by Steph Post
Slim Jim stared at the body. As with Jack’s, it didn’t appear to be moving. He ran his hand down his face and saw that the three other men were looking to him, waiting for orders. This attack had been his idea. And now Jack O’ Lantern was dead. Slim Jim knew that if they could make it out of there alive, he’d be sewing the president patch on his vest front that evening. He looked down at the empty rifles at their feet and then to the blood soaking through Tiny’s bandaged arm. He met Legs’ eyes and Legs gave the faintest of nods. Slim Jim took a deep breath.
“All right, we bail.”
Ratface jumped in front of him.
“What? Are you kidding? We come out here. Jack and Toadie get snuffed and we don’t even know if we got Tulah or Sherwood. I say we at least clear the church.”
Slim Jim hit Ratface in the chest.
“Think, prospect! We don’t know what’s in there. We do know that those two in the woods are probably gonna start shooting at us again any minute. You want to die today?”
“Better than living like a punk the rest of my time. We ain’t even leaving with the money.”
Legs jumped in-between Ratface and Slim Jim.
“You better stand down, boy. We ain’t even know if the money’s in there. And you ain’t even a Scorpion yet, so you just shut that flapping hole in your face if you want to hang on to all of your teeth. He gives you an order, you follow it. Understood?”
Tiny started to slip down the front of the church as his legs gave out beneath him. Legs threw Tiny’s good arm over his shoulder and wrapped his arm around his waist. Slim Jim took a good look around them and then pointed to Ratface’s motorcycle parked in front of the church.
“Take your bike and maybe you can draw their fire. We’ll carry Tiny through the woods that way and meet up with you at our bikes down the highway. Got it?”
Slim Jim waved Ratface toward the motorcycle and then he and Legs started running toward the woods on the other side of the church, half carrying and half dragging Tiny between them. Ratface gauged the distance to his motorcycle and ran for it. He was waiting for a bullet in his back, but he was clear. He made it to his bike and turned the key as he slung his leg over the seat. Ratface kick-started the throttle and looked back at the church. He snapped open his saddlebag and pulled out the forty ounce beer bottle he always carried just in case. Ratface spun off the screw top lid and stuffed what was left of his undershirt down into the gasoline. He yanked his lighter out of his jeans and lit the end of the fabric. The motorcycle engine purred and as he kicked the bike forward, he reared back his arm and launched the bottle through one of the painted church windows. He shifted the bike into gear and sped off, not bothering to look back.
FELTON CAUTIOUSLY raised his head in the stillness following the second bout of gunshots. He stayed down between Tulah’s desk and the wall, his round knees pulled uncomfortably up to his chest and his back hunched over, listening to the silence. He had no idea what was going on. Two people had run past the open office doorway after the shooting started, but he hadn’t recognized either one of them. The man had held his gaze for a second as he passed and Felton had been struck by the complete lack of fear in the man’s eyes. He had been determined, focused, but not afraid. It was the exact opposite of the feeling swirling around inside of Felton. He was terrified and confused and ashamed. He wished he had stayed in his camper and cleaned out the turtle tank.
Even though he had divulged to Sister Tulah everything he knew about Sherwood Cannon, he still had not been allowed back into the house. He had shown up on the doorstep Friday night with his cardboard box of clothes only to find the porch light off and the front door locked. His continual ringing of the doorbell had eventually brought Tulah’s distorted face to the oval glass window in the door, but she had refused to open it. He had shouted through the heavy wood that she had promised and she had coldly replied that she was still thinking about it. He had returned to his reptiles with his head down and a heavy lump in his throat.
He had been heading up to the church to wax the stage for Sunday service when he saw the pickup truck parked in the lot. He recognized Sherwood Cannon’s truck from the salvage yard and realized that he must be inside the church, making a deal with Sister Tulah. His instincts told him to turn back around. He knew that Sister Tulah would be furious with him if she knew he had entered the church during one of her business deals, but that slow nagging burn, that itch of confidence that had been expanding inside of him like a rolling weather front, grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t let go. He had quietly gone through the back door of the church with the intent of eavesdropping.
Felton had ducked into the office for a moment to calm his nerves when he heard the first shots fired. He had never heard live gunfire before, but there was no mistaking the sharp cracks and Felton had dropped to the floor and wedged himself next to the wall. Tears had streamed down his face as he buried his head in his knees and he felt the space around the seat of his pants turn wet and warm.
The silence had seemed enormous in the wake of the first barrage of shooting and Felton thought the worst must be over. He gripped the edge of the desk and began to pull himself up when he heard more shots and sank back down and covered his head again. It turned quiet for a minute and then there was more shooting and shouts from outside the church and Felton wondered if the pattern would ever cease. For a moment, he had felt that it would never end, that he would be trapped in this tiny space forever, with his sticky face and soaked pants and he thought maybe this was what Hell was like. Maybe he was already there.
Then he heard the scream. Felton had heard Sister Tulah shout. He had heard her bellow and roar, and even screech in the embrace of the Holy Ghost, but never had he heard this sound. A shrill, girlish wail indicative of unending physical pain. There was no pause for air, no gasping for breath, just a long, endless howl and Felton was halfway down the hallway before he even realized he had left the floor. He tumbled through the door to the sanctuary and was assailed by pandemonium on all sides.
He first heard the sound of smashing glass and then a whoosh of heat as the front part of the church was engulfed in flames. The wooden pews became burning alters and the waves of fire began to lick up the walls and travel toward the back of the church. Then, Felton heard the thump of a skull being driven into the floor and he turned to see Sherwood on top of Tulah with his hands around her throat. Tulah’s face was covered with a skein of thick red and clear liquid and her fingers clawed weakly at the front of Sherwood’s shirt while the thick hands around her throat continued to squeeze the life out of her. Sherwood was so consumed with Sister Tulah that he didn’t even register Felton’s presence.
Felton jumped onto the stage, but didn’t touch Sherwood. He lurched around them and grasped the large wooden crucifix that had hung on the back wall of the church since before Felton could remember. The agonized face of Jesus Christ that had so disturbed Felton as a child had been obliterated by bullets, but the cross was still in one piece. He lifted it from the iron hook holding it to the wall and gripped it firmly with both hands. He didn’t allow himself to think. He whirled around and swung as hard as he could. The sound was sickening and Sherwood toppled over, the side of his head caved in and replaced by a bloody and pulpy mass that slid onto the floor when his face touched the wooden stage. Felton looked away.
He turned his attention to Sister Tulah. She was still lying supine on the floor, but had begun flailing around like a tortoise marooned on its back. She put her hand near her face, but didn’t touch the mess oozing down her cheek. Sister Tulah reached up blindly for Felton and he grasped her hand.
“Get me out of here, for God’s sake.”
Felton strained to pull Sister Tulah to her feet. The fire was getting closer and the heat was beginning to blister the exposed skin on his hands and face. Tulah leaned heavily on Felton as he tried to help her get her feet under her, and then started to reel toward the door. Felton didn’t move. Tulah struggled not to slide to the floor aga
in and turned on her nephew.
“What is wrong with you?”
Felton looked Tulah square in the single pale, burning eye that remained. He dug his nails into her fleshy shoulder and made sure that she was looking only at him.
“You need to remember this day, Aunt Tulah. You need to remember this moment.”
JUDAH LOOKED over at Ramey, crouched down behind a tree a few feet away. He had seen one of the Scorpions go down from one of Ramey’s bullets as the man had run across the highway and he figured that the remaining Scorpions must be either out of ammunition or trying to figure out what to do. Regardless of the reason, they had stopped firing back and Judah decided that they needed to take the chance. He caught Ramey’s eye and nodded toward the highway. The Bronco was visible through the trees.
“Let’s go for it.”
“I’m outta ammo.”
“I am, too. But we gotta go.”
He stuck the empty gun in his belt and grabbed Ramey’s hand as he ran past her. He made straight for the Bronco, dragging Ramey with him and not looking around for the Scorpions. They were halfway across the highway when he heard a motorcycle engine rev and then the simultaneous shatter of glass and roar of flames. Judah stumbled to a halt and let go of Ramey’s hand as he watched the front part of the church burst into flames.
Judah was dazed for a moment, as he realized the magnitude of what had just happened, but then he came to his senses and ran toward the church, its front now ablaze, the fire roaring and popping, engulfing the dry, rotting wood. Judah made it to within ten feet of the church before he slammed into the wall of heat and had to turn away, the smoke stinging his eyes and the blaze inflaming his skin. He took a few steps backwards, ducking his head and coughing into his shirt, and when Judah raised his tearing eyes he met those of Ramey, standing frozen in front of the Bronco. She was watching him, not the church, and he suddenly remembered how had told her that everything was going to change.
Judah slowly turned around. There was no screaming, no wails of terror, only sparking and crackling as the flames rose higher into the white summer sky. As the roof caught and whips of fire began to race toward the back of the church, Judah did not think of Sherwood. He did not think of Sister Tulah or the Scorpions or Benji. He thought of nothing until Ramey’s hand slipped into his. They stood before the church, watching it burn, and Judah knew that he had been right.
“Well then. I think it’s time we headed over to Hiram’s to dig up our money. Before he changes his mind and spends it on a damn rocket launcher.”
The smell of wet, charred wood was overpowering, and yet still they came. The back part of the church was still standing, though blackened, but the front and side walls had been brought down and the entire roof had collapsed. The rows of benches were now mostly heaps of singed, broken wood and there was a dusting of ash over everything, but still the congregation stood at attention among the debris, their long knit dresses and pressed slacks streaked with gray. There was no clapping, no singing of hymns, no dancing or convulsing among the powdery mounds of rubble. Children whispered as they toed the black lengths of wood, still warm in the center, and scavenging crows cawed hauntingly overhead, but even the birds became silent when Sister Tulah appeared and began to speak.
“I look around this morning and I see nothing but the faithful. I know you have all been sinners at times. Backslidden. Rebellious. Licentious. But you stand now before me, before God, at our church’s darkest hour, to declare to Satan that he cannot touch us. The righteous, the true believers, the doggedly faithful. We will prevail.”
Sister Tulah stood in the center of the crumbling stage, the pulpit in pieces at her feet, the imposing cross from the back wall absent. She did not pace, she did not carry her Bible, she did not wave her arms about and shout. Brother Felton stood near her now, off to the side, but still on what was left of the stage, and the followers noticed the change. They tried not to stare at the white hospital gauze, stained with seeping yellow, packed and taped over Tulah’s left eye.
“Brothers and sisters, do you recall the Book of Matthew, chapter five? Lots of rules in that chapter. Lots of promises. The meek inheriting the earth and the merciful obtaining mercy and so on and so forth. God speaking through Christ. Instructing his followers on the mountain.”
A few of the adults in the congregation nodded. A baby wailed once, high and thin, before her mother could shush her and coo her back to sleep. Sister Tulah continued.
“I have to tell you, I woke up in a dark place this morning. My church reduced to ashes, my body maimed, my spirit broken. Yesterday I stood right here, right where I am standing now, and tried to illuminate God’s glorious plan to one of my followers. He was one of you, yes, lost and seeking guidance. Begging for the Lord’s forgiveness with tears washing his face. He told me he was the salt of the earth, good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled by other, more righteous, men. But I told him, no. He was the light of the world, as all true followers of God are.”
Several amens filled the pause as Tulah caught her breath and peered out at the congregation, singling out members and letting her one pale, yet still burning, eye rest upon their faces and burrow into their souls. Sister Tulah shook her head sadly.
“But in my rectitude and goodwill I was deceived. This man was no repenting soul, but an instrument of evil and he lashed out upon me with the intent to destroy me. I was ready to give myself to God, ready to ascend to my heavenly home, to assume my place at the feet of Christ, when God saw fit to intervene and perform a miracle before my very eyes. Just when I thought that the end was near, that my time was at hand, my assailant burst into flames, right here in this very room.”
The congregation gasped and Sister Tulah’s voice continued to rise.
“The Lord took his flaming sword in hand and smote that man to protect me. He rewarded my faith and my obedience by saving my life and condemned that wicked man, not only to a gruesome and agonizing death on Earth, but to everlasting torment in the fires of Hell.”
A hallelujah flew through the air and now several hands were raised upwards toward the sky. A woman standing in the makeshift row closest to Tulah had tears shining in her eyes.
“So I awoke this morning in despair. Of my person, of my church, of the loss of one I thought to be a true believer. The loss of a soul now permanently writhing in the deepest regions of Hell. And then I remembered Mathew. And I remembered what Jesus said about sin. He said, If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you. And he said, If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you; for it is more profitable for you that one of your members perish, than for your whole body to be cast into Hell.”
Sister Tulah’s single eye blazed and her body trembled. She clasped her hands to her chest and bowed her head.
“Remember that, brothers and sisters. Remember that, and let us pray.”
About the Author
Steph Post is the author of the novels Lightwood and A Tree Born Crooked. She is a recipient of the Patricia Cornwell Scholarship for creative writing from Davidson College and the Vereen Bell writing award. Her fiction has appeared in the anthology Stephen King’s Contemporary Classics and many other literary outlets. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and was a finalist for The Big Moose Prize. She lives in St. Petersburg, Florida. Visit her online at stephpostauthor.blogspot.com or follow her at @StephPostAuthor.
Acknowledgments
This book would not exist without Ryan Holt. Thank you for the absolute, relentless and unwavering belief in me and my work. From dive bar brainstorming sessions to reading drafts to seeing the final copy in print: you were there every step of the way.
Thank you to Janet Sokolay for so much love and support. And for being an honest, encouraging first reader, as always.
Many thanks to my agent, Jeff Ourvan, for championing Lightwood and to Jason Pinter at Polis Books for making it a reality. Thank you for believing in both me and the story.
I’m raising a glass to you all. Here’s to you, and to many more books to come.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Steph Post
Cover and jacket design by Georgia Morrissey
Interior design and formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
ISBN 978-1-943818-52-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016952315
First hardcover edition January 2017 by Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street, #211S
Hoboken, NJ 07030
www.PolisBooks.com
