Brimstone

Harriman looked more closely at the preacher. He had sandy hair, neatly cut, a good-looking all-American face, well-developed arms, trim, neat, clean-shaven. No tattoos or piercings, no metal-studded leather codpiece. If he had a Bible, it wasn't in evidence. It was as if he was talking to a group of friends-people he respected.

"I've done something else since reaching New York," the man went on. "I've visited churches. Lots of churches. I never knew one city, no matter how big, could boast so many churches. But see, friends, here's the sad thing. No matter how many people were thronging the streets outside , I found every one of these churches empty. They're starving. They're perishing from neglect. Even St. Patrick's Cathedral-as beautiful a Christian place as I've ever seen in my born days-had only a sprinkling of worshipers. Tourists? Yes, indeed, by the hundreds. But of the devout? Less than the fingers on my two hands.

"And this, my friends, is the saddest thing of all. To think that-in a place of so much culture, so much learning and sophistication-there can be such a terrible spiritual emptiness. I feel it all around me like a desert, drying the very marrow of my bones. I didn't want to believe what I read in the papers, the awful stories that brought me here to this place almost against my will. But it's true, my brothers and sisters. Every last word of it. New York is a city devoted to Mammon, not God. Look at him," and he pointed to a well-dressed twenty-something passing by in a pinstripe suit, yakking into a phone. "When do you suppose was the last time he thought about his mortality? Or her?" He pointed to a woman with bags from Henri Bendel and Tiffany's, climbing out of a cab. "Or them?" His accusing finger aimed at a pair of college students, walking hand in hand down the street. "Or you?" His finger now swiveled across the crowd. "How long since you thought about your own mortality? It may be a week away, ten years, or fifty-but it's coming. As sure as my name is Wayne P. Buck, it's coming. Are you ready?"

Harriman shivered involuntarily. This guy was good .

"I don't care if you're an investment banker on Wall Street or a migrant worker in Amarillo, death has no prejudice. Big or small, rich or poor, death will come for us all. People in the Middle Ages knew that. Even our own forebears knew that. Look at old gravestones and what do you see? The image of winged death. And like as not the words memento mori : 'remember, you will die.' Do you think that young fellow ever stops to think about that? Amazing: all these centuries of progress, and yet we've lost sight of that one fundamental truth that was always, always the first thought of our ancestors. An old poet, Robert Herrick, put it like this:

"Our life is short, and our days run

As fast away as does the sun;

And, as a vapour or a drop of rain

Once lost, can ne'er be found again."

Harriman swallowed. His luck was holding. This guy Buck was a personal gift to him. The crowd was swelling rapidly, and people were shushing their neighbors so they could hear the man's quiet, persuasive voice. He didn't need a Bible-Christ, he probably had the whole thing in his head. And not only the Bible-he was quoting metaphysical poets as well.

He carefully reached over to his shirt pocket and pressed the record button on his microcassette recorder. He didn't want to miss a word. Pat Robertson with his Pan-Cake makeup couldn't hold a candle to this guy.

"That young man isn't stopping to think that every day he spends out of touch with God is a day that can never, ever be reclaimed. Those two young lovers aren't stopping to think of how their deeds will be held accountable in the afterlife. That woman loaded with shopping bags most likely never gave a thought to the real value of life. Most likely none of them even believe in an afterlife. They're like the Romans who stood blindly aside while our Lord was crucified. If they ever do stop to think about the afterlife, they probably just tell themselves that they'll die and be put in a coffin and buried, and that's it.

"Except, my brothers and sisters, that is not it. I've held a lot of jobs in my life, and one of them was a mortuary assistant. So I speak to you with confidence. When you die, that is not the end. It is just the begi

Harriman noticed that the crowd, though growing all the time, had fallen utterly silent. Nobody seemed to move. Harriman realized he, too, was almost holding his breath, waiting to hear what the man would say next.

"Perhaps our important young man with the cell phone will be lucky enough to be buried in the middle of winter. That tends to slow things down a piece. But sooner or later-usually sooner-the di

"So much, my friends, for resting in peace.

"Perhaps, then, our young fellow with the cell phone might decide cremation is the way to go. This leaves no corpse behind to be violated, over slow years, by the beetles and the worms. Surely cremation is a quick, a dignified end to our human form. Aren't we told as much?

"Then let me be the one to tell you, my brothers and sisters, no death is dignified that befalls us outside the sight of God. I've witnessed more cremations that I can count. Do you have any idea how hard it is to burn a human body? How much heat is required? Or what happens when the body comes in contact with a six-hundred-degree flame? I will tell you, my friends, and forgive me if I do not spare you. You will learn there is a reason I do not spare you.

"First the hair, from head to toe, crisps in a blaze of blue smoke. Then the body snaps to attention, just like a cadet in a parade review. And then the body tries to sit up . Doesn't matter that there's a casket lid in the way, it tries to sit up all the same. The temperature rises, maybe to eight hundred degrees. And it is now that the marrow boils and the bones themselves begin to burst, the backbone exploding just like a string of Black Cats.

"And still the temperature goes up. A thousand degrees, fifteen hundred, two thousand. The eruptions keep on, rattling the retort oven like gunshots-but again I will refrain from naming just what is exploding at this point. Leave me only say that this goes on for as long as three hours before the mortal remains are reduced to ash and fragments of bone.

"Why have I not spared you more of these details, my brothers and sisters? I will tell you why. Because Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, who never sleeps in his tireless pursuit of corruption, will not spare you, either. And the fires of that crematorium burn far cooler, and far briefer, than the fires to which that important young man's soul is surely destined. Two thousand degrees or ten thousand, three hours or three centuries-these are nothing to Lucifer. These are but a warm spring wind passing for the briefest of moments. And when you try to sit up in that burning lake of brimstone-when you bump your head on the roof of hell and fall back into that unquenchable flame, burning so hot it surpasses all powers of my poor tongue to describe it-who will hear your prayers? Nobody. You already had a lifetime to pray, tragically squandered.