Read Online Dead-Bang by Richard S. Prather - Free Book Online

least painfully amused by such an apparent—to me—calamity as the “Lemmings of the Lord.” And even to a lesser degree by the lesser calamity of the lesser lemmings, those small rodents with short tails and furry feet—and, interestingly, small ears—the surviving generations of which every few years leave their island and swim into the sea in order to reach the haven of another island out there, which would be wonderful if the island were there; one would greatly admire the lemmings’ suffering, sacrifice, determination, singleness of purpose, and faith if the island were there; one might even admire the obsession of each swiftly swimming lemming that not only he must reach that haven, and thus be saved from drowning in the sea, but so must all other lemmings as well—if the island were there. But, alas, the island.…
    Pastor Lemming was speaking again to his Lemmings.
    I honestly didn’t think anything could dismay or even surprise me now, not here. I should have known better.
    Festus had completely convinced these four thousand members of his headquarters church and millions more elsewhere across the land—convinced them solely by his word, his I-say-so, unsupported by any evidence or proof whatsoever—not only that he alone among men possessed wisdom and “inside” information not granted to lesser mortals, but also that he could and would announce the year and month and day and perhaps even hour when the long and long and long- awaited Second Coming of Jesus Christ would become a glorious reality.
    If his flock believed all that, naturally they would believe anything, for once it is accepted that black is white the fact that dark gray is light gray becomes obvious. Thus forearmed, I felt I would not be surprised even should Lemming, in a change of style if not substance, lean forward from his aerie and say, “Folks, I gotta s’prise for yawl. I been tellin’ yawl ’bout the Second Comin’ o’ Sweet Jesus, and how I know all ’bout it, but what I din’t tell ya—this here’s the s’prise—is I’m Him. Been Him all the time, folks, and I know it’s a sneaky trick to play on yawl but, you gotta b’leeve me, it’s for yrown good. So now le’s all sing eighty-nine, or ninety-eight, don’t make no difference.”
    He surprised me anyway. What he actually said was hardly less fruitcake, but it sure sounded different when Festus Lemming laid it on. Part of it, of course, was that he didn’t lay it on corn-pone, but mostly it was—well, the sonofabitch had style. He had that voice, a delivery either natural or practiced but extraordinarily effective, and he had power .
    There had been a long pause after his single statement, and when he spoke again it was without further comment or preparation. He simply began:
    â€œI have spoken to you on many nights of Emmanuel Bruno.
    â€œI have spoken to you on many nights of the Second Coming of our Lord and Savior, who died in agony, crucified on the cross, in atonement for our sins.
    â€œI have reminded you that it is foretold, at the time of the Second Coming, there will be famines and earthquakes in divers places … nation rising against nation, flesh against flesh, and blood against blood.… Of all these things and many others have I reminded you … and that the Antichrist will have appeared on Earth and will be slain by the true Christ … that the Scriptures may be fulfilled.”
    In the crowd there had begun a murmuring. There was little movement, for all eyes were on Lemming, but there was a sound of mumbled words or audible breathing, or sighs. There was tension building in them, and I could feel it building in me as well. Much of it was the richness and impressiveness of Lemming’s delivery, much, but not all.
    He had been speaking—for him—very softly, and now his voice began to rise and the tempo slowly