Another picture showed the Christ-figure slitting the throat of a huge, red-eyed grizzly, a jet of arterial blood spurting out over the faces of a group of worshipping acolytes, all holding Smith & Wesson automatics.
“Not like any Blessed and Merciful Jesus that I’ve ever seen, lover,” Krysty whispered. “More like a kind of military Conan the Barbarian.”
“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,” Doc croaked, sitting next to the scarlet-haired woman. “I see precious little evidence of either meekness or mildness.”
Joshua Wolfe held up his remaining hand, waiting for silence. “Enough, brothers and sisters,” he said. “We are here in the name of the Lord Jesus, armorer over all blasters. Watcher of ammo and hammer and bolt and cartridge. Master of the full-metal jacket. Upholder of the razor-steel blade.”
On the other side of the church, Ryan noticed an immensely tall and powerful woman, eyes closed V behind layers of fat, strangler’s hands clasped, mouth open in adoration. She wasn’t someone he cared to go up against in a dark alley after midnight.
“We worship gladly, O Lord, at thy feet. We welcome thy blessed aid in all manner of chilling. Thou art there at the shooting and the stabbing. At the strangling and the drowning. At the poisoning and the flaying. The hider and the hunter and the tracker. At the slitting and the hacking and the brother with the switchblade knife. At the burning, the night’s ambush and the final shuddering breath.”
He paused, and the congregation came smoothly in with their well-rehearsed response. “Let thy rain and burning embers fall into our open, staring eyes. For we are without all grace if You are not with us.”
“Hallelujah! Come heal the sick and trample down the weak!” roared the giantess, arms held up above her head, fingers almost touching the ornate wrought-iron chandelier.
Ryan heard J.B. whispering to Mildred. “Looks like she done her fair share of trampling the weak.”
Mildred sniggered. On the left side, in the second row of pews, Jim Owsley turned and scowled across at the sudden noise, glaring at Mildred.
Wolfe ignored the minor interruption. “We listen and note all Your teachings, Master-at-arms Jesus. Keep the sun at your back and allow for windage. Lay off the shot if you’re firing down a hill. And never hit seventeen when you’re up against the dealer. Never give your real name to a gaudy hooker. Keep your powder dry and your blaster clean and oiled.”
The solitary “Amen” came from J.B.
Ryan leaned back uncomfortably, thinking that he’d actually never sat in a comfortable seat in any church, anywhere in Deathlands. It seemed to be an inevitable, integral part of any religious ceremony.
Krysty insinuated her strong hand into his, squeezing his fingers.
“All right?” she breathed. Ryan responded by tightening his grip on her hand.
Wolfe was still fulminating on, painting a bloody picture of Christ the guerrilla fighter and survivalist. “We are as one with Him. One with the double-cross and the flame. One with all who are at one. And against anyone who opposes Him or stands against the Children of the Rock.”
Another chorus of “amens” was even louder than before, seeming to make the roof beams quiver.
“We have here, Lord, seven outlanders. Two known to us from the olden days when they walked a different path. Now they seek the light and we welcome them. All that remains is the testing, and this shall be done before all brothers and sisters at noon tomorrow.”
There was a pedal harmonium in one corner of the church, played by a stout woman in her thirties, with hair almost as red as Krysty’s. The hymn, bellowed lustily by the entire congregation, was an old frontier tune, familiar to everyone there: “Guide My Bullet Precious Lord.”
When it was over, they all filed out into the clean, pine-scented afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mildred decided that Doc would be far better off, in his sickness, spending the afternoon warm under a pile of blankets in their hut. She arranged for one of the ville’s older women to look in on him, and provide him with plenty of drinks of hot lemon and honey.
“Dehydration,” she said. “That’s the biggest danger when you’re running a temperature. I think it’s some kind of Sierra influenza. You got all the symptoms that I’d expect—trembling and stiffness and soreness in the joints, feeling hot and cold at the same time. Sweating.”