Читать книгу Songs for a Mockingbird - Bonnie Compton Hanson - Страница 13

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, she mustn’t think of that. She must concentrate on how to get out of the truck safely once they reached wherever they were headed. She hadn’t seen any lock on the tailgate, so maybe if they got the latches undone, they could just slide out. And with everything so dark, maybe they could even do it without being seen! Surely someone somewhere would eventually take pity on them and help them!

She sighed. So did her daughter.

“Mommy!” Amber whispered. “I’m scared. And hungry. And this hay makes me itch.”

“Don’t be scared,” she whispered back. “I know the hay is scratchy, but we won’t be here long. Remember, God is with us. ‘When I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.’” (Psalms 56:3)

“Well, maybe I don’t want God to be with me,” her daughter sniffled softly. “Not if He’s mean like the Prophet and Prophetess. Why are they such baddies, Mommy? I want my Daddy.”

Of course they all did.

After a moment’s silence, her brother suggested, “If we sing, maybe you won’t be so afraid. They won’t hear us over all that music. It’s as loud and horrible as the Prophet’s bongo drums.”

“A good idea, dear,” Melinda replied. Dear God, anything to keep the children from sobbing. “Let’s whisper a song, as quiet as we can. Try ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ All together now—”

But only she and Jeremy and Shannon knew the words. For, ever since little Amber’s birth, the commune children had been allowed to hear nothing but the Prophet’s own ear-grating “psalms.”

How Melinda longed to hold her little girl in her arms and comfort her! But she could only squeeze her hand. “That’s all right, dear; we’ll teach the song to you.” They tried the song again.

But just then the loud music stopped. And so did she.

“Goldurn you, Hank!” yelled an angry voice out the open window. “What’d you go turn off the radio for? You know I just love that song. Why, that feller’s almost plumb good as Willie Nelson.”

“You idiot! Your cell phone’s ringing. You deaf or something? Maybe it’s Rev. Harve. Boy, you sure don’t want him mad at you.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Hello, hello? Hey, Hank, something’s wrong. I can’t hear nothing.”

“Do I have to do everything around here? Grab the wheel for me, okay? Hello, hello?

You’re right, Joe. It’s Rev. Harve, but the connection died. Couldn’t hear a word he said except ‘emergency.’ That’s the trouble with these stupid cell phones; batteries always run out just when you need them.”

“‘Emergency’? Lord, Hank, we’d better get on back. Might be the Feds. They like to raid after dark, and I seen some suspicious planes overhead this afternoon. Man, I can’t wait until us PAF-ers kin git rid of all them government creeps and do whatever we want. Goldurn this old one-lane road! Where can we turn around?”

“Well, we’re almost up to the Parkinson place—you know, last farm before the highway. They got a wide place there by their driveway. All right, Joe, hang on to your hat. And keep the other hand on your gun!”

Melinda froze. No, no, they couldn’t turn back now—not with freedom this close! Besides, that “emergency” could only mean one thing: the Prophet had discovered them missing!

“All right, everyone,” she whispered, “we’ve got to make our way back through the bags to the tailgate. Okay? Shannon—uh, Sister Deborah—you’ll need to unlatch one side of it while I unlatch the other. When the truck slows down to turn around, everyone grab a bundle of clothes, then hold tight to it as you slide off to help break your fall. I’ll help you. Come on!”

Pushing and wriggling along under the tarp past the various bags and bundles, they finally reached the back of the truck. To Shannon she said, “All right, dear, as soon as you’ve got your latch open, call, ‘Ready.’ Got it?”

As Melinda crawled across to the other side, she could see lights of cars whizzing by on the main highway up ahead. That meant they were almost to the turnaround place!

But the latches were far harder to open than she thought, and it took every ounce of her strength to get her side undone.

“Sister Abigail!” Shannon whispered frantically. “I can’t do it!”

Of course not; Melinda had barely managed one herself.

“Hold on, dear; I’m coming. We’ll try it together.”

As she pushed her way back across, she heard from the cab, “Okay, Hank, this here’s the Parkinson place. I’ll try the phone again . . .. Goldurn, still can’t hear what they’re saying! Okay, turn that radio back on and let’s burn rubber.”

Speakers booming, the truck whirled around in the driveway, skidding and squealing. Just then the tailgate finally released. “All right,” Melinda cried. “Everyone JUMP!”

Then, without the truck even slowing down, they all spilt out—along with an avalanche of sewing bundles and even a hay bale or two—landing in a cloud of dust on the gravel road! By the time the dust cleared, the truck had long since disappeared back down the road toward the compound.

Melinda sat up, dazed. “Is everyone all right?” she cried. “Anyone bleeding?” One by one, she brushed the children off and tried to inspect them for scrapes and bruises. Thank God; all those soft bundles had cushioned their landing! Even her ankle was no worse.

Grabbing all three children in her arms, she smothered them with kisses. “We did it!” she cried hoarsely. “We’re not there any more!”

“But, Mommy,” Jeremy replied without smiling, “where are we?”

Standing up to get her bearings, “We’re almost to a highway, dear.” Then realizing that her children had never seen one before, she explained, “That means a big road with lots of cars on it. It will take us to our new home. But we must stay together and walk carefully by the side of the road, because highways are very dangerous. Understand?”

Jeremy was dubious. “But, Mommy, when the guards find we’re gone, won’t they come back looking for us?”

More brightly than she felt she said, “You’re right, dear, so we can’t stay here. I know you’re barefoot and the gravel will hurt your feet, but we’ve got to reach the highway as fast as we can.” She picked up her daughter. “Shannon—Sister Deborah—you grab Jeremy’s—uh, Brother Meshach’s—hand. Stay close to me so I can lean on you like a crutch if I need to. Okay, everyone pray as hard as you can. Now, let’s go!”

Finally reaching the highway turnoff, Melinda stopped to read a directional sign: 15 miles east to Cottontree, 35 west to Big Bend. Both the commune and the small community of Cottontree were in Lincoln County. But from what the guards had said, apparently the Lincoln County Sheriff was a close friend of the Prophet’s men. Maybe that’s why no one bothered reporting the death of Josh—or of any other tragically Disappeared Ones over the years.

So, instead, she set out resolutely the other way toward Mercer County and Big Bend City. Even though it seemed impossibly far away, the larger town would be easier to hide in. Plus find jobs and housing.

As they walked, she longed to ask Jeremy what he knew about his father’s death. But she didn’t dare. Right now they needed all the strength they could muster. If they gave way to sorrow and despair, they might as well give up.

Although a full summer moon had risen, dark clouds now scurried across it, cutting the light and making them much harder to spot. Still, whenever she heard a motor or saw headlights, Melinda and her three young charges all crouched down in the ditch beside the highway—water, algae, frogs, mosquitoes, and all.

“See these bullrushes?” she asked cheerfully, trying to make a game of it. “They’re hiding us just like they hid Baby Moses. Listen; you can hear the frogs singing to you.”

“Don’t want to be Baby Moses,” Amber whimpered. “And don’t like frogs. I’m hungry and sleepy and scared and wet. I want to go to bed. And I want my Daddy!”

“Me, too,” sighed her brother. “Besides, aren’t these frogs like that plague in Egypt? Isn’t that a bad sign?”

Shannon gave him a hug. “God made frogs, Brother Meshach. They can be good friends to us. They eat naughty mosquitoes. Back at the compound I’d always listen to them at night when I couldn’t sleep. I pretended they were lonely, too, and talking to me.”

“Brother Meshach.” “Sister Deborah.” Dear God, would they ever get used to their real names again? And how will I ever get us all to safety? Each step I take on this swollen ankle feels like walking on broken glass. And even though the night’s warm, the ditch water’s already giving the children a chill.

“I like looking up at the moon and stars, too,” Shannon continued. “Brother Shimron—your Daddy—told me God created them. They’re like lights He’s turned on to help us find our way home. These little fireflies twinkling all around us are trying to help us too.”

Shifting her weary daughter to her other hip, Melinda tried again. “Yes, that’s just what God’s doing for us. Remember Noah’s Ark? And God’s promise to save Noah and the animals in the Ark? The Bible says God always keeps His promises. Can you name any of the animals in the Ark, Jeremy?”

“Well, mules and cows, like at our farm. But I’m hungry, too, Mommy. And I’m cold. And my feet hurt. And there are too many mosquitoes. Can’t we just sit down somewhere and rest?”

Oh, how she longed to do just that! “Not yet, dear; not until we’re safe. What about you, Amber; what animals do you like?”

“A kittycat. A nice kittycat. Not like those naughty ones at the barn.”

“Yes, dear, and what about puppy dogs?”

“We had dogs at the compound,” Shannon offered. “Pit bulls and hunting dogs.”

“No, Mommy!” Amber protested. “No, just a kittycat! See?”

And then her mother saw it, too: a tiny gray-striped kitten in the middle of the highway, mewing frantically.

Suddenly her little daughter wiggled out of her arms—and dashed across the pavement in the gathering dark to rescue it. “No, Amber!” Melinda screamed. “Stop!”

Just then she saw headlights speeding straight toward them. From the compound direction!

Heart in her mouth, Melinda hobbled desperately after the child. But just as she reached Amber, her bad ankle gave way. Completely.

“Run, Jeremy!” she screamed. “Save yourself !”

Blinded by the headlights, she tried to shield little Amber with her own body.

Brakes screeched to a stop.

“Hey, you there!” shouted a man’s voice. “Nobody move. Nobody!”