Issue 2, Spring 2024

Fiction

Acts of God Down at the Wal-Mart

by Larry Thacker

Bobby Greer claims he heard it first.

Hell.

Some God-awful tormented sounds out of the sinkhole that opened up on a Thursday night in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Now, as most around here know, Saturday night is peak shopping and social time at the Fetch, Tennessee, Wal-Mart. The parking lot is packed all weekend. When that hole opened up, it took two and half cars with it, not to mention all the shopping buggies. Two cars all the way down, as in vanished, gone, nothing, leaving a single truck teetering on the edge just enough to be pulled to safety once the authorities had determined the hole wasn’t going to swallow up all the emergency crew. And yes, an entire buggy coral was missing as well, though folks in Fetch aren’t known for their buggy coral usage.

Sinkholes are bad around Fetch. This one was so deep, sunlight couldn’t hit the bottom, even at noon. It was a good thirty feet across at the widest. They figured it was caused by an underground river eroding limestone and soil until the overburden got too heavy and collapsed. That’s what usually happens. 

The police cordoned off the area for a good three parking places all around with yellow crime scene tape and red cones and put out the word for everyone to steer clear until further notice. With all the yellow tape it looked like an early Halloween was on the way.  

There’s a problem with sinkholes, though. They can keep getting bigger for a while. You can jump in and start fixing one way too soon and they’ll keep falling in. For months. For years. You should have seen them pulling the half-lost truck out. The owner tipped the tow truck driver an extra hundred for backing into the danger zone just to hook the winch cable to the truck’s bumper. He was announced as Wal-Mart hero for a day inside the store. Two days later, that spot he’d sprinted across was long gone. The hole was forty feet across now. This was dangerous stuff.

It’s not like the police would post an officer to keep the curious from getting too close. They figured people had sense enough to steer clear of certain death. Wouldn’t the yellow tape work good enough? But people still hung out at the very limit, standing on their toes getting a better look, taking pictures, holding children up, as if it was a pullover at Lookout Mountain or the Pinnacle. Look, kids! A dark mysterious death hole in the middle of town! Let’s not cross this caution tape whatever we do! Hey, let’s go get a Mountain Dew Icee at the Wal-Mart deli!

The Greer boy never let on as to who dared him to cross the line. It was probably one of the Simpson boys he ran with. They knew when no one else would take a chance on something dangerous, Bobby was the one to call out. Climb that sketchy tree, Bobby! Jump off that cliff at the lake, Bobby! Go get a close-up picture down that deadly sinkhole, Bobby! Put it on your Instagram!

They went out to the hole late on that Sunday night. Not a lot of traffic. No one hanging around the site. It was Bobby and the two Simpson brothers, Rodney and Cole. One of the brothers recorded Bobby. The footage shows Bobby standing at the yellow tape talking low, psyching himself up for the stunt, the parking lot lights just bright enough to show his face, then him ducking down and sneaking across the dark asphalt toward the hole. He slowed up short and got on all fours and crawled to the edge. He had his phone. The parking lot wasn’t bright enough to really show what was happening in detail. This was before the city set up portable lights all around once everything got weird. All anyone had from the stunt was what Bobby claimed to have experienced and what little he’d gotten on his phone, which, in the end, was plenty enough for the faithful.

Instagram and Facebook were blowing up come Monday morning. You’d think Bobby would have been all full of himself, but he wasn’t. As he recorded himself, he seemed serious, even worried. He started with the still shots, explaining: “Y’all know I like a challenge…I like a good dare, but this one’s got me thinking. I went and got up close to that sinkhole at the Wal-Mart. I took a few shots and some video. I used my phone flash and increased the contrast. Do you see what I see?”

Down, way down in the hole, where even the flash from the phone had a hard time reaching, were faces. Yes, faces. Strained, pained, grimacing, faces, as if caught mid-scream, dark-eyed, skeletal and deathly. Dozens of faces. Three of the four shots showed them. It was freaky. They’d vanished by the fourth. Gone. Some of the eyes flashed back from the light, like frozen animals. It was obvious that the faces moved between shots. The comments were getting out of control by noon:  

Argoprince12:             “Nice photo-editing! This a school project? LOL!”

Amy35_XX:               “I think I saw this on a movie.”

SIMdoom:                   “WTF.”

EarlytoRise_2:            “That from the family reunion?”

Amy35_XX:               “Halloween yet??”

PreacherMan78:          “This is obviously a glimpse into Hell. Be careful what you go looking for people!”

Fifteentwenty:             “Now that’s a good one!”

420somewhere:           “Well, we knew Fetch was a lot like Hell already!”

PreacherMan78:          “No. Really. That hole is a gate to Hell that’s opened up. Messing with

that is bad news, boys. Get right with the Lord.”

Apocalypse23:            “That PreacherMan78s a real preacher. He’d know.”

BettySuU_Lawyer:     “An expert in east Tennessee sinkholes, too, I reckon?”

PreacherMan78:          “Salvation, maybe. And I know a glimpse of Hell when I see it.”

The conversation was taking a bizarre turn. It only got better from there.

Come to find out, “PreacherMan78,” was Amos Stout, a Man of God about town. More than anything, he was pastor without a church building to preach within. Hungry and clever, Amos knew a golden clad opportunity when it magically appeared, or, better yet, fell through the parking lot at your feet. Speed was of the essence, wasn’t it? Before someone else beat him to the idea. Time was money. Money meant souls.  

Wal-Mart parking lots are renowned for their community availability. Girl Scout cookie sales. Shiner circus ticket sales. Strangely talented drifter saxophonists playing solo to taped backup music from a portable speaker. Sometimes you’d think the parking lot in Fetch was a city park. Carnivals and circuses set up. Semi-tracker trailers park overnight at their leisure. Women of the night stroll freely. They generally won’t run people off sleeping in their cars overnight if they break down or have a bad streak of luck. One family lived in their broke down car for half a year once. People would drive up and hand them money all the time. Their handmade cardboard “Need help – God Bless” sign got so old it fell apart. Campers hang out for days like they’re at the lake. Here in Fetch, they’ve even allowed tent revivals. That’s where Amos Stout figured he had a foot in the door for his idea.

Feinman’s Funeral Home lent him two adjoining extra-large tents provided they could advertise. He and some buddies were already setting up for the coming weekend when both the store assistant manager, Amy Lender, and the assistant Chief of Police, Lennie Schafer, showed up with What the hell? looks on their faces.

“What are you doing?” Lennie asked, really wondering what the hell was happening.

“Yeah!” Amy chimed in, just as confused. Neither knew of anything that was supposed to be happening like this near the hole. It already looked dangerous and that meant both of them might get in deep trouble over something bad that was bound to happen.

Amos thought he had things figured out. He’d already spoken to John Betterman, the man who leased all the land to Wal-Mart in the first place. He’d gone straight to the landlord to ask permission, and figured he could ask forgiveness of everyone else lining up to question the Lord’s work when the time came. Besides, who wanted to be the one to turn down a harmless church activity in freedom-of-religion-loving Fetch?

Amy knew nothing about any leasing of land for the store. It’d never come up. She radioed for the head store manager, Ralph Summit. Ralph told her it was a fact, that this store did lease the land from Mr. Betterman. The way he said “Mister” gave her the feeling he wasn’t someone to mess with, which gave her a bad feeling about messing with this fella that was introducing himself authoritatively as “Preacher Stout.” Anyone who introduced themselves by their suffix, she’d learned, was usually a true big shot or wanted to be one. Either way, they could make trouble.

Lennie saw through the layers of created BS and chimed in with some confidence. “Even if you do have an agreement with the landowner, I’m thiking some kind of conversation with this store is in order before you can just set up…what is it you’re doing, anyway…?”

“Tent revival,” Amos answered matter-of-factly.

Lennie repeated it back, inspecting the tent’s fair proximity to the ever-widening sinkhole.

“Look, preacher, I ain’t got a problem with no revival, but of all the spots to set up, why right here within a stone’s throw of that sinkhole, huh?” 

Something about the word stone gave Amos pause. His eyes widened and his mouth went slack. He was overtaken by true epiphany, right on the spot, as if God himself had come down to this Wal-Mart parking lot and whispered in his left ear. His brain ran off with the possibilities. Stones. That was the answer.

Lennie was frustrated. “You hearing me, preacher? Hey!”

Amos snapped out of his inspired spiritual fog. “Yes. Yes! I am. I’ve just had the best idea, though!” He yelled over to his workers. “Hurry up, brothers! We’ve got a lot of work to do! Praise, God!”

Lennie was really getting aggravated now. “Why so close to the hole, man? What’s the idea?”

Amy backed him up. “Yeah!”

Preacher Amos became serious, almost grim, pointing over to the hole.

“Officer, you may not believe it, but that right there is an opened portal to Hell.”

“Hell,” Amy repeated, staring over at the hole she’d been walking by for three days already. “Hell?” she asked, now a little amused by the man.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s a gateway to the Devil’s Hell, opened up right here in Fetch to swallow up poor lost souls. If we let it,” Amos answered, his expressions turning even more serious. “And don’t worry, I’ve already cleared the distance with the city engineers. They said as long as I was a hundred feet from the hole, we were okay. Heck, they’re letting people park closer than that, see?”

“A hundred foot from Hell?” Lennie said, almost giggling at his own cleverness.  

“You serious?” Amy asked, wondering how much she’d offend him if she laughed as hard as he wanted.

The preacher huffed, anticipating the long road ahead. What if everyone reacted this way?

“We’re closing that thing down, I promise you. Literally, praise God,” Amos told them. “Y’all are invited. Bring a guest.”

The preacher walked off, leaving the Assistant Chief of Police and the Assistant store manager standing a little confused as to what they’d just experienced. 

Amos and his helpers had their tents up by that evening, ready for what may come the next Sunday morning. He’d been inviting everyone who stopped by, curious, as they made their way through the lot. They positioned the tents right up as near the yellow caution tape as they could. They put out the metal folding chairs, the portable, battery-operated podium with the internal speaker, the American and Christan flags. The set a couple of potted fake ferns around the bases of the tent polls. Everything looked nice and ready. Ready to take on Hell. 

Now Preacher Amos Stout didn’t yet have a church house within which to gather up his flock and preach. They were more of a migratory tent congregation. In fact, they had so little money they hadn’t even bought permanent tents yet. He’d set up, like a few do, once or twice a year, as often as he could, for big roadside revivals and visit other churches when lucky enough to get invited. That kept enough food on the table along with the electronics repair business he’d inherited from his uncle Rich. His followers kept up with his “Stout Ministries” doings by way of his Facebook page, “What’s Up with Preacher Amos?”

Brothers and Sisters, are you ready for real revival? You’ve all probably heard by now, or seen for yourselves, the big hole that fell in out at the Fetch Wal-Mart. Ain’t it something? We’re setting up for revival right beside that hole, which I suspect is a dangerous and evil portal straight to Hell given evidence acquired by a church member’s son, Bobby Greer, when he took a chance and acquired footage from down in the murky abyss (without permission, of course – but remember, Our Lord managed a lot without permission too!). I’ve seen the evidence, like many of you, and I’m convinced. Invite your family and friends and let’s have “Revival A Hundred Feet from Hell!”   

He sent a separate email out to the kids, and, of course, their parents. The kids were like mobile Sunday School students. About twenty, last he counted. The idea Lennie had given him was taking shape.

“Hey, young’uns! Here’s your Sunday School assignment for tomorrow morning! Gather up as many fist-sized rocks as you can and bring them to the backside of the tent. No bigger than your fist. It doesn’t matter what kind of rocks they are, just bring what you can, and I’ll explain later. Remember – Jesus Loves You!”  

One of the kid’s fathers, Wayne Barthell, owned a gravel company. You can guess what was going to happen when his boy Calvin told his daddy what the Sunday School assignment was. Wayne rolled in there early Sunday morning with one of his dump trucks full up with four tons of limestone rock crushed to just the right size, no questions asked, “In God We Crush” plastered all over the side of his truck.

“Where you want your rock, Preacher,” he asked, sipping his Hardee’s coffee.

Amos couldn’t believe his eyes and said a little prayer of thanks.

“Right there looks good to me, brother!” Amos yelled, smiling as big as his face could handle, hoping the ground under that part of the asphalt wasn’t thin from any additional unknown eroding. He pushed such a possibility to the back of his imagination, blaming such vision on the Dark One himself.

Wayne tilted the load and let the rocks slide and scrape out and down with a metallic racket even people across the highway having brunch at the Pizza Pizzaz noticed.

Already instructed by the preacher as to what was happening, some of the kids waited for the rockpile to come to a rest, then ran over with a large homemade cardboard sign that read: Stone the Devil! Only $1 per rock! Let’s fill up the Gate to Hell! Proceeds go to Vacation Bible School Fund, the Choir Trip fund, and Tent Fund.

It was finally becoming clear what the preacher’s epiphany had been – he planned to fill up that hell-of-a-hole with rocks and make money doing it.  

The hand-painted wooden sign out on the road pointed the curious into the parking lot, inviting people to “Come Worship a Hundred Foot from Hell!” If that didn’t cause an appropriate amount of nosiness, what would? If nothing else, there’d be a constant traffic jam along parking aisles seven and nine during the whole service, Amos figured. Any attention was good attention, he’d once heard said.

Come ten-thirty Sunday morning, it was time to get started. Everyone joined in an acapella version of Amazing Grace (verses one, three, and four) and had a seat. Amos was anxious to get started. They could get shut down at any moment.

“It’s pretty simple, people. Sometimes it’s hard to believe in places we’ve never seen, even when we’ve been given the gift of proof,” the preacher started, holding up the Bible. “I’ve never been to Texas, but I believe it’s a real place, because I trust people who’ve been there and I’ve seen some pictures.”

He let that sink in.

“As for faith, I hold in my hand all the evidence of God’s Heaven and the Devil’s Hell we need. Yet, given how so many people are living their lives these days, you’d think those places were fairy tales.”

A bunch of amens followed.

“Then one day a miracle up and happens,” he continued, pointing a finger up and out toward the hole only a hundred feet from those sitting along the left of the crowd. Everyone turned and looked. Murmured to themselves.

“That there’s a miracle, people. A simple hole in a simple parking lot in a simple town, plain and simple.”

He went quiet. Tilted his head, shushed the crowd. Listened hard. 

“Hear that? Behind the traffic. The parking lot noise. The people going shopping when they ought to be in church! Hear it? If you listen, it’s there. Can’t you? Just like little Bobby Greer did!”

He waited a whole thirty seconds for effect.

“Oh, the damnation! The cries for mercy! The belching fires of eternal removal from God’s presence!” he screamed. “I hear them!”  

A woman yelled from the back row, half crazed in the bliss of spirit, frightened to death. She was about the only one, though, Amos noticed, but she was a start.

Amos grabbed a big gravel stone he’d stored down in his portable podium. “I say…” he began again, lifting the fist-sized thing well above his head and walking out from behind the podium and approaching the front row of the audience, “I say…we stone the Devil!”

A few people reacted, but not how he needed. A sign here and there hadn’t done the job.

“We could wait on the state to come in with their know-it-all engineers to fill that thing, but what if…what if it opens back up? We know what it is! They don’t. They just think it’s a regular old hole in the ground! I know better! You know better!”

A few more responded. “Yes! We do!” This might take drastic measures, Amos thought.

Amos stood at the edge of the tent, still pointing toward the hole with the rock.

“I defy the gates of Hell!”

Multiple amens rose from the crowd. A few stood and shouted now.  

“I condemn the Gates of Hell!” He stepped out from under the tent and into the morning sun.

“I rebuke the Gates of Hell!” he continued, louder, lifting a leg over the yellow caution tape. More amens. A gasp of wonder, fright, and delight. The other leg went over, and he was standing in the prohibited zone. Amens went up and more worry. Then, with one last challenge at the top of his lungs, Amos took off sprinting across the forbidden zone right up to the crumbling edge of the Hell pit, looking back to his flock one last time to see if he had their attention finally, and flung the stone down into the darkness with a smug smile.

The flock were quick to their feet now, clapping, yelling, praising the Lord, headed over to line up on the other side of the tent where the Sunday School children were ready to take a dollar per stone from as many as could contribute. Amos came back from the hole, out of breath, more than a little surprised at what he’d done in the Spirit, glad the edge of the asphalt hadn’t just crumbled under his stupid feet. Yet it had worked, and he was back watching his flock line up to buy rocks to fling into the hole of damnation. People were already walking away with armfuls, whole families, a father, mother, and two children with as many rocks as they could carry in their arms, were on their way to the designated tossing spot.

It felt like a carnival game as the action cranked up. Amos had taken chalk and drawn a box along a portion of the yellow tape, writing: Throw from here! Praise God!

People bunched up with their ladened armfuls and started casting rocks like they were killing the whore of Babylon, yelling and celebrating. Amos could almost hear a cha-ching sound ring out every time one left a hand.

“Hey, preacher!” a father yelled out in the middle of the action. “Half my kids’ rocks aren’t making it to the hole. It’s too far to throw. I want my money’s worth.”

Amos looked at the area between the rock tossers and the hole. It was strewn with disappointing stones from the caution tape all the way up to the lip of the hole. He hadn’t thought about this, about little weak arms. 

“No worries!” Amos shouted, “we’ll push them in when the day’s through!” He then whispered to one of his deacons to run into the Wal-Mart to get a couple of steel rakes and an extra handle. “We’ll take care of them later!”

Over the taped organ music Amos played from his boombox, it was a mix of laughter at the fun of flinging rocks – since who doesn’t like doing that – and jeers as people booed and damned the Devil the best they could without using any seriously bad words. Over that was the continuous hollow thump of the stones on asphalt as they’d strike and slide and stop or skid into the hole, or splat when hitting the exposed red clay high in the hole. If someone got it dead center no sound echoed back. The stones would fall, soundlessly, into the dark mystery.  

The stone throwers were at it a good hour when the siren of a sheriff’s squad vehicle barked out a few warning squawks as it pulled up. Everyone quit but the youngest kids with their sorry, half-tosses. There must have been a hundred rocks strewn across no man’s land by then. Deputy Lennie parked behind the tossing area and took his time getting out of the squad car with an air of authority, his right hand resting on his piece for no reason other than a bad habit.

Amos ran up close, hoping his flock wouldn’t hear whatever conversation was about to take place. It probably wasn’t good. “What’s the matter, Lennie. Why all the racket on the Lord’s day?”

The Assistant Chief pulled a clipboard from the vehicle and handed it to Amos with a fine grin of success.

“Preacher Man, you’re officially shut down from this gravel slingin unless you’ve got an amusement license from the city.”

The preacher gave the document a look. It said as much and was signed by the Chief of Police, Luther Bennett. Amos figured Luther would have been more on his side.

“You wouldn’t have happened to have been very Christianly and brung one of these licenses with ya?” he asked Lennie.

“Nope, it’s down at the courthouse like the rest. They open first thing tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. And keeping everyone to the same rules is pretty Christian, if you ask me,” Lennie said with a smile.

“Don’t reckon I could call the Chief about this?” Amos asked, hoping for a strike of favoritism.

“Not unless you know where abouts he’s fishing on Norris right about now. Reception ain’t too good out there, as you probably know. He don’t even tell me where’s he at.” Lennie looked at the crowd, and the rocks out on the asphalt that hadn’t made it all the way, and the load of large stone that was piled behind the tents, and the kids still taking money from people standing in line.

“Looks like you’ve made a pretty good lick at it for the day, though, preacher. Won’t be a total loss.”

“Only the Lord knows what we mighta done, my friend.”

And with that the preacher yelled out for everyone to bring the service to a close.

“Folks, it’s time to wrap it up for the day! Time to quit kids. Thank y’all, thank you. Let’s close with a prayer.”

Kids and adults alike let out disappointed groans.

“I know, I know,” he answered back to everyone, “we’ll pick things back up during Wednesday evening service, don’t you worry none!”

There were more grumbles, but everyone dispersed, anxious to come back in a few evenings. A cute little girl with an rock she could barely carry approached the preacher.

“Preacher! Can we bring our own rocks to throw? So we don’t have to buy them?” Amos barely caught himself from pressing his big hand over her tiny mouth. “Um, no, little girl,” he said quietly. “The rocks have to be blessed and special before we throw them at the Devil.” She was a smart little girl. “But your email said for us to…” she tried saying. “Yes, but Jesus changed his mind, okay? Move along.”

The preacher was waiting on the porch with Velma, Bobby’s mother, when Bobby got home from school Monday afternoon. Amos and Velma were drinking coffee and sitting in rockers, looking a little too chummy for Bobby’s liking.

Bobby tried to get into the house before it was too late, but his mother stopped him.

“Honey, you ever met Preacher Stout before?”

“So, here’s the young man what’s helped make all the noise about the sinkhole? Bless his heart,” Amos said, standing to shake Bobby’s hand. Bobby just stood there looking the man up and down with an attitude.

“I only know him from Facebook,” Bobby answered, standing his ground. 

“I want to thank you, Bobby. You’ve given us a great gift by taking a chance and getting those pictures. It ain’t everyday people get a view of Hell up close and personal.”

“I think they’re ghosts,” Bobby said. “A lot of us do.”

That threw Amos. “Ghosts?” he finally laughed. “You said they were in there sounding tortured and the like. I saw the photos. Looked like Hell to me.”

“You’d be screaming too if you were a ghost and trapped down in a sinkhole,” Bobby said, near laughing at the man.

“Ain’t no ghosts but the Holy Ghost, son.”

Bobby frowned. “Says you. And I ain’t your son,” he quipped, turning and walking into the house.

“I guess the chances of getting little Bobby to come talk at the tent service Wednesday evening might be out of the question right now, huh?” 

Velma apologized. “Let’s give him some time. He’s been a little mad since his daddy left. You don’t think he’s making this whole thing up, just for attention do you, Preacher Stout?”

Lord, I hope to God not, he thought to himself. That would ruin everything.

Tuesday morning was a different scene. It was men in suits arguing as close to the hole as they could manage without making the front page of the paper.

Dan Masters was one of the two and half people who’d lost cars down the initial cave in. He’d fully lost his pride and joy, “Kitty,” a sky blue 2007 Mazda Miata. He’d contacted his insurance company immediately, who’d contacted Wal-Mart, who’d contacted the landowner, John Betterman. Dan figured it would be a quick resolution since it was so obvious what had happened. Ground opened up. Car fell in. Car vanished. Insurance claim.  

But by now they were all arguing as to whose insurance would be primarily responsible for a total vehicle loss down a sinkhole, if anyone. This was no common occurrence, some argued. All three insurance companies were claiming it was an “Act of God,” and trying to pass the buck to the next carrier, or to the man upstairs, literally.

Dan was told by his own insurance company, who he’d had coverage with for fifteen years, that sinkholes were an “Act of God,” and weren’t covered, unless, of course, you had it specifically added to the policy. Just like earthquakes. Floods. Rockslides. Meteorite strikes. Lava flows. Lighting strikes. A sinkhole was about as close to an earthquake without being an earthquake as you could get. 

Dan was steaming. “You mean a man can pay in years and years of insurance on a house and one day God can just say screw that house and wash it away with a flood and y’all just ignore all those monthly payments? The thousands of dollars?”

Basically yes, his agent said, though he wouldn’t say anything about God playing favorites.

“Well, guess what?” he told them, pointing a finger in his agent’s face, “I’m agnostic, so I don’t see where God’s got a dog in this fight I’m in!”

“That don’t matter none!” his agent yelled back.

“By God, we’ll see about that!” Dan screamed back.

The Wal-Mart agent and Betterman’s agent, were more than happy to stand and watch Dan and his agent argue over how it was all in God’s hands, figuring nothing more than a little arguing was all that might come from the crazy ordeal. 

Dan heard Preacher Amos on the radio Tuesday.

The DJ was asking an age-old question that struck a chord with Dan: Why does God allow bad things to go on? Especially to good and faithful followers? God’s all powerful and knowing, right?

“I love answering this question,” Amos said, getting excited. “God can’t do no evil, can’t do wrong, injustice, can’t cause pain and suffering, can’t be the source of all that’s wrong in the world. It’s Satan at the helm of evil deeds and events, not our Lord and Savior. That’s been the deal since the Garden of Paradise went all to hell.”

“So bad things aren’t allowed by God, so to speak?”

“You might try to say that if you want to be angry at God for something, but it’s not like that. If you want to blame something, someone, for constantly leading us off the straight and narrow, the ‘Freewill Road” as I call it, that’s the Devil himself. And that hole out there in the parking lot is a good glimpse at what the unsaved have coming if they don’t get their affairs in order.”

Dan wasn’t necessarily convinced, but he sort of got what the preacher was getting at.

By Wednesday morning, the hole was larger, another third bigger. Dan rode up on his bicycle as Amos was overseeing having his tents moved another fifty feet out to safety.

“I lost my Miata in that hole,” Dan told Amos, shaking his hand. “I’m Dan Masters.”

“What a shame,” Amos replied. “I liked them newer Miatas. What year?”

“Oh-Seven.”

“Dang, brother, what a waste,” Amos said, shaking his head staring out at the hole as if the man’s car was just over the lip of the crater within easy reach. “Four wheels down to two, huh?”

“Riding a bike’s all I can do with the insurance people fighting it out, if anything comes of it,” Dan said, sounding about as down and out as Amos had heard anyone in a while.  

Amos asked what he meant by that.

“Get this. They say I lost my car on account of an ‘Act of God’ and they’re trying to say it’s not covered,” Dan said, maybe on the verge of tears.

Amos thought that over, a little dumbfounded.

“Brother, I ain’t never heard such a thing in all my life,” Amos said, looking at the man and back to the hole in the ground. 

“I know,” Dan said. “It’s crazy!” 

“I’ve seen acts of God all my life, Brother, and that right there ain’t nothin but an

‘Act of Satan’!” Amos nearly yelled, not a little upset at the situation. “‘Act of God’ my behind!” he whispered.

            “That’s what they told me,” Dan replied, surprised by the preacher’s reaction. 

Amos asked who carried Dan’s insurance.

“Capital Insurance. Ralph Campbell.”

“Sounds to me like Mr. Campbell’s trying to save himself some money.”

Amos asked if he could call the man. Dan said it’d be fine, though he wondered what good it’d do.

The phone conversation that Wednesday afternoon went something like:

Capital Insurance, we’ve got you covered, how can I help you?

This Ralph Campbell?

It is, what can I do for ya? 

I’m calling on behalf of Dan Masters. He’s got his Mazda covered by y’all, I believe?

Well, he did, but…I really can’t go into Mr. Masters’s business without his permission, sir, unless you’re his attorney or something like that. Who’s this?

Reverend Amos Stout. I am representing Brother Dan, but not in the official way you’d need, so I’ll do all the talking, how’s that?

I don’t know what you could…

You told him that his vehicle being lost down the sinkhole was a “Act of God.”

I can confirm that, unless specifically covered, some accidents are not covered and considered that, yes, Acts of God.

Like sinkholes.

Yes.

And earthquakes.

Correct.

Floods.

True. Unless specifically covered with additional plans, yes.  

Which God?

What?

Which God?

Excuse me?

I didn’t stutter, sir. Which God – and there are so many to choose from, as you know – does this Act of God clause specify?

I don’t think…

How about this. What’s the Lord God Almighty – Jesus, our Lord and Savior – got to do with such bad fortune, sir?

Um.

How in the world are such devastations from the hand of God?

Well, I’m no preacher, so…

Well, I am, and I’m telling you the sinkhole in question is no Act of God, but an Act of Satan.

Silence.

In fact, we’re having a tent revival down by that hole now. My congregation believes it’s a portal to Hell itself. Now if that’s true, and a lot of people think it is, then your coverage – or lack of coverage – doesn’t make any sense and you owe Mr. Masters another Mazda.

Click.

Amos noticed some kids, or at least what he perceived as a gaggle of kids, gathered up at the yellow tape on the opposite side of the sinkhole from the revival tent area as he pulled up to make an early check of things Wednesday afternoon. There were five of them, three girls and two guys, easily noticed from a distance because they were more or less dressed all in black from head to toe. Black boots, loose black cargo pants, dresses with straps, vests, black leather trench coats, black hoodies, sunglasses. Jet black hair. Black fingernail polish (even on the guys). The only thing not black on these people was their skin, which didn’t look like it got much sunlight along with the occasional flash of silver jewelry dangling, wrapping, or piercing ears, lips, noses, necks, wrists, eyebrows and fingers.

He drove by, trying to look inconspicuous. A few were down sketching on the blacktop with white chalk. Two others were unfurling a banner with white background and red and black letters. He couldn’t make it out. He parked a few spaces away and watched.

They weren’t talking much, but pointing and nodding, working. They possessed dark demeanors, which concerned him. These had to be the dreaded goths he’d heard mentioned. He’d seen these types around town – singularly. A few together. But never in a group this large. To Amos, they looked downright evil. He kept watching, peeking over a newspaper. 

The ends of the banner got secured to flag poles sunk into sand buckets. As they finally pulled the sign taut, Amos thought he was in a dream. Or a nightmare.

It read:

There is no Hell

Sincerely,

The Church of Satan, Inc.

Amos groaned, “What in God’s name is this?” Other than that, he was speechless for a few moments there alone in his car, emotionally a mix of confusion, curiosity, and incredible building anger. He put the car in drive and pulled closer, he wanted a better look without having to be outside the safety of his vehicle. No telling how these punks acted when approached.

He crept up nearby and was better able to see. They noticed him pull closer but kept working.

They’d assembled on the blacktop a kind of altar on a box covered with black lace. On that was black candles in fancy brass candle holders. In the center was a ceramic goat’s head with an upside-down star in a circle on the forehead. In front of the altar was another star in a circle drawn with chalk on the blacktop with weird scribbles here and there. 

Devil worship, he whispered to himself. The banner was behind it all.

He couldn’t stop himself. The words were out before he could stop them. He felt his face flushing hot, his blood pressure rising, that old tingling in his fingertips. He yelled from the car.

“Hey! What do you punks think you’re doing here?”

One of the guys looked over, gave Amos and his vehicle a look, and went back to arranging items.

“What do you mean, there’s no hell? Hey!”

One of the girls said, “Sounds like he’d be very disappointed if there weren’t, huh?”

Another young lady turned and stepped closer. “The Church of Satan doesn’t believe in hell, sir,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Church of Satan? What in the world? Hell and the devil and evil is all y’all worship!”

Another guy turned. “No, sir. We don’t worship anything. We believe in logic. You should do some research about Our Church.”

“’Our Church’?” Amos repeated. “I rebuke thee in the name of the Lord!”

Another turned. “We don’t believe in your god either. If anything, we’re closer to atheists.”

“Jesus.”

“Whatever gets you through the day, man.”

“Who gave you permission to do this?” Amos wanted to know.

They all laughed at that. One replied, “Who really gave you permission to start a tent revival based on a lie about a hole leading to hell and start selling dollar rocks to toss at the devil?”

With that, Amos huffed and sped off and circled around to his safe side of the hole and his tent and pile of rocks.

This was my idea! Why can’t people leave it alone? he stewed.  

“Sister Leslie,” Amos asked, “would you open us in prayer? I think we really need it.”

It was Wednesday night. The church crowd was bigger. So was the security detail. Not only were there two sheriff’s vehicles, a Tennessee state trooper’s vehicle was parked nearby as well. The trooper was posted over near the goths for protection, since as soon as the church folks started showing up, threats were getting shouted at the “devil worshipers”. There were ten of them now, still dressed in black, some with long capes with hoods covering their heads. They’d occasionally chant, “Logic is the answer! Be your own god!” Some people were gathered up at a distance just to watch what was happening, probably hoping for a good showdown. 

Sister Leslie began, “Father in Heaven, we thank you for a good turn out tonight. We’re grateful the hole ain’t no bigger than it was last time and we’re not having to move the tent again. That’s a bunch of work. We’re thankful for our blessings and lessons in life. Help us seal this awful thing up, Lord, so things can get back to normal around here in Fetch. And forgive them young’uns over there all dressed in black and so tempted off the straight and narrow. They don’t know what they’re doing in the ignorance of youth, Father, but just in case, don’t allow any of them to put a curse on us. Oh, and help Mr. Dan out with his Miata problem, please, and…”

In the middle of Leslie’s prayer, a strange mechanical noise came buzzing from across the parking lot like some giant mosquito or a sick moped, growing louder as it neared, flew overhead, distracting everyone from the prayer as they looked heavenward to the sound as it passed over the tent, loud and obnoxious, swinging toward the hell hole.

It was a drone. Along the side of the machine were the words:

Dave’s Drones

We See All

It wasn’t a big drone, but it wasn’t a small one, either. A foot and a half square. Four propellers. It was loud, like a flock of weed eaters flapping by. It flew over and hovered right above the hole at about ten feet.

Preacher Amos said out loud, without realizing he was hot-mic’d, “Dang it, why didn’t I think of that?”

The noise had started a baby crying. An elderly lady was asking, “What’s that racket? Who’s mowin their yard?” A kid was sticking his fingers in his ears. Officer Lennie had his hand resting on his gun in the usual resting spot, but with intent in his eyes.

“…Preacher, how’s God gonna hear me with all this noise!” Leslie yelled, her prayer now interrupted and probably ruined.

Amos was down from the pulpit now, making his way around the caution tape to get as close to the hovering drone as possible. He yelled over to officer Lennie. “Can’t you do something about this?”

Lennie shrugged. What could he do? From what he saw, no law was being broken, just some people being inconvenienced. He didn’t police up rudeness until it led to law breaking.

A light on the bottom of the drone flipped on. The drone turned mid-air, lowering, spotlighting the shadowy walls of the hole, past the crumbling asphalt, along gravel and clay, lowering until the drone and the noise it made faded down, vanishing into the hole’s depths.

The trooper said, “Well, what the hell is that all that about?”

Preacher Amos realized he’d lost all control of the day’s service, replying, “Exactly.”

One of the kids from the Church of Satan said, “Cool, man!”

Members of his congregation were leaving their seats, trying to get a closer look at the drone, talking in small groups, speculating. Some were holding rocks from their earlier purchases. It was turning into more of a circus than usual. 

Distracted, hardly anyone noticed the dark van with dark windows pulling up. Small white plain letters across the side read:

PARANORMAL ASS.

of PARTIN COUNTY

P.A.P.C.

Amos crept up over to the mysterious van. Someone inside was obviously in charge of the drone and they’d interrupted his important work. The Lord’s work. He put his nose right up to the passenger window but couldn’t see a thing.

“Don’t reckon these tinted windows are within regs, do ya?” Amos asked a nearby officer. The officer glanced at the window but didn’t respond.

Amos squinted at another window and thought he saw a shadow of movement. He knocked with his knuckles. “Hello? That your’all’s drone making all the hullaballoo? Hello?” He knocked on another window. “You broke up our church service with that blame thing!”

A window rolled down a few inches. It was dark inside but for some flashing lights.

The voice said, “Yes. That’s our drone, sir. We’re working.”

“So were we.”

The voice whispered inside the van with others.

“We didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“You didn’t notice a ton of people under a big tent literally right beside the hole? The eye in the sky didn’t clue you in?”

More whispering.

“Sir. We’ve got just as much right to be here as you. There’s no reserving square footage of the Wal-mart parking lot.”

Jeez, did they have a lawyer on their team in there? Amos laughed to himself. He looked down the van and read it out loud. “Paranormal Ass of Partin County.”

“Association!” the girl yelled.

“What?” Amos asked.

“Not ‘Ass,” it’s ‘Association’, sir!”

That embarrassed Amos, him being a preacher and all.

“Oh, excuse me!” he said, turning a little red. “What’s the paranormal got to do with that hole anyway?”

The girl rolled the window down another few inches, but not all the way. She was in her twenties, maybe, hair back in a tight ponytail, wearing a black t-shirt with the same logo as on the van. Two fellas were back in the van’s shadows monitoring small screens and equipment. One looked to be in control of the drone with a piece of equipment that reminded him of his nephew’s videogame controller. It all looked very CIA.

“There’s a rumor that people think that’s a doorway to hell,” the girl said, nodding at the hole.

“Portal,” Amos corrected.

“Whatever.”

“So, you’re here to prove that?” Amos asked, suddenly very interested.

“Um, no, sir, we debunk claims, too,” the girl added. “That’s why we’re here, to prove it’s a hoax. Just a regular old sinkhole. A silly hoax.”

Amos frowned and backed up. “Honey, we’re here to prove just the opposite.”

The girl asked, “You the preacher stirring up all the excitement then?”

“You might say that,” Amos said, backing up a few more steps. He knew what he had to do.

He turned to his scattered and confused church members and yelled over the noise, “Alright, here we go! Line up with your rocks! We’re all gonna throw at the same time. Gather round, y’all!” Church members started making way to the yellow tape, encircling the hole this time, not where Amos had restricted throwing in a controlled fashion. “Everyone get ready and we’ll throw at the same time!”

The girl in the van knew exactly what the preacher was doing. He was about to knock their drone forever down into the hole with a few hundred stones.

“Reilly! Get that thing outta there!” she yelled. “Abort! Abort!”

“On the count of three!” Amos yelled.

“Abort!”

It was going to be close.

“Hurry, man!”

“Father!” Amos yelled.

Reilly yelled, “I am hurrying! It’s way down the hole!”

“Son!” Amos yelled, which was his way of counting off three, two, one.

“Almost!”

“And the Holy Ghost!” Amos screamed, figuring he beat the drone out of the hole and was about to make a great point about not messing with the church, and to not interfere with their services, etc. “Throw!” 

At that very instant, with dozens of fist-sized gravel stones in the air, the drone shot straight up from the hole with a loud buzzing and hovered, as if daring one of the stones to get near it. One did dare, glancing off a propeller and causing it to lose a foot of altitude, another smaller one bounced off the top of the drone causing it to veer to its right, looking like it might crash into the hole for good.

Back in the van, Reilly the controller was having a terrible time. He recovered, flying the drone into no-man’s land between the hole and the revival tent area. People were waiting. More stones.

As happens in such chaotic moments, people become very focused on the one thing they’re concentrating on, and in this case, the crowd tossing rocks on the far end kept throwing at the drone as it hovered quickly toward people still along the caution tape at the tent area who were concentrating on throwing their rocks at the drone headed directly at them. Reilly knew what he was doing. In another second, he’d guided the one side’s aim against the other side’s area and dozens of stones were falling around church members. Most were falling short, but a few were finding heads and shoulders and toes and backs and butts as people turned away.

Amos yelled, “What are you doing, people!? Stop it!” just as a stone grazed him across the left eyebrow, then another hit him square between the shoulder blades nearly knocking the wind out of him. He was caught in the crossfire, his own people stoning him. Oh, St. Stephen!   

Reilly yelled from the window, “Knock it down. Knock it down, y’all!” and u-turned the machine back to the other side of the action, rocks now raining down harder in the other direction trying to take down the drone. It was like a hailstorm of gravel.  

“That’s enough!” Officer Lennie yelled, hesitating long enough to decide which implement from his utility belt best served the moment’s insane emergency.

The drone slowed, lifted, and hovered higher, out of reach of most anyone’s accuracy, and hung in the sky.

Shielding his eyes, gazing up, as if maybe Jesus himself had chosen this moment of craziness to split the sky open and return, Amos noticed what a perfectly blue sky they’d been gifted with this day when Lennie’s standard issue Glock 21 .45 ACP sang out three explosive rounds, plugging the drone dead center twice and taking off a propeller. The drone lost power and fell dead in the middle of no-man’s land like a giant horsefly zapped by a lightning bolt.

Amos ducked behind the pulpit. Men and women, kids, the old, ducked and scattered and yelped out of fear from the gunshots. One man was forced to catch another from trying to jump into the sinkhole for cover. A woman ran up to the van and begged the paranormal team to be let in. Lennie grabbed a bullhorn from his trunk and began barking orders.

“Attention! Attention, folks!”

Lennie yelled at the other officers. “We’ve about got a riot on our hands, fellas!”

“Folks, remain calm! Quit throwing them rocks! Mrs. Anderson! Quit it!”

Lennie yelled to a state police officer. “Roland, call up a few buses, will ya?”

The state police officer squawked his shoulder mic, Charlie 24, 11-41, Fetch Wal-Mart, multiple injuries.

The van’s tires barked as it took off, leaving behind its tattered drone remnants.

Amos turned and turned, taking in the awful scene. He’d been in control moments earlier and now look at it all. People yelled and argued, they were bleeding all over each other, nursing their injuries, were laid out on the asphalt, getting drug under the tent for shade, his own head was bleeding down his face on to his starched white, sweat-stained dress shirt.

The surge pumped from his chest out to his limbs like overfilled live wires, a strange worrying warmth turning to a quick cold sweat, then the dizziness swam through his head, the pain of falling to his knees on the asphalt, the reaching for equilibrium, trying to catch his breath on all fours, the sounds of people yelling falling distant, someone asking what was wrong with him.

“Sir? Hey, are you okay?”

He was on his back, vision narrowing, slowly, slowly, all going dark, but noticing a lone cloud now in the middle of the perfectly blue sky.  

Two days.

Preacher Amos Stout was unconscious until early Saturday morning. Just over 48 hours. He woke up in the hospital. The wing was dark, his room was dark and quiet except for all the machine lights and movements. He’d been dreaming that Jesus himself was giving him a solo tour of the Heavens, leading Amos by the arm, but Jesus’ grip was just too much, being omnipotent and all, and was really hurting Amos’s right bicep. Jesus just kept tightening his grip on Amos and finally, after feeling bad about complaining to the Savior’s face, grimaced and said, “Jesus! Please, that hurts! Can you loosen up a little?” at which point Jesus wept and snapped his fingers. Now Amos was waking up on Floor 2 of the Partin County Miner’s Memorial Hospital not knowing where he was while the blood pressure cuff on his right bicep was squeezing its half-hourly reading.

“Jesus! Ow!” he whispered, grabbing at the cuff and squinting around the room.

A surprised voice in the dark spoke out, “Nurse! He’s awake!” The shadow of a woman went to the door and walked out getting help. Yes, this was a hospital. What’s the last thing he remembered? A mix of the sinkhole, chaos, a black van. A drone? Had a rock knocked him out?

A moment later a nurse swings the door open and storms in, talking a mile a minute, flipping on the lights. Another nurse was behind her. They get on each side of him, checking his vitals, his IV line from the bag to his hand, his blood pressure cuff, his heart monitor hook ups, his pulse-ox finger monitor, the artery plug in his groin.

“Sir, do you know who you are?”

“Do you know what year it is, Sir.”

“Sir, can you speak to us? Can you say your name?”

“How old are you, sir? Do you know?”

He was about to try answering some of his interrogation questions, when he noticed a third person at the foot of his bed. A woman, dressed in all black. Lots of buttons and a little leather and lace here and there. A silver upside down star in a circle hanging from her necklace. She had neck tattoos of some animals.

He let out a gasp. “What the hell? What’s she doing here?”

A nurse said, “Oh, he speaks! That’s great! Welcome back, Mr. Stout!”

Why were they yelling? Welcome back from where?

“I’m Elisa,” the woman said.

“She’s been staying with you some while you recovered,” a nurse said.

“Recovered from what?” Amos finally managed to ask.

“A heart attack,” the other nurse said. “They had to put in some stents. They went up through your groin.”

“A heart attack. My groin.”

“Yep, and while everyone was losing their minds, future physician’s assistant, Ms. Elisa here, protected you from all the rocks and gave you CPR until the EMTs arrived.”

“Why?” Amos asked Elisa a few moments later after the nurses were satisfied with how Amos was looking.

“You’d fallen down, helpless. We could tell something was bad wrong, even with everyone going apeshit,” she said. “I ran over to protect you. A lot of people ended up hit in the head with rocks. You were bleeding but you said you couldn’t breathe and then you were just gone. I thought you’d died at first.”  

“Now here I am. Two days later. Alive, thank God.”

“I’m not here to argue who’s to thank, it just seemed like someone needed to watch out for you while you were out. My friend Paul helped some, too.”

Amos looked the room over. He’d delivered flowers from the church enough to recognize an empty room void of evidence of having had much visitors. Cards. Flowers. Stuffed animals. Balloons. Not much.

“We just kinda hung around once we got here,” she said. “The cafeteria food’s actually not bad.”

“We?”

“Thorn and Me. And Cindy. I came in the ambulance with you. They followed on Thorn’s motorcycle. A “Why you? Why them?”

“I got to you first. People started saying stay away from her! And they did. But they were avoiding you, too. At your hour of need.”

“So, they’ve stopped coming because of you showing some care?”

“I can’t say exactly.”

“Some preacher I am, huh? My own church won’t hang with me. See how I am. Scared of a couple of goths.” 

“Trad-Goths.”

“Say what?”

“I’m what you call a Traditional Goth,” Elisa corrected. “We have sub-types.”

Preacher Amos Stout and Traditional Goth, Church of Satan member, Elisa Smith, spent the afternoon talking about all the goth sub-types and what Elisa thought were legit versus posers and Amos managed a few subtle witnessing remarks about salvation and Elisa admitted that a religion based on the metaphorical consumption of the man-god’s body and blood was pretty kick ass and Amos said he hadn’t really thought of the doctrine of salvation in that way but whatever works and that he still wondered how you could have Satan in your church’s name but not believe in him or his Hell. They were getting along pretty good.

By the time Amos was getting out of the hospital three days later, the sink hole was just a memory. Within twenty-four hours of his heart attack there was a constant stream of city dump trucks delivering rock and fill dirt that a frontend loader would carefully push into the pit. The city hired Dave’s Drones to watch progress from above (after settling on a sum quickly after Lonnie had shot their other piece of property out of the sky). For the longest time there was no indication of a bottom to the hole. There was no report of screams or smoke or flames or gnashing of teeth being seen or heard as the fill dropped in. The fill was eventually noticed, after twenty-nine truckloads, slowly rising, sealed with a new layer of fresh asphalt, which was already sinking by a foot by the time Amos got the energy to visit some weeks later.

Amos wouldn’t go near it. He knew better. Not just because it was already sinking, and not because he was still convinced something hellish was down below the Fetch Wal-Mart parking lot. No, this was where he’d preached his last sermon, at least as a tent revivalist. He walked around, as close as he’d let himself get to the old spot, walking around cars parked nearby as if there weren’t any danger here just days ago. He noticed a good-sized gravel and picked it up and switched it hand to hand, weighing it as if he might toss it. But no, he only shoved it in his jacket pocket and walked back to his car.