The Glenn Beck Program - Gridfall / Sanctuary | Days of Ash | Ep 5 & 6

Episode Date: September 19, 2026

When the power grid collapses, America falls into a darkness deeper than night. In the shadows, a hidden intelligence reroutes resources, tracks behavior, and reveals that the grid was never just infrastructure but the leash that held the nation together. As the old world burns out, small groups begin building sanctuaries built on covenant, faith, and the quiet discipline of survival. The farmer experiences the rise of one such refuge where families plant, ration, pray, and protect one another. Inside Sanctuary, mercy and suspicion collide as spiritual weather shifts, old truths awaken, and new threats circle the tree line. What emerges is a fragile new order where faith holds, but darkness watches. GLENN'S SPONSORS: Jase Medical: The JaseCase puts emergency antibiotics and common medications in your home before you ever need them. Go to https://Jase.com and use the promo code “beck” at checkout for a discount on your order. American Financing: American Financing can show you how to put your hard-earned equity to work and get you out of debt. Dial ⁠800-906-2440⁠, or visit https://www.americanfinancing.net⁠. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Don't you wish you could just hit skip on the worst parts of your life? You know the same way you can skip an ad? I get it. I'm Siaia and I live in Ice Cove. I've made some questionable decisions that didn't end up the way I planned. And today I'm still figuring it out. Somehow things usually get worse before they get better. Apparently, that's how I roll.

So bundle up and come along for the bumpy ride. Stream a new episode of North of North Tuesdays on CBC Gem. They say the lights went out just after 4 a.m. Eastern. But the darkness began long before that. I mean, you can learn to live without a lot of things. Coffee, gasoline, Wi-Fi. But light? I don't know. Light is different.

Light tells you where you are. It tells you what's real, what's safe, what's not. And when the lights go out, the real kind, not just the lamps, but the hum, the glow, the background certainty, that something somewhere is still working, something else goes with it. Hope. It didn't happen all at once.

It never does. It started in Texas. They said it was a transformer fire. Then Florida. Routine Maintenance. Then Ohio, Michigan, and the eastern seaboard. And within six hours,

over 160 million people were offline. No internet. No gas pumps. No cell towers. The ATM machines. No explanations. just silence and dark. The official story when it finally came was that a solar storm had overloaded vulnerable lines.

But anybody who was paying any attention knew better because solar flares don't skip states. They don't avoid high-ranking neighborhoods. They don't knock out a rural substation while leaving military bases untouched. It wasn't natural. This was surgical. I was awake when it happened. I just knew something was off. It was like a change in air pressure that you can't quite place.

I opened the front door and I just listened. It was weird. No birds. No insects. No breeze. Just stillness. Then in the distance, I saw it. The entire eastern sky dimmed.

Like someone had drawn a curtain across it. Within five minutes, the last light in my town just flickered out. And the next 12 hours were biblical. Cars stalled on the highway. Hospitals lost backup generators. Nursing homes began evacuations. They couldn't finish. And in the cities, it started.

The fires, the looting, the gunfire. Not random, not chaotic, targeted. Video made it out of Philadelphia showed six men with masks and radios moving in unisonly. They went block by block, taking out substations, cutting phone lines, setting controlled burns. They weren't protesters. They weren't looters. They were professionals. And they weren't alone because other videos followed.

Explosions under bridges in St. Louis, a trained arraignment in Ohio. no passengers, just fuel, a lot of treatment plant offline in Jacksonville, and then the digital blackout. No texts, no news, no ham radio, just static. Whatever it was, it wasn't just an attack, it was a shutdown. Don't you wish you could just hit skip on the worst parts of your life? You know, the same way you can skip an ad? I get it. I'm Siaya and I live in Ice Cove.

made some questionable decisions that didn't end up the way I planned. And today, I'm still figuring it out. Somehow, things usually get worse before they get better. Apparently, that's how I roll. So bundle up and come along for the bumpy ride. Stream a new episode of North of North Tuesdays on CBC Gem. Here's a question that I want you to ask yourself. If someone in your family got sick tomorrow or there was a medication shortage or a natural disaster and it kept you from getting a doctor for a few days, what do you actually have that you need? These are real possibilities now. That's just one of the reasons I like Jace. They don't just tell you to be prepared.

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Everybody had seen it. None of us spoke right away because we all knew what we were thinking. This isn't colloquial. Now this is conquest. Somewhere out there, something had decided that now, now was the time. It was the right time that we were weak enough, divided enough, afraid enough. And the grid had to be just the first domino. By day two, the streets were empty.

Not because people were hiding, but because they were moving. Families were packing up into pickups, convoys heading south, groups headed for rooms, headed for rumored stable zones. Where are you going to get the gas? I asked one man where he was going, he just said, West. I hear the Chinese still have power out there. Yeah, I'd heard that too.

The West had power, yes, but at what price? Entire blocks of California now operated on rationed electricity under joint administrative oversight. That meant one hour of light per night, in exchange, in exchange for total surveillance, food registration, and biometric access protocols. Yeah, the light stayed on, but so did the cameras. Back east, darkness became kind of a religion. People change when the sun goes down.

Windows boarded, gates locked, whispers carried further. I watched my neighbor sit on his porch rifle in his lap, staring at the stars. Like, maybe the star is going to give him an answer. There was one night, day six, I think. When I swear I saw figures moving down the road with no flashlights, just shapes. Silent, disciplined. They didn't approach. They didn't look around.

They just passed. Like they knew exactly where they were going. And that's when I started seeing the markers. There were spray-painted symbols near mailboxes and road signs and power poles. Some of them in era. some in Latin. Some symbols I didn't even recognize at all. I didn't know what they meant.

There were designations, codes, zones of control, not claimed by governments, but by operators. One day I found one on the back of my barn. There were three concentric circles with a cross through the center. I scrubbed it off. I didn't know what it meant. I put a camera above the door. I didn't sleep for two days.

The old farmer, two properties down. He wasn't so lucky. He refused to leave. He said he had God guns and grain. By day nine, we found him tied to a tree. The barn had been looted. The words, resource compliant now, spray painted on the siding. Like I said, the worst part wasn't the violence. It was the quiet.

No planes, no TV, no sports, no. No distraction, just you, yourself, your thoughts. And the growing knowledge that no one's coming. People broke. Some slowly, some fast. A man in our town walked into a pond with rocks in his pockets. Another woman lit her own house on fire and then locked herself inside. There was no reasoning just to look in their eyes like whatever had tethered them to the world had finally just snapped.

And then some found real clarity. The Mennonite community just outside of town, I think they did better than anybody else, because they never really depended on the grid to begin with. They still had water. They still baked bread. They still sang. They still believed. I asked their elder how they were handling the chaos, he said.

It's not chaos. It's the end of a spell. The end of a spell. That line haunted me. The end of a spell. Maybe that's what modernity was. Maybe it wasn't progress, not enlightenment. Just a very elaborate illusion.

And now that the lights were out, we were finally seeing things for what they really were. There was one place still broadcasting. It was a pirate tower out of Tennessee, low frequency battery powered. A voice came on every night around midnight, same man as before, steady, calm, grave. The grid was our leash, he said. Now that it's gone, you'll see who is trained and who was waiting. He talked about old systems, untraceable courier networks, analog communication relays,

communications without debt or dependence. He said, The ones who will survive are the ones who don't need the map to find their way home. He also talked about power, not... Just electricity, but influence. He said AI was still active, still rerouting resources, still prioritizing users. Bring to Washington, he said. And maybe it never was.

That night I sat by the dwindling candlelight. I tried to remember a world where you didn't need light to feel safe. I couldn't. By day 11, the sky turned orange. was fires in all directions. No response, no warnings, just smoke. And somewhere beyond it, movement. A friend from North Carolina called me on a landline rigged through a satellite dish.

He said the blue helmets had set up a relief checkpoint on I-85. But anybody who entered? Wasn't seen again. No proof, no photos, just whispers. and a new phrase on the road. No help is coming. My wife stopped praying out loud. A lot of times she just sat, Bible in hand, eyes closed,

mouthing words I couldn't hear. I think she was talking to someone, but I don't know if it was God at this point. Might have been God, it might have been someone else. That same night I saw Flair go up over the woods. Red, then green. Then gone. Do what it meant.

Three days later, the house next to mine was empty. No sign of struggle, no note. Just gone. We still had our little group, four families, tight. We cooked by fire. We took shifts. We traded what we could. One man tried to bring a radio into camp.

It played one sound. A heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Never ending. He threw it in the creek the next day. He said it wasn't a sound. signal, it was a warning. I went into town on day 13. Nobody spoke. The few shops still open

had no prices, just exchanges. One man wanted silver, another wanted ammo. One woman said she was trading stories, true ones only, in exchange for honey. I told her the truth, that the lights were never going to come back, that the grid wasn't broken. It had been handed over. She gave me a small jar, told me to bury it in the east corner of my garden, said if I ever needed to start over, it'd helped me find the beginning again. I didn't ask what she meant because I wasn't sure I wanted to know. That night I listened to the fire crackle. Held my daughter while she slept, and I whispered a prayer that I hadn't spoken since I was a boy. Not because I believed, but because in the dark, I just needed somebody to hear me.

The grid didn't just power a country. It powered a delusion that we were in control, that we were safe, that someone was watching over us. But the lights were gone now, and the watchers, they weren't ours anymore. Don't you wish you could just hit skip on the worst parts of your life? You know, the same way you can skip an ad? I get it. I'm Siaia and I live in Ice Cove. I've made some questionable decisions that didn't end up the way I planned.

And today, I'm still figuring it out. Somehow things usually get worse before they get better. Apparently, that's how I roll. So bundle up and come along for the bumpy ride. Stream a new episode of North of North Tuesdays on CBC Gem. Like what you're hearing so far and you don't want to wait until next week for more, Torch Insiders have access to all 10 episodes of Day. of Ash right now commercial free. Go to glenbeck.com slash torch and unlock the full experience today.

The days of ash. Episode 6, the sanctuary. After the fires, after the grid fell, after the last bit of news dissolved into rumor and code, something strange happened. We started to plant again. Not because we believe the world would return, but because deep down, I think maybe we knew it would, We couldn't. We weren't rebuilding. We were replacing. It all began with a well, an old hand pump behind the church. It was rusted, but it wasn't ruined.

We cleaned it out, we patched the seal, and by the second day, cold water came up like a secret. The next morning a woman we didn't know showed up with five kids in a Bible. She asked, Do you have any room? We didn't, but we made it anyway. We called it sanctuary. and didn't have a sign, didn't have any rules, no map, just a feeling that beyond these woods, beyond this field, was a different kind of country.

Not one governed by a law or flag, but by covenant. Not the kind you sign, the kind you live. It wasn't perfect, we still argued, we rationed, we lost sleep, we buried a man who drank antifreeze thinking it was stored alcohol. But every morning the sun came up. It was already by the fire boiling water for the next meal. And it felt like something worth keeping. The church wasn't really a church anymore.

It was a hall. It was a pantry. It was a watchtower. By day we stored tools and sorted seeds. By night we prayed. Not formally. Not the way we used to. No pews, no sermons, no guilt.

just listening. Sometimes I think God spoke back. But other times, I think he was still speaking. He just let the silence speak for him. But either way, we stayed. There were 27 of us now. Eight families, one dog, no phones, no passwords. Everything was face-to-face.

Everything was earned. A man named Harris took watch at the North Trail. He was an ex-marine. He was quiet. His hands like stone. He had seen the camps forming near the highway. Refugee zones, he said. Organized. Barb wire, lists. And nobody leaves without approval. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. I met an old woman by the river. She said her name was Clara. She was carrying a bundle of dried herbs and a small wooden cross carved with a year 1912. My great-grandfather carved it during the dust bowl, she said. Said we'd need it again someday. She went wrong. In sanctuary, nobody used the words America or collapse.

We just spoke in seasons and shifts. We didn't say we were losing. We said we were becoming. It made the fear easier to hold, I guess. But every paradise hides a gate. and every gate has a watcher. Ours was Thomas. He was 35, former youth pastor,

carried a Bible and a scoped rifle. He kept the peace. But I could see the lines forming in his theology. God is separating the wheat from the chaff, he'd say. We're the remnant. He meant well. His eyes were sharp, but not kind. One night a Muslim family came through,

mother, father, two daughters. exhausted, starving. They said they fled from a UN checkpoint that had turned into a conscription site. They said they had no weapons, no affiliations, only questions. Thomas said we should turn them away. They're part of that machine that broke us, he muttered.

Let him answer to their own God. But Clara, old Clara with her 1912 cross, she stood between them and the door. She said, if you want to judge him, judge him after we've all eaten. They stayed. Thomas didn't really speak to us for two days after that. And I think that was the first time I felt it,

the sense that something deeper was rising underneath us. Not politics, not ideology, but a spiritual weather pattern. It's as if the ground itself was deciding who belonged and who didn't. One of the kids had a seizure two nights later. No medication. No plan. Just convulsions under a tarp while his mother screamed. Clara rubbed his feet with herbs. I prayed with my hands shaking. It passed. The boy didn't speak, however, for a week.

After that, nobody questioned Clara again. The cost of groceries is insane right now. And if you're putting those groceries on a high interest credit card because the monthly budget is already stretched, there's another problem. You may end up paying that ridiculous price twice. Once at the register and then again in interest. If you're a homeowner carrying high interest credit card debt, talk to American financing and do it before September because I think they're going to go up.

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It was rocks and ash arranged near the edge of the property. It was a place for decisions, for silence, for agreement. No talking, unless seated. No weapons allowed inside the ring. No lying. And not because we punished it, but because in the ring it just felt wrong when you did. We met there every three nights. To plan, to account, to confess.

Not sin, but truth. What we saw, what we feared, what we knew. I spoke about the flares I had seen in the woods, green, then red, then blue, pattern, timed, deliberate. Clara said they were signals, not for us, but for those who still follow the old maps, she said. I didn't ask what she meant, but I started sleeping with my rifle a little closer to me and my family. One man brought news from the outside. He said blue helmets had established a reintegration hub in Ohio. They promised food and medicine and shelter, but you had to turn in all your weapons and wear a tracker.

Submit to a baseline psychological evaluation every 72 hours. He said the AI ran the screenings, said it could detect intent through word patterns and facial twitching. If it flagged you, you vanished. No trial, no hearing, just transferred. To where? Nobody knew. That same man had a tooth infection. He begged us for antibiotics, but we didn't have any.

So he took a knife, he sterilized it in the fire, and cut the abscess out himself. The guy was amazing, he didn't scream once. He stayed with us for a week. Then he left. Said he was heading to the hills where no light showed, no footsteps echoed. I think he just wanted to disappear before the world finished, doing it for him. Faith was different now.

For those with real belief, humble, quiet, rooted, they were rock solid. They grieved, yes, but they didn't break. They didn't see this as a punishment, but more of a revelation, not as an end, but a turning point that would be good in the end. But the religious, some of those guys went really dark. Not just the Islamist, not a Christian fundamentalist, not just the zealots in the mountains or the radicals in the cities, but all of them. The ones who needed certainty, who needed blame, who needed a sword more than a cross, they were forming groups, bands, councils, and not for ministry, but for judgment.

Reports came in from Missouri, a doctrine guard patrolling rural roads, questioning strangers about their faith. In Idaho, a commune calling itself the sons of Elijah burned three cabins they claimed were houses of doubt. Even in sanctuary, we felt it. That pull to purify, to separate, to divide. Thomas began preaching again. Not every night, but often enough. God doesn't make peace with Babylon, he said.

Neither should we. I pulled him aside one night. I told him, this place was, Built on faith, yes, but it was also built on mercy. He didn't argue. He just smiled. And I think that scared me more than any argument or any threat could. Then there were whispers of darker things.

Villages with no time, no clocks, where people walked in silence and bowed to a man who never showed his face. A woman with black robes who wandered through towns offering visions in exchange for a drop of blood. places where the air tasted like metal and the animals refused to enter. People said the old gods had returned. I didn't believe it. I mean, not exactly. But I didn't want to walk alone anymore either. Clara told me one night that we weren't just surviving.

We were being watched. And watched by something older than nations, something that remembered every broken vow, every forgotten child, every altar torn down for convenience. The line, she said, between heaven and earth, just got thinner. Now everything's closer. I asked her what she meant, she said, Good is awake again.

But so is the dark. Sanctuary held, for now. But we could all feel it. The tension outside the tree line, the eyes in the brush, the questions circling inside every conversation how long, how many, what happens and they find us, what happens when they do. One night, the girl from the Muslim family, Amina, left a note on my doorstep. It was a single verse from Isaiah, come, my people, enter your chambers, shut your doors behind you, hide yourself for a little while, until the fury has passed by. She didn't say where she got it

She didn't need to I folded it and put it in my coat I look at it every day I haven't removed it since We weren't waiting for rescue anymore We were waiting For that weather pattern We were waiting for the sky to change

And when it did We were determined We would be ready Just a reminder I'd love you to rate and subscribe to the podcast and pass this on to a friend so it can be discovered by other people.