The Latter-Day Kills E
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THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield THE LATTER-DAY KILLS by E. J. Campfield 2 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield Entire contents and cover art Copyright © 2016 by E. J. Campfield HIGH ROAD E-PRODUCTIONS FIRST EDITION JANUARY 2016 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means -- electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other -- except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission of the author or author’s legal representative. 3 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield Jesus answered him, “Have not I chosen you twelve? And yet one of you is a devil.” --Gospel of St. John 6:70 4 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield PROLOGUE... ain drizzled down. Beneath a tangled multi-canopy of primeval Mexican jungle, an ancient stone city lay hushed and hidden from the ages. Its chiseled ruins peekedR cautiously out through dense vines. A wall carved with jaguars, serpents and parrots. Toltec warrior statues, strewn and fallen like captured pieces from a mammoth game of chess. The colonnades and broken bulwarks of a thousand year old temple. Lost to time and civilization in the vast Chiapas rain forest that spread to all horizons. The air was saturated with mosquitoes. A fifty foot pyramid slumbered beneath a millennium of mulch. Atop its flat summit lay dead men, dressed for safari. Dead pack mules lay bloated in the dank tropical heat at its base, all stiff and covered with flies. A lone Mayan Indian guide staggered out through the flaps of a tent, one of a half dozen pitched in a neat row along what had been once the main piazza of a grand native city. Inside the tents, archaeological gear and Toltec artifacts lay tagged and numbered on tarps. And more dead men in safari wear reposed on canvas cots. Last survivor of the expedition, delirious with yellow fever, the bronze-skinned Mayan slumped to the ground. His eyes focused and unfocused on the image of a snake hanging on a cross, sculpted eons ago into the base of the pyramid. He muttered incoherently over and over, “Anticristo... anticristo... anticristo...” 5 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield ONE... Mormon Catechism: Section 7: We believe in the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing, interpretation of tongues... Section 8: We believe the Bible to be the word of God as far as it is translated correctly; we also believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God. --The Prophet Joseph Smith The Articles of Faith Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints earlessly, he stepped out into the aisle and toddled toward the front. She followed, leaning low, whispering encouragement. Row after row, the saintly faces turned to smile.F She helped him onto the stage, and the little chain on his jacket jingled. It leashed a doggie to a hydrant, appliquéd on the pocket. She adjusted his bow tie and stepped away. Fearless and tiny, Caleb stared out at a sea of folks in Sunday best. The big men sitting by the pulpit crossed their legs and smiled. “Go ahead,” she prompted in a whisper, “say them.” Without hesitation, he did. “Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy.” Not a quaver in the distinct little voice. “...Joshua, Judges, Roof.” 6 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield A low giggle ran through the chapel. She had never corrected that one, though he could have learned to say it quite clearly. Watch my lips. Not Roof, it’s Ruth. Thhhhh. But he was barely three. It was too cute. “Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes.” The word was twice the size of him, “...Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi.” They were amazed. There was thinly scattered applause. It was a highly improper thing to do in the chapel, and it stopped immediately. But he was so cute. The big men seated near the pulpit uncrossed their legs and crossed them the other way, hands stacked piously on their knees. “Keep going,” she prompted. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.” The clear little voice took on a rhythmic cadence. “...Galatians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, First and Second Fessalonians.” Fewer giggles this time. “...Titus, Philemon, Hebrews, James, First and Second Peter, First, Second and Third John, Jude and Revelation.” “Good, Caleb! Very good!” she whispered. “Do the others now. The other ones.” “First and Second Nephi, Jacob, Enos, Jarom, Omni.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his short pants, twisting his shoulders to the beat of the words. “...Mosiah, Alma, Helaman, Third and Fourth Nephi, Mormon, Ether, Moroni....” 7 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield TWO... Mormon Catechism: He called me by name, and said unto me that he was a messenger sent from the presence of God to me, and that his name was Moroni; that God had a work for me to do.... He said beneath a large stone there was deposited in the earth a book, written upon gold plates, giving an account of the ancient inhabitants of America, and the source from which they sprang.... Also, that there were deposited with the plates two stones in silver bows--and these stones, fastened to a breastplate, constituted what is called the Urim and Thummim...and that God had prepared them for the purpose of translating the book.... I obtained a lever, which I got fixed under the edge of the stone, and raised it up. I looked in, and there indeed did I behold the plates, the Urim and Thummim, and the breastplate.... --The Prophet Joseph Smith The Pearl of Great Price, 1838 aleb’s dreams began nearly a month before Elder Knox Wesley came to Hector Falls. More accurately, they were not dreams, but rather C 8 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield visions, for he had them both while asleep and during waking hours. His thoughts would narrow, and he was able to actually feel the transition as he entered the lucid, visionary state. In the beginning it was not really even a trance. Once he became accustomed to the sensation, he found that he could actually will himself in and out of it while maintaining his full conscious faculties, though strangely he could in no way use those faculties to alter what he saw. As the visions continued, their grip on him grew drastically stronger, and as his control over them retreated, it gave ground to fear. There was little variation in the phantasmic scene, though he perceived that he progressed a bit further into it each time before coming out of the spells. It seemed to Caleb that the action was building, like a story line, leading up to something significant. Some dramatic climax. And this became the draw which brought him back again and again, at first voluntarily and with curiosity, then compulsively, until finally the frequency and onset of the seizures was completely beyond his control. A deep, rocky chasm in semi-darkness. He would enter it from above, as though gliding in on wings. Below him, all was slow motion. A hellish place, lit scantly by flickering firelight. Shapes darted about, silhouetted against flames. He would drop down into the center of it, the fear rushing around him. Amid the clangor of hand-to-hand metal warfare, human shadows pitched like storm clouds across the rock faces as anguished wails of unspeakable terror echoed in many voices. Then he would see the sword, sailing down in a whistling arc. A fantastic battle sword, its iridescent blade flashing in the firelight. In butcherous combat, it crashed against barbaric weapons of lesser metal--the lances, short-swords and shields brandished to pathetic avail by the shadowy human shapes -- beating them savagely down and shattering them to fragments.... * * * Panting with fright, Caleb Easton came out of the hellish chasm hallucination, jolting upright in his bed. He slept in jockey 9 THE LATTER-DAY KILLS E. J. Campfield shorts, a young man of seventeen, tall side of six feet, though still beardless and lank with lingering adolescence. The tousled sheets slung about him were dank with the same cold sweat he swabbed from his face. Morning sunlight met the dark terror in his deep set eyes. He pushed a damp lick of thick, unstyled hair back off his forehead, rolled out of the rack and into a pair of jeans that lay across a chair. He hadn’t mentioned the visions to a soul. It didn’t seem like a smart thing to do. Most of the other students and even faculty members at his small, rural high school already regarded him as odd. He didn’t need the added grief of something like this getting back to anyone there. So he hadn’t told his mother, or his seminary teacher or anyone else at his church ward, or even Buddy Rickenbaugh, his one best friend. Most likely, no one would know what to make of the visions any more than he did. When his mother came out into the kitchen of their mobile home in her house robe, Caleb was already dressed for school. He sat eating breakfast cereal and memorizing scripture from what looked like a Bible -- actually a copy of The Book of Mormon. He would glance at the verses, then cover them with his hand and recite them silently to himself, his lips moving. Lucy Easton was almost as tall as her son. In her mid-thirties, she was pretty, but in a very plain, unembellished sort of way.