Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

Of course, it could be worse, Hollis thought. It could be raining.

• • •

The downpour commenced about an hour after sunrise. What started as a gentle April shower rapidly angered and darkened into a legitimately violent thunderstorm. Before long the blowing sheets of frigid rain had reduced visibility to near zero, making hazardous business of even careful walking on the uneven, stony ground.

He pressed forward into the teeth of the gale, the drawstring hood of his jacket cinched down to a crumpled keyhole, every gained yard a struggle just to plant solid footing and hold his line. All the while he was imagining the assault of these same perils on those up ahead. In the midst of such a storm they could easily become separated and lose their way, walk into the rush of a sudden mudslide, or simply take one errant step and be lost over the verge of a ravine.

Concern for them was all that kept him going. The fatigue was getting worse; several times his legs simply failed him, his mind seemed determined to give up and wander off into a fog, and his arms felt barely capable of pushing him back to his feet when he’d fallen, time after time.

After an endless, treacherous downhill crawl that stretched on to late morning, at last the weather commenced to ease somewhat as the worst of it blew on southwesterly. Though the trailing rain continued, the sky gradually smoothed and lightened as the sun began to reassert itself beyond the thinning clouds.

Before too long Hollis caught sight of the rest of his party, taking refuge near a hillside beneath the overhang of a natural grotto. The storm had taken its toll on them but they all looked little worse for the wear. Despite his relief he didn’t approach them right away. Instead he watched them for a time from a distance, from under the imperfect shelter of a tall evergreen.

They were huddled together against the cold, one obviously recounting some story from their deliverance with great animation, another catching a stream of rainwater with a length of curled birch bark and passing it to others for a sloppy drink, another tending the trail aches and injuries of those less able.

After a few minutes he came forward and joined them, accepted and returned their greetings, and took a seat on the ground near Molly’s side. Hollis touched her shoulder and spoke a word to let her know he was near, but it seemed she knew already. She leaned to him and hugged him tight around the neck.

“Thank you,” Molly said.

“For what? For getting you out of the frying pan, or back into the fire?”

“For everything.” She sat back, smiling, fished something from the pocket of her jeans, and held it out for him. “For this, especially.”

He took the damp, crumpled wad of stationery from her hand and carefully unfolded it: a half page of typewritten text, crossed out from corner to corner with a heavy black X, with a bullet hole near the middle.

He took a closer look at the condition of his target. While it had been a fair shot it was also far from the perfect bull’s-eye he’d pictured as he pulled the trigger. Depending on whether she’d held the paper upright or inverted, his aim had been off either high and left or low and to the right. But well off it had certainly been.

“You’re damn lucky you didn’t lose a finger, or worse,” Hollis said.

“There was never a doubt in my mind.”

“I know.” He took a long breath and then another moment to weigh the wisdom of broaching a subject too long avoided. This was neither the time nor the place, but it never was, and that’s why some necessary things get left unspoken until it’s too late to make a difference. The two were almost out of earshot of the others, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any. “We need to have a talk about that, I think, on the odd chance that we ever get to see another sunup.”

“A talk about what?” Molly asked, and she turned her face to him.

Nearly all the scars from her injuries of that awful night were hidden inside; by outward appearances her gaze was as clear and bright as it had ever been. Though she could no longer see your eyes to look into them, she nevertheless had a way of looking toward you that somehow reached in deep to seize even more of a human connection.

“Doubts,” Hollis said. “And how it might be healthy for us to entertain one or two of those right now.”

She frowned a bit. It wasn’t a hint of anger or hurt, but only empathy that showed on her face. “Go on.”

“I don’t want to have a fight about it, not here in the middle of all this.” Now that he’d taken the platform he found he didn’t know where to begin. “With all respect—”

“It’s okay. Say what’s on your mind.”

“All right, then. We lost your mom, and then we lost Danny, we lost Ben Church yesterday, and now we’ve got the full force of the U.S. government after us—”

“Not the government. The people are the government.”

“All right, then, not the government. Some freelance military-armed battalion of uniformed yahoos from the corrupted bowels of what the government’s become. Does it really matter? I stopped trying to keep track of all the jackboots when the Department of Education got their own SWAT team. The point is, we’re marked as shoot-to-kill enemies and they’re after us, with everything they can throw at us. And yesterday they chased us right into the only helping hands available, and those hands, I’m sure you noticed, were attached to some genuine homegrown, goose-stepping, brown-shirted, skinhead Wyoming Nazis. And now they’re coming after us, too.”

“Yes.”

She was clearly still waiting for him to come to his point; just stating the obvious wasn’t getting them anywhere.

“Molly, I need to ask you, now. You and I, and these few people—what is it exactly that we think we’re trying to do?”

“That hasn’t ever changed. We’re going to show the American people the truth and keep on fighting for the future of our country.”

“How are we going to do that? With what?” The others were beginning to notice this side discussion but he was fully committed now, and come to think of it, nothing was being said that they all shouldn’t hear. “You know I’d walk straight into hell for you—”

“It’s not just me. We have to make it about more than just me.”

“But listen. You have to know that if we lose you, it’s all over.”

“But you’re not going to lose me—”

“We almost lost you yesterday, and it’s my job to protect you.”

“You’re not alone in that, Hollis. I’m already protected.”

“Oh, are we gonna talk about God now? Because I don’t think I can take it if you’re going to tell me that God got us out of that fix we were in back there.”

“Okay—”

“And the next time you speak to God? I hope you’ll ask Him for me, why in His infinite wisdom He reached down His all-knowing hand and got us into that fix in the first place.”

“Okay, shh. Okay. I won’t talk about God.” She touched his arm, and her grip was firm and reassuring. “Just tell me what you’re afraid of.”

And there she’d seen to the heart of it, as she always seemed to do.

His voice was low when he finally spoke again. “I’m just about at the end of my rope, Molly. I’m not the man I used to be, and I’m afraid I’m not up to the task anymore.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “So it sounds like it’s me that’s about to lose you.”

“No, of course you’re not going to lose me.” Hearing her say such a thing aloud had made him realize there was at least one truth he still knew for certain. “I’m with you. Whatever comes, I’m with you.”

“Good. That’s good.”