Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

“Road’s blocked both ways,” she said. “They’re using Humvees with heavy-weapon mounts. Six people who tried to leave are in custody. The only road out of the valley is Skalkaho and there’s an army guarding it.”

“We’ll have to wait.”

“For what,” Botree said.

“I wish I knew.”

“Who do you think that was in the woods?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Maybe a hunter.”

They prepared a meal together and allowed the kids to eat at the table. Coop refused food, preferring the company of his glowing dials and distant voices. There were occasional bursts of communication on the scanner and CB. Every half hour, Frank recited from the Bible and the Bill of Rights. He claimed a growing army of two hundred men.

For the first time in weeks, Joe and Botree didn’t talk after supper. Joe was afraid that if he started, he’d never stop. He wanted to be alone. He missed the safety of his cabin on Rock Creek.

Botree read to the boys in the tub. Joe roamed the house, checking weapons and ammunition, peering through each window. The outside air was very dark, the stars obliterated by smoke. Coop slept in his chair, his chin on his chest, his stomach against the card table. Botree was curled in a sleeping bag by the tub, her dark hair shining on the floor. Joe watched her sleep for a long time. There was nothing for Joe in Blizzard if he returned — no school, no mother, nowhere to receive mail. Home had ceased to exist except in his mind.

He made a pallet from furniture cushions by the front door and lay on his back with his pistol on one side and a rifle on the other. Perhaps Morgan’s decision to remain in the hills was best, since he still had the land and occasional visitors. He had dealt with his enemies one man at a time, rather than facing an unknown army in the night.

Joe slowed his breathing and willed his mind to rest. Twice his body jerked him awake. He rolled on his side and pulled his knees toward his chest. He was very tired. The smell of smoke was in the air.

When he woke, something in the house was different. He lay immobile, his ears straining for sound. From the bathroom he could hear Botree’s quiet snoring. One of the children moaned. The hissing sound of the radios flowed like water along the hall. Joe listened for a long time until he realized that the refrigerator had stopped humming. He turned on a light and nothing happened. He found a flashlight and checked the fuse box but all circuits were complete.

Careful to avoid standing in front of windows, he rummaged the mud room for candles. He lit one and placed it in the bathroom sink. The candle’s glow illuminated the gentle planes of Botree’s face. The children lay in the tub, curled around each other like cats. Joe remembered winter storms that blew down power lines at home, and his mother reading the Bible aloud by lantern. He double-checked his weapons. Perhaps the fires had burned a transformer.

Coop was wheezing terrible breath, a sound like an old bellows. A large flashlight sat by the radios, aimed at the ceiling. More marks were on the map, a series of black marks that moved closer to the circled P. He had switched the equipment to batteries, and voices filled the airwaves, overlapping and joining as if stitched into fabric.

A flat voice came from the scanner.

“White Dog to Delta. What’s your sitrep?”

“No change. Visual confirmation of hostile position.”

“Estimated number of hostiles?”

“Unknown.”

The transmissions came from the mountains visible through the window, their peaks lit scarlet by the dawn. Smoke hung in lines like layers of earth, in a cliff. Joe stared at the map. Botree knew the back roads and logging trails. They could take his Jeep south.

Coop moved only his arms and hands, squelching the scanner’s feedback, adjusting volume and channel. Briefly, Joe imagined that Coop was controlling the events unfolding on the mountain.

Frank’s voice came over the air.

“Patriots, traitors, countrymen,” he said. “Greetings from the mountaintop. Camp Megiddo is warm and safe. Behold, the day cometh, that shall burn as an oven. Go to channel three.”

The machine squawked and was quiet. Coop switched channels. The scanner hummed, its electronic circuits waiting to catch sound. After a minute of silence, Frank spoke once more.

“The sun is in our eyes. It’s at their back and they will come. I have entered the valley of the shadow of death and fear no evil. The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. So be it.”

The transmission stopped. The only sound was Coop’s hoarse breath. Botree came into the room, her face swollen from sleep. She shivered.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“It’s happening,” Joe said. “No power anywhere.”

“We’ve got plenty of batteries.”

“We’ll need them.”

“Owen stored tanks of propane in the barn and there’s a generator, too. The pump’s electric, but we got plenty of water cached.”

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, the same way as Abilene. Her face was worn but lovely. Joe wished he’d met her years ago, before her children, before Boyd’s death.

The scanner emitted a squeal and settled into speech.

“White Dog to Delta. Attempt communication.”

“Affirmative.”

Silence rushed over the airwaves. The sky through the window was becoming pale. Joe held Botree’s hand.

“Bills,” Frank said. “Hold your fire and let him talk. We honor his First Amendment freedom of speech.”

A man’s voice entered the tiny room through both the scanner and the CB as if in stereo.

“Your position is surrounded. You cannot escape. Throw down your weapons and come out. You will not be harmed. Repeat. You will not be harmed.”

The amplified tones of a bullhorn rendered the sound inhuman, the echoing metal of a talking machine. Joe watched dry stalks of curly dock sway in the wind. The flight of a magpie made a black and white blur. The children giggled from the tub.

The sound of automatic-weapon fire blasted from the CB, then stopped.

Botree closed her eyes and moved her lips in prayer. Coop remained still, his face red, his pulse throbbing in his neck. Sunlight glinted on the gold rings that wrapped each of his fingers. Joe wondered how much extra weight they added to his hand. His mother had never worn jewelry of any kind.

The voice on the scanner spoke.

“White Dog to Delta. Casualty report.”

“Negative.”

“Prepare for insertion.”

“Delta prepared.”

Coop held a pen at the black spot closest to the circled F, watching the radio as if it possessed the power to attack him. His hand quivered. Botree was audible now, a steady murmuring drone.

Frank’s voice entered the room. His tone was modulated to an eerie warmth.

“I’m going to read from the Montana Constitution, Article Two, Section Two. ‘The people have the right of governing themselves as a free, sovereign, and independent state.’ ”

Joe stared through the window at the early sun on the slopes. Smoke outlined the mountain peaks, turning the sky crimson and brown, laced with rusty strips of blue.

The scanner spoke.

“White Dog to Delta, stand by for insertion.”

“Standing by.”

“Go, Delta.”

Gunfire sounded from the scanner. The Bills responded with a long barrage of return fire. There was no more talking, only the noise of automatic weapons tearing the air to pieces. The sound rose and fell in waves as the men emptied their clips and reloaded and emptied them again. The pitch of battle increased, and Joe realized that the assault team was nearing the Bills’ camp. The noise reverberated in the room, tinny and unreal through the cheap speakers. It reminded Joe of old machinery rattling.