'You'll see. I'll just bet this town has a sign up about it. I never did see such a place for signs.'
Nearby, a sign read: FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ROB CHOLLIE'S. Underneath the slogan was an airbrushed painting of two crossed pump-action shotguns and a neat row of symbols. Inside barred prohibition circles were startled cartoon thieves with stripy jerseys, domino masks and swag bags. Yorke got the impression the cheery little designs were grave markers.
Many of the resettlers were stretching their legs and kicking tires. More than one radiator was boiling over. Since the business with Sister Maureen, there was less smiling and hymn-singing. Their armour of faith was getting dented out here on the road, but a stubborn backbone of contrariwise determination was being shown.
Brother Wiggs caught sight of a stand of porno magazines and his face bloodied up, as if he were boiling to do some serious preaching and condemning. There was something weird about the Josephites when you looked at them close: Yorke would swear that two days ago, Wiggs had a regular face, with lumps and moles and marks. It seemed to be smoothing into a handsome mask. Maybe the Lord was clearing up the complexions of the chosen.
Tyree and Burnside rolled up and checked the place out. Tyree slipped her cashplastic into a vending machine and pulled out a can of Mountain Dew, which she opened with a thumb press, tested with her pen-end analyser and drank at a draught.
A scrawny kid with coke-bottle-bottom goggles ambled out of the armoured post by the gas-pumps. He wore oil-stained overalls with CHO LIE'S written on them. One of the Ls had peeled off.
'Fill 'er up,' Quincannon told him, 'and check the oil. What kind of mechanics you got in this town?'
'The best, sir. Chollie don't come cheap, but he don't come shoddy neither.'
Another sign read: MOST OF OUR CUSTOMERS ARE STILL LIVING.
'You accept US Cav discount vouchers?'
'How's that again?'
Quincannon grinned.
'You don't mind my
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?'
IV
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
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.
