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

Thayer continued. “If he needs to die, then kill him with both our hands on the gun. It’ll be ours together to bear.”

Vanderlink sobbed. Instead of a big, vicious bull beneath his knee and his gun, Jeff saw a fat kid—the bullied boy who had become a bully—the wounded child had become a wounded man.

None of this excused the ignobility of Vanderlink. The world would be a better place with his brain impacted into the asphalt of Hidden Oaks Drive. He’d undoubtedly caused more suffering and the world couldn’t take chances on assholes anymore.

Thayer said nothing more. His age-spotted hand rested on the handgun, a silent question without a clear answer: should Vanderlink die?

While Vanderlink choked back tears of rage, Jeff hated the game God had made of his life; a game of asking shitty questions without any clear answers. Since the collapse kicked off, Jeff had run his old plays from his old playbook—using cleverness and maximum violence to win, which seemed like a righteous play, since all he wanted was for his family to be safe. Who could fault him for that?

But God kept pecking at him, sending him into dreamland and giving him men to kill or save, with no straightforward answer. At least the killing he’d done in Afghanistan made sense; He’d followed orders and destroyed Taliban by the truckload, and Jeff had never lost a wink of sleep.

But the man under his gun was no Taliban. Perhaps he deserved to die even more than those fanatics. At least the Talis lived with a modicum of honor and grit. This blubbering maniac had been nothing more than a human wrecking ball.

There were no Rules of Engagement here. Nobody to tell him to kill or not to kill. Even the Mormon prophet, his hand on Jeff’s gun, and his old man’s breath blowing on the back of Jeff’s neck, refused to give him the order.

Jeff’s gut loosened, the flint of combat drained away with each breath.

Then he knew: he should not kill Vanderlink. He could feel Vanderlink’s story somehow unfinished. The flesh of the man’s face held the weight of Jeff’s knee and that flesh felt sacred—set apart for a future Jeff could not imagine. Vanderlink had a role to play. As much as he deserved to die, he was like a song before the the chorus, a football game at half-time.

“Not today,” Jeff said. His trigger finger went straight. Thayer struggled to his feet and stepped back to stand by Wali.

Jeff rocked back on his haunches, his weight coming off Vanderlink’s head, his arm bar relaxing.

Vanderlink stayed prone on the pavement for a moment, now crying openly. Jeff re-holstered his Glock.

Without turning toward the three men, Vanderlink climbed to his knees and hawked up a giant, bloody ball of phlegm and spat it out. Cradling his damaged arm, he lurched to his feet and stumbled downhill, still sobbing. The three men watched in silence as Vanderlink floundered toward the Upper Barricade, leaving Oakwood, hopefully forever.

“I hope that wasn’t a mistake,” Jeff said.

Wali nodded his head in agreement.

President Thayer put a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “When you get as old as I am, you know that life is long and strange.”

“I think I’m going to regret not ending that man,” Jeff predicted.

“Only God understands the whole story, from beginning to end.” President Thayer watched Vanderlink stumble down the road with compassion in his eyes.

“Yeah. I’m hoping the next chapter doesn’t end with some innocent person dead because of him,” Jeff said as Jack Vanderlink disappeared around the bend.

“Every life is one of suffering and victory, not necessarily in that order,” Thayer gathered himself to walk home. “I suppose we should pray for the story to be interesting, and leave it at that.”

Jeff brushed the snow off his knees. “God can keep his interesting moments to himself. I could do with a lot less. Boredom sounds pretty good right now.”

“Yes,” Wali agreed.

A holy man, a Muslim and a Green Beret met in the middle of a street. The holy man asked, “What is the meaning of life?"

If it was a joke, Jeff wasn’t laughing.

11

“The collapse of air travel blessed China. With its central government and tight political controls, the People’s Republic lost only 15% of its population to starvation, and they never contracted the flu.

While America was buried beneath the H2N3 virus, suffering an estimated 40% mortality rate in the first wave and a 7% mortality rate in the second, China ‘repossessed’ its financial investments in the old U.S.S. by landing troops in American port cities.

First, they occupied the South China Sea, then they landed in harbors in Japan, the Philippines and all of Southeast Asia. They took control unopposed.

Under the guise of humanitarian aid, the Chinese planted their flag on the most valuable real estate in the Pacific, committing themselves to the occupation of Hawaii. They soon learned that the U.S. government would not retaliate, so they set their sights on valuable properties in California, Washington and Oregon.

In previous world wars, conquerers seized assets for their war effort: oil, coal, airfields and ports. During the Black Autumn collapse, the Chinese improved their real estate portfolio instead.”

The American Dark Ages, by William Bellaher North American Textbooks, 2037

Ross Homestead

Oakwood, Utah

“One man caught on a barbed wire fence

One man he resist

One man washed up on an empty beach

One man betrayed with a kiss

In the name of love

What more in the name of love?”

Mister Jeff could corral Jacquelyn into being the Homestead pastor but she would be damned if she did it like churches of the past. For starters, her church’s hymns wouldn’t sound like funeral dirges. They’d be happy, inspiring tunes that most people knew from the radio.

Over two hundred Homesteaders began their first church service singing U2, In the Name of Love. The song vaguely alluded to Jesus, but on that score, Jacquelyn’s heart was settled. Everyone who wasn’t an avowed atheist in the Homestead—the number had shrunk to near-zero over the course of