He scanned the area for a way down, then he saw a group of people gathered below. "I see them. Bunch of thumpers, I guess."

"What?" she said peevishly, clutching her stomach. "What are they doing out here?"

"I think they are baptizing somebody," he answered, laughing. "Can't let that fine river water go to waste, right?"

She walked over next to him and looked down. He counted a dozen people, maybe more. They were all wearing powder blue jump suits, even the women; all except for one man in all white. They exchanged looks then laughed.

"Are those Gospelites?" she asked, chuckling. "Must be. Look what they are wearing."

"I think so," Isaac agreed, smiling. "I don't think they'll be a problem. Right? I mean aren't they into just leaving everybody else alone?"

"As far as I know," she exclaimed, shaking her head yes.

They slowly made their way down to the river to retrieve some water, relieved that the noises they had been hearing weren't coming from any search and destroy teams. The Gospelites were tolerated by the authorities because they lived in a farming commune near Sedona and even though they were a sect that artfully blended new age beliefs with biblical doctrine with theosophy overtones, they were left alone because they weren't a threat to anyone. One of their main tenets was that the vortexes in the Red Rocks region were portals for the Holy Spirit. Although they were, strictly speaking, committing heresy, no one believed they were harmful, especially since they were such a small group, only consisting of two dozen members.

When they were within earshot, Isaac heard the man dressed in all white announce to the heavens: "Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost."

"Matthew, twenty seven or eight...nineteen, I think," Isaac said over his shoulder, giggling.

"My man, the Biblical encyclopedia," Haley joked, smirking.

"Like some kind of idiot savant, right?" he shot back, smacking her arm.

"You got the idiot part right," she teased.

"Don't mind us," Isaac called out as they approached, "we are just getting some water for our canteens."

Surprised, some of the Gospelites retreated a few steps, wary. Haley assured them they didn't mean any harm. The minister called out to his flock, reassuring them. A woman, just baptized, was beaming, babbling to her husband about her new found energy source that was connected to the godhead of nature.

"We are reaffirming our link to the Holy Spirit," the minister stated, tugging at his white shirt which was sopping wet. "Springtime is a time of renewal...so demonstrated by nature."

"And God," several members chirped in unison.

"Gotta love those jump suits," Isaac whispered to Haley.

"Must be cold...the water," Haley offered, unsure what to say.

"Not when the Lord God is in your spirit," someone called out happily.

"Ever hear of hypothermia?" Isaac joked, but no one laughed. "Serious group," he said to Haley, raising his eyebrows.

"Looks like you two have been on an extended retreat in the forest," the minister said, trying to mask his suspicion.

Haley and Isaac exchanged looks, then he answered: "Backpacking trip. Yeah, we're doing canyoneering--the whole bit."

"Not easy," Haley added, smiling back at everyone.

"I guess not," the minister said, motioning for the next person to enter the creek for their baptism. "We are reinforcing that link...to the Lord. His works of nature are a beauty to withhold."

"I hear ya," Isaac agreed, walking down to the creek to fill his canteen.

Haley was getting uncomfortable. Although the overall vibe was friendly, they had been living apart from people for so long she didn't know how to interact any longer. Paranoia was front and center all the time. The two of them had escaped so many tight situations it made them fearful of everyone. So as a result of this mindset, they were taken by surprise when the leader of the Gospelites asked them if they wanted to have lunch with them.

"We don't want to be a burden," Haley replied, looking to Isaac for guidance.

"Don't wanta be a bother," Isaac chimed in, exchanging glances with Haley. "It's very generous of you...but...I don't know. Are you sure--"

"We had a bountiful crop this year, thanks to the Lord," the leader explained, telling them they had a small farm down by the Verde River where they grew organic produce. "Please, join us." Several other members of his group encouraged them to stay for lunch.

Embarrassed by their reaction to an earnest invitation, Isaac finally said: "If you have enough to go around...okay."

He knew their invitation wouldn't be free of some pinpoint proselytizing but they were hungry, starving even. Their meager supplies had run out the day before and they had been scavenging the forest for anything edible. Just two days before they had come across two people, a couple, who had apparently died from starvation. The two bodies were intertwined, locked together in an embrace of death. So many people had taken to the backcountry in order to stay ahead of the authorities. Lacking any survival skills, the average person didn't last long, perishing from the elements or lack of food. If you did manage to stay ahead of your own individual famine, you were always prey for the council's hunters.

Haley and Isaac couldn't believe their eyes when they saw what the Gospelites had laid out for their picnic lunch. Fresh vegetables and fruits, with just baked bread, along with cheese and thinly sliced meat. It made Isaac realize that they hadn't eaten well in almost a year, having existed on discarded groceries and canned beans pilfered from the pantries of homes. They were both under weight and with their threadbare clothes looked like refugees from a far off war. Haley had gotten so disgusted with her scraggly and knotted hair that she had hacked it off with a knife, leaving it uneven and only a inch or two in length. Isaac's hair had grown down to his shoulders, which he kept tied in a pony tail.

Trying not to be gluttons, they gobbled down the food, as the Gospelites encouraged them to eat, while they plied them with theological interrogatives, steering the conversation towards Jesus and the "world force" that existed in and around Sedona. Isaac and Haley nodded and mumbled replies in between bites of food, knowing full well that they could have been talking about the devil himself and it wouldn't have registered. Isaac couldn't remember when the taste of a ripe tomato had tasted so good. Haley marveled at how a fresh apple, crisp and sweet, could be so satisfying.

After they had finished eating, Haley accompanied a few of the women down to the river to wash the utensils and dishes. They all wore the same, what she called, beatific smiles, as if they knew a new type of contentment, one that couldn't be damaged by anything the world had to throw their way. She had seen that look before on the faces of her religious group back in California. They wore it like a shield, something to ward off disappointment, depression, discouragement, knowing it couldn't be penetrated. She had experienced it herself, before, back then. Part of her wished that she could return to that state of perpetual bliss, forever safe in your ignorance. I can remember making fun of people like that, she thought, but now it seemed preferable to what her existence had become, hunted, never knowing if you were living your last moments on earth.

Then she was suddenly nauseated and was vomiting. There was an instant murmuring from the women, heartfelt, and full of knowing concern. Haley was embarrassed, hoping they didn't think that she hadn't appreciated the food she had been offered. She had eaten so much her stomach felt distended and she was queasy. A woman rushed over to her and dabbed a rag soaked in cool water on her forehead. Sheepishly, Haley thanked her.

"Sister," one of the women asked, as she handed Haley the wet cloth, "are you ready for the miracle that is coming your way?"

Haley looked up at the woman, confused, and replied, "The what?"

A few of the other women tittered and the woman exclaimed, "I sensed it right away...from the syncopated beat. It is all around us and in the forest too."

"Excuse me," Haley stated, becoming annoyed by their new age jargon and assumed holiness.

The woman looked at her with that looking into eternity gaze that Haley had seen so many times before with religious zealots and told her: "You are carrying one of the Lord's little masterpieces, Haley."

Haley looked down at her stomach for a moment, then back at the woman and said, sputtering, "No way. Can't be. I...I--"

"But you are," the woman assured her, while a few other women chimed in with their opinions.

Now Haley realized why she had been having nausea lately. She had attributed her spells to the forest food they had been foraging for the last couple of weeks. It had never occurred to her that she was pregnant. The realization flooded into her mind and then her vision went blurry and she fainted.

When she came to Isaac was holding her hand and everyone was standing around her. They were all smiling, happy to be witness to another affirmation of God's will. She saw the look on Isaac's face and knew that he had been told of her condition. What they both feared had come to pass. As fugitives, there was little or no room for any adjustments. Being pregnant, having a baby, they were impossibilities. Their lifestyle was tenuous at best, living from day to day, even hour to hour at times.

"You alright?" Isaac wanted to know, as he held her hand and wiped her brow.

"What happened?"

"You passed out," he told her, smirking. "Guess you ate too much food, huh?"

"Funny," she muttered, trying to stand up. She staggered to her feet, while Isaac supported her. "I hope you don't think I do this sort of thing all the time," she joked, smiling at everyone. She could see the women beaming back at her.

"I've heard the expression 'to die for,'" the leader proclaimed to laughter, but 'to faint for' is a new one on me."

Get me away from those village of damned faces, she thought, then turned to Isaac and said in almost a whisper, "Maybe we should get going."

"Think you are up to?" he asked, concerned.

Great, now I'm marked as the pregnant one, the one who has to be treated like I'm carrying precious cargo. God I used to hate how women were treated that way, she thought. "Of course I am. Let's thank them and get out of here."

Isaac was beginning to form a new plan for them. The revelation had been a thunderbolt out of the blue but now he was beginning to come to grips with it. They wouldn't be able to keep on the move for much longer. The Gospelites would probably welcome them, especially since they just learned that Haley was carrying a child. We can hide out for a while, get our bearings, he thought. Their commune by the river, with its apparently abundant sources of food, would offer them refuge from what they were going to be facing on the move.

"Listen," he told her, moving in close so he could speak in a whisper, "maybe we should rethink our next move. You know, these people have offered us to stay with them...through the duration of...of--"

"You can say it," she snapped, grimacing from a pain that stitched into her stomach. "It's not a disease."

He warded off a laugh then replied, "We can't keep moving with you pregnant. There, I said it. It's not safe...for you or the baby."

Haley realized he was right. They often times hiked twenty miles in a day in order to keep ahead of Reverend Worthy's squads of enforcers and then their were the bounty hunters to worry about. It wasn't in any way realistic to think she could stay on her feet so long much longer. She would be putting the baby at risk.

"How about you two come back to the farm and see whether or not you like it or not," the leader offered, with a few women chiming in too. "Tonight is spaghetti night," he sang out, grinning. "You like spaghetti--don't you?"

Haley and Isaac looked at each other then said in unison: "Yeah!"

The others laughed and it was decided. Off they went to what the Gospelites called Elysium, the commune by the river, with the organic orchards and vegetable patches, along with a dairy and other livestock. Utopia light, Haley was thinking, as one of the women showed them around, stopping frequently to explain how they remained, for the most part, self-sufficient and didn't have to rely on any outsiders in order to feed themselves.

Isaac marveled at how they had set up a working irrigation system to draw water from the river to keep the fields irrigated. Drawing on the blueprint laid down by the Native Americans so many centuries before, they maintained a lush, viable garden of Eden, so boasted the leader, setting aside his usual humble nature. He was proud that they had been able to live within the strictures of their tenets and thrive, living apart from the outside world to maintain their connection to "Lord's natural divinity."

Isaac ignored the religious overtones, and overtures, as he studied what they had laid out by the river. "Harmonious interconnection," the leader labeled it, motioning with out stretched arms, turning 360 degrees to take in the entire valley. Isaac offered no comments, wondering how they had managed to tame the high desert ecosystem, especially in the difficult political environment. The regional Council had, for the most part, ignored the Gospelites, permitting them to flourish as long as they stayed under the radar. Nominally, they were Christian of course, but they bent and twisted the standing doctrines to include stray pieces of Buddhism, Hinduism, and any number of catchall religious tracts that fit their needs. Even though any ecumenical detente had long ago been expunged from the existing religious laws, the Gospelites went their own way.

"And the Council doesn't say anything?" Isaac wanted to know, staring at the leader, looking for any cracks in this improbable facade.

The leader smiled back at him and proclaimed in his usual sonorous voice: Like in Matthew 7:15, where it says: Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves? Do we look like wolves to you, Isaac?"

Isaac looked back at him, then around the commune and laughed, saying, "I guess not." He was thinking they looked like a cult, one of those typical inbred tribes who drew on circular logic to bolster their beliefs and would, in time, close in on themselves and eventually self-destruct. He just hoped that it wouldn't happen while they were taking up residence there. In the new world order of things scruples and integrity had been jettisoned for what was readily expedient and that was survival. When and if the time came, Isaac was fully prepared to turn his back on the Gospelites if need be. Although he wasn't proud of his fresh set of convictions, he wasn't going to let anything prevent him and Haley from surviving.

Later, when they had been settled into a yurt, designed by one of the Gospelites, who had been an engineer in his former life before finding his nirvana by the river, Haley turned to Isaac and hissed: "His name is Leader. Not that he is their leader but Leader." Her eyes grew wide and she added, "Creepy."

"Why are you whispering?" he wanted to know, grinning.

"Are you kidding? Like they won't have people spying on us or anything. Get serious here, Isaac. Sure they invited us and all but do you really think they trust us? I wouldn't."

"I wouldn't trust us either," he joked.

Their new life was good, comfortable, with all the amenities they had enjoyed in their past life, before they were revolutionaries and on the run. Their revolutionary ardor had suffered over the last few months, depleted by privation and the knowledge that they were one false step away being interned, left to rot in a cell. The Gospelites had a genius for devising a well run society on a small scale, complete with solar and wind power that afforded them a self-sufficient enclave hewed out of the Verde Valley sediment. Organic crops were irrigated by the Verde River and with abundant sunshine and some ingenuity they even had a small vineyard that supplied them with their wine for Sunday communion.

It was a pastoral setting that came with a religious charter, one that was drawn from the writings of a diverse set of religious and historical figures, all blended together to form a mish mash of theocratic input. Leader, a former Wall Street titan, a man who had amassed not only a large bank account but plentiful connections in his time on the Street, was adept at cultivating the people he needed most in order to maintain his functioning utopia. He was tall, with a commanding voice and a shaved head that gave him the look of some mid level pharaoh. Before, like his new found savior, he had been a Jew, although non practicing with a secular set of parents who saw humanism as the closest thing to a viable religion as any.

He had found religion by accident one night or, as he liked to call it, his Saul to Damascus moment. There, on a dark street corner in Tribeca, as he was coming out of his loft co-op, he saw a flash of light overhead. At first he had believed it to be a street light burning out but then he realized the street lights were all lighted up and down the narrow street. Then, above, he looked up to see what looked like a figure reflected on the windows of the building across from where he was standing. Startled, his first reaction was to run, flee back inside his building. As he was beginning to turn to go back inside he heard a voice. At first he thought he was hearing things but then he could hear distinctly and the voice was telling him to gather some people around himself and respect the words of the ones who have brought peace and tranquility.

This tale was told to Isaac and Haley later on, after they had settled in and gotten their work assignments so they could contribute to the Gospelites mission. Isaac had wanted to laugh, while Haley nodded in wonderment, offering her approval with benign comments. Dreamy eyed, trance like, Leader had told them they too would know what he knows in due time, brought into the fold by the natural progression of things. Their souls would soon be able to merge with the Holy natural spirit and they would know what they needed to know.

"That was some pretty fine gobble-d-gook," Isaac said later as they were making their way back to their yurt.

Haley looked around, making sure no one could overhear them talking and said, "The man's a fruit cake for sure. We can't make any waves though, Isaac. Promise me you aren't going to cause any trouble, okay? Play along, at least until we decide what our next move is. We do have a kid on the way, you know."

"I was thinking I might want to be Leader," he joked. "Why not? He gets a better yurt and I hear he gets plenty of action--if you know what I mean."

"You'd like that, huh. Some of these Gospelite women are pretty hot," she shot back, smacking his arm. "Just because I'm fat and disgusting doesn't mean you get to get your jollies all over the commune, buddy. I'd better not see you sneaking out of somebody else's yurt."

He feigned innocence and told her: "I feel the natural spirit every time I'm with you, Haley. You know that."

"Bullshit," she muttered.

Isaac was slated to work in the fields, which suited him fine. He liked being in the outdoors and now that he was well fed his strength returned more and more everyday. Haley worked with the children in the children's house, a large yurt in the center of the commune where all the children were housed. Leader had ordained that the camp's off-spring would be communal property after they reached the age of four years old, informing all of his adherents that natural law dictated the community have a hand in raising the children. The parents relinquished their children willingly, believing the collective monitoring by the Gospelite community was better able to pass on their message.

After a while Haley grew to love the atmosphere of the commune, especially the quiet resonance that the river offered, and even though the Gospelites were bordering on being crazy, with a religion short on magisterial rites but long on cultist boundaries, she found herself at peace with her surroundings. Isaac, on the other hand, chafed at being in an environment where he had to feign allegiance to a figure head who represented the terrestrial representative of an oddball theology. He was beyond religion as a whole, so he liked to tell Haley often. Religion had destroyed his life, it was as simple as that.

"After I give birth we can leave," she assured him, hoping that he wouldn't disturb their living arrangements. Although the Gospelites were a generous and peaceful group, they couldn't take any chances. For some unknown reason the commune was exempt from the regional council's religious dictums. They enjoyed some quasi-governmental reprieve of some sort, a functioning hiatus that confused Isaac, making him wary of their ultimate motives. Current times made it difficult to trust anyone. Everyone had motives. It was necessary to play within the guidelines. There was too much to lose otherwise.

"Haley, we can't let our guard down. Not even with these people," Isaac reminded her. "One false step...remember."

"I know, Isaac," she assured him, trying not to think about their close call back in the Four Peaks area, when they were nearly captured and had to escape through the forest. If it hadn't been dusk, with the sunlight failing, they would have been caught by the gang of bounty hunters who had teamed up to cash in on the reward that had been placed on Isaac's head. "Everybody...anyone could turn us in."

They had been startled one day as they were leaving Flagstaff to see a flyer tacked to a telephone pole with Isaac's photo on it. In bold letters it proclaimed that he was armed and dangerous. Looking closer, they saw that it mentioned he might be traveling with a female companion, also considered dangerous. Anyone seeing them was urged to contact Reverend Worthy's task force. At the bottom of the page in red print was written: 100 thousand dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest of Isaac Hawkins. "That's my Marine picture at boot camp," Isaac muttered, snickering. "Handsome dude, huh?" Haley stared at the flyer for a minute, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, then replied, "It looks like you and that's a problem."

Isaac was a multiple murderer, an enemy of the State, so said the flyer, an escapee and anti-religionist. The murders on the forest road had been chalked up to him. He was blood thirsty. He didn't respect their religion. He needed to be found and done away with. Old Testament dictates required it. There would be no merciful god.

"Feathers blowing in the wind," Leader called out, while there were numerous amen's uttered all around them. It was a phrase he liked to use often, applying it to many diverse sentiments and concepts. That it was nonsense didn't seem to register with the others, who would sit spellbound as he expounded on any and all subjects, weaving them all together like a celestial recipe. "We are the human community," he went on to state, emphasizing "the" with his eyebrows arched.

Isaac and Haley had come down to the river's edge for the daily call to prayer, a regular morning exercise in cross cultural, inter-religious sermonizing. It was a pious pep talk for the commune. While Leader stood in the middle, the others sat on benches that made a circle around him. His frequent performances were a blend of old time preacher and new age sage acting, with a Q and A tacked on at the end so as to add a nice catechism touch to further bolster the message for the day. Predictably, Isaac detested the meetings, just managing to conceal his distaste for having to listen to some pompous poseur everyday drone on for an hour or so. He couldn't imagine how Leader found so much to talk about each and every day.

The community revolved around Leader though. He was the vital cog in the machinery, managing to insert his management skills layered with Biblical and other religious tracts into the lectures. He had made millions in the financial sphere by using his keen perception and people skills to reap the monetary benefits. Isaac liked to point out to Haley that Jesus, with his charisma and speaking talent could have been a sybarite too if he wanted to, using the word Leader liked to use when referring to his former life back East.

With Haley urging him, Isaac endured the life on the commune. He wore his powder blue coveralls and went off to work in the fields. He liked learning the skills necessary to grow a crop. It was backbreaking labor at times but rewarding in that way a person gains by seeing their work have dividends. At night, during the evening meal, when the community gathered to thank their god for another day on his earth, he could see and taste the end product. Shovels of dirt, cool river water, sunshine, seeds, it all came together. Toiling brought nourishment, it was elemental. He liked that. The seasons dictated the order of things, removing it from man and his need to find structure, to explain it in one way or another.

It wasn't long before they realized that although they were living in a community of people who strove to complete their mission, a mission that was aligned with a group of historical figures who had handed down spiritual perimeters, there was still a secular aspect to the workings of the commune. Tit for tat as in any bureaucracy, big and small, existed, thrived even. There were administrative duties to perform. Underlings sought Leader's favor as in any hierarchy. Small scale intrigued flourished. Petty grievances didn't disappear because of some dusty writings laid down so many years ago. Human nature couldn't be altered because of some lofty proclamations that were reputed to assuage any backbiting traits.

"Nothing changes," Isaac told Haley one day, as they were walking along the river after the work day was over. "One guy wants this and the other guy wants that...the next thing you know they are willing to do this or that to get what they want. Doesn't matter whether or not they believe in Buddha or some Hindu divinity or not. It still comes down to humans being human. Right?"

Haley gently tapped him on the side of the head and announced, "Are you becoming a philosopher now or what?"

"Funny," he said flatly, looking at the animal tracks in the muddy river bed. "Damn javelinas," he spat out, kicking at the mud, "they're wiping out our squash again."

"Ever think you would become such a farmer before?" she wanted to know, smirking.

"Hilarious today aren't we," he shot back, grabbing her in a bear hug. "How about you go for a swim today, huh?"

She squealed, then cried out, "Don't you dare!"

"They think they have found the answer here but they haven't," he declared, setting her back down.

"You're mood swings are worse than mine," she chided, staring at him for a moment.

"Sorry, but I guess I was brought up to believe something and when that something turns out to be just plain stupid, evil even, I can't get past it," Isaac explained. "Everybody's gotta have something to hold on to, you know. It's just kinda sad--if you take the time to think about it."

"Don't think about it. There's your answer," she stated, laughing.

He laughed too but knew he couldn't stop brooding about it, before saying: "Hey, I'll race you to the dinner hall."

"You do know I'm pregnant, right?" she called out, as he ran down the trail and waved.

Haley was just beginning to show. She fretted about her weight and pestered the doctor at the commune, another east coast transplant, a woman, who had abandoned her GP practice in Delaware when a friend had convinced her to come west to participate in the new experiment by the river. In line with her personality, she micromanaged her pre-natal care, insisting on adhering to a schedule that even the doctor thought excessive. As a patient she was obstinate and irritable. The other women at the commune thought her to be aggressive and self-centered. The birth of her child was a community event, something for everyone to embrace, to enjoy. It was another life, the next miracle in their midst. Haley refused to be escorted around by a revolving set of "sisters," there to give her comfort and encouragement. Isaac found it amusing to watch her discomfort with all the attention.

It took Haley several years to forget the aftermath of the conflagration that had taken her family. Being by the river soothed her thoughts, her memories. Still, her surroundings came with drawbacks. Elysium was insulated, where everyone knew what everyone else was doing. Because the Gospelites believed in an alphabet of religions it made it difficult to pigeon hole their dogma, almost like a freeform pursuit of spiritual sustenance. Did she even need religion any longer, she wondered. It had helped her before, after the catastrophe in California, something to ward off her mounting grief. Now, though, she had seen the new order close up and knew that the human race wasn't capable of ever living without man made strife.

And then there was the child she was bringing into this world, something that plagued her thoughts, especially at night when she experienced vivid nightmares so frightening that she often times awoke with a start. Haley didn't want to think about their future and the child's. He, or she, would be forced to live in the defined dimension, one where allegiance to the Bible was not only sacrosanct but the law. It was as if time itself had been turned in on itself and history was being re-enacted on a large scale. What would become of them?

"Hello, Haley, I'm talking to you!" Isaac called out.

She looked up at him standing in the doorway to their yurt and replied sheepishly, "Daydreaming...again, sorry."

"You have been doing a lot of that lately, girl," he teased, laughing. "Look, I'm going to be late today because we are doing some irrigation work down river, so don't wait for me to go to dinner, okay? Go with your buddies."

"Very funny," she called out, as he disappeared down the steps to the yurt. She was late for work and climbed out of bed hurriedly, knowing her supervisor, a woman who was all business, would chide her for not being there on time. "Got to get going," she said aloud, noticing that sunlight was already coming up over the Mollogon rim to the east.

Chapter 9 Listen To John

For the great day of their wrath has come, and who is able to survive.

Revelations 6:17

Reverend Worthy worked out of his church office, which was off of the old route 66 in what was formerly a warehouse. It had been converted into a makeshift church a few years before in order to accommodate his large congregation. Out front, by the highway, was stationed a large iron cross which had been donated by a local artist who specialized in art for public places. The cross stood some thirty feet high and was unadorned since a federal law enacted in 2017 outlawed any semblance of a crucifix from being displayed in public. The amendment was the final assault on the Catholic Church, eliminating it as a functioning religious body in the United States. The Reverend was proud of the cross, so much so that he improved on the artist's creation by installing a spotlight to shine on the cross all night long.

The mayor of Flagstaff was mayor in name only. He took his marching orders from Reverend Worthy, who handed down daily decrees that were carried out by the mayor's staff. The arrangement was not uncommon. The balance between the civic and the religious entity leaned only one way. City business was conducted mostly by church fiat. This left the Reverend a busy man, continually encumbered by the trivial and niggling governmental duties. He farmed out much of the duty to an underling, a recent graduate of the federal seminary for the West in Phoenix. His name was Absalom Heath.

Absalom came from a family with parents officially tagged with the "fallen suspects" label, who had been arraigned several times in the past and given sentences for reparative counseling. That they had been labeled incorrigibles made it all the more difficult for their son to advance. His career, though stunted at first, moved along when he showed "ardor" when it came to enforcing the standing religious codes. He studied hard and graduated first in his class; but it was his hounding of his own parents that proved his mettle in the continuing war with the non-believers and backsliders that perpetually plagued the advancement of the cause.

He had handed over a detailed dossier of his parent's transgressions and then testified at their hearing, eventually being responsible for having them sent to jail. Absalom milked the resulting publicity for his advantage and landed the plum job with Reverend Worthy as a result. Although he had a great obstacle to overcome because of his family background, he was on a fast track to success in the New Order.

Absalom was ambitious, so Reverend Worthy could see just by looking into his eyes. They burned with a fervor that the Reverend liked to see in all of his staff. He had been named after King David's son, a figure in the Bible, the Old Testament, who murdered his brother for raping his sister and wanted to overthrow his father. God's will must be carried out and there was no room or time for anyone who harbored any doubts about their mission there on earth. The end times were coming and all the preparations necessary for a smooth transition to the next world had to be in place. Two minutes into their initial interview told Reverend Worthy that Absalom, the young man with the checkered family history, could be relied on to accomplish what needed to be done. In the Reverend's experience with the crusaders on the front lines, he knew that the ones who had the most to prove were the ones to fight the hardest and could be reliable to the very end.

Several weeks before, as Reverend Worthy was shaking up his staff by hiring several new employees and reassigning others, he had called Absalom into his office. A report from the local Moral Men squad had landed on his desk and he wanted it acted on immediately. The report had details about a recent arrest made down in the Verde Valley. The man had been caught trying to sell unlawful material he had pilfered from a small community in the valley. Some of the goods seized were religious paraphernalia from outlawed religions. A list from the file included gold plated statues of banned divinities and woven tapestries depicting near eastern scenes. During the course of his interrogation by the local police he had passed on some information--hoping to mitigate his crime--about a man he saw working in the fields. The police were skeptical.

Reverend Worthy asked Absalom to look into it and report back to him. He told him to investigate both the sighting and the use of prohibited religious material. The Reverend's predecessor had made the pact with the Gospelites, in the interest of live and let live, and Worthy had neglected to abrogate any previous arrangements that had been made. He kept the minor problem on the back burner, choosing to take it up in due time. The time had arrived.

Absalom, with a six member squad from the Moral Men, headed down to the Verde Valley. He liked being given assignments. It proved that Reverend Worthy had confidence in him. Also, it gave him pleasure when it came to eradicating the bad elements that were impediments to the cause--to the Lord's work. He knew of the Gospelites, about their inherent peculiarities, and had wondered why the Reverend had not intervened until now. They were clearly outside the norm, even blasphemers. By his way of thinking, there was absolutely no instance where a person could entertain the idea of homogenizing the one true religion. His seminary training had taught him the foolishness of that perspective. All other incarnations of religion in the world were imposters, only in existence to confuse and confound. They were the work of the devil.

He was eager to sweep in and bring the justice of the Lord to the backsliders and poseurs who dared intermingle Jesus with any other representative of false religions. It would not stand. Not on his watch. Smite them with the Lord, he muttered under his breath, as they drove south in a white van with the requisite red and black cross interlaced with the double M logo emblazoned on the sides.

Absalom had briefed the squad before hand, telling them that they were reacting to a tip from a patriot, someone who had seen a fugitive and that he was to be considered a threat and dangerous. What he didn't inform them was that he was also on a fact finding mission of sorts. He fully intended on taking the time to find out about the Gospelites and how, ultimately, best to eradicate them. A ban on all other religions meant exactly that and he intended on seeing the law was followed to the letter. There would be no leeway. He was mystified why Reverend Worthy had turned a blind eye to the apostates living right in their region, their sector.

Haley was surprised to see Isaac at the dining hall for lunch. He had told her he would be laying irrigation pipes all day and not to expect him until after dinner. She carried her tray of food over to where he was sitting, exchanging greetings with his work crew, who all admired her glow from the pregnancy, something she had grown tired of hearing, especially since she felt fatter by the day and not the least bit attractive. Isaac returned her smile and she giggled at his appearance, where mud splatters had turned his blue coveralls into an odd camouflage pattern. There was a smudge of dirt across his forehead where he had wiped the sweat off with the back of his work gloved hand. The aroma at the table of workers smelled of river water but she had become accustomed to the scent.

"We got done early today on the project," Isaac informed her, sliding the chair out for her to sit down. "Pretty easy stuff."

"Efficiency is number one here at Elysium," she said mockingly, laughing. "You're a mess."

"Kiss me," he teased, leaning over to buss her on the mouth.

"Yuk," she cried out, pushing him away while the other workers laughed.

"We'll be outside," the foreman announced, pushing back from the table and standing up. "Take your time."

"Be there in a minute, boss," Isaac called out, grinning because he knew he didn't like to be called that. The commune in theory had no supervisors because everyone was supposed to be on an equal footing. The foreman grunted and headed to the back to drop off his tray. The others muttered a few heartfelt salutations to Haley and followed the foreman outside.

"Another day in paradise," Haley muttered, picking at her food.

"Eat," Isaac ordered gently, pointing at her plate of fresh vegetables.

"Yes, sir," she muttered, plucking a piece of zucchini off her plate and popping it into her mouth.

"Beats what we were eating a few weeks ago, Haley," he scolded, frowning at her. "Sure is nice to have a full stomach everyday, right?"

She nodded yes, then said, "I don't know, Isaac, sometimes this whole Gotterdammerung fixation around here gets to me."

"What the hell's that?" he asked, bewildered. "Sounds like a disease or something."

"I guess you could say it is, in a way," she mumbled. "It's from German mythology...where the gods duke it out at the end of the world. You know, the end times sort of thing," she added in hushed tones, looking around to make sure no one could overhear their conversation. "I spent the whole morning listening to my work mate tell me about how she was going to be prepared for the end of the world...how her and her family had made all the spiritual preparations necessary. Whew, it was a grueling few hours, believe me."

"I hope you didn't say anything to her," he said, alarmed for a moment. "I mean we can't afford to piss any of these people off, you know."

"Don't worry, silly, I didn't say anything to her," Haley replied, making a face at him. "I'm not that stupid. Then again, it would have been nice to ask her what mythology she was following when the world does come to an end. I mean I can't make heads or tails of these people's eschatology or teleology or whatever you call it. I can't remember anymore. Does being pregnant make you stupid?"

"Not you, honey, you are the most brilliant person I know," Isaac said in a mock worshipping tone.

"You want me to add tomato stains to your smelly coveralls?" she threatened.

"I'm good," he said, pulling away.

Right then there was an announcement on the camp loudspeakers telling everyone that they had to assemble in the quad area, no exceptions. Isaac and Haley exchanged looks. The members slowly made there way out of the dining hall.

"Great, not a pep talk from our fearless leader, Leader," Haley said a little too loudly, immediately hoping that no one nearby had heard her.

"Probably another progress report on how good things are going," Isaac whispered, rolling his eyes.

"Let's be good authoritarians and line up like the rest of them," Haley joked in a robotic voice.

"Man, you wouldn't have lasted two minutes in the Service," Isaac told her, laughing.

Once outside, where they were the last two to arrive for formation, something they did often to receive announcements from Leader, several lines of members arranged in a orderly fashion, they were horrified to see the familiar white helmets of the Moral Men at the front standing next to Leader. He was conferring with a tall man wearing a dark colored suit. Haley reached over and latched onto Isaac's hand and held it tightly. They both feared saying anything to each other.

"These men are here to inspect Elysium," Leader called out, trying to keep his voice composed. "I have told them they have our complete cooperation. We welcome everyone here to see our experiment by the river."

The tall man stepped up next to Leader and announced in a loud voice: "My men will be passing among you. There is no need for alarm. This is strictly a routine matter. It will be over very soon and you will be able to return to your work. The council thanks you for your time."

Out of the corner of his eye Isaac could see the men fanning out to his right. They slowly passed down the line, stopping here and there. No one spoke. The only sound was the wind blowing in the cottonwoods, rustling the branches. He could feel the warm sun beating down on his neck. The men were getting closer. They were now in his line of vision. To his horror, he now saw that they were holding up the flyer he had seen back in Flagstaff posted on the telephone pole. The Moral Men were comparing the photo on the flyer to each man standing in the line.

His body was frozen in place. There was no escape. He didn't know whether or not Haley had seen what they were doing. He dared not move or show any reaction. Maybe, just maybe, the photo wasn't a good likeness. His hair had been shorter then. There was that smudge of dirt on his face.

The man holding the flyer stepped up in front of him. He glanced at the photo on the flyer then at Isaac. He paused and took another look at the photo. He seemed to be deciding, letting the features assemble in his mind, matching nose to nose, eyes to eyes, mouth to mouth. Isaac, if alone, would have made a run for it, but Haley was there. Perhaps he might have had a chance by himself.

"Got him!" the man shouted out, stepping back to draw his hand gun and train it on Isaac.

The tall man in the dark suit hurried down the line, snatching the flyer out of the man's hand. He held it up next to Isaac's face and stared first at the flyer then at Isaac. Satisfied, he snapped his fingers and ordered several others to place him in handcuffs. Leader, fearing the coming repercussions, started babbling about them not being regular members, that they had just taken them in recently because of the woman's condition. His plaintive voice was silenced when Absalom slapped him hard across the face, sending him reeling. There was an audible gasp from the gathered Gospelites. The Moral Men brandished their guns and ordered everyone to step back.

"Mr. Hawkins," Absalom sneered, stepping up close to get in his face, "we finally got you. Nobody gets away from the council. Nobody." Turning to Haley, he continued, "And is this your lovely wife? How cozy. Living here in damnable sin as the guests of the Gospelites. She carries the demon seed too. Very convenient. Nice surroundings. River view. Enjoying the fruits of the devil, I see. Oh how you sinners deprive the rest of us from the joys of the Lord. My, my, how you must have handed over your souls for all of this."

"I assure you, sir, that we did not know of this man's past," Leader whined, still holding his hand up to his face where he had been slapped.

"May I," Absalom asked one of his men, who handed over his hand gun. "You will sin no more," he stated, turning in one motion and shooting Leader in the head. A few of the Gospelites protested and he trained the gun in their direction. "Any more candidates for hell?" he shouted out. "I didn't think so."

"So this is Biblical retribution?" Isaac called out as he was being led away.

"Wait," Absalom ordered, holding up his hand, "the heretic wants to speak." A few of the Moral men laughed. "Been enjoying your nirvana with wine and wafer have we?" he joked, poking Isaac in the ribs with the gun. "Reverend Worthy will be glad to see you. One more sinner we won't have to worry about."

"Listen, she has nothing to do with any of what you think I've done," Isaac pleaded. "Let her go."

"Let her go, he says," Absalom announced, sneering, before placing the hand gun up against the side of Isaac's head. "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him," he quoted, patting the small Bible that he kept at all times in his coat pocket.

"John 3," Isaac bellowed out as he was being dragged towards the van.

"The devil has prepared you well. Listen, men, he has evil in his veins," Absalom stated, holding his hands up to the heavens.

"My father prepared me well...he was a nutcase just like you," Isaac yelled out, laughing.

Absalom hurried up to Isaac and pistol whipped him. When he fell to the ground Absalom kicked him several times in the side, then screamed: "Burn it down! All of it! Revelation 14:11: And the smoke of their torment ascends forever and ever; and they have no rest day or night, who worship the beast and his image, and whoever receives the mark of his name."

The Moral Men scattered throughout the commune, burning each yurt as they went. Several Gospelites tried to intervene but were beaten savagely then shot. The flames grew and smoke rose over the river. Women and children cried out for mercy, invoking the god they thought they shared with Absalom. Isaac and Haley were thrown into the back of the van. Absalom stood by and surveyed his men's handiwork, smiling.

A Gospelite, a woman, approached Absalom and begged him to spare their homes, crying out: "Please, be merciful...this is not what Jesus would want."

Absalom grabbed the woman by the throat and told her: "You know nothing of our savior Jesus Christ, whore. You are worse than pestilence. Vile. Be happy that I'm not executing you on the spot." He then hurled her to the ground and climbed into the van.

It was a long drive back to Flagstaff. Absalom read from his tiny bible as they wound their way up the canyon. Isaac and Haley stared at each other, as she fought back tears. He knew there would be no merciful god at the end of the road, while Haley still clung to hope that at the very least they would want to spare the child. Forced pregnancies had been one of the hallmarks of the New Order, having banned contraception and abortion long ago. Birthing was a national attribute, patriotic and a religious devotion to the Lord. Surely they wouldn't permit her to be executed until she could have the baby.

I fought for this, Isaac told himself, glancing out the window at the canyon walls vibrant in the afternoon sunlight. He knew dozens of his friends who had died in wars for the forwarding of the omniscient lunacy he was trapped by. Words written so long ago had been warped and weaved into a pattern, a set of laws that created a framework for tyranny.

He realized that his world reality had entered that post-apocalyptic stage he had heard so much about when he was growing up. The irony settled over him, as he watched Haley try to suppress her sniffles, pushing back against the weight of their predicament. Maybe, just maybe, Jesus Christ had made his return, unannounced, and this form of reality was of divine providence. The Bible had gotten it wrong. Petty, vicious disciplinarians like Absalom were prophets for the new paradise. The second coming only heralded more of the same for the world, with the usual line up of violence and unrelenting hardship. The joke was on me, he thought.

It was called the Tyndale Law and it was going to come down hard on Isaac and Haley. William Tyndale had been accused of heresy and brutally executed back in the 1500's. Manner of execution was up to the discretion of the local authorities, in this case, Reverend Worthy. There would be a show trail, with no witnesses called. Any pursuit of Habeas Corpus had been forfeited in the interest of facilitating the proceedings. They would have no legal representation, only a brief statement to be entered into the transcripts, which would be in turn sealed for twenty-five years. The clock on history had been successfully turned back, back before even the Magna Carta, particularly clause 39, where no freeman shall be imprisoned as derived from the Petition of Right drafted in 1628.

When they arrived in Flagstaff, pulling into the police station, Absalom got on his cell phone and called Reverend Worthy. Although he knew he had to bring the Reverend up to speed on the new developments, Absalom wanted to some how make sure he wasn't going to lose control of the situation. He was due the credit, the glory as he saw it. Reverend Worthy would sweep in and take over the publicity, sucking up the lime light as he usually did. Absalom had to ensure that he was in the picture as well. He had decided to stage a visible arrest scene at the police station, calling the local newspaper in the process, who had sent an eager reporter to file a story.

There would be photographs of the capture and Absalom wanted to be the man standing next to the criminal that had massacred so many people and evaded the authorities for so long. He knew he wouldn't be able to bask in the public's approval once the brief trial and execution began but he was determined to have his name associated with the hunting and eventual seizure of two desperados on the run. Once the reporters got the scent he would be there to offer up scripture and details of the manhunt, all in a humble tone of voice. Reverend Worthy would be irritated at his grand standing but it would be too late for him to prevent any of it from happening.

"They didn't put up much of a fight because we surprised them," Absalom announced to the crowd gathered around the front of the police station, one of the few true things he would go on to say for the remainder of the interviews, which were being broadcast on the local TV stations and on the internet. "It says in Romans 13: 2: Therefore he who resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment."

"Is it true that he was with his wife and that she is pregnant?" one TV reporter asked, holding her microphone up close to his face.

Absalom stared at her for a moment, frowned, then said, "Yes, it's true that there is an evil offspring...and we can't let ourselves get caught up in any...you know, sense of mercifulness." There was a murmuring through the gathered crowd of news people. He held up his hands to quiet them and added, "The Lord will lead us to do the right thing, I can assure you of that. Reverend Worthy has experience with these types of matters." He smiled back at the gaggle of yelling reporters, knowing that he had handed the most difficult task over to the Reverend, thereby absolving himself of the most problematic aspect of the arrests.

The right thing included torture. Absalom had spoken with Reverend Worthy, advising him to build a public case against Isaac and Haley, demonstrating that they were enemies of not only religion but the State as well. There should be no question in the people's mind, no doubt.

"They are the corrupt tree that will bear corrupt fruit," Absalom intoned, tapping the mini-bible in his breast pocket.

"God's will calls for it," Reverend Worthy agreed.

Haley and Isaac were driven to a non-descript building off of route 89 by a team of Moral Men. Once there, they were dragged into a makeshift cell in the back of the building. Isaac realized immediately what was in store for them because the warden had often warned that he would one day be a visitor to "the site" if he didn't correct his ways. At first it had seemed like an empty threat, laughable even, but over time he would hear stories told to him by the guards about the sessions held there and knew there had to be some truth in what they were saying. After all, he had endured interrogations at the reparative camp himself that leaned toward the sadistic.

There was a man dressed in all black standing there waiting for them as they were escorted into the room. He could smell the lingering odor of burning human flesh, something he knew he would never forget from his time in war, the caustic, pungent aroma of pending death. Absalom greeted the man, shaking his hand formally in deference to the man's reputation. Isaac and Haley were stripped to their underwear and placed in large custom designed wooden chairs some ten feet apart and strapped in.

The man in black muttered something under his breath which sounded like a prayer of some sort, ending in praise to Jesus Christ. Then he walked over to a table across the room and began assembling a set of tools. There was only one light on in the room and Isaac could barely make out what the man was doing. Haley had closed her eyes and was mumbling to herself.

"Are those false prayers I hear?" Absalom called out and a few of the Moral Men laughed. "The devil will not hear you today. I can assure you of that."

"She doesn't need to be here," Isaac exclaimed. "Look, I will confess everything to you...everything you need to know. Just take her back to the police station. This doesn't have to happen like this. I'm begging you, Absalom."

Absalom turned on him and shouted out: "Don't use my name! Don't even think about saying it!"

"Okay-okay, but do me this one favor," Isaac pleaded. "She's innocent of any of this. I'm telling you that--"

Absalom reached over and slapped Isaac hard across the face then announced: "Do you think you have rights? You are one of the devil's minions and that means you have nothing to say to us."

The man standing at the table across the room laughed then returned to lining up his instruments. A few of the Moral Men leaned in to offer their comments, with one of them yanking Isaac's head back by his hair. The man in black protested in an ominous tone and the Moral Man released his grip. Absalom motioned for the man to step away.

"I'm not afraid of them," Haley stated in a quiet but stern tone of voice.

Absalom turned on her and said in a menacing voice, "We'll see about that, Jeezebel."

It began with a piercing scream, high pitched, that resounded in the room, seemingly echoing forever. He tried to turn away but two of the Moral Men held his head up so he had to be witness to the act. The man in black held the hot poker against first Haley's thigh and then her right hand.

"Tell us your story," Absalom demanded.

"Go to hell!" she screamed back at him.

"Leave her alone!" Isaac yelled.

Again the man applied the hot poker, this time to her arm. More screams. Isaac struggled against his restraints, trying to break free. Absalom laughed.

"Tell us your story," Absalom repeated.

"What do you want me to say?" Haley bellowed, squirming in the chair.

The tortured continued. The acrid smell filled the room. Some of the Moral Men became queasy at the sight of applied brutality. Absalom pulled out his mini-bible and thumbed through the Old Testament, mumbling passages as he went. Isaac again begged for her to be left alone.

Mercy came with unconsciousness. The man in black tilted her back for a moment, then checked her pulse and smiled. He took a bottle of water and poured it over her head. She sputtered back to life. Absalom grinned appreciatively.

It continued, as the man in black applied more burning scars to her body. One of the Moral Men excused himself and hurried outside, where he could be heard retching in the hallway. Absalom mocked him, as the man in black walked over to stoke the fire in the fireplace across the room. Isaac was now screaming out invectives, in his impotence resorting to verbal abuse. They ignored him.

"Burn her tits," one of the Moral Men suggested.

Absalom glanced at him for a moment, judging whether or not he thought the man was being lascivious in some sort of perverted way, then said, "In due time."

"Tell us your story," Absalom repeated again.

"Your god is not the true god," she exclaimed, spitting in his direction.

He rushed up to her, grabbed her chin, and shouted: "Your god is Satan! You are his whore! Jesus Christ our Lord will destroy you and him."

"Oh god, please stop," Isaac shouted. "She was a Hutchinsonian. Is that what you want to know. She didn't do anything to you."

Absalom whirled on Isaac, surprised, and said, "A what? You mean to tell me she was one of those pathetic women who thought they could take on the servants of the Lord?" He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "This is a waste of time. They were all eliminated, thank you Lord. Now it's time for the real perpetrator, you."

The burning hot poker pressed against his chest and he tried to recoil. The pain spread out from his chest and raced along the other nerves in his body. He tried not to scream. Haley blubbered in the background. Then he felt heat on his right leg and again piercing pain riddled his body. Absalom's face appeared close to his and he could just make out the leering grin through his tears.

"Why did you kill those people?" Absalom wanted to know.

"I didn't kill them," Isaac screamed out, wriggling, dreading the next application of the fire hot poker. "They were killed by the Zapa--" His voice trailed off, replaced by wails of pain.

"Satan made you kill those people," Absalom told him, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. "Your lord master made you kill them--admit it!"

"I told you, you fucking lunatic, I didn't kill them," Isaac bellowed.

"Surely you don't expect us to believe that...do you?" Absalom sang out, laughing. "The Prince of Darkness orders you to do and you do it."

"I would like to kill you, you asshole," Isaac spat out, feeling the hot edge of the tip of the poker nudge up against his forearm.

"Guess what, Isaac, that poker is not going to be nearly as hot as the hell fire you are going to experiencing pretty soon," Absalom warned, grinning. "What is left of your miserable soul is going to fry for sure."

"I'll see you in hell," Isaac announced before finally passing out

It was a beautiful day in the High Country, with a few wispy clouds lingering around Mt Humphries. The monsoon season was a few weeks away, bringing needed rains. Several forest fires had started in the last few days and were burning out of control near Williams. Interstate 40 had been closed for a few hours the day before because of thick black smoke drifting over the highway, backing up traffic in both directions for miles. The continuing drought was beginning to impact the ecology, with the fire season arriving earlier and earlier every year.

"Did you add some prayers for the fire fighters in the sermon?" Reverend Worthy wanted to know, as he sat in the makeshift sacristy that had been set up for the day, waiting to deliver his Sunday sermon.

Irritated, Absalom nodded yes, growing more dissatisfied each Sunday because the Reverend had been farming out his sermons almost every week in order to concentrate on the bureaucratic duties he had usurped from the local politicians. He was a firm believer in the minister writing his own homilies, something that should come naturally if they were agents of the Lord. Reverend Worthy, in Absalom's estimation, was delving far too much into the bureaucrat's domain, leaving what was holy to languish. He told himself that when the time came he wouldn't succumb to the secular side of things so easily.

"The stage is set," Absalom told him, busying himself with the last touches to the sermon. "They did a mic check ten minutes ago. Sounded good."

"Thanks," Reverend Worthy told him. "By the way, Absalom, your idea to have the sermon and executions in the dome was a great idea. It will give us a chance to...to put on an exhibit, to put those three criminals on display. Show the people what happens when they ignore God's will."

"Amen to that," Absalom replied, smiling back at the Reverend. "It's too bad we couldn't burn them though. The fire marshal wasn't on board with that." He laughed briefly, then added in almost a whisper, "The devil never sleeps."

The arena on the college campus had been converted into a gallows, complete with an elevated platform. Both men had wanted to burn Isaac and Haley at the stake, let the "flames of righteousness" engulf them but were thwarted by their desire to hold a church service simultaneously. The domed sports arena was used by the college for football and basketball games. It held over fifteen thousand fans and could be made to seat even more people. Absalom had commandeered the facility with a quick phone call, dropping Reverend Worthy's name, which almost always got results. A spring sporting event had been postponed in order to accommodate their event.

Three gallows had been erected on the scaffold. A third sinner had been also selected to be executed along side Isaac and Haley. "Make sure they gag that puppet of the whore of Babylon if he even attempts to start talking," Reverend Worthy ordered, pointing his finger in the direction of where the three sinners were being held. "The last thing I want is to have to debate some agent of Satan when the time comes to...to, you know."

Absalom nodded that he understood and said, "That has been taken care of, Reverend."

"One more thing," the Reverend said, "no hoods."

"Hoods?" Absalom asked, puzzled.

"Yes, there are to be given no hoods," Reverend Worthy stated, staring at Absalom. "The people are to see their agony, their last breath on God's earth before they travel to hell. Understood? And I don't care about the woman. Same thing for her too. This is not only punitive, of course, but instructive. There are consequences for not following the teachings. Right?"

"Preaching to the choir," Absalom joked and both men laughed.

Absalom then kneeled, offering his daily morning prayers, constantly re-establishing his loyalty with repeated oaths to the Lord, while the Reverend busied himself by perusing the sermon once again, practicing several lines in a low voice. Outside, in the arena, a holiday atmosphere prevailed that was spilling over into the streets. A large TV screen had been set up on the campus grounds for others to see the proceedings that were unfolding inside. A few weeks of advertising had spurned the townspeople to come out for the "Retribution," as it was being called.

Reverend Worthy's liturgy that Sunday leaned heavily on the Ten Commandments, which had become the backbone of almost all legal transactions in the nation. Judeo-Christian dogma had been legitimized when the commandments were inserted into every facet of jurisprudence, from civil ordinances to criminal law. Children from the first grade on were instructed with the commandments as a backdrop. The Supreme Court, on a 8 to 1 vote, had sanctioned it, with the one dissenting vote being the victim of a firebombing of her house two weeks after the decision. She was unhurt in the attack, along with the members in her family, but she resigned from the Court shortly there after.

The congregation in the dome had been whipped into a frenzy by a few firebrand preachers, colleagues of Absalom from his seminary days. Bloodlust was a major component of the modern era ministry, aligning their words with revenge then tying them to pertinent passages from the Bible was a recipe they were all taught almost from day one at the seminary. Moderation equaled weakness. Taking to the pulpit meant going to battle. A war was being waged.

"Are we about ready?" Reverend Worthy asked, fidgeting in his chair, as he pulled at his tie. He always looked forward to the adrenaline rush before going on stage, bringing the Word of God to the people as his own personal mission required. "I can hear the congregation. They sound like some good Christians!"

"Ready," Absalom said, checking with one of his assistants by the door. "We'll bring the sinners in on your cue, right?"

Reverend Worthy stared at his Bible for a moment, mumbled a brief prayer and replied, "On my cue."

There was a loud cheer as he entered from the right, raising the Bible over his head as he went. He pumped his right fist in the air and called out a few hallelujahs to some of the congregation who were sitting in the front rows. A woman broke from the crowd and rushed up to embrace him, before being gently led away by two of his security detail.

"Bless you too," the Reverend told the woman, smiling back at the crowd. "This is going to be a good--no great day for Flagstaff!" he yelled out, shaking the Bible towards the people. "We have the devil on the run. Yes we do."

More cheers. A few people called out: "Hang 'em." and "Save us from evil, Reverend Worthy. He smiled widely, nodding his head. He stood there for a moment by the stage, letting the adulation sweep over him. Then he slowly walked up the steps to the main stage that had been arranged as a sort of parapet to the gallows, which loomed a dozen or so feet above him. He pointed at the three waiting nooses and spoke into the microphone headset he was wearing: "It won't be long now. No. We are going to extinguish some sin today, my fellow Christians." Several people in the front row began chanting: "Reverend Worthy! Reverend Worthy!" The Reverend acknowledged them by pointing his Bible in their direction and smiling, as he was thinking about how Absalom knew what he was doing when he staged an event.

In the holding area, where the three prisoners were being held, there was dead silence. The trio of "sinners" had been fed early that morning, offered their choice of several different selections from a breakfast menu in a macabre display of charity before they were to be put to death. They ate little, as they sat at the table trying to avoid their own thoughts, visions of what was to come in a few hours time.

A talkative minister had been brought in to ease their apprehension and to guide them towards whatever salvation could be salvaged at this late date. Absalom had been sure to point out that they were beyond redemption but wasn't averse to permitting the minister to attempt to "treat their forsaken souls." Isaac had begged off, telling the minister he was mistaken if he thought God, any god, was capable of having any meaning at that juncture. Haley, on the other hand, had accepted the minister's kind words, latching onto something, anything that might assist her before the end came.

The third person to be executed that day was named Winston Bollinger and he was an avowed Catholic, still. In an historical twist, all American Catholics had been made to convert to the New Order religion, forced to renounce the Pope and Rome, often times in public displays of religious piety. The program had been modeled after the 1400's when Spain coerced the Jews to abandon Judaism and become Christians. Former Catholics would go on to be called "collars" after the outfits the priests had once worn.

Winston was in his forties, of medium height, and solidly built. He had once been an iron worker in the Rust Belt, before moving south to Arizona and taking up work in one of the copper mines that hadn't yet to be played out. His faith had migrated with him, something that had been ingrained in him by his German mother. She was from European stock that did battle over the centuries with the Protestants, solidifying and purifying their Roman faith. It had been passed on to her son, who saw the New Order as just another imposter in a long line of Christian charlatans that had tried to usurp Jesus' mantle in the last millennium. He wasn't going to be intimidated.

Two immovable forces collided, eventually. Winston continued to worship with an undergound group of Catholics in Flagstaff, trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities. Absalom had made it a pet project to seek out the detractors who were holding illegal church services. Through some informants, he was able to get a bead on Winston Bollinger. It didn't take long. Winston wasn't one to conceal his faith. He was proud to be "led around by the unholy catechism," as Absalom liked to call it.

There had been no need for torture because Winston confessed immediately, defiantly defending his faith to anyone who would listen. Dozens of people had been rounded up and sent to reparative camp, but Winston had been singled out because of his recalcitrance and improvident words about the new State religion. He had labeled it a counterfeit religion without merit. For this alone he had been sentenced to be hanged.

No one spoke. They were shackled to each other like on a chain gang, leg to leg and hand to hand. More than this link, they were tied together in destiny, three people doomed to die before the day was over. Two jailers, brothers, who had escorted at least a hundred people to their demise, stood on either side of them, carrying the usual cattle prod, prisoner control of choice by most of the penitentiary staff. They stared straight ahead, closing their minds to the proceedings so as not to let any stray doubts seep in. Faith, like anything else, had a shelf life and they had been finding it more and more difficult to accept a Word of God that permitted State sponsored destruction.

Both of the brothers found executing the women the hardest, inherently believing there had to be some degree of innocence present. Dealing with Haley had shaken both of them, as they found it close to impossible to believe she couldn't be saved. One of the brothers, the oldest one, had contemplated approaching Absalom to inquire about the possibility of commuting her sentence. The younger brother had talked him out of it, fearing that any interceding on the behalf of the prisoner would put their positions in jeopardy. In turn, their fear disappointed them and made them think about questioning the religious decisions that were being handed down by Reverend Worthy.

Out in the arena they could hear the crowd. Cries of vengeance echoed through the walls. Haley glanced at Isaac for a moment and forced a smile. She started to say something but then remembered they had been ordered to stay silent. Winston was praying under his breath, staring straight ahead. Isaac looked over at Winston for a moment and then shook his head.

"Which god are you praying to?" he asked, snorting derisively. "Hope he's got some juice because you are in some deep shit now, brother."

"Quiet," one of the brothers ordered without conviction, as he shrugged at his brother, as to say: Why bother.

"Sorry," Isaac exclaimed, smirking, "or you might have me punished." The brothers seemed to wince in unison at the absurdity of their restrictions. "Oh, right, you're gonna be killing me in a few minutes, I forgot."

Their was silence for a moment then they all began to laugh, slowly at first, before all of them joined in. "Cue up the Theatre of the Absurd," Haley announced, grinning.

"That's my girl," Isaac exclaimed in almost a perversely proud tone, "always putting a literary spin on things."

Then Absalom was at the door, ordering the brothers to bring them forward. "Showtime," Winston muttered to himself.

The three of them were led up to the gallows, climbing a steep staircase that rose in the back of the stage. When they stepped on stage there was a loud, raucous cry from the congregation. Reverend Worthy stepped to the side so the crowd could see who was the main attraction for the Sunday event. Absalom stood off to the side and watched as the brothers marched the three of them into place, aligning each one below the noose that would soon be placed around their necks. Calls for their deaths rang out, demands for them to die for their sins.

"Brothers and sisters," Reverend Worthy finally called out, after the congregation had gotten their fill of angry propositions, "please, let me call for you to be patient." He held his hands up and motioned for them to quiet down. When the dome had become quiet again, he began the proceedings by saying: "God, our Lord, requires obedience. That is the small price we must pay to reach the next step in our journey to know Jesus." A few shouted out "Amen!" He nodded in their direction.

"God be with you!" a woman shouted from the left side.

"Thank you, sister," the Reverend shouted back and the dome burst into applause. "We should all strive to be a part of the elect, the ones who are going to taste the fruits of heaven." More applause. Reverend Worthy waited for the audience to grow quiet again, then continued, "We cannot even have a manifest breach of faith...the belief in Jesus that sustains us all. I think you hear me on this matter." The crowd erupted again and the Reverend smiled back at them, as he walked to and fro across the stage, stealing glances of himself on the large TV screen that had been set up next to the stage. "Our joined prayers will forever unite us in the battle against the very evil nature that these three miscreant sinners represent. So now I want you to bow you heads in prayer while we call for Jesus to guide us as we drive away Satan and secure our world from sin."

Reverend Worthy bowed his head and began a prayer, while Absalom stepped onto the stage and then fell to his knees, praying fervently. His histrionics went unnoticed by the Reverend, who had tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he led the prayer. Up on the gallows Isaac noticed that Haley seemed to be praying too. He hissed at her but she didn't respond. Winston was praying as well, coursing through several Catholic prayers in a continual murmur. Isaac then looked out over the congregation, the crowd of revengeful Christians that were his neighbors, his countrymen. It all didn't seem possible.

"Amen to the Lord," the Reverend stated, finishing up his prayer, as he moved to the front of the stage to better face the congregation. Absalom slowly rose from his knees and retreated to the back of the stage. "Let Lucifer hear our invectives against him, so as to permit us to seek out and rid ourselves of these evil mongers among the community of God fearing citizens."

"Amen to that!" someone shouted from the right side seats.

"We have come here today to...to do away with three of the devil's workers, people who have tried hard to render asunder our faith. But it didn't work!" he shouted out, holding the Bible over his head, as he turned half around to point the Bible at the gallows. "No, brothers and sisters, we have been formidable. Yes we have. Jesus has stood by us so we didn't get taken by Satan. Hallelujah!" Dozens of people echoed him, rising to their feet, with their hands over their heads as they called out.

"We have three sinners up there on that gallows. Three. The first one is a Papist," the Reverend sneered, while numerous people booed. "He's one who likes to worship like a polytheist, with dozens of saints who purportedly speak to God." There was a round of mocking laughter.

On cue, Absalom rushed forward with a statue of a saint that had been confiscated from Winston's home. Iconography, for the most part, had been stamped out, even removed from museums in an effort to excise all historical references to the Holy Roman Catholic Church. He held it up in front of him so the congregation could see what some of the sinners had resorted to. For many in the crowd it was the very first time they had seen any Catholic paraphernalia, much less an artifact from a reliquary.

"This, brothers and sisters, represents idolatry pure and simple," the Reverend called out, turning to point at Winston once again. "He thinks some man in Italy wearing a beanie speaks for the Lord," Reverend Worthy mocked, laughing. "The second Commandment warns of people who worship craven images and this man here, right up there on the gallows, is one of those people." There was a round of boos from the audience. "Imagine that, brothers and sisters, somebody who thinks they can talk to a statue and be talking to our Savior. It's crazy, I know, but there he is...standing right up there proud of his ignorance--and sin. Look at him!" he shouted. "Satan has a hold of him right now. You can see it in his eyes, those beady eyes of the devil. See how he stares at us! If we are not careful he will try to dominate us. Do you hear me?" Numerous people called back to the Reverend, shouting out their hatred.

There was a lull for a moment, while Absalom signaled for one of the brothers to place the noose around Winston's neck. You could almost hear the anticipation grow throughout the congregation. One final touch had been added by Absalom just the day before when he brought in a church organ for special effect. Chords from a Bach piece filled the dome as another layer of righteousness.

"Now, brothers and sisters, I know you must be thinking of Jesus and his ministry...about how we, as good Christians, must be charitable in our deeds and thoughts. Always, amen," Reverend Worthy announced in a sing-song voice, as he paced the stage, back and forth, back and forth. Perspiration sprang up on his forehead, as he lofted the large Bible over and over again in his travels across the stage. "Yet...we have to be on our guard too. Always, amen. Why? Because Satan is out there waiting. Always, amen. He wants to steal our souls away. Always, amen. That's right, brothers and sisters, he, the fallen angel, has the power to come into our minds and take away our good souls, rip it out of our bodies. Always, amen. Then we are at his mercy."

Absalom motioned for one of the brothers to tighten the noose, raising his hands to his own throat to demonstrate. The noose was drawn tighter around Winston's neck. He didn't struggle. In his mind, it was done. His passage to heaven was assured. Dies Irae was on the short horizon. His peace had been made. One of the brothers held up a black hood but Absalom shook his head no. There would be no concealing the gore. Sin busting was on display.

"Again I ask you to look behind me and see what breaking the Commandments means," the Reverend called out, turning to point again. "Up there, that is where sin comes to die!"

He made a short, almost unnoticeable motion with his hand, and the trap door fell away, leading to Winston's death. There was an initial gasp from the congregation before they broke into cheers, as Winston's legs jerked spasmodically for what seem like forever. His eyes bulged from the slow motion strangulation and saliva ran out of his mouth.

"One of the devil's minions will no longer plague us with their unholy spirit," the Reverend stated, slapping his Bible for emphasis. "Go...go to be with your master in the underworld! Hallelujah!"

Finally Winston's body stopped twitching. The congregation grew quiet, as they looked on at his death. The organ music filled the dome, reverberating off the ceiling. Reverend Worthy paused for a moment to gather his breath, pacing himself for the two succeeding executions that were to come. Absalom mumbled a prayer under his breath.

"All right, brothers and sisters, we have another sinner to send away, away from our hallowed land," the Reverend began again, after taking a few swigs from a bottle of water Absalom had handed to him. "This is a different sort of sinner, but a sinner still. She has broken the eighth Commandment, pure and simple. For many weeks, months even, she was stealing from the good people of Flagstaff. Oh yes, she would sneak into our wonderful city and pilfer from the God fearing folks in our neighborhoods."

The congregation seemed unimpressed by this revelation. Sin, bona fide transgression, had a standing hierarchy and stealing was towards the bottom of the list. Reverend Worthy, continually attuned to his congregation's whims, sensed the disappointment in the crowd. He looked over at Absalom for a moment then plotted a different course, another tack.

"This woman up there on the gallows was also in league with one of the most notorious bandits in the State," the Reverend announced, pointing his finger at Haley. "Yes, brothers and sisters, she was his accomplice in almost all of his crimes." There was a cascade of murmuring across the congregation because they all knew of the crimes Isaac had allegedly committed. The local press had embellished his supposed evil deeds, even included photographs taken at the bloody crime scene. "Are we to overlook what she has done?" A roar went up from the congregation.

Reverend Worthy let a smile creep to his lips, then said in an ominous tone of voice: "She is like the woman who sits on the beast. She is from the bottomless pit...the very perdition that Revelations warns us about. And in her belly resides a scorpion. With a sting all powerful, able to subdue us all!" The audience booed in unison. "Her filth of fornication has brought this...this bastard child of Satan. I say unto you, brothers and sisters, that she must be destroyed...destroyed so we can go on with the Lord's work. We must not let the beast disturb the Kingdom on earth that Jesus, our savior, has set out for us."

People jumped to their feet and cried out for her death. Absalom nodded in approval, signaling one of the brothers to put the noose around Haley's neck. Several women in the front row were calling for the hanging of Satan's mistress. The organ music grew to a feverish pitch. Reverend Worthy walked to the far end of the stage and stood looking out over the congregation, waving his Bible in front of him. Someone in the audience started a chant: "Hang her! Hang her!"

Pleased, the Reverend held up his hands to quiet the crowd and then said, "There shall be no more terror from her--let it be done!"

Haley looked out over the crowd, the cheering echoing in her ears. She glanced over at Isaac for a moment then looked away. Her mind raced. For the last few days she had been convincing herself that there would be something on the other side, not a void, nothingness. Her soul would rise, drift skyward and be reunited with her family. Her mind could grasp the concept. It had fashioned out a route. Earth was temporal, a stepping stone. Religion was a construct she could accept.

"Jesus Christ will accept me," she called out, but only Isaac and the brothers could hear her.

Absalom gave the signal and she fell to her death. The noose yanked against her weight. Cheers resounded. Organ music thumped, coming in waves across the gallows. Isaac looked away. Absalom pumped his fists.

Tears built up in Isaac eyes and he strained against the ropes tying his hands behind his back. He screamed at the congregation. His profanity was drowned out by the organ music and the calls for his hanging.

"Brothers and sisters, now for the biggest sinner of them all," the Reverend began, walking to the end of the stage to look out over the crowd. "He is Satan's own right hand man. I know you hear this." Several people in the front row stood up and shook their fists at Isaac. "He has broken the sixth Commandment--many times over. Yes, that's right, this man up there has taken precious lives and probably laughed about it."

"It was granted to him to make war with the saints and over come them, Revelations 13:7," Isaac suddenly screamed out.

The congregation fell silent, as if they were hearing human speech for the very first time. Even the organist stopped playing. Absalom looked at Reverend Worthy and they exchanged confused expressions. Neither one of them had anticipated having to deal with a prisoner that spoke up. A woman towards the front asked in a loud voice whether or not the man to be executed had just quoted the Bible.

"You see, there is the devil at work," the Reverend said into his microphone, using his best apocalyptic tone of voice. "Satan will stop at nothing to fool us. He will even use the Bible against us if he can, but he will not be able to do that. Am I right?" A few people yelled out that the devil wouldn't be able to. The Reverend nodded in approval and said, "This man is an agent of--"

"Oh Reverend," Isaac sang out in a taunting tone, "wasn't Jesus Christ the Prince of Peace? Come on, aren't you supposed to want to be merciful? You know, like in the New Testament?"

A few people in the audience booed then thought better of it. Absalom looked over at the Reverend at first then up at the gallows, baffled by this turn of events. It had never occurred to him that there would be any sort of dialogue with the prisoners. The organist waited for his cue to start playing again. A murmuring of surprise rippled around the congregation.

"The devil speaks through him," Reverend Worthy offered hesitantly, not sure which way he should approach this unforeseen development. "Lies will pour forth."

"Didn't Jesus die for my sins too?" Isaac wanted to know. "Yeah, that's right, his dad sent him down to earth to die on the cross for all of our sins, right? Hey, it's right there in that Bible you are holding. Look it up. I'm sure it says that our sins can be washed away by being baptized too. Guess what, I was baptized! You know, like John the Baptist. I got dunked by my dad, who happens to be a minister--like you."

Reverend Worthy looked over at Absalom, willing him to shut Isaac up. Absalom glanced up at the gallows, trying to get the brothers attention, but they seemed to be spellbound by what Isaac was saying. A few in the crowd wondered aloud if the devil was speaking through Isaac.

"I pray to you, Jesus, make this man hold his tongue...make the devil leave this building," the Reverend screeched into his microphone, holding his hands over his head, before dropping to his knees. "Let us all pray to be spared from this sinner, this man who is possessed by the devil."

Absalom immediately sank down to his knees and pulled out his mini-Bible, grasping it in both of his hands. Up on the gallows, confused, the brothers got into prayer position, facing the audience. Most in the congregation bowed their heads and were diligently praying, asking for deliverance from Satan. Others still stared at the macabre scene up on the gallows of two lifeless bodies dangling from the ropes, with one more prepared to join them.

Isaac looked out over the crowd, feeling the power of being branded one of Lucifer's agents, amused, as he tried not to look over at Haley's body still swinging slightly from the noose. His executioners were on bended knee, beseeching their god to save them from the evil one. He thought of all those times he had been to church with his family, forced to listen to hours and hours of Biblical contradictions and then expect to apply it to his developing life. Moral certainty dictated everything.

A vision of his grandfather came to mind and he could almost hear him telling him to wait to see if he would be called to the Lord like he and his father had been. There would be a sign, something from Jesus telling him what direction he should take; of course there had never been any sign, even though Isaac had expected one year after year. Then he thought of his mother and his sisters, sequestered by a religion that made them nothing but biological vessels. He had nephews and nieces he couldn't remember. His memories centered around war and the camaraderie it fostered, all in the name of a religion that wanted to supersede all other religions.

"Let's get on with this!" Isaac finally cried out, laughing. "I mean, damn, we sure don't won't to keep the devil waiting, do we."

Reverend Worthy stopped his prayer short and looked up at the gallows, as he slowly stood up. He regained his composure quickly and announced to the congregation: "We will expel sin where ever we find it. My duty is to the Lord Jesus Christ himself. I am his obedient servant."

"Do it already!" Isaac shouted.

"Now!" Absalom yelled out, shaking his fists at Isaac.

The two brothers hurried to slip the noose around Isaac's neck. One of them tightened it while the other positioned Isaac over the trapdoor. In unison, they said: "May God have mercy on your soul."

"There is no god," Isaac managed to say as the noose gripped his neck when the door opened below his feet.

