White Wasteland, Jeff Kirkham [ebook reader with highlight function TXT] 📗

of the Twelve Apostles agreed that we would not take food or support from members of the church. I violated my oath and I accepted food from a member. I survived and stand before you today as the lone, remaining member of that Quorum of the Twelve. I ask that you consider my broken promise before you sustain me as president. I tell you today that I am not worthy of the office of the President of the Church.”

Richard Thayer sat down. Elder Clawson, from Utah County, stepped to the podium.

Never before had Richard Thayer felt so naked. His foolish soul had been put on display, and it made him smile.

He was a fool for all to see, and now everything truly was in God’s hands. Whatever happened with the sustaining vote, in his gut, he knew that his sin had shaped him into being what the church needed most—a humbled man. A broken prophet.

“Brothers and sisters. I am Elder Richard Clawson of Orem, Utah and I have recently been called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Fellow saints, I must also confess: I took up arms against the church. I was deceived. I broke our peace and I lost my way.

“Yet here I stand, a recently-ordained Apostle. In that capacity, I ask for your sustaining vote for Richard D. Thayer as President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by the uplifted hand.”

The room rumbled as hands raised. Richard Thayer saw the uplifted hand of Melinda, his wife. He smiled at the uplifted hand of Jeff Kirkham, holding a baby on his lap. He saw the new pastor, Jacquelyn Reynolds, raise her hand. Jason Ross. Jenna Ross, also holding a baby. Brother Mark Davis, his ham radio operator. Zachary, the Homestead radioman. Evan and Tanya Hafer. JT Taylor, their pilot. Half of them weren’t even Mormons, but that didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

“And now, by the same token, those who are opposed…”

The room rustled as every eye searched the pews. No hands were raised.

“I present to you, President Richard D. Thayer.” Elder Clawson resumed his seat and Richard Thayer stood to the pulpit again and spoke.

“For perhaps the first time, there are many in this room who sustained me today who are not Latter-day Saints. Jeffery Kirkham. Jacquelyn Reynolds. Wali Tasleem. Jason and Jenna Ross, just to name a few.

“Many of us once thought that we had unique possession of the truth. We called ourselves the ‘true church,’ even.

“If the destruction of the last four and a half months taught us anything, it should be that we knew very little. Yet here we gather in the Assembly Hall. Saints. Non-mormons. Polygamists. Catholics. Jews. Muslims. Evangelicals. Agnostics,” Richard motioned toward the cluster from the Homestead.

“We entered this Assembly Hall from different theologies. I pray we leave here in the same faith—believers in a god who stands beside us as we wrestle with our mistakes, as we learn the root of the evil that we allowed to gain a foothold in our dead nation, burrowed so deep that we could not see it. May we act in brotherhood and unity, and may we learn the lessons our god would have us learn.”

Movement at the back of the hall caught President Thayer’s eye as a man ran down the aisle and stopped at Jeff Kirkham’s row, leaning over several people, and whispering intensely. Jeff stood, slid into the aisle and marched toward the podium.

Richard Thayer took a deep breath and waited—all eyes were on Jeff Kirkham as he interrupted the meeting.

Jeff strode to the podium and whispered emphatically in President Thayer’s ear.

“Fifty M1 Abrams main battle tanks have attacked the City of Saint George in southern Utah…”

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— Jeff and Jason

Meanwhile…

Cameron Stewart

Highway 59

Outside Apple Valley, Utah

“Did you screw him?” Cameron seethed.

Julie answered low and angry. “We. Were. Married.”

“Don’t ever say that again. Don’t you ever fucking say that again. You weren’t married. That’s just whacko cult shit. Did you screw him or not?” Cameron’s hands flew up and down in front of his face like furious pistons.

She stole a glance at the pickup truck idling beside the highway. Four passengers stared straight ahead, avoiding their eyes. A man watched in the reflection of the driver’s side mirror—the big, extended kind for pulling trailers.

“Yes, Cameron. I had sex with him. Is that what you want me to say? I did. They made me marry him and, yes, there was a wedding night. You were in a coma. The boys needed protection.”

The sun set over Utah Mountain, and the chill of evening gnawed at the warmth coming off the blacktop. Cameron cradled his Mosin-Nagant rifle. Forty-five minutes before, he’d fled a polygamist colony in the confusion following the killing of their Prophet.

Cameron, Julie and the boys had been their prisoners, but he’d turned the priesthood inside-out with a killing spree. He’d made them pay to play. Oh yes, he had.

The rifle was all Cameron had in this world. Julie’s hands were empty. They had no vehicle. No backpack. No buckets, bags or suitcases. She and the kids escaped with the clothes on their backs.

The boys milled around the shoulder of the highway, pretending not to listen to their mother and father argue.

Cameron stared hard at the pickup truck, idling, waiting for the couple to reach a decision. The asshole behind the wheel was the son of the dead prophet, the heir apparent to the cult. He’d probably called dibs on Cameron’s hot wife as soon as they’d ambushed and captured his family six weeks before.

What a difference a day makes, Cameron thought as he shot daggers from his eyes at the round, blonde-haired face in the mirror.

They’d shot Cameron through the neck, stolen his