65.
Church soldiers did their best to cover Milly’s nakedness with a riot shield.
Chief Mayberry entered the bunker. “Are you …” He eased a blanket over Milly.
She hugged it close as best she could. “His daughter.”
The radio on Father’s desk crackled with voices. His best men were returning to the Homestead. Though unclear how many armed men stood primed on either side and where (surface or underground), they would soon collide.
Mayberry walked to the transmitter. “You can save them.”
Milly’s lip quivered.
“Please.” He pressed the microphone button.
She took a deep breath. “This is Father’s daughter. Father is dead.”
Nodding in appreciation, Mayberry took the mic. “Homestead — it’s over. Stand down peacefully …”
Milly peered at Father’s desk, cluttered by possessions that escaped his fire. An old, empty prescription bottle protruded from the jumble, label torn, patient’s name effaced, but medication still visible.
I’d stopped taking antidepressants. He kept my bottle. Why?
Mayberry finished his radio decree. “Let’s get you to your stepmother, Mildred.”
“No.” Milly turned to him. “I want a new life.”
His wrinkled eyes sagged with sympathy. “Alright.” He softly squeezed her shoulder.
With that radio announcement, most at the Homestead surrendered without further bloodshed. Gleaned from chatter amongst soldiers, a dozen had already died. The most intense gunfight had taken place at the barn, soon after Milly had left it.
The two soldiers who’d shot Father conferred privately, visibly shaken.
“I couldn’t squeeze. Glad you did.”
“I didn’t. You shot.”
They checked their magazines. Both had shot.
“That stare of his.”
“Right at me.”
“No, right through me.”
“But then …”
“I’m trying to forget. I can’t.”
“Not as …”
“… but after …”
“… he died.”
“Yeah.”
“He smiled.”
“Never say a word.”
“I swear.”
“I promise.”
They shook hands.
Someone wrote on a wristband:
— MILDRED
Mayberry said, “That’s her.”
They drew a little star next to Milly’s name, then clipped the wristband above her elbow to avoid her burns. The ambulances, full of people worse off, left first. Milly rode to the hospital in the backseat of a Church police cruiser. She looked over her shoulder, at Mayberry, who waved. Milly rolled past armored troops in black-and-white, high-powered combat drones, then vehicles from the Regional Guard.
It could’ve been a bloodbath.
Who in law enforcement coined the unfortunate epithet “Naked Girl” for Milly under the auspices of protecting her privacy? That’s unclear, but her nickname stuck. As they processed Milly through the social system, she had little to do but watch the intense media coverage.
“Rumors of a naked teenaged girl …” made the news. “Was the Homestead some sort of sex cult?” There were plenty of crimes and abuse to go around, but no proof of that kind of abuse and no allegations. Weeks later, the Church released photos of a supersized arsenal of mostly legal weapons, evidence of real estate fraud, and countless other felony charges. Coverage of those boring facts was scant. Sex cults got ratings. The news cycle had passed.
Milly’s never seen the Homestead since. It wasn’t truly a home because it had never been safe, but it was all she’d known.
Most Homesteaders still believed in Father. Some refused to believe he had died. Few talked. Regardless, with no possessions to their names, most joined the Church, content just to drink fresh water and sleep above ground.
With burnt evidence and uncooperative witnesses, Mayberry and Rick couldn't determine what exactly had happened at the Homestead. The Church took video before the underground entrances got sealed with concrete, like a tomb.
Mayberry sighed at Father’s main gate. “That was one hell of a chapter.”
Well said.
“Ah-yep.” Rick nodded.
“My last.” He patted Rick on the back.
But it wasn’t. Fascinated by the ingenuity that had allowed us to survive such harsh conditions in the middle of nowhere, confused by the order of events, Mayberry kept wondering. So did Milly, hence their connection.
But she refused to ever speak of it.
Father was convicted, of course, postmortem, in a closed courtroom. A few of his top men went to jail. Then the judge and the governor sealed it all up tight, just like the Homestead itself. Except for Father, the names and faces of the dead remained publicly undisclosed.
And that was the end of the Homestead, but not the last of its story, and certainly not the last of that nasty old family barn. But back then, Milly had started anew — with nothing but a blanket — just like this little girl right now.