Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #185: This is the essence of being human: you’ll put off a task for weeks and weeks because you’re convinced it’s too difficult. Then when you sit down to accomplish it, it takes all of 15 minutes and you’re like, “god I hate myself.”

By mile four they’d gained another five-hundred feet, topping out on a plateau of sorts. No longer ascending, but curving north, they passed beneath a wrought iron arch spanning the roadbed; it reminded Lyndy of the type placed proudly at entrances to cattle ranches. Adorning the newish structure were interesting symbols, some stars, a moon and a handful matching ones seen earlier. At the same time she spotted a collection of single story white buildings coming into view. It was a town.

Instinctively she let up on the gas, decelerating to a painfully slow ten miles an hour. The last thing they needed was to piss somebody off by kicking up a dust cloud, or give the appearance of a threatening  approach.

“Is that Hebrew lettering?” questioned Jack, pointing to the symbols on the arch.

As the mining road leveled out it became better maintained. Flat rocks were placed on either side, controlling the path of cars where it skirted round a neatly groomed vegetable garden. The garden had linear rows, so straight and parallel as to be done with modern machinery—and yet none were available here.

She’d been paying close attention to the scenery when she felt a nudge from Jack to her ribs. What seemed at first glimpse to be a lifelike scarecrow, was in fact an older gentleman, long graying beard, reddish skin despite a straw hat, wearing blue overalls with a white shirt underneath. He’d been waiting near motionless at roadside, using the handle of a garden hoe as support. He scrutinized them with milky-white alien eyes, symptomatic of advanced cataracts.

Unnervingly, he offered nothing in the way of a greeting or wave. One thing was certain, he wasn’t seeing much.

Several hundred yards on she could see a small crowd forming, two woman and three men, each dressed in the blue overalls with long sleeve white shirts underneath. Again they were watching but offering no form of greeting. One knew strangers were a rarity.

“Hey, at least it’s not a nudist camp,” whispered Lyndy to Jack.

He nodded back to her. “Yeah. There’s that.”

She didn’t know the name of the feeling but she’d experienced it a time or two before: the awareness you were meant to arrive some place, to see it in your lifetime. A chill. Why you were here would only become clear later, sometimes never.

Nearing the first in a series of white structures Lyndy slowed the Jeep to a crawl. Up close the walls were clad in corrugated metal sheets, nailed on, a low-cost siding technique used in mining camps.

More people began to emerge, appearing in doorways, having been laboring inside. Others were approaching from adjacent fields. All were sporting the same blue overalls. In total some 30 folks clustered together.

From a seat on the porch of the largest building a key figure rose. He was sixty-ish, with black rimmed glasses and white hair. Most striking about this character was the way he stood, once a tall man and handsome, now he was severely hunched over. His bent body was supported by metal crutches—the kind with cuffs you slipped your wrists into—and giving the appearance of having not two but four legs.

With him there was something intangible making it obvious he was a leader. It could have been the way people were circling, as members of a village respectfully gathered round a chief. He had a commanding presence even in his current state.

Reaching the shade of a cottonwood Lyndy brought the CJ to a standstill, switching off the motor and setting the e-brake. The silence was now evident. No one had yet spoken, yet all were waiting in anticipation.

She placed her sunglasses on the narrow dash. Meanwhile Jack twisted his body, checking behind as his eyes darted about. She could tell he was anxious.

The Spitfire took deliberate breaths, wanting to exude a certain serenity.

They waited as the man with crutches came to meet them. Moving stiffly from the shade he took each step with a calculated vigor. The look on his face indicated pain, stemming from his hips. Squeaking metal on metal due to those supports, energy more mechanical than human, it took half a minute for him to traverse fifteen yards.

The increasing crowd—including both male and female—held tight to their gardening implements, mainly hoes and shovels. While preferable to firearms, it wasn’t putting anyone’s mind at ease. They pushed up to within inches of the burgundy Jeep on all sides. The two were vastly outnumbered.

When at last he was within a few feet of the driver’s side, he finally spoke, still bracing himself. “Welcome weary travelers in these troubling times! What a glorious afternoon the Lord has made! Can I help you two with something?”

It was a relief to hear English. His voice was cheerful—a little hoarse in the dry air—but commanding enough to be heard by the crowd. Jack stood up, gripping the windshield frame and towering over everyone. “We’re searching for the owner of this …” he looked around, “… village?”

The man smiled. “Well it’s funny you say that. We all own this place collectively,” he asserted. “But perhaps I can explain. My name is Brother Steve. I’m the chief architect, which also makes me a leader of sorts. At least as many days as my health holds out.”

“Sorry we forgot to bring our overalls,” Lyndy stated facetiously.

No one laughed, not even a stray chuckle. Jack shot her a glance like she was acting foolish, but Brother Steve continued to smile graciously. From the get-go one could tell he was the type whose face never revealed unpleasant or strong emotions—one click short of a creepy funeral parlor personality—but somehow reassuring.

“Right on. Pleased to meet you Brother Steve,” said Jack.

“Why don’t you all come on up to my office?” Brother Steve extracted his wrist from one of his crutches. With his freed hand he adjusted his glasses, studying The Spitfire as though she were a curious desert illusion. Then he flopped his hand, gesturing to the entry of his raised white house. “You folks can explain to me why you’ve come and I might offer you a bit of history regarding Project Genesis.”

Lyndy shot the crowd a snotty look, demanding space for her to kick open her door. The sweaty men congregating nearest the Jeep backed away. She opened her door with a loud creak, and as her legs dangled out the side she tightened the buckles on her shoes. Then she adjusted her top so it sat higher, guessing modesty would be imperative. Reaching under the seat she retrieved her purse, heavy with the weight of the Beretta.

Ethnically it wasn’t the most diverse group, but she counted among them two or three Latinos and a tall African American man with dreads, held in place by a hair tie.

“I assume ya’ll don’t get many strangers here,” Jack asserted.

Grimacing as he took the first steps, Brother Steve answered. “No sir. But all who seek truth humbly are welcome.”

That surely describes us.

He tackled the stairs one by one, having assistance from a younger man supporting his shoulder. Brother Steve seemed to not like receiving help, as he kept his head down, barely acknowledging the other fellow.

From the outside state it was difficult to tell, but the interior revealed considerable age of the dwelling—they simply didn’t build places like this anymore. The way the boards had been sawn, the kind of thick wood planking used in the floor and walls, dated the structure to mining booms of the twenties and thirties.

Either someone had been crazy enough to move it here, or they’d hand assembled it on site at this remote location. In any case it was well cared for and clean, smelling of pine sol.

The main room was undivided and spartan; only a single table occupying the center and two rows of chairs pushed against opposite sides. On display under glass was a USGS topographic map with black pen lines overlaid, planning for future property improvements. At the northern end of the building were a foursome of tall windows, offering views of a garden and orchards. Another benefit, they were providing ample natural light.

Residing on the floor at the sides of the table were wooden crates. Nested in beds of straw were samples of fruits and vegetables, many beautiful garden tomatoes, yellow squash, peaches and some apricots. A single cantaloupe the size of a cannonball and a watermelon were the heaviest food items.

Lyndy and Jack assembled by the table. She was taking a back seat again, waiting for Mr. Pennybags Decklin to break the ice. Tilting her head, she wanted to seem attentive but her eyes were constantly drawn to the outdoors; in particular, healthy plants in the vegetable gardens and the miraculous size of the fruit trees. Never had she seen anything so thriving in The Mojave. And when something seemed out of place it was a caution flag to her. Chan would be suspicious too, were he to know of this.

Brother Steve took a seat on a wooden shaker stool. His assistants, two younger men, moved in position behind him. The others remained outside and gradually were trickling back to work. The excitement was over.

With Brother Steve now comfortable Jack extended his arm. “I should introduce myself. Name’s Jack Decklin. I’m an investigator for the Santa Fe railroad and this is my colleague Lyndy Martinez.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” replied Brother Steve, seeming more at ease in this near eye-level position. “You know it happens I was a gandy-dancer as a young fellar, living up in northern Idaho. Slept in a cold caboose, or under the stars some nights.”

She looked at Jack with curiosity. “Gandy dancer?”

“It’s like a railroad section hand,” he explained. “They use those long claw bars to lever the track into alignment.”

“Exhilarating but hazardous work I must say. And very low pay,” declared Brother Steve. “Sometimes with your whole body you have to balance on that teetering rod.”

“Nobody does it that way anymore,” assured Jack, seeking to get the conversation back on course. “Anyhow, what did you call this place? Project Genesis?”

“Correct.” Brother Steve pressed his palms together, almost giddy in explaining. “We’ve got limitless fresh air, old fashioned holy work—we work with our hands see—camaraderie, and of course prayer. It’s a place of a peace and redemption. People come from all over the country to join us in our quest.”

Through a gap created by the open door she could see someone lingering. Checking again, it was the man with the dreadlocks, sweeping the steps.

“So this is a real farm?” Lyndy asked, beginning to drift away from the table and toward the windows. It felt like a vivid dream—a mass hallucination.

“You bet!” he replied excitedly. “We’re selling our naturally grown fruits and vegetables in markets all over the state. Look for the label with the olive branch and two hands folded in prayer.” He held up a peach with a tiny white sticker. “Some of the finest restaurants on the Sunset strip buy direct from us. We don’t use pesticides—don’t need em—so there’s nothing to harm the body. Our motto is: ‘Food the way it would have been in the Garden of Eden’. You know, the way God intended.” He offered the ripe peach to Jack. “Sample our finest wares?”

“Please do not eat that,” she thought.

Jack touched the top of his head, checking his hair, frowning in equal parts wonderment and confusion. They were both thinking the same. Of the mining road they’d traveled on. The wind storms. The loose boulders and round stones, filled in with a nutrient poor sand.

“No thank you sir. We had a really big lunch.” Jack patted his stomach for emphasis. “But in this desert, up here on top of a ridge, not in a valley. You’re growing all that?” He stepped to the windows as well, gazing out on the orchard. The old floors bowed as he moved about. “I mean, how do you even acquire water up here?”

“It’s one of our miracles. You see God’s chosen people, the Israelites have faced the same environmental pressures we do. During the last recession a bunch of us moved out here. We studied the ingenious system of dryland farming, the drip irrigation method, which they invented. We only possess one reliable water source, coming from a well down in the valley. But our humble well serves acres and acres of productive cropland. A series of plastic pipes carry the water from a central set of tanks, like capillaries, to each and every plant individually, giving it precisely the dose of water it needs each day to thrive; no more no less. Because it’s all contained in pipes directly from the central tanks to the plant itself, we don’t lose any to evaporation.”

“Impressive stuff,” said Jack.

“Oh you’d be amazed at the wonders we’ve accomplished working together.” For a brief moment Brother Steve shut his eyes, moved by the spirit. “You know in school they wouldn’t believe me when I told them I will accomplish great things. But sometimes you can just feel it. There’s synergy everywhere. God really is all around, working through us.”

“Pardon me for saying this, but aren’t you suffering from some sort of ailment?” Jack gestured to the crutches.

Brother Steve opened his eyes. “Only a touch of the rheumatoid arthritis, autoimmune in nature—been sufferin with it my entire adult life. Them doctors can’t help me much, only God can. Medicines and painkillers do no good. It seems to be my cross to bear. But I’m not going to let it stop me. How about you folks?” his gaze shifted between Lyndy and Jack. “Have you experienced the glory of the Lord working in your own lives?”

Such a heavy question hung in the air. She didn’t want to insult the man. Slowly, tactfully, she nodded her head. She turned to Jack, expecting him to say something diplomatic in response. Yet his face lacked the appropriate reverence and to the contrary, he seemed ready to blow his top.

Jack sighed. “To tell the truth, not so much Brother Steve. Was a guy in my platoon, damn near the kindest person I ever met. While I was drinking and gambling and being an all-around scoundrel, he was back at the base helping others and saying his prayers in chapel. We all liked him. He was aiding a wounded civilian, a poor villager, when there was a miscommunication over the radio and artillery shells fell on his position. Son of a bitch was killed in friendly fire. You’ll forgive me if I’m having a crisis of faith.”

“There’s a reason things happen the way they do. We may not always have the answer,” explained Brother Steve. “But God does.” Brother Steve’s assistants glared back.

Lyndy rushed to Jack’s side, gripping him at the shoulders and squeezing. “Okay, okay, let’s all not over think this. Why don’t we get to why we’re here?”

“Very well,” answered Brother Steve, grinning eagerly.

“I dunno if you folks read the papers much, but recently there was a train robbery which happened near the town of Chambless. Not your ordinary open the boxcars and toss crap out the side, but a real old-west style robbery with gun-toting bandits.”

“Is that so? What a hoot!”

“Yeah, what a hoot,” mouthed Jack.

Brother Steve was doing a darn good job listening and acting as someone would having zero expectation of what was coming. Judging by the faces of the men standing behind, they were equally clueless.

Jack on the other hand was scowling, but letting her continue.

“Today we’re following up on leads, hoping to recover the stolen items. Funny thing is, we have this one really big clue. The people we’re seeking were driving a two-and-a-half ton military truck. It’s called a deuce-and-a-half in some circles. Thing is, there simply aren’t that many of those trucks for sale.”

Brother Steve raised his eyebrows, at last turning to his assistants.

“Turns out someone from your Project Genesis purchased a vehicle of this weight class at a government auction.”

“Ahh yes, Goliath,” said Brother Steve. His companions were suddenly growing nervous.

“Goliath?”

“Our Goliath. We nicknamed it! Those trucks will run on any combustible from kitchen grease to moonshine. We’re using it for hauling loads between the mountaintop and the valley. Once there, we transfer the goods to more ordinary big rig trailers and box trucks, for transport over the interstate highway. It’s parked right now.”

“Do you mind if we take a look?” Jack requested.

“No trouble. Why don’t I run you folks over to the garage and on the way I’ll give you a quick tour to boot.”

Lyndy turned to Jack, exchanging a guardedly optimistic glance.

 

Minutes later …

From the seat of a bouncy golf cart with knobby desert tires, crutches strapped to one side, Brother Steve could give Mr. Toad a run for his money. For a man with disabilities and a Christian spirit, he had the heart of a risk taker and nimble, go-cart racing instincts.

Lacking restraints, the cart swayed left and right in tight corners. Lyndy clung to a pillar supporting the flimsy canvas roof shade. Jack, being a male, had been assigned the backseat facing reverse. She seriously pondered how he hadn’t been launched out.

On the other hand, the elevation and movement of cool air felt wonderful to her skin. The sun was shining bright and they were well above the haziest part of the atmosphere.

Wheel sliding left and right in his fingers, Brother Steve lifted an arm and pointed to a field: “Over here we’ve got our zucchini planted, ready to pick in a week. We can grow two harvests per year. Over there are the boarding houses, separate ones for men and women, but all equipped with bunk beds.” He’d obviously given this tour many times.

“You sleep on a bunk bed in your condition?” Jack shouted the question from the back.

“Yeah but I get a bottom bunk,” Brother Steve clarified.

Lyndy laughed. As inappropriate as it might be, she couldn’t help but wonder: it couldn’t be the first time in history a person faked a handicap for personal gain.