THE LAST DAY
Illustration by Carlos Uribe
Abby awoke to shadowy, gloomy light leaking in through the windows. A gusting wind made a rushing noise that shook the door and windows of the cottage. She checked the time, and was shocked to see that it was long past dawn, already 10am. The church service and the dreaded voting for trustee would soon begin. The room was very chilly. She dressed in a flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and a clean pair of jeans. Around 10:30 she looked out the side window at the street, and saw cars already double-parked in front of the church. A woman with a microphone was interviewing people next to a WBCS van, while two photographers worked cameras on tripods. The light was very strange, almost like the last glow before nightfall, or the last glow before the end of the world.
‘I’m not used to this,’ thought Abby. ‘It seemed like it would be hot forever.’
Yesterday’s bank of clouds had become a thick, somber blanket covering the sky. It smelled like rain. She expected anything and everything to happen that day, so she put her wallet with all her cash in her pocket.
‘Okay, here goes!” she told herself, and walked out the front gate and in the front door of the church, hoping to blend in with the crowd. She immediately received a sheet of paper from Dr. Bear, who was telling all comers, “One ballot to a person, return them here or at the side door or in the offering plate.”
The church was already packed. Abby threaded her way down the left aisle toward the side door. The organ began to play a mournful tune, long, slow, and meditative. The church became still more crowded. Reporters with cameras took notes and photographs, despite the efforts of a few trustees to persuade them to leave. Reverend Tuck announced that the day’s service would be very brief due to the voting and the weather. After the opening hymn and prayers he introduced the bishop. After a short sermon the bishop announced the offering, and invited everyone to place their ballots in the trays that began to circulate through the church. Abby realized that he was making the election a part of the service, perhaps as a strategy to maintain order and ensure the integrity of the voting process. But given the sheer number of people and the emotional tension in the room, Abby felt the potential for conflict, even violence.
As this process was going on a roll of thunder shook the church. People looked up in alarm. Soon a much louder crack like an explosion startled the entire congregation. People standing near the doors looked outside, and a man yelled, “Hail stones! They’re like baseballs!” With the doors open a cold wind swept through the church.
Thunder rumbled again. The bishop announced the final hymn. Votes were still being collected, and people were already running for the doors, many passing in their ballots on the way.
Loud voices broke out: “You can’t even walk on this stuff! It’s like walking on marbles!”
“It hurts, I tell you! Wear a hat or stay indoors!”
Thunder cracked again, and the congregation began to panic. The pelting of hailstones against the stained glass windows sounded like the rifle fire of a battle. Many of those who stepped outside decided to return, choosing the safety of the church. “Don’t even try it,” a woman advised. “The traffic’s not moving. I want to find out who won this thing anyway.”
Soon Abby heard fantastic rumors circulating about ‘magic’ and ‘revenge’. She began to receive menacing looks from people at a distance, and noticed groups of muttering strangers pointing her way. Finally a man yelled at her: “Okay, that’s enough! You’d better put a stop to this. There’s only so much we can take.”
Abby turned to ask Tuck for help but he had disappeared. She felt too vulnerable to just stand there alone. A woman ran in the side door yelling, “We’re trapped! Don’t even think about leaving…” She faced Abby and shouted, “What are you standing here for? Go back where you came from. We’re getting rid of your kind!”
Abby saw the tall, thin form of Milton Morphy joining the hostile group, followed by his short and round ally, Bob Bentley. They began to organize and inflame an ever-increasing crowd. Bentley, his arm in a white cast and a sling, stood to the side and gave her a long, steady glare. Abby pretended she didn’t see him.
“This time we better finish the job,” yelled a voice, and the ringleaders began to move toward Abby. She tried to ease her way to the door, but as soon as she moved a man pointed and yelled, “Where is she going?”
Suddenly a piercing yell came forth from the mob. “Stop her! She’s going to Wendy! It’s all Wendy’s doing!” People turned to see Milton Morphy towering above the crowd. “Arrest her!” he yelled, his face contorted with rage, his arm pointing forward. “Find out what she knows!”