“Let’s go,” he said. He held out a hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. Then he stood there, holding her wrist, looking at her face. “I don’t want you carrying anything. I don’t want you so much as holding hands with a little kid who gets tired.”

  “I’ll pull my weight,” she said.

  “And nothing else,” he said. “From the look of you, I’d say you’re ten miles from a heart attack.”

  “Stroke,” she said. “In my family, it’s strokes.”

  “I mean it,” Teague insisted. “And if you get tired, you make everybody stop and rest.”

  “I’m not going to slow them down just because I’m—”

  “Fat,” he said.

  “Right,” she said.

  “I’ll tell you, ma’am. They need you, and they need you alive. You pull nothing, you carry nothing, you drink whenever you’re thirsty, and you rest whenever you’re tired.”

  “And I tell you that I’m in better shape than you think. I was custodian at the church, I worked my body all day every day, and furthermore I never smoked a single cigarette or drank a drop of liquor from the day I was born.”

  “You’re telling me why you ain’t dead already,” said Teague. “I’m telling you how not to be dead tomorrow. You watch. You stay alive on this trip of yours, you’ll thin out.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Walk up this hill.”

  She turned around and started walking up. Briskly, to show him she could do it. Ten paces later, her right leg gave out. Gave right out, and she stumbled and fell on her face. Not a bad fall, since she was going uphill anyway. He helped her up, and she let him half-pull her the rest of the way. It was plain that she had used herself up, at least for one day. They made their camp right there on the far side of the hill, just a hundred yards farther on than the gap where they came through. Teague wouldn’t let them light a fire, and he spent most of the time till dusk scouting around or climbing trees and looking.

  It was a warm night, so they slept right there in the woods on the far side of the hill, out of sight of the road, out of sight of everything. Yet they could hear, not all that far off, the crackling of a fire and folks laughing and talking. Couldn’t make out the words, but they were having fun.

  “Mobbers?” whispered Pete.

  “Barbecue,” said Teague.

  Citizens of Winston. Protected by the law. A couple of miles away, mobbers hoping to kill and strip passersby. And in between them, quiet, listening, Tina Monk, breathing heavily, the pain in her unaccustomed muscles making it impossible to sleep, her weariness making it unbearable to be awake. Laughter. Pleasant company. Someone had all those things tonight, all those things that come with peace. How dare they have peace, when their highway patrolmen sent a dozen souls to what they thought was certain death? You are responsible, you laughers, you friends and lovers, you are the ones in whose name those stolid killers acted. You.

  Then she slept and dreamed of crawling through tight places. Cramming her bulk into a narrow shaft, her clothing climbing up her body as she thrust herself farther in, farther, until she could put the cover on. Then lying there in the heat, the close air, hearing shooting, the sound of it echoing, amplified through the air-conditioning system; and screams. Every bullet meant for kin of hers. Brothers and sisters, all of them, screaming in pain and terror while Tina Monk, building custodian, Primary president, choir leader, cowered in the air-conditioning system trying to keep her breathing soft enough that no one would find her. They shot her husband at the top of the stairs down into the furnace room. When she finally opened the door, it was Tom’s body she had to shove out of the way in order to open it, Tom’s blood that made prints of her shoes as she walked up the stairs. His sweet and patient face, she saw it now in her mind as she slept her dark unquiet sleep.

  Herman Deaver knew that he had no authority. Bishop Coward could say he was in charge, as the only high priest in the group, but it wasn’t spiritual leadership they needed. This wasn’t a prophetic journey; there was no Lehi to wake up with dreams that told them where to go; there was no divine gift of a liahona with pointers on it to show the way. There wasn’t even a trace of manna on the ground in the morning, just dew soaking them, making the morning stiff and clinging and miserable.

  I can explain, very clearly, how Shakespeare’s Hamlet is in fact not contemplating suicide in the “To Be or Not to Be” soliloquy, but rather deciding whether to endure suffering as a Christian or take vengeful action. What Herman Deaver could not explain, to himself or anyone else, was why he, a high priest, a temple-going Saint, a professor of literature, why he was so terribly sorry to be alive. I apologize. My mistake. An oversight. An error of scheduling. If only you had sent a reminder. To be or not to be was not the question at all. Hamlet did not care about vengeance or justice. What he wanted was his father back. Good intentions—but he took away his friend Laertes’ father instead. Now we’re alike, eh what? Even steven. Get up, Deaver. Set an example, even if you aren’t the leader. You’re the chaplain now, that’s what you are, so at least keep morale up by being perky and chipper and energetic. Ignore that pain from your burning prostate. It isn’t agony yet. Not till you take the first leak of the day.

  “The boys’ lavatory is that stand of bushes over there,” said Sister Monk.

  Since his eyes were closed, Deaver didn’t know if she meant him or not. But he took it as if she did, and struggled to his feet, squinting to see as the first sunlight slanted through the branches. It burned, it burned, it burned; the sunlight, his prostate, the urine tearing at him as it passed out of his body and sizzled on last year’s leaves. When I was young I never thought it would be such agony to do this. I never thought at all. I can feel all my bones.

  This much courtesy they still had: they didn’t start the meeting till he was back. Or perhaps they hadn’t noticed yet that he wasn’t in charge. That Peter, so young and strong, that he was more listened to; that Tina Monk, always forceful and now more so than ever, that she now made decisions in her simple forthright way. Perhaps they thought of this as “giving counsel.” But the decision was made before he spoke. He didn’t mind this. He welcomed it. Decisions were not his strong suit. Teaching was his strong suit. They could make decisions; then he would explain to them why it was a good idea. That’s the skill of the scholarly critic. Explaining after the fact why somebody was great, who everybody already agrees was great. The metaphor of the freeway as river, with portages around the rapids, that was far easier for him to comprehend than the way this gentile, Teague, made sense of what he saw when he stared at the uninterrupted wall of forest green.

  “We need you,” Pete was saying. “We got no right to ask it, but we need you to guide us or we’ll never get there.”

  “Get where?” Ah, a sensible question. Of course Teague goes straight to the point. Get where? To heaven, to the celestial glory, Jamie Teague. To life eternal, where we will know the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom he has sent.

  “To Utah,” said Tina. Oh yes. The immediate destination. The short-term destination. How far-sighted of me. Over-sighted.

  “You’re crazy,” said Teague.

  “Probably,” said Tina.

  “Not really,” said Pete. “Where else can people like us go?”

  “That’s two thousand miles away. For all you know, all kinds of bombs landed there. It might be hot as D.C.”

  “There was still radio for a while. Utah wasn’t hit bad.”

  “Or wiped out by plague.”

  “There’ll be something,” said Pete.

  “You hope.”

  “We know.” Pete grinned. “We may not look like much to you, but out there Mormons are in charge. I promise you that wherever there’s four Mormons, there’ll be a government. A president, two counselors, and somebody to bring refreshments.”

  Deaver laughed. He remembered that jokes like that were funny. Some others joined in. Mostly children who didn’t get the joke, but that was good. It was good for the children to laugh.

  Deaver couldn’t help but be hurt, though, when Teague looked for confirmation, not to him, but to Sister Monk.

  “It’s true,” she said. “We’ve been preparing for this for years. We knew it was coming. We tried to warn everybody. Put no trust in the arm of flesh. Your weapons will mean nothing. Only trust in the Lord, and he will save you.”

  “How’s he been doing so far for you folks?” asked Teague.

  It was a bitter and terrible question, so Deaver knew that he was the only one who could answer it. “You understand that the promise refers to large groups. America as a whole. The Church as a whole. Many individuals will suffer and die.”

  Teague only now seemed to realize that he had maybe given offense. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s a natural question,” said Deaver. “In the Book of Mormon, the prophets Alma and Amulek were forced to watch as their enemies threw whole families of the faithful into a fire and burned them alive. Why doesn’t God reach out and save these people, Amulek asked. And Alma said, Death tastes sweet to them; why should the Lord prevent it? But the wicked must be allowed to do their wickedness, so that everyone will know that their terrible punishment is just. Then Amulek said, Maybe they’ll kill us, too. And Alma said, If they do, then we’ll die. But I think the Lord won’t allow it. Our work is not yet done.”

  Deaver could feel their eyes on him, could hear how their breathing had become quiet. The children especially, they listened to him, they watched his lips as he spoke. He knew that they understood what the story meant to them. Our work is not yet done, that’s why we’re alive.

  But don’t ask me what our work is. Don’t ask me what we’re supposed to accomplish, if by some miracle we survive a two-thousand-mile journey through hell until we reach the kingdom of God on the mountains.

  Teague did not break the silence; Deaver knew from that that he was a sensitive man, despite his youth, despite the fact that he was a gentile. For the first time it occurred to him that Teague might even be a potential convert. Wouldn’t that be a miracle, to baptize a new member here in the wilderness!

  “The Church will be strong in Utah,” said Tina Monk. “And you can bet we won’t be much safer anywhere else than we were in Greensboro and Winston.”

  “You’re Mormons, right?” said Teague.

  “You mean you only just now guessed that?” said Annalee. She was always disrespectful and sharp-tongued. Deaver heard that marriage had mellowed her. He was grateful he never knew her before.

  “You never said right out,” said Teague.

  “Does it make a difference?” asked Deaver. Will you not help us, now that you know we are—what is the term?—the cult of the anti-Christ? The secret worshipers of Satan? Secular Humanists masquerading as Christians in order to seduce impressionable young people and lead them into unspeakable abominations?

  “It does if you’re going to Utah,” said Teague.

  “I-40 to Memphis,” said Pete. “Then up to St. Louis and I-70 to Denver. After that, who knows? They might even have trains running or buses.”

  “Or a weekly space shuttle flight,” said Teague.

  “Don’t underestimate the resourcefulness of the Mormon people,” said Deaver.

  “Don’t underestimate how much trouble a few nukes, some biological warfare, and the collapse of civilization can cause,” said Teague. “Not to mention how the climate’s changed. How do you know Utah isn’t buried under glaciers?”

  “They don’t form that fast,” said Pete.

  “Two thousand miles,” said Teague. “With winters colder and longer now than they used to be—how far you think you’ll get before September?”

  “We didn’t expect to do it in one year,” said Deaver.

  “We need you,” said Pete. “We’ll hire you.”

  Teague laughed. “And pay me what?”

  “A house and a job in Utah,” said Pete.

  “You can guarantee that?” said Teague. “You guarantee that I’ll have a little plot of ground? A house with hot and cold running water? A nice little job to go to? Eight to five? What about location—I don’t want to have to commute more than fifteen minutes to—”

  “Shut up,” said Tina.

  Teague shut up.

  “We can promise you that there’s peace in the mountains of Utah. We can promise you that if you lead us there, you’ll be rewarded as best they can. We can promise you that in Utah, you can reap what you plant, you can keep what you make, you can count on being as safe tomorrow as you are today. Where else in all this world are those things true?”

  “I’m not about to become a Mormon,” said Teague.

  “No one expects it,” said Sister Monk.

  “They’ll just expect you to be a good man,” said Deaver.

  “Then forget it,” said Teague.

  “A good man,” said Deaver. “Not a perfect one.”

  “How bad can a man be and still be good?”

  “You have to be good enough to take a helpless group like us two thousand miles, with no promise of payment beyond our word.”

  Deaver saw, with satisfaction, that Teague was being won over. He halfway suspected that Teague wanted to be won over. After all, he had already invested a lot of time and effort in helping them get off the freeway. He was risking a lot, too—if the highway patrol caught them here, they’d no doubt be in trouble. And the fact that there wasn’t any shooting last night—the patrol might well notice that and come looking for them.

  Maybe Teague thought of that at the same time, because he stood up suddenly. “I’ll think about it. But for now we’ve got to get moving. It’ll be slow going for a while, till we can put the carts back together on a road. Put the heaviest stuff on bikes. I hope those things have airless tires.”

  “Of course,” said Tina. “My husband never considered anything else. What good would bikes be on a cross-country trip, if they’re always going flat?”

  “The little kids will carry the two-by-fours.”

  Annalee started to protest. “They’re too heavy for—”

  “They’ll rest a lot,” said Teague. “We’re going to do this all in one trip. Grown-ups will be carrying a lot more.”

  It turned out that Scotty, Mick, Cheri Ann, and Valerie could only handle four of the two-by-fours, but Pete thought of using the others to make a kind of sedan chair, which he and Deaver bore on their shoulders, with a much heavier burden on the two-by-fours between them than they could possibly have carried on their backs.

  Sister Monk started to pick up a bundle of dried food.

  “Put it down,” said Teague.

  “It’s light,” said Sister Monk.

  Teague didn’t say another word. Just stared at her, and she stared back. To Deaver’s surprise, it was Sister Monk who gave in. He’d never seen such a thing in all his years in the Church. Sister Monk backed down to no man, or woman either. But she backed down to this Jamie Teague.

  It was the first time Deaver realized what Teague must have seen right off—that Sister Monk wasn’t doing so well, physically speaking. Deaver was so used to her being fat, and having that mean nothing so far as her being a hard worker in the Church, that it didn’t occur to him that this journey was different. But now that Teague’s insistence on her carrying nothing had brought the matter to Deaver’s attention, he could see how flushed and weak she looked, how her walk was none too steady even in the morning after a night of sleep. For the first time it occurred to Deaver that she might not make it through the trip.

  It made him angry, to realize how much he had unconsciously been depending on this woman. Wasn’t he the one with the authority? Wasn’t he supposed to lead? Yet he was depending on her. Well, he wouldn’t, that’s all. Nobody’s indispensable. If we can get along without—

  No, he wouldn’t start listing the indispensable people who were dead, bulldozed into the mass grave in the parking lot of the stake center on Pinetop Road. There was no point in a census now. They were gone, and this meager handful of Saints was still alive. That meant that the Church was still alive, and would go on, sustained by faith and the Lord and, with any luck, this stranger who came out of nowhere offering help unasked. An angel would have been more useful, but if this Jamie Teague was all the Lord had to offer in the way of help, he’d have to do. If it was, in fact, the Lord who sent him.

  They made it in one trip. One long trip, with frequent stops. Teague wasn’t actually with them most of the way. He ranged ahead, leaving south and returning from the north. Sister Monk actually led them, spotting the marks Teague had made on tree trunks, showing which way to go. At the end of the day they were back on the road. U.S. 421 this time, a two-lane expressway, with the overpass some miles behind them. Exhausted as they were, Teague made them rebuild the carts before they gnawed on their jerky and went to sleep. “You’ll want to be under way at dawn,” he said. “Not sitting around in the open building carts. That was just one overpass.”

  So they rebuilt the carts, and he finally let them build a very small fire so they could boil up some soup and give the children a decent meal. Hungry as they were, the kids could hardly keep their eyes open long enough to eat. And when they were asleep, Teague laid out his conditions for traveling with them.

  “I’m not good enough to take you two thousand miles,” he said, looking Deaver in the eye. “I only promise to take you as far as the Great Smokies. I haven’t traveled west of there anyway, only between the mountains and the sea, so I don’t know any more about the country than you do. But I’ve got a cabin there that’s good for the winter. It’s where I live. I know my neighbors there, I’ve got trade goods from my traveling to buy food, and we’ve kept it free of mobbers. It’s as much as I can promise, but I think I can teach you a few things along the way, give you a better chance next spring.”

  “If that’s as far as you go with us,” said Pete, “then we can’t pay you anything at all. We got nothing you need, until we get to Utah.”

  Teague pulled up a tuft of grass, started splitting the blades up the middle, one by one. “You got something I need.”