In late spring, Justice Jenkins and his two brothers, Henry and Eli, stole a thirty-two-ton flatbed truck from an I-40 rest stop west of Albuquerque. It wasn’t difficult. At one time or another, they’d all run stolen vehicles. They’d all done time. When the XXX-sized driver came into the empty john, Henry, the youngest, brawniest, and most vicious, clobbered him with a Louisville Slugger. Then they gagged and bound him in a closed stall, taped a sign, broken, on the door, nailed it shut, ran the truck up to Manny’s chop-shop in Espanola, refashioned its identity overnight, and drove east on 64 to I-25, home free. The truck was exactly what they needed to haul a tank into a remote area of Idaho, north of the Main Fork of the Salmon River.
Manny accompanied them to Carmen where he took over the truck and drove it back to Espanola. During the course of three nights, the brothers guided the tank at a snail’s pace over fire roads to a piece of liberated U.S. Forest Service land which they renamed “Patriot Park.” This was to be a summer training outpost with tents for lodging and the tank for defense. Young women they had, either wives or cousins. Young men, they planned to recruit from Aryan enclaves in the Northwest. Joab and Absalom were brought in from Spokane. Joab and Absalom weren’t their birth names but commando names given when Justice Jenkins baptized them in Bargamin Creek.
“Where are the pagan boys?” Justice asked Joab.
“They asked to be excused, sir.”
“This ain’t elementary school,” Justice sneered. “This is life. You want to be excused from life?”
“No, sir,” Joab said.
“Like you have to make pee pee?”
A tow-haired child giggled as Jenkins gave him a wink.
“Even Goshen knows what that means. Nothing excuses you from the Lord’s work, day in and day out.”
“They asked Captain Eli, sir,” Absalom stammered.
“Who’s in charge here?” Jenkins stroked the sheath that held his Winchester riot knife. Even naked, he kept it around his waist, its blade ideal for scalping. So far, that hadn’t come up.
“Commander Justice!”
They could not be blamed for his brother, Eli. Eli had independent tendencies. He liked to wander in the woods and commune with natural splendors. He liked to quote Henry David Thoreau. He had inclinations that weren’t altogether Christian.
Attention turned when Eli Jenkins stepped from the woods, his stature and demeanor suggesting a man who couldn’t possibly be related to Justice. Justice was a potbellied gnome. Eli was tall and rail-thin with loose white hair and clean-shaven except for a caprine tuft. He leaned forward as he limped into the clearing. He was barefoot and had a deep scratch across the instep.
Behind him strode three robust young men, each dragging a sledge loaded with wood. Slung on their backs were cloth sacks filled with wild berries and wild onions. They wore cargo pants, Minnetonka fringed moccasins, Raiders caps, and their bare torsos, necks, and arms were covered with intricate tattoos.
“Ran into a couple of mutts,” Justice said.
Eli glanced at Ruby and Quinn. “Now we got to feed them,” he said, wiping his hands on his coveralls.
“We ain’t got to do nothing,” Justice chuckled.
“The girl, she looks strong,” he said admiringly.
“Reminds you of Lucille, don’t she?”
Lucille was Eli’s second wife, half-Irish, half-Cherokee. She died in a 1990 Chevy Blazer after it crashed into a semi and rebounded against the pier of an interstate bridge. The steering wheel crushed her. Eli retrieved their drugs, hopped over the guardrail, crossed the bridge, hid in a field, and a few hours later, hitchhiked from the scene of the accident, north to Sacramento. Southbound was tied up for hours due to the accident. The next day, Eli read that the driver had bled to death. It was one thing he never forgave himself for, although he believed God forgave him.
“They helped Hazel,” Justice said.
“You found Hazel?”
“She spent the night with them and took off in the morning to the river.” Justice chewed the inside of his cheek. His cheek was raw from twelve hours of chewing. Now he’d have to go down the hill to find her.
Eli’s three acolytes unloaded and stacked the wood. Quinn stared at their backs as they worked. He was familiar with tattoos of the Maori and Yakuza clans. But the elaborate patterns on the young men of wheels, runes, labyrinths, and the letters EK were mysteries.
Justice watched their arms lift and sort. His joints ached looking at them. He suffered from arthritis in his right hip. He’d been told he needed a hip replacement but surgery frightened him. Several family members had died under the knife. He believed they’d been murdered.
“I wasn’t here so they used you,” Justice said to Eli. “I hear they asked to be excused from Bible studies.”
Eli dipped from a can of Skoal Straight, tucking the snuff between his gum and lip. As soon as the saliva mixed with the tobacco, a light sugar high rushed through his bloodstream.
“They’re frisky, Justice. You got to let them work it off. If they don’t work it off in the woods, they going to work it off somewhere else. Anyway they got way more sense than the numbskulls from Spokane. They’re useful and they don’t complain.”
“They ain’t Christian, Eli,” Justice said. “Once they get to be Christian, I won’t mind.”
“Snorri says they hate and love the same things as Christians.”
“I ain’t sure about that.”
“Snorri, he’s the intelligent one. He can quote Shakespeare.”
“Snorri don’t sound intelligent. It sounds like Seven Dwarfs.”
“It’s from Iceland.”
“That’s an unnatural heathen place,” Justice said. “They got darkness all day in winter and sun all night in summer.”
“He can tell stories about the original Snorri. You seen the Mjolnir on his palm? It goes in four directions like the cross but it didn’t originate in suffering. It belonged to Thor. It’s Thor’s hammer of strength, thundering in heaven.”
“You aim on conversion?” Justice laughed.
“I aim on the Lord’s knowledge,” Eli said.
Eli Jenkins had heard of Odin and Asatru on the street. He knew it was popular in prisons. As for the “14 Words” tattooed on each of the boys—We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White Children—there was no conflict with Christian belief.
“That’s their motto. Hitler’s motto too,” Eli said.
“Hitler’s only half the equation,” Justice argued. “You got to have salvation. That’s how Christians balance civilization. Pagans ain’t civilized or balanced. They make blood sacrifices to false gods. They speak in false tongues. Either those boys put Jesus in their hearts or they go back to Seattle.”
The three EK youth stood across the clearing. They were tired and content. They’d had a good day in the woods. They liked living out of the city close to Thule and the great sacred trees and sacred river. They also liked Eli Jenkins. He listened to them. He asked questions about the ancient marks that blanketed their bodies. He showed respect.
They did not like his brother, Justice, who raved on about Jesus. Among themselves, they’d discussed an Icelandic coup. They would take Commander Justice down and raise Captain Eli up. The plan was Snorri’s. Snorri was in charge. He was a skald. He quoted from the Elder Edda and Younger Edda. He had certified proof that noble skald blood ran in his veins. The other two couldn’t read but they liked hearing Snorri tell the stories of war and gods. He taught them how to play Swords and Shields. They looked up to Snorri. He could shoot a bow as good as a gun. It was Captain Eli who let Snorri bring his bow into camp.