CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Excluding the Bible, the term exodus meant nothing to Tim, until he became one of many soldiers vacating northern Michigan. Exodus - mass departing, often with aims of arriving at a favored destination.
The weaker members, both mentally and physically, of the now defunct NMCD, remained at the compound, safe in their sheltered lives. Tim understood. Most people lacked purpose, drive, a belief in anything. Many militia members used camouflage, shotguns, and training as a way to transform today into the next. Their rants about the government dictating their lives and the minorities diluting their race with inbreeding were only condiments to beer consumption. If born in California, they’d have their hair in dreadlocks, smoke marijuana, talking about how corporations dictated their lives and how they needed to breed with minorities to unify humanity into one less intelligent, more aggressive race.
Tim believed what he believed. He entered life with a purposeful destiny, like everyone. The difference: he had located, accepted, and acted on the signs provided to unearth his.
Whoever that short, confident Man in Graysuit had been, he sure knew his stuff. Specifically, about the people he referred to NMCD. Of the two hundred and eleven troops making the trip to northern Nevada, eighty-four were walk-ons, singled out by the man in gray and encouraged to join the Lord’s Thorn through random emails, letters, and phone calls. The grit and serious determination in each person’s features validated the term, exodus.
Two school buses held supplies. Members piled into an old greyhound and more vans, trucks, and SUVs than an eye could take in.
Tim would go—no one could keep him away—but would Alan give him a serious role, or expect him to be a gopher, a janitor, an errand boy.
Lacking an assigned vehicle, he leapt into the back of an F-250 filled with crates of ammunition and two drums of grease. The impulsive decision to cross the country in an open bed evolved into a bad one. Rather than complain about the painful jounces and radical shifts in elements, he endured in silence.
Once they got within four miles of their destination—a Nevada desert ranch—the compounding discomfort evaporated. He sat up, and took in the scene.
The F-250 assumed its position in a near static line. Hundreds of additional vehicles, with plates from all over the Mid-West and East Coast, proved the NMCD acted as a feather in a wing of the exodus flight.
Invigorating heat welcomed Tim to his first desert afternoon. The openness of the tan-colored horizon and cloudless blue sky astounded him. He’d never seen so much space. The woods of Michigan offered a more isolated beauty, with trees and rolling meadows limiting what encompassed vision. Peeling off his shirt, he frowned at having neglected to pack sunblock. If he burned, Alan would razz him for lacking foresight. At least he brought his army hat. He adjusted the brim, pulled it down tight, making his ears stand out more than usual. As he looked around, intent on borrowing or trading for some sunscreen, a shadow darkened the bright morning.
Looking up revealed a unified cloud, completely solid, square. How strange? The massive coagulation of dust and humidity seemed centered above the road they traveled and an amount of property in the distance. Apparently God sent his own sunblock.
Up and down the traffic jam, car doors opened, people exited their vehicles, stretched their legs.
Tim tugged the laces of his Wolverine boots tight, put his hand on the bed rail, and, in one fluid motion, threw himself over the side. Retrieving his SKS rifle and backpack, he enjoyed the familiarity of the weapon he’d fired for nearly ten years, and the weight of the pack. He curled the bag a few times to strain his thin bicep; scoffed at the minimal bulge. Muscles didn’t make the soldier, intelligent bravery did. He’d teach Alan that lessen.
One step and he paused. A large machine that resembled a blue post office drop box, except painted in desert colors, sat on the side of the road. Being that the closest one waited a hundred feet from him, he reserved judgment as to its purpose.
Pacing along the asphalt, the crunch of sand under his tread made him feel like a gladiator ascending a gated tunnel.
He peeked in vehicles as he passed, shared nods, or if a window was rolled down, a terse greeting.
A gap in the vehicles showed an identical machine on the opposite side of the road. A stream of mist poured from its “mail receptor.” Continuing to rack his mind, he aligned with one of the machines, stopped, and followed the stream upward.
Working collectively with other contraptions, positioned every hundred yards, the mist blended in the air, provided the exceptional coverage above them.
Holy smokes, he thought, fake cloud machines. Tim almost laughed. I’m in with some real players. Holding his camouflage brim hat with two hands, he searched the line of idling vehicles. A security checkpoint waited two miles ahead. Behind him, the trail of automobiles, of various makes and models, stretched into the horizon.
The white truck he’d been keeping an eye out for rested fifty yards ahead of him. Picturing Alan all pissed-off about something, Tim inhaled, adjusted his posture, and steadied his gait. The four-door, extended cab, dually one-ton, Diesel V-8; King Ranch edition’s back door opened as he neared. Recognizing the hairy arm that had reached back from the passenger seat sent commands to grin. Tim knew better.
Climbing in, he tossed the backpack on the seat, positioned the rifle on his lap, shut the door, and melted into the chill of air-conditioning.
“Careful which way you point that barrel,” Alan said.
Tim verified its direction; safe, as always. Alan’s hair, mostly gray, matched his beard, and was pulled into a ponytail. With a protruding belly and round limbs, Alan reminded Tim of a walrus; a walrus without blubber. Tim had grown up jabbing the man’s stone-hard thighs, core, and shoulders.
“Been wondering if you hitched a ride on this trip,” Alan cracked the top to a Coca-Cola, passed it back, “Guess I can find a use for someone as scrawny as you.”
“Thanks,” Tim said as he accepted the soda. The can was bitingly cold. So much so, he kept swapping hands as if playing an Eskimo version of hot potato. He glanced over the aisle, looking for a cooler.
Alan tapped the middle console. “Built-in fridge. Men who’ve earned their stripes get these types of luxuries.”
Tim raised his eyebrows, sat back, took a careful sip. He’d earn more than stripes, just wait.
“You got any idea what those machines do?”
Tim looked to the unknown driver. Part of his training included erring on the side of caution, so he stayed quiet.
“Don’t think the little squirt trusts you,” Alan said.
The man forced air through his nostrils.
“Graham’s a mechanic from Dayton. One of the Man in Gray’s men. A firm believer in our Lord and the evils around the world that work to lead the weak astray.”
Tim let that settle and then replied. “I’m pretty sure those machines are making that big cloud to block our activity from whoever is up there watching.”
“Kid ain’t all dumb,” Graham said.
“Ah, even a blind squirrel,” Alan said. “Besides, he’s only half right. There’s a man up there who’s watchful eye can’t be blocked.”
Tim placed the Coke in a beverage slot. Alan would establish the hierarchy of the men under his command. He’d known Tim the longest, so he took his shot. “How about me for one of the leadership roles: a Captain, Lieutenant?”
“Shit son,” Alan said. “Can you even do a hundred push-ups?”
Graham peeked at Tim’s bare-chest. No doubt he registered its hairless concavity.
“Given enough time,” Tim said.
Alan chuckled. “I need hardened men for the days ahead.”
“You need loyalty,” Tim said. “Who’s more dedicated than me, who’s more willing to follow any order?”
“Kid’s got his head on right,” Graham said.
“He hasn’t reached manhood yet,” Alan said. “His father sounded just as noble at that age, then the booze and pills took over. There’s weak blood in him.”
“Not in me,” Tim said. “I honor my temple. You could assign me as your second, and if, God forbid, you took a mortal wound, die confident things would move forward, as you envisioned.”
“That ex-Colonel’s already slotted as my number two. With a three hundred man regiment, I’ve already identified and notified my Captains. You got the godly morals to be of use, I’ll give you that. Get down to the sergeants, you might make the cut.”
“Well,” Tim said. “No one’s more ready to kick ass.”
“Ha!” Alan smacked his wide thighs. “Sometime I think bluster is the only thing keeps you from blowing away.”
“Honor to God, country, and family,” Tim said. “That’s my credence.”
Alan pointed at the time on the dash: 1:15. “We should be settled by four. There’s a conference for the brass tonight at seventeen hundred. Find me there around then, we’ll see if there’s a lieutenant willing to take you on.”
“I’ll be there.”
Minutes ticked by as the truck slowly advanced. The cool air provided by the air-conditioning made Tim feel complacent. He needed to stay battle-ready. Big things awaited him. He’d show Alan. “May I be dismissed, sir?”
“Yeah,” Alan said. “Find yourself some deodorant, and sunscreen.”
Tim returned to the heat. He’d be at that meeting, get a leadership role. His assent to hero in the battle for humanity had been predestined since the beginning of time. He couldn’t wait.
* * * *
Being associated with Alan carried perks. One of the Man in Gray’s men towed a small trailer out West. Seeing Tim wandering amidst the ranks, he invited him to share it.
Inside the beat-up fifteen by eight, his roommate presented him with a most glorious gift: a leather vest with the Lord’s Thorn emblem emblazoned on the back. The word “Lord’s” arced across the top with the word “Thorn” horizontal at its base. In the center, the L overlapped the T to make a cross of sorts. The letters were tinted in a gold and bronze and wrapped loosely in a thorny vine. The bottom of the T morphed into a menacing brown thorn with a drop of blood on its tip.
Slipping the vest off the cupboard handle, its weight surprised him. An empty mark waited above the chest pocket. He already envisioned “Vanderhart” stitched on the front left side. Beneath that, another patch would read, “Sergeant.” On the right, the infamous underlined phalanx would signify his rank. He slid one arm in, the other, and felt anointed, protected. He understood bullets passed through leather, but still imagined himself daring someone to shoot at him from twenty feet away and laughing at each errand shot.
This vest represented more than a token of brotherhood; it signified a responsibility. Rumors circulated that they might be deploying for their first mission as early as tomorrow. A mission to secure them a permanent base with armaments and natural defenses.
Two weeks ago, he’d been hunting turkeys, daydreaming of future events. Now he stood among a thousand like-minded soldiers. A portion of whom would be looking to him for leadership and answers. He was determined to fill that need.
On the way to his trailer, he’d noticed the impromptu base supported a diverse crowd. Outlandish bikers walked alongside men with thick glasses, closed mouths, and darting eyes. He saw a group covered in tattoos that looked as if they’d recently been paroled and another dominated by polo shirts and sandals, casually standing as if awaiting their shot on the ninth tee. Despite this contrast, everything remained orderly. The vehicles were parked in a specific area about two hundred yards squared. Those designated for transport were maneuvered to yet another site and emptied with intentions of being reloaded. People bustled to their assigned tents and unpacked.
Originally, Tim assumed this represented their base. That would have suited him fine. Isolated, with a generous line of sight in all directions, the place offered advantages. Knowing they were moving to a more fortified location only bolstered his confidence.
Finding a mirror on the outside of a narrow door, he admired himself. The bare chest looked white trashy, so he’d wear a T-shirt under the vest. Once changed, he smoothed it down and stepped outside, where he paused to take in the activity. The first person to see him—a bear of a man in his forties—glanced at the new vest, and saluted. Tim swelled with pride as he returned the gesture.
When the man continued on, Tim descended another step, and, feeling light-headed, realized he needed to give his endorphins a moment to cool off. The man who saluted him wore a plain white tee and carried a leather vest over his forearm. Testing his equilibrium with another step and feeling more in control, Tim trailed. He knifed through the tents and intersections of people until the burly man met with a group of guys with similar builds: middle-aged with bellies, beards, tattoos.
A line of a dozen men and two women led to a burning barrel. His mark reached the front of the line, and to Tim’s horror, tossed in the leather vest he’d been carrying. Yet, before Tim could interject, he noticed a peer pass the man a new vest. As it slipped around the sturdy frame, Tim recognized the Lord’s Thorn insignia.
Once adorned, brief hugs and hard congratulatory Back slaps showered the man. As Tim watched, others tossed in their old cuts hesitantly, some with pride. Tim knew that for a militia member, even moreso a biker, their cut represented honor, and to burn one displayed a serious rite of passage.
Looking past the man, thinking of his next step, Tim considered his itinerary: arriving at a command tent for the biggest interview of his life.
The headquarters, a recently erected wooden roof on stilts, had canvas walls, able to be rolled up during the arid days to allow an air flow, and dropped down at night to ward off the chill.
With the majority of the pavilion open, Tim slowed his pace, surveyed the interior. Electronic devices topped tables. Men in vests already stitched with name and rank busied themselves.
He’d be there soon enough. For now, he had a second rumor to investigate.
A ranch house centered a forty acre patch of desert land sectioned off by two-plank fencing. Behind the home (which should have been better guarded), laid a staggering sight. Seven well-spaced rows of mismatched helicopters stretched the length of a football field.
Due to the variety of shapes and colors and sheer numbers, it resembled a mega used car lot of copters. Mechanics in jumpsuits leaned over open engine casings, others tweaked rotors, a few manipulated switches in cockpits. Two Ford Ranger pick-ups dispensed oil and other necessary fluids.
On the stroll back, he heard a half-dozen people speculating on the purpose of the aircrafts. Most believed they would ferry in their families once they reached the base. Tim thought that possible, but he categorized it wishful thinking. Talk of reuniting with old-ladies and kids annoyed him. He sympathized, but they had more pressing matters.
He actually listened when those in charge spoke. Those men had recently said: joining the Lord’s Thorn meant risking your life. Tim understood that meant death, which meant killing. A machine currently threatened God’s people. They’d been assembled to stop it.
Alan indicated in an earlier speech that their families and loved ones would arrive in Nevada one to three days after the first wave departed, and then follow the horde to its new base along the same time frame, yet persistent questions continued. Once he wore those stripes, he’d listen for inquiries about wife and family and snap on the first man; help the private get his head on right. And if the man griped, or elevated backtalk to disrespect, Tim had never met anyone faster at applying an arm bar than himself. He’d break the first bone, earning him respect.
Checking his watch that doubled as a compass, and having twenty minutes, he thought it best to loiter around the main structure.
Remembering the field of choppers jacked his heart. With that volume of helicopters, the brass planned something much more spectacular than transporting women and children.