Part 55 (1/2)

Going to see Deacon Chalmers, whoever the f.u.c.k that was.

Do you want to die, or do you want to live? LaRouche had pondered the question ad nauseum and come up with no definitive answer. There were benefits to both. Downsides to both. It was almost as though he just didn't care. Like he would rather someone else make the decision for him. He was tired of trying to control the uncontrollable. Maybe it was best to let go. Ride the river, instead of fighting the current.

Do you want to die, or do you want to live?

Maybe he wouldn't even be given the choice. What a relief that would be. If Deacon Chalmers simply took his head off with a battle axe and was done with it. Or whatever the f.u.c.k these people did. He wasn't sure. Of course, the concept of death made a cold little worm of fear wiggle its way through him. It was an unknown. It was a mystery.

So he simply walked along with them, compliant as he could possibly be. Save for the constant jockeying of that single question-to live or die-his mind was otherwise blank. Every once in a while he thought of Jim and Wilson and the rest of them. Even Camp Ryder sometimes. But mostly those felt like dreams. Like they'd never really happened.

He heard voices off to his left. They were women's voices and they spoke quietly. The hush of them was what got his attention, the way their voices were riddled with fear. He turned his head and lifted it, trying to see through that narrow slot. He got a glimpse of a cage made of wood and rope and the impression that it was huge. Dozens of desperate faces crowded the bars. Women's faces. Some of them were older, but many of them younger.

Clyde pushed his head down. ”Keep your eyes on the ground.”

The hard-packed dirt turned into a narrow path. Dry, wintered gra.s.ses crowned either side of this little walkway. Not much more than a footpath. They slowed and LaRouche could see some wooden steps ahead of him. He navigated them, Clyde's hand pus.h.i.+ng him gently upwards. Then the hand grabbed his shoulder, halting him.

”Stop here,” Clyde instructed.

There was the sound of fabric being pulled back. Boots on wooden planks, slowly walking towards them. A voice, slightly rough around the edges, but undeniably kind. The inflections were warm, not hostile, as LaRouche had expected.

”Clyde. Who's this?”

”Deacon Chalmers, sir.” Clyde's voice was nervous. ”We caught this man moving through the woods, just west of the bridge.”

”Hmm.”

LaRouche watched two old, worn-out motorcycle boots stop right in front of him.

”Let's take the blindfold off, yeah?” Deacon Chalmers suggested.

”Yes, sir.”

LaRouche felt Clyde's fingers working the knot at the back of his head, untying it. The blindfold fell away and LaRouche closed one eye against the daylight, squinting the other painfully. The light was harsh and painful and it reminded LaRouche that the toxins from a bottle of whiskey had not been completely removed from his system. He felt almost instantly nauseous.

”Whoa.” Deacon Chalmers faced him and laughed. He was a medium sized man, but one of those men who seems too big for his body, like the charisma for a much larger man was mistakenly given to him. He wore a beard, but well-trimmed. His hair pulled back into a short ponytail. ”I thought I smelled bourbon when you came up, but the eyes don't lie, do they?”

LaRouche supposed that meant that his were bloodshot, bleary, puffy. They felt that way.

”You hungover, son?”

LaRouche nodded slowly.

”I understand.” Deacon Chalmers leaned back away from LaRouche and took a long, hard look at him, crossing his arms over his chest. He wore a leather jacket and a black bandana around his neck with white printing on it that LaRouche suspected would be a skull if the image were flattened out.

Deacon Chalmers is a former biker, apparently.

”What's your name, son?”

”Everyone calls me LaRouche.”

”Everyone?”

”My...” LaRouche was about to say friends, but he didn't suppose that he had many of those left in the world now. ”People.”

”Your people?”

”No. Just...people.”

”Do you not have any people, LaRouche?”

”No.”

”You have G.o.d, my friend.”

LaRouche didn't respond. Wasn't really sure how to. He wasn't trying to be rebellious, or to prod at Deacon Chalmers. Frankly, he just didn't have it in him at the moment for such things. In this particular case, he was just blank. He had no words.

”Kneel down, LaRouche. I'll kneel with you.”

LaRouche considered it for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to one knee, then both. Deacon Chalmers followed suit so that the two men were on their knees, facing each other. Chalmers put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a look of pity, the look that any missionary might give a Stone Age savage.

”LaRouche, I'm going to have a very honest conversation with you.” He lowered one of his hands down to his side and when he raised it again it held a large, silver revolver. LaRouche watched it glide towards him and for some reason he felt very little. Some slight apprehension, but muted. Nothing like he should have felt.

Chalmers, one hand still resting grandfatherly on LaRouche's shoulder, placed the revolver against LaRouche's temple. ”LaRouche, I do not know your background. I do not know your sins. Only G.o.d knows these things. And G.o.d is who I answer to. I cannot allow evil to be a part of my body, and so I cannot allow an evil person to enter my fold. However, I am obliged to offer every sinner a choice, just as it was once offered to me.”

Deacon Chalmers slipped his finger into the trigger.

LaRouche met his gaze, and he felt very calm.

Chalmers spoke calmly, earnestly: ”Listen to my words, because I'll only say them once. In exchange for your life, will you renounce this world and all of its evils? Will you repent for the sins you have committed against G.o.d? Will you commit yourself to the Lord, the one true G.o.d, and his Son Jesus Christ, the Almighty? And in so doing, will you serve with purity and sanct.i.ty, and with faithfulness and truthfulness? Will you promise to fight for the Lord your G.o.d, against all the wiles of Satan, and Satan's people, and thereby extinguish evil from the world and return this country to a path of righteousness?”

LaRouche lowered his gaze, still blank on the inside. An empty vessel.

”Make your choice, LaRouche,” Deacon Chalmers said gently. ”No one can decide for you. Will you repent, son? Will you make these promises?”

LaRouche took a deep breath. Like he was smelling the world for the last time. Tasting it. Soaking it in. Then he raised his eyes to meet Deacon Chalmers, and his voice was solid and steady.

”I will repent.”

CHAPTER 44: RATTLESNAKE.

Lee sat in the office of the Camp Ryder building, surrounded by the people that he trusted the most. Tomlin, Angela, Marie, Old Man Hughes, Nate, and even Devon. There were others as well-people like Kristy Malone, and some of the others who had supported Bus and Lee from the beginning. A man from the group that had come with Jacob from Smithfield.

There was a certain silence that had fallen over those gathered. It was the silence of reeling after a shockwave. Their eyes remained fixed upon Lee, and Lee had lowered his eyes to the floor because he could think of no more appropriate place for them.