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 15, 12:01 pm
In the golden sea of the Hereafter the dark octopus arose, like an ancient Lovecraftian god. Tentacles sprouted from the central hub of the wheel in which so many souls had been trapped for so long, and began to reach and touch and explore.
There were minds in the yellow sea, like stars scattered across the sky of a moonless night. There were turquoise stars that vibrated in fear and huddled together in groups, migrating to the edges of the Hereafter and into the cemeteries and the deserts. They seemed to be fleeing from other stars—red stars—that were now arrayed throughout the golden mist in an uneven spray, as if they were runes thrown by a celestial hand.
The red stars vibrated too, but not in fear. The red stars trembled in anticipation, and looked to the golden sky for the black tentacles, waiting to be touched. Waiting to be blessed.
And when the black tentacle writhed toward each of them, seeking them out like sacrifices upon an altar, the red stars quivered in mystical delight.
It’s like a symphony, God thought. I am conducting the great orchestra at the end of the world, playing upon bones and flesh. Each cry of pain and terror will be a note that soars to heaven!
His black tentacles touched each of his angels, bestowing instant blessing and grace. And then, like releasing the string of a bow, he sent that arrow on its way, and moved on to the next. And with each note he played, God watched the brilliance and creativity of his angels unfold.
The chaos left in his wake broke on the shores of the Hereafter.
Some of his angels were so powerful that they could slip into any living person as easily as slipping on a glove. Others were less experienced and had to work harder to find their way in. But they were all now feeding off the energy of the whole, and the result was more wonderful that God could have hoped. Even the most novice of those with the Fourth Gift seemed inspired by the power of the hive. They took on their tools, and they worked their magic.
His magic.
In this moment we are one mind, God thought, as he moved among them, plucking and releasing, plucking and releasing.
Within minutes, he sensed the terror building behind the Oquirrh mountains like a rogue wave, tinting the Hereafter with streaks of fire. The panic was delicious, and only made him work faster.
At first the fruits of his labor were small—individual killings, modest acts of destruction.
A mother in a supermarket broke a bottle of fine imported olive oil, and slashed in a frenzy at her own children. A skinny store clerk tried to stop her, slipped in the oil, and cracked his head on the hard linoleum. Before he could get his wits about him, the mother was on him. Blood and oil shimmering together in the fluorescent light.
A teenager in his summer school class walked calmly to the front of the room and drove a pencil into the throat of his teacher.
A ten-year-old boy held his baby sister under the water in their backyard pool until her feeble kicks were stilled.
But then God released his more powerful, more furious angels, and the violence escalated. Ten minutes into the Cleansing the killings blossomed, and he smiled at the unusual instruments his beloved angels were choosing: Cars, guns, knives, power tools. He touched one ghost who slipped into an off duty fireman in the parking lot of a local hardware store. In the bed of his pickup truck was a chainsaw, fueled and ready to go. God didn’t wait to see, but he could imagine bodies in the checkout lines, culled like stray saplings.
This home handyman had a nail gun. This grandmother, some knitting needles. This nurse simply flipped the right switches as she walked down a row of patients, then locked the door as the alarms sounded.
A pretty young girl angel slipped into a grizzled man with Nazi memorabilia in a display case, and an assault rifle in his garage.
An old woman ghost selected a soldier at the Air National Guard base north of the city, put a box of hand grenades in his back seat, and headed for downtown.
Each act of violence thrilled God, and filled him with delight.
Just twenty minutes after he had begun, the symphony was in full crescendo. Fires were breaking out all over the city. Sirens were blossoming in the night air like a bouquet of screeching roses. The screams were a thousand notes and a thousand pitches, which joined in harmonies and choruses that created a soaring melody that he could almost taste as they crested over the mountains to the east.
Sutton Deary laughed in the sunshine, and he heard rolling thunder echoing across the clear blue sky.
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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