Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  “Damn Satanists!” he said.

  “We’re not Satanists,” Cole said wearily, wondering if the entire country had gone crazy. “We’re just ordinary people trying to get back home”

  “The Mark of the Beast is on you! Brother Hiram said your kind would be along.”

  “Who in the hell is Brother Hiram?” Katti asked, walking up.

  “Whore!” the man yelled at her.

  Cole lifted one boot and brought it down on the mans throat. “Partner,” he said. “You watch your mouth or I’ll shove your throat out the back of your neck.” He applied some pressure and the man’s eyes bugged out as he started gasping for breath. “When I take my foot off, you answer my questions and you do it in a civil manner. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded his head affirmatively, as much as Cole’s boot would allow, that is.

  Cole lifted his boot, and the man coughed several times and took several deep breaths.

  “I repeat,” Cole said, “we are not Satanists. We are just citizens trying to get back to what, if anything, is left of our homes. Now, who is this Brother Hiram?”

  “Brother Hiram is the leader, a colonel, actually, of the CCM.”

  Cole sighed. “What is the CCM?”

  “Cumberland Christian Militia.”

  “Wonderful,” Cole muttered. “Are you affiliated with Ely Worthingham?”

  “He is our spiritual leader. General Worthingham is the commander of all Christian Militias in the state.”

  “He isn’t the commander of Col. Bob Robbins’ outfit,” Jim said.

  “Robbins is not a true believer. He is a traitor to the Christian faith.”

  Cole shook his head. “Watch him, Jim. I want to collect all these weapons and then we’ll get the hell gone from here.”

  “You are either for us or against us!” the CCM man shouted. “There is no in-between.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Cole muttered, walking away. “But it can’t last. It just can’t go on and on.”

  “It’ll go on long enough to cause a lot of people a lot of grief,” Hank said, walking up in time to hear Cole’s last remark. “The lines are being drawn tighter and tighter.” His own rifle was slung, and he was carrying a Mini-14 and a AR-15. “I was monitoring shortwave just before we hit this road block. Some of these off-the-wall groups are calling for an all-out revolution against the government. And many of these radio preachers are fanning the flames.” He held up the captured weapons. “What do you want to do with these?”

  “Keep them. And all the ammo they have. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  The majority of church-going people in America did not agree with the philosophy or tactics of Ely and the many other ultra-hard right-wing groups (all acting in the name of God, of course). But those in disagreement were not as well armed or nearly as well organized . . . but especially not well organized. Bob Robbins had been correct when he said the hard right wing of the various religious groups had been planning this for years. They were ready to act, whereas the majority of other Americans were caught flat-footed and totally unprepared.

  * * *

  Gary and Sue transferred all their gear from his radiator-ruined pickup to a brand new 4 x 4 extended cab pickup truck that had belonged to one of the Believers. The Believer would no longer need it: one of Gary’s Fire-Frag grenades had exploded by his left foot. Thirty minutes after putting the now torn-down roadblock behind them, Jim, who had taken the point, reported gunfire.

  “What’s up?” Cole radioed.

  “I’m going to check it out,” Jim replied. “Pull over and stay alert.”

  Since leaving the mountains, the group had been slowly winding their way west, staying on a series of secondary roads, and off the main highways. The main roads, according to radio reports, were very dangerous to travel.

  “Looks like about twenty or so men have some people trapped in the woods,” Jim radioed. “They’ve got them pinned down in a small country cemetery. Bring the group up here.”

  The group, Cole knew, was himself, Gary, Bev, and Hank.

  Making his way to Jim’s side, Cole bellied down and studied the situation through binoculars. “Have you got this thing figured out yet?” he asked.

  “Negative. The only thing I know for sure is the men surrounding the cemetery all have white armbands.” He pointed to a gravel road. “I think those vehicles belong to the people trapped amid the tombstones. Two vans and a pickup truck.”

  “Hey!” the man’s voice leaped out of the tiny cemetery. “What’s the matter with you crazy people? Stop shooting at us. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Filthy godless hippies!” a voice from the Believer side cut the fall air. “Satanists!”

  “We’re not Satanists, you idiot!” the man trapped in the cemetery shouted. “Is that you, John Burnside? It is you, isn’t it? Man, you’ve known me for twenty years. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I know you don’t attend church, Gene Rockland. You nor any of your godless followers. You were warned about that. Now you have to pay the price for your sins.”

  “Godless hippies,” Cole said. “Do tell.” He smiled. “Which side do you suppose we should take, Jim?”

  Jim grinned. “Do you have to ask?”

  “I cast my vote for the hippies,” Bev said. “Reluctantly.”

  “Me, too,” Gary said.

  “That makes three of us,” Hank said.

  “It makes it unanimous” Cole said. “Let’s blow a hole in the east side of the line. Those so-called Godless hippies can make a break through the timber by the gravel road. You folks ready?”

  The group nodded.

  “You people down there!” Cole yelled. “Hold your fire. Let those trapped in the cemetery leave peacefully.”

  “Stay out of this,” the Believer yelled. “Or know the wrath of God.”

  Cole lifted his M-14 and blew a twenty-round clip in the direction of the voice. “Don’t try my patience,” Cole yelled, breaking the shocked silence after the clip had emptied. “Now let those people go or die where you are. The choice is yours.”

  “We’re not afraid of one man!” the Believer shouted.

  The group on the ridge opened up, the lead whining and howling and singing all around the attackers.

  “Run!” a Believer shouted. “It’s Satan’s army.”

  “Good grief, Charlie Brown,” Hank said. He had left his 7 mm-mag rifle and was using one of the AR-15s taken from the dead and wounded at the roadblock. “Now we’re Satan’s army.”

  The Believers reached their vehicles, parked on the narrow shoulder of the county road, and cranked up and drove away, the rear tires slinging rocks and dust in their haste to get away from the devil’s army.

  “All right, folks,” Cole yelled. “Come on out. But you’d better be who you say you are. If you’re not, stay in that cemetery. For that’s where you’ll spend eternity.”

  “Easy, friend,” a man said, standing up from behind a tombstone, his hands in the air. “We’re friendly. And totally confused.”

  “And in bad need of a haircut, too,” Bev muttered. Ponytailed men had never been a turn-on for her. Growing up in a military family more than likely had something to do with her feelings.

  There were three men and three women, no kids. All six of them appeared to be in their mid- to late forties.

  “I’m Gene Rockland,” the man who had first stood up said, upon reaching the crest of the ridge, a woman by his side. “And this is my wife, Tina.”

  “At least he didn’t refer to her as his old lady,” Bev muttered.

  “Now, dear,” Hank said.

  “The guy built like a fireplug coming up behind us is Harry Slayden and his wife, Cassy. Bringing up the rear is Chad Prescott and his wife, Jackie. And you folks are . . . ?”

  “Let’s get back to the road,” Cole said. “I’ll feel safer. Then we’ll talk some.”

  Jim lifted his walkie-talkie.
“Ruth, bring the convoy up to the gravel road. It’s about an eighth of a mile on your right.”

  Gene took in all the guns and lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. The gesture was not wasted on Cole. Gene walked along with Cole. “You an ex-GI?” Cole asked.

  “I was in Nam. Two tours. So were Harry and Chad. Jackie was a nurse over there in a field hospital.”

  “No kids?”

  “Raised up and gone. I don’t know if they’re all right, or not. Same with the others. All the chicks left the nest when they turned eighteen. Last one flew the coop two years ago. Going to college up in Michigan. She’s working a full-time job, so she didn’t come home this summer.”

  At the road, introductions were made. Cole asked, “Who is this John Burnside I heard you mention?”

  “A man I’ve known for more than twenty years. I thought we were friends. But he’s been acting weird for about a year now. Ever since he joined the Temple of the Apocrypha.”

  “Now it’s beginning to make a little sense,” Hank said.

  “What do you mean, Hank?” Katti asked.

  “The Apocrypha. Some call them the forbidden books of the Bible. When they are printed, they’re usually printed between the Old and the New Testaments. They make for, well, interesting reading. Those that believe in them say the writers, or chroniclers, were divinely inspired. Most theologians dismiss that. But any church or temple, if you will, that might be all or even in part based on those books, would be, well, brutal, sadistic, and . . . relentless in hunting down those who did not believe as they do. Apocrypha means secret or hidden. As no doubt the true message preached in these modern-day Temples of the Apocrypha was, for no telling how many years. All building up to play some part in this. this . . . idiocy.”

  “You’ve read these books?” Bev asked him.

  “Oh, many times.”

  Cole turned to Gene. “You folks want to join our little convoy? We’re heading first to Nashville, then to Memphis, and then . . .” He shrugged. “We just might head back to the mountains.”

  Tina tugged at her husband’s shirtsleeve. “We’re not safe here anymore, Dads.”

  “For a fact,” Gene agreed. He faced Cole. “Can you folks give us an hour to pack some gear?”

  “Sure. We’ll follow you home and that’ll give us time to stretch our legs and maybe grab a bite to eat.”

  “Let’s go then. I’ve got a hunch that John is going to come back, with reinforcements.”

  * * *

  “This is a commune,” Ruth said, getting out of the truck and staring at the cluster of buildings.

  “It used to be,” Harry Slayden told her. “Twenty-odd years ago. Right after the three of us came back from Nam, we hooked up with some other vets and their wives and girlfriends and built this place. Now, we’re the only ones left.”

  “Your homes probably won’t be here when you get back,” Cole told the three couples.

  “Yes,” Cassy said. “We know. We talked about that a few hours ago. There are some people around this area who still hate us, after all the years we’ve lived and worked here. Even after twenty-five years, they hate us.”

  “Do they have reason?” Bev asked, a slight chill in her voice.

  “Not really,” Chad said, putting two suitcases in the back of a van. He paused for a moment, before heading back into the house for another load. “Oh, when we first got here, we grew a little grass, for our own consumption. But we never attempted to sell any of it. Then the kids started coming along and we quit all that. We worked hard, paid our taxes, and minded our own business. But there were still a few townspeople who despised us ... our way of life, I guess. The sheriffs department and the state police used to come out here and hassle us from time to time. But they quit that years ago. The last three or four times they came out, we’d just sit and have coffee or iced tea and talk.”

  He and Cassy went back into their home for one more load. Gene walked out, carrying two guns, a rifle and a shotgun. Cassy was with him, carrying a box. She smiled. “Pictures of the kids,” she said, putting the box into the back of their van. “Everything else can be replaced. But not these.”

  That did it for Bev, the last remaining ice melting. “I’ll help you,” she told the woman.

  When the last item had been loaded, Gene turned and said, “Take a good look, people,” he told his friends. “A couple of hours from now it will be burning.” He shook his head. “You all heard what John said back there at the old cemetery. He swore he’d burn us out.”

  “We can start over, Dads,” Tina told him. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  Don’t be too sure of that, Hank thought. But kept his musings to himself.

  “I’m a peaceful man,” Gene said. “And for almost twenty-five years, I’ve lived a peaceful life. But if I ever get John Burnside in gunsights, I swear I’ll shoot that bastard.”

  “You’ll have to get in front of me to do it,” Jackie Prescott said.

  Cole walked to Gary’s pickup truck and untied the tarp. He took out three Mini-14s and gestured to Gene, Harry, and Chad. “Take these. And half a dozen magazines. Help yourselves to sidearms. We have quite a choice.” The weapons handed out, Cole said, “We’re not going to make Nashville by dark. So we’ll drive for about an hour and then start looking for a place to hold up for the night.”

  Gene looked at the ex-deputy. “You the ramrod of this outfit?”

  “I guess.”

  “Suits me. I just want to know who’s giving the orders, that’s all.” He took one last look at the house he and his wife and kids had called home for so many years. He looked at his wife, sitting in the van, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Well, I guess we’re ready to roll.”

  “Let’s do it,” Cole said.

  Seven

  The convoy stopped about forty miles south and east of Nashville, after turning down a gravel road that led off of the county blacktop, and then traveling for several miles.

  “That’s the Stones River over there,” James said, pointing. “With the nights getting cool, and no mosquitoes left, this is a dandy place to camp.”

  Bob King muttered something under his breath and turned and walked away. Cole had noticed that the closer they got to Nashville, the surlier the young man had become, not that he was ever a joy to be around.

  After an early supper, the group sat around the dying campfire and talked. Only Cole seemed to notice that young Bob King had changed his clothing: he was now dressed all in black, right down to his tennis shoes. He’s going to pull something, Cole thought. What? he didn’t know. But he’d bet a hundred bucks—providing the currency was still good—that the punk was going to pull something. Every cop instinct he had told him so.

  Cole kept his eyes averted, so as not to tip off the young man of his suspicions. Personally, he felt the parents would be better off, in the long run, if the kid would just cut out and never come back. During the time they’d spent in the mountains, young Bob had never volunteered to do anything. His parents had to threaten him before he would pick up a piece of firewood. He had laid around on his ass, listening to tapes of heavy metal music on a portable tape player, eating and scowling at people.

  Cole radioed in to Bob Robbins and then settled down with the others to talk. Moments later, he said nothing to the others when he observed young Bob lifting the tarp from the bed of a pickup and removing several packets of MREs. Cole had already seen the backpack Bob had hidden in his tent.

  “... The fire department might have arrived in time to put out the fires along our block,” Al Winfield was saying.

  “We can always hope,” Pete King said.

  Hoping against hope, Hank thought. The priest met the eyes of James Mercer and knew that of the three couples, James had prepared himself for the worst.

  Cole then told the three new couples who was behind all the trouble. He took it from the beginning, a year back, in Arkansas, and brought them fully up to date, leaving nothing out.

 
Gene and the others stared at him for a moment, then slow smiles began spreading across their faces. “The devil?” Gene said. “Now, come on, Cole. Joke’s over, man.”

  Their smiles began fading as they looked into the serious faces of the others.

  Gene tried one more time. “What have you folks been smoking, those left-handed cigarettes?”

  Loud music suddenly shattered the night. The voice of Tex Williams, singing “Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette!”

  Harry Slayden dropped his coffee cup as the others looked wildly all around them.

  “I don’t believe it,” Gene said, then closed his mouth as Tina grabbed his hand and held on.

  “Never doubt me, you shaggy-looking weirdo,” the heavy voice boomed out of the night.

  Gene’s mouth dropped open in undisguised shock.

  “Did you folks have a nice trip from the mountains?” the voice asked.

  “Just lovely,” Hank replied, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Now why don’t you go away and peddle your poison somewhere else?”

  “Why don’t you stick that coffee cup up your rooty-tooty, you psalm-singing dick-head?” the voice came right back.

  “What’s the matter?” Hank asked. “You seem a bit edgy this evening. Things aren’t going as you planned, maybe?”

  “Things, as you put it, are going exactly as I planned. And I think you know that.”

  “Making a mockery out of God’s word, you mean? Creating dangerous zealots out of good people?”

  There was no reply.

  “Are you still hanging around, you cosmic asshole?” Hank called.

  Nothing.

  The group was silent for a moment, then Gene blurted, “Jesus Christ!”

  “I wish,” Hank said, standing up and stretching. “I’m going to bed.”

  When the camp was awakened the next morning by Cole, who always stood the dog watch, Bob King was gone.

  * * *

  Jane King was in the truck, crying into a handkerchief, her husband stalking around angrily, while the others were packing up.