When we reach the barn, the group is standing around, chattering about where to go from here.
“There’s no way this old roof will hide us from heat sensors,” William says. “I still vote that we break into groups and run for it.”
I look at the barn and realize that he’s correct. The walls are made from thick wooden beams covered with planks. The roof joists must have been updated along the way because they’re made of some sort of composite and what appears to be the original beams are stacked along the back wall of the barn. The roof itself appears to be wood covered with some sort of rust-resistant sheet metal. The federal drones will see heat signatures right through it.
“The sun will set in two hours. How big will their search perimeter be by then?” I ask.
“At least twenty kilometers - maybe as much as forty,” James replies.
“You’re a fast runner, but you’ll never make it that far in this kind of terrain,” I say to William.
“Martha, where were sword thieves able to successfully hide when we were in Samaria?” I ask.
“Inside the Roman perimeter, because the Romans assumed they would run.”
“Bill, how old is this barn?” I ask.
“The walls are a hundred years, at least, but the floor and foundation are older,” he says.
I drop to my hands and knees, and start knocking.
“What are you doing?” asks James.
“Trying to find a cellar; but since I’m on my knees anyway, I’m also praying.”
Soon everyone is doing the same.
“This board sounds hollow,” Amelia yells from the far side of the barn.
“Sweep away the hay and look for hinges or a pull-ring, or anything else that looks like a trapdoor,” I say to everyone, as we move to that side of the barn.
“I think I found it,” calls a red-haired girl named Meg, and we converge on her.
Using two large inlaid hinges as guides, we sweep out the cracks marking the outline of a trapdoor, but find that the spot where the handle once stood is empty.
“The fifth stall is my workshop,” Bill says. “I have an old crowbar you can use to pry it open.”
“That’s okay, Albert carries one,” I say. I turn to Albert, but the bar is missing from his pack.
“I guess it fell out as I ran,” Albert says.
When I reach the stall to find Bill’s crowbar, I see Bill’s workshop and am amazed to find containers filled with thousands of liters of water from Capon Springs.
Bless you Brill. That’s exactly what we need.
We pry the door open and discover that the current barn floor was laid directly on top of an even older floor, making a total surface of about ten centimeters thick.
“James. Can heat sensors see through the roof and wood this thick?” I ask.
“Maybe. They can see right through the insulated walls of a house.”
“Bill and Wendy, we need to borrow your water stash and a lot of your hay,” I say. “Everyone, move the water from the stall to the floor directly above the cellar; then heap as much hay on top of it as you can. The water and hay should act as insulators and absorb all the heat we give off.”
Wendy asks me to help her carry food and blankets from the house to the barn. In truth, she has a question she needs to ask me in private. When I get back, the water is in place and the hay pile is already a half-meter thick and growing. When I carry the first load of blankets into the cellar, I find Martha spreading hay on the floor for us to sleep on.
“Nesting instinct?” I ask.
“We might as well be comfortable.”
As the sun starts to dip low in the sky, the hay stack on the floor is well over a meter tall, and Martha has lined the cellar with another half-meter. The last of the light sticks that I’ve always carried since being trapped in the Traveler cave are the only source of light.
“Cover the door once we’re all down. Then put the horses into their stalls and get your house as hot as you can stand to distract the sensors,” I instruct Bill.
Sometime late in the night, we hear a drone buzz in and hover low near the house. Thirty minutes later we hear a vehicle stop and a man’s voice talking with Bill. Nobody enters the barn. After that, everyone seems to sleep soundly.
As I’m lying in the hay, trying to get back to sleep, I think about what I’ve done. Even being trapped in a dark, cramped place again isn’t bothering me. My part in this puzzle is complete.
In my sleep, I hear the sound of a hammer striking metal. I’m having the dream about the blacksmith shop again. I walk to the forge and pick up the hammer, and continue to work my piece of metal. As I strike it, the letter “C” continues to glow brightly, and no matter what I do, I can’t remove the letter from the nail. I dunk the nail into a bucket with a hiss, hoping the “C” will go away. Instead, when I bring it out of the water, it’s been joined by an “H” glowing next to it on the shaft.
I wake from the dream with a light gasp and a jolt. “CH” - the first two letters in Christ’s name. There’s no escaping that in my dream, I’m forging the nails to crucify Christ, and my work isn’t done yet.
I thought my part in this puzzle was completed yesterday. What am I supposed to do next?
*****
I’m so lost in my thoughts that it takes me a moment to realize that Martha and Cindi are whispering beside me. I remain still and listen. They’re lamenting the choices they each made yesterday. Martha is talking about Henry’s threat to wipe out McIntosh, saying: “It’s my fault. I killed them all,” while Cindi claims that misplacing the vaccine sample will cause many more deaths in the long run. They both sound completely lost and empty of hope.
I roll over in the soft hay and curl around Martha, placing my hand directly onto her belly where our Jocie is growing.
Is that a small bump I feel on her previously flat stomach?
“Lights shine brightest in the darkness,” I whisper to them. “I need you both to be lights of hope in the face of evil. Besides, crying is bad for the baby.”
I feel Martha’s body stiffen against me.
“Baby?” Cindi asks.
“Great,” Martha says. “Mr. Observation figures out I’m pregnant; he figures out it’s a girl and she wants to be called ‘Jocie;’ but he somehow misses the fact that I haven’t told anyone?”
“Baby?” Cindi repeats. “You’ve got to let me be the one to tell Mom.”
“Nobody! You’re telling nobody,” Martha says. “I won’t have everyone treating me differently.”
It must be dawn, because we’re interrupted by the sound of Bill removing the hay and water from the trapdoor, while Wendy takes the horses back to the pasture. We emerge from our hiding spot to view a spectacular sunrise.
“There’s a screen in my shop,” Bill says. “Sometimes I watch it while I putter around in there. You might want to watch the news.”
The screen is currently featuring an aerial shot of the smoking hole where Bethany House used to stand. The hole is a little larger than it was when we saw the house crumble, and is shaped like a teardrop, rather than a circle. The burned remains of the house are at least one hundred meters down.
“Authorities believe members of the cult group, Four were attempting to cut into a primary power line, causing the temporary loss in power that blackened parts of Virginia and West Virginia, and igniting a gas explosion in an ancient coal mine located under the area,” the newswoman announces. “No survivors have been found.”
Bill pokes his head around the corner.
“That’s news too, but it’s not the big story.”
We try another channel and quickly find the big story: “Plague strikes South Dakota town.”
“Government sources deny the rumor that a toxin is responsible, and blame the disease on the man known as “Michael the Assassin” for bringing it back through time travel,” an announcer - who is neither clearly a man nor a woman - explains; then continues.
“Fortunately, a complete government quarantine of the town is in place, and vaccine is on the way to protect the surrounding area - and eventually the entire country. Essential government personnel nationwide have already been vaccinated; however, armed militants are preventing them from entering the quarantine area to help the sick and dying. In the meantime, government health officials ask everyone who has traveled to South Dakota to report to the nearest hospital if any of the following symptoms occur…”
The shot switches to images of “plague victims” to illustrate the progression of the “disease.” The plague begins with profuse sweating and fever, and a pronounced metallic taste in the mouth. Within an hour, the victim usually experiences pain in the lymph nodes, particularly in the armpit and groin. By the twenty-four hour mark, there are usually sores inside the mouth and bleeding in the digestive tract, combined with vomiting and diarrhea. The fever and pain continue through the second day, when skin lesions start to appear. They look nothing like the historical pictures of chickenpox or smallpox. These lesions look more like the victim has been burned with a blowtorch until their skin burst open from being boiled on the inside. When the announcer casually mentions that the victims are in pain, it’s almost like a bad joke. You can see the agony in their eyes, despite receiving extraordinary amounts of painkillers.
The others gather to watch, but Martha walks away because she’s beside herself with guilt and grief. I find her at the back of the barn, sitting on a hay bale.
“This isn’t your fault.” I sit down on the bale and hold her. “Evil doesn’t need an excuse. He would have done it anyway.”
“You don’t know that,” she says through red and puffy eyes.
“Yes, I do. Henry’s plan is to wipe out anyone who doesn’t take his vaccine. He said it himself. He warned that McIntosh would be first, unless I …”
Surrender. That’s the next step in God’s plan. He wants me to surrender…
“Cephas?” Amelia calls to where Martha and I are sitting in the hay.
“I think the message reached them. When I was in Indonesia, nearly one hundred percent of the people were hit by the toxin in the first few days, but in McIntosh they’re reporting less than five percent have been affected.”
“They were watching the water works and knew the toxin had been added,” I say; “but how long can they hold out without water?”
“It depends. If the toxin is only being added at the water works, then they could drink the lake water. They’d just need to boil it or treat it with chemicals to kill any microorganisms,” Amelia replies.
“Then there’s hope,” Martha says, through teary eyes.
I’m relieved that she’s too distracted to make me finish my earlier sentence. She’d never go for a plan in which I surrender myself to Henry.
“Always,” I reply. “And today we’re going to spread a little more.”
*****
“Any sign of drones?” I ask William, late in the afternoon.
“Nothing in the air for the last two hours,” he replies.
“Then let’s do it,” I say.
The eleven of us who fled Bethany House walk out of the barn in single file and straight for the little pond. I walk in first and don’t stop until I’m waist deep. Everyone else waits at the edge.
“Everyone who has not been baptized in the name of Christ who wishes to be, please join me,” I say.
Since Martha was baptized in Galilee, she walks back to the barn, while the other nine wade into the water.
“My cousin James, son of Clifford: I understand that you and Geoff wanted to be baptized at the same time, and I’m sorry he isn’t here. I hope that one day the three of us will be together and we can do that.”
James nods. There’s a sadness in his eyes, telling me he suspects his brother is dead.
“I baptize you, my cousin, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
I gently push him under the water; then pull him out like a fish, as Simon Peter taught me.
“Cindi, my other beloved cousin…”
My voice starts to crack as I say the words.
“You have no idea what a pleasure this is for me. When Martha and I were time-traveling, we could see each other’s thoughts and memories. I could see that you loved me and defended me, despite the horrible things I did as The Cult Hunter. You never lost faith in me - even when I had none in myself. I baptize you, my cousin, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
I go through them all, sharing my observations and praise of their work. Albert is last, and everyone laughs when I praise him for “making craters for Christ.”
When we’re finished, the nine form into two lines flanking me, and we all face the barn. Martha is standing outside, with her hair clipped up, looking radiant. She has a basket in her hands, and when I nod, she starts to sprinkle flowers onto the ground as she walks towards the pond. When she reaches the edge, Bill and Wendy emerge from the barn. He’s wearing an old suit and Wendy is wearing an ancient wedding gown.
I wince a little when they continue into the muddy water wearing such prized family clothing, but this is what they wanted. They proceed up to me.
“Beloved of Christ, we’re here to baptize this man and woman, and stand witness to their marriage in the eyes of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I say. “Bill, you’ve asked to be baptized first, and then you’ll baptize Wendy.”
When they’re both baptized, we proceed to the wedding.
“The only wedding I’ve ever attended is my own, and this is the first I’ve been asked to perform one. I’ve read about some of the strange wedding traditions that Christians had in this country two hundred years ago, and I’m happy that most have been left behind. I think all too often things like cakes, bouquets, and Champaign toasts obscured the meaning behind getting married in the eyes of God. You - Bill and Wendy - are an example to us all. In a world where people switch partners as easily as they switch their shoes, you have remained true to each other, acting as husband and wife in all ways. The government may no longer recognize “marriage” with their scraps of paper; but man was fooling himself when he thought he had any true say in who could - and could not - be married before God in the first place. That’s God’s domain, and His word on the subject is final. So, as your minister, I declare you married in the eyes of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Bill and Wendy stare into each other’s eyes with a love that should be the envy of the world. I know, because I felt the same way in Galilee.
“There is one old tradition I rather like,” I say. “It’s the one where I say: ‘You may kiss the bride.’”
As we walk from the pond, Wendy laughs with joy at her mud-covered, never-to-be-white-again wedding gown.
“On this day, my bride, nobody makes a better-looking you than you,” Bill says.
*****
For the remainder of the afternoon, we allow ourselves to forget the dark cloud of Henry’s toxin that hovers in our minds and, instead, celebrate with Bill and Wendy. One way Wendy kept the house warm to confuse the heat sensors was by staying up most of the night baking bread and treats for the wedding feast.
Eventually, I quiet everyone down, and begin to speak.
“Although we think of today as being about Bill and Wendy and their love, today is truly about God’s love for us all. I asked all of you to trust in the Lord, and pray for His will to be done. Now let me ask you all to pray again, and to ask God to work His will through each of you. When you hear His call, follow it without question.”
Bill clears his throat.
“Wendy and I have a little wedding gift for all of you that I hope Cephas will help us with. As we’re seeing in McIntosh, water that you know is safe is going to get tight. I want you all to drink a toast of this water with us, and then I want you to carry as much of it as you can to wherever you go next. Don’t save it for your selves though. Whenever you find the faithful, give them a drink and tell them it’s holy water blessed by Cephas himself. Spread this water as the symbol for the day when the whole world will drink from the well that will allow them to never thirst again,” Bill says. “Cephas? Would you?”
I turn to the stacks of water that are still partially buried in hay.
“Lord, I ask you to bless this water and protect those who carry it, so that it may become a blessing to all who drink of it. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone responds.
They all stand there, watching me expectantly with smiles on their faces. They’re ready for me to lead them. They’re ready for me to say something inspirational. They’re not ready for what I say next.
“I love you all, and because I love you, I have to leave you now.”