The chaplain said, “Six of these tanks are still full. I’ve tried to use the fuel very sparingly. When I jump off this mortal coil, everything here in my camp is for you folks. All you need to do is plant me over there. Let’s pray about this.”

•   •   •

Eighteen days later, Joshua took his regular check through his scope, just as he had done faithfully every day since getting married, regardless of the weather. This time Reverend Wetherspoon was not sitting in his usual spot.

Joshua very cautiously approached the chaplain’s camp. Picking his way first around the meadow and then through the brush quietly took nearly an hour. He wanted to be sure that he wasn’t walking into an ambush set by someone who had done harm to Wetherspoon. When the tents came into view, he found what he had expected: The chaplain was in his sleeping bag, clutching a Bible, at permanent peace.

Megan and Joshua buried him that afternoon, and said prayers for everyone that the chaplain had contacted in all of his years of ministry, praying that any of them who had not yet come to Christ would do so. They did not believe in prayers for the dead since they recognized that people could only be saved by faith in Christ, and that this transformation could take place only while someone was still alive. Of course they had assurance of Wetherspoon’s own salvation.

They decided to leave the tents in place and to leave half of the food and fuel in situ. This would be their backup camp in case their cave was ever discovered by malefactors.

•   •   •

By harvesting three more deer—which were rapidly becoming less populous and more skittish—and by using the supplies left to them by the chaplain, they were providentially carried through the coldest months of winter. Wetherspoon had stocked up heavily on rice, beans, and oatmeal in five-gallon plastic buckets, as well as cans of stew, soup, chili, and various fruits and vegetables.

In the last week of February, they were down to the last two twenty-pound propane tanks, ten pounds of rice, and the last dozen cans of food. It would be the dark of the moon in three days. The nights were cold and clear, as a high-pressure system seemed to be building. The days were getting noticeably longer, and there was no more risk of snow. It was time to go.

26

REFUGE

All you need for happiness is a good gun, a good horse, and a good wife.

—Daniel Boone

Olympia State Forest, Kentucky—Late February, the Second Year

Joshua and Megan’s little party loaded their deer carts even more heavily for the second leg of their journey. They now had the tents and some cooking utensils that had belonged to the chaplain. They would have liked to have brought the propane stove and the remaining cylinder of propane, but they were too heavy and bulky. They left those by the side of the road, in the hope that some wayfarer could use them.

They traveled only at night. With Jean and Leo in tow, they averaged four to six miles per night. It took them eighteen nights to reach Bradfordsville. They wanted to avoid the population centers of Lexington and Richmond, so they threaded their way on a more easterly route past the smaller towns of Mount Sterling, Clay City, Irvine, Winston, Speedwell, Berea, Cartersville, Lancaster, Stanford, and Chilton. The towns that had roadblocks either sent them on roundabout detours or escorted them through town, with stern warnings about coming back for handouts. At the roadblock north of Berea, Joshua resorted to a bribe of five silver dimes, to “pay for an escort.” There was not yet any sign of the provisional government that they’d heard Reverend Wetherspoon mention, but there was some talk of “the Fort Knox officials” at two of the roadblocks.

The roads were devoid of nighttime traffic, and they heard only a few cars and trucks go by, from their daytime bivouacs. They camped in brushy and heavily wooded areas. For security, their camps were exclusively “cold”—with no campfires. This was miserable, but they preferred living with soggy wool to being ambushed by looters who might be attracted to the smoke or the smell of cooking fires. Megan, Malorie, and Joshua slept in shifts each day, so that there would always be a sentry on duty. After a few days, little Leo and Jean became stalwart hikers, with progressively fewer complaints. Megan was very proud of them, and often praised them for their toughness. They arrived at the east end of Bradfordsville just after dawn.

Bradfordsville, Kentucky—March, the Second Year

The roadblock was a lot like the others that they had seen in Kentucky. A large hand-painted sign on a vertical four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood proclaimed:

ID Check

Local

Traffic

Only!

Three men armed with rifles were standing at a sandbagged position next to a Case bulldozer and two large trailers that had been carefully positioned to slow traffic down to a serpentine crawl.

In front of the roadblock, they could see looping muddy tire tracks in the pavement, evidence that dozens of vehicles had been turned away. As they neared the roadblock, two of the sentries crouched down behind the sandbags, and the other stepped behind the bulldozer. One of them shouted, “Advance slowly and keep your hands where we can see them.”

There were now the muzzles of three battle rifles pointed at Joshua’s party. As he approached, Joshua mentally checked them off: an M4gery (or perhaps a real M4), an M1A, and a scarce HK Model 770.

Joshua said, “We are here at the invitation of Deputy Sheriff Dustin Hodges. He is an old friend of mine.”

The roadblock sentries glanced at one another and one gave a nod, but the man who first hailed them pulled out a public service band radio from a belt pouch and said, “I’ll have to check on that. Your name, sir?”

“Joshua Kim.”

While they waited, Joshua and Megan sized up the roadblock. It was positioned on Highway 337, which was also known as Gravel Switch Road. The highway paralleled the North Rolling Fork River, which was now brown and churning, from recent rains. The roadblock was positioned to command the highway, the bridge, and the end of Wheeler Road to the north. The river was a natural barrier to the north, and the roadblockers had a clear view up a long straight stretch of the highway ahead of them—a great kill zone. There were also open fields to their right and across the river to their left, so there was little chance of their position being flanked.

Dustin arrived fifteen minutes later on horseback, wearing his sheriff’s department SWAT BDUs. He was riding an unusually tall gray Appaloosa mare with a black nylon endurance riding saddle, and a leather scabbard holding a scoped bolt-action rifle.

As the mare’s hooves clattered up to the roadblock on the asphalt pavement, Dustin exclaimed, “Hi, Joshua! If anyone was going to make it here, it would be you.”

Dustin dismounted and gave Joshua a hug. Dustin said, “Sorry that I didn’t bring my pickup, but we’re still quite short on gas. One of you must be Megan.” Introductions lasted the full twenty-minute walk to Dustin’s house, as the horse was led by her reins. Dustin was pleased to hear that Joshua was married, and delighted to meet Megan, Malorie, and the boys. As they pushed the deer carts down the main street, Dustin explained that Bradfordsville was a simple farm town with just three hundred residents. It had been founded in 1777 by the Kentucky Longhunters as they established forts on the Rolling Fork River.

Dustin lived in a small house on an oversize lot at the west end of town. Even before they reached his house, Dustin mentioned that a young widow had just arrived in town and opened up a store selling vegetable seeds. “Her name is Sheila Randall. A very gutsy gal, if you ask me, to open up a store in the middle of all this chaos.” From the tone of his voice, Malorie and Megan both immediately recognized that Dustin might have Sheila in mind for marriage.