Her children and Shannon froze with terror, as the animals almost bowled them over.
But Melinda forced herself to smile back. “Thank you, sir. You are most kind. Come along, children, maybe the nice doggies would like to pray with us.”
Swooping Amber up with one arm, she held tightly to Jeremy with the other. Shannon grabbed Jeremy’s other hand with her good one. Then they started across the Plain of Jordan, the two dogs snarling, snapping at their heels, hounding their every step.
Pretending to have no special direction in mind, Melinda began praying out loud as they trudged through the weedy open area, zigzagging until they neared the barn. Soon they had slipped behind an empty chicken coop, hidden for the moment from both the ever-present security cameras and the guard. But, of course, the guard still knew where they were, from the dogs’ constant barking and whining.
Especially their barking and whining around her apron pocket, where the precious pork chop bones—those greasy, smelly bones—had been stuffed for her starving children. Well, these dogs were obviously just as starving. And a lot more ferocious!
Still blockocked from the guard’s line of sight by the chicken coop, she moved Shannon and her children as close as possible to a small door in the side of the barn. Her only hope lay in getting the four of them in through that door—and keeping the attack dogs out.
Directly in front of her, between the chicken coop and the barn, a narrow pathway led to a large field of early corn—already over knee-high. With the dogs pawing and barking wildly, trying to knock her down, she reached into her pocket, and pulled out the bones.
Then, with her best softball pitch, threw each one as far out into the corn field as possible.
Go get ‘ em, guys!
As the dogs tore down the path, she pulled the barn door open enough to peek inside. Thank God; the coast was clear. “All right, everyone!” she whispered. “To that truck! Run!”
Chapter Six
Stumbling through the darkness, they headed straight for the back of the ready-to-go truck. Melinda helped the others over the tailgate. Climbing up herself was more difficult, especially with her bad ankle. But, finally, they all made it. Then quickly pushing aside bales and packages, they squeezed under the tarp.
“Now, kids, keep your faces away from those plastic bags at all times,” she warned, as she found hiding places for them all. Little Amber whimpered. But no one said a word.
Then Melinda started burrowing through the piles for her own space. Straining to shove aside one of the heavy bales, she was startled to feel a box beneath it. Then more boxes. Lifting up the edge of the tarp to read the labels on them, she saw A-M-M-U-N—
Ammunition! They were lying on top of live ammunition!
There was no time to think about that because just then she heard voices.
Quickly replacing the tarp, she scrunched up against the ammo boxes, pulling quilts and layette bags all over herself. Then, reaching out blindly to the children, she steeled herself for truck doors slamming, an engine turning over, and wheels spinning against dirt and straw. The blissful sounds of freedom!
Or for sounds of running feet. Along with loud voices reporting them missing!
“Better check the tailgate again, Joe,” one voice commanded. “Tarp, too.”
Boots stomped around to the back. Unseen hands tugged on the cover while Melinda held her breath. Finally he announced, “All secure, Hank. Let’s roll.”
In a few moments, their truck was jolting along the long, rutted lane through the cornfields to the locked front gates. Through a hole in the tarp, Melinda could see a huge American flag above the gatehouse—lit up by searchlights. And a gaudy sign in red, white, and blue, proclaiming “Osborn Christian Ministries, Inc.—Putting America First.”
Osborn? Hey, Josh and I helped pay for this place, too! Besides, God’s the One we’re supposed to put first!
“Yo, Hank!” one of the gate guards shouted. “Weren’t them pork chops tonight great, man? Shame the gravy ran out, though. Hey, bring me back a coupla sixpacks, willya? And a new magazine for Jim here. Oh, and when you unload the shipment for the Sheriff, ask him when’s our next militia practice, okay? And does he need more fertilizer? Well, don’t do nothin’ me and Jim here wouldn’t do.” Laughing loudly, “Especially with them girlies over at Mabel’s place.”
“You got it, Mort. We’ll bring back a load of pizza for everyone—pepperoni, sausage, the works. Plus some videos for Rev. Harve—you know, that kind—and the usual burgers, fries, and trashy romance novel for his old lady. Pot, too, if we’re lucky. Well, see you later.”
With that, they rolled on out across a cattle-proof grate to the gravel county road, as the commune gates clanged shut behind them. Melinda Lee Currie was now outside her prison for the first time in nearly ten years.
Then from the driver’s side she heard, “All right, Joe-baby. Pass me a cigarette, crank up that squawkbox, and let’s party.”
Immediately Melinda was almost blasted out of the back by country rock music so loud she could hardly hear herself think. Yet think she must. Their very lives depended on her being alert every moment. At least that noise would cover up any whispering she and the kids would have to do.
“Hank,” “Joe,” “Mort,” “Jim.” How startling to hear such ordinary names! For several years now, all the Unanointed Disciples—adults and children alike—had to call each other by special Biblical names forced on them by Harve and Agnes. But the Prophet’s guards might as well have had no names at all. All except the Messenger Gabriel must be addressed simply as “sir” by common commune members such as herself. And, of course, it had been years since she had been permitted to call Harve anything but “Prophet,” “Anointed Prophet,” “God’s Anointed,” or “Your Holiness.”
Yet in just an hour or so, she might be out where everyone had normal names. And she could once more be plain “Mrs. Melinda Currie” instead of “Sister Abigail.”
A “shipment” for the Sheriff ? That really puzzled her. What in the world would he want with quilts and baby clothes? Or hay, for that matter? Or was his real shipment the ammo boxes? If so, why—and why that much? And was the fertilizer for farm use—or for explosives?
Another thing: Harve and Agnes and their guards pampered themselves with luxuries such as magazines, cigarettes, videos, pizza, and beer— even, God help us, marijuana! But the Unanointed Disciples were barely allowed blankets, food, or clothes, with no toys or schooling for the children, and no shoes or medical help for anyone!
God, it’s all so unfair! Well, when she and her children made it out to the “real world”—
Of course, if we don’t . . .?
Or even if we do, where could we go, what could we do, without friends or money, in the middle of the night? Or even tomorrow, when the Prophet’s men come to look for us?
No,
