Bentley Little - The Summoning

They were lined up in the street outside the church, waiting. Weapons in hand.

Wheeler's congregation.

Robert rounded the corner and slammed on his brakes, the other patrol car nearly plowing into his rear end.

The street was blocked. Scores of people--maybe a him dred, maybe more--stood in the center of the road. They were visible as little more than an army of shadows behind a curtain of sand, but it was obvious even through the swirling dust that they were clutching shovels and axes and pitchforks---implements that could double as weapons.

The radio crackled, and Rossiter's dry voice came over the tiny speaker. "Welcoming committee."

Several men in the front of the line were cradling rifles or shotguns in their arms, and before Robert even knew what had happened, the front and back windshields of the cruiser exploded in a shatter of Sand and safety glass, and a bullet buzzed past his head like a bee.

Immediately, instinctively, he threw the car into reverse and swung back around the corner, nearly colliding with the other patrol car as he swerved out of the line of fire. "Get downl" he ordered. He braked to an abrupt halt just in front of the fire truck. He quickly picked up the mike, pressed down the speak button. "Stay inside," he said.

"Don't get out."

He grabbed his rifle from its overhead rack and used the butt to clear out the remaining glass in the windshield.

The wind was dying down slightly, visibility improving, and he could see that the street was clear. The crowd had not followed him around the corner. The people were staying in front of the church. He looked over at Rich, next to him, at Sue and her grandmother, ducking down in the backseat. "Are you all right? Is anyone hurt?"

"We're fine," Sue said.

"Just a little shaken," Rich agreed.

"This is going to be a little tougher than we anticipated," Robert said.

"We have to get into the church," Sue told him. "We have to get in and out of there before dark."

I "And we have to set up the hoses," Rich said.

Robert picked up the mike again, spoke into it. "Agent

Rossiter? Do you have any idea how we can disperse that crowd?"

Rossiter's voice crackled over the speaker. "You have riot gear, don't you? Gas 'em."

"Shit."

"Would tear gas work?" Rich asked. "It doesn't cause any permanent damage, does it?"

"In this wind? It wouldn't even get half of them. Be sides, we only have two canisters, and they're both back at the station."

"Then what are we--"

"Let me handle it." Robert opened the door, held tightly on to his rifle as he stepped out of the patrol car. Behind him, he heard the sound of the fire engine's front door slamming, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Rossiter and Buford step onto the sidewalk, the FBI agent holding a service revolver, Buford clutching his shotgun.

Steve and Ben came out of the other patrol car, guns drawn.

"Hand me that bullhorn," Robert said, and Rich gave it to his brother.

"Testing!" Robert said. His voice was loud enough to be heard from at least a block away, even with the wind. He looked toward Rossiter, Buford, Steve, and Ben. "Let's go," he said. "But be careful." He looked back toward Rich. "Make sure everyone else stays in the cars.

If you hear any shots, get down."

Rich nodded :

The wind had subsided, but sand was still swirling in the air, and Robert wished he had worn sunglasses or goggles He blinked, trying to protect his eyes against the flying grains that hit his face as he walked forward.

He peeked around the empty office building at the corner.

They were still there, in the middle of the street. Wheeler was standing in front of them.

He stared through the dust at the preacher, standing with his congregation, and found himseffwondering what he would do if Wheeler asked to see a search warrant.

Could this all be a big mistake?

Could May Ling just be a superstitious old woman? He looked at the huge group of armed people standing in the center of the road in front of the black church. No. There was no mistake. As much as he might like to talk himself out of it, this was real.

He placed the bullhorn to his lips, pressed down on the amplification button. "This is the police!" he said. His voice carried clearly over the dying wind, sounded like the voice of a movie cop, not his own. "Put down your weapons!"

"We don't want you!" someone yelled. "We want the chinks!"

"Put down your weapons!" Robert repeated.

"We'll take you out, too, if we have to!"

The twenty or so men and women standing in a single line in front of the rest of the crowd wore uniforms of underwear, Robert saw, dyed black. He recognized a few of them--Sophocles Johnson holding an ax;

Merle Law with what looked like a gas-powered chain sawBbut most of the faces were unfamiliar to him.

From behind the people on the street, from the roof of the church, absurdly, came the sounds of hammering, muffled by the wind, as volunteers continued with their construction work, oblivious to the goings-on below.

Robert moved to the center of the intersection. He stood, legs spread, holding the rifle. He'd expected his stance to be at least somewhat threatening, but even the young women in the massive crowd before him did not seem to be cowed.

"Begone!" Wheeler screamed. "Before somebody drops a house on you Robert cleared his throat. He needn't have worried about the preacher asking rational questions about search warrants. He placed the bullhorn to his mouth. "Please dispersel"

"You will never set foot on this sacred land! As Jesus said, "You are of your father, the devil, and your will is to do your father's desires." You shall not set foot in the house of the Lord!" Wheeler glared at Robert, then turned, walked back through the crowd toward the church

What the fuck was that?" Buford asked.

Robert shrugged. He again cleared his throat, ad dressed the congregation through the bullhorn. "By the order of the Rio Verde Police Department, you are hereby ordered to disperse! Put down your weapons and move out of the street!

No one in the crowd moved.

"If you do not vacate the premises, you will be placed under arrestl"

A shot was fired over his head.

"What do we do?" Steve called out nervously.

Buford backed up. "Do we shoot? We can't shoot 'em, can we?"

"Fire on them if they attack," Rossiter said. "Get the ones with the rifles."

Robert turned around, looked back at the cars. Rich, Sue, and Sue's grandmother had gotten out of the patrol car. The grandmother was walking toward the corner.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. Rich, grab

"Leave her aloneI" Sue said. The grandmother reached the corner, walked out from behind the office building into the intersection.

The crowd went crazy. They stormed forward as one, screaming wildly, weapons raised.

"Get ready to fir et Rossiter said.

And Sue's grandmother started chanting.

He could not hear the words above the noise of the onrushing attackers and his own panicked instructions to his men, but he could see her lips moving, her mouth opening and closing, her almond eyes trained fearlessly on the angry congregation before her. She stood alone, unafraid, a frail, wrinkled old lady who looked like a turtle. He wanted to scream at her, but there was such authority in her stance, such a confident sureness in her gaze, that he allowed himself to hope, to believe, that she knew what she was doing.

She did.

A shot was fired. And another. But that was all. Neither bullet hit its mark, and before he, Rossiter, Buford, Steve, or Ben could fire even a single return shot, it was over. The people in the forefront of the crowd were slowing, stopping. The generic look of single-minded mania that had been imprinted on their faces was leaving, confusion emerging in its stead. Weapons were being lowered. One woman stopped running, stopped walking, sat down on the curb, and began to cry.