------------------------------------- [u][b]1939: Salt Lake City, Utah[/b][/u] ------------------------------------- Pvt Saul Allred forgot how to pray after the fall of Salina. He wasn't sure why he was still alive anymore. As Federal armor plowed into the city of saints, he just went through the motions, taking his place in the barricade with his fellow survivors of the LDSA, their powder-blue uniforms tainted with ash and blood, pouring the last of their ammunition at an enemy they could not defeat. The road was cut off by a milk truck and a car pushed onto their sides, scrap filling the holes in the defense, in front of a small plaza around an obelisk. The Federal attack was slow but constant. The mechanical whine and rumble of motorized armor echoed ominously through the canyon of shops and manufacturers. "The angels are coming!" Pvt Romney promised out loud for the third time that day. He was losing his mind. Saul sensed that everyone knew this, but nobody was willing to be the one that said it. It would be an admission of lapsed faith. "Get down!" Lt Carson shouted as two screaming Jackrabbits flew low, strafing the tops of buildings behind the falling Mormon defenses, working to break machine gun nests. They braced for the big attack, but it never came. Night arrived. The fighting didn't stop, but slowed down, the roar of combat seeming to be muffled rather than silenced. The burning city cast dancing fire on the clouds above. Saul didn't sleep. He hadn't eaten in two days. Hadn't he already died? He wondered if men always go through this stage before death, fate's way of preparing the soul for departure, turning the body into a fading memory so that the victim met their end numb. No food came for them that morning. They didn't expect it. Saul didn't care. Lt Carson led a morning prayer as bombs burst overhead. "Father in Heaven. We thank thee for thy victories, for the truth thy church has proffered unto us, and thy temple which stands as a sign unto us to continue thy works on earth. Thou shalt triumph over the army of sinners before our gates, and deliver the saints to victory. Give us the courage to go on, and bless our families so they might take comfort in these trying times. Bless the walls of the Temple, so that the precious souls who take shelter in thy presence may be as safe as infants in their mother's womb. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen." "Amen" the gathered soldiers replied. Each time a bomb blast nearby, Pvt Romney muttered "The angels are coming" The attack came at mid-day. Federal troops laid down a field of fire. The Mormons shot back, but they were pinned. The triumphant obelisk between their two armies was chipped away piece by piece, stone flaking onto the ground. The sickly grumble of tank engines came closer and closer until they came around the corner, looking like large brown machines rolling off a factory floor, alive and possessing their own will. "The angels are coming!" Pvt Romney stood up. The sergeant yelled for him to come down. Romney climbed onto the milk truck and planted himself there, waving his hands at the sky. The first shell took him squarely, blowing him apart, raining his gore onto his comrades. The second shot hit the car and threw it out of the way. Saul took a shot, but didn't see where it went. He felt like he was watching it all in a moving picture theater, himself a background character, not a real person. Machine gun fire tore into the LDSA position. Two men went down, blood pouring for wounds. This place was no longer defensible. They started running. Saul fell back with them. He didn't know why he went. His legs fled and took him with them. There hadn't really been a defensive line in Salt Lake City for several days. They'd been whittled down to a small number of stubborn pockets, those last few lumps as the masher came down, resisting the inevitable, hoping for angels. They stood in the foothills to the west, overlooking Parley's canyon and the Lincoln Highway, among the sagebrush where they could catch their breath. The smoke rising from the defeated city blotted out the tops of the Wasatch mountains. To the east was a city wreathed in destruction, an image of Sodom and Gomorrah, abhorrent to the true believer who couldn't help but think of the lake of fire. The Temple rose almost triumphantly midst the calamity, a flower in hell. An ashen air blew up from the city when the echo of the big guns reached the survivors. Shells burst on that holy temple, and its Gothic spires tumbled to the ground. Lt Carson dropped to his knees weeping like a child. Saul Allred had been raised a Mormon, had lived and breathed the lives of the saints, but seeing it all crushed into the dust by the secular armies of man... it didn't seem to matter. He turned, abandoned his comrades, and walked into the Wasatch mountains alone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ [b][u]July 5th, 1960: Masindi Port, Swahili People's Republic[/u][/b] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Marcel paced onto the ferry dock, looking at the mirror-like river, the clouds reflecting from its surface. A flock of brown-orange ducks bobbed on the water. It was peaceful. So many other places in the country were burning right now, but not here. The fires in Mombasa and Kampala, the blood spilled in the Nabakazi river, none of it seemed to affect this place. Behind him, his [i]Force Socialiste[/i] stood patiently in their faded blue uniforms. The small village behind them didn't come out to attend them. Marcel received warm smiles and gifted food from his many admirers here when he arrived, but they remained solemn and reserved. Worried, he knew. The arrival of armed men is a bad omen. But also, they knew who he'd came to meet, and the mad preacher of the Freedom Army of God struck fear in more Ugandans than anything else. "Do you think we should have met him here?" one of his Force Socialiste said, pointing to the mosque in a copse of nearby trees. It was a small building, white plaster, its Islamic roots only made visible by the spindly minaret. "Do you think he will burn it, Laurent? With us here? No, he is practical, he will not do this thing." The first sign of their visitors was a thin column of steam to the north. A beat-up old steamboat came chugging down the river, a makeshift wooden platform built above the deck acting as a simple second level. As it came closer, the layer of vague humanity that caked its two decks become distinguishable. They were a ragged crew, hardly discernible from pirates. Half of them looked like children, grown hard-faced by the trials of combat, boys who'd killed men before they had hair under their arms. Their leader, standing like Washington crossing the Delaware, was a middle aged man in Askari fatigues and a pith-helmet, a big pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes. It was unnerving, like watching a supernatural beast swim slowly up to shore, but Marcel kept his resolve and stood up straight. From the dock they heard the low moan of the steam engine, the slosh of disturbed water, and the manly battle cry of the men on deck. Marcel's men prepared to fight, but Marcel held his hand out for them to pause. [indent][i] At the sign of triumph Satan's host doth flee; On, then, Christian soldiers, on to victory! Hell's foundations quiver at the shout of praise; Brothers, lift your voices, loud your anthems raise![/i][/indent] The grimy crusaders roared like Zulu warriors when the hymn was over. The boat slowed down, and the hard-faced preacher looked straight at Marcel. "Why should we talk?" he said monotoned. Marcel smiled. "You came so far, [i]bwana[/i]. Tie your boat to our shore, so we can learn to be friends." "We will not be friends." "The Communist armies have reunited. They will murder both of us." "God will protect us." the preacher replied. His eyes completely hidden behind his dark glasses, and his face as placid as the still waters, he didn't seem to react to anything Marcel said. He felt like he was talking with a stone statue. Then something came to him. "Do you know the story of the old man who broke his leg while working his field, [i]bwana[/i]?" Marcel asked innocently enough. "I am a weapon of the lord. I did not come for gossip." the preacher replied. "His son came to him, looking really worried, and said 'Pa pa, I will pick you up and take you to the doctor so you will be better', and the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to carry me' And so the son ran off to find help. He brought back a local healer, who said 'Let me set your leg and administer herbs so you do not get an infection', and the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to heal me'. The wound became infected, so the village elders came, and they offered to have the farmer transported to a big town where there was a hospital. But the farmer said 'I trust the lord to bring me salvation. I do not need you to save me'. And then the farmer died." "Do not mock..." "The farmer met God, and he asked him 'My lord, you saw my suffering, why did you do nothing?' and God said 'I sent your son, and you sent him away. I sent the healer, and you sent him away. Then I sent the village elders, and you sent them away. If you would not accept your neighbors, why would you accept a miracle?'. Don't you see this, [i]bwana[/i]? If the Communists wanted to, they could walk into your lands and lock your entire flock in prison until you all starve and die. And they will do this thing too. We should not be friends, you are right, but I offer you my friendship anyway. If you take it, there will be many of us, and we will be strong." "You know how to preach a sermon, [i]Comrade[/i] Marcel." the preacher said, "You almost make us forget that you are a communist too. But my flock hasn't forgotten." Behind them, the glaring rabble whooped and shouted. The preacher held out his hand up and silenced them. "You don't let my true believers practice their work in your territory." "Your arsonists." Marcel said. "They have their work, given to them by the lord. You hunt them down like rats." "Like criminals." "Do not persecute my saints. That is our conditions. Let righteousness follow its natural God-given course, and we will fight our common enemy together." Marcel bit his tongue. It crossed his mind he could draw his gun now and get rid of this monster. "You don't have to say anything. I will bring the Freedom Army of God south, into the land of the Philistines, and we will fight with you until we hear of you abusing the believers. Do you understand, brother Hondo-Demissie?" "I understand, brother Allred" replied Marcel. "We will fight together then." the preacher snatched a sack out of the bottom of the boat and took something out. It was black and organic looking. Allred threw it onto the deck. "Remember the promise you made. The lord certainly will." Marcel bent down to pick up the object. It was black and wet, a mess of char and ruined flesh. It looked like the head of a small dog, but it was too disfigured by fire to properly make out. Marcel held onto it as the preacher's boat left the shore.