Omar rented a backhoe from Judd Criswell to make certain the graves at Woodbine Corners were properly set up. As a man with a career in law enforcement, he very much appreciated the dangers of shallow graves. He chose a very remote part of the parish, in old Bart Cattrall’s back sixty acres near the bayou. Bart used to plant the field in cotton, but two years ago he’d had a crippling stroke, and he’d let his land lie fallow two seasons now. He kept claiming he was going to plant it, but he never did.
By noon Omar figured he had things well in hand, but by one o’clock everything had gone to hell. The dozen or so cases of diarrhea that Wilona had mentioned in the Clarendon camp had turned into a hundred. And the day after that, three hundred.
All emergency personnel in the parish were mobilized to deal with the situation. Three hundred people on the neat Clarendon grounds, enhancing the charm of the gardens with uncontrollable diarrhea and intermittent vomiting. Omar would have laughed, except that he was hip-deep in the action along with everyone else, trying to keep the patients hydrated and alive with Dr. Patel’s emergency solution of glucose and salt.
Thirteen people died. Six were elderly, and five were children. The remaining two, healthy adults, were just unlucky.
Miz LaGrande got sick as well. Omar hoped she’d croak, but the old lady hung on. Omar figured she was too worried about her guests stealing the silver to actually die.
Omar wasn’t feeling so good himself. Some days he could barely drag himself out of bed. Sometimes his stomach pained him so much that it felt like a wolf eating his vitals. He tried Alka-Seltzer, Maalox, and aspirin. Nothing seemed to help.
There were certain advantages to the emergency. Omar pulled all his regular deputies into town to deal with the situation. He could only keep a skeleton crew of special deputies at the A.M.E. camp, because everyone else was trying to treat the outbreak of dysentery. It gave him a plausible excuse for not being around the A.M.E. camp, for not knowing officially what was going on there. He put the whole place in the charge of special deputies, all Klan or Crusaders. The only actual Spottswood Parish deputy he placed there was Jedthus, whom he instructed to rely on Micah Knox’s advice.
Jedthus, Omar reckoned, was his most expendable deputy.
The outbreak at Clarendon was traced to the water supply. The Emergency people had sent water purifying equipment, but this had been taken to the municipal water supplies of Shelburne City and Hardee for the use of the taxpayers. Since the city main that led to Clarendon had been wrecked, Mrs. Ashenden had uncovered a pair of old wells on the property in order to keep her refugees in water. But neither she nor anyone else had been careful about keeping the camp’s latrines at a safe distance from the wells, and now they were all paying the penalty.
It was just, Omar thought, like the War Between the States.
TWENTY-NINE
This morning, at about 9 o’clock, a friend of mine, Captain Franklin, Miss Webster, and myself, had just sat down to breakfast, when Captain F. observed, “What’s that? An Earthquake!” at the same instant, we felt as if we were in the cabin of a vessel, during a heavy swell. This sensation continued for one or two minutes, possibly longer. For although I had the presence of mind to take out my watch, I felt too sick to accurately observe its duration. The feeling was by no means tremulous, but a steady vibration. A portrait, about four feet in length, suspended from the ceiling by a hook and staple, and about five eights of an inch from the side wall, vibrated at least from eighteen inches to 2 feet each side, and so very steady, as not to touch the wall. My next neighbour and his daughter felt the same sensation about the same time. The father supposed it was the gout in his head. The daughter got up and walked to a window, supposing the heat of the fire had caused what she considered a faintness. Two others that I have seen mentioned to have felt the same, but none of them had thought of an earthquake. The two last being mechanics, and up late, mentioned that they were much alarmed at about 11 o’clock last night, by a great rumbling, as they thought, in the earth, attended with several flashes of lightning, which so lighted the house, that they could have picked up the smallest pin— one mentioned, that the rumbling and the light was accompanied by a noise like that produced by throwing a hot iron into snow, only very loud and terrific, so much so, that he was fearful to go out to look what it was, for he never once thought of an earthquake. I have thrown together the above particulars, supposing an extract may meet with corroborating accounts, and afford some satisfaction to your readers.
P.S.—The lightning and rumbling noise came from the south— I have just heard of its being felt in several other houses, but not any particulars more than related.
Extract of a letter dated West River, January 23
“Heaven-o there, Jason.”
Jason— sitting crosslegged on the ground, resting his muscles after a day of hauling feed sacks, and waiting for the Samaritans to be called for dinner— looked up at the Reverend Frankland. “Uh, hi,” he said.
“I want to talk to you for a minute, boy,” Frankland said.
A shiver of fear ran up Jason’s spine. He wondered if the Reverend had heard about him talking to the gate guards about where the weapons were stored. Or others about how the guards were set, and who set them, and whether they walked regular rounds or just wandered at random.
Maybe he was just going to get chewed out for kissing Arlette. He had got the impression, from what some of the other boys in the Samaritans had said, that they took race pretty seriously here in Arkansas. Maybe as seriously as they took religion.
A smile beamed down from Frankland’s face, its effect marred by the split lip and bruising that Olson had inflicted on him. That and the lack of chin.
“There’s a story, Jason,” Frankland said, “that you brought some kind of nuclear device into the camp.”
A nervous laugh broke from Jason’s throat. Looking into Frankland’s searching gaze, he concluded that this was no time to stretch the truth.
“It’s a telescope,” he said. “But if I told the other kids it was a telescope, they’d play with it and break it. So I made up something to keep them away from it.”
Little amused crinkles broke out around Frankland’s eyes. “That’s a good one, son!” he said. One big hand patted Jason on the shoulder.
“Uh, thanks,” Jason said.
“But you shouldn’t tell stories that scare people,” Frankland said.
Jason looked up. Tried to make his face vulnerable. “It’s the only thing I have to remember my father by,” he said. “I didn’t want to lose it.”
Sympathy settled into Frankland’s bruised face. He patted Jason on the shoulder again. “If your telescope is valuable, bring it to me when I’m free, and I’ll lock it up for you in the big storeroom. You can get it back any time you like.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” Jason said. “Thank you.”
“And maybe some night you can bring out the scope and give a show for the boys and girls. It’ll be good to keep their minds occupied with so much time on their hands.”
“I don’t know much about the stars yet, ” Jason said. “But I’ll tell them what I know.”
“Great!” Frankland was already rolling away. “Heaven-o, Jason!”
“Uh,” Jason said, “bye.”
Jason thought for a moment. He didn’t want to let his telescope go, but on the other hand it would be interesting to see what was in Frankland’s storerooms, and how it could be got to.
And it wasn’t as if he’d been stargazing much, anyway.
Jason told Nick about Frankland’s offer later that evening, after supper, as they were walking by the perimeter fence with Manon and Arlette prior to Garb’s evening service. It was about the only encouraging news Nick heard all day.
He’d spent the previous day sweating and sorting through the rubble at the Bijoux along with the rest of the Thessalonians, and talking to Tex and the other workers when their guide Martin wasn’t listening. All he’d managed to find out was how tight Frankland had Rails Bluff sewn up.
The guns Nick had come with, and all those belonging to the others in the camp who weren’t part of Frankland’s clique, were all in a concrete-walled bunker, with a concrete slab over them. A tripod and tackle were required to lift the slab, so there was no reasonable hope of getting firearms from anywhere in the camp before they made their run for freedom.
Nick had spent today at the camp. Work details were over, and very few people were allowed out. Nick had talked to a number of people who had been here awhile— he said he was looking for a suitable job here in camp— and none of the news had been encouraging.
Food supplies were guarded. There was a guard on the improvised boat jetty at the Rails River. Nick had seen a Chevy Suburban with heavily armed men drive out in that direction just that morning.
The only cause for optimism was that the guard on the camp itself was lax. The guards’ training was nonexistent, or dated from years ago in the military, and lack of calories and proper supervision made them lazy. There were no passwords, no proper checks, and the perimeter was chiefly defined by twine strung from wooden posts.
Nick imagined the guards were all good shots, though. They all had the ease of country people who had been raised around firearms and were comfortable with them. The question was whether they would fire at another human being who was only trying to get away, who wasn’t trying to harm them.
He suspected that most of them wouldn’t shoot. But Nick didn’t want to risk his daughter’s life on that supposition.
It would probably be relatively easy to slip out of the camp, he concluded— but then what? If they stole a vehicle they’d give themselves away the second they keyed the ignition. They didn’t know the country. And if they were missed, people would probably go out looking, and the guards would be alerted. Manon might sneak some food from the kitchen, but it wouldn’t be much. The boat slip was guarded by two men.
Nick wondered if he could fake a message from Frankland to the guards. You are needed at the camp. Nick here will guard the boats.
Would they believe that? Did they have some way of communicating with the camp to check? Probably they did, if the walkie-talkie that Martin wore was any indication.
Even if they didn’t, he thought, he couldn’t trust the guards to be as stupid as he’d hoped. He’d have to be prepared to take them out.
Take them out. One of his father’s expressions.
Daddy, what would you do? he wondered. How would you get your family out of this?
Get a weapon. Nick could almost hear his father’s voice. Kill the sentries on the boat from cover, without warning, much safer than trying to fool them or bluff them. If you can’t get a gun, get up close to them with a knife and attack without warning. Slash a throat. Cut an artery. Stab a kidney. Get their guns and a boat. Sabotage all the other boats, or steal all the fuel, then head for open water.
Nick’s mouth went dry when he thought of it, and his knees went a little weak. They’re just people, he thought. They aren’t the enemy, they’re just old boys with funny notions about the end of the world.
But it might come to that, he thought. It just might.
“Should I take the scope to Frankland?” Jason asked.
Nick nodded. “Might as well get a look at that storage place,” he said, without any real hope it would make a difference. “Might as well. Maybe we can liberate something that will be of use.” Maybe.
He looked at Manon and Arlette. Helplessness sighed through his blood. How do I keep you safe? he asked. How?
*/
After two days of chaos, the dysentery at Clarendon had begun to get under control, and Dr. Patel had a few moments to collect his thoughts. He decided that he wanted to inspect the sanitary facilities at the A.M.E. camp. “We assuredly do not want this manner of lamentable event to occur in both places,” he told Omar.
The lamentable event was one that Omar had been hoping for all along. It had occurred to him that a nice epidemic could break out on the A.M.E. campgrounds and solve a lot of his problems, but it hadn’t happened. The place had been intended for large camp meetings, and its sanitary facilities were properly laid out at safe distances from the water supply.
“Let’s plan your visit for this afternoon,” Omar said. “I’ve got to put on some extra guards so you don’t get your throat cut the second you walk through the gates.”
Patel gave him a thoughtful look. “Very well,” he said. “Certainly.”
The more Omar thought about it, the more he considered that perhaps Dr. Patel shouldn’t be the only person to inspect the A.M.E. camp. Perhaps it was time to reinforce the notion that the camp was full of dangerous people who had to be confined behind barbed wire before they sacked Shelburne City like the Goths sacked Rome.
“Whatever story gets out,” Knox had said, “it’s got to be your story.”
So he invited various members of the local establishment to join Dr. Patel on his inspection tour— a couple members of the parish council, Tree Simpson, one of Miz LaGrande’s harpies who happened to run the local Red Cross, and Sorrel Ellen the reporter. Then he drove out to the corp limit and called Jedthus to a meeting.
“I want you to get on the bullhorn,” he said, “and tell everyone in the camp that the Imperial Wizard of the K.K.K. is coming to pay them a visit tomorrow morning. Tell them we expect them to provide the Wizard with a real courteous Southern welcome, just like they were white people.”
Jedthus looked puzzled. “Is this our Grand Wizard, you mean? Or is this someone from another Klan?”
You really are expendable, Omar thought wearily. And he explained, carefully, what he wanted Jedthus to do and why.
So that when the inspection party turned up next morning they were met by a full-scale riot, swarms of angry niggers howling and stamping and throwing garbage. And no one, not even Dr. Patel, even got near the gate. Miz LaGrande’s bridge partner, the Red Cross lady, looked ready to have a stroke.
“Hell a mile, Omar!” Tree Simpson said, as he stared wide-eyed from the shoulder of the highway at the rioters howling for his blood. “What’s going on here? What’s wrong with these people?”
“They’re a bad lot, I guess.” Omar shrugged. “At least they ain’t acting like they’re sick. I figure we can let them look after their own dang bowels.”
So the inspection party headed back to town and left the A.M.E. camp to Omar. Omar hoped that from this point they’d deal with the diarrhea at Clarendon and leave everything else to him.
*
Frankland had barely swung into his morning announcements when a loud voice called out from the audience.
“Reverend!” A voice. “Reverend Frankland!”
A young man in the crowd waved a hand. Studs Morgan, Frankland saw. The day before the quake, he’d bailed out on that assault charge.
A Catholic. One of Robitaille’s flock, and before he’d got out of jail he had worked for Magnusson, at the video store. The rest of his family had evacuated to Hot Springs, but Studs had remained, looking after the family farm, because he and his family didn’t get along. After the second big quake, the Morgan place had burned down, and Studs had come to the camp.
Frankland tried not to scowl. “Later, please, Studs,” Frankland said. “It’s not time for questions.”
“What’s being done about staying in touch with the outside?” Studs called. “I’m sure it would comfort a lot of people here to know that their families down in Hot Springs were safe.”
And dang it, Frankland heard people in the crowd agreeing with him.
Tension sang along Frankland’s jawline as he deliberately donned his brightest smile.
“Well,” he said through the smile, “I’m afraid there isn’t much of an outside to talk to, properly speaking. It’s a real mess out there, Studs. You’ve heard the bulletins. We should all be thankful that—”
“You’ve got a radio station!” Studs shouted. “All you have to do is call for help!”
“There are other people worse off than we are,” Frankland said. “Much worse off. We have food, we have adequate shelter. Other people should be first in line ...”
“We need a doctor!” Studs said. “What if we get sick? What if someone gets hurt?”
Frankland saw Hilkiah out of the corner of his eye. Hilkiah sort of puffed, like a cat confronting a growling dog. All his muscles swollen, his neck taut, the prison tattoos ready to pop off his flesh with the tension that swelled his arms.
“I’ll take care of this, Reverend,” Hilkiah growled.
No, Frankland thought. That would be a disaster. He’d have to win them over; he’d have to convince them. Force would make enemies of them all.
He was right. All he needed was the rush, the feeling of the Spirit flowing into his body. And then he could convince them, convince them as he always did ...
Frankland held the microphone away from his face, turned to Hilkiah. “No,” he said. “Not now. I’ve got to—”
And then Hilkiah’s head exploded, a huge splash of red and white superimposed for a brilliant second on Frankland’s retinal image of his aide. As the big body fell, as the crowd reacted in shock, Frankland heard the voice calling across the highway, from the deserted catfish farm.
“Send me my family!” the voice shouted. “I want my children, Your Holiness, and I want them now!”
*
The concussion slapped Nick’s ears. He watched Hilkiah’s body fall, and he thought rifle. As he turned and lunged to his feet in one strangely seamless motion, he knew in an instant what he had to do.
“Up!” hauling at Arlette’s arm. “Up! Run this way!”
“Send me my family!” a voice called.
The crowd was reacting, stirring like leaves in a slow wind. There were screams and shocked looks. Nick had hauled Arlette to her feet by one hand under her arm. He reached with the other hand, slid under Manon’s armpit.
“Up!” he said.
Oh God, he thought, don’t let the guards start shooting back.
Those people wouldn’t have any kind of fire discipline at all, he knew, they’d just start blazing away. The more bullets in the air, the more danger for everybody.
He had Arlette and Manon up and moving through the crowd. His hands were on their backs, pressing them down into a crouch to make a smaller target. Jason was scrambling to his feet, a wild look on his face.
There was a scramble at the head of the congregation, Frankland falling as if he’d tripped over something, the choir stampeding off their risers. Feedback shrieked over the speakers. And then one of the guards cut loose, a crackle of fire from one of the Armalites. It wasn’t automatic fire, but it might as well have been, the rifle snapping away as fast as the guard could pull the trigger.
Another shot, a single deep boom sounding over the rattle of the Armalite, and the crowd screamed as Dr. Calhoun fell, clutching at his midsection.
“Run!” Nick shouted. He hauled at Manon as she tripped over someone’s legs. “This way!”
There was more chattering fire from Armalites. “Stop!” Frankland’s voice, an anguished shout over the loudspeakers. “Stop that shooting!”
“This way!” Nick panted. “Quick!” He tried to put his body between Arlette and the shooter, but he figured it was useless. A single bullet could tear through them both.
Another boom. There was a raw scream of agony, a sound that sent claws tearing along Nick’s nerves, and one of the Armalites stopped firing.
A scoped rifle, Nick thought. A sniper just picking his targets with all the deliberation in the world, and he was probably well concealed by the earthen bank surrounding Johnson’s catfish pond across the road. There was no way the guards were going to stop him, not the way they were using their weapons, firing fast and almost at random.