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

fallen dead. In surrendering his fate to God, Chad took to the skies.

His backstory—of warrior poets and elite fighting men—overtook his allegiance to actual people. The God of the Book of Revelations shouted at him in verse, suddenly making perfect sense.

“I will kill her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts…”

The kill-or-be-killed apocalypse finally struck Chad from his moorings, sending him keel-first into the whirlpool known to Keats and Shelley, Van Gough and Cézanne. He would no longer honor the borders and boundaries of man. He would seek life and death of a more extravagant type.

A picture flashed in his mind of a crusader; a wide-eyed warrior, standing alone with a blue cross on his breast, tossing his life against impossible odds for a victory in the name of the Lord Almighty.

As Chad left the infirmary, and walked back into the dull cold of another late-November day, he ignored the people around him. He fairly bounced in step with a new song that only he could hear.

Residence of President Richard D. Thayer

Prophet Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Orchard Heights, Utah

“I’ve heard it now twice on the ham nets. There is another LDS prophet.”

President Thayer turned in his chair and looked out the window as though the Lord might give him inspiration somewhere in his backyard. Tiny chickadees bobbled about from branch to branch in the clump of Gambel oak pressed against his office window. The day had turned gunmetal grey, but the birds didn’t seem to mind.

“Who’s claiming to be the prophet?” Thayer asked. He wasn’t certain he’d been the next elder in succession for the presidency of the Church. So many leaders had died so quickly nobody knew for sure.

Brother Davis, a ward member who lived up the street from President Thayer, had become the closest thing to a “Communications Coordinator” of the surviving church. He had a ham radio and knew how to use it. All that to say, Brother Davis knew slightly more than the rumor mill about what was going on in the world.

Brother Davis looked at his notes. “I’m hearing that President Burnham has been set apart as the President of the Church.”

“Rex Burnham?” President Thayer turned from the chickadees and faced the two men in his office. Leroy Davis and Jack Vanderlink had become his staff by default. Even in the middle of the apocalypse, a regular staff meeting had established itself by unspoken agreement each morning at ten o’clock sharp.

“I’d never heard of him before. Do you know him?”

“Yes. He’s a member of the First Quorum of Seventy. I think he lives in Provo.” President Thayer wracked his brain trying to remember where his colleague lived. “I vaguely recall Elder Tyson mentioning that he’d stayed at Rex Burnham’s home in Provo once during stake conference. I think he brought it up because Elder Burnham’s home was large and beautiful.”

President Thayer rubbed his freshly-shaved chin trying to remember the details. Yet again, he realized just how dependent they’d all become on the internet. His first impulse had been to swing his chair around and google Elder Rex Burnham.

As his memory raked through relevant bits of information, President Thayer’s mind wandered. He’d often thought that the City of Provo deserved to be church headquarters instead of Salt Lake City. It seemed a more natural locus of the Mormon faith.

Salt Lake City was home to Temple Square, and the Church had roots too deep to change, but Salt Lake had become a mixed-breed of faith, split between atheist, LGBT and conservative Mormonism. Especially during the last ten years, the City of Salt Lake and the LDS Church had struggled to share the same town.

No such conflict bothered Provo. Set at the foot of the snow-capped peaks of Mount Timpanogos, the twin cities of Provo and Orem exuded pure Mormonism. Perfect, lush grass ran, seemingly uninterrupted, between the Missionary Training Center, Provo Temple and Brigham Young University campus. Beautiful college girls and chisel-jawed college boys rambled about the town like carefree puppies, heirs to a world where everything felt profoundly right.

The Mormon university wrapped Provo around it with finely-tuned intellectual permission coupled with moral certainty in their faith. The unofficial motto of the school: Brigham Young University, love it or leave it.

The idea of the president of the church, leading from Provo had a certain symmetry to it. If it weren’t for the ascendency put in place by Brigham Young, President Thayer might consider stepping down in favor of a Provo prophet.

But President Thayer knew where Elder Burnham sat in the line to the presidency of the church, and unfortunately, he lacked the seniority to take the position—by a long shot. Richard Thayer had been a junior member of the Quorum of the Twelve when the nation collapsed, undoubtedly senior to Rex Burnham by at least half-a-dozen slots. His colleague could be forgiven his misstep. Without official communication for two months, many senior leaders of the LDS Church might wonder if the mantle of prophet had fallen upon them.

“Brother Davis, can you please contact Elder Burnham and let him know that I’m among the living?”

The aging radioman crinkled his eyes. “President, that’s not how ham radio works these days. I haven’t spoken with anyone close to Elder Burnham or anyone even in Provo. I’m catching rumors floating about on the airwaves.” Brother Davis fluttered his hands, illustrating the ephemeral nature of simplex ham radio. “Without text, email or phone, there’s no way to schedule a frequency, date or time for a conversation. The ham I spoke to, the guy who told me about Elder Burnham, was transmitting from New Mexico. Not to get too technical, but a bunch of repeaters are down. We’re thinking someone tore them up to get the solar panels and batteries. I’ve been listening for two months, and I’ve yet to hear anyone transmitting from Provo or anywhere in Utah Valley. I can put it out that you’re