Forward
“You knew,” she screamed in frenzy, her face black
as the night, dripping with terror as she savagely tore at the man’s cheeks
and eyes with her red enameled finger nails. “You know but didn’t tell
us, we could’ve gotten ready, but now its too late, too late.”
Screams, groans, and curses filled the black, stifling,
foul smelling air, as wisps of smoke and vapor floated about, interlaced
with the glare of lured dancing flames, the ground heaving and swelling
as the billows of an angry sea.
“Why didn’t you tell us? God help us? We’re dying and
its all your fault.”
The crowd pressed closer about the helpless man. The
air was foul with their noxious breath. Flailing and cursing at their preacher,
he covered his head with his arms, desperately fending off their blows.
Gazing into their enraged countenances, highlighted with the devils own
orange and black colors that danced about their eyes and mouths, reflected
from the flaming pyre that was their church, he looked into the mouth of
death. Demons direct from hell would have feared them. They would have
avoided their presence, shunned their breath of hatred. Anger oozed from
their pours. Resentment spewed from their mouths like the flames of hell.
The very air about their persons was as a fog of hatred so thick, that
their words were muffled by its odious miasma. Disheveled hair flying in
the fierce wind storm, pelted with wind tossed debris, they cared for nothing,
so savage was their hatred of the man lying at their feet.
Gaunt and haggard, their bodies covered from head to
foot with loathsome sores that flowed with green puss and stank but would
not heal, burned and scared beyond recognition, toothless old men, dried
up women, bony young girls, clothes tattered and torn, their mouths gaping
wide in frenzied vengeance, they could taste his flesh and blood, and tasting
it, they desired more. They peered at him from eyes sunken in their skulls,
gnarled fingers reaching for his eyes and tongue, his throat and hair,
they flung curses, mingled with saliva, into his face.
“No, no, no,” he screamed, “help me,” knowing, as
he screeched these incoherent words from a parched throat, that they were
futile.
The thunder boomed, echoes rumbling among the hills
in mocking answer to his desperate extremity. His pain was but a minor
annoyance compared to his mental agony. The dogs, in human form, snarling
about his head, were as snowflakes upon his eye lashes compared to the
greatest horror of all. God had turned his back upon him and would not
hear. This above all things, terrified the man, as he lay, prostrate on
the blood slick asphalt in the parking lot of his once lovely, small, red
brick rural church, the pride of the community.
Shoeless feet kicked at him, a wall of legs encompassed
him about, the stench of putrefaction dripped over his naked chest, they
hemmed him in on all sides. God was laughing at him. He knew it, as surely
as he knew his own name. God was mocking and deriding his extremity. Tormented
beyond belief by a guilty conscience, the face of God seemed to peer at
him, laughter etched upon his visage, shaking with mirth. The preacher
coveted death, anything to be hidden from that face that would not go away.
“You didn’t want to hear,” he screamed in terror, his
mouth dry, except for the rivulet of blood dripping from his nose.
Fists rained down upon his head, shoulders, and chest,
while screams and curses, mingled with shouts of fear, and moans of agony,
assailed him from the ever increasing crowd intent upon his blood.
Attempting to rise to his feet, a green shirted man,
face contorted in rage, struck his long time friend in the face, breaking
his nose, knocking him backward into the arms of two others, who thrust
him forward. Back and fourth he was tossed and buffeted, flung this way
then that by the terrified, enraged, and maddened crowd, who knew no mercy.
Alternately, he protected his head while clawing at his tormenters, mingling
his blood with theirs, their clothes mottled with red ooze, until the pavement
became slippery with their vile.
“I told you,” he cursed, “but you wanted to hear soft
words,” his voice gurgled from his throat, the hands of an aged man, throttling
him.
The crowd roared in unison, “kill him, kill him, kill
him, as they pressed closer together, stopping their ears from hearing
his remonstrances.
“You were our pastor,” the deacon screamed, “you should
have told us any way, wasn’t it your job to teach us God’s word, wasn’t
it your responsibility to warn us?”
In a fearful convulsion of dying strength, the pastor
threw off the old man, gagged for a moment, then, dodging a fist, blurted
out in desperation, “you told me I could loose my job, if I didn’t preach
what you wanted to hear, I was afraid.”
The preacher was old and gray, having aged fifteen
years in the last seven months, slightly stooped at the shoulders. In former
times, his eyes twinkled in merriment, as he moved about with surprising
agility. Especially loved by his parishioners, the children, of whom the
church boasted quite a number, loved to listen, in rapt attention to his
stories, he was favored by the congregation, who found in him, a congenial
soul. But that was then, and now things had changed.
An explosion rent the air showering the crowd with
bricks and glass as the small country church disintegrated in fragments,
the flames having reached the gas heater. Flames leaped from its interior,
casting lured shadows about the small parking lot, while the sound of distant
explosions and staccato gun fire beat upon their ear drums.
In the dark shadows about the burning church were gathered
small knots of men, women, and children, drawn to this spot as a refuge
in the storm. They moaned in agony of fear and cried their prayers to the
God but he would not hear. Like the prophets of Ball on Mount Carmel, their
prayers increased in frenzy, faces uplifted toward heave, they groveled
in abject terror, tears mingled with their blood. Bodies convulsed in an
agony of spirits. They prayed, and pleaded, supplicated, and groaned in
an unspeakable agony of heart for deliverance from the torment, but God
heard them not.
Angry, black clouds obscured the sky, except for one
brilliant space of dazzling light which drew closer and closer to the massed
pile of humanity, running red with their own blood. This apparition seemed
to fill Clancy with fresh outbursts of body draining fear. No word or image
could describe the intensity of his terror as he gazed heavenward. His
breath faltered. His bowels and bladder emptied in freight. Great drops
of sweat appeared on his face. His heart raced and thumped, threatening
to explode in his chest.
The hills were alive with gun fire. Trails of incandescent
smoke arced heavenward at the coming terror. Abagail stared in dumbfounded
bewilderment. She watched as women and children, in great profusion, swarmed
over the hills like ants. She saw them brandishing knives, rifles, shotguns,
machine guns, pieces of glass, anything that came readily to hand. Everywhere
she could hear the scream of defiance that seemed to echo her own crazed
thoughts, as her head pounded and throbbed. The shrieks of demon crazed
humanity filled her ears. The sounds of terrified dogs, horses, cows, and
pigs, wild with frenzy blended with screams and curses until the air vibrated
with hatred. Terrified at their own doom, fleeing in general pandemonium,
the animals sought their masters for protections. With satanic glee, she
watched them as they found only the butcher knife or slaughtering weapon.
The gullies ran red with their blood and mangled corpses. She was pleased.
Streams of human and animal blood flowed down the gully,
saturated her clothes, bringing momentary relief from the stinging sours.
Supremely happy, this daughter of Satan, lay upon the cold earth, as the
river of blood flowed around, and over her, defying God and his vengeance
with every breath.
Lightening flickered and flashed, while thunder rolled
among the hills, but she saw nor cared for the offended God of the universe.
Great purple balls of brilliance darted among the valleys and crowds of
frantic people who heeded it not so intent were they upon their hatred.
Laughing uproariously at the convulsions of nature and approaching death,
she hurled taunts at God. Laughing at the extremities of the unfortunate,
caught by the balls of lightening, turned into living torches, she laughed
hilariously. Hurling trees and rocks high into the air, the lightening
turned houses and their inhabitants into spouting pyres of fire, while
Abagail cavorted in delight at their calamity. Burning everything in its
path, the flames writhing like serpents upon the ground, even licking up
the water in creeks and turning rocks into molten mush with its intense
heat, Abagail relished the destruction, hurling imprecations at God while
cursing those who fell before his vengeance, laughing at their calamity,
she died as she had lived.
The landscape was on fire, yet the flames went unheeded
by those gathered about their pastor.
“I wanted to tell you,” he was pleading with them on
bended knee, face contorted, one eye glued shut with blood, scratches covering
his cheeks, supplicating their mercy, “but you told me to be silent, to
speak smooth words, platitudes, words that wouldn’t disturb. I did what
you wanted, now you seek my blood. Why? What could I do. You rejected my
preaching, you....” His words were drown out by fresh peals of thunder
and screams from his parishioners who still would not listen to their pastor,
even at this late hour.
During a momentary lull in the verbal and physical
abuse being heaped upon him, the pastor’s mind revolved backward to a former
time of peace and happiness, not so distant that he could not remember
it. Before the last crisis the small community of Del Rio was a peaceful
and tranquil mountain village of but miner import save to those who called
it “home.” Boasting a small general store, post office, one church which
now lay in ruins, and a library, it was home to three or four hundred people
scattered among its hollers, and along its winding roads, unaffected by
outside forces. But now, now, things would never be the same, he realized
with desperate clairvoyance
The community had survived the drought, hurricanes,
torrential rains, earthquakes, terrorist attacks, bombing and riots that
afflicted the larger areas. Only in miniature, did it suffer the ravages
of the general conflagration, the political upheavals, the economic turmoil,
and the religious wars, but today, today was different, he knew. Today
he would die, just as his church had died in flames and smoke.
Vance, tired beyond belief from many sleepless nights
of dread, glanced up in time to see giant blocks of hail falling among
crowds of people. They were still firing at the celestial terror that was
responsible for the fearful loss of life and destruction. Staggering along
the road, swaying this way and that like a drunken man, he heard rather
then saw the hail, larger then a man’s head, falling among the forests
and homes. Splitting trees fell at his feet while the hail dashed cars
to pieces, killing the few cows who survived the general slaughter. Before
he died, from the hail, he heard their wild confusion, bellowing their
fear and rage.
Graham Studley, an elderly man of many summers, hobbling
on his cane for support, shook his fist at the hail that was thundering
all about him. Mixed with fire and pelting rain, the lightening running
along the ground, the earth heaving and swelling with an earthquake, he
cursed his defiance, waving his cane at the heavens, daring them to devour
him. The boom and crackle of the lightening, the hiss of flames, the unearthly
rumble of the ground, the bellow of enraged cattle, almost drowned out
his curses and imprecations. Frail, pale skin, bald spot surrounded by
a fringe of gray hair, matted beard, his black eyes darted about, seeking
an outlet for his vengeance and finding none. He shook his cane at God
and cursed long and volubly.
Hail stones, as large as a man’s head, were piling
up around the porch. He cared for none of these things. His heart pounded
with rage. His blood pressure rising to extraordinarily high levels pumping
blood from his body through his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Shaking with
rage, his ears, almost bursting with the hatred he felt for God and the
righteous, his face quivering with anger, his abdomen alternately tightening
and relaxing, he beat the air in a futile attempt to get at his tormenters
while the open sores, that covered his body, exploded with shivers of pain.
Blisters and burns and the raging blood pressure, numbed his mind to the
approach of death.
The little boy, knife in hand, crawled though the debris
that had been his house mere moments ago, as its foundations shuddered
and shook from the earthquake, intent upon his target. Well schooled in
brutality, from years of television, he moved cautiously, least the old
man detect his presence, but he need not have feared discovery, for his
movements, as stealthy as they were, remained undetected amidst the general
destruction. Rising to his full three feet six inch stature, and, with
one convulsive effort, he plunged the knife into Graham’s back, twisting
and cutting at the serrated flesh as the old man crumpled to the heaving
floor curses issuing from his blood speckled lips. Holding the knife aloft
in triumph, the boy danced about the burning room, filled with Satanic
glee, rejoicing at his revenge, face smiling with a horrid glow, his eyes
shining in devilish triumph, he fell beneath a massive tree truck, still
clutching his knife, his feet feebly twitching, while saliva and blood
flowed from his mouth, along with his last defiant breath, unrepentant
until the end.
The preacher was having a hard time of it, being pushed
and showed, clawed and battered, bleeding from a dozen places. As his strength
ebbed, he could only cover his head and huddle in abject terror, awaiting
his death, which wasn’t long in coming.
Frantic with fear and terror at their lost opportunities,
the crowd sought the life of the one who had kept the truth from them.
Seizing a leg or arm, four stout men, urged on by the Satanic screams of
the women who thirsted for his blood, pulled the body of their hapless
preacher in opposite directions. Stretched as taught as a board, head hanging
down, mouth gaping open in a vain entreaty, the preacher’s body convulsed
and shuddered as the tension, on his muscles and sinews, increased beyond
measure until, with a rending and tearing sound that sent fresh screams
of agony from his mouth, his joints were pulled apart.
A young woman, still possessing her natural beauty,
despite the recent deprivations, crawled over the shoulders of several
men, so intent was she upon getting at the person of her tormenter. Lunging
between their shoulders, she clawed at the preacher’s genitals with her
emaciated hands. Hacking and coughing, she lost her balance, falling forward
upon his body, feet kicking at the heads of two men, she eagerly clutched
his genitals, squeezing and twisting, oblivious of his terror filled screams
for mercy. With a burst of hideous energy emanating from a heart devoid
of pity or sympathy, she wrenched then until they tore free.
Leaping to her feet, bloody trophy in her hands, head
thrown back in an exultant cry of ecstasy, she cavorted about the parking
lot and road, blood dripping over her auburn hair, her eyes radiant with
joy. A moment later, she was struck by a speeding car and tossed high into
the air, still clutching her trophy of revenge. Her head struck a tree
and split open from the force of the impact. With her last gasp of breath,
she cursed her God.
His left arm was first to separate from his body. Severing
the veins and arteries, which spouted blood, to mingle with the deepening
pool of blood and excreta beneath his body, his cries subsided into pain
racked moans, as his other arm and legs were severed, leaving only his
body and head to roll on the ground. Sensing the culmination of their revenge,
his parishioners, rushed upon his body, stamping it into the slick, blood
covered asphalt, until nothing remained of his lifeless form but a slick
mass of tissue, bones, and blood.
So intense was their hatred, that their thirst for
revenge wasn’t satisfied by the death of their beloved, genial pastor.
Turning upon each other, they clawed, bit, gauged, scratched, stabbed,
twisted, beat, and stomped each other in a swelling heaving mass of blood
and hate. Screams, curses, moans, pleas, and shrieks were mingled with
the incessant rattle of gun fire, explosions, the hiss of steam as burning
wood fell into the creek behind the smoldering church. The flash of lightening,
mingled with the shattering impact of the hail stones, beat everything
beneath their merciless onslaught.
The light was blinding in its intensity Conroy saw.
Those on the fringes of the crowd, who were still alive, cringed before
its illumination, huddling in abject terror, lips quivering in fear. With
hearts defiant as ever, they cursed, and moaned in terror, seeking to be
hidden from the light. But Conroy was fiendishly happy. Secretly, he hated
most of them and longed with gleeful heart, to see their torment. All nature
was in an uproar, trees and rocks were tossed high into the air. Conroy,
his thirst for revenge, unslaked fell beneath the crushing rocks, his lifeless
body tumbled about by the lightening, hair and clothes singed, face battered,
his blood mingled with the others in a deepening pool of shame.
Alfred, the lone survivor of the Del Rio church, chanced
to glance at Max Patch mountain, several miles distant and watched, in
open mouth dismay and disbelief, as it dropped into the earth, leaving
a whole, from which spewed huge streams of lava that tossed massive rocks
hundreds of feet into the air. He cringed before the blinding wall of fire
that erupted from the mountain cavity, as rocks and boulders cascaded about
his prostrate form.
Weird incandescent blue forms darted about the writhing
landscape, lending their inhuman shrieks of defiance to a dying world.
They slithered along the ground, writhed though the broken and twisted
branches of the few remaining trees, finally gathering about the body of
the prone man, adding an unenduring measure of terror to his torment. He
could feel their cold and horrifying presence, as they sought his heart
and mind. Cringing before their groping fingers, he realized, as never
before, his utter helplessness to withstand their advances. For most of
his adult life, he had welcomed them, albeit, in another form, but today,
for the first time, they revealed their true appearance and identity, delighting
in his terror and helplessness.
He could feel them crawling over his body, like spiders.
He felt their cold hands about his neck and penetrating into his heart.
They gnawed at his eyes, tore at his tongue, sucked at his vitals, and
twisted his intestines. Such terror, he never knew existed. Such frenzy
to escape. Such rigid immobility. He cried, and moaned in fear and agony
staring into their devilish faces. He could discern their leers at his
terror, and hear their voices chanting his demise. Familiar voices pronouncing
his boom and taking delight in his helplessness. Friends, these were his
friends, he supposed, but now they crowded about him, breathing cold vapors
into his nostrils and lungs, filling him with a nameless terror and dread
but denying him the blessed oblivion of death. He realized, with stunning
clarity, that he could not die until they let him. They would not let him
pass into eternity until they had extracted the last once of terror it
was humanly possible to experience.
The brilliance drew closer while the ground shuddered
and heaved like the waves of the sea. Great fountains of water burst from
the earth, while geysers of fire and ash spewed over the landscape, turning
the hills of Appalachia into charnel houses of death and destruction. Blood
flowed thicker then the few streams in the valleys. The light of the sun
was gone, the darkness of death was about the land, except for the space
of brilliance that was even now vanishing the shadows of night, but only
for a moment.
The noise, Arny Butterfield, thought, the noise was
something he never imagined it was possible for the human ear to endure.
Covering his ears with his hands, Arny cringed before the blinding light,
vainly endeavoring to escape is searching glance. If only, if only he could
hide from the light, he could die in peace. But hide, where. All about
him was brilliance unbearable. No where to hide, he lamented. No where
to escape. Cringing in fear and terror, he turned from the light to seek
the shelter of the rocks and caves that had opened in the mountains behind
his house. Dashing though, around, and among the crevasses, rocks, fallen
trees, piles of hail stones, and smashed debris, he spied a cave in the
rent side of a mountain, into which he dashed for protection. But even
here, the light sought and found him. Huddled in the deepest reaches of
the cave, covering his ears, as the trumpet sounded louder and louder,
filling the earth with tones that seemed to rend the earth itself, he wept.
Praying as never before, he entreated the Lord to allow the rocks and mountain
to fall on him and to hide him from the face of him that sitteth upon the
throne. His prayers were answered. A massive chunk of rock, detaching itself
from the roof of the cave, plunged earthward. His last words, a loud screech
of defiance, were cut short, as his breath was forced from his lungs.
Tossed about the sky, like a child’s ball, the earth,
torn and bleeding, mortally wounded, covered in flames, devoid of human
and animal life, settled into a millennial Sabbath days rest.
It was the time of the second advent of Christ.
