Nick Cutter - Little Heaven

Satan tries to limit your prayers , one billboard proclaimed, because he knows your prayers will limit him!

“Well, he’s doing a hell of a job,” Minerva said. “I don’t pray at all. So good for you, Satan.”

Ellen tried the radio. They pulled in a few old episodes of Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar .

“ The transcribed adventures of the man with the action-packed expense account! ” the announcer intoned. “ America’s fabulous freelance insurance investigator! ” When the station bled out of range, Ellen manipulated the knob with great delicacy to pull in Dr. Don Rose, broadcasting on AM 610, KFRC, all the way from San Francisco. They listened to “One Grain of Sand,” by Eddy Arnold, which segued into “Roll Over Beethoven” and “Pocket Full of Rainbows.” This was followed by commercials for Bubble Up gum, Roi-Tan cigars, and Ken-L Ration dog food, which Ellen sang along to lustily in a little boy’s voice.

They lost the signal in the hills. Ellen fiddled with the dial until—

“ Pestilence! ”

A great fulmination filled the car. A man’s warbly, southern-fried voice.

“ The four horsemen are saddled, payy-poll! Their spurs are sharp to goad their flame-eyed steeds up from the bowels of the infernal pit to spread pain and suffering amongst the unbelievers, the heretical, the unwed muuuthers, the adulterers and the idolaters and fornicators and awwwll the ho-MA-sexshals, the tax chayyyts, the nig-…-gardly of spirit, the interbreeders, the faithless, the impure, the— ”

Ellen snapped the radio off.

“Holy shit, buddy,” she said. “Take a pill.”

They pulled into a gun shop that sat off the freeway. Jimmy’s Gun Rack. A squat, flat-topped building that resembled a bomb shelter. Barred windows, smoked glass. They needed ammunition. Micah had his Russian Tokarevs. Minerva, her US Colts. Ebenezer had borrowed the farmer’s English-made Tarpley carbine, a .52-caliber single-shot rifle. He hadn’t hunted wild game—a gentleman’s diversion, if ever there was—in years. This trip might offer the chance to sportingly plug a deer or feral hog.

Micah wasn’t sure they would even need guns. He hoped not. But then, he couldn’t be certain there weren’t a few rogue survivalists at the compound—if so, there was a chance those men would have guns. Better to be safe.

A bell chimed as they walked into the shop. Rifles lined the walls, with heavy-gauge chains threaded through their trigger guards. The man who was assumedly Jimmy stood behind a glass display cabinet. A stuffed boar’s head was mounted on the wall above him. Some joker had put a pair of Buddy Holly glasses over the boar’s snout and stuffed one of those trick cigars—already exploded—in its mouth. The boar’s eyes were wide and shocked-looking, as if the cigar had just blown up in its face.

Jimmy was himself boarish in appearance. Squat and round with stiff hairs sprouting from the vee of his camouflage shirt. His eyes were loose and eggy behind a pair of thick bifocals.

“What can I do you fine folks for?” he said.

“Unusual request, my fine fellow,” said Ebenezer. “I’ve got an old hunting rifle, .52 caliber.”

Jimmy hooted. “Jesus, son—you steal it off a dead Boer?”

Micah and Minerva gave Jimmy their orders.

“Those I can do,” said Jimmy. “And I’ll take a look for some .52 loads. Not promising nothing.”

Jimmy opened a door leading to the stockroom. Ebenezer spotted an unusual weapon just inside that door: two huge canisters and a long-nozzled gun with an attached asbestos-wrapped hose. A flamethrower. He tapped Micah on the shoulder and pointed.

“You ever use one of those in the war?”

Micah shook his head. “No flame unit in our detachment.”

Jimmy returned some minutes later. His forehead was caked with dust. He slapped down a box of shells on the counter.

“Sonofabitch, boy. You’re in luck,” he told Eb.

The box was ancient, the colors bleached out. Jimmy opened it and checked the loads. “They look fine. Found it waaaay in the back, where I lay down poison for the rats. But they’ll fire. I wouldn’t sell them to you if they didn’t.”

“You are a prince amongst men,” Eb said, peeling a few bills out of his wallet.

THEY REACHED GRINDER’S SWITCHjust past one o’clock that afternoon. The village had a single paved road. The surrounding land was peppered with shotgun shacks. A sundry store with a gas pump out front composed the entirety of the Grinder’s Switch commercial district.

Minerva pulled the Olds up beside the Sky Chief pump. She had been behind the wheel the last few hours, as Micah’s depth perception tended to drift on long car trips.

Micah popped the hood. The radiator was boiling over. The rad cap was blisteringly hot. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and unscrewed it. Oily steam hissed up.

A man came out of the sundry store. The skin of his face was as thin as a bat’s wing and stretched tight over his skull. He wore overalls with an oil-spotted rag poking out of the chest pocket.

“You let ’er boil dry.” The man spoke in the tone one might use to address the feeble-minded.

Ebenezer pulled in on his bike. He took off his helmet. His hair stuck up in comical sprigs.

“Petrol, garçon.”

The man just looked at him.

“Gas, please,” Ebenezer said. “Fill it up.”

The man hesitated, as if deciding whether he wanted to fulfill the order of a fellow with Ebenezer’s coloration. Then he uncapped the motorcycle’s tank and carefully filled it. The pump dinged at every half gallon. The man wiped a few drops of spilled gas off the tank and said, “Sixty-three cents. Pay inside.”

Micah said, “Do you have a water hose?”

The man shook his head. His mouth was sucked inward, and Micah wondered if he had a tooth left in his head. It looked as if something had been feasting on him from the inside. A parasite of some kind.

“Got a pump round back,” the man said.

The pump was old and rusted; a pail hung off the spout. Micah worked the handle until red-tinged water splashed into the pail. He filled it and went back to the car. The water hit the scorching radiator; steam boiled up. Micah waited for it to clear, then tipped the rest in.

The others were inside. The shop’s shelves were modestly stocked. Micah picked up a tin of Spam, a can of Hunt’s pudding, some wooden matches, and Tootsie Rolls. He added a quart bottle of Nehi grape soda from the ice chest, brushing past Ebenezer, who was picking up two bottles of Yoo-hoo.

“Elixir of the gods,” Ebenezer said.

“The gods of diabetes,” said Minerva. “Drink up.”

Micah took his goods to the cash register. “Nine dollars thirty-five with the gas,” the shopkeeper told him.

Micah informed the man that he needed a receipt. “Business purposes.”

The man scratched one out on a bit of scrap. His fingers trembled.

“We are looking for an encampment,” Micah said to him.

“It’s called Little Heaven,” said Ellen.

“The religious crazies?” the man said. “The hell you want with them?”

Eb said, “We are true believers who seek to walk in harmony with Christ Almighty.”

The man flatly scrutinized Ebenezer. “No, you ain’t.”

“So you’ve met them?” Minerva asked.

“They came in droves, what, going on half a year ago now?” the man said. “Them, their slick-talking leader, and all their earthly possessions. They hired a track machine—a flatbed on a tank chassis, yeah?—to haul everything up. It’s rough sledding through those hillside passes. Since then, I’ll see the odd one pass through on their way up.”