Jack Yeovil - Route 666

"How's that again?"

Quincannon grinned.

"You don't mind my amigo Kirby Yorke here rubber-neckin' while you're workin on the ve-hickles and shooting your dang head off if he figures you're sabotagin' or over-chargin'."

The Quince played with his holster flap for emphasis. The kid goggled with respect.

"Sounds mighty fair to me, sir."

"Excellent. Now where can a man get himself some brunch in this burg?"

Something buzzed up and down Brother Wiggs's spine. These days of driving had bent his body into a new position, and it was hard to bend out of it.

The godless display of foul filth at the magazine rack still assaulted his mind. There were copies of Satanist propaganda like Hustler, Big Butts, National Geographic and Split Beaver mixed in with good Christian publications like Guns and Killing, White Dwarf, The Truth and Creation Science Monitor. The glossy covers burned like vile flames of sin, searing his brain, reminding him of all he had abjured.

Sister Ciccone gave him succour, leading him back to the motorwagon and clapping his hands together in prayer, forcing him down onto his knees and making him bow his head against her belly. She shook with the fervour of her prayer.

Together on the filthy tarmac of Chollie's, they conjoined in worship of the Lord. Theirs was the Path of Joseph, and the things of the world were as far gone from him as the sinful flesh from which he had been freed. He felt a strange tingling in his amended groin, as if the rejected meat were knitting together in a new, purer form.

Elder Seth was not in the motorwagon. He must be about the Lord's work in this town. Throughout the nation of Deseret, towns like this must be awaiting news of the convoy's coming. There would be parades and processions and rejoicing.

Under his vestments. Brother Wiggs's skin squirmed and tightened. Months ago, he had been aswarm with bodily hair; now, only the barest wisps remained. Fasting and prayer had trimmed away the subcutaneous fat. His skeleton, even, was changed by the fire of faith.

Their prayer concluded, Brother Wiggs and Sister Ciccone stood and adjusted their garments.

He looked at the magazine rack and felt nothing.

"I thank thee, Sister," Wiggs addressed Sister Ciccone. "Thou art ever my guide on the true Path of Joseph."

Sister Ciccone bobbed and curtseyed demurely, eyes downcast. Then she looked up at him. The woman had a spot – it might have been called a beauty mark – at the corner of her mouth. In his backsliding moments, Wiggs had paid especial note to the black mark.

He reached out with his finger and touched the spot. It came away smoothly, leaving no scar. Sister Ciccone's face was now milky-perfect, lips as colourless as her cheeks, eyes as bright as a doll's.

He looked at the spot on his fingertip and flicked it away.

"We become purer," she said.

For a moment, Wiggs wondered what manner of life the Sister had led before coming to the Path of Joseph. Knowing the worst sinners made the best saints, he suspected she had been mired deeply in filth and fornication.

"We must venture into the centre of this town and spread the Word of Joseph," she said. "Deseret will rejoice at our arrival. This place must be freed from the rule of sin."

They walked past the motorwagons towards Main Street. There were people around. Ordinary, sinning people. Brother Wiggs and Sister Ciccone were courteous. Wiggs touched his hat-brim and the Sister averted her eyes whenever they passed a citizen.

No one stopped to stare but Wiggs fancied a certain hostility from some of the townsfolk.

A sign identified a large building as the old corn exchange video arcade. Outside stood a battered cross. Wiggs bowed his head to the cross.

"Arise and rejoice, thou brothers and sisters of Deseret," Sister Ciccone shouted, her voice strong and pure and almost musical. "The day of your deliverance is at hand. Let this be your holy holiday."

A fat man in dungarees spat a brown stream and looked put out. A small, thin crowd gathered.

"Follow the Path of Joseph," Sister Ciccone sang, "put away fleshly things…"

The fat man snickered. Several people, already bored, drifted away.

"I seen Spanish language cartoons that preach better'n that," the fat man said.

"This land is blessed. This shall be the Land of Joseph."

"I reckon you'd do yourself a big favour by reading that there plaque under that there cross before you mention the Path of Joseph again," the fat man said, snidely.

Wiggs scanned the plaque. It was a pack of blasphemous lies about the Brethren. Deadly drivel, poisoning the minds of all.

"Lies and filth," he shouted.

The fat man just laughed.

The disappointed crowds went about their ways. As the people drifted off, they parted like a curtain. A woman stood still, hands on hips, looking straight at the Josephites. Wiggs recognised one of the she-fiends who had so abused the pilgrims.

She was tall, dressed in transparent sheaths that indecently displayed her body.

"Remember me?" she said. "Varoomschka?"

She was one of the killers. Elder Seth must be told the Psychopomps were in Spanish Fork. He would be interested in recovering his stolen spectacles and cashplastics.

"We have come to the place of our persecution," Wiggs said.

Varoomschka strode across to the monument. The fat man snickered as his eyes followed her long limbs and tight bottom. Wiggs again had a twinge of the old sinful urges, but he conquered them with a blast of fiery purity.

The Psychopomp had a glossy fashion model face, and long, silky hair that looked like an implant. Though tall and powerful, she was dainty, like a dancer.

Varoomschka cupped Sister Ciccone's cheek with one hand and slipped her long fingers into the Sister's bonnet, unloosing strands of mousy hair with her scarlet nails. Shockingly, the ganggirl kissed the Sister on the lips.

Sister Ciccone suffered nobly, eyes raised to heaven. She knew that she would prevail.

"Mmmmm," Varoomschka said, licking her lips with a scarlet tongue. "You taste like a virgin."

"Thou art forgiven, harlot," Sister Ciccone said.

She launched a fist at the Psychopomp's chest. Varoomschka was knocked backwards with surprising force. Her immodest garments showed the plate-sized purple bruise on her upper ribs.

Sister Ciccone was changing. Like Wiggs, she got stronger as she got purer.

Varoomschka scrambled upright, a butterfly knife in one hand. She made a series of slicing passes before her as she moved towards the Sister.

"I'll open you, hagwitch," she said. "I'll drink your kravye with cinnamon."

The Psychopomp struck like a scorpion. The knife slipped against Sister Ciccone's side and slid upwards across her torso. She would be wounded from hip to collar.

Varoomschka stepped back to admire her surgery.

The Sister's vestments were rent and sagged apart. White flesh shone, but no red gash. Sister Ciccone's skin was inviolate and featureless.

"Lady, you ain't got no nipples," the fat man said. "That ain't natural."

Modestly, the Sister closed the hole in her clothes.

"And you ain't got no navel neither."

"What are you?" Varoomschka asked. "Some kind of clone thing?"

Sister Ciccone bowed her head.

"I am a Sister of Joseph," she said.

Wiggs realised his chest was itching and changing, and he felt his own nipples dwindling and receding into smooth skin. He was still flesh, but the flesh was better, stronger, purer. Untroubled by needs, he was fit for the struggles ahead.

The Feelgood Saloon was typical of a thousand other smalltown joints where Tyree had wasted evenings. A couple of gaudy girls were bellying up to the bar, looking for trade. A few old-timers leaned chairs against the walls in the corners, mainlining the poison of their choice. Otherwise, the Feelgood wasn't doing much business this early, so the Cav managed to requisition a table. The Quince sat with his back to a wall and face to the main entrance, a shotgun stowed under his chair. From where Tyree was, she had a good view of the mirror behind the bar and thus of everyone in the room.