The Valley of Dry Bones by Jerry B. Jenkins
“Do not make the mistake of adding flight from prosecution, Mr. Thorppe.”
“Do you have a warrant for my arrest?”
“Easy enough to obtain.”
“You didn’t even know who I was, let alone have cause to stop me. And now you would unlawfully detain me?” Zeke kick-started the bike.
“Wait one moment!”
“No, sir! Not without cause!”
And Zeke raced off into the night, bent low and flying from zero to nearly seventy in seconds, praying he wouldn’t hear the crack of gunfire.
This time he made sure they had little chance to follow. Peeking back to see the car had just begun to move, he lost them by slowing, darting around cacti and rock outcroppings, and then putting as many miles as he could between him and them. Dousing the headlamp, he carefully logged a couple of dozen more miles before realizing he was in territory he didn’t recognize.
Zeke slowed and stopped, hoping his dust trail would soon dissipate. It had been years since he’d made the supply run, and while he may have made a mission trip or two in this area in the past few years, it had never been after dark without a compass.
The agents, if they were determined to locate him, would have an endless expanse to explore, and without a light or cloud of dust to focus on, they would have to be remarkably lucky to choose the right one from the dozens of tracks he had left. There was no way they could see him, but he waited another half hour for safety’s sake, watching for any sign of their lights or dust. Finally he began to worry about causing concern to his mates back at the compound.
And now he felt dumb. How was he supposed to find his way back? Leading the agents on a wild-goose chase had been all well and good, and hadn’t he brilliantly exposed their buffoonery? But Zeke hadn’t thought to leave bread crumbs in his wake.
Straddling the rattling machine, he assessed his assets. He had the right gear, all black from boots to hat. Raoul had filled the tank, so that would last a few hundred miles—not that he needed that much. He had his fully loaded Glock, slightly more than half a bottle of water, and a switched-off walkie-talkie with good batteries that he’d learned the hard way was easily intercepted by interlopers when used outside the compound.
It would reach inside only when he was close anyway, and he had no idea how far away he might be by now. Dawn would come in three hours, so maybe in the meantime he could use the stars to help him keep moving west. But being off by ten feet here could make him miss by miles rock formations he knew on the other end.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He was supposed to be the leader of this brave little band of missionaries. Only he and his family and his former pastor knew Zeke had been chosen of God, set apart for some lofty role.
Well, if he’d entertained the idea that he had somehow brought an iota of value to the equation, he was disabused of that notion now. He who had just held forth for the Creator Himself to two agents of the United States federal government (who had to think he had just punched his ticket on the Disorient Express) was—there was no way to sugarcoat it . . .
Lost.
Zeke, not entirely sure what he was looking for, searched the heavens. “Okay, Lord,” he said aloud, “I admit it. I’m a doofus. I blew it. Pride, overconfidence, conceit, you name it, I confess it. Forgive me, but here I am—wherever this is. I don’t really know what to do or where to go. That way looks west to me. I don’t want my friends or loved ones to worry about me, and I don’t want to give anyone else a reason to follow me and put my people in danger. So I’m going to leave my light off, open my throttle, and head that way till I think I’m close. Then I’ll risk turning my light on and see if I recognize our area. I’ll turn on the walkie-talkie just long enough to tell somebody to open the door. If You can make all that work and get me there safely, I’ll never do something as dumb as this again as long as I live. Amen.”
Still frustrated with himself but satisfied that he at least had a plan, Zeke rotated his head, stretched, checked the brake and throttle, took a sip of water, and resecured the bottle. He felt deeply grateful for the meal he’d enjoyed at the Gutierrezes’, though at the time he hadn’t felt he’d needed it and was eating only to be polite. He shut down the bike and listened intently as he did a 360-degree scan of the horizon. Seeing and hearing nothing, he chose to believe the agents had given up not only on him, but also on Danley and Raoul, at least for now. He fired up the bike and lit out, heading west, that quarter moon and the starry canopy offering just enough luminosity to make each sporadic cacti or rocky outcropping appear as a hulking silhouette easily avoided.
Zeke felt confident enough to accelerate to fifty, the rushing wind cooling him as he flew along over the desiccated earth. Here and there, where the surface waxed rough, he rose off the seat and supported his weight on his haunches, letting the bike bounce and rumble beneath him. Fortunately he was in that posture when the front tire struck the boulder he never saw and launched him thirty feet over the handlebars, catapulting him into a somersault that seemed would never end.
Zeke had the strangest experience in the air. He’d heard of such things but had never endured one. It was as if time slowed and he was able to do more than think normally. His brain seemed suddenly able to process multiple thoughts simultaneously.
It was idiotic to have been going that fast.
Though I could see cacti and rock outcroppings, I couldn’t see the ground. Why didn’t I expect obstacles on the ground?
I’ve seen things like this on TV. I’m that guy, flying through the air, hurtling end over end.
The bike was so loud. This is so quiet.
When was the last time I wore a helmet? I’m going to wish I’d worn one now.
I don’t think this will kill me. God has important things for me to do. But it’s going to hurt bad.
Does this mean He didn’t forgive me for being stupid?
I was still being stupid.
Here comes the ground. I hope I hit flush and don’t land on a rock like the bike did.
Wonder how bad the bike is?
Ugh!
Zeke bounced twice and landed on his back, the Glock driving into his spine. One boot and sock slid half-off despite both boots having been fully laced. His wrists hurt, as did the back of his head. Had he lost consciousness? He wasn’t sure. He lay there a moment, curling and uncurling toes and fingers, rolling ankles, flexing knees and ankles, rolling shoulders. Nothing broken? Thank You, Lord.
Blood anywhere? Zeke couldn’t see but quickly realized his hat covered his face. He fumbled with the cord at his neck, pulled it free, gingerly sat up. His back ached and he felt liquid. He patted himself everywhere, and when he found the source of the liquid, he put his palm to his mouth and nose, sniffing and licking. Just water. He felt around on the ground and snatched up the sloshing bottle. Still about a quarter full.
The bike’s engine still rattled quietly. He crawled about, following the sound, and yanked the bike up, killing the throttle. The front tire was gone, the rim obliterated. Zeke lifted the bike to examine the fork. Not good. How was he going to walk the thing back? He had no idea how much farther he had to go, and he had to conserve his strength and his water. Trouble was, he didn’t have the luxury of time. He had to keep moving, to get as close to home as possible. He’d have to abandon what was left of the bike. How many damaged vehicles could the group just leave behind?
Zeke sat and took off his boots and socks, checking his feet—his lifeline now. He had to avoid blisters and ironically, both moisture and dryness. He used his hat to fan them, turned his socks inside out and back again, shook them out thoroughly, made sure they were dry, put them back on, then snugged and smoothed them all around. Then he put his boots back on and laced them evenly, stood and assessed his joints again. He would be sore all over the next day, but he felt good to go. As if he had a choice. He’d have crawled all the way if he had to.
Gazing skyward again, he guessed at the best direction and set off, striding resolutely. He would c
Two hours later, when the desert floor began to change colors, Zeke knew the enemy would soon rise and peek over the horizon behind him. His water bottle bore a final inch, and his gait had grown less steady. He had no idea how far off course he might be. Just when something began to appear familiar everything looked foreign again, and he wondered if a search party had yet been dispatched. They would be watching and listening for the bike, not a solitary staggering figure.
Zeke knew it was asking too much, but he’d hoped the Lord might cut him some slack and at least salve his spirit with some balm from Scripture. But the only verse that played at his mind proved torture: “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
I know, and I’m sorry. Forgive me.
It seemed that was all he said for miles.
When it seemed he could go no further, Zeke looked for shade. He moved behind a tall stone formation and slid to the ground, pulling his walkie-talkie from a zippered compartment. He switched it on, relieved by the glow of the red light and the crackle of static. He mashed the button twice. He didn’t dare say a word.
He waited two minutes and repeated the action every two minutes five times.
Finally the contraption came to life, making him jump. He pressed it to his ear, desperate.
“Who’s clickin’ their talkie?”
It took everything in Zeke not to speak. He clicked the button twice more.
“C’mon, tell me who ya are. Ya need help?”
He clicked again.
“Can’t help ya if I don’t know where ya are, at least. This here’s WatDoc, standin’ by. I got water an’ I got wheels. If yer just clickin’ to be a idiot, git yer rear end off the air. But if ya need me and can hear me, I gotta be within half a mile, maybe closer.”
Zeke swallowed the last of his water and sighed.
How close might WatDoc be to the compound? Could they hear him too? Not likely. They never heard anything unless it was right outside. If anybody on the team heard his clicks and WatDoc, would they know enough to just click back?
He waited another three minutes. The ground beyond the shadow brightened by the second with the growing intensity of the sun.
Lord, what should I do?
“I have created all for Myself, yes, even the wicked for the day of doom.”
Did that mean even WatDoc was under God’s control? Well, of course he was.
Zeke struggled to his feet and clicked his walkie-talkie twice more.
“Now yer just toyin’ with me,” WatDoc said. “Lemme help ya. C’mon now. Come out, come out, wherever ya are.”
Zeke squinted as he emerged into the harsh light and scanned the area. Far to his left at about ten o’clock he saw the telltale dust kicked up by the Hydro Mongers and their tanker trucks.
He held the walkie-talkie to his lips and depressed the button. “WatDoc, this is the Spokesman.”
20
THE NEWS
“WELL, HOW-DEE-DOO!” WatDoc crackled back. “What ya need, friend?”
“A little water and a ride.”
“Git out where I kin see ya!”
“I’m at about four o’clock.”
“Got ya! On my way.”
Zeke turned his back and checked his firearm. Glock was among the best in the world, but no one recommended dropping your full weight on it from a story and a half above the desert floor.
The slide still moved without a hitch, the clip dropped out and snapped back in smoothly, and a peek down the sight looked true as ever. Zeke returned it to its holster in the small of his back as he casually turned around, shaded his eyes, and beat the dust from his hat. Exhausted and sore, he was still thirsty despite that last swallow.
Zeke was furious with himself for what he was putting Alexis and Sasha through, not to mention the rest of the team. What had he been thinking, going solo? Showing off? God had put him in his place twice for it already—allowing him both to get lost and to come within inches of killing or making an invalid of himself.
This was the final straw: WatDoc as his white knight, lifesaving answer to prayer?
Okay, I’m at the end of myself, if that’s what You wanted. Apparently I needed more humbling. I didn’t ask for this assignment, wasn’t looking for it, didn’t want it. But I’m still willing. I can’t promise I won’t take out my frustration on WatDoc—the one character who knows how to push my buttons. If he—
“Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves.”
Oh, I know. I’m ready for this wolf, and I won’t let him near the compound. I have a plan to keep him—
“Silence.”
Yes?
“Therefore be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove.”
I’m on guard.
“Harmless as a dove.”
Surely You don’t want me to expose my people, to give him any idea where—
“Harmless as a dove.”
I want Your will. But what if he—
“Is he your enemy?”
Yes! He’s dishonest, exploits, overcharges—
“Is he your enemy?”
He threatens us! He or his people ran down Cristelle, tried to kill her!
The big tanker wheeled up, black smoke pouring from the exhaust. The two smaller rigs stopped behind it.
“Wait.”
Wait?
“Love your enemy.”
What?
Again Zeke wanted to kick himself for entertaining the idea that God should have to repeat Himself.
WatDoc gestured as if to ask what he was doing just standing there. Zeke held up a hand as if to ask for a moment, but the man wrenched open his door and lifted himself above the top of the cab. “Comin’ er not? Ain’t got all day.”
“Need a minute, sorry.” Lord, what am I to do?
“Look like a pile a dung. What’sa matter with you?”
“Bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you.”
Bless this scoundrel?
“Is he your enemy?”
“WatDoc?”
“Let’s go, man! Git yer tail in here!”
“Just need to say something first.”
“So say it! I’m burnin’ up here!”
“Thanks for stopping. I really appreciate it.”
WatDoc cocked his head. “Well, sure, okay. Now kin we go?”
“Offer to pray for him.”
Lord—
“Is he your—”
“WatDoc, can I pray for you?”
“What the—what? What’d you say?”
“Is there anything I can pray for you about?”
“Pray for me? Naw, man, come on! You sound like my aunt now.” He cursed and hopped down, scuffing around the front of the truck past Zeke to the four-inch black hose attached to the side of the tank. A .357 Magnum rested in a holster strapped to his leg. “I lef’ that stuff a long time an’ a lotta miles ago. Looks like you need more’n a drink. Git over here.”
The Lord said, “Myrtle” and a shiver ran up Zeke’s spine.
WatDoc grabbed a crank near the end of the hose. “Git rid o’ the hat.” Zeke pulled it off, WatDoc turned the knob, and the water flooded him from the top of his head. Two seconds’ worth drenched him, and WatDoc turned it on himself before cutting the flow. He waved at the other two drivers, who scrambled out and hurried over for their turns. When they returned to their trucks, WatDoc reduced the feed to a trickle and filled Zeke’s bottle. “Now hop in, an’ tell me where to.”
Zeke was surprised at the tidiness of the cab. “Could we sit here a minute?”
“I tol’ you, man. I’m doin’ you a favor, but I got stuff I gotta do, an’—”
“Yeah, but God’s telling me to pray for you and—”
“Now you gotta quit with that too, Spokesman.”
“You can call me Zeke, because you
WatDoc’s hand immediately went to his pistol.
“You’ve got no need for that,” Zeke said. “I’m not pulling mine.”
The man’s face was ashen. He pressed an index finger hard into Zeke’s chest and rasped, “You tell me who tol’ you ’bout Myrt or I swear to God I’ll blow yer brains out.”
A peace came over Zeke he could not explain. “I already told you,” he said.
“I been in California more’n ten years, and in all ’at time I only tol’ one person ’bout Aunt Myrt, an’ that was a girl I was gonna marry ’cept she got killed in a wreck. I ain’t mentioned her name or my aunt’s since.”
Zeke nodded. “If I thought you were really gonna blow my brains out, I’d have to come up with something better than that God told me—unless it was true.”
“Yer tryin’ to tell me that’s the God’s honest truth?”
Zeke nodded. “And there’s more. She’s been praying for you every day since you left.”
WatDoc turned away and stared out the window, his jaw set. Zeke saw his pulse hammering in his neck.
“Ever been to Pigeon Forge?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t know nothin’ ’bout me or my people. Don’t know my ma died when I’s a baby, my daddy threw me out ’fore he drank hisself to death. Myrt raised me when she didn’t hafta. I give her nothin’ but trouble. Way too late to pray fer me, bruh.”
“It’s never too late,” Zeke said.
WatDoc snorted. “Ever’body else I ever done wrong deserved it or prob’ly did. She didn’t.”
“I could pray about that.”
“Stop sayin’ that! I’m tellin’ you I don’t want you prayin’!”
“Sorry.”
“A’ight, we done with this. You don’t be sayin’ nothin’ about Myrt. You don’t know her. We gotta git goin’. Now where to?”
“You deal with the Nuwuwu, right?”
“Yup. Fact, I jes’ come from there.”
“Take me there. My people will eventually find me there. And if you see any of them looking for me first—”