Jaspre Bark - Dawn Over Doomsday

"We're gonna finish off the tower," said Fitch. "But first we gotta finish up what them Injuns left undone."

"Listen," said the man. "I don't quite follow what you're saying. You need to send us some place we can get seen to."

"We're going to send you some place alright. Some place the angels can see to you."

The troops raised their weapons, semi automatics primed and loaded. "Wait a minute! We're on your side. Sweet Lord Jesus -"

"Tell him I said hi," said Fitch and opened fire. The rest of the men followed suite.

The roar of the gunfire nearly drowned the screams of pain and fear. Wave upon wave of bullets ripped into the men, women and children as they tried to flee. Their bodies jerked and flailed. It put Fitch in mind of the raptures they went into at their prayer meetings. Waving their hands in the air, speaking in tongues and falling to the floor. Except there was a lot more blood and they weren't getting up again.

Fitch and his men stepped over the first lot of corpses as they advanced on the rest of the volunteers trying to escape. Their boots were sticky from all the blood. Fitch's weapon was red hot from the constant firing and his arms were sore from tensing against the recoil.

With the majority of them dead, Fitch sent five men on down the road to catch the few bastards who'd gotten away and four more into the trees to flush out any stragglers there. The rest of the men kicked their way through the bodies on the road, using their pistols to finish off the wounded.

When he was satisfied that the job was done he called out to Golding: "You got them bow and arrows to hand?" Golding pulled five bows and three quivers out the back of the jeep. He tossed a bow to Fitch who then fired an arrow into one of the corpses. Golding handed out bows to some of the other men.

"Sir, I don't understand," said one of the soldiers. "We already finished 'em off. Why turn 'em into pin cushions?"

"'Cos people have to see it was them Injuns did this. They have to know what kinda filthy savages they are."

When they were done Fitch turned to Dwight, six-foot four of red headed, red necked, good ol' Southern boy. "You got that Polaroid?"

Dwight held up an instant camera. It would have been a relic even before The Cull. "Sure have. Got it off a scav who pulled it out of an old retirement home, place was a gold mine he said."

"Does it still work?"

"Fired off a few test shots to be sure," said Dwight. "Even got spare film."

"Good," said Fitch. "I want a lot of shots of this. People are gonna see these photos and they're gonna want blood."

"Neo-Clergy's making a comeback boys," said Golding as Dwight snapped away. "Neo-Clergy's making a comeback."

They didn't look like killers, thought the Prophet. Just a lot of tired, scared Native Americans. That was the thing about evil though, it always hid in the least likely places. In the hearts of the most ordinary people. Just one of Satan's many subtleties.

As a little kid he'd always rooted for the Indians whenever he watched a western on TV. In the old movies they were always the bad guys. That's not how he'd seen them. They were noble warriors who stood up to the white man. If you saw a black man in one of those films he was usually some Stepin-Fetchit played for laughs. But the Indians terrified the white men. They had power.

All that was before he discovered they were Godless pagans. It hadn't mattered to him much back then. Church was something he went to with his momma and his brothers. It didn't affect the rest of his life. God had yet to reach down, pluck his soul from his body and carry it to Heaven. He'd seen a lot of things differently after that.

The Prophet was standing in the middle of Lame Deer on a cold and overcast day. The residents had been rounded up and marched at gunpoint into the centre of the town by the two hundred strong army of Neo-Clergy soldiers that Colt had arrived with. Many of them recent recruits, eager to see action.

They'd made the Native Americans kneel together with their hands on their heads in the middle of a vacant lot near the centre of Lame Deer. Lame Duck the soldiers had nicknamed it and the Prophet could see why. It was more of a trailer park than a real town, with a few decaying artefacts obviously erected for the benefit of tourists, back when there was such a thing as tourism.

They were a far cry from his childhood ideals of the noble savage. Ironically, what made the Prophet admire the Native American, so much as a child, their ability to terrify the white man, was what saddened him now.

It was also what had brought so many volunteers flocking to the Neo-Clergy and given Colt the new recruits he had needed to mount this occupation. It pained the Prophet to think that it was fear and not the love of Jesus that had inspired so many to rejoin the Apostolic Church of the Rediscovered Dawn. But at least they were back in the fold and could now be redeemed. As could Colt.

Colt had seemed genuinely moved when he showed the Prophet the photos. It was the first time the Prophet had seen him let his guard down and it gave him hope. It was the one tiny measure of good that he could salvage from the whole massacre, and he clung to it.

The photos had made the Prophet weep. He had known so many of the victims. Had laughed with them, prayed with them and rejoiced when their children arrived. To see them lying there, riddled with so many arrows just about tore his heart to pieces.

The photos had the same effect on thousands of others. Word of the atrocity spread throughout the Mid-West, along with copies of the pictures. Every conceivable means of reproducing the photos had been used. Any photocopier that could be hooked up to a working battery or generator, or any printing press that could be ground into life had been put to the task. The images were deemed too important by all not to be seen.

There had been a huge outcry of indignation and a demand for action. So Colt had seized the initiative. The moment had demanded a man and he had stepped forward to fill the role. Thousands had heeded Colt's call and the Prophet had never seen a time when he was so needed at Colt's side

Colt had mobilised an army and marched on the reservation in Montana. The Prophet had prayed privately with him the night before he left Colorado. He had taken Matthew 5:43-45 for his inspiration. '"Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and persecute you."'

The soldiers were muttering amongst themselves and kicking the odd Native American who complained of stiffness or arthritis. They fell silent as Colt walked into the lot with Simon Peter and several other men, one of whom placed a box on the ground so Colt could stand on it.

Colt held up a quiver he had with him and removed an arrow. It was stained brown with dried blood. "After a thorough search of your homes my men found these arrows and this explosive hidden in your meeting hall." Colt pointed to a reinforced steel box two of his men were carrying.

The Native Americans looked shocked, no doubt surprised to have been found out. Some of them shook their heads, others called out "No!' and "It's a lie!"

The chief, an old man with long silver hair woven into a plait stood up. "There has been some mistake. We are obviously as much victims here as you. I assure you, we are in no way responsible for -"

Fitch stepped forward and smashed the butt of his gun into the chief's side. The old man fell forward with a pain filled cry. Several of the other Native Americans went to help him. The soldiers stepped in and forced them to resume kneeling at gun point, including the chief, who did so with no little discomfort.