Estimated reading time — 27 minutes

Read Part One here

THERE ONCE WAS A PREACHER
ALL SKIN AND BONES
NO ONE KNEW HIS FIRST NAME
HIS LAST ONE WAS JONES

This clusterfuck all started on Halloween.

At an emergency Town Hall meeting, we’d all come together to discuss the obvious: we were starving. At the rate we were going, we wouldn’t survive the winter. We argued back and forth, most with our voices, some with sign language. There were some strange people in our town who’d had their vocal cords severed. We called them the Unvoiced, and they called us the Talkies, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I need you to know who I am before a bunch of liars tell you.

My name is Hank McClatchey. I’m forty-six years old, born April 20, and I’ve lived here all my life. Favorite food: fried chicken; favorite drink: beer; favorite song: “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” by Gene Pitney. Truth be told, I thought it was “Liberty Balance” for years and wondered why he was the villain. Old Western ballads and movies have a special place in my heart, where the only thing that can stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. None of this bullshit about “law and order” and “due process.” Those things take time. None of us have much left.

You may wonder why I spend most of my time at the bar instead of farming or on the job. Unlike my father, I never took to farm life – too many chores – and I currently draw a pension because of my bad leg. Took a bullet to it in the line of duty, and now it has a huge ulcer even though the bullet’s gone. Yep, I used to be a cop. My leg isn’t the only thing that got me kicked off the force, though. I punched a suspect in the face and broke more than his nose. His nasal bone lodged right in his useless brain. I could have been charged with murder, but boys in blue stick together. At least they did, until one turned on me like a rat bastard. I served six months for manslaughter.

Now I’m a drunk. I’m not THE town drunk, but I’m on the list.

Back to Halloween, the town hall meeting, and who was there – and who wasn’t. Presiding were that grinning pile of shit Mayor Overstreet and his toady Fred Dingle. They were there to keep the peace, but when the arguing started, they were about as useful as tits on a boar. On our side was Preacher Jones, the oldest one of us “Talkies.” He’s ninety-eight and still alive and kicking. Missing was Grandmother Anne, the leader of the “Unvoiced.” Her nurse Nadine was there to speak for her. Anne only signs. Rumor has it that she is – er, was – over a hundred and ten.

Mayor Overstreet made a little speech using big words to start us out.

“Good citizens, I’ve called you here to address the most severe circumstances we’ve had in years. Our crops lie scorched in unharvested fields. Our irrigation canals are nothing but dry ditches. Our livestock are hungry, and so are we. Our grocery store is almost bare. At this rate, we’re not going to survive the winter. I’ve petitioned the governor to declare a state of emergency for our town, but he has ignored us. He has turned his back upon his starving constituents.”

What horseshit. Why can’t that man ever say what he means so the rest of us can understand?

I yelled out, my face red: “Not all of us are starving. Some of us are living high on the hog.”

“That’s right. The fields of a lucky few have produced quite a bounty, but the many lie awake at night with empty bellies. Life isn’t fair, some might say, but we’re beyond questions of fairness. We’re beyond asking ‘Why me?’. Too many of us have been affected. I say we do what’s best for the whole town and avoid pointing fingers. We have to stick together. Share and share alike.”

Well, none of us liked those ideas. We’d worked hard to save what we could from the harvest, which wasn’t much at all. We had to protect our own. In the meantime, who was to blame?

Old Preacher Jones had a notion.

“It’s her fault.” He meant Grandmother Anne. “She cursed us in the spring. Y’all may not believe in curses, but I do. She hates us because we can talk and she can’t. She went crazy as a young girl and chose to give up her voice. Well, I didn’t! Hear me loud and clear. Grandmother Anne is a liar and a sorceress. Do you know what the Bible says about people like her? ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ I say we obey such counsel.”

I got cold chills, and not from the temperature in the town hall. We were all baking in there.

The fighting started soon after that. It got real ugly. Fred Dingle tried to calm us down by banging his gavel, but it did no good. We Talkies talked about hanging the witch and any who followed her. The Unvoiced signed, and I have no goddamn idea what they said. However, that doesn’t mean I meant them harm. I did not want that angry mob to form. I didn’t want it to charge down Main Street, baying for Grandmother Anne’s life. Most of all, I didn’t want it to barge into her big-ass turreted house and throw her and her nurse Nadine down the stairs. THAT is murder. Where was I, you ask, when all this happened? Over at Callahan’s Tavern.

Coward? You bet your bottom dollar I’m no coward. How much could I have done on a bad leg?

As Halloween night wore on, I swilled glass after glass of on-tap beer, old Pat Callahan tending bar. We tried our best to ignore the noise outside, but it was mighty hard. Everyone ignored us, at least for the time being. That changed when a gaunt man in a broad-brimmed hat walked in.

Why was Preacher Jones here? He railed against the “demon alcohol” nearly every Sunday.

He said nothing, but nodded his head, and the brim of his black hat dipped. He walked over to an empty barstool next to me, sat down, and waved Callahan away when he came to take his order.

He folded his hands in his lap and turned to me. “Hello, Mr. McClatchey.”

“Preacher.” I swallowed hard. My throat was dry as a desert. “What’s going on out there?”

“Chaos, pure and simple. I hate chaos. So does our Lord. He created a universe based on divine law. His law, not man’s. These stiff-necked people, these raging idiots, need to be reminded.”

I shrugged and took a swig of beer. “No argument here.”

“But who will remind them? They have no law. They have no order. They have no leader. All they have is brute force. Brute force exhausts itself quickly. Someone must step in and take charge.”

“Who? Mayor Overstreet? Fucking Fred Dingle?” I snorted. “They’re do-nothing pieces of shit.”

“I agree. That’s why I was thinking the two of us could come to an arrangement.”

I sat up straighter on my barstool. “What kind?”

“Nothing perverted or profane, if you fear that’s what I mean. I have a job offer for you.”

“No offense, Preacher, but what kind of a job could you offer a drunk ex-cop with a leg ulcer?”

“Today is Saturday. Halloween. Devil’s Night, when people get up to mischief and mayhem. Come to church tomorrow.” I saw a flash of white teeth like a crescent moon. “Early. Meet me at 7:00.”

I didn’t mention that I’d be hungover at that time of the morning. “All right.”

“Bartender?” Callahan looked the Preacher’s way. “A tall glass of ice water for my friend here.”

“Hah!” I slapped my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing more.

“Put your beer down and drink up. It’ll do you a world of good. Bastion Bible Church. Remember.”

I swore I would. I didn’t have much on which to swear, so I picked my mama’s soul. I drank the water. It went down cold and hard. Sweat dripped down my armpits. Either Callahan had the heater cranked way too high, or I’d had way too much booze this evening. Probably both. After paying my tab, I set out for my piece-of-crap house in my piece-of-crap Ford Taurus. I looked left, right, and everywhere as I swerved through the streets. I was afraid the mob was still out there, killing and looting and doing whatever else mobs do. Luckily, I didn’t run into or over anyone.

When I got home, I fell asleep in my clothes, not bothering to shower or brush my teeth.

The next morning, I woke at 5:00, my bladder fit to bust and my head too. Not as bad as it could have been. Maybe the Preacher was right about ice water doing me a world of good, but after I cleaned myself up, I realized I needed a hair of the dog that bit me. I’ve had beer in the morning, but I wanted whiskey. I found the dregs of an old bottle of Johnnie Walker in one of my cabinets. How could I have missed it? I swallowed it warm, loving the familiar burn in my mouth and throat.

Preacher Jones’ scowling face came to mind. With a jolt, I remembered I had an appointment.

I went into my bedroom and found my one single suit in the closet. I hadn’t worn it since my dad’s funeral ten years ago. He’d had cancer. Whenever I go see a doctor, they warn me about it too.

Everything barely fit: the dress pants, the white linen shirt, the jacket. They all stretched over my 4XL frame like a trampoline wound too tight. The black bow tie choked me. The patent-leather shoes cramped my feet. Still, I’d die if I wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt to worship. That was one thing my mama taught me that actually stuck. Dress with respect for God and yourself. I didn’t bother to tell her, Lord rest her, that I no longer had any respect for either person.

Nevertheless, washed, shaved, and dressed, I arrived at Bastion Bible Church at 7:00 AM.

When he saw me, Preacher Jones stretched out his arms. “Welcome.”

Was he trying to hug me? I hoped not and said, “Morning, Preacher.”

“Come. We have much to discuss.”

He led me to his office, which smelled like it hadn’t been dusted in at least a year. All kinds of books, most of them Bibles, lined three of the four walls. Preacher Jones asked me to sit in a plush chair on the other side of his desk. The early sunlight – I remember this clearly – shone so bright through the window behind him that his entire figure looked black. Pitch black. No face. The only color came from his pale white hands, folded on the desk in front of him.

I suddenly wished I had another tall glass of ice water.

“Now, then. Do you know why you’re here?”

“You said you had a job offer for me.”

“Yes.” A pause. “I’d like you to be my first and most important disciple.”

“What? Disciple? Are you Jesus or something?”

“Far from it. I am one of His humble servants, and I want you to follow both of us.”

And how do I do that? I wondered. Out loud, I said, “And I’d get paid? To do what?”

“Whatever I need doing. You look like the kind of man who can get it done.” Pause. “Are you?”

“Depends on what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a wise man. For starters, I need you to promise me three things.”

“What’s the job?”

“First, the promises. One: You will not touch a drop of alcohol from here on out. Only water.”

I didn’t care that I was in a church office. I said, “Fuck that,” and stood up. My pants ripped.

“Sit back down, Mr. McClatchey.”

Embarrassed and ashamed, I did, feeling the seams across my ass crack widen even further.

“I’ll give you two hundred dollars to start if you agree to my terms.”

“All right. No more booze. Just water.”

“Second: You will be at my beck and call. Whenever I need you, you’ll come running.”

“Fine.”

“That’s four hundred dollars. Will you make it six hundred by coming to church every Sunday? This is vitally important. You must worship the Lord. He guides our hand.”

Ugh. Every Sunday listening to high-falutin’ talk, like Mayor Overstreet? “Nah. I don’t agree.”

“What if I told you my sermons won’t be the usual? Have you heard the poem about me?”

“The one we used to say as kids?” I frowned. “It’ll make you mad, Preacher. Plenty mad.”

“Recite it anyway.”

I cleared my throat:

“There once was a preacher, all skin and bones.
No one knew his first name. His last one was Jones.
Every Sunday at church, he would stand and proclaim
That he could cast out sin in the Lord Jesus’ name.

“Yet behind closed doors, in rooms he kept hidden,
Were books upon books about subjects forbidden.
His Bibles were camouflage. What did they hide?
Books on how to cook people and eat their insides.

“Not only that, but to tell you the truth,
He could predict the future. I tell you, forsooth!
Old Jones could see straight down, right into your soul,
And empty it right out, and leave a big hole.
If you think I’m lying, then listen to me:
I can offer proof that the Devil is he.

“Look at my face. I have met the old man.
He haunted my dreams, and he still does and can.
There is no escaping him once you realize
That nothing exists behind his vacant eyes.
So take care when you meet our Old Preacher Jones:
He’ll eat your soul first, then the meat off your bones.”

When I finished, he actually clapped, no sarcasm intended. At least I didn’t think so.

“Bravo. I didn’t know there were so many stanzas, but maybe today’s children have added some.”

“Hmm. Reckon so.”

“Do you believe what the poem says?”

“Absolutely not. If you were the Devil, I’d have made a deal with you way earlier.” I chuckled. “As it stands, I still ain’t keen on coming to church every Sunday. Maybe sweeten the pot?”

“A thousand dollars. In cash. I mean it. I can give it to you if you let me open the safe.”

“Do it.”

He did. He flashed the bills, and I agreed to the third promise he wanted me to make. People go to church and pay tithes, but here was this man offering to pay me, and handsomely at that. I thought I could sit through a thousand boring sermons if he kept the money rolling my way.

“Now that we’ve made our agreement, how about we shake on it?”

We shook. Preacher Jones’ hand felt like it was made of wax. Like a prosthetic. Was it?

“My flesh is real. Every inch.” I opened my mouth, then closed it. Something in his gaze told me to shut the fuck up. “Now I’d like you to take off your trousers.”

I stood up again. “Hell no!”

“I’m going to sew them back up before the congregation gets here. Or do you have another pair?”

“Afraid not.” I did as he said. Cold and humiliated, I stood there in my boxer shorts, but Preacher Jones was quick with a sewing needle. He mended my pride as well as my pants. I was pleased. When I put them back on, they felt as if they’d grown a few sizes to fit me.

“How did you – ” Never mind. That was the wrong question. “What do you want me to do?”

“For starters, read this tract I wrote. It’ll help you like no other written material except the Bastion Bible. I hand it out to newcomers.” Preacher Jones reached into the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a pamphlet called “A Strong Defense: Bastion Bible Church.” He handed it to me.

“Huh.” I’d never heard that word before, but I sure had heard the pamphlet’s message: every one of us is born a sinner in want of salvation, we all need Jesus, blah blah. Where it got kind of weird was in talking about the Bible. It said that every version of the Good Book except Preacher Jones’ translated one was a false gospel intended to lead people astray. He had the truth, and the truth was a mighty defense – a bastion – against Satan and his followers. I wasn’t sure about that.

Preacher Jones handed me a Bastion Bible out of another desk drawer, open to a certain page.

“Would you please read my translation of John 18:38, please?”

It took me some time to find the verse. “Pontius Pilate asked Jesus: What is truth?”

“Truth is every word that God and His servants ever spoke or wrote, including Jesus. Including me. Including you as a disciple, as long as you hold to the bastion of God’s Holy Word, which I have made new. Made new for people such as yourself, who need to understand more than ever.”

“You mean I’m a prophet?”

“You can be. Pray with me, and your journey upon the straight and narrow way shall begin.”

I got down on my knees. My pants didn’t rip again, even though they should’ve.

“Heavenly Father, take this repentant sinner into your fold as a most fervent disciple. Cleanse his heart, change his ways, and ensure he adheres to the tenets you laid forth in your Scriptures. Help him avoid temptation, especially the demon of rage and the demon of alcohol. Cast them out. Make him pure. Make him Your instrument and prophet. In the holy name of Your Son, amen.”

“Amen.” I only understood half of that prayer but believed all of it. Against my nature, I believed.

“Stand up, Mr. McClatchey.” I obeyed. “I have one more thing to give you. You’ll need it.”

Preacher Jones stood up, went over to the safe, opened it, and removed a loaded revolver in a holster. It looked old but felt new in my palm when he handed it over. A real six-shooter. However:

“I’m not supposed to have this.” I looked at my new boss like a wounded puppy. “I’m a felon.”

“Considering the state this town is in, do you think anyone would care?”

“Nope. Mayor Overstreet be damned. The only thing he oversees is the lining of his own pockets.”

“True. Now, you’re going to use this gun safely and responsibly. No shenanigans like the mob.”

“No, sir.”

“You have to be better than the people you guide. Come. It’s time for church.”

How had two hours gone by so fast?

Although Bastion Bible Church was small, it was soon packed as full as our town hall meeting had been, in only half as much space. Lots of folks wore strong perfume and deodorant, which made my nose itch. I tried like hell not to sneeze. Good thing I had a handkerchief in my lapel pocket.

Many of my friends and neighbors were shocked to see me here. I plastered a shit-eating grin on my face and told them I’d finally seen the light, thanks to Preacher Jones and his special Bible. I made no mention of the thousand dollars he’d just paid me or the big iron on my hip. They saw it, though. Saw it and looked scared. I wanted to tell them not to worry, but they moved on fast.

Fools. They didn’t know who I was, but they would soon enough.

After the meeting and greeting ended, the service began. We sang a lot of old-timey hymns, such as “Rock of Ages” and “How Great Thou Art.” The song that caught my attention, and that I didn’t know, was “A Bastion is your Holy Word.” This church sure did like the word “bastion.” It sounded like “bastard” to me, but I didn’t say this to anyone else in the pew. I just mouthed the words.

Then we said a few prayers, and it was time for the sermon.

Well. Preacher Jones was right that it wasn’t one of “the usual,” at least in my book.

For an hour and a half, he railed against what he called “the scourge of sorcery.” He claimed old Grandmother Anne was a witch and received her long life and magic powers from Satan. He’d said as much at the town hall meeting, but now he went further. He said our town had been under her spell from the day it was founded, and now Grandmother Anne’s curse would be lifted. We could live our lives free of her bondage and fortune-telling, but we had to obey what God told us.

“Amen,” said the crowd. I came in a bit late.

What did the Lord tell us? Not to allow a witch to live, nor any who followed her. That wasn’t news either. What was? The part where he detailed what we had to do next if we were to live through this late fall and coming winter. He said that the problem with last night’s mob hadn’t been its anger or its violence. Not even killing Grandmother Anne and Nadine. He said that the throng, of whom many here had been part, was wrong in that it hadn’t done enough. It had rioted and looted the stores and homes of the Unvoiced, but did not hunt them down when night fell. They had finished the old woman and her helper off, but not the rest.

“We must keep on,” Preacher Jones said. “We must continue what the mob started, but in an orderly and lawful fashion. We must arrest and hang the Unvoiced for the crime of witchcraft.”

“Amen,” said the crowd. I came in a bit late.

“They need no trial. The proof is their severed vocal cords. If they can’t talk, they can’t live.”

“Amen,” said the crowd. I was right on time.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself on my feet, prophesying:

“I task all of you, including myself, with the hunt. Grab your pistols and your shotguns. Handcuffs and zip ties, too. Those of you who know how to build, construct a scaffolding in the town square. We’ll hang the Unvoiced four at a time, so make sure the gallows can bear a lot of weight. Make sure it’s high, too. We don’t want them to suffer for hours. I want a clean hangman’s drop. Too high and their heads will fall right off, sheared from their bodies. That’ll be a bloody mess.”

“Ain’t that what we want?” asked a farmer.

“Not unless you want to clean it up.”

“And where will you be in the middle of all this, Horace McClatchey?”

I knew that pissed-off teacher’s voice like the back of my hand. Roberta Allen. My ex-girlfriend.

“I won’t be in the middle, Bertie. I’ll be right on the scaffold as the hangman.”

Silence all around. My God. What had I just said? I shook my head as hard as I could, but I knew I couldn’t take it back. Couldn’t pass it off as a joke at the expense of the Unvoiced. This was real.

“Are you sure you’re doing what God is telling you, or do you just want revenge? Huh?”

“Let me ask you something. How desperate and disappointed were you this summer? How eager are you for just a little relief? The Unvoiced have healthy crops. Their livestock aren’t scrawny. Their land is good, and their harvests are even better. However, they won’t share with us Talkies.” Meaning they won’t give everything to us Talkies. “We need what they have, and we need it now.”

“Yeah,” someone shouted. “The only way we’re going to get it is if we take it by force.”

“In the name of the Lord,” Preacher Jones added, “and for His cause, not just ours.”

“One more question,” Bertie sneered. “What are we going to do with all the goddamn bodies?”

Preacher Jones smiled. “Would someone please turn to the translated verse of Leviticus 26:29?”

“Uh…” I picked up my new Bastion Bible from my seat in the pew and read, “And because you turned from Me and did not obey Me, you shall eat the flesh of your own sons and daughters.”

“And friends and neighbors?” a curly-haired woman cried out. If she would’ve worn pearls, she would’ve clutched them. “This is evil. An abomination unto God. We can’t do what you’re saying.”

“Then what in hell are we going to eat? Deer are scarce in the woods. We need more protein.”

“You shut your mouth, you stupid drunk. Cannibalism is a sin, and that’s that.”

“Don’t think of it as such,” said Preacher Jones. “Even our Lord and Savior commanded us to eat his flesh and drink his blood. We use bread and water, of course, but the principle is the same. Salvation is found through His broken body, and so shall we be saved in our time of need.”

“So what are y’all gonna do? You want to live, don’t you? Besides, the Unvoiced deserve it.”

“I won’t eat them, even if they are witches. Grandmother Anne’s ghost may even haunt us.”

Aha. Superstition. A classic weakness. “If she’s not here now, she won’t be here later.”

A few snickers from the folks up front. I shushed them with a death glare.

“It’s settled, then. Join the hunt or starve. It’s your choice, and everyone’s free to make theirs.”

People mumbled uneasily and got up to leave.

“Leave no stone unturned,” said Preacher Jones. “Find the witches and warlocks, whoever they are and wherever they hide. If they’re armed, shoot them and bring their bodies back. If not, take them into custody through a citizen’s arrest. Bring them to the town square. Hangings shall begin tomorrow and continue every day until they’re gone. Just in case some of the Unvoiced have headed for the hills already, I want a census taken of every family in town. We’ll locate who’s missing. Then they’ll pay. They think they’re better than us, having listened to Grandmother Anne, but a final reckoning shall come due. This is the will of the Lord. Can I get an amen?”

“AMEN!” A chorus of righteous anger and holy fear.

“Then go and do what we demand of you. Our lives are at stake. Remember that above all else.”

“Speaking of stake,” someone asked, “why can’t we burn them? Have ourselves a barbecue?”

“That would take too long,” the Preacher explained, “and the smell of roasting flesh carries.”

At that moment, his mask slipped. I saw the real man underneath. Cold. Practical. Insane.

And here I was, his first and most fervent follower. A paid one too.

I left the sanctuary feeling like I’d eaten a gas station burrito and was about to pay the price.

“Wait.” Preacher Jones came after me. “I’m counting on you to make sure the hangings go well.”

“What about the manhunt for the Unvoiced?”

“Leave that to me. I know everyone in this town and their home address. They’ll be easy to find.”

“And if they ain’t?”

“I may not know everything, but the Lord does. Trust us both.” With that, he left. My stomach felt immediately better once he was out of sight, his black hat the last part of him to disappear.

The arrests and hangings began in earnest the next day. My carpenter buddies had done a great job building the scaffolding, meant to hold four people at a time. Four trapdoors, four drops, four broken necks. Four bodies that would sustain us through this hard season and the one ahead.

Yes, we held meat auctions and potlucks. Yes, food was more valuable than money. No, we didn’t parcel off arms and legs, but “upper and lower extremities.” Organs too. We weren’t too proud to take a tongue or a pair of lungs if that was what we could pay for. As for the Preacher and me?

I grew to like barbecued biceps. My boss always asked for hearts.

Although I was soon well-fed and well-feared by the Talkies and the Unvoiced, in private I was still a mess. I kept my promise to avoid alcohol and drink only water. However, I didn’t realize how hooked I was on the bottle until I had to throw all mine away. No more beer. No more wine. No more whiskey. I bawled like a baby every night, fighting off the shakes. During the day, I was okay. I thought it must be the influence of Preacher Jones and his prayers at the town square.

He told me, “I may not be able to send people to Heaven, but I can consign them to Hell.”

Before every execution, he rubbed each witch and warlock’s forehead with oil in the shape of an upside-down cross. It gave me the creeps. Why did he need to do that? When I asked him about it, he said it was a sign for the Devil to come and take his own. This made me shudder even more.

Every time I looked at my leader and employer, my soul grew more and more afraid.

Even the revolver on my hip didn’t reassure me. I hadn’t had to use it, but I thought I would soon.

November dragged on. Thanksgiving came. Guess who we had for dinner? I’ll give you a hint: he could always pay for prime rib, and the rest of us always got angry and jealous. That’s right. We cooked Mayor Overstreet and ate him with a side of the fall vegetables the Unvoiced had grown.

At least I gave him the dignity of a quick death: a bullet right between the eyes.

When November 30 rolled around, our town census was almost finished. Everyone, whether dead and butchered or alive because of this, was accounted for. All except for the Tate family, Mrs. Keller, and her baby, Trevor. They’d gone missing on Halloween and hadn’t been heard from since.

“Can’t we let them go, wherever they are?” I asked Preacher Jones. “They’re just two families.”

“We must find them. That’s the only way the curse of Grandmother Anne will be lifted in full.”

“What about your curse of cannibalism?” I wanted to ask, but kept my mouth shut.

“Do you know your way in the woods? That’s the only place left that they could have gone, if they haven’t left town.”

“I ain’t no outdoorsman. I know guys who are, though. Big hunters who bag lots of deer.” Or at least they did until there were no more. “You want me to call them up and tell them what’s what?”

“If you please.” His tone suggested I should’ve done it sooner. “Tell them that if they fail to find the last Unvoiced and their allies by next Sunday, they’ll be next upon the scaffolding.”

“What? No, sir!”

“Or would you rather take their place?”

“No, sir. I’ll get on it right away.”

That night, I had the worst nightmare of my life.

I was lying on a long table, chained at the neck and all four limbs. When I looked up, I saw that the table was one half of what appeared to be a seesaw. There was nothing on the other half. Not yet, at least.

“We meet again.”

Preacher Jones stood above me, his hat shading me against the intense heat radiating off him.

“Wait. What is this? What’s happening?”

He smiled. “A long-overdue test. How much do you weigh?”

“285, but what’s that got to do with – oh no – ” I choked. “You can’t do this. I’ve obeyed you. I’ve done absolutely everything you told me, except the one thing I really couldn’t. Is that it?”

“Very clever. However, I am willing to give you a fair trial. If the sum total of your parts does not equal 285 pounds, I’ll drag you to Hell with me, body and soul, where you’ll be weighed and parceled out to fallen angels for eternity. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll make you the new mayor of town, where the Unvoiced no longer hold sway. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I’m not lying.”

“We shall see.”

From a fold in his jacket, he took out a ceremonial knife embedded with rubies and black stones that an inner voice told me was obsidian. Volcanic glass. A fact I learned in science class. He began to carve slowly and carefully, like I was a Thanksgiving turkey that had been spared for Christmas. One by one, he removed my organs and placed them on the other side of the seesaw. Plop, plop, plop. A number in dripping red blood hovered over it: 50. 100. 150. 200.

The pain was such that I couldn’t talk, scream, breathe, or think. It made my leg ulcer seem like a bumped finger. To have this happen to me forever, without hope of rest or healing, would be the worst fate I could imagine. Worse than death. All because I made one simple deal.

“No,” said Preacher Jones. “You made several little deals that all added up to this one.”

The scale and my agony crept upward. 210. 230. 250. 280. 280.2.

My employer opened my chest, then my ribcage like a pair of doors pried apart. Nothing.

“It appears to me that your heart is missing.”

I shook my head, causing the chain link around my neck to chafe. “Unh-unh. Can’t be.”

“It is. Do you know why?” He grinned, and I could see that his teeth had points. “I ate it already.”

I woke up paralyzed, as I’ve always been after bad dreams, the final scale number lingering in my vision in a hundred thousand red floaters that just wouldn’t go away. My heart was gone. Gone.

Still, it thudded in my chest.

Once I knew I could move my limbs, I sat up in bed, feeling my undershirt stick to my chest. I smelled awful. My leg throbbed as if the bullet and shrapnel were lodged in it all over again.

I knew what I had to do. I either had to find the Tates myself or shoot Preacher Jones.

The second option appealed to me more. As I said, I didn’t know my way around the woods, and I didn’t like the prospect of getting lost on a fool’s errand. The Tates had probably headed out of town and would come back once they thought this whole mess had blown over. Then we’d nab and harvest them like deer. But why not strike first and end this madness? We were unhinged, we followers of the Bastion Bible and the man who had corrupted the real one. We’d gotten a taste of absolute power, and we craved it like we now craved human meat. I may not have been our leader, but as our hangman, I was high enough on the food chain to make a real difference.

If I shot Preacher Jones down, I’d be “the bravest of them all,” like the man who shot Liberty Valance in Gene Pitney’s song. I’d lead us back to the way we were before this horrible year.

“Don’t even think about it,” rang a voice in my head. “Only if you find the Tates and Mrs. Keller will you be our new mayor. Otherwise, all bets are off, and you know where you’re going. You can’t run. You can’t hide. You have bound yourself to me, and I to you. We are one in purpose.”

I grinned. “No, we ain’t. You’d best look out, Preacher. I’m gunning for you.”

I spent the rest of the night with my revolver, practicing my aim.

The next morning, it was time for yet another hanging. I was there in my black hood, and my enemy in his black hat. I let him say a prayer over the poor woman about to die – the Talkie who had spoken out against cannibalism and had since tried to hide some Unvoiced in her barn. I let him smear her forehead with oil in the shape of an upside-down cross. I let him step backward.

I took aim at dead center mass and fired. I pumped all six shots into his chest.

The bullets didn’t bounce off him. Rather, he absorbed them, like the color black absorbs heat. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out six spent shells. After dropping them on the platform, he retched the ammo back up. Intact. I swear to God and the Devil both.

“The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is to be a good guy with a gun. Right?”

Preacher Jones clenched his fists, and I fell to my knees. The Talkie woman started screaming.

“Please. Have mercy on me. I’ll do anything. I’ll go in the woods. Give me another chance.”

“I shouldn’t, but I will. Keep your mind on business, Mr. McClatchey. We’re not yet finished.”

The old man snapped his fingers, and the Talkie dropped. Her neck broke with a satisfying crack.

Cheers from the fattened crowd that had come to watch. Nice people. Regular churchgoing folk.

I stumbled down the platform steps and ran as fast as I could toward home. When I got there, I was as winded as if I’d run a marathon, and my bad leg hurt like hell – oozed, too. I put ointment on my ulcer and wrapped it tight. Then I called my buddies and told them we were going hunting.

Jack and Jacob agreed. Neither one of them knew I was throwing them under the bus. I told them about Preacher Jones’s deadline, but not what would happen if we failed. They said they’d go with me in exchange for the prime cuts of Mr. Tate’s body. I said yes with a trembling heart, and we set out for the miles and miles of woodlands on the outskirts of town. How could we succeed?

“Trust me,” said the voice of Preacher Jones inside my thick skull. “You can still prove your worth.”

When people talk about the woods, they mention how beautiful they are – lush green trees, birds and bees, clear-running streams. You see all that in the spring and summer. In November the trees are bare, the birds have flown south for the winter, the bees are hibernating, and the streams are full of dead leaves. Nothing beautiful about those things, but we hadn’t come to sightsee.

The leafless trees should have made anything weird easier to spot, but they didn’t. We got turned around in circles more than once as we canvassed the area. Jack and Jacob had brought their shotguns, and Jack had an extra one that he let me borrow. They said they were definitely going to shoot any deer we saw. I said no. They wondered why. I said our special mission from Preacher Jones took priority above anything else. Besides, who wanted to lug a deer carcass around?

I was startled and embarrassed by how much noise we made as we tromped onward. If the Tates and Mrs. Keller were anywhere nearby, they’d hear us coming and flee deeper into the forest. We couldn’t afford that, but what other choice did we have? Other than stopping to soil some trees, we continued as if our lives depended on it. Little did Jack and Jacob know our souls did too.

For the most part, we stuck to hunters’ trails and tried not to go too far off the beaten path. That was full of bushes, underbrush, and plants that had lost their leaves but not their thorns. I tried to tell my friends we had to take a risk and plow through them, but it was near impossible in some spots. We tore up our boots in our fruitless search until mine hit something hard.

A hatch. A metal hatch with a nine-digit keypad. And we didn’t know the damn code.

How long would it take us to figure it out if we just started hitting random numbers?

“Nearly forever,” said Preacher Jones’ voice. “Let me handle this.”

I turned around. There he was, right amongst us, brandishing the gem-encrusted knife.

“What – where – how did you – ”

“Silence. The code is unknown to me, but if you’re all willing to make a small sacrifice…”

“What kind?” asked Jack.

The Preacher looked at him the way a dog looks at a bone. “I’m hungry. Lie down on the hatch.”

“No!”

“Your blood will reveal the fingerprints on the keypad. Do as I say, or I’ll force you.”

“Come on, Jack. Take one for the team.”

Jack lay down on the hatch, face-up, quivering like he was naked. Preacher Jones approached him, knelt down, sliced open Jack’s shirt, then his chest. The Preacher removed his beating heart and ate it, savoring the flesh and the blood, which ran down onto the hatch lid underneath him.

Neither Jacob nor I made a move. We were frozen in place, horrified. My boss rolled Jack’s body off the hatch, his blood having revealed five numbers: one, three, four, two, seven. Jones pressed them and opened the metal lid with a slight tug. We marveled at his superhuman strength.

A horrible smell came from down below: fear sweat, garbage, and month-old dirty diapers.

“This is it. Another sacrifice, and the Tates, Mrs. Keller, and Trevor will come up out of here like meek little lambs to the slaughter. Which they soon will be. Jacob? Your turn.”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish. “Naw. You ain’t eating my heart.”

“Relax. Mr. McClatchey is my second-in-command, but he needs a lackey. Will you pledge yourself to me and my cause? You’re going to be lieutenant mayor if you do.”

Jacob smiled. “I like the sound of that. All right. I agree.”

“First you must acknowledge who I really am. This form is a disguise meant to be accepted by you human folk. I’m far older and wiser than all of you. I can see into your soul, Jacob. It is atrophied, wasted, but you still have your vitality. That’s what I need. Now, then: Who am I?”

“You’re the Devil. Lucifer. Satan. The Adversary. The Wicked One. And my new master, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“No. I pledge. I’ll obey you as long as I live, and may my health and strength serve you well. Amen.”

The Preacher’s skeleton grin reached all the way across his face from ear to ear. “Very good.” He clasped Jacob’s hand, then raised both of his. “Come on out, Tates. Come on out, Mrs. Keller. You can carry Trevor on your back, in his little sling. I want you all up here, front and center. Come.”

One by one, the last of the Unvoiced climbed out of the hatch: Mr. Tate and his daughter Valerie, followed by the Talkie family members: Mrs. Tate, her four sons, and her youngest daughter. Mrs. Keller came out last, carrying her son Trevor on her back. He needed his diaper changed. Everyone smelled – had whoever supplied the hatch ever heard of deodorant? – but he was the worst. It was all I could do not to vomit at the absolute reek of these people. At least they were still alive.

Mr. Tate and one of his sons both held shotguns at the ready. I knew they’d do no good.

Our leader either didn’t notice their odor or pretended not to. “Hello. Y’all may know me as Old Preacher Jones from the Bastion Bible Church. That is my guise among you. I am one you’ve been taught to fear, and rightly so. However, I can be benevolent. If you pledge yourselves to me, I’ll not only spare your lives, but give you power as council members under our new Mayor, Hank McClatchey. Two of you may be the last of the Unvoiced, witches fit for the gallows, but there is such a thing as repentance. I offered it to none of your cohorts. They didn’t hold out like I thought. Your resilience and perseverance qualify you for my redemption. Will you take it? All of you?”

Something bothered me: “Wait a second. You really are the Devil. Like the old poem says?”

“Yes,” said Preacher Jones. “Every word describes me.”

“And witches and warlocks follow you. Right? That’s why they deserve to be hanged?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you throwing your followers under the bus? Why did you incite a mob to form and kill Grandmother Anne and Nadine? Didn’t you give them and the rest of the Unvoiced power?”

Preacher Jones stared, then sighed. “I did not. Their abilities come from an unseen force.”

“One that you don’t know?”

“One that I’m trying to know. I’ve sought this force night and day ever since Grandmother Anne made her prediction – er, cursed this town – back in the spring. I haven’t found it yet.”

“Aha! You don’t know nothing, ‘Preacher Jones.’ Here you think you’re hot shit – ”

“Shut your filthy mouth. I have given you plenty of food. I’ve given you authority. I can do what I promised in the nightmare you had. In fact, that’s what I ought to do, but I won’t. I’ll let you live. As much as I hate to admit it, I need you. All of you. You are the keys to the final step of my plan.”

“Which is?” asked Mrs. Tate.

“You’ll find out. I’m taking you back to town, to the jail. You’ll clean up there and make yourselves presentable. Tomorrow, you and your family will face the noose. Mrs. Keller, too. I regret having to hang a nursing mother, but the spell of Grandmother Anne must be lifted in full. Do you understand?” The other Tates and Mrs. Keller nodded, but Mr. Tate flipped him the double eagle.

With that, Preacher Jones led us out of the woods. We left poor Jack’s body behind.

When we reached town, I was too busy to miss him. With my revolver upgraded to Jack’s shotgun, I was charged with keeping an eye on the prisoners at the jail. When Preacher Jones made them get out of the hatch, he forced them to leave their guns and ammo back down there. It occurred to me that he might be controlling my every move, but I didn’t feel like a puppet. My mind and my body were free at the moment. I paced all through the night, knowing I was being watched.

Now it’s morning. I have stubble itching my face and guilt flooding my heart. I know that what I’m doing and have done is not only wrong but wicked. Wicked in a Biblical sense, an ultimate sense, a sense beyond the pale. I have made several deals with the Devil of my own free will.

I should turn against Preacher Jones a third time. I shouldn’t care if he drags me to Hell, which is what I deserve. I should reject his offer of becoming mayor and having Jacob as my flunkey. I should repent and face the noose myself. That would be a fitting end for me, but I won’t do it.

All my life, I’ve wanted power. I had it once, lost it, and am about to find it again.

I’ve broken the necks of innocent people and eaten them, and I don’t want to stop.

Mama taught me about destiny. I’ve been preordained for this role, and I can’t wait to accept it.

I am a willing prophet of Evil itself.

Credit: Tenet