The Rift

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Charlie?” It was his neighbor, Bill Clemmons, the father of the girl who’d talked to him yesterday—or was it the day before? Or the day before that?

  “Yeah, Bill?” Charlie, sweating in the driver’s seat of the BMW, gave his neighbor a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “You doin’ okay, Charlie?” His neighbor seemed concerned. Looked at the empty wine bottles in the car.

  “I’m fine, Bill. Thanks for asking.”

  Bill had a smear of white on his nose, zinc oxide against the sun. “I didn’t know if you’d heard,” he said,

  “they’ve got a refugee center down at Cameron Brown Park. They’re pitching tents and distributing food.”

  Charlie kept the smile plastered to his face. Never let them see you down, that was his motto.

  “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “Did the radio mention when they’re going to get the phones fixed?” Bill shook his head. “They’re workin’ on it. The phone companies are bringing in lots of workers from out of state. But transportation is so busted up that priority is being given to food and shelter.”

  “Well,” Charlie said. “I guess there are plenty of homeless people.”

  “You think you might head on down there?”

  Charlie shook his head. He could not see himself at a refugee camp, living in tents, holding out his begging bowl for rice as if he were a starving African farmer. This was not a place for the Lord of the Jungle. All he needed was a place that would cash a check.

  “I’m doing fine, Bill,” Charlie said.

  “You sure, Charlie?”

  Charlie winked at him. “You bet.”

  “Well,” Bill said, “I guess you know best.”

  “Pastor Frankland?” said Farley Stipes. “We have a little problem—I caught a boy trying to steal some food.”

  After the discouraging hour with Father Robitaille, a difficulty like this was just what Frankland needed. He felt his heart lighten. “What did you do?”

  Farley was one of the Christian Gun Club kids, sixteen and red-haired and very proud of his white armband. “It was Elmore—Janey Wilcox’s boy. He’s not even ten years old, and he was trying to get a candy bar from that stack of stuff we brought back from the Piggly Wiggly, all that junk food we ain’t sorted through yet. So I ain’t done nothing other than told him to wait for you. Doris Meachum is watching him.”

  “Does Janey know?”

  “Oh yeah. She’s really sorry, pastor. She wants to talk to you.”

  “I’ll speak to her right away,” Frankland said. “Why don’t you see if you can’t find Sister Sheryl? And then we want to round up all the kids—all of ’em, I think, to hear our message.” This was the kind of pastoral problem that Frankland liked: simple, straightforward, with a moral to be absorbed by all.

  So he talked to Janey Wilcox and explained the situation. Janey was anxious and eager to please and full of apology. When Sheryl arrived, Frankland briefed her, and then the two of them rounded up all the children they could find.

  While the boy Elmore apprehensively stood by, Frankland wished the children a hearty heaven-o, and he explained to the children—and to the couple dozen of adults who had turned up to watch—that things were different now. Some of you children, Frankland said, thought that maybe it was all right to take a cookie or a candy bar when you wanted it. And maybe in normal times it was okay, but these weren’t normal times. There was an emergency, and there were a lot of people who needed to be fed, and only a limited supply of food. They had gathered all the food they could find to assure that all of God’s people were fed. So it wasn’t just anybody’s food anymore, this was God’s food. And people shouldn’t steal from God.

  And Frankland turned to Elmore Wilcox, whose eyes were beginning to fill with tears. And Frankland told the boy that he was sorry, but he was going to have to punish him for stealing God’s food. And that Elmore shouldn’t think that this was because Frankland hated him, or that anyone hated him. Everyone here loved Elmore, God and Frankland included. But everyone here had to see that people shouldn’t steal God’s food.

  Now, Frankland went on as Elmore trembled, he was not going to punish Elmore himself, because he was a strong man and didn’t want to cause injury. So his wife Sheryl would give Elmore his punishment. They bent Elmore over a chair and Sheryl gave him twenty whacks with a belt. And then Frankland and Sheryl hugged the wailing child and assured him of God’s love, and gave him back to his mother. Frankland went in search of Hilkiah, because this would furnish a reason to put an armed guard on the food supply.

  “Well,” he said, “I think it’s time to raise that slab.”

  “I’ll get the winch, pastor.”

  Frankland glanced over the encampment that surrounded the church. It was still clearly a work in progress. “I think we need to reorganize,” he said. “Put the married women with children in the church—that’s the safest place. Have the food supply nearby. Separate areas for the men and the women without children.”

  Because otherwise, Frankland thought, the teenagers were going to pair up and start sneaking off for reasons of which the Family Values Campaign would not approve. Probably the adults, too. Best just to keep the sexes apart.

  While Hilkiah brought up a triangle, a block, and Frankland’s pickup with the winch, Frankland found Sheryl and talked over the camp’s rearrangement.

  “Teddy bear,” Sheryl said, “we can move the tents around all we like, but what we really need is food.”

  “Maybe I’ll get the boys out to that Wal-Mart tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got enough food for maybe six weeks as it is. If we can get catfish from the growers, that’ll stretch our time. But at twenty-five hundred calories per day for each adult, and five thousand if they’re doing any kind of hard work, we’re going to be stretching it to get through the end of June. And if your people keep bringing in more refugees, then the situation will get worse.”

  “I can’t leave refugees out there to die, sweetie pie.”

  “I know that.”

  “I can talk to the farmers. If they can plow under some of their cotton and plant foodstuffs…”

  “They won’t be ready in time, teddy bear,” Sheryl said. “The soy is already in the ground and it won’t ripen till fall.”

  Frankland frowned, hitched up his pants. “It’s not their bellies that are important,” he said. “It’s their souls.”

  “Well,” Sheryl conceded, “that’s true. But if mammas can’t feed their babies, that’s gonna make ’em crazy.”

  Frankland considered it. “Cut back on the number of calories. If people are just lying around camp, they won’t need as much. Just give the full ration to the scavenging and rescue parties.”

  “That might work for a while, but—”

  “A while might be all we need, with the Lord’s help. The Tribulation will last seven years, but there’s no guarantee that any of us will survive it. If we can just give them all a good start.”

  “Pastor? Sister Sheryl?” Hilkiah said. “I could use your help with this slab.” The winch whined. The slab rose from the sod by the steel ring that Frankland had planted in it when he laid it there. Sheryl and Frankland helped move the slab to the side of the concrete bunker. And there, below, were the guns in their cases. Rising from the pit came the smell of the heavy grease that Frankland had used to coat the rifles. His heart lifted. He looked at Sheryl.

  “We’ll get the food, darlin’,” he said. “The Lord will reward us, I’m sure, for planting his kingdom here in Arkansas.” He smiled. “Like Brother Hilkiah says, ‘Trust in God and the Second Amendment.’” So there was Magnusson, the long-faced proprietor of Bear State Videoramics, with his wife and teenage son, standing in the gravel parking lot and asking for food and a place to stay. God is good, Frankland thought. He frowned at the Reverend Garb, who frowned back.

  “I don’t know,” Frankland said. “Are you planning on distributing any pornography while you’re here?” Magnusson’s face
reddened. “You know I ain’t,” he said. “The store’s wrecked, just like everything else.”

  “The thing is,” Frankland said, “as long as your pornographic videos exist, I figure they’re a danger to the community.”

  “Listen,” Magnusson said. “The store is gone. Our home is a pile of bricks and lumber. We don’t got any food. They told us in town that if we came up here, you’d feed us.”

  Garb nodded. “We do what we can for the community. But you see, it’s our food—”

  “We aren’t the government,” Frankland said. “We don’t have to feed anybody. We’re just a service to the community.”

  “And our duty is to the community, not to individual people,” smiled Garb.

  “So if someone is a threat to our community,” Frankland said, “it’s our duty to protect the community from that person.”

  “God judgeth the righteous,” Garb said, “and God is angry with the wicked every day.” Magnusson’s face had turned as red as his hair. “It isn’t even your food!” he said. “I watched your people take it from the Piggly Wiggly. That’s stealing!”

  “That’s initiative,” Frankland said. “I haven’t heard any complaints from the store management.”

  “They’re dead.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Listen,” Magnusson said. “You won. Understand? I don’t have anything anymore. All I want is some food for my wife and my boy.”

  Frankland stroked his chin and smiled. “We’ll do that. But there’s something I want you to do for us. I want you to take your truck back to town, and gather up every single one of those porn videos, and bring them back here. And then we’ll light a nice bonfire, and burn every video, and you can apologize to the community for bringing that filth into our midst.”

  “And then,” Garb added, nodding, “because you are no longer a threat to us, we will accept you into our community, and give you food and shelter.”

  Magnusson had gone pale. His jaw worked. His blue eyes glowed. “This is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard. You can’t make those kind of conditions. This is America, damn it!” Frankland nodded. “That’s true. This is a free country. You have a free choice—to stay, or go.”

  “Leaving means starvation for my family!”

  “Staying,” Frankland said, “means repentance.”

  “Look up,” said Garb, “and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.” Magnusson glared from Frankland to Garb and back again. Then he hesitated. He glanced at his wife and son. He licked his lips.

  Frankland smiled. He knew he had won.

  The world had become a better place.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A gentleman attempting to pass from Cape Girardeau to the pass of St. Francis, found the earth so much cracked and broke, that it was impossible to get along. The course must be about 50 miles back of the Little Prairie. Others have experienced the same difficulty in getting along, and at times had to go miles out of their way to shun those chasms.

  Narrative of James Fletcher

  “I peddled pornography.” Magnusson’s voice, amplified by the speakers, floated through the yellow curtains into Robitaille’s room. “I didn’t care about the consequences.”

  “Yes, Father Robitaille?” Frankland said. “You wanted to see me?” Frankland gasped for breath in the foul air of Robitaille’s room. When the message came that Robitaille had asked to see him, he’d left his morning service, right in the middle of Magnusson’s ritual confession. Robitaille looked appalling. Gray, moist-skinned, with dark blooms around his eyes. The straggling whiskers on his face were more white than gray. The priest’s tongue, dark and leathery, flickered out in a lizardlike way to moisten his cracked lips.

  He wants to talk, Frankland thought. Robitaille’s salvation, he thought, was hanging by a thread.

  “Where am I?” Robitaille croaked.

  “In my home. This is my spare room.” He looked at Robitaille curiously. “Do you remember the earthquake? The broken bridge?”

  The priest gave a long sigh. Frankland peered at him cautiously, wondering if the Demon Desbestioles had finally vacated Robitaille’s body, or whether he was in for another battle with the forces of darkness.

  “I corrupted children!” Magnusson cried on the PA. “I broke God’s laws.” Robitaille’s eyes moved uneasily at the sound of the amplified voice.

  “May I have some water?” the priest asked.

  “Of course, Father Robitaille. Can you keep the water down?”

  “I think so.”

  The porn-peddler Magnusson moaned about his sins and begged his neighbors for forgiveness while Frankland left the room and came back with a glass of water. Robitaille raised a scabbed, scarred hand to take the glass, but the hand trembled so much that Frankland sat on the bed, raised Robitaille with an arm around his shoulders, and held the glass to his lips. Robitaille took several careful sips, then began to swallow eagerly. But he coughed, and spluttered, and in the end pushed the glass away. Frankland looked down. The consciousness of a miracle glowed inside him. This was the real Robitaille, he thought, the demon had gone.

  “There’s more water when you want it,” Frankland said. “I’m glad you’ve come back to us.” Robitaille dropped with a sigh to his soiled pillow.

  “Forgive me, Lord Jesus!” Magnusson wailed. “Forgive me, everybody!” Robitaille’s eyes wandered to the window. “What is that? Who is talking?”

  “Brother Magnusson,” Frankland said. “Bear State Videoramics.”

  “What—” Robitaille licked his lips “—what is he talking about?” Frankland smiled and slapped his thigh. “He’s doing penance. You should know how that works, right?

  Being a priest?”

  Robitaille furrowed his brows, but the act of comprehension seemed too much for him. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s the end of the world!” Frankland said cheerfully. “The flock must be purified. I make the sinners confess their sin, in public, so the people can learn.”

  Robitaille still seemed puzzled. “Make them? How make them?”

  Joy filled Frankland. Two thousand years, and neither the Pope nor his followers had worked out this one.

  “See, we need everyone pulling together on this,” he said. “Times are critical. Nobody made any preparations but us. We can’t have disharmony, we have to speak with one voice. Anything that acts against scriptural reason has to be controlled.

  “So what I do is make examples. I show what happens if people step from the straight and narrow. So people like Magnusson, now, they confess or they don’t eat. And their families don’t eat, either. And they confess sincere, because we can tell the difference.

  “And the neat thing,” Frankland said, his enthusiasm growing, “after the first few, people got the idea. People are volunteering to come up and confess before the congregation. They talk about their problems with alcohol, with adultery—you’d be surprised how they talk. I get a kick watchin’ ’em, I really do.

  “It’s working!” Frankland said. “See, I wrote it all down years ago! I have it on a schedule. Day 5—people come to a realization of sin. And that’s what happened!” Robitaille closed his eyes again. He looked very old and very tired. His lips moved, but nothing came out.

  “What was that, Father?” Frankland leaned closer.

  Robitaille made an effort. “You… can’t,” he said. “Can’t do that.” Frankland looked at the priest in surprise. “Can’t do what?”

  Frankland could see Robitaille’s eyes moving under the pale, closed lids. The words came as a forced whisper from his cracked lips. “You are presuming to judge the Mystical Body of Christ. That is for God alone.”

  Frankland reared back in surprise. The Body of Christ, he knew, was a fancy theological term for the congregation of Christian believers. He looked down at Robitaille. “I don’t get it,” he said. “I figured you’d like this part. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You listen to confession. You make people do
penance.” Robitaille’s lips began moving again. Frankland leaned closer in order to hear. “… not… how it works,” he said. “Not just confession. Must be… truly contrite. Perform satisfaction to God.” He shook his head.

  “Not public. Not… this. The Mystical Body of Christ is judged by the Lord alone.” Anger flared in Frankland. All these fine distinctions were pointless, he thought, the world wasn’t about to allow for fine distinctions anymore. Good or evil, take your choice, pay the penalty. That’s how it worked.

  “Well,” Frankland said, “not to engage in debate, here, Father, but this is the dang end of the world, ain’t it? I can’t have bad influences in my people—I want everyone to go to Heaven, not just the few with the strength to fight the Antichrist on their own.”

  Robitaille shook his head. His words were barely audible. “Can’t… judge…”

  “Evil is like a virus!” Frankland roared. “I’m doing quarantine! I show the people what evil can do! Evil’s not a mystery, damn it! I know it when I see it!” He rose to his feet, waved his hands. “It’s you who are judging me You got no right!”

  Robitaille said nothing, just lay there beneath his dirty sheet. His mouth had fallen open.

  “Hey, Robitaille!” Frankland said. He shook the priest by the shoulder. “Robitaille, you asleep?” He laughed. “You dead there, Father?”

  Apparently the priest was not dead. His chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths. There was a little drool at the corner of his mouth. He had fallen asleep.

  “Dang it!” Frankland pounded the wall with a fist. “You answer me!” he demanded. “Who are you to judge, you ol’ drunk!”

  Robitaille lay inert. Frankland punched the wall again, then stalked out of the room, past the guard he’d put on Robitaille’s door, and who had told him that the priest was awake and asking for him. The guard watched Frankland with wide eyes as he stalked down the hall. “Robitaille okay?” he asked. Frankland didn’t answer. He walked out of the house, headed toward where his people were gathered on the grass beside the church. He heard Calhoun’s voice on the PA, making a few announcements about the day’s work details.