SOTOFO

Posted by Geo
05-30-24

I have a plan. I think I spent a good
portion of my life without a plan. Just sort of walking along, not really
expecting much at all, at least nothing good. I had a larger view of the world
that said, “What happens, happens. It’s pretty much ordained, and so there
is little I can do about it.” Does that sound ridiculous? Well, it does to
me too, now anyway. But for most of my life I had that thought in my head and
so, true or not, I believed it to be true and it became true.

Then one day I woke up. I woke up and
I looked at the world and I thought “What the hell have I been doing? Why
am I in situations I do not want to be in? Where the hell is this car going? Who’s
driving?”

After that I went through a period of
cynicism. It’s the worlds’ fault. I didn’t have a chance; someone should have
told me. More in that vein. Then I stepped back looked at it and I realized I
had had breaks. I had seen things clearly. I had looked at it. And I had
decided that I didn’t want to drive. I had decided to be a passenger. Well, you
got to go where the driver is going then. You have eliminated all of your
choices.

So I made a plan. My plan was pretty
simple.

One: I will retain all of the control over
my own life that I can. As long as getting that control doesn’t cause me to
hurt someone, doesn’t become all encompassing. Doesn’t make me stop seeing that
compromise is a part of life. I have thought out my actions rationally, without
simply reacting during the heat of the moment. Man, I thought. There is a lot
to do to simply have control over your own life. And how come I have to give up
some of that control to have control. Isn’t that the opposite of what I wanted?
It is, but it is the way the real world works.

Two: I will set goals and work toward them. So that the
things that are truly important to me are attained. Great. That is great. A
clear path to a clear future, to… No. The problem is that we do not live in a
vacuum. How do you set your goals and have them remain static? You don’t. At
least you don’t if there are people in your life you care about. I remember my
son said… “So, Dad, what are your plans for the future?” and I said “Well I
plan to leave here, move to the middle of nowhere and live off the land as best
I can. Maybe find someone who wants to do that and that would be great. Perfect
life.”

My son didn’t see it that way. And as
soon as I said the words I knew I was not thinking rationally about it. If I
love people that are in my life, then they should count when I make plans for
the future. Having lived most of my life in the vacuum that is alcoholism I had
rarely ever considered others. Tough to admit, but true. So, as I was saying the
words they became untrue. I realized my family was more important to me that
anything else. And I realized I had to permanently alter my thinking. The
people you love have to count. Compromise is a part of life. People who are in
the world, living in the world, know all about that. Those that are only in the
world don’t really understand that. Which type did I want to be?

Three: Doors. I grew up on the streets. Yes,
I grew up with a moral code, but chances are it was not the same moral code
that most people that know me grew up with. On the street loyalty was a big
deal. Men would say, “Hey, I’d die for you,” and they meant it. You
could watch someone do the worst thing in the world and you would keep your
mouth shut. Loyalty. It was a code. Somehow the cops became the bad guys, and
the bad guys became the good guys. Sounds like different subjects but it isn’t.
You are isolated from mainstream society. Disconnected, Mainstream society
becomes incomprehensible. It makes no sense at all. Meanwhile the people you
deal with come in and out of those doors you have. Those doors you can choose
to open or close. Only you are so disconnected that you leave them open all the
time and people come in and out. You become a doormat. You understand doormat.
Doormat makes perfect sense. Use and be used. Except, when you come off of the
streets you still have the doors open. Wide open. You let everyone in, some you
should, some you shouldn’t. Some who mean you grave harm, some who try to love
you. But you don’t understand any of that. You only left the door open, and the
stuff is happening People are coming and going.

So, one of things I did was shut the
doors. Yes, at first, all the way. Then I realized those doors are there for a reason. A door is meant to be
opened and closed. On a warm summer night, you can crack it a little to let some
air in. In the winter, close it to keep the heat in. And life is the same way.
Sometimes you can decide to let that person in. Others no. Still others, crack
it just a little. Let that breeze in. Maybe leave the screen door shut to keep
the insects out. Poor analogies I know. But I was a street kid. A street kid
who was far from stupid but carried my ignorance like amour. I finally got it
though, and I told myself that from now on I would choose how far I would open
that door.

Four: The plan. I will sit down and look at
what I really want out of life and begin to work toward it. I will realize
that, long before I attain it, something might happen that will cause me to
want to change my plans. I cannot be so rigid that I cannot look at it and
realize that it needs to be changed. That my needs have changed. That someone
in my life has needs that will affect my own needs and that I may have to sit
down and do it all over again. Set a new goal. Come up with a new plan. That
it’s okay to do that. That if what you are doing no longer makes sense you need
to do something else.

That was how I came up with my plan.
My plan was a four-year plan. Save my money. Then go in one direction or the
other. Land or sea.

Sea: Buy a boat. A big boat. Cast off and spend a few years,
as long as I can, sailing. After all, the price of a house, it is about the
same.

Land: Buy some land in the mountains. Build another house, I
have done that before, and that’s it, retire. Walk in the mountains. Maybe do
the Appalachian trails. Live as close to my characters’ lives in my books as I
can.

Then I mentioned it to my son. Then my
brother. Then my mother. By the time I got their reactions I realized that I
may just have to scrap both plans and start over. Not because any of them said
anything to dissuade me, but because I realized how much I loved them and would
miss them if I did either of those things. How life really is about compromise.
After all, I can rent a boat, can’t I? I can rent a cabin in the sticks, can’t
I? I can walk the Appalachian trail; I don’t have to live there to do that. So,
I made a new plan. My new plan is not to make any other plans until I sit down
and think about the people I love and how it will impact them and me. So, I did that, and made a new plan. I’ll stay put. I’ll write. I will not have a relationship. And of course, I met Amber (the author A.L. Norton) on-line and the not having a relationship part went out the window. Getting to know each other caused everything else to change again. And then I had a massive heart attack and stroke followed by open-heart surgery and rehab. Life was happening. All of that planning I didn’t do when I was living a risky life, threatening my health, not making good choices caught up to me.

What did I learn. I learned that plans are a good thing, but that change is inevitable. So, make a plan; just be prepared to change that plan along the way because life is not something that happens in a vacuum. Whatever you do don’t just stumble along without a plan because life and change will happen, and you will just be swept along with that instead of having control over some of it.

Hope that little excursion into my head made sense to you. The weekend is coming. Sleep has not been a friend to me this week at all. Hopefully I will catch up this weekend. I will leave you with a free short story from the new collection Mister Bob. Enjoy it and I will be back tomorrow, Dell…

MISTER
JOHNSON: Short Stories

This
book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold
or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank
you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Book of Carl

ONE

To the Reader: In a post-apocalyptic future,
one fan takes his favorite writer’s book to heart. Believing the book was
prophetic. However, his fantasy may be much skewed from the reality that he is
living…

Carl
Freeman

Carl
Freeman rose from his couch reluctantly and walked to the front door. He
clutched the thick book, which to him was his Bible, in his hand as he walked.

There
had been some shooting, and quite a lot of panic in the last several days, but
none of it had touched him. He had locked himself inside the house, calmly
finished the thick tattered book, and then had begun to re-read it again. He
was once again at the good part, not the same good part he had been at, but
every part of the book was a good part to him, and so it mattered not at all
which part he was in. But he was at the part where he might be able to help.

He
knew now that the book, The Book, was not just a book. It was real. It had to
be he reasoned, it just had to be. The author must have been like a God or
something, maybe even was God, or something, and so he had written the book not
simply to be read, although that had definitely been intended, but as a
warning. Something to point the way. The Book was, well, The Book was a Bible,
he had decided, and thank God he had been able to figure it out in time, thank
God. Praise God, because if he hadn’t, he knew, there would be no hope at all.
He worriedly pressed his fingers to the flesh of his neck. Okay, good, he
thought, all’s cool on the western front, no problem, wonderful, great, grand
and glorious.

He
opened the thick steel door and peered out. The ground, indeed, the house
itself, he thought, had been shaking for the last several minutes. He stepped
cautiously out the front door into what should have been darkness, but somehow
was not. In the distance he could see that the sun was beginning to rise. He
glanced down at his watch. Well, he thought, it must have stopped, or
something. He stared at the horizon for a few seconds longer and then calmly
walked off down the street clutching the thick book under one arm, leaving the
door standing open behind him.

It
was time to leave, he told himself, and if he ever intended to reach Stovington
in time, he had better hurry.

“You know, it’s really a fuckin’
shame,” Carl Freeman said to the dark-haired girl on the floor. She was
crying again and begging him to let her go. She had been begging for the last
ten minutes, and it was really beginning to get on his nerves. He had gotten
the truth out of her though. She had tried to lie, oh, she was a slick little
bitch, but in the end when he had placed the end of the pistol against her head,
she had told the truth.

“Don’t
you feel better now?” he asked her, “don’t you?”

“Y-yes,
I do, can you let me go, please, please?” she broke into fresh tears once
more as she finished.

“I’m
really sorry,” Carl said softly, “I’d really like to do that,
sincerely I would, but you’re almost the last one. Just one to go after you,
and you’re sorta the worst one to me ‘cause I loved you. I mean that, I really
did. Before I found out that you lied too, I had plans for us, big plans, and
you fucked it up.” She said nothing, just continued crying.

“You
know, in the book you were much stronger than this. I’m surprised, really
surprised. I didn’t think you would cry, not at all. Of course, you were all a
bunch of lying son-of-a-bitches. But you know what?” he stared down at
her, and she looked up from the floor, tried to speak, and then looked away
unable to make the words come.

“Well,
since you asked, I’ll tell you. I’m wise to you fuckers now, really wise. The
book was bullshit, the whole thing was, and I figured it out. I know you
thought it would fool me, but it didn’t.” she started crying harder.
“Look at me,” Carl said softly. She looked up from the floor. The pistol
was still clutched in one hand she saw. “If you loved me, if I thought you
could love me…?”

“I-I
do, I do, honestly,” she began, “please…”

“Say
it,” Carl said in a near whisper, “say you love me, say it.”

“I
love you, I-I do,” she agreed.

“Say,
I love you, Carl, and I always have.”

“I-I
love you, C-Carl…”

“And
I always have,” Carl reminded softly.

“A-And
I…”

“You…

Carl Freeman walked slowly down what had, at
one time, probably been one of the main streets of Boulder Colorado, he
thought.

He
no longer carried The Book, his Bible, the book that had been written about the
end of the world, and then passed off as merely fiction. And the search he had
begun nearly ten years before, had finally come to an end. It had started hard,
and it would end the same way, he knew.

The
first problem had cropped up fairly quickly, and like almost everything else,
he had come to learn, it wasn’t mentioned in the book either.

The
problem was Michigan. When the great earthquakes came and the end for most of
Earth was here, Michigan had become an island, and that had been a real bitch,
but worse still was the fact that it had never even been mentioned, never even
been hinted at in the book. And then, of all the stupid frigging things that
could have happened, the entire east coast, Vermont included, had gone up in
flames before he could find a boat, get it in the water, and head towards
Stovington. And oh yes, Carl Freeman reminded himself, as he walked down the
wide and empty street, that hadn’t been in the ever-loving book either.

TWO

It
hadn’t taken long to find the other book, and really, he had known the other
book was there, he just … just hadn’t really thought about it at all. And
there it was, sitting right next to The Book. Same shelf, not slightly removed
from the first, but directly beside it.

He
had been afraid, for just a few seconds, afraid that the new one, the larger
one, wouldn’t be at all the same, and if it wasn’t … if it wasn’t it just
might change everything. He had fought that fear however, lifted the new and
improved version from the shelf; sat down in the aisle, and read it from cover
to cover.

It
was better, and there certainly was more to it, but it hadn’t contained what he
had suspected it would. He had thought, suspected, that the new book would tell
things the way they were now, that maybe … that maybe the first had been just
ever so slightly wrong, and the new one would fix all that, tell the truth,
point him in the right direction, so to speak. It hadn’t however, and he had
started to slide once again down into that deep well of depression, and… And
that was when it became clear. The book was right, or had been anyway, but the
fat kid had changed it, and that was damn clear now.

He
could see it, see it very, very clearly in fact, and when the truth came it came
in a rush, and he knew the whole deal then. The whole fucking deal. The fat kid
had read the damn book. Had to be, he had reasoned. The fat little fuck had
read the book, knew he was going to die, and had somehow changed it all.

Carl
Freeman set the book back on the shelf. There was no reason to carry it
anymore. If the fat kid had read it, he would know exactly what not to do. The
Book was of no use any longer, couldn’t be, because that fat little prick would
be able to skip right away from him if he stuck to the book. In fact, he was
probably somewhere right now, just laughing his fat ass off about the whole
thing. And then the rest of it had come absolutely clear, and he had stopped
dead in the middle of the aisle and smacked his hand to his forehead.

Stupid-Stupid-Stupid,
he told himself. He immediately reversed his steps, grabbed the book, and sat
back down.

No
cover to cover this time, just one or two specific parts, and there it was,
right there, in black and white. The whole thing, the whole book thing, had
been a huge deception from the start, because… Because it was the fat kid
himself that had written it.

And why in fuck
hadn’t he seen that before? He had asked himself.

Didn’t want to, he had
answered himself.

But
it was there. Right there. The fat little prick hadn’t been able to resist
giving it away. The fat kid had wanted to be a writer, the fat kid was a
writer, and the fat kid had written the fuckin’ book. Sure as shit, easy
deduction, stupid!

Carl
had closed the book. He had been … well, he had just been stupid, was all, he
hadn’t looked for God’s sake, because … because, he hadn’t suspected just how
devious the little bastard was. That was it. And everyone, everyone in the
whole fuckin’ book had been in on it right from the get-go. And that really
sucked, really sucked, because … well … he had been hoping, well more than
hoping really, that the girl … well, that she might not want to be with the
dude from Texas, that maybe … well, maybe she would want to be with him. And
now … now to find out she was nothing more than a … a fucking liar. That
she had also been in on it from the beginning, well… Well, it was just too
fuckin’ much, and really… And really there was only one thing to do, period.
One thing only, he had decided.

It
had been a conviction really, sort of a … a quest, an endeavor to set things
straight, a … well it was like a mission. A mission from God, he had decided.

Carl
Freeman had stood from the dusty aisle once more, clutching the thick book in
one hand, and begun to walk towards the exit. When he noticed he was still
holding the book, it was only the book now he had let it fall from his hand,
and left it lay in the middle of the aisle where it fell. He had walked back down
towards the edge of I69 and had begun his mission.

In
the parking lot of a motel, he had found a boat hitched to the back of a
Suburban, located the keys to the truck, drove it down to the edge of I69, and
left Michigan Island.

In
the last ten years, he had located each one of the bastards, save one. And when
he had, he had killed them, after making them admit to their part in the whole
damn thing. And the first one had really proven the whole thing for him,
because he had admitted it. He had come clean and told Carl everything, and
damn hadn’t that made the whole mission worthwhile? It had, it was important to
know you were right, after all.

And
now, almost ten years later to the day, here he was in boulder, and the fat
kid, the last fucking one, had to be here. He had to be, because didn’t the
criminal always return to the scene of the crime? Always, and for sure. And
this, Boulder had to be the scene of the crime, and so here would be where he
would find him. The last one, and then the mission would be over, finished,
done, and he could … could … well, he could do something else. Fuck it, it
really didn’t matter, did it? And… And join a club and beat me over the head
with it, there was that fat son-of-a-bitch right now! Just walking down, the fuckin’
street like he owned it or something!

Carl
blinked twice, rapidly, and looked again. Closely this time … to be sure. Oh
yeah, it was him all right, no doubt about it at all.

“Hey,”
the fat kid said as he came closer. The fat bastard was smiling! What the hell!
Did he really think he could get away with it?

“Hey
yourself, and cut the shit,” Carl said, smiling wisely. He pulled a small
pistol from the front of his pants and pointed it at him.

“Hey
… wait!” the fat kid said, as his fat stupid eyes flew open.

“Hey
wait, my ass,” Carl said, “you’ll tell, oh yes indeedy you’ll tell
before we’re through.”

The
fat kid rolled his eyes from the floor, and Carl watched him closely.

“Well?”
Carl asked.

“Yeah,”
the fat kid said, “I did it, I did it, okay?”

Carl
grinned, and then suddenly began to laugh. “I knew it,” he said
between laughs, “I fuckin’ knew it, and I was right… Right, you fat
fuck! I was right all the time, you slimy bastard.”

The
fat kid tried desperately to crawl into the floor. “So-So, can I-I leave?
Can I-I g-go now, please?”

“Yes,”
Carl said as though he were bestowing a great privilege upon him, “you
can, you can go now.”

The
young man on the floor looked suddenly relieved and began to cry. “Oh
thanks, thank you, I thought, I thought…”

Carl
shot him and watched in pleasure as his body jumped. He emptied the clip,
inserted another, and emptied that one as well.

“Well?”
he asked calmly, “are you gone yet? Are you?” Then he began to scream
it as he kicked the fat kid’s lifeless body. “Are you? You cheap lying
cocksucker, are you? … are you? … ARE YOU?”

Carl
Freeman sat quietly in one corner of the room and stared at the fat kid. He
was dead now, really dead. He had caught the last rotten son-of-a-bitch and
killed him, and the whole thing was finally over with. Finally.

“Finally,”
he said aloud. So why didn’t it feel over with? What was this nagging thing
that had so suddenly asserted itself, that kept telling him it was not over
with? What the hell was it that kept saying he had missed something? Maybe
someone? Or something?

And
then a glimmer, a very tiny glimmer, of what it might be, asserted itself.

“No
fuckin’ way,” he said aloud, “I got every fuckin’ one of ’em. Every
one … None left, I got them all.”

Missed
one, his mind said quietly.

“Fuck
you, I did,” he answered,

Did
so.

“Did
fuckin’ not … every one, I got ’em all, I did, I got ’em all.”

Oh
yeah, just one, but you did miss that one, his mind insisted.

“Hey,
fuck that noise, I got ’em all, I tell you, all…”

Just
one. One, and you have to get that one.

“Okay
… okay, you’re so fuckin’ smart, you tell me. Which one huh? You fuckin’
smart-ass, which one?”

“Me,”
the fat kid said from the floor.

Carl
jumped to his feet and ran to the kid’s body. He kicked it, it didn’t move.
“I did get you, you stupid fuck! I mean, can’t you see that? You’re dead
… deader than a fuckin’ door-nail. Can’t you see that?” he kicked him
again, and stepped backwards, waiting, watching.

You
missed all of them … you were tricked … that ain’t him, neither were the
others, the little voice inside his mind said.

“He’s right you know,” the fat kid
said from the floor. “I ain’t me.”

“Oh,”
Carl said, suddenly smiling, “I see, you two assholes got together, and
decided to try and make me think I was losing it … I see. Well,” he
suddenly screamed, “FUCK YOU. FUCK BOTH OF YOU. I ain’t that stupid,”
he finished quietly. The fat kid said nothing, neither did the other guy.

“See?”
he said, “Busted you, right? I knew it you shit-heads. I knew it, didn’t
trick me, uh uh, didn’t trick me at all,” he stuck out his tongue at the
fat kid as he finished, uncertain of where the other guy was, or he would have
done the same to him too. He waited a second, but neither of them seemed to
have anything further to add, and so he walked from the room, opened the front
door of the house cautiously, peered around outside, and then left. The coast
was clear, and he was out of here. Man, fuck this talking dead-guy shit. They
were dead, every last one of them was dead…

And
if they aren’t?

“Oh,
fuck you with that If they aren’t shit.”

But
if they aren’t…? Nothing to do but kill them again, right…?

“Right,”
Carl Freeman agreed, as he walked off down the street; glancing nervously from
house to house as he went. “Fuckin-A-Right.”

THREE

The
Church of Brother John Cutter

The small makeshift church was filled with
nearly fifty devoted followers of Brother John Cutter, and the resounding Amen
reverberated loudly in the small space.

Brother
Cutter looked down from the hastily constructed pulpit, his eyes searching the
small assemblage, seeming to bore into them in fact.

“Praise,
God’uh!” Brother cutter nearly screamed from the pulpit, as he held his
outstretched arms high into the air. A virtual chorus of ‘Amen’ greeted him in
return.

He
had been expounding on the evils of sin for close to three hours now, whipping
the small church into a frenzy.

“Praise
God,” he said in a much calmer voice, “praise his holy name’uh.”
He paused and once again, his small brown eyes seemed to sweep the crowd, as if
he could look into the very souls of all those assembled.

A
tall young man sat quietly beside him in a folding wooden chair. He had been
there from the start of the sermon, and no explanation had been given as to why
he was there. Several in the crowd were curious, and as Brother Cutter turned
to the man now and asked him to rise, silence dropped over those assembled, and
they waited, hanging on Brother Cutter’s words.

“Brethren,
I would suppose that your curiosity’uh has been peaked by the presence of our
visitor here today’uh,” he stared expectantly out into the crowd. Silence
greeted his stare.

“You
know, brethren, this reminds me of what Jesus said in Matthew seven, verse
seven.” There was a small pause, the silence broken only by the rustle of
quickly turned pages as the flock opened their bibles and thumbed their way to
the passage.

“Praise
God’uh,” Brother Cutter said, in a low voice, “praise God,” his
voice suddenly boomed out in the small church. “And Jesus said; ‘Ask and
it shall be given you: Seek and ye shall find: Knock and it shall be opened
unto you:’… Brethren, I stand before you today, to tell you that Jesus has
answered our prayers. Amen’uh. Jesus has heard on the Throne of Heaven of our outpouring and has sent an answer to our prayer. Can you give me an Amen,
brethren?”

“Amen,”
the crowd screamed into the silence.

“Yes,
Amen’uh, Jesus has sent us a message, brethren, and do you know what that
message is, brethren?” he paused and swept his eyes across the small crowd
once more. The silence spun out, and when Brother Cutter spoke again his voice
was low, and many strained forward, hanging on his words.

“Brethren,
the world has gone away. The world we know is no more, brethren, and His time
has come,” his voice rose slowly as he spoke, “Amen and praise be to
God’uh, but Jesus has answered our prayers, brethren, yes indeed, Jesus has
placed a mark upon the beast and all those that follow the beast, and Jesus has
revealed that mark to us, brethren.” His voice rose even higher, until he
was nearly screaming in the small space. “And do you know how I know this?
Because Jesus has chosen to reveal this mark to the faithful … to us,
brethren … us, the only true faithful left in his church, brethren, and
praise God’uh, he has sent forth his messenger to us,” he turned to the
young man, and beckoned him to stand with one outstretched hand. He stood and
smiled out at the crowd.

“Brother
Carl has a message, brethren, a message from God’uh. And I want you all to pay
close attention, brethren, because Jesus is listening, and Jesus is paying
attention, and Jesus is counting on us, brethren,” his voice dropped back
down to a near whisper. “So listen, brethren, and listen well.”

The
silence stretched out as Brother Cutter stepped away from the pulpit, and Carl
Freeman took his place. He stared out at the small crowd, his eyes sweeping
back and forth, and then he began to speak in a calm and clear voice.

When
Brother Carl Freeman finished talking, the small church was silent for a few
seconds, before a thunderous chorus of ‘Amen’ suddenly issued forth from the
congregation.

Brother
Cutter smiled widely at Carl Freeman, from beside the pulpit, and Carl smiled
back, every bit as widely. Carl left the small pulpit, walked to the wide front
doors, threw them open, and stepped out into the bright sunshine beyond them.

The
congregation followed, quieter now, but still lost in the throes of excitement.
The anticipation of what was to come, the promise that brother Carl had told
them of. The chorus of Amen followed them outside as they poured from the small
church, and followed Carl Freeman down the wide street, to wherever he might
lead them.

Carl
Freeman thought to himself as he walked. It was funny really, for just as short
as a few days before, he hadn’t been able to think clearly at all, let alone
know anything for sure. But that had been before God had come to see him, and
that had been really weird-he thought now-at first anyhow. Carl freeman hadn’t
even believed in God, and so, he had reasoned, what the hell would God be
coming to talk about with him?

He
had had this thought as God was standing right in front of him, and
apparently-besides punishing sinners, and creating worlds, and stars, and all
the other thing’s he had supposedly made-God could also read minds. Or, at
least he could read Carl’s mind.

“Because
I was in the neighborhood,” God had said. Apparently, God had a sense of
humor too, Carl had thought. The next thing God had said had caused him to snap
to attention though.

“You
fucked things up pretty good,” God had said, as he blocked the sidewalk in
front of Carl, and refused to step aside.

Carl
had been thinking about stepping around him, but every time he jogged to the
left or right, God jogged with him. Once God had said that though, Carl had
taken a better, and longer, look at him.

“Okay
… so if you’re God, what are you doing cussin’?” Carl had asked.

“Basically,
because you really pissed me off, Carl, and I get that way when people piss me
off. I get that way when people really fuck up simple jobs as badly as you
did.”

As
God had been speaking, Carl had been watching him closely, and God was pissed
off, Carl had decided, mad, you could tell that easily, by the way he was
looking at him, with his head cocked just so, and little runners of spittle
flying from his mouth as he spoke. Carl began to try to figure out what it was
he could have possibly done to piss him off, when he didn’t even believe in
him, and therefore, in his mind, shouldn’t have to answer to him for anything.
God had cut him off, before he could think the thing out though, and truthfully
the way he had been then, before God had come along, it probably would have
taken him awhile to think it all out, if ever. Before God had finished
speaking, he had magically produced a thick stack of glossy photographs, from
within one of the folds of the robe he was wearing and stuck them almost
directly under Carl’s nose.

“Do
you know whose pictures these are? God had asked.

“Yours?”
Carl asked, seriously. That had caused God to chuckle a little, and he had at
least quit spitting on Carl as he talked.

“Yes,
mine, but look at them, Carl, do you know who these people are … the people
in the pictures.” He had thrust the thick stack of pictures into one of
Carl’s hands as he finished, and then simply sat down on the sidewalk. Carl sat
down too, he didn’t want to make him any madder, after all. Moreover, he did
look, but damned if any of them looked the slightest bit familiar at all.

“Nope,”
he had told God honestly, “don’t know any of them at all … never seen
’em before.” Carl finished positively and handed the photos back to God.
God had refused to take them.

“Look
again,” God demanded, and so Carl had, but they still didn’t look even
remotely familiar to him, and he told God so. But then, God had done something
funny, really funny. He had taken one hand and placed it softly against the
side of Carl’s head, and said, “Look again Carl,” and so he had.
Slowly, taking a little more time with each one, and son-of-a-bitch, if they
had not begun to come back to him. Suddenly, he not only knew those people, but
he knew their names as well. Hell, it had almost been like he had grown up with
them. He knew them that well. Once it came clear, he started over again, even
slower than before, and named each one as he looked at thee picture, all the
while with God holding that hand ever so softly up against the side of his
head. The right side of his head, he recalled now, and as he walked along, he
touched it, to see if it was still tender to the touch. It wasn’t, but it had
been for a few days after the meeting with God.

“Good,”
God had said, after Carl was finished, and had named each person in each of the
pictures. God had taken the pictures back and slipped them quickly inside the
same fold in the robe, that he had taken them from, before he had continued.

It
had been hot, really hot, sitting on that sidewalk with the sun shining down.
Carl had been sweating, and not just a little, but God hadn’t been. He seemed
cool as a cucumber sitting there, just sitting there talking to Carl, as if
they were buddies or something, and as if they had known each other forever, or
close to it.

“Okay,”
God had said finally, “here’s the deal, Carl. These people are really bad
people, really bad, Carl, in fact they pissed me off even more than you did,
and do you have the slightest idea what happens when you make me that mad Carl?
Do you?”

“Uh
uh,” Carl had said.

“Well,
it’s simple, Carl, I fry them. Just fry them, Carl, and I can do that, Carl,
because I’m God, wanna see?”

He
had opened his mouth, meaning to say no, and instead he had said yes, and then
quickly snapped his mouth closed over his traitorous tongue, before it could
say anymore.

God
had quickly produced the photos once more, sat them calmly between them, and
pointed one long and narrow finger at them. Not much happened for a few split
seconds, and Carl had been just about to look away, when suddenly a small blue
streak of lightning had jumped from the end of that finger, and the photo’s
hadn’t simply burned they had exploded into ashes, covering both of them with
small streaks of black, and fluttering up into the sky on the light breeze that
was blowing.

“Holy
jeezly crow,” Carl had exclaimed. God had simply chuckled again, and then
stared hard at Carl.

“What
about you, Carl?” God had asked, “Would you like to be forgiven, or
would you like to go up in smoke … makes no difference to me at all, you
know, and I really do have an awful lot to get done today. In fact, I have to
see a man about a boat. Maybe do a little sailing myself. So much to do, and so
little time to do it.” He had paused and looked down at one wrist, where a
cracked and rusty Timex, ticked importantly. “Well?”

Carl
licked his lips. “Forgiven,” he had said quickly.

“Well
don’t you want to know what you did wrong, Carl?”

“Uh,
sure,” Carl had said, “but whatever it was I’m sorry, I didn’t mean
to do it.” At that point, God had had him worried, and he had glanced
nervously down at the sidewalk where the little lightning bolt had hit. It was
burned and blackened, and a small crater had been chipped out of the concrete,
he had seen, and that had been just a little lightning bolt, what would a big
one do? Carl had wondered.

“Well,
it’s simple, Carl … you went after the wrong people, see?” God had
asked. And at first Carl hadn’t seen, hadn’t been able to see it, but then God
had put his hand back there, really lightly on the side of his head, and he had
seen. He had seen very clearly.

“You
see Carl, it was them, and no one else, but It’s okay,” God had gone on to
explain, “because you can make it right, can’t you?”

The
hand had still been resting lightly against the side of Carl’s head, very
lightly, almost … almost as lightly as Carl imagined a butterfly would rest
on the side of your head, if one ever did. And he had agreed that he could make
it right, and he could. He knew he could, and it would be easy, because God
didn’t intend to make him do it all alone, oh no, God intended to give him some
help, a lot of help, and there would be quite a few others who would be willing
to help too, once it was explained to them what needed to be done. And God had
gone on to tell him just where he could find those people, those others, who
would help him, and… And here he was with them. God had been right.

After
God had finished telling him where he would find those people, he had paused,
and waited until Carl looked at him.

“That’s
it, Carl,” God had said calmly, “except two things. First; don’t
screw it up this time,” he had stared hard, his eyes like flint, and Carl
had quickly muttered that he wouldn’t think of it at all, not at all. God did
not have to tell him what the consequences would be; his eyes said it all, as
far as Carl was concerned. “Second,” God said, “is this.”

He
had reached forward while they were talking, and now he held one of Carl’s
fingers–the index of the left hand to be precise–in one of his hands. Gently
at first, and then… “I believe I’ll keep this with me,” God had
continued, and then he had simply torn the finger from Carl’s hand.

Blood
had jetted out from the ragged hole between the webbing of the now empty space
on that hand, and splashed out onto the sidewalk, and it hurt, it had hurt
badly, but Carl had quickly clamped his mouth shut over the scream of pain that
had been about to come flying out. Clamped it shut, and kept it shut, and had
quickly folded that hand into his other.

“You
can have it back,” God had finished with a smile, “when you’re ready
Carl.” And then God had simply disappeared, leaving Carl sitting
cross-legged on the sidewalk, and holding his bloodied hand.

Carl
held the hand up and looked at it, as he walked down the roadway. It was
scabbing over now, but it still hurt. As far as Carl was concerned, God was
nobody to mess with, and he had probably got off lucky, him just taking the
finger, and being happy with that, and nothing more. And, he had said he could
have it back when he was ready, whatever that was supposed to mean, and so
really it was more like he had only borrowed it, not taken it forever, and that
was at least something, Carl thought. He smiled.

He
had found Brother Cutter the next day, and that had been a strange experience,
as Cutter had been expecting him. God had told him he would be coming, and
Cutter had welcomed him warmly. Cutter was missing two fingers, both index
fingers, and so, Carl figured, but didn’t ask, he must have really pissed God
off. And here they were now, better than fifty people following behind them,
fifty devoted people, Carl corrected himself, finally about to leave Boulder.
They were heading towards I36, and there they would find some means of
transportation, to take all of them to … to…? He didn’t know. Not exactly,
anyway, and neither did Cutter, he’d asked him, but it really didn’t matter,
not that much anyway. There would be some form of transportation. Most likely a
bus, considering how many of them there were, and it would take them to the
others, all those photos he had seen, to them, wherever it was that they were.
And then he would kill them, just like God had told him to, and then he’d get
his finger back, also like God had promised, and that would be the end of it.
Over, done with, finished, kaput, Carl thought, and smiled as he walked along.

I36
was weed choked and totally deserted once Carl Freeman, Brother Cutter beside
him, and the small congregation finally arrived. However, Carl knew that God
would be along soon, despite the deserted look to the highway. After all, God
had promised, and God, Carl knew, didn’t lie, not ever.

The
congregation immediately began singing hymns by the roadside, their voices
rising up into the clear air.

We
Shall Overcome, drifted into Jesus Is My Lord, and so on and so on. Cutter
seemed to find pleasure in the singing, but it irritated Carl. So much so that
he was very close to screaming at them to get them to stop, when he heard the
far away scream of what sounded like a jet engine. It grew closer by the
second.

The
congregation stopped singing of their own accord, the last chorus of The Old
Rugged Cross, dying on their lips as the distant sound increased, and finally
drowned them out.

Cutter,
he had drifted over and began singing with them, stopped as well, and they all
turned expectantly, staring down the road in the direction the sound was coming
from.

The
distant scream finally turned to a distant roar, and then to a nearby roar, and
finally to a high-pitched whining roar, as the vehicle-Carl could think of no
words to adequately describe what it was producing the sound, appeared in a
shimmer of heat and rushed towards them at an impossible rate of speed.

Speed
of light or sound maybe, Carl thought, whichever it was that was faster, he
didn’t know. Whatever, the thing was really moving, and the closer it came, the
stranger it appeared.

It
had a car-like front end, that flared up and outward, away from the absolutely
black glass of the windshield, and it looked better than twelve feet high.
Eight sets of dual tires lined each side, starting just behind the first door,
ending just behind the eighth door, and it took up a lane and a half of the hot
asphalt it was hurtling across as it came towards them.

Apparently,
Carl thought, God was also a car nut, or a good body man, or both, or at least
he knew somebody who was.

The
high-pitched whine increased as the car grew closer, and the roar
simultaneously dropped off. The car, which he could clearly see now had at
least begun life as a Lincoln, coasted slowly to a stop, and the high-pitched
whine began to wind down, until it finally died away. All was silent. Even the
excited conversation from the congregation had ceased, Carl realized.

As
he watched, the front driver’s door opened, and God stepped out onto the road,
he flexed his long legs, stretched and yawned, and then walked slowly forward.

“How
do?” he said, smiling at the congregation.

The
congregation had not met God, Carl knew, like he and Cutter had, and so they
were understandably shocked when he walked up and introduced himself. One by
one, he shook their hands, as he smiled into their stunned faces.

“God,
glad to meet you,” he said, as he walked along shaking hands. He smiled
serenely; his black hair seemed to shine with a brilliance all to itself,
almost blue in its intensity. His black eyes commanded those he stopped before
to look into them.

Sister
Mary Ellen-she had been leading the singing-fainted dead away as God shook her hand and collapsed onto the hot asphalt.

God
turned to Cutter, who was now standing close to Carl. “Brother, I believe
Sister Mary Ellen could use a hand there,” he said, and arched his
eyebrows. He went on shaking hands, as Carl helped Cutter drag the good sister
to the side of the road.

Carl
turned back towards the car where it sat straddling both lanes of blacktop and watched as the doors along the sides of the long gray Lincoln opened. A virtual
flood of people stepped out onto the road and walked slowly towards God, where
he stood still shaking hands. Kids, women, men, some clothed, some naked, all
smiling, as they walked forward.

God
finally finished making the rounds and walked over to where Carl stood at the
side of the road with Cutter, who was still on his knees trying to revive
Sister Mary Ellen.

“Get
that fat bitch up and moving,” God hissed in a barely audible whisper, a
smile still plastered across his face. Cutter smiled sickly, and Carl quickly
squatted and began slapping the good Sister’s face. God waited patiently, the
smile never faltering, and after a couple of hard whacks, Carl finally managed
to bring her around and get her to her feet. She was none too steady, weaving a
little, but she was up, and Carl looked hopefully at God.

“Keep
her up,” God said, through that impossibly wide smile. He then turned
away, walked to the center of the road, and began to speak. He held up his
hands for silence, although to Carl it was a useless gesture, he already had
silence, dead silence.

Several
of the men and women-and a couple of the kids as well, Carl saw-that had been
in the car, were returning from the trunk area with folding chairs, a huge roll
of canvas, and what looked to Carl to be enough staging and lights for a rock
concert. The trunk of the Lincoln, which seemed to Carl to have no bottom at
all, also produced several coolers, a large stainless steel kitchen setup, and
all manner of lumber: Sheets of plywood; massive framing lumber, and some of
the people from the car began to assemble a small stage in the center of the
road as God began to speak.

Carl
was impressed, so much so that when Sister Mary Ellen fainted once again, he
nearly lost his grip and allowed her to crash to the ground. He and Cutter
struggled momentarily, and finally managed to get her reasonably upright.

“Folks,”
God began in a loud and clear voice, “I suppose you’re all wondering
what’s going on behind me here.” He turned and indicated the stage area,
which, Carl noticed, as his eyes followed God’s pointing finger, was nearly
assembled already, although he hadn’t heard a single sound, not so much as a
scrape of wood across the asphalt, or one single hammer blow.

“I
thought,” God continued, “that it would be nice to have a little
service before we get underway. And these fine people are going to provide a
little shade and comfort for us.” He paused as he was handed a microphone,
a fat foam cap fitted snugly over the top. A slight whine of feedback cut
sharply through the still air, and God smiled a little wider. Sharp rows of
teeth resided behind that smile, Carl saw. Very sharp, and very many rows. He
turned to Cutter, but Cutter had a huge smile plastered across his face, and it
didn’t seem as though he had even noticed the teeth at all.

“So,”
God shouted, cutting through the whine, “let’s have a round of applause for
the road crew.”

A
huge roar went up, and as Carl looked around it seemed that everyone was
smiling now. Smiling and weeping, and applauding God as he stood before the
stage. The canvas had been unrolled, Carl saw now, and had been stretched
tightly over a steel framework that had been assembled. Everyone was walking forward and lining the folding chairs up under the cool shade of the canvas in
neat orderly rows. Carl went forward, he and Cutter, dragging the good Sister
with them, and set up their three chairs near the front of the stage area.

The
huge steel coolers were brought up to the front, sat down and opened. Cold cans
of beer were rapidly handed from person to person from front to rear. Carl
looked at the label, God’s Own, he saw, in bright red letters on a gold
background. He passed the beer back, and eventually received his own. Next came
about a ton of waxed paper wrapped sandwiches, passed from front to back as the
beer had been.

“Tuna-fish,”
The stagehand said, winking, as he handed the sandwiches out.

Carl
took his sandwich, and watched as God mounted the stage, a cold beer and a
sandwich in his own hands and waited for the rustle of waxed paper to quiet
before he spoke.

Huge
towers of speakers rose on both sides of the stage, Carl noticed, he hadn’t
even seen those go up at all, and God’s voice came through them in a near roar.

“You
hungered,” God screamed into the microphone, “and I did feed
you.” A huge round of applause swept over Carl’s head.

God
raised his voice and yelled over the wave over noise. “You thirsted, and I
did slake that thirst.” If anything, the applause increased in tempo, Carl
thought. He looked down and was surprised to see that he too was applauding,
fast and furious. Slamming his hands together, they were bright red from the
effort. God waited for the applause to die down somewhat before he spoke again.

His
voice was lower, and solemn. “Eat … drink,” he said raising both
hands. He stepped back from the microphone, and began to eat, staring out into
the audience as he did. Carl gulped down his sandwich, following God’s example.

God
had virtually stuffed his into his mouth whole, and then he had quickly chugged
the beer behind it, crumpled the thin can, and dropped it onto the stage.

All
around him Carl heard the sound of crinkling aluminum, and then the faint clink
as the empty cans hit the asphalt. The sandwich had been horrible. It did have
a slightly fishy odor, but it hadn’t tasted, as far as Carl was concerned,
anything like tuna-fish at all. More like a cross between shit and garlic, or
something pretty damn close. All around him though, the sandwiches were
devoured with great relish, and loud lip smacking. Maybe the beer would be
better, he thought, maybe he could rinse the horrible taste of the sandwich
away.

He
upended the can as he watched a small group set up a large wooden cross on the stage and drained it dry. The beer tasted like cold piss, he thought, although
he had never precisely tasted cold piss, it did taste like what he thought cold
piss would taste like.

Carl
crumpled the can and dropped it to the sawdust-strewn floor. He did a quick
double take, but his eyes had not deceived him, he could smell the sawdust, and
when he reached down and picked up a small handful, he had to admit-if only to
himself-that it even felt like sawdust. He dropped the sawdust back to the floor and rubbed his hands briskly against his jeans. It had left an
unpleasant greasy feeling behind.

The
cross was up now, he saw, as his eyes swung back to the stage. Standing
upright, dead center, braced on all four sides, and it looked to be better than
ten feet from the floor to the cross of the tee.

And
just what in hell did God intend to do with that? Carl wondered.

A
high squeal of feedback once again pierced Carl’s ears, as God stepped closer
to the microphone. God’s slick black eyes swept across the audience, seeming to
touch on each member as they passed by, and finally stopped on Carl.

“Carl
Freeman folks!” God yelled into the microphone. “Carl come on up
here, would you?” A huge round of applause greeted Carl as he quickly
stood, heart hammering in his chest, and walked to the small stage. He climbed
the steps and walked across what seemed like two thousand feet of open stage,
before he finally reached God’s side, and halted, unsure of what to do next.

God
slipped one arm around Carl’s shoulders and hugged him. “Brother Carl
Freeman folks, let’s hear it!”

The
audience went nuts, Carl could see it no other way, they jumped from their
seats, stood, and gave him an ovation, clapping wildly as they did. God’s arm
still rested reassuringly around Carl’s shoulder.

God
leaned towards the Microphone again. “A couple of volunteers please,”
he screamed above the roar of the crowd.

Two
large men stood from their chairs and headed toward the stage. The larger one
was one of the men Carl had seen get out of the car, and he was still
buck-naked. The other was from Brother Cutter’s congregation.

The
crowd continued to clap and cheer, as the two men mounted the stage-even Sister
Mary Ellen had awakened and was apparently over her initial fright. She was
standing and beginning to applaud wildly too, a small dab of shit and garlic
sandwich smeared in one corner of her mouth, her crumpled beer can just falling
to the sawdust strewn floor.

Carl
had finally thought to wonder just what the hell was going on, when God’s arm
suddenly left his shoulders, and the two men stepped up beside him, each
grabbing one arm firmly. No light hold here either, their grips were like iron,
Carl couldn’t move his upper body at all. God nodded, still smiling widely, far
too many of those wickedly sharp teeth showing, and the two men lifted Carl
from the floor and carried him quickly to the cross. Halfway there it finally
dawned on Carl, and he began to fight.

It
was no use at all. The one man, the naked one from the car, clubbed him square
in the middle of his forehead with one meaty fist, and the world went a little
gray for a while.

He
watched, as if from somewhere above and removed from himself, as the two men
climbed carefully up some small step ladders, which had been set up near the
cross, and nailed first one, and then the other hand onto the cross. Big nails,
Carl saw, really big.

The
pain as the nails were suddenly driven deeply through his palms and into the
wood, helped a little to clear his mind, but it was too little, and it was much
too late. As the two men struggled to hold his feet against the post, God
stepped up to the microphone. He once again had to shout to be heard above the
roar coming from the crowd.

“Now
in three days…” God began, as the sharp point of a nail was placed
solidly against one of Carl’s feet. “This man, Carl Freeman…”

The
nail was driven home by one of the men, with a heavy blow from a wooden mallet.

The
pain was exquisite, all encompassing, and this time the world didn’t just gray,
it blacked. Carl Freeman sagged on the cross, and the crowd went wild.

Carl
Freeman finally forced his eyes to open. He stared down off the cross, directly
into the eyes of the tall naked man who had come in the car.

The
man held a long steel tipped spear in one outstretched hand, and he jabbed at
Carl’s side as God spoke from behind him. Carl flinched, and cried out as the
spear tip pierced his side. The man withdrew it and placed it firmly against
the center of his chest.

The
audience was still standing, Carl saw, and the cheering was so loud that God
very nearly had to scream to make himself heard. The steel kitchen setup was up
and running, smoke drifting lazily from the grill tops, as Carl looked, but as
of yet nothing was cooking on it that he could see.

A
horrible suspicion began to gnaw away at him as God’s voice suddenly leapt from
the tall columns of speakers on either side of the stage.

“This
I give freely to you,” God shouted, “so that all may live.” The
roar from the crowd climbed even higher in pitch.

“We
shall eat of this flesh,” God told them, “Take nourishment from
it.” The microphone squealed with feedback. “In three days, my
sacrifice to you, so that all may live, will live again,” God’s voice
sounded hoarse as it fell on Carl’s ears, and he began to squirm in a frenzy as
it became clear to him what was about to happen.

“This
shall be a sign unto all, from me,” God finished.

The
crowd roared even louder, their combined voices sounding more like the roar of
a hurricane now, an impossibly violent and loud hurricane.

God
turned and nodded at the man, as Carl watched, and the sharp point of the spear
was forcefully driven home.

Carl’s
lungs suddenly froze. He felt the spear tip pierce his heart, push through, and
exit his back. It took forever, it seemed, to punch its way through his chest,
yet it ended amazingly quickly. Split seconds really, he thought, and…

His
eyes grew dim quickly, the roar of the crowd beginning to fade away, to seem
less important somehow. Within seconds, they slipped shut, a huge gush of blood
shot from his throat, and Carl Freeman died.

GOD

FOUR

God
stood before the cross that still held what was left of Carl Freeman. One long
leg bone had fallen away, and lay in front of the cross, but the rest of him
was still there, sort of. God found it extremely amusing. He kicked the bone,
which appeared to have been gnawed on, aside, and laughed aloud as it skated
off the edge of the stage.

The
crowd came awake quickly; excited whispers began to float among them as they
searched for their clothes and righted the tumbled chairs. Most gave up on
their clothes, simply content on dragging their chairs close to the stage, to
see what sort of wondrous thing would happen next.

“Okee
dokee, friends and neighbors,” God said in a near whisper into the
microphone. “Show time!” The last he nearly screamed, and the
congregation responded with enthusiastic clapping, and hoarse shouts.

“First,” he lowered his voice, which
caused the crowd to quiet down once more, “let’s talk a little, shall
we?” he stood back waiting for the crowd to silence itself.

Several,
brother Cutter among them, either hadn’t heard, or had stupidly decided to
ignore the pause for silence.

“Brother
Cutter,” God said into the microphone. Cutter, startled, looked quickly
around. The rest of the crowd fell silent. “I said quiet, shhhhhsh,”
God said softly, “and that means you too, okay?”

“Yes,
I…” Cutter started.

“I
meant it, silence, now!” God screamed.

Cutter’s
mouth slammed shut, and not of its own volition either. It took the better part
of his tongue with it. A steady stream of blood began to seep from his pursed
lips, and drip to the floor.

“Good,
now let’s have that little talk. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves, sincerely,
I do, but that shit’s over now. Now it’s time to pay for the party so to
speak,” his voice rose as he spoke, until he was once again nearly
screaming, “can I get an Amen?”

“Amen!”
the crowd screamed back. God looked them over. They sounded enthusiastic, but
their eyes told a different story altogether.

“Okay,”
God said in a much lower voice. “We’ll all be going to wherever our
services are needed the most, right after were done here this morning. I of
course, will choose who goes where. There is a job for each one of you folks,
so don’t worry about being left out. You are all equally important to me.
And!” he held up one hand for silence, as he raised his voice. “There
will be a whole lot of plusses for you fine folks. You can do whatever you want
to the folks I’m sending you against. Be inventive, use your imagination, there
may be prizes at the end, you never know. In short, I could care less how you
kill them, so long as you do, and so long as you kill as many as you can, as
quickly as you can,” he paused as the crowd cheered.

God
looked around at them. “Okay, okay,” He yelled, holding his arms up
for quiet. “Later, maybe later today, depends on how good you really
are… Now, I believe I made a certain promise three days ago,” he turned
and pointed one long and thin finger at the cross behind him. “I believe I
told you that in three days’ time, I would bring Brother Freeman back.”
The crowd roared in anticipation.

He
pointed at two of the nearby stagehands. “Take him down and try not to
lose too much of him doing it,” he cackled wildly, slapping his thigh as
he did. The crowd responded with an uneasy burst of nervous laughter.

God
had them lay what was left of Carlin the middle of the highway. God left the
stage and walked to where what was left of Carl Freeman lay. One of the road
crew trotted over with Carl’s leg bones and dropped them next to him.

The
crowd rose from their seats, in order to get a better view. Some seemed
sickened, but nevertheless compelled to watch. Almost needing to. The others
seemed eager, accepting even. No doubt if God suddenly decided to throw them
another human bone, they would be the first to fight for it.

“Okay,
folks, quiet down a little now,” God said quietly. “Are we ready
now?” he asked softly. The crowd screamed.

“Shssshh,”
God said loudly into the microphone. They quickly quieted. “That’s better.
Now we’re going to count to three, and y’all can count right along with me.
Ready, set, go…

One…

Two…

Three,”
he finished quietly.

The
crowd was straining forward.

Nothing
had changed at all, still just bones, and half rotted flesh.

Suddenly
a small cloud of vapor appeared above the pile of bones. Very dimly at first,
but gradually growing in intensity, taking on substance and color as it did.
The crowd oohed and awed.

The
resurrection continued: Greenish-blue, and much more solid in appearance now,
swirling, as if tiny little windstorms resided within the mist. Within seconds,
it completely covered the area above Carl, and then it began to sink towards
him, still swirling as it did.

A
large but soft, Ooohh, Aaahh, came from the crowd, as the mist sank lower, and
then completely covered the body.

It
was a mist; the bones that resided beneath it seemed to begin knitting
themselves back together from nothing, or maybe from something within the mist
itself. The foot bones in Carl’s left foot suddenly began to vibrate, move, and
small bits of muscle and flesh began to form on and over the bones and creep up
that leg.

And
now the crowd was Ooohh-ing, and Aaahh-ing every other second, it seemed. As
they watched the flesh slipped up over Carl’s hips and continued onward.

A
few seconds later, it was done, and the greenish-blue mist dissolved as
suddenly as it had come.

The
crowd fell expectantly silent. The flesh was back, but Carl wasn’t moving. God
smiled widely as he walked to the body-the rows of teeth glinting in the
morning sunlight-and moved his hands through the air in front of them. Slowly,
mystically. He backed away, and the crowd’s attention was once again riveted on
Carl.

And
then Carl came back, his arms flinging out in a parody of the position they had
been nailed into, and then he quickly drew them back, gathered them to him. He
sat staring at the palms, and then his hands. Seemingly counting the fingers on
his hands. They were all there, Carl noticed, even the one that had been
missing to begin with.

“Well?”
God asked softly through the microphone. The crowd cheered enthusiastically.
God stepped back away from the microphone stand and bowed deeply, and again,
before he turned and walked to Carl and tugged him to his feet. Carl was
crying, and he hugged God fiercely.

Once
the crowd quieted, God proceeded to call names out, and as the people left the
audience and mounted the stage, he sent them in one of two directions. Carl
stood alone. God sent no one towards him at all, Carl noticed. He stood alone
on the far side of the stage and waited until everyone else had been called.

In
the end there were two large groups and Carl who still stood alone, Carl was
more than a little concerned.

“You’ll
excuse us for a moment.” God said. He approached the one large crowd and
suddenly they disappeared, God with them.

Just
as the crowd began to whisper nervously to one another, God suddenly
reappeared. This time next to the other large group. He smiled, stepped a bit
closer, and then the entire crowd disappeared.

Carl
gasped, completely surprised, and now more than worried. This was beginning to
remind him of how this had started. He had called Carl up all alone, and… And
he pushed the thought from his mind. He didn’t want to think about it. He had
known God could read minds, but he had given it absolutely no consideration at
all. He should have, he told himself now. Maybe God intended to make him pay
for that temporary lapse in judgment.

Even
the stage crew was gone, possibly back in the Lincoln, or maybe even with God,
Carl didn’t know.

Fuck
it, he thought. He crossed the stage and grabbed one of the cans from the still
full steel cooler, opened it with a small hiss, and downed it. He half expected
God to reappear as he was drinking the beer and ask him just what the hell he
thought he was doing. He didn’t. And so, when he had finished the first one, he
opened another, debated, and then sat down next to the cooler.

Morning
turned to afternoon, afternoon to late afternoon, and then twilight set in. The
pile of cans beside the cooler had grown immensely, still no God, however. Carl
drained the can he was holding, tossed it aside, and reached for another. If
only the stuff could put a buzz on, he thought.

It
was well into darkness, when God finally returned. Appearing on the far side of
the stage, facing him, as if he had known exactly where he would be.

“Just
you now, Carl,” God said, as he walked across the stage towards him. The
stagehands were back now, Carl saw, busily disassembling the speaker towers,
and picking up the folding chairs. An old man, bent nearly double at the waist,
slowly swept the sawdust from under the canvas, his back twisted and hunched.
Carl looked back, God was directly in front of him, smiling. He reached down,
took one of Carl’s hands, and pulled him to his feet.

Carl
glanced over at the cross, and then back at God.

Some
time later…

Carl Freeman walked slowly down the
interstate. Pitch black now, the sun had set in all its glory just a short time
ago.

He was alone now, the others had simply cut
him loose, and really, he couldn’t blame them. He’d fucked up real bad this
time, and he was sure, that had they stayed with him, they too would be made to
pay.

Pay what?

No idea. But with God, it wouldn’t, couldn’t,
be good. God was going to be real pissed off about this, and, Carl figured, he
had good reason to be.

God had brought him there, told him they were
coming, told him what to do, and he had fucked it up. And he couldn’t recall
exactly why he had done that. The guy had made him mad sure, but that mad? Had
there been anything to really worry about? Could there be with God on your
side? And just why? Why, why and why, had he shot him?

The devil made you do it, his mind whispered,
tell him that.

Sure, except he was pretty fucking sure now
that God, wasn’t God. That maybe God was the devil, so…?

His mind had no snappy comeback for that, his
mind seemed to have shut up completely in fact. “Good fucking deal,”
he muttered aloud, “about time.”

Carl walked along musing quietly about God
and the Devil and wondering just why in the hell he had killed the guy, when
God, or whoever God really was, had told him not to. Specifically told him not
to. He could come up with no explanation at all, it made no sense, and what
would God do? Take the finger back? Maybe two this time? More than two?

No answer, that smart-ass section of his mind
was still closed down. Not even any doom and gloom forecasts, nothing at all.

He walked a few more steps, and then suddenly
stopped dead. It was still almost pitch black, only a slight glow from the
cloud-covered moon to light his way, and something, somebody, was here with
him. He could feel them. It?

He peered into the darkness, trying to see.
Shadows, deep and dark woods on both sides of him, and shadows everywhere. But,
he saw now, more than one of those shadows were moving. Separating from the
dark screen of trees, and moving towards him. And ahead, standing just ahead of
him, was God.

He had appeared from nowhere at all. Carl
tried, but he couldn’t get his throat to work. The words he wanted to speak
were stuck somehow, jammed in there, they wouldn’t come out.

“Carl,” God said mildly, “is
something wrong, Carl? Something you would like to tell me about, Carl?”

The shadows were closer now, separated fully
from the woods, and Carl could see plainly that it was Cutter’s congregation.
They hadn’t cut him loose after all, they had followed, he thought now.
Followed and kept him in sight until God could get here. “Oh Jesus,”
Carl muttered aloud, in a whisper croak.

“Jesus can’t help you now, Carl,”
God told him, “not at all.”

God’s hands moved, a quick blur, and they
were on him. Sinking into his collar bones, grinding into his collar bones, and
lifting him from the ground. He heard them snap as God’s hands closed tighter,
first one then the other. Snap… Snap. Insignificant, tiny little snaps, yet
impossibly loud somehow. Ringing in his ears. And the congregation was closing
in. Standing all around them, as God held him high in the air, lifted him
higher still, and then suddenly flung him to the pavement. A wide smile plastered
across his face, all those wickedly sharp teeth glinting in the sparse light.
The congregation fell on him then, and just before the dark curtain of
unconsciousness descended completely, he could feel the sharp little bites, as
they began to rip at his flesh. Feel the tugging as they ripped at his clothes,
shredded his clothes, and began on his body, and he could see God as he stood
watching. Still smiling. Still flashing all those sharp yellowed teeth…

The Buzzards

FIVE

Carl Freeman came to slowly, his hands still
clutched tightly across his face.

They had gone for the eyes.

Fuck that! They had gone for all sorts of
things, but he couldn’t protect it all. Without eyes you couldn’t see, even an
idiot knew that, and so he had protected those and let them have the rest. The
hands were in bad shape, he could feel that.

He could also tell that it was morning, or
close to it, the red screen beyond his eyes, beyond the hands that covered his
eyes, told him that. But the hands had done their job. If he could see that red
screen, then he could see, and so if they were a bit ripped up it was worth it.

The rest of his body hurt too, it wasn’t just
the hands, but he supposed he should still be grateful, after all he hadn’t
expected to live through it. He had been sure they would kill him, and so if he
hurt a little, even if he was banged up pretty good, at least they hadn’t
killed him. He removed his hands, but left the eyes closed.

Ahh, yes, the redness was brighter, not much
brighter, but it had been fairly damn bright to begin with, he opened them
slowly, one at a time, and…

…And looked up into a clear blue sky. Not a
cloud in sight anywhere. Stunningly beautiful, absolutely beautiful, especially
since he hadn’t expected to ever see it again. One lone bird up there, circling
in all that blue, looked like a buzzard for sure, but even that didn’t break
the spell. He’d probably been laying here, unmoving for quite some time, and so
the buzzard had obviously assumed he was a goner. Fuck that though, once he was
up and moving, Mr. Buzzard could take a walk. No free meal today for him, Carl
Freeman assured himself.

He tried to sit.

Well, maybe not totally unhurt, he told
himself. He could feel his legs, but they didn’t seem to want to move for him.

Don’t panic, he told himself, keep a cool
tool Carl, probly broke ’em, or something like that, is all.

He tried to lift his head. It didn’t budge.
It didn’t even try to budge.

Fuck!

Hey, hold on, your hands work, right?

“Yeah,” Carl said aloud, in a
whisper. He hadn’t meant to whisper, in fact he had meant to shout. The buzzard
was dropping lower, and he thought a shout might send him along. Let him know
for sure that Carl Freeman was not road-kill, but his voice didn’t seem to be
working all that well. The hands…?

He brought them up from his side and looked
closely. Blinked, and looked again.

They were fuckticated big time. Really
fuckticated. They weren’t really hands anymore either. They were really nothing
more than bones, tendons, and a few stringy runners of flesh.

Apparently, they had suffered a little more
than he had thought they had, apparently they had suffered greatly, and
apparently they had not suffered alone.

Carl Freeman had always thought there was
just one great big long bone that ran up a person’s arm from the wrist. He saw
now that he had been wrong. There were two, and not great big bones like he had
thought either, pretty skinny thin ones, and.. And how was it that they could
be this bad and still move, Carl? How could that be?

A shadow slipped across his face, before he
could think of an answer, and he dragged his attention back to the sky above.

Mr. Buzzard was coming down quick. No more
than ten feet off the ground now, and circling like a mad bastard as he
spiraled downward. Carl jammed his fingers under the back of his head and tried
to lift it. It came, but barely. He could move the fingers, but apparently,
there was no real strength in them. It came up enough though, enough to get a
good peek at the rest of him. He quickly let go of his head, and it cracked
back down to the pavement.

His swiveled his eyes to the left. Mr.
Buzzard had apparently been cleared to land over there. He glared back at Carl
with his beady little buzzard eyes and strutted importantly, purposely, towards
him.

Carl had gotten a good peek while he had been
holding his head up, and, wasn’t Mr. Buzzard really wasting his time?

He was, the small little voice inside him
agreed, and Carl had to agree right back. He had seen in that little peek that
there was nothing there for him to eat, somebody, or maybe several somebody’s
had beaten him to it, and so how could he disagree.

There was nothing but bone below him, at
least what he could see. White bone, gnawed bone, several different types, but
it was all bone, and there was …

The buzzard was standing over him now, and
Carl really didn’t like the way the son-of-a-bitch was looking at him, not at
all.

“Get,” he whisper-croaked.

No good. The buzzard, Carl was afraid, had
noticed that there was some left. Maybe not the good stuff, maybe not the best
stuff, but still…

A quick blur of movement, and suddenly,
painlessly, the left eye stopped working. He could see why too, the
son-of-a-…

Another quick blur…

It was dark now, totally and utterly, no
redness, no nothing, but he could still feel that little son-of-a-bitch staring
at him up there, and the last thing… The last thing he had seen was his
own…

Ouch! Oh, you bitch, you no good…

I Hope you enjoyed the story. You can get the book free at Amazon with your Kindle Unlimited account:

Mister
Johnson: Short Stories

W.
G. Sweet #KindleUnlimited

This
is a new collection of short stories. They are not similarly themed and
include, #Western (The title story), #apocalyptic #horror #scifi #drama and
more. Six stories total…

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