White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

scenarios stacked on top of each other like a pile of paperback novels. Violence, starvation, bad water, flu, criminal gangs, fanatical gangs, government gangs, and even supposed friends seizing control.

Jason had bought an insurance policy against the failure of civilization—a basement full of food and guns—and that insurance policy was crumbling along with every other notion of wealth and safety. If preparedness wasn’t the answer to the Black Autumn collapse, he had no idea what it was. Maybe there was no answer. Maybe death was inevitable.

Jason realized that he was clenching and unclenching his fists, and Doctor Larsen had stopped talking a minute or two ago. The doctor and Chad stared at Jason with scarcely-concealed concern.

Jason spoke to relieve the awkwardness. “I’ll call the Homestead family leaders together. Anyone who crosses the line between us and the valley will be thrown out of the Homestead. No exceptions. I will not let this flu destroy us.”

“Thanks,” Doctor Larsen offered as he stood and reached out to shake hands. He realized his mistake, and his handshake wilted in midair. “We should tell people to limit human contact with each other too.”

“I’ll make sure they understand that in no uncertain terms,” Jason declared as he showed Doctor Larsen and Chad to the door.

Out of the blue, Jeff Kirkham remembered the puppy he had when he was a kid.

When he was eight years old, his dad gave him a dog. Maybe his mom and dad had decided Jeff wasn’t getting enough attention. As one of the “middle kids” in a Mormon family of eight children, it wouldn’t have been a stretch to think it. Jeff rarely got anything entirely his own. His parents’ attention was stretched wire-thin.

Raising eight kids barely rose to the level of noteworthiness in a Mormon community. Their religion preached “multiplying and replenishing the earth,” and many Mormon families had huge broods, some numbering in the double-digits. Mormon parents were inclined to rear children in the manner of Henry Ford; everything by production line.

Clothes, games, toys, food, television and even parent-time were shared, leveraged and stretched to maximum potential. Jeff’s dog had been the exception.

One of the men at his dad’s company wanted to offload a litter of Labrador Retrievers, and he got a deal on a middle-of-the-litter black lab puppy. When his dad brought it home, Jeff didn’t know how to take the news.

“Is this mine? Only mine?” Jeff hardly knew what that meant.

“Did you get me a puppy too?” Jeff’s older brother Samson asked, inserting himself into the father-son moment.

“No, Samson. This is Jeff’s dog. He will be responsible for training, feeding and cleaning up after it when it poops on the floor. You got that, Jeff? This puppy is your responsibility. Now that you’re baptized, it’s time for you to take life seriously.”

Jeff’s face turned stoney and he nodded. The Saturday before, he’d been baptized by his dad and confirmed by his grandpa. By dictate of the Mormon prophet, Joseph Smith, Mormons baptized their children at the age of accountability, which was eight years old.

Jeff adored his family. They were a hearty tribe. Even at a young age, he’d picked up a sense from the Mormon community that his dad was a strong man and his mother was a saint. The Kirkhams could be forgiven for feeling proud of their clan.

Jeff’s love for the dog overtook him. The combination of the puppy’s angel-soft fur, vanilla smell and the new sense of stewardship captivated Jeff, lighting a bright passion. Every day Jeff hungered to get out of school, run home and play with the puppy. Little-by-little the puppy learned commands: sit, stay, come. The puppy would even chase a tennis ball, though Jeff hadn’t managed to get him to bring it back.

One day Jeff returned home from school, sweaty from running, and the puppy was gone. He’d placed it in its kennel before leaving for school, but he found the kennel empty, the door hanging open. Jeff searched the entire house, the yard and then the block.

When his dad came home from work, Jeff wrung his hands and told his dad about the missing dog.

“Well, did you put him in his crate when you left for school?” His father asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you close the latch all the way?”

“Yes. I think so.” Jeff remembered closing the dog crate but he couldn’t remember the exact moment of closing the latch.

“Well, son, he is your responsibility. You are the one who has to make sure he’s locked in his crate each day. ‘I think so’ doesn’t cut it.”

For the next two weeks, Jeff searched for his dog every day after school. He tossed and turned at night. He thought about the puppy all day, fretting about whether he would ever see him again. He asked everyone at church if they had seen him. He even made “lost dog” signs and taped them on telephone poles.

Jeff never saw the puppy again. He felt his father’s disappointment, but they never discussed it after that day, nor did Jeff’s mother bring it up. In the busy world of a large Mormon family, Jeff sensed that maybe the dog had been his dad’s deal. It wasn’t his mom’s place to intervene.

After two weeks of searching, Jeff learned to turn aside thoughts of the puppy, focusing on things like schoolwork, sports and playing with his siblings. They had never taken any photographs, so the puppy was just gone.

Perhaps as a silver lining, Jeff redoubled his effort on everything placed in his care. He wasn’t a creative student, not exceptional in any single discipline. Still, Jeff began to bring a seriousness to school and sports that more than made up for any lack of talent.

In high school, Jeff became an all-state wrestler and captain of the debate team. He joined the Army while still a Junior and went directly to jump school, on-track to become a Special Forces operator, and a minor legend in the SOF community.

During the years after the puppy, Jeff sensed his father’s disappointment