Dead-Bang

by Richard S. Prather

  “Wow! What did Festus do then?”

  “He hit Margarita on the head.”

  “He what? I do seem to recall somebody here saying—”

  “He grabbed the sign Margarita was carrying and zonked her with it. Bang on the side of her head.”

  “It keeled me!” That was Margarita chiming in. “It noked me down.”

  “The sonofabitch,” I said. Then I added, “Please pardon the language, girls. It just popped—”

  “That’s all right.”

  “That’s what he ees!”

  “Zay it again!”

  “He is a sonofabitch!”

  “I told that mother—”

  “GIRLS! Watch your language. There’s a man present. Lula, go on—then what happened?”

  “Well, that creepy sonofabitch was flailing around with Margarita’s sign and we all kind of got spread out, you know? Keeping out of his way. Right then two cars drove up. There were five or six men in each of them, and they all ran up to the Pastor. He pointed at us and yelled, ‘Get them, get them!’ I don’t know what he meant, exactly. But … well, it scared us.”

  “It would have scared me.”

  “Especially when the men came toward us. They didn’t run toward us—but we ran. We all ran into the church here and locked the doors, left our signs and clothes, everything. I don’t know what happened to them. Then we looked all around for a telephone in here, but there just isn’t any.”

  “The men didn’t run at you, huh? Didn’t try to grab or beat or tickle—tackle you or … anything like that?”

  There were several comments from the other gals.

  “They sort of sneaked at us,” Dina said. “Very sneaky.”

  “They onry rooked. But it was the way they rooked.”

  “You’d think they hadn’t ever seen a nude woman before,” Silvia said, unconsciously—I guess—arching her back and stretching the kinks out of it. She sure stretched hell out of something. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they hadn’t,” she finished, gently scratching her tummy.

  Emilie said, “The only really wild one was the Pastor. He was simply livid, foaming at the mouth, would you believe it?”

  “He was, he was really frothing,” Britt added. “Liddle bubbles.”

  Lula summed it up. “That’s right. The Pastor was jumping around like he had had an alligator in his pants and yelling ‘Get them.’ But the other men were sort of … confused, I’d say. Just started coming at us, slow, like they weren’t sure what to do.”

  “That’s because there weren’t more than a dozen of them. The odds were too even. Besides, they had to think about it—ten or twelve’s not quite enough for a mob. A few more of the beggars and they’d have acted on impulse without reasoning at all. Follow the kookiest leader, like down on the farm when one turkey gobbles and all the rest of the dumb birds gobble their heads off. Why? Because they heard a gobble, that’s why. And that’s also why an honest-to-God mob is so mindless and horrible.…”

  I stopped. For a little while I had forgotten about that mass of Lemmings outside. More accurately, without forgetting it entirely, I had largely ignored its presence, its nearness … and the predictable state of its mind. Its mind, very likely, not the minds of its members, not a multiplication of individual brain and thought. Because, more stupidly and blindly than dumb turkeys, when a crowd becomes a mob each individual brain and its thought becomes part of the mob mind, each individual body merely a cell in the body of the beast. The frightening thing is that the awful whole, for the rest of its infant life, is moved and motivated, impelled to action, by that vaster and more vicious mind which is capable of any baseness, violence, and evil, of incredible cruelty, and of madness unrelieved by any virtue, for only the bestial is natural to the beast.

  Of course, outside was only a crowd. So far as I knew. But any crowd can become—or, much more often, be made into—a mob. And never so easily as when the individuals composing the crowd are already conditioned, have long been conditioned, blindly to obey, mindlessly to act; when they are wed not to reason but to faith; when there is hate in their hearts, guilt in their guts, fear in their bowels; when they are clad in Christ’s armor and girdled by God, and above all when they are led by the man or the men—whom God Almighty will have to forgive for only He could forgive so monstrous a crime—who made them: the man or men who crippled their minds, squeezed dry their hearts, blinded them that they might follow the blind. Him, or they, all the world’s Lemmings will follow to the ends of the Earth. At least, they always have.

  And, outside—Lemming, who had made them, and the Lemmings he had made.

  23

  “What’s the matter, Shell? You look—pale.”

  It was Lula speaking again, close on my left.

  I smiled at her, but it took me a few moments to get back from where I’d been. “Well, of course,” I said casually. “I got to thinking of all those Lemmings, and it spooked me. You look a little beige yourself.”

  She laughed, and the sound of her soft laughter brought me back the rest of the way. “Wait a shake,” I said. “I’m going to have me a peek at the chosen of Earth out yonder.”

  I flew up the aisle—perhaps as speedily but certainly not as fetchingly as three well-remembered winged fannies had flown—found a great iron key in the lock, turned it, pushed against the thick golden handle on one of the massive doors. It was open no more than a couple of inches when I heard that crowd sound again, a low muttering that rose swiftly to an unintelligible babble—unintelligible to me, at least.

  It was startlingly loud. Much louder than before, and not merely because I was closer to it. The sound quickly died, and as I pushed the door out a little farther and peered toward the parking lot I not only saw the mass of men and women there below me but heard the trumpeting, resonant, virulent voice of Festus Lemming. He stood facing the flock, his back to me, and spread his arms wide as though to embrace all of Earth, or a giant paramecium.

  “And now—and now—as we prepare for the thousand-year reign of our Lord and Savior … who shed His sweet blood on the cross for our sins … as we prepare for His coming, His promised coming … as we mortify the flesh and crucify desire that we may be ready and holy for Him … as we toil to make pure the land for our Lord, to make the Earth sinless and ready for Him—SIN LIVES IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD! YES!”

  There was a brief sharp yell or shout from the crowd, more like the bark of a wolf than the bleating of lambs, volume up, and then quickly down so the Pastor’s golden voice could be heard.

  “Yes! There!” The Pastor turned and aimed an extended arm at the church as the crowd woofed and howled—and as I jerked back, thinking for a moment Festus was aiming at me. “There in the sacred house of our Savior, profane in their paganness, obscene in their nakedness, they flaunt their filthy flesh in the face of …”

  There was a longer than usual pause, and I thought at last Festus had gotten his agile tongue twisted around some of his phrases or sprained it on an excess of alliteration. I was wrong. He finished at maximum volume, throwing all his lung power into one word that cracked like a cannon over hill and parking lot, grass, trees, freeway, and Pomona:

  “GOD!”

  If there had been noise from the crowd before, it was nothing compared to the explosive roar as Lemming turned to face a thousand members of the Church of the Second Coming. The mass had grown, had doubled, hundreds more of the faithful had arrived and I guessed at least a thousand were roaring now.

  I eased the door closed, locked it, flew back down the aisle. The girls were waiting, motionless and silent. On every face were marks of worry and concern, on some the evidence of sudden fear; they’d heard that sound, too, that cry more animal than human.

  “What was that?” Silvia asked me in a soft shaky voice. “What are they doing out there?”

  “I’m not sure they know,” I said. “But I don’t like it. Look, you gals have to get away from—those people. But you can’t just walk out, can’t let t
hem see you. The shape they’re in—and the shape you’re in—well, there’s no telling what those characters might do. They’re pretty close to the edge right now, and if they should get their hands … get a sudden look at you, and all your, um.…”

  I stopped. I didn’t want to scare their pants off—figuratively speaking—but at the same time I wanted them convinced they must not under any circumstances allow that gang of Lemmings to get near them. “The ladies and gentlemen thus affronted might merely swoon,” I said, “or lay a sermonette on you. But there’s a definite possibility their reaction would be a little nastier. And with Festus souping them up, maybe a lot nastier.”

  Pepper-lipped Margarita summed up what I was trying to say, and said it better anyhow. “Shell, when Pastor Lemming heet me and noked me down, I theenk for a minute he is going to morder me. He looked wild, crazy—and he was then all alone! I do not like to see the Pastor or any of those … whatever’s outside. I might get mordered, I theenk.”

  “Good thinking, Margarita. It would be very clever of us all to avoid tempting fate and Festus. You hit it right on the head when you hinted he may be a little cracked. Especially at this moment.” I paused. “Gals, it’s possible I’m exaggerating. But when you get that many people together, especially that kind of people, and they’ve been stirred up for months and are getting more buggy every minute—well, I’ve seen crowds turn into mobs before, and … we’d better play it safe, that’s all.”

  “How?” Leonore asked. “What can we do?”

  And Emilie said, “If they see us … God, now I really feel naked.”

  “Well, there’s a chance you gals can go out the back way—through the door I ruined a few minutes ago. My car’s parked about a hundred yards up the hill. While you’re getting started, I’ll try to keep Festus and his flock occupied. I’ve some important information, vital to Pastor Lemming himself, and I’m sure he’ll be very glad to hear about it.” I paused. “Or—maybe—see it. Back in a minute.”

  I left the gals, ran to the rear of the church and checked the row of doors I’d noticed last night, one of which almost certainly led into Lemming’s office—where Dave Cassiday had spent a couple minutes Thursday night. All the doors were locked, and they were not light-weight jobs like the one I’d kicked in. I wasn’t about to chance a hemorrhage trying to batter them all down. It was probably just as well, anyhow; if I ran up to Lemming with a kit and hypodermic syringe he’d swear I’d brought it along with me.

  So I sped back to the gals and went on where I’d left off, “Festus can’t see the surprise yet, but he should be glad to hear about it, even from me. If he’s got any gratitude in him, he should be exceedingly grateful for the news. It’s just, with so many of those characters out there, I might not be able to get close enough to him long enough … well, anyway, if they’re all looking at me there’s less chance they’ll ogle you.”

  “What’s ogle?” Britt asked.

  I never answered her, because Lula, still about six inches away on my left, said, “You’re going out there like that?”

  “What do you mean, like tha—”

  I groaned. I did keep forgetting. I wondered if I should close my eyes and become very still and have a mental go at multiplication tables, or recalling the words of that poem I’d memorized in high school—The boy stood on the burning something or other—to make sure my brain was still doing an adequate job. But I was thinking clearly enough to know Lula had called my attention to a problem of serious dimensions.

  I had a pretty good idea what that mass of Lemmings would do if immediately after hearing Festus describe, in a fashion unrecognizable to any but Lemmings, the attributes of my ten lovelies, they should then lamp the ten brazen hussies and all those prominent attributes. Therefore, it had been my intent, while the girls sneaked away, to stride boldly at Festus and his flock and—with carefully chosen words and, hopefully, the authority and hynotic command of my presence—grip their attention, hold them rapt, while the girls escaped from the church. Which is a difficult thing to do even on normal Sundays.

  On my side, too, I had believed, would be the shock of my sudden appearance. For, though by now the members knew ten nude females were desecrating their church, they didn’t yet even suspect a male might be desecrating with them. My sudden appearance, then, should prove such a startling diversion that the gals’ chance of fleeing unobserved would be at least doubled, and I might even survive myself. This was true, however, only if in addition to vying against Festus with carefully chosen words I possessed that aura of authority and hypnotic command.

  Or, in other words, if I had my pants on.

  It just didn’t seem fair that a pair of pants-should make so much difference. But I knew those cats out there. I knew what they’d think. They’d think the worst, that’s what they’d think.

  Lula said, “I know those flockers as well as you do, Shell. You get out there and wave a leg at ’em, they’ll use you for a tug-of-war. They’ll pull you seven different ways and make fourteen wishes. They’ll put cranberry sauce on you and—”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m trying to—I’m thinking.”

  It was a simple problem: All I had to do was stroll up to the mindless mob and appeal to its intelligence; occupy all its attention while the lovelies fled; and then remove myself from the mob’s presence before it … did any of the things Lula had mentioned.

  Yes, the problem was simple; its solution was something else. I couldn’t let that mob gobble me up or bite me or scratch me or even pull off my bandages much less arms and legs. I began feeling depressed. What if the solution wasn’t merely difficult, but impossible? Maybe there wasn’t any way to do it; maybe I’d met my match. Always has to be a first time. Even if I surrendered and advanced under a flag of truce, due, to the present drastic shortage of materials I’d probably have to use my shorts—

  I stopped. That wasn’t positive thinking. In the old days—before today—I had always said to myself, “There’s always a way!” I wasn’t always right; but that’s what I’d always said.

  So I said to myself, “There’s always a way!”

  “A way to what?” Emilie asked curiously, rubbing her well-rounded derriere with both hands.

  “I wasn’t speaking to you,” I said. “But I am at last thinking clearly. Give me another half a minute.”

  The problem was exactly the same as it had been a couple minutes ago, except that it was now much worse. How could a solitary pagan, unarmored and unarmed, stop a whole horde of Lemmings in their tracks? How could a lone infidel hold at bay, even briefly, an entire division of Christian soldiers? Especially if God was on their side.…

  Something fluttered in the cave of memory. As I thought of “Christian soldiers” I heard again, faintly—fortunately—the sound of voices raised in apparent agony; heard again last night’s Chorale, here in the Church of the Second Coming; and put together Christian soldiers-agony-Chorale-Second Coming; and I knew what to do. But I knew I wasn’t going to do it.

  That is, for a second or two I knew I wasn’t going to; and then I knew I was.

  “Yeah,” I said—after a lapse of some time—to Lula. “I’ll have to sort of change my plans a little. O.K., which one of you gals can run the fastest?”

  “Run?” Britt clenched her hands into fists before her and made running motions. “Lige in a race?”

  “Yeah—and that’s what it may be. You can quit that now. Britt, you can quit—thanks.”

  “I gan,” she said.

  “You can what?”

  “Run fastest. I gan run faster than anybody. Anybody here.”

  “Well.… Even that may be a bit overoptimistic, but—O.K. You’re the runner, then. If you want to be. The runner starts later, and takes more of a chance than anybody else. It could be dangerous. And I’m not kidding.”

  “You mean … if somebody gatches me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nobody will gatch me.”

  “Well.… O.K. Who’s almost a
s fast as Britt?”

  “Me. I’m probably faster.” Lula sort of bounced on the balls of her feet. At least, that’s where it started.

  “You? I gould beat you with one leg tied behind—”

  “Chickie, I’ll give you fifty yards and pass you—”

  “Girls! Damnit, don’t you realize I’m trying to save you from the Christians? And while we dawdle, they may—”

  Even here inside the church it was clearly audible this time. We all froze, listening. I saw the girls’ eyes widen, felt my skin get cold. It was the voice of the crowd, rising slowly, an eerie quality to it, like a howl and hiss and roar in a monstrous raw throat. It was a sound appalling and unreal, like a huge beast growling and gnawing on still-living bone.

  I glanced around. “Dina.”

  Her huge eyes moved to mine, her face composed but pale.

  “Run to the door,” I said. “If you hear anything scuttling around on the other side—anything—come back. If not, crack it open and keep an eye on that mob. If it looks—”

  “I know what you mean,” she interrupted, turned immediately, and started running like a deer.

  I pulled the car keys from my shirt pocket, which was the only place I’d found to put them, and handed them to Lula. “All you gals—except Britt—gather at the door back there in the corner.” I pointed. “When I go out the front door, run like hell.”

  I told them where my Cadillac was parked, how to reach it, that they’d be concealed the first hundred feet or so but in view, in very plain view, for the last stretch, maybe two hundred feet and all of it uphill.

  “Lula, you lead the way. When you get to my Cad start it, and honk the horn a couple times in case some of the gals don’t have the heap in sight. Britt, you come up front with me, let me out, lock the door behind me and start running.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll have to run down the aisle again, to the rear of the church, and then follow the others. They’ll be way ahead of you, and I don’t know what else might be out there by then. So you don’t have to be the one to lock the door if you don’t want to. I suppose I could lock it myself and throw the key—”