NOTE: This chapter is available in audiobook format on the TLHOC Podcast.
Access previous chapters of the book on the Table of Contents page.
June 14, 10:53 am
On the morning of June 14, an old man sat alone in a dry wash, deep in the Utah desert. Under his crossed and bony legs was a boulder that he had once (although he had long since forgotten) wrapped his arms around and lifted high into the air. He no longer remembered that under that boulder lay the severed hand of George Drouillard—the only part of the man that still existed in the world. All the old trapper’s other worldly flesh had long ago passed through the bellies of the scavengers, all of his bones long ago crumbled into white dust and scattered in the sands, or blown far beyond the Hereafter, or even washed into the oceans.
But the hand remained—hidden, withered, mummified, and frozen in a gesture of eternal need—gesturing, beckoning, yearning.
The old man whose body now contained the life force of George Drouillard sat on this stone in the ancient stream bed, not because he remembered this place, but because it still called to him. The tree of his rage and hatred had taken root in this place, in a hazy orgy of blood and violence that had ruptured the very border between life and death. And it would be from this place that he would call out to his army of angels, and then bend them to his will.
And although the old man could not see them with his earthly eyes, he knew he was not alone. Flanking him like gargoyles on either side of the Stone in the Stream were the ones he called the Dark Ones. If he had been able to look upon them with his human eyes, he would see that one was an old cowboy with a silver filigree knife strapped to his hip, and the other was a long-haired figure with an unkempt gray beard, evil eyes, and a shotgun slung over his ghostly shoulder. But he did not need to see these ghosts to feel their presence—to know they were his, and his alone, as they had been for as long as he could remember. And to know that soon he would need them, as he moved the last of his chess pieces across the board and into place.
It is time for the endgame, he thought.
With his arms spread wide, and his face turned to the sky, the old man felt the power of this place flow through him, the way it always had. And as his mind emptied, the sky became a golden yellow, filled with dozens of turquoise and red stars. He discarded the turquoise ones, letting them fade out of his vision, until only the red stars remained. And when he had all the red stars firmly in his grasp, he concentrated his mind and sent forth his will, like a hot wind from a tall mountain.
Hundreds of ghosts throughout the Hereafter froze in that moment, and allowed the essence of their God to flow into them, in wordless, ecstatic splendor. Ghosts naked in the parks, the cemeteries, the hospitals, the streets, or even in the churches of Salt Lake City froze, enraptured, as if they were held transfixed by an influx of the divine light.
Like the hundreds of other angels of God, Mattie Sowersby and Justin Kimball stopped where they stood. God’s glory felt like a trumpet in their ears, and it interrupted their argument the way a thunderclap interrupts a clear blue sky. It drove them both to their knees and drew their eyes toward Heaven.
There were no words in God’s clarion. But instantly, they both knew what every other angel in the Salt Lake valley knew—that God was calling them all together, for the very first time. Tonight they would at last gaze on God’s face, and then it would all begin.
“The Cleansing is almost here!” Mattie cried, her voice hushed in awe of the divine light that held her transfixed. “God is calling us together! Justin! Bradley! It’s about to start! I never expected it so soon!”
When Justin’s head cleared, the light of God was already fading like an echo in an endless canyon. Mattie recovered more quickly, and she was up and dancing. All at once, she was the little girl again, skipping and chanting in her sing-song voice.
“It’s coming! It’s coming! It’s the Cleansing! The Cleansing, Justin! Just like he promised!”
Justin just stared at her, trying to look as excited and thrilled as she was. But inside, he was terrified, unsure what this would mean to his plans—for Richard and his piggy, for Howard Gunderson, or for himself.
“Justin, we can worry about Howard Gunderson later,” Mattie cried in delight. “You and Bradley need to come with me. We’re going to go see God, together! Tonight, it starts!”
The Last Handful of Clover is a supernatural thriller by Wess Mongo Jolley. Thanks for reading! If you are enjoying this story, please consider supporting the author on Patreon.
For more information (including maps of the story’s world and a contact form) visit the author’s website.
To read previous chapters of this book, go to the Table of Contents page.
If you’re interested in listening to the book, rather than reading it, the audiobook is available at the Patreon link above, and also as a podcast on iTunes, Stitcher, Anchor, and all other podcast platforms. Visit the podcast page for more details.
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