“You can’t forget.” Deyerle started the Jeep and backed around in a circle until he was facing the direction from which they’d come a few minutes earlier. “You shouldn’t forget.”

  Jacob thought about his wife, Sarah, his son, Samuel, and all the other family and friends he’d lost in the last six years. Sometimes it was good to forget—to live in the now and focus only on what was right in front of you. If living through another apocalyptic event had any kind of a silver lining, it was that there wasn’t a lot of time for introspection.

  “You know,” he said as Deyerle shifted into drive and pulled forward, following Mundy’s truck, “all I’ve really wanted to be since I climbed out of the bottom of that bottle of scotch that ruled my life for so many years after the war is a pastor. You know—spread the word—tend the flock—help others find the inner peace that really changed my life—”

  “I hate to say it, bubba, but I just don’t think that’s your lot in life. The world’s changed. People have changed. And whatever God’s got planned for you, preaching the good word and bouncing babies on your knee is only a small part of it. And personally, having seen you fight and followed your lead, I think that’s a damn good thing for everyone around you.”

  Jacob leapt from his seat in the Jeep using his hands for leverage. In the few minutes it had taken to arrive back at the Cundiff’s house, he’d stuffed his emotions into the deep recesses of his mind and come back at the problem facing them with renewed vigor. If the power going out was the worst this new event could throw at him, Amsterdam was ready for it. A few months or even longer without electricity paled in comparison to a deadly virus spread by breathing the same air as those you loved.

  The Cundiff’s neighbors had gathered in greater numbers in the growing daylight. At least a dozen people that Jacob recognized from around the community stood in the front yard, talking and pointing at the horizon.

  “What do you know, Jacob? What happened to Jimmy and his family? What’s happened to the power grid?” Steve Bandy asked as Jacob approached the group. Bandy was one of the forty-seven Area Captains and the chosen leader for the square mile of Amsterdam that the Cundiff home was located in.

  “Nothing really,” Jacob said loudly, holding up his hands in an attempt to curtail the slew of oncoming questions as the group noticed his presence. “I’m not going to lie to you, I would never do that. Jimmy Cundiff and his family were taken from this house a few minutes ago by armed commandos. I don’t know why—I don’t know who—I don’t know anything other than they’re gone. But I aim to find out the answers. As far as the power grid being down and the apparent nuclear-like explosion this morning, we have some theories and we’re working out some of the details, but we really don’t know any more than you do at this point. As of right now, I’m calling a community meeting at Saint Nicolas for noon today. Steve, I need you to spread the word to nearby Area Captains and tell them to do the same. We need all forty-seven of you present.”

  “Yeah, okay, but how do we get there? None of our cars or trucks will start.”

  “Older models—vehicles manufactured before the mid-eighties should be working. So should tractors, ATVs, dirt bikes—basically anything that doesn’t rely on a lot of electronics or have a lot of fancy features. Get the word out and get the captains there and we’ll begin the process of handling whatever this is or was. We’re prepared for this. You know that. The best thing you can do right now is be watchful, be careful, and most of all—stay calm.”

  He pushed his way past the group and headed toward the backyard with Mundy and Deyerle following closely. The gunman he’d shot only minutes earlier was in the same face-down position he had been since he died.

  Jacob kicked at the body, forcefully nudging the man as Deyerle bent down and picked up the fallen assault rifle. The man was dressed in camouflage clothing, but not the kind military or law enforcement personnel wore, the kind that was more common with hunters and survivalist types. A camouflage hat bearing a brown John Deere logo had fallen from his head as he fell to the ground.

  “Help me roll him over,” Jacob said to Mundy as Deyerle pulled the pistol from the man’s hand. Mundy grabbed the man by one shoulder and pulled as Jacob lifted his feet and twisted. The body turned over and fell limp in a spread-eagle position, the man’s eyes staring straight into the sky but seeing nothing. A round red stain had spread across his chest from two tightly grouped shots to the area around his heart.

  “Right in the pump,” Deyerle said.

  Jacob stood there looking at the man’s face for several seconds. His rough shave, fleshy face, and faded teardrop tattoo beneath his eye were familiar. Jacob had seen him before. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “You know him?” Deyerle asked.

  “We all do.” Jacob let the words hang out for a moment before continuing. “He’s one of Buddy Naff’s crew. Nick—Dick—Vic—something like that.”

  Deyerle and Mundy exchanged looks and frowned simultaneously.

  Buddy Naff had been the leader of the most ruthless militia they’d faced. After his defeat at the end of a four-day period of intense fighting, he’d shrunk back to the mountain hollow he’d come from and hadn’t been seen since.

  “Yeah,” Mundy said slowly. “I remember this stooge. He used to work for the feed mill. Always stunk of cigarettes and booze. Had more than a few run-ins with the law, too. He was drunk and crashed his car one night—tried to muscle his way into the Laymans’ horse barn and sleep it off. Didn’t work out too well for him.”

  Jacob smiled. Before their untimely deaths during the pandemic, the Layman’s had been Mundy’s in-laws. Old Man Layman in particular had a reputation for his fiery temper and quick wit. “Old Man Layman and his double barrel, huh?”

  “Yup. Guy took off like one of them ol’ cartoons with their britches on fire.”

  Jacob and Deyerle laughed.

  “Then Naff gave him a machine gun and an ego boost.”

  The laughing stopped.

  “I’m surprised he survived the war. He wasn’t all that bright.”

  “From the way his group was moving as they left the house,” Jacob said, “I’d say they’ve been training up somewhere. Looks like he may have lost some weight to.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Mundy said, patting his stomach.

  “But hell—Naff’s not been seen in how long now?” Deyerle said. “We don’t even know if he’s still alive, do we?”

  Jacob looked up, his eyes moving between both of the men in front of him. “He’s alive. I’d bet on that. He just hasn’t had the courage to show his face for the last few years.”

  “Alright. So if we know this guy was one of Naff’s, do we assume he still is and that Naff is the one behind this?”

  Jacob cringed at the thought. “Lord, I hope not.” In a meeting of the five elected directors, someone had once remarked that if Jacob was the heart of Amsterdam, Jimmy and Teresa Cundiff were the brains. As such, Jacob had tried as much as possible to keep their importance a secret to the outside world. He’d done the same for all the directors, making himself the most vocal and recognizable for this exact reason. Buddy Naff and those they’d fought six years earlier already knew who he was. They didn’t need to know any more.

  “Just because this clown was part of it doesn’t mean Naff was,” Mundy said. “As far as we know his entire group was scattered. This guy could have ended up anywhere.”

  Jacob heard the words, but knew he didn’t believe them. As he continued to run the scenario through his mind, one thing more than anything else bothered him—the timing. The event—whatever it was—had only happened a little more than an hour ago. For someone to organize an operation, get their men and their vehicles out and about, and arrive in so short a time period meant they had to be close by. Or else their actions had been planned well in advance and had only coincidentally happened at the same time. But that was stretching the limits of believability—and common sense.

  “Jimmy’s well known. A lot of people know what he does for a living. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that he has value in this situation. Anyone could have had the same idea we did when the lights went out this morning,” Mundy continued. “Get the engineer. Let’s not jump the gun on this.”

  Deyerle spit. “They have a funny way of asking for help.”

  “I don’t think it was just anyone,” Jacob said in resignation. “Naff was always all about exploiting people and things for their value. That—more than anything else—is what started our fight with him last time around. I think we need to treat this like it was him until we find out otherwise. And that means we need to batten down the hatches, be ready for a fight, figure out how in the world he knew to come after the Cundiffs, and how in the hell he was so prepared in such a short time frame.”

  Chapter Nine

  10:36 a.m.

  Event + 05:36 Hours

  Sitting on the steps of the stage in the Saint Nicholas Sanctuary, Jacob felt as though he’d given the same speech and talked about the same questions for hours. He had.

  With the threat of Buddy Naff’s involvement in the kidnapping of the Cundiff Family, Jacob had eschewed his plan for one big meeting with the directors and area captains. Instead, he’d opted for ten captains at a time so the rest could be left to tend to their duties, which now included watching the boundaries for any sign of Naff or his men and guarding the entrances to the community, even the ones that had been blocked off.

  The seemingly natural events earlier that morning and the possibility of a coordinated EMP attack had ratcheted the tension in their community to a near-breaking point. But so far everyone was staying calm and continuing to give each other a helping hand. The spirit in which Amsterdam had been founded was holding and of that Jacob was proud, though a shuddering fear still lingered in his mind.

  The previous four meetings had gone smoothly. The three remaining directors had arrived ahead of the first ten captains, he’d told each group everything he knew about the events and the kidnapping, they’d expressed their concerns and ideas, and everyone had gone about their business. But this last meeting was trying everyone’s patience as one particular member of their community railed against another, who now sat crying with her head in her hands.

  “Alright,” Jacob said, losing his patience. “We’ve heard you. She’s not going anywhere so it’s time to sit down.”

  The aged woman who had been speaking turned from the target of her accusations and stared. “Last time I looked, Jacob Craft, it wasn’t up to you. There were five directors and they voted—”

  “And a vote has to be called for by the spokesman—that’s me—or asked for by at least two members of the Directorate. Neither has happened, so it’s a dead issue. Leah Huff and her sons stay in Amsterdam until there is something more than your gossip implicating them in any wrongdoing.”

  Tawny Short glared, her coal-like eyes boring a hole through the members of the Directorate as they all sat silently in a row beside Jacob. “You all don’t have the courage of your convictions. You let Jacob lead you around by the nose like clumsy foals and it’s going to come back and haunt you. You mark my words.”

  The old woman took her seat, but continued to stare around the room defiantly. If there was one person in the entire 47-square mile space they’d carved out of southwest Virginia that could make Jacob angry, it was her. Time and time again she had made enemies by accusing her neighbors of trivial crimes and bringing each and every one of them before the Directorate for adjudication. And each and every time, she’d lost. With her history and her age, it was a mystery to Jacob why her neighbors kept her as their area captain, but he supposed it had something to do with fear. Thankfully, her area was internal and didn’t possess anything vital such as a farm or border.

  “If that’s the last order of business, we’ll adjourn.” Jacob looked around.

  “Seconded,” Mace Mundy said from his place at the other end of the gathered directors on the stage.

  “We’re adjourned then. Keep your eyes, ears, and minds open. If you see something—anything—say something.”

  The thirteen people present stood and made their way toward the mahogany doors. Jacob followed, bringing up the rear and glad to feel the fresh air on his skin after hours inside. Leah Huff approached, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, handing him a spiral notepad. “I missed the last several minutes.”

  Jacob smiled and took the pad. “Don’t worry. We have plenty of Tawny Short experiences to fill in the blanks with later.”

  She smiled and gave a tentative laugh, wiping her eyes again.

  “Go home and take a rest. It’s been a long morning.”

  She nodded and Jacob watched as she walked toward the back of the parking lot. Her home was only a block or so away as cities were measured.

  Mace Mundy cleared his throat. Jacob turned, having been previously unaware of the big man’s presence.

  “Leah’s a good kid,” Mundy said. “She always was. That old hag in there needs to take a dirt nap. She’s about two decades late by my reckoning.” He lifted an eyebrow at Jacob. “I know—I know—God loves her.”

  Jacob shrugged. He hoped God loved Tawny Short because he was pretty sure no one else did. “Leah’s a good kid,” he said, moving his head back and forth mockingly. “Always was. But?”

  “But—and it pains me greatly to say this—I think Brittle Little in there might have the tiniest bit of a point this time around. Leah and her two sons are the only connection Buddy has to Amsterdam and if someone has passed information to him about Jimmy or anything else around here, they’re the common sense place to start looking.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Leah has more reason to hate Buddy Naff then everyone in the entire forty-seven square miles of Amsterdam combined. She left him after fourteen years of marriage in the middle of the night—in the middle of a war—and walked barefoot over a mountain to a place that for all she knew was hostile territory full of people that would shoot her and her kids on sight.”

  “I know—I know. But follow me through this. The kids are barely old enough to remember the hell their father put their mother through. If he did want information on Amsterdam wouldn’t it make sense that he’d approach one of them?”

  Jacob thought about it for a moment. “They’re barely even teenagers. They don’t have access to the kind of information he would need or want. One of them has the mind of an eight-year-old. I don’t even think they’ve left the area in what—years?”

  Mundy gave him a serious look. “They have access to this church, don’t they? Is this not where ninety-nine percent of Amsterdam’s business is conducted? Their mother works and practically lives here. They go to school, don’t they?”

  Jacob shrugged and ceded the point with a wave. “Yeah—they do. Someplace down in Roanoke.”

  “I’m not saying I think they’re guilty. All I’m saying is that it’s worth some serious thought and maybe a conversation with—”

  The sound of squealing tires drew their attention. Jacob turned to see a beat up Datsun truck speeding up the road next to the church with Paul Poff behind the wheel and A.J. Deyerle in the back, leaning over and holding something in place.

  Poff barely slowed as he brought the vehicle around into the church parking lot and straight toward Jacob and Mundy.

  “It’s Stevie Cundiff!” Deyerle called as Poff skidded to a stop.

  Jacob and Mundy rushed to the side of the truck. Lying on his back with his face bruised and one eye swollen shut, Jimmy Cundiff’s son squinted into the morning sunlight. “Pastor Jake?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “I’m here,” Jacob said, stroking the uninjured side of his face. “I’m here.”

  “Pastor Jake.”

  “What happened?” he looked up at Deyerle who had been helping guard what was considered by many to be Amsterdam’s front door, a set of concrete overpasses that allowed the nearby interstate to cross over the main road through Amsterdam and separated it from other areas beyond.

  “That Humvee came speeding up Route 11, skidded to a stop beneath the traffic light, and someone shoved him out the back door onto the pavement. Then it took off again.”

  “Pastor Jake.”

  “Let’s get him inside and get him cleaned up.”

  Mundy reached over the side of the small truck and picked the boy up as if he were a rag doll.

  Ten minutes later, he was on the couch in Jacob’s office with an ice pack, the swelling on his face already beginning to recede. Jacob rubbed his head with a wet washcloth and did his best to avoid a bit of road rash above his eye. “Tell us what happened, Stevie.”

  The boy’s face twisted up and tears leaked from his eyes, a high-pitched sob escaping from deep within.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  “Mommy and Daddy—”

  “It’s okay. Tell us what happened. We’re here to help. We’re going to help.”

  “He said—he said—you have to meet him. You have to meet him alone.”

  “Meet who? Where?”

  “Buddy Naff.” He sobbed again.

  Jacob laid the washcloth aside and stood, running a hand through his hair. Although he’d strongly suspected Naff’s involvement already, hearing it for certain was still jarring.

  “Where? When?”

  “You can’t possibly meet him alone,” Mundy said. “It’s out of the question.”

  “Where and when, Stevie?” he repeated, holding up a hand for Mundy’s silence.

  “He said noon at the old—the old railroad trestle across Tinker Creek.”

  Jacob looked at the battery-operated clock on the wall. “That’s not long from now.”

  “That gives him the—”

  Jacob held up his hand again and gave Mundy a knowing look.

  Mundy frowned, but stopped talking.

  Jacob nodded toward the exit. “Rest here for a while, Stevie. Someone will be in to look after you before long.”

 

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