through the narrow path. A block from the courthouse, a pair of men with rifles rolled aside a barricade made of scrap iron welded to supermarket shopping carts.
One of the guards waved the wagon through. “Who you got there, Bobby? Somebody for the bicycles?”
“Not this one,” called Bobby as he eased the wagon past the barricade. “He’s got a Platinum card.”
The guard laughed. “You hear that?” He winked at his buddy. “We got us a playboy in town. Hide your daughters.”
Mortimer smiled weakly and waved.
They passed the courthouse, and Mortimer noticed two more riflemen patrolling the roof.
“What’s with all the fortification?”
“Red Stripes.”
“What do they want here?”
“Same as always,” Bobby said. “Food, weapons, clothing, women.”
“And blood,” added Sue Ellen, her face suddenly stern.
Bobby reined in the mule and they dribbled to a stop in front of a gigantic stone church. “In there,” Bobby told Mortimer. “Sue Ellen, help me carry in these eggs.”
Mortimer climbed out of the wagon, stretched and heard his joints pop. Every limb was stiff. He looked at the wide, closed double doors of the church, then back at Bobby. “In there?”
“In there.”
Mortimer pushed the doors open and stepped into the church. It was cavernous within, and the footfalls of his wingtips echoed off the high walls and vaulted ceiling. The church had been cleared of pews. There was nothing but wide-open space between him and the altar. Mortimer recalled that medieval cathedrals had no pews. The peasants had to stand and kneel on the cold stone floor. That was when people were serious about religion. Hard people for a dark age.
Mortimer felt weak from hunger and fatigue, his head slightly dizzy.
The setting sun suddenly poured its light into the far windows, a fiery orange and red coming through the stained glass. It bathed Mortimer in holy light. It warmed him, drew him toward the altar.
At once Mortimer felt leaden, the weight of his journey, the accumulated fatigue of running from danger and into danger. Replaying the past few days’ events in his mind, Mortimer could hardly believe he was still alive. Perhaps it was some form of miracle. Maybe the hand of God had directed him to this place. Maybe this was God reminding him, showing him that even in this desolate land, in these forsaken times, a higher power was still here, still taking some interest in the small creatures, this ridiculous humanity, crawling and hiding like insects over the earth.
Mortimer sank to his knees in front of the altar, the light nearly blinding him now, the setting sun at a perfect angle, streaming in, lighting up the dust motes in the air like fiery meteors burning in the atmosphere. Mortimer clasped his hands, looked up into the haunted eyes of Christ.
In that moment there was no sound. Time seemed to grind to a halt.
In the pure quiet, voices arose, perfect and clear. A hymn from nowhere, singing clear and sweet. Strange yet so very familiar. The song filled the room, filled Mortimer, lifted him up.
And then…
The figure of Christ moved. Mortimer gasped. The figure descended, floating down toward him. Mortimer’s heart froze. He opened his mouth to scream.
“Look out down there,” somebody yelled at him.
Mortimer closed his mouth, blinked, saw the men in the rafters, lowering the crucifix with thick rope.
“Stand aside, buddy.”
Mortimer stood aside. The men grunted, lowered the heavy figure little by little.
Mortimer recognized the song now. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones.
The foot of the big crucifix hit the stone floor with a loud
“Watch out for Jesus.”
XXI
Mortimer sat hunched over a plate of baked beans, a slab of ham and a biscuit. In between bites, he slurped at a cool pewter mug of Freddy’s Dishwater Lager. He might have claimed the meal tasted heaven-sent, except he wasn’t sure he believed in religious experiences anymore. Anyway, the food was good and filled him.
A work crew had filled up the empty space in the church with chairs and tables. Mortimer glanced up from his plate. The crucifix had been replaced with a sign reading JOEY ARMAGEDDON’S SASSY A-GO-GO, lit up with garish pink light. The sound system worked well with the church’s acoustics, and the Violent Femmes’ “Blister in the Sun” came out of the speakers at a tolerable volume.
The twitchy, bug-eyed man sitting across from him squinted at the pink membership card again and began apologizing for the third time.
“You see,
