The Brunist Day of Wrath: A Novel

by Coover, Robert

  And what about the bikers? Smith said he chased them into the next state and only lost them at the state line, then alerted the forces over there. “They’ll catch them,” the wannabe sheriff said. Dee’s not so sure. About them being caught, about them being chased out in the first place. Though the leader of that pack was the Baxter brat, and with him killed they might scatter. Unless, like a thorn in a bear’s ass, it’s just got them madder. Old Wosznik’s achievement, but at a heavy price. Dee liked Wosznik in spite of his dumb beliefs. Honest straightforward man you could trust, uncommon species in this depraved sinkhole. Brave, too, as it turns out. Or maybe just stupid. Never know.

  When Dee and Louie first arrived out here this morning, access to the mine road was already blocked by the cultists down at the crossroads. Dee told Smith he should clear the road, and he did. Still playing man of the law. There were only two state troopers on duty at the hill, though they said two others were on their way over from the camp. The senior officer was a Catholic, so he and Dee and Louie had some common ground. Dee explained that, directly or indirectly, those religious lunatics were responsible for the Sunday blast and other crimes in the area, including the murder of Sheriff Puller, immolating the poor bastard in his own squad car, and he pointed at the black spot in the road where it happened. Cop killers. They were also the same people responsible for wrecking their church, especially that big mouth preacher down there making all the racket. Used mine picks on it, stole stuff. White-lying, Dee added that this hill was private property and those people would be trespassing if they tried to march up it without permission. They agreed, though, that if the vangies, as the trooper called them, decided to do that, there wouldn’t be much they could do about it, short of shooting them all. And that might not work because they’re all carrying weapons and could shoot back and outnumbered them at least fifty to one.

  By the time Cavanaugh arrived, two more troopers had turned up, a lot of TV and newspaper people had rolled in, and the Brunist mob, still growing and increasingly unruly, had moved up to the foot of the hill. Cavanaugh carried a rifle and wore, Dee noted, a shoulder holster under his rain poncho. He stormed right through the mob, grinning steely-jawed at their verbal abuse, daring them to do worse. Dee and the others were impressed. He introduced himself to the troopers, briefed them all on the situation, listed the crimes they were dealing with, said that there was to be no shooting unless shot at, and that, if need be, they’d let the cultists up here, but meanwhile they’d try to stall until the National Guard arrived. The key, he said, was the acting sheriff. Whether or not he’d play by the rules.

  So, when Smith starts up the hill with the cultists, Cavanaugh and the state cops meet them and tell them the state is now occupying the hill, it’s closed off and no longer under the sheriff’s authority. The cameras are pinned on them and rolling. The reporters have their pads out and are pushing mikes in people’s faces. The copter circles back overhead. Smith says he isn’t sure about the jurisdiction issue, but he’s only trying to reduce tensions. “These people wish to express their grief over the loss of one of their most beloved leaders, and they should be allowed to do that.” Presumably, the Brunists want to hold their memorial service for Wosznik up in that cross-shaped space where they have floor-planned the church they want to build. An outline of trenches lined with chalk that looks like a gameboard layout for a war game. Which it is. Dee asks, if the service is for Wosznik, why aren’t his widow and daughter here? Smith says he doesn’t know, maybe they just didn’t feel up to it. “Mrs. Collins is in shock, the girl is in fragile health.” One of the troopers says he thinks they saw that girl this morning. They took her into protective custody. She was doing herself harm over at the crime scene, but one of the camp thugs kidnapped her and carried her off. Big bruiser. The sheriff wants to know what the town cops are doing out here where they also have no authority. “Just getting out of the big city for a little country air,” Dee says. Cavanaugh makes a mistake then and feeds Smith a straight line. “I don’t know who’s bought you, Smith,” he says, “but—” and Smith interrupts him. “God’s bought me, Mr. Cavanaugh.” It will probably make all the evening newscasts. “All right,” the banker says finally. “We’ll let the governor adjudicate it when he gets here. He’s due any minute. Meanwhile, you’re here to protect law and order, Sheriff, and I want to know what measures you have taken in case things get out of hand.” “Things aren’t going to get out of hand,” Smith replied. “If they do, Mr. Smith,” Cavanaugh said, “it’ll be on your head.”

  Dee has to admit Cal Smith holds his own as a novice lawman, but ultimately he’s out of his depth. He’s no Tub Puller. And, in Red Baxter, he’s backing an overheated rage machine guaranteed to cause stupid problems. Out of the cult’s hearing, Dee tells Cavanaugh that it looks to him like there has been some kind of takeover at the camp. These aren’t the Brunists he knew from his visits there. And just a month ago, some of these same people got arrested for attacking the camp. Cavanaugh, offering cigarettes around and lighting up again, nods and says he’s demanding a thorough search of the site, but they don’t have the forces here to do that yet. When they do, they’ll get the whole story. “But you’re right, Dee,” he says, “something’s wrong.” He thinks they could be hiding the bikers over there, too. Dee doesn’t say so, but he doubts that. He also doubts Cavanaugh’s belief in an operational link between the cult and the gang, even though the bikers do wear Brunist symbols on their skin and leathers. There’s a distance he’s not reading. Same reality, different interpretations. Like religion. But only one is true.

  The bees, subdued by the wet weather, have been cooperative. They seem ready to leave this place. The Applebys, too, are ready. Corinne and Cecil have loaded the hives into the truck and secured everything and are set to get on the road. Earlier, just as they were getting started, they caught a glimpse through the dripping trees of Billy Don Tebbett’s car over on the county road, going the wrong way. Darren Rector was driving it. Alone. While they loaded the hives, they talked about what that might mean. They decided that Darren might be trying to stop Billy Don from leaving by stealing his car. Now, as he gets behind the wheel, Cecil asks: “Reckon we should stop by the trailer lot?” “Billy Don won’t be there and we won’t know where to start looking,” Corinne says. “But he could be on the road hitching, knowing we might be coming along. We can keep an eye out for him.” On the narrow two-track road out of the camp, Cecil spots something down in the trees and asks Corinne to stop. It’s a large bunch of ten-gallon gas cans all lined up. At least a dozen of them. “Somebody must’ve dumped them here, but they feel like they’re full,” Cecil says. “Don’t reckon they’ll mind if we borrow one of them for the road.” “Gift of God,” says Corinne.

  Georgie Lucci’s dream, whatever it was, is coming true. Mick is heating the grill to fry him up a plate of scrambled eggs and Piccolotti salomeats. A handful of aspirins, washed down with a beer bought him by the drunk at the bar, has eased the apocalyptic chaos in his head and the coffee, with its sweet healing aroma, is just beginning to perk in sympathy with his awakening brain. The town lush is already tanking up for the day. He’s drinking vodka on the rocks, the cheap domestic brand. He calls it wodka. “The boss said to stay off the gin,” he announces agreeably in explanation, lifting his glass, then he bangs it against Georgie’s and tosses it back.

  Georgie helped ruin a few bottles of that brain-acid last night, spending up the last of Steve Lawson’s money. Apparently Stevie is already on the way to fatherhood, and they celebrated that, but if his dick had dropped off, they would have celebrated that, too. A kind of stag party replay without the insane adventures, though someone did suggest that they go out to the church camp and salt the beehives in revenge for the stings the little suckers laid on them last time; but they couldn’t decide who’d do the salting and the camp is said to be sealed off after the explosion out there, anyway. Rumor is they found five bodies after the blast but only four heads. Weird. Religion is.
The world is. All the people in it. They all agreed on that and drank to it. Weirdness. Yay. They considered a scavenger hunt for the missing head but didn’t know what they’d do with it if they found it. Georgie suggested they could leave it in Father Bags’ confession booth, see how many Hail Marys he’d assign the head for going around shamelessly without its body on. Cheese didn’t know who Father Bags was. Guido Mello, who has a lot of free time on his hands since the garage burned down but seems to be spending little of it at home, called Cheese a fucking heathen, and Cheese, grinning his gap-tooth grin, said he didn’t know what that was either but he assumed it was a compliment, and Guido said it was.

  As his head and the weather clear as if each were bringing about the other, Georgie begins to have doubts about the mayor’s project. How tough, really, he asks himself, is Charlie Bonali? Very tough, he decides. Just getting smiled at by him is like getting shot. Bonali approached him about joining his Dagotown Devil Dogs, and Georgie, grinning his hapless grin, said, sure, he probably would. Since then he has stayed out of sight. Good reason not to go out and rag the Brunists at Cunt Hill, where Bonali probably lurks with more lethal notions.

  He’s trying to think of a way of eating the mayor’s breakfast and without guilt (should be easy, so rarely is he struck down by that grim disease) turning his offer down afterwards, when the scumbag dimestore owner comes in with a couple of other sad sacks off Main Street. The guy who owns the last downtown clothing store says people are trying to return things they bought six months ago, and the old fart who runs the hardware store says the only things he sold all last week were six screws and a nail. And that was on credit. Tee-heeing, Mick dribbles a bit of oil onto the grill and cracks the eggs into a bowl, whips them with a fork and spills them onto the grill and the lights go out. The coffee stops perking and the eggs fail to sizzle. “You should pay your fucking bills, Mick,” Robbins grumbles. “I can’t be more than a month behind,” Mick says in his squeaky voice. “They always send you a notice.” Everyone laughs at that. “Well, you don’t have to cook the wodka,” the drunk says, already having difficulty keeping his seat on the bar stool. He pulls an imaginary Stetson down over his nose. “Hit me again, podnuh! I’ll suck it up raw!” Georgie waits a few minutes to see if the power comes back on. It doesn’t. In this town, a power outage can last weeks. And Whimple may be on his way over by now. Carrying a fireman’s axe, if he has an inkling Georgie is here. Georgie wolfs down a gelatinous slab of week-old green apple pie, pockets the change for later, and steps out the back door on his way to the Fort.

  Over on Treasure Mountain, repository of the Kingdom’s stash of black diamonds, the King and a handful of Knights stand alone against the vast formation of Cretin Wizards and their enchanted puppets at the foot. The Cretins raise their tinny battle cry: Oh, come and march with us to glory! Though they are not marching. Not yet. Just getting up the nerve. For the end of time has come! It’s a kind of rope-skipping song. Why is the King denying the Cretins? Because it’s a Holy Mountain and cannot be desecrated by lunatic fake magicians? No, because he is a King and it’s his mountain and this is what you do. It’s fun.

  Sally can still think in the metaphorical way, though her heart’s not in it and her pen’s in her pocket. The end of once-upon-a-time has come. Goose Girl, looking for an ending to an old story of love un-consummated, kissed the Sleeping Prince’s dick (dicks) and woke him up, and now she’s sorry. Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident. The important thing about stories is not to begin them. I’m never going to be happy, she thinks. Not really happy. Satisfied maybe. Sometimes. Not often.

  At least Billy D is not among the belligerents. Nor are Mrs. Collins and her daughter, as Billy Don foretold her. Franny Baxter’s father is making noise over there with Billy Don’s wonky ex-roomie Darren standing beside him, posing as a saint with golden locks and a mad beatific smile on his face, his granny glasses glittering in the emerging sunlight like golden coins, Auntie Debra’s failed orphan rehab project pasted against his side. Billy Don didn’t turn up at the Tucker City drugstore either. Probably, once he got away, he decided to just keep going and not look back. She’ll miss him. He has been good company this long strange summer. He has her phone number; maybe he’ll call.

  While waiting for him at the drugstore, she picked up some more film for Tommy’s cameras, and she has been whiling away the time here at the mine, in and around her desultory sketching (a lot of thick black lines), photographing the mine tipple, hoist wheel, and abandoned equipment, rusting freight cars, signs and graffiti, the limp tattered windsock over the grimy brick office building, the bloated water tower. She has also taken a shot or two of the confrontation over on the hill and of the tent at the edge of the camp where the dynamite blast happened, but mostly she has stayed discreetly out of sight, not wanting to draw attention to herself. A.k.a. the Antichrist. They are crazy, and they have guns. Anyway, now that she is no longer Professor Cavanaugh’s research assistant, her interest in all that weirdness is fading. Christianity is quite simply a shamanistic cult of monumental stupidity, chicanery, and willful self-delusion. A legacy of the infantile origin of the species. She should stop worrying her head about it. Let it swallow its own tail.

  The old coal tipple, rising high into the brightening sky above her, is more appealing, a giant contraption of scaffolding and pulleys and ramps and what looks like a seedy, quirkily designed hotel squatting like an old dame with lifted skirts over three parallel railroad tracks. How did this thing work? The mined coal went onto a conveyor belt and was lifted up into those shed-like buildings, where the rocks and rubbish were separated out and the coal screened for at least three different sizes, finding its way down chutes into the train cars below, the obvious corresponding anatomical appurtenance functioning, as it were, in triplicate. From loose to constipated. Thus, the anthropomorphizing of the world, both in the way we read it and the things we make for it, the stories we tell about it. Mother Earth and Father Sky. She has learned that the Mount of Redemption, long before it was called that by the Brunists, was known by the miners as Cunt Hill because of its cleft ravine under the rounded belly of its summit. If this is an obscenity, so were the primitive Mother Earth folktales she read in college. And, well, they were, of course. Dirty jokes that have evolved into our world religions.

  Over on that exposed lady’s tum, now catching a sunbeam or two, things are becoming more agitated. The aroused cultists, inheritors of those elaborated dirty jokes, have crept forward and stand face to face now with the policemen and Tommy’s father. They still sing their Christian soldier songs, marching in with the saints now (oh, when the moon turns red with blood, they’re singing cheerfully, I want to be in that number…), though from here it’s just a thin cacophony, more like children yipping on a playground. A phalanx of armed men in farm boots and suspenders encircles them, either for protection or to arrest them. All of this is apparently on live TV, with helicopters hovering overhead. Some of the cultists watch the helicopters apprehensively. What are they thinking? That they might be agents of the Rapture? Or of the Antichrist? Their famous Great Speckled Birds? Is this funny? Only if madness is. She takes another picture of the people on the hill, framing it between tipple support posts to shrink it to its rightful dimensions. Two yellow backhoes sit off to one side like grazing dinosaurs. Tommy’s father is having a fierce argument with the sheriff, pointing his finger at him. He is an unhappy man, Sally supposes, and in a mood to take no shit. Stacy called Sally on Sunday to say goodbye and to apologize for what happened. She sounded like she’d been crying. Maybe she hadn’t stopped since the night before. Both she and Tommy’s father had tearful faces when they stepped out of the motel room, looking stricken and washed out under those awful corridor lights. She said she never finished that French novel Sally loaned her but she knows it must have ended badly. She’s leaving it for her at her rooming house. Stacy had talked about going away during their drive over to the river town a couple of weeks ago. It’s
the sadness, she said then. Staying or leaving, the sadness is the same. Sally didn’t understand it then. Now it’s her own metaphysic.

  So what now? Well, she could go back to college and get her degree. Or at least, now that the door’s open, get laid. God expels Adam, takes a rib out of Eve: new playmate, better design. Adam left to play with himself. She has a writing prof at college who has a lot of faith in her, he says. Is he on the make? Probably. Writers are like that. She can get an education, learn a few tricks. He’s married, but so much the better. He’ll be careful, and there’ll be no residue. She has rather hoped that the sort of love the Lutheran preacher called a “dying to oneself” might happen to her, at least once, in her earthly transit—not mere orgasm, but the legendary madness of love—but too late, she knows now. Back at the ice plant in Tommy’s car, in that moment of frightened adoration (of what? doesn’t matter), it might have been possible, but now irony has gotten in the way. Call it irony. It’s what she has really lost. If her prof starts talking about the future, she’ll find somebody else.