Armageddon Outa Here

"See anything," Alvin called up to Ben, 60-feet up in a the North Florida pine tree. "A road or a river?"

"Nothing," Ben shouted down.

Alvin said to Pete, "Don't know if the dogs are lost, or it's us who's lost. I sure donÕt know where we are, and if we go home the way we came, it's ten miles. And we still don't know which way the dogs went. Some 'coon-hunting trip.

He blew two blasts on the cow horn, hoping the dogs could hear and would return. They had lost the sound of the dogs at daylight. Now it was sunup, and the three of them were bone-weary and lost. The flask which had been passed around all night was empty.

"There's something," Ben pointed west. "Looks like the steeple of a church. Must be a road near it." They set out, footsore, to the west. It was indeed a church, but the one-lane dirt road leading to it, testified to its remoteness.

"We still don't know where we are," Pete grumbled. "I'm beat. Why don't we go inside and sleep for a couple of hours?"

"It's Sunday," Alvin said. "TheyÕll be holding services. How you gonna sleep in the middle of that?"

Pete eyed the church. "It's got a basement," he observed. The door was unlocked. They lay down among the junk stored in it, and in five minutes were snoring.

It was an uneasy nap. First the preacher came in, stomping around on the wood floor above them, arranging the pews and opening the windows in anticipation of the May heat. They heard too clearly as the preacher greeted his arriving flock. After that, the singing started, and they could doze off, only to be awakened a few minutes later as the old "hellfire and brimstone" preacher warmed to his work.

He was good. No one within earshot could help but feel guilty about at least one transgression. Then the stomping started, and the amens, as the congregation got into the sermon, too.

Below, the three hunters were trapped. It seemed that every sin the preacher mentioned was one that they were guilty of. They looked at each other.

"We got to get out of here," Pete said.

"How," Ben asked. "Somebody'll see us, or hear us. And, they wonÕt take kindly to us being here. We smell like whisky."

The preacher was building to his finale, stirring the flock to reflect on their sins, and describing the hell that awaited them on judgment day.

Members of the congregation were moaning and crying.

"Are you ready for judgment day," he thundered, "the day when Gabriel will blow his horn, and the saved will be taken up and sinners cast into hell? I'm ready Gabriel," he shouted, "blow your horn, Gabriel! Blow your horn!"

Alvin looked at Ben. Ben looked at Pete. Pete picked up the cow horn, inhaled a mighty breath, and let out his best and longest blast. Pandemonium reigned, as the congregation made a dash for the front door.

As the hunters slipped out, they saw the preacher hanging from the windowsill. He had snagged his coat on a nail as he fled the sound of judgment day.

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