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THE YELLOW JACKETS

BULLIES HELL-BENT ON HATE

BY PATRICIA BACKORA©All rights reserved

Kingdomageministry@yahoo.comhttp://waronbullying.tripod.comhttp://kingdomage.tripod.com

http://banpreachergreed.tripod.com

Book links for my anti-bullying novel Back to School Mom:

http://www.amazon.com/Back-to-School-Mom-ebook/dp/B007HAZZH4

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Back-to-School-Mom-ebook/dp/B007HAZZH4

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/back-to-school-mom-patricia-bakora/1109328890

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Like Daniel in the den of lionsI face the fiery foe of hell

As David dared to face his giantI fight a monstrous fear that kills.

Though satan’s hosts be many or fewGod can give the victory to you.

Though bullies’ tongues are deadly swordsGod is a Shield, the battle the Lord’s.

Ye who love the Lord, hate evil (Psalms 97:10).

A tragedy written every day, in too many lives.

THE YELLOW JACKETSBullies Hell-Bent on Hate

Chapter OneIndictment

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it? (Jeremiah 17:9)

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What a horrific commotion! Chanting and foot-stomping in the back rows, rippling like a contagious rash through the pulsating mass of fidgety teenagers. Gum and candy wrappers wadded up and thrown by slouching youths with comatose faces. All the frazzled principal could do was stare down at his podium and shake his head helplessly. Coach Ed Miller, a mountain of a man, sat in the front row. Seeing Mr. Tyson’s plight, the powerful athlete bounded onto the stage. For a long moment he stood there, narrow eyes blazing. To drive his point home he flexed his bulging bicep, then punched the palm of his left hand. He shouted into the microphone: “Y’all hush up now, or we’ll cancel the pep rally and let the Red Barons win!” A ripple of silence spread all around the auditorium. Coach Miller was the only adult on campus who could command any semblance of respect. One

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look at his square-jawed frown let the kids know he meant business. They didn’t want to fall out of the good graces of their football hero. “Thanks, Ed,” the principal whimpered. The coach’s growl was low and menacing: “Don’t mess with me. She was kin to me. Say it or else!” Mr. Tyson’s buckling knees nearly collapsed under him. He cleared his throat, staring above the heads of the snickering students, many of whom sagged in their seats, legs draped over the seats in front of them. They took in the pathetic scene with brazen smirks on their impudent faces. If only his introductory statement had been dumbed down for his asinine audience. Maybe the principal would have drawn a more enthusiastic response. Weakly he began: “As you all know, a great tragedy has just struck our school. Perhaps we could begin with a brief moment of silence?” Coarse, ribald laughter rocked the assembly hall. Was Mr. Tyson going to pray under his breath?

“SHUT UP!” Coach Miller bellowed, gripping the principal around the shoulders. “There’s been enough silence around here, Mr. Tyson. Just say what you got to say. Don’t pay those idiots no mind.” Knowing that he had the backing of the popular coach, the principal gave him a feeble smile of thanks and resumed his lecture. “Ahem! Betty

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Bigelow, a sophomore, passed away two days ago. Cause of death was diagnosed as suicide. Apparently she found herself on the wrong side of the guard rail encircling the observation roof. It appears she lost her footing and suffered massive internal injuries and numerous fractures. She died in intensive care three hours after being admitted to the hospital. But there’s a silver lining to all this. Only through...ahem!...her faith in a ‘higher power’ did she find a peace in death which she’d never found in life.” Mr. Tyson’s heart palpitated wildly. Had he finally strayed beyond the sacrosanct boundaries of “Political Correctness”? The principal peered down at his prepared statement. To heck with what the coach thinks, he thought. I’d better mollify my position a bit. I’m already in big trouble for violating the Separation of Church and State. With his next words, his timid voice rose in pitch and cracked: “Ah...why didn’t Betty Bigelow achieve peace in her day-to-day life? Nobody will ever solve that enigma.” Coach Miller knew waffling when he heard it. “Give me that mike!” he demanded. I’ll tell ‘em why, if you ain’t got the guts to do it.” The assembly held its collective breath. This just might be interesting. How weird to see their good ol’ boy coach in such a grumpy mood. “Now hear this!” he roared, pointing toward a cluttered aisle strewn with wadded litter. “I’m sick and tired of this sorry bunch, always throwin’ their garbage around like this was a hogpen! Y’all are just a herd of cows chewin’ your cuds! “YOU!” he roared at Ray Huxton, captain of the football squad. “Git that gum outa your mouth, boy! If I EVER see you chewin’ gum in assembly again, I’ll bust your sorry carcass down to water boy!” The crowd loved it. The former drill sergeant was one tough dude, a pillar of power. Grudgingly Ray removed his gum and stuck it under his seat. The coach shook his head. “Ain’t no discipline in schools no more. Used to be, my daddy said, a kid could git ten licks with the Board of Education just for chewin’ gum in class.” “Hey, Coach!” called a lanky boy reclining in the second row. “How big did you say the holes in them paddles was?” Once the din died down, the coach called: “Big enough to burn up your britches, boy!” He felt a tug at his wrist. “Ed,” whispered Mr. Tyson, “why the comedy routine? Stick to your topic, please.” “Mr. Tyson, please go sit down. I’m big enough to finish my speech by myself.” Once the principal was seated, Coach Miller said: “Mr. Tyson seems to think I’ve forgotten my reason for bein’ up here. But my point is this: “ Nowadays, nobody worries much about garbage in the aisles or gum chewin’ anymore. After all, why sweat the small stuff when there’s bigger crimes out there to call the cops on?” Lots of frantic whispers and quizzical looks.

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“As you all know, I grew up on a cattle ranch in West Texas. I remember there was an old outhouse on our spread.” Wild pandemonium, mixed with expletives. Mr. Tyson looked like he could sink through the floor. “Cut it out!” Coach Miller bellowed. “I’m tryin’ to teach y’all somethin’!” The hellacious din finally subsided enough for the coach to continue. “Well, anyhow, that outhouse was there for the benefit of the ranch hands. After a while, we got modern facilities installed in the bunkhouse. One day, old Jake wanted to save himself a few steps and went back into the old men’s room. But he came a-flyin’ out of that place, a-hollerin’ like he was on fire. Wasps were a-chasin’ him, and he got bit real bad. After that, nobody ever wanted to use it again.” The students were very merry by now. Their sides ached, they laughed so hard. The thunderstruck principal was much too stunned to question the coach’s train of thought. Once the latest laugh attack died down, the coach resumed his discourse. “We knew that privy was a magnet for every hornet in the county, but we never did tear it down and fill in...ahem!” he caught himself, fearing he’d gone too far over the edge of good taste. It was some moments before he could pick up where he left off, the din was so deafening. The vice principal turned to Mr. Tyson. “What an idiot, Clarence. It doesn’t take many brains to gain rapport with those kind of kids.” “You should give Ed more credit, Jim,” Mr. Tyson stammered, eyeing the stage nervously. “His methods are a bit unorthodox, but I believe he’s trying to build bridges of goodwill to help everyone put this tragedy behind them and go on.” The kids were on cloud nine now. They’d always hated assemblies before. Usually, they were dry, dull affairs, presided over by starchy stiffs with deadpan faces. But now they were savoring every word. “Hey, coach,” the loudmouth in the second row yelled, “where’d he git bit?” “Never you mind!” Coach Miller snorted. “Now you listen here, boy, I’m dead serious. Lamebrains that we were, we just left that thing sit there. We didn’t even bother to spray the wasps’ nests. We were just too chicken to open the door...” he was drowned out. My, but he was connecting. At last the clamor calmed, and he could drive home his punch line. “There’s always a price to pay for failin’ to clean out the wasp nests of life. One day, one of our newborn calves wandered away from its mama. It was a frisky little critter, and didn’t think where it was goin’. It just liked to run free. Anyhow, it ran smack dab into that old outhouse and shook the daylights out of it. Well, those old wasps inside of it were in an ornery mood that day. They got all riled up. They all lit out after that poor little calf and chased him clear across the cow pasture. “Now anybody’s got sense enough to steer clear of barbed wire. But when YELLOW JACKETS are chasin’ you, you go crazy and can’t see where you’re runnin’ to!”

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At the mention of the team name, an angry buzzing swept through the auditorium. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a fun assembly after all. Undaunted, the coach continued. “That little calf’s mama heard her baby squallin’, and ran like mad to go help it. But before she could reach it, the little thing had been slashed to ribbons by a snake-wire fence. “Now everybody knows cowboys have tough hides and never cry. but we sure did. Our hearts broke, just seein’ that poor mama cow standin’ there, cryin’ over her calf. Of course we had to put it out of its misery...thanks to YELLOW JACKETS!” the coach thundered. “Y’all know full well why Betty Bigelow died, and who’s guilty of it! But I blame myself too! Coach Miller, the ‘Tramplin’ Texan’! Part-time preacher at Fair Haven Church! A fine example I’ve set for y’all! Tears coursed down Coach Miller’s face. I had her in my study hall class. Twice I caught two jokers firin’ rubber bands at her. Some snotty girls laughed when she jumped up and hollered. I kept those two deadheads in detention, since I couldn’t give ‘em any real discipline. But do you think they loved Betty any more after that? No, they just got meaner and did their dirty work where I couldn’t see ‘em. Just like the devil. He does his dirty work under cover of darkness, just like bullies!” “Ed!” Mr. Tyson objected, “you know it’s against the law to preach religion here!” “Well, murder’s against the law too, Mr. Tyson!” the coach shot back. “So which is worse?” “I lied to myself,” the anguished man moaned. “Said it must’a been her fault. If only she’da worn trendier clothes, flirted with the boys more, acted less serious. Funny, just last week I was passin’ her in the hallway. Her dress was torn. She was cryin’. but I pretended not to notice and just walked on by. Mustn’t git too involved,” I told myself. “After all, a feller could git sued. “Truth is, I just wanted to go on bein’ good ol’ Coach Miller who never makes waves and stays popular with everybody in this school. Sure I was a Christian. Sure I ‘loved Jesus’. So long as it cost me nothin’! “But my cowardice cost the Bigelows their only child. I talked with Mr. Bigelow yesterday evenin’. I got to know Betty’s folks better. Now I’m not one for keepin’ track of relatives, but I just found out Betty’s mama is my daddy’s second cousin, twice removed. “It sure does tear me up,” the coach choked. “If only I’da known she was my own flesh and blood, would I have stopped buryin’ my head in the sand and taken a stand against bullyin’ in this school?” With a shuddering sigh he bowed his head. At length he continued: “Betty’s mama is under heavy sedation and won’t be able to show up at her own daughter’s funeral. Mr. Bigelow has asked me to announce that legal proceedings will be taken out against parents and guardians of all perpetrators of her wrongful death...and,” he eyed the principal, “against Yellow Valley High for criminal negligence and failure to provide a secure learning environment!”

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In the back row a young girl keeled over. A sharp jab in the arm made her jump. “Chill out!” a voice hissed. “He can’t do anything! The stupid redneck!” The girl whispered back, “But ‘Kerry c...face’ was her friend. She’ll testify for sure!” “Oh, no, she won’t. And he won’t, either. My old man’s loaded. He’ll pay ‘hush money’ to protect us.” “So what if they don’t take it?” “No sweat. My dad’s got flunkies who owe him a little favor. Dead witnesses don’t talk.” Up on the stage stood a man in the throes of spiritual crisis. His face turned heavenward. “Somethin’ died inside of me when I saw her broken body sprawled out on that pavement. After the ambulance took Betty away, I drove like mad to git to the hospital. By some miracle, her parents let me in to see her, just before she passed on. “I’d failed her when she needed friends the most. But at least I led her to Christ,” the coach softly said, lowering his eyes. “Right there in that hospital room, just before she breathed her last. I just told her over and over: “Betty, I love you. Please forgive me. Jesus loves you. Please let Him love you and live in your heart.’ “She was so weak, but she squeezed my hand to tell me she’d made peace with the Lord in her heart. She even managed a faint smile. I was amazed that she could ever smile, after all the hell she’d been through. But then again, it’s easy to smile if you know all your troubles are finally over. Right after I spoke to her, Jesus came and took her away from this snake pit of a world.” Wondering what effect, if any, his words were having on the student body, the coach searched the mostly impassive faces in the crowd. Several kids slouched in their seats and pulled hoods and denim jackets over their faces . What were they concealing? Laughter or tears? “All this raises still another issue,” the coach said. “What if I hadn’t gotten to Betty when I did and she’d’a died and gone to hell without Christ? All this baloney goin’ around about how people should forgive and forget even when bullies ain’t sorry. I even hear it comin’ from Christians. But what if some bully drove a Christian’s child to suicide and the Christian just knew their precious loved one didn’t know Christ as Savior? Could that Christian forgive the kids who caused the premature death of their unsaved child? Have any of y’all got any notion of what hell’s like?” “Hey, coach!” one wise guy called out. “It’s hell when I can’t get laid on Saturday night!” “Yeah, Carson,” his enemy yelled back, “Bigelow’s dead now so you can’t get laid! Coach, you don’t know nothin’ about hell! It’s hell when some girl’s zipper gets stuck and you’re all fired up and ready to go and…” “Y’all shut your dirty mouths right now!” Coach Miller barked. “I didn’t come here to teach about the birds and bees, just the Yellow Jackets. Now

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I’m gonna talk to the Christians out there in the student body. How many of y’all have accepted Christ as your personal Savior? Put your hands up.” Quite a few kids looked timidly around, wondering if their classmates were staring and snickering. The coach saw a sprinkling of hands in the air. “Hmmm,” he said. “Five or six per cent of y’all, I’d say. Now I’ll ask one more question. “How many of y’all Christians ever once said one kind word to Betty Bigelow or tried to make her feel better when she got pushed around by bullies?” One girl timidly stood and spoke up. “Coach, a few of us tried to come up to Betty and say ‘hi’. But then some mean kids got around her and we were afraid they’d pick on us too if we tried to be nice to Betty.” “Oh, well, too late for that,” the coach said. “How on earth do you ‘Christians’ ever expect to go to Africa to be missionaries for Jesus and brave wild alligators in the jungle if y’all can’t reach out to just one lonely girl? Yeah, I get it, Jesus is just dandy as long as He stays in the church house and doesn’t make any difference in your life at school. Yeah, I get the message, and so does He. You’re ashamed of Him. What’s your name, young lady?” “Wanda,” the girl choked. “Oh, Coach, how can you say something so mean?” “Wanda,” he responded ruefully, “did you take any classes with Betty?” “Yes,” she nodded. “Which ones?” “Last year I had her in my sixth period English class.” “Ah,” Coach Miller mused. “I notice most of the assemblies at this school take place during sixth period. Did Betty sit alone in assemblies most of the time, Wanda?” He looked more closely at the blushing blond girl. “Tell the truth, now, ‘cause it’s a sin to lie,” he persisted. “Yes,” Wanda whispered. “And chances are, Betty sat at the end of a row so only one seat would be empty next to her, ain’t that so, Wanda?” “Coach!” Mr. Tyson whispered loudly. “What on earth! What are you badgering this student for? She isn’t on trial!” “I won’t ask her no more questions, Mr. Tyson. I think Wanda knows what I was drivin’ at, and so does every other Christian student here. But I can’t help but wonder. How much mischief could bullies get by with if Christians would do what Jesus did: be a friend to the friendless and bind up the wounds of the broken-hearted instead of standin’ idly by on the sidelines lettin’ the devil do his dirty work unhindered?” Another hand shot up. “Yes, son?” the coach said. A scruffy-looking punk in a droopy gray sweatshirt leered and said, “Coach, the reason there wasn’t no Christians to save Bigelow from the bullies is there AIN’T no Christians at this school. That girl that just stood up, she lies like a rug and that’s what she does at my parties. Me and my buddies, we pass her around when we drink beer all the time. We call her Washboard Wanda. And like Rudy just said, it’s hell when we got no action so

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the next best thing was to go bug Bigelow. Man, that was fun. Sure will miss her.” Wanda burst into tears and ran out the door. “Now see what you’ve done!” Mr. Tyson sputtered at the coach. With every utterance the coach pounded his meaty fist on the lectern, furious with that sea of heartless bodies out there. “You know I ain’t the reason Wanda’s cryin’, Mr. Tyson and you just heard it out of that jackass’s mouth! Betty Bigelow’s gone so he’s pickin’ on her now! If it ain’t teenage hanky-panky it’s other kinds of nastiness! What else should I expect? So-called Christian kids act ashamed of Jesus and His love while the devil’s kids spread his hate everywhere! Your parents spoiled y’all rotten! Y’all were raised by the boob tube, instead of bein’ raised by parents who've got principles! All of y’all have cut your eye teeth on AK-47 computer games! The bloodier the better! Life is cheap! If it feels good, do it! Just like YELLOW JACKETS, bullies are drawn to all manner of filthy, unclean things! And what on earth is uncleaner in the sight of the Lord than malice towards one’s neighbor? “Campus security, or should I say, INSECURITY! spotted a gang of lowlifes dancin’ around and hollerin’ at Betty: Jump! Jump! Jump, you ho-bag! C’mon, you ugly slag! Make our day! Security officers spotted one or two foul-mouthed girls who are on our very own cheerleadin’ squad. They were laughin’ and the officers saw one of ‘em takin’ a picture of poor Betty as she slid off the edge. There were reportedly loud cheers when her body hit the pavement. The best those deadbeat doughnut-munchers could come up with was to tell all those ugly buzzards to buzz off while they got Betty ready for the ambulance. They didn’t tell ‘em to shut up, or try to talk Betty out of killin’ herself. The kids’ right to free speech was more important than preventin’ a homicide. “Yes! That’s just what it was, a MURDER! The law of the land might not say so, but God knows that those who dared Betty to jump hated her, and my Bible teaches it’s a sin of murder to hate your neighbor, with eternal deadly consequences. Oh, I won’t name no names, y’all know who you are, doin’ your little death dance and darin’ Betty to jump! God holds y’all responsible for her death, and it’s a wonder He’d ever be willin’ to forgive any of y’all. I know I sound like a broken record but this bears repeating: If Betty hadn’t been saved before she died, y’all would’a been responsible for sendin’ her to everlasting torment, because she wouldn’t’a had any further opportunity to receive Christ as Savior. A lot of kids HAVE died because bullies pushed ‘em to their grave, and the majority of these young victims were probably not born again. So why SHOULD the Lord Jesus give evil bully murderers that same opportunity to receive eternal life that they denied to the one they murdered? I see by your dumb, deadpan faces I’m not gettin’ through to many of y’all. Chances are at least a few of you go to so-called church, which is more like a big social club for lookalike snobs. How many of y’all churchgoers give a hoot that satan kills kids with other kids, and those kids go into a Christless eternity? Bullyin’ kills the soul, not just the body!

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“Oh, shoot! It’s easier to just ‘go with the flow’ and do your little death dance to show how cool you are. Heck, it’s just as easy to join a mob as cheerleaders turnin’ cartwheels for the Yellow Jackets. But let me tell y’all a little somethin’ about yellow jackets, if ya didn’t know already. “YELLOW JACKETS sting! And they’re social critters, feedin’ together on the things of darkness and gangin’ up on their victims in swarms! Bees sting, but at least they make honey! You YELLOW JACKETS ain’t nothin’ but bloodthirsty BULLIES who serve satan!” The coach was so mad the veins stood out in his neck. The principal nearly fainted. The vice principal wasn’t nearly so impressed by the coach’s searing indictment of the student body. “That’s enough, Ed!” he shouted, as he rose stiffly from his front-row seat. “You’re ruined for life! You’ll be slapped with 3000 lawsuits for inflicting irreversible psychological trauma upon impressionable young minds! And you’ve grossly violated the Separation Between Church and State!” Coach Miller had a plan, despite the hostility of the vice principal. Even if those kids were rotten to the core and unteachable, he would at least strike a symbolic blow to vindicate the dead girl. After all, he knew that no apology would ever be issued to Betty’s parents for the bullying. That might only bolster the Bigelows’ case in court. No flowers would be sent from the school to the Bigelows, either. Not so much as one sympathy card would be signed by the student body and sent. But this horrible thing must not be covered over and forgotten, like a cat buries its own droppings. Some punishment must be meted out. But it must be done with subtlety. With extreme effort the coach composed himself and said, “You’ve made your point, Mr. Stonewall. If I git sued, I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it. But, still, a man’s gotta make a stand for what’s right, religion or no religion. If a man ain’t got principles, he ain’t no man at all. Please let me continue. I’m just about to wrap it up.” “Very well, Ed,” Mr. Stonewall said stiffly. “What harm can it do? You’re finished anyway.” Briefly Coach Miller turned and glanced at the pride of Yellow Valley High_the award-winning “Peace Mural” so painstakingly constructed by the Arts and Crafts Society to commemorate World Peace Day. So expertly crafted it left the viewer breathless with awe, the stained glass mural sparkled with a soft prismatic beauty. Its subtle gradations of blue, white, green, gold and violet coexisted in a harmony alien to a war-torn world. As the coach turned to resume his speech, his fingers fumbled on the shelf under the lectern. Good, he thought, this’ll do just fine. “Today,” he said, “ I’m full of grief. Not because I knew Betty, ‘cause I really didn’t take the time to know her at all, except as a spectacle to be held up to public ridicule. I’m really grievin’ for y’all! Young people who died to everything good and decent before they were old enough to know what life was all about!

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“Now, I’m gonna make a concession to Mr. Stonewall. He don’t want me goin’ on about religion. And by that, I assume he means Christianity. That seems to be the belief that ruffles folks’ feathers the most. So I’ll talk about another religion most everybody here adheres to...the Religion of COOL! It opposes everything the Lord Jesus taught, so it’s OK by y’all. It ain’t COOL to love thy neighbor...unless he’s just like you! It ain’t COOL to walk in the other guy’s shoes! After all, you just might catch his cooties! Betty Bigelow wasn’t part of your recipe for happiness, so it’s no skin off your nose if she’s dead!” The vice principal started to sputter a protest, but Mr. Tyson whispered: “Let Ed finish. We much. After all, the girl meant a lot to him.” Coach Miller asked them all: “How many of y’all know what grief is? Raise your hands.” Amid hoots and jeers, a sprinkling of hands shot up. One wisecrack from the second row: “That’s what my old lady gives me every time I get a girl pregnant!” An outpouring of raucous guffaws and filthy wisecracks. With uncharacteristic composure the coach stood silently, waiting for the uproar to subside. Even as the fire rekindled in Coach Miller’s eyes he serenely announced: “All right, y’all. Git ready for a crash course in Grief 101.” Quick as lightning he whirled around and hurled a heavy-duty staple gun at the treasured glass mural. A screeching crash, then the word “peace” exploded into powdery splinters. The reverberations reduced the rest of the exhibit to crumbled shards. Fortunately, no one got hurt by the flying glass. At least not_physically. Reactions were mixed. “Way to go, Coach!” a few punks shouted from the back row. Hysterical crying broke out, or outraged screams from those who had invested countless hours into the creation of the mural. No other school in the state could have boasted a more glorious exhibit. The vice principal rose to his feet, appealing for calm. He promised to remedy the situation promptly. He whipped out his cell phone from his coat pocket. Before he could press its tiny buttons, a hand restrained him. “Put that away, Jim,” Mr. Tyson advised. “I’ll handle him.” Mr. Tyson knew the coach had a chokehold on him: A desperate senior had needed her transcript doctored up so she could get into Buford University. Mr. Tyson had eagerly struck a deal with the girl. His mind travelled back in time. He’d never, ever forget the shock of seeing the coach walk through his office door, and calling out his name, even barging into his private conference room, shouting something about getting major league publicity for the regional sports competition. The principal cursed himself for assuming that since his secretary and most of the school were at lunch in the cafeteria, no one would suspect them. Damn his nervous jitters for making him forget to lock his door! The coach had caught the girl keeping her end of the bargain. The coach was such a religious fanatic he’d never forget what he’d seen. The girl hadn’t

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been too bothered by something which would have reduced earlier generations of girls to tears of shame. Nor had Mr. Tyson felt any guilt. She was one of the wildest girls in school, but it still amounted to serious professional misconduct. Coach Miller might have told other faculty members, or even the girl's parents . But loan sharks were after him and principles could be bought by principals. Once his benefactor bailed him out, the coach, being a man of his word, had kept quiet about the affair. Mr. Tyson knew that had the coach shown more Christian integrity, his days as principal might have ended in disgrace. Mr. Tyson couldn’t let the coach off the hook entirely but he had to deal very discreetly with him. He gritted his teeth. “Just GO, Ed! Don’t ever come back, and we’ll forget this fiasco ever happened. Your severance pay will arrive in the mail.” “It’s too late, Clarence,” the vice principal whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “I’ve already paged security.” “Oh, no!” Mr. Tyson moaned. “Jim, I told you to keep your nose out of this. That man never forgets an injury. He’s a Texan!” “Relax, Clarence. We’ve got enough on that imbecile to keep him locked up for life in a nut house.” Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the roar of excited spectators, each student shouting support for his favorite gang. The Cougars and the Cobras had been spoiling for a fight for a long time, and now they’d found the perfect excuse for their big blow-out. Shane Flink, the King Cobra, signalled his gang to rise up and storm the stage. Shane wore army camouflage fatigues and a metal-studded headband topped with spiked, red-tipped hair. Intricate designs of blue war paint made Shane’s face look fierce. His cohorts wore the same look with pride. Evidently these school dropouts had sneaked into the assembly after the lights were dimmed, right under the nose of Security. Backpacks were zipped opened and weapons withdrawn from them. Brandishing BB pistols, sawn-off shotguns, blackjacks, stun guns, stink bombs and switchblades, the opposing gang of scowling toughs braced themselves to defend “their turf”. Aghast, the school administrators watched as Turk Sparks, First Fang of the Cougars, warned the Cobras: “Leave the coach be. he’s one of us. We ordered him to terminate that fascist eyesore.” Shane was one big bad dude, but Turk was no powderpuff either. A big muscular guy with gold-capped teeth, a bulldog glare and backward baseball cap, his silver and jade jewelry clanked in the darkness as he swayed and made menacing gestures toward the Cobras. At the order of Shane Flink, the swaggering, swearing Cobras snapped to attention and stood stiffly, awaiting his command to move in for the kill. Their devil skull tatoos, emblazoned on bare biceps, quivered with tension. A martial arts expert, Shane looked at Turk Sparks like he was a worm and hissed, “You’re a dead dog, Sparks. Stickin’ up for that scuzzball after the way he spit on our school!”

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“So now you’re an egghead, huh, nerd?” Turk retorted, itching for combat. “You guys been cuttin’ into our action at this school. Our agents know where you got your stuff stashed, and there’s gonna be one hell of a raid!” By the time a lone security guard showed up, grousing about an interrupted coffee break, a full-scale paramilitary war was raging between fourteen Cobras and twelve equally fierce Cougars. The timid-looking man jabbed at his cell phone with trembling fingers. “All hell’s broken loose here! Get the Swat Team over to Yellow Valley High Auditorium! On the double!” Ducking, swinging and darting delinquents provided a big gladiatorial blowout for the students, who jostled and shoved one another to get a better look, or stood on their seats, yelling themselves hoarse. By now most of them were too happy to stay mad at Coach Miller. The demolition of the mural was a small price to pay to get such an exciting assembly. Even if the spectators’ murderlust was not gratified (yet again), surely one of those cool punksters would be shot or hacked to within an inch of his life and might even end up in the hospital morgue from loss of blood. The gang who inflicted the most, and the goriest, injuries before the cops came to break up the fight would be hailed as the victors and earn everlasting hero-worship from thousands of thrill-starved teens. A stink bomb landed on the VIP row reserved for guest speakers, releasing an odor as foul as the hearts enjoying the show. Girls cried out in delight when one boy’s bare arm was nicked with a switchblade. Students ducked the BB’s whizzing overhead. Shots rang out from deadlier firearms. Two boys who lost their nerve and got up to run out yelled when BB’s hit their backsides. But their exit was blocked by yelling, jumping teens. The atmosphere was so supercharged with hate that cries of pain only fueled the fires of collective rage. A bestial chorus rose up and spread like a rash: “BLOOD! BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD! YAY!” The helmeted Swat Team burst in, armed to the teeth and blaring warnings: “This building is surrounded! Everybody freeze! Drop your weapons! Put your hands over your heads! You’re all under arrest!” Shane Flink spied an officer tussling with his buddy Jude, a wild animal of a thug who held the cop in a headlock and swore he’d wring his head off like a chicken. Shane slashed the air with karate chops and spun around, jabbing with his foot and letting out a loud war whoop. Heady with the thrill of combat, Shane didn’t notice Jude sliding in a pool of spilled beer, still hanging onto the cop’s head. The wrong guy got rear-ended by Shane’s heavy boot. Jude let the cop go and went for Shane. “About time we had a new leader,” the paranoid dopehead growled, barely down from his last snort of coke. “Sez who?” Shane hissed. “Sez me,”you &%$&@! Don’t come any closer, or I’ll rip yer guts out with my bare hands.”

14

A little knot of teens gathered to make bets and cheer on their favorite. Girls sighed in esctasy. Before either punkster could land a punch, more cops shoved through the crowd. “Break it up!” they yelled. When the pair made menacing gestures at the police, they got a faceful of pepper spray. Karate chops couldn’t save them from its burning, blinding pain. They were overpowered and handcuffed. Once the other gang members saw their leaders in cuffs, their bravado evaporated. “We better call it a day, Shane,” one Cobra sighed, as he too prepared to face the music. “Everybody’s bleedin’ and we can’t beat those pigs anyway. My old man’ll bail us out and when we get sprung we’ll map out our counter-attack at the safehouse.” The cursing combatants were handcuffed and hustled away to waiting police cars. One boy snarled abuse at a harried officer: “You better loosen up them cuffs, pig, or you’ll get litigated for child abuse!” Mr. Tyson whispered to his colleague: “Jim, let Ed go his way peacefully. If you interfere, I’ll tell the school board about the discrepancies in the Activity Fund. I’ve got the goods on you.” “Why...you dirty little weasel...” Mr. Stonewall breathed hotly. Disappointed groans filled the auditorium. Before Coach Miller could exit the stage door, he overheard the wild ravings of a hard-faced creature with spiky black hair. She staggered around, swooning and waving her spindly arms in protest. Clad in the briefest black leather skirt, she looked like a “heroin chic” hooker. Melted mascara ran down her face as she wept warped tears. “They got SHANE! Those stupid S.O.B.’s ruined our show!” Her equally deranged girl friend shrieked, “Nobody got killed, just cut! The - - - -ing PIGS!” The coach was ready to explode. He was sickened by those foul-mouthed incorrigibles who had sunk below the level of wild beasts. “I QUIT!” he roared. “You’ll have to find somebody else to coach football for Yellow Belly High, Home of the Yellow Dogs!”

15

Chapter Two

Light Amidst Shadows

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away (Revelation 21:4).

* * * * *

“How obscene that the sun should shine on a day like this!” Mr. Bigelow growled, dashing tears away from raw, red eyes. Beneath the gloom of that incessantly sunny day, the poor man’s fellow mourners remained respectfully unreproachful as he poured out his grief. It was, after all, legitimate. Even more so because of the sickening, festering situation which had caused the death of his only child. Like a stone pillar he remained anchored beside the freshly dug grave, as if loath to leave it and acknowledge that his posterity had been cut off from the land of the living. His gaze was steadfastly fixed upon the glaring white haze of the cloudless western sky. “Look at him,” his brother Lenny whispered. “He’s in a daze, a state of shock.” “He’ll go blind if he doesn’t stop staring at the sky,” the dead girl’s aunt replied in a monotone. “He sees something we don’t see,” Lenny whispered back. “Notice he’s not so fierce-looking now.” In that scorched sky the desolate man beheld the likeness of a long-forgotten presence. “I remember her!” Mr. Bigelow cried. “So little, so fresh from heaven. All she ever did was smile and spread her love all around. Still too innocent to realize why she was put on this earth. Just so she could CRY!” Mr. Bigelow’s drug-dulled eyes roved aimlessly as he rambled on. “When she was little we used to call her “Bounce-back Betty”. She’d fall off her bike and scrape her knee on the sidewalk. She wouldn’t even cry. Her cat Gus got killed. Her hamster Benny died. But my, that kid was tough. She always pulled herself together, just like a cat with nine lives. I was so proud of my little Betty, always rolling with the punches and all. She just shrugged off whatever garbage life could throw at a little kid. Yeah, she’d get up of the floor like a real prize fighter, dust herself off, and keep on slugging away at life till she finally came out the winner. She always looked on the bright side of life. She always bounced back.”

16

“Well, this time she DIDN’T BOUNCE BACK!” he lamented. “They killed Betty's bright side before they killed her!” Mr. Bigelow was a massive man, but today she felt more fragile than an eggshell. Inside he was screaming and cursing Betty’s murderers. But propped up by Valium, he would retain his forced facade of composure. His daughter would, in death, at last be given the dignity she’d been so cruelly denied in life. A few scattered floral tributes encircled the canopy which sheltered her grave. Not even one hailed from reps of Yellow Valley High. Assorted family friends and relatives clasped the grief-stricken father on the shoulder, expressing their heartfelt sympathies. Kerry Carothers, Betty’s sole school chum, broke down and cried. “Now I’m all alone! I’ll end up here next!” “Oh no, you won’t, sweetheart,” her father assured her, holding her tightly. “We all failed you and Betty when she was alive, but no more. She’s gone to a far better world, but we’ve been left behind to fight for her cause. And believe me, we’re going to wage war against this obscene social injustice.” Coach Miller said apologetically, “I’ve quit my job over this. I’m up to my neck in it. Every parent at that school wants to lynch me for tellin’ the truth to their precious babies yesterday.” “At least they’ve still GOT their precious babies!” Mr. Bigelow wailed in despair. “All I’ve got left is a broken heart! Curse this nasty day forever!” Reverend Hawthorne, the officiating minister, approached him and said, “You still have a beautiful daughter who loves you, Mr. Bigelow. Coach Miller told me she’d accepted Christ as her personal Savior before departing this world. She is now resting in the Presence of God.” “God!” Mr. Bigelow spat. “If He’s so all-powerful, why didn’t He prevent this awful thing? Why doesn’t He raise her up out of that grave right now, if He’s so almighty?” Sadly the minister replied, “Mr. Bigelow, I might be a well-educated man, but I don’t claim to understand everything God allows while I’m still in this body of clay. The reason for human tragedy is a great mystery to me. But I do know that our Redeemer lives, and there will be a resurrection for all the redeemed. “Mr. Bigelow, I’ll try to answer your question with one of my own. You know Betty is happy in heaven with the Lord Jesus Christ. She is surrounded by God’s perfect love. Love which will never betray her, wound her, or diminish throughout the ages of eternity. if she were offered the choice, do you think she would choose this evil world over the blessed one she now enjoys?” The overwrought father released a floodgate of tears. “Oh, I know she wouldn’t, but I wish she’d come back to those who love her!” Reverend Hawthorne continued: “Jesus did raise a man from the dead, Mr. Bigelow. His name was Lazarus. He’d been in his grave four days. His sisters pleaded with Christ to restore Lazarus to them. He did this for them to demonstrate God’s power over death itself, and His love to the people.

17

“The shortest verse in the Bible is also one of the most mysterious: ‘Jesus wept.’ Why did Jesus weep, Mr. Bigelow, if He knew He was about to raise His beloved friend from the dead?” “Oh, I don’t know, preacher, you tell me,” the poor man sighed. “Now this is strictly my own opinion, Mr. Bigelow. Lazarus was, prior to his resurrection, resting in the Paradise of the Righteous with all the saints who’d gone on before him. He was finally free of the sickness which killed him. No longer was he beset by earthly sorrows. “Jesus knew that Lazarus would be raised; not to immortality, but to continue life in an imperfect mortal body. It was not yet God’s chosen time to bestow incorruptible bodies upon the righteous dead. Lazarus would have to die again someday. In all likelihood he would face persecution, maybe even martyrdom, for Jesus’ sake. “Lazarus was reunited with friends and family who loved him. But he was also reunited with enemies who didn’t love him or his Savior_the self-righteous religious leaders of the Jewish nation, who would later conspire to have Jesus crucified. As news spread of Christ’s power to raise the dead, people believed in Him more and more. After all, Lazarus was walking, talking evidence of Christ’s own divinity. The religious rulers plotted to put not only our Lord to death to silence His ministry, but Lazarus as well. Jesus knew the heart of sinners is so depraved that one of his parables declares: ‘Even if a man were to rise from the dead, hardened sinners would still not be persuaded of the truth of His Word, and they would still reject Christ. I live to serve the Lord in a world hostile to Him. “Know what else, Mr. Bigelow?” The usually self-contained minister knitted his brows and trembled. “What, Reverend? What else could you possibly say to a man in my shoes?” “That’s just it, Mr. Bigelow, I AM in your shoes. That’s why I’m standing here, because my own experience helps me understand the dark waters you’re passing through. The Bible tells us that even Jesus is in a better position to have compassion on others because He Himself suffered the trials of life.” “I don’t mean to pry, preacher, but what trials did you ever go through, that you could claim to be standing in my shoes? If I’d been nailed to a cross I couldn’t be more miserable now.” The minister’s jaw worked. How unprofessional. How hard to keep his composure so he could be a comfort to the mourners. “I had only one son, Mr. Bigelow. Ron and his friends were out joyriding one night in an uninsured vehicle. They ran several traffic lights. The driver was intoxicated. They heard a police car coming after them. Instead of stopping, they hit the gas hard. They took such a sharp turn onto a freeway exit that a tire blew. They rammed at high speed into a concrete embankment.” He choked out his next words: “There were no survivors.”

18

Mr. Bigelow clapped Reverend Hawthorne on the back. “I’m sorry, man. You’re in the same boat, and here you are, being reminded of it again, just so you can help us.” “What hurts the most, Mr. Bigelow, is this: My boy Ron was such a devout Christian. Never a day passed but that he’d take tracts to school and leave them in the library for somebody to pick up. Sharing his faith was risky, as you probably know, what with the separation of church and state issue.” “Amen to that,” Coach Miller put in. “Pressure was piled on my son,” the minister went on. “He could either fit in and conform to the crowd or be a social outcast. God had been dealing with me a long time to take Ron out of public school and put him in a Christian academy, but I convinced myself it would be moral cowardice to take him out of that environment. “So guilt was mixed with my already heavy burden of grief. I sought comfort in alcohol and nearly committed suicide. My wife left me. I truly believe that if I hadn’t made my peace with God she never would have reconciled with me. Mr. Bigelow, I’ve been through so much hell on earth that if God offered me the choice today, I would rather be in heaven with Christ, where there is nothing but love and happiness.” Sighing, Mr. Bigelow conceded, “She’s better off where she is. Nobody can hurt her ever again. I’ve got to make peace with that somehow. I’ve got to go on, whether I like it or not. I’ve got a cause to devote my life to now. A hopeless one, though,” he added bitterly. Reverend Hawthorne had dealt with plenty of grief throughout his long ministry. but the story behind this grief was one of the most tragic he’d ever encountered. Compassionately, yet emphatically, he encouraged the heartbroken father: “A righteous cause might seem to be already lost and those who fight for it few, but take heart. THE GOD OF SCRIPTURE IS THE GOD OF LOST CAUSES.”

* * * * *Their feet are swift to run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent blood: their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; wasting and destruction are in their paths (Isaiah 59:7).

* * * * *

As Reverend Hawthorne continued to comfort the mourners, four of Yellow Valley High’s most popular teens piled into Andy Martin’s flashy new BMW to go cruising. Melanie was triumphant. “We did it! We stamped out Bigfoot! And stupid old Mr. Tyson can’t do a thing about it! How great it is to be innocent underage children they can’t do nothin’ to!”

19

Andy grinned from ear to ear as he slid the key into the ignition. He was delighted with his birthday present. Ownership of a new BMW conferred VIP status upon a 16-year-old. Hank was sprawled out in the back seat with Melanie. His smelly feet were propped up on the back of the driver’s seat, close to Andy’s face. “Did you do what I told you to, Andy?” he drawled menacingly. “Yeah, Hank. It’s under my seat. My old man’ll never miss it.” “Just wait’ll that crackpot coach gets our little present in his mailbox Monday morning,” Melanie giggled. “The rottenest stink bomb in the universe! Man, that assembly was a spasmodic trip! Wasn’t it, Sandra?” The dreamy-eyed girl in the front seat barely heard her. “Uh...yeah! He should get into soap operas. He made 3000 enemies yesterday, all in one shot.” “That fat sow had it coming,” Melanie mocked. “She must have weighed all of 130 pounds. I even heard this from Lisa: Her mother made her clothes! Ugh!” An infernal smirk curled Hank’s lips. “Well, at least her coffin wasn’t homemade. And she’ll lose all her lard now...on the death diet!” “Aw...ease up on her, Hank.” Andy laughed. “Dead or alive, she’ll always have Coach Miller’s undying love!” To think that redneck gorilla trashed a big football career just to help a dead stiff!” Hank sneered. “Too bad the Cougars stopped the Cobras, or he’d be dead too!” “What’ll he do now?” Sandra wondered. Seeing Melanie’s diabolical smile, she hastily added: “If he’s not thrown into the pen for badmouthing us, that is. He’d make a good burger flipper.” “Hell,” Hank snickered evilly, “I’d be afraid to eat a burger made by that retard! After hurtin’ our feelin’s the way he did, he’ll be lucky to find a job shovelin’ - - - -” “Hey, Hank!” Melanie squealed. “Watch your language! Ladies are present!” “What ladies?” Hank guffawed. “I don’t see no ladies. Do you, Andy?” “- - - -, no! All I see are two hot chicks! There ain’t no ladies at our school!” “And the only thing that ever kept its dress down is DEAD!” Hank cackled. “Well,” Melanie drawled, “it’s a good thing she did.” “Oooh, barf out, Melanie!” Andy gagged, clutching his throat and screwing up his face. “Cool it! We ain’t even eaten yet!” Bantering and babbling cruel wisecracks, the four teens breezed down the highway in the BMW. They made goofy faces and jeered at drivers of humbler vehicles. Andy caught the eye of a man driving a gigantic semi truck. He stuck out his tongue at him and made obscene gestures. “Chill out, idiot,” Melanie warned. “Some of those drivers carry guns!” “Like the fuzz?” Hank piped up.

20

Once they had cleared the city limits, Hank announced: “Hey, Andy! I’m thirsty! Gimme that bottle of Scotch!” Andy withdrew the brown paper bag from under the driver’s seat. “Here, Hank.” He thrust it over his shoulder into his buddy’s greedy grasp. “Try and keep it outa sight till we’re way out in the sticks. The fuzz’ll take my license if they bust us. We’re under age. Remember?” “Don’t preach at me,” Hank growled. Impatiently he unscrewed the cap off the bottle. “Damn! It’s bad enough the coach preached at us like he did. I hate that stupid pile of - - - -” “But we got one hell of a show,” Andy chuckled. “It’s a bummer the Cougars showed up, though.” “That coach is dumb as mud, but he helped Bigfoot get religion,” Melanie tittered. “A lot of good it’s doing her now! What do you say, Sandra?” “Like you said,” Sandra nodded vacantly, “she’s fertilizer now.” “Hey!” Melanie squealed. “Sandra and I are bored to death. Put the pedal to the metal, Andy. Let’s go look for some cops and start a car chase, just like on TV! Hey, Hank! Don’t be such a pig! Gimme a hit off that bottle!” Grudgingly Hank shoved it at her. She grabbed it and poured a hefty shot of the scalding liquor down her throat. “Give it back!” Hank snapped. “It’s mine! I’ll kill it off!” That Hank could do. At 17, he had already mastered the subtler techniques of murder. “Forget the car chase,” Hank drawled. “That’s kid stuff. You guys get back here and I’ll take the wheel, Andy.” Andy gulped. But he pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road to exchange seats with Hank. Hank and Melanie snuggled in the front while Andy and Sandra sat in the back, wondering what hair-raising adventures Hank had in store for them. Before resuming their drive, Hank took time for refueling---himself. After taking a deep breath, he tilted his angular chin and poured whiskey down his throat in a steady, unbroken stream until the bottle was dry. Melanie was awestruck by Hank’s drinking prowess. “How macho!” she sighed, locking her spindly arms round his neck. “You downed it all on one breath!” The heady brew fired up Hank’s innards and began to distort his faculties. He was king of the road and the BMW was his spaceship to glory. They were well outside the outer environs of the city. Now they were cruising along a remote rural road. Confident that there were no police cars patrolling the area, Hank hit the gas pedal with wild abandon. “Hey, guys!” he slurred. “Let’s cut off onto that road past Buzzard Creek. Let’s head on up to Diablo Peak. Ain’t no fuzz up there to bug us. A great place to get it on!” Before the others could deliberate, Hank had already reached the turn-off from the scenic road. As the car rattled at high speed over dusty gravel,

21

Andy fretted about his new tires. But he didn’t want to be a killjoy. So he kept his worries to himself. This part of the Great Sulfur Desert was marked by extreme irregularities. The joyriders viewed Diablo Peak from the perspective of a pleasantly balmy plateau. The western slopes of the summit dropped to a ravine 2500 feet below the eastern side, which was their direction of approach to the mountain. What an eerie vista could be seen from that summit! Furnace Canyon was a scorching cauldron of sharp black obsidian rocks competing for space with barrel cacti and clusters of prickly pear. A dry gulch opened a wide fissure through the canyon floor, the scar of what had been a refreshing river before the desertification of the land. By now, Hank was really under the influence, and his tongue was loose. “My great-great-great grandpa bumped off a lot of redskins out here! Hid out in them hills and picked ‘em off like flies! Terminated a whole tribe single-handed!” “Hank!” Sandra chided. “Who pulled your string? My stepdad is part Sioux! That’s not nice!” Melanie, tossing her blond mane, sniffed, “Be glad he’s not your real dad, Sandra. We don’t want squaws on our cheerleading squad.” Sandra sighed. Being popular had its price. Soon they reached the lower slopes of the eastern face of the mountain. Gradually the gravel road gave way to an even worse thoroughfare. It was the trail from hell, known to the locals as “The Devil’s Backside”. Only a few foolhardy souls ever risked the perilous ride up that deeply-rutted trail which had no guard rails. No government funds had ever been allocated to construct a safer road. But why bother? Diablo Peak held no attractions for sane individuals. Rattlesnakes crawled in and out of crevices between the sunbaked boulders barely restrained by the sandy soil of the mountain face. The narrow shoulders of the road were pitted from rockslides. Often the scampering feet of a lizard would upset the balance of the precariously perched boulders and send them hurtling down the slopes of Diablo Peak into Furnace Canyon. The red BMW strained steadily up the rough trail, jarring and jerking the passengers. Now and then Andy could hear scraping noises from the bottom of the vehicle. Nervously he peered backward. He was horrified. The rocky road was stained red by leaking transmission fluid. “Hey, Hank!” he quavered. “Don’t drive ‘er so hard! This ain’t no four-wheel drive! You’ll kill the transmission!” Hank’s lusty laughter split the tranquil desert air. “Then we’ll have to bury the BMW, just like Betty Bigfoot! Hell, that hippo was so fat they stuck her in a railroad freight car!” Melanie collapsed into wild hysterics. Andy, still eyeing the road behind them, obliged Hank with a jittery chuckle. Hank kept up his comedy act. Sandra contributed a faint smile.

22

She got a rough shove on the shoulder. “Hey, you sick or something?” Melanie snapped. “You better lighten up!” “It’s nothing,” Sandra lied. “My old man says I’m off the cheerleading squad if I don’t raise my grades.” “Forget the old fool,” Hank cackled. “Hey, I’ll show you guys a few tricks! Three cheers for Hot Rod Hank!” The car jackknifed to the right and to the left. Hairpin turns excited Hank the most. As if deliberately trying to wreck Andy’s car, he revved up the engine and jerked the car to a sharp turn. Andy cried in horror as the right rear fender scraped a sharp rock jutting out of the mountain face. His dad would surely cut off his allowance for a month for being so irresponsible. With syncopated thrusts of his foot Hank played with the accelerator, forcing the car to either abruptly lurch forward or jerk to sudden stops. Hank’s chilling laugh warned them whenever he was about to skirt the edge of the road, with barely an inch to spare. Andy began to gnaw at his nails. Hank was lapping it up. Maybe he wasn’t as rich as Andy, but he did have power over him money couldn’t buy. My, how Hank loved making others sweat. Andy whimpered, “Cool it, Hank! No kiddin’! My old man’ll skin me if he has to pop for new steerin’ and brakes!” Hank just grinned. He burnt a hole in the seat upholstery with the stub of a cigarette. Then he lit one up again to burn more holes in the seat. Andy yelled obscenities. By now Hank was so plastered that he could barely see the boulders and ruts in front of him. Andy’s warning only ticked him off. “Andy,” he drawled, “you’re a WUS! Shut up!” Andy snapped. He didn’t mind Hank teaching him how to bully others, but he disliked being on the receiving end of Hank’s vicious tongue. They all knew that school would be a very dull place if no new victim was picked out for everybody to pick on. But Andy was in no mood to replace the late Betty Bigelow as the school outcast. Melanie was already laughing and pointing at him. He’d better do something--quick. Sandra held her breath. Would Andy rise to Hank’s challenge and fight to supplant him as Top Dog of Yellow Valley High? As his girl friend, she would automatically depose Melanie, and gain the queenly status long enjoyed by this arrogant beauty. It was now or never. Andy, intent on salving his wounded pride, hovered menacingly over the front seat. This annoyed Hank even more. Andy squeezed through the gap between the driver’s and front passenger’s seats, lost his balance and plopped in Melanie’s lap. She squirmed free and sprang into the back seat, shrieking: “You - - - -ing jerk! Get away from me! You’ll give me cooties!” Hank got in a dead drunk rage. “Don’t you dare touch my girl!” “Get outa my car!” Andy retorted. “You’re just as ugly and dumb as that jackass coach!”

23

A firestorm of a fight broke out. Sandra was scared witless, although Melanie found it funny, suspecting that Hank and Andy had deliberately staged this stunt just to throw a good scare into the girls. Petrified, Sandra lunged for the door handle. But Melanie wasn’t about to let her prey escape. Melanie pounced on her, knocking the breath out of her and pinning her down in the seat. The frightened girl was completely helpless now. This was one time Sandra wished she had not starved herself down to that skin-and-bones look everyone admired her for. Her muscles were so atrophied she couldn’t fight the slightly larger Melanie off. Melanie clamped Sandra’s head over the edge of the seat. She clutched her hair tightly in her little fists. “They’re only playing, for God’s sake! Don’t you dare move, or I’ll rip all your hair out!” The whole ugly scenario flashed before Sandra’s wild eyes: The name-calling. The tacks in Betty’s chair. The blue paint on the back of her head. The “kick me” sign glued to her skirt. The mustard on her beautiful white dress, that one she’d saved for months to buy. That sadistic strip search in the girls’ dressing room, which had finally driven poor Betty to escape her tormentors through suicide. Now harvest time had come for Sandra. Repeatedly her grandmother had urged her to stop running with the wrong crowd and accept Jesus Christ as her personal Savior. Now her options were clear: She could either join Betty in heaven or follow her fair weather friends to hell. As Sandra heard the blood-curdling cries from the front and saw the hate in Melanie’s wild eyes, she realized that her very life hung in the balance. Melanie was still sitting atop her, and might decide to kill her by snapping her neck, which she held in her iron grip. Drunken Hank might still drive them all over the cliff, for his hands were busy attacking Andy, not navigating the treacherous trail up Diablo Peak. Hank was in no condition to control himself, much less the car. Now he was a rabid animal, driven by bloodlust. Frantically Sandra prayed: “Oh, dear God, I know I killed her. But Jesus died for me. Please forgive me and save me from hell. Grandma was right.” Enraged by her prayer, Melanie jerked Sandra’s head and snarled: “Shut up about religion or I’ll twist your head off like a chicken!” Melanie giggled like a fiend. She was the one perched atop her opponent, the one who held the power of life and death. Hank would surely kill Andy for daring to challenge him as Top Dog. He could simply dump the body over the mountainside and tell the cops Andy had lost his footing. Maybe, she hoped, the coyotes would come out at night and eat his body. Wouldn’t that be cool? Hank turning Andy into dog food. And the cops wouldn’t be any the wiser because they probably never patrolled this area anyway. Feeling triumphant over repentant rival Sandra, Melanie taunted her: “That crazy coach is an expert on outdoor johns, is he? Well, no wonder! He was born in one! Laugh, you idiot!” she ordered. She slapped Sandra and made her cry. “Please, Melanie,” Sandra whimpered, “Hank’s crazy. He’ll get us all killed. Please let me go home.”

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“If Bigfoot didn’t escape,” Melanie snarled, “why should you? You’ll never get out of here alive!” Even louder than Melanie’s maniacal laughter was the war of words in the front seat. In the heat of battle, Hank didn’t notice the burning cigarette fall out of his mouth and land on the floorboard, igniting a big pile of fast food trash by the gas pedal. “You don't call the doctor when you get sick!” Hank yelled. “You call the plumber!” “You were such an ugly baby, the doctor thought he’d delivered a rat!” Andy retorted, spitting blood. Hank was consumed with demon-driven fury. He would defend his position to the death. He hit Andy so hard his fist ached. Oblivious to the torrents of loose soil and rocks cascading down the mountain face, he tore into his rival, fully intent on finishing him off. As Hank stretched himself over his victim, his right foot bore down forcefully on the gas pedal. Abruptly the BMW lurched free of a small boulder obstructing its left rear tire. Hank’s left leg instinctively thrust upwards to give him better leverage to bear down on Andy. As it did, it turned the steering wheel sharply to the left_toward their doom. Melanie stopped tormenting Sandra long enough to notice: They were flying in mid-air, hurtling down toward the rocky ravine below. Hank was still cursing and choking Andy. Melanie threw up her arms and screamed. A deafening explosion, then eerie silence. Now dead to a world of sin and woe, Sandra felt only the glowing purity of the Love of God in Christ Jesus.

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Chapter ThreeJudgment

There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked (Isaiah 57:21).

* * * * *

The broken car blazed at the bottom of Furnace Canyon, cremating the four bodies inside. Sandra felt herself being lifted from the inferno by a pair of arms. The face above her was unlike any she had seen at school. It was pure; it was sweet. An intense radiance surrounded the glorious being who carried her away from the blackened shell of the car. “You...you’re an angel,” Sandra cried. “I can’t go with you. Not after how I treated Betty.” “Have no fear, my child,” the angel said. “There is room in the Father’s House for all who have been washed in the Blood of the Lamb. You shall see Betty soon. For truly heaven is a place whose inhabitants have known the love and mercy of our God, and where these precious Kingdom blessings are freely extended to others. Behold, He makes all things new.” From a distance Melanie could see the angel flying heavenward, bearing Sandra in his arms. Surely I can go up there too, she thought. Haven’t I always heard God is too nice to exclude anybody from heaven? She attempted to propel her ethereal form into the air to follow them, but she could not. She would be earthbound, until her time came to be escorted elsewhere by the emissaries of darkness.

* * * * *

The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God (Psalms 9:17).

* * * * *

There is sometimes a brief interlude before lost souls are carried away to their final abode; a pause where souls who rejected God’s mercy in life linger in dread of His judgment after death. The souls of Hank, Melanie, and Andy had not yet been removed from Furnace Canyon. The sun was setting, casting its dying rays upon the charred remains of Andy’s luxury car. The two combatants had finally ceased their battle for dominance, at least temporarily. Frightened by their predicament, Andy had run off

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somewhere, searching for a place to hide from the well-deserved wrath of his Creator, and from the horrible presence of Hank, his bloodthirsty murderer. There, amid the sharp volcanic rocks and cactus clusters of the deep ravine, Hank and Melanie wandered aimlessly. Dusk was gathering around them, and the shadows lengthened in the tortured landscape. Vainly they searched for their companion. “Where is he?” Melanie cried. “I dunno,” Hank mumbled, his eyes glazed with guilt. “You murdered him, Hank!” Melanie accused. “What a world this would be if it weren’t for men starting wars!” Hank swiveled around to face her and shook his fist in her face. “Shut up, you! You and Sandra killed Bigfoot! Women are murderers too!” Well, at least Andy was human! He’s hiding, Hank...from you!” “No, kid! He’s hidin’ from God, and if we had any sense, we’d go crawl in a hole and hide too.” “Yeah, sure!” Melanie huffed. “As if God’s so blind He can’t flush Andy out of his cozy little snake hole!” “And we know where Sandra’s at,” Hank said. “She lucked out. She won a first-class ticket to pie-in-the-sky to play harps with Bigfoot.” Even in death Melanie’s unredeemed soul retained all its deeply ingrained viciousness. “So much for the good Lord’s taste in people! UGH! Now He’s got to fumigate heaven! Poor Sandra. Good riddance! I always was too nice to tell her, but I always hated her thrift shop rags and fuzzy hair!” Like a maniac, she rattled on. “Hey, Hank! Didn’t Mr. Boggs always tell us that natural selection would weed out all mutant life forms? We did old Bigfoot a favor by putting her out of her misery. Now she can’t propagate her own kind!” Frankly, Hank was getting a bit bored with it all. Why bother to badmouth Betty if their vicious remarks could no longer hurt her? Hank was finding the onset of Bully Withdrawal Syndrome quite intolerable. Betty Bigelow was safely out of his reach. Sandra had just joined her, and Andy was in hiding. The dominant bully needed a new victim_fast! No one was there but Melanie. So he turned on her. An evil leer spread across his chiseled face. “In your present condition, kid, you won’t increase the surplus population either. But look on the bright side. At least you don’t need birth control pills no more!” “You MONSTER!” Melanie shrieked. “How can you be so mean! This is a nightmare! I’ve gotta wake up! This can’t be real!” “I hate to burst your bubble, kid,” Hank drawled, “but we really are dead!” “I can still have babies!” Melanie wailed. “I’ll be reincarnated! Mom said so! Her spiritual advisor said so!” “Reincarnated?” Hank mocked. “As a bat? As a cat? As a gnat? As a rat?” Wildly Melanie swung her tiny fists at Hank, enraged by the cartwheels he turned at every taunt. Whenever she did manage to hit him, her fists went right through his hazy physique, and he laughed all the harder.

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The bully was having a ball. “Ook! Ook! All hail the new Betty Bigfoot!” “Shut up, you louse!” “A new lizard will soon be hatched in Furnace Canyon!” Hank announced with mock solemnity. Melanie stooped to pick up a sharp rock to hurl at Hank, who was still flipping silly somersaults and rolling clever insults off his evil tongue. But her translucent hands only shot through the rock like a ray of light penetrates a window pane. She realized that only the dirtiest insults could hurt Hank, who now had no bones to break. “You’ll come back as a cockroach in the coach’s outdoor john!” “I wish I could KILL you for that, but hell, you’re already dead! Well, let me burst your bubble again, dogface! There is no reincarnation. Sandra went to heaven, so guess where we’re goin’?” “No! No! You’re wrong!” Melanie shrieked, desperately trying to convince herself. “Mom’s minister said there is no hell, except the hell people make for themselves on earth! God isn’t mean enough to send anybody there! I’ll fly to Sandra. I just didn’t try hard enough, that’s all!” “You’re wastin’ your time, kid,” Hank shrugged. Frantically Melanie clambered up a low rock shelf which jutted above the wreckage. Her immediate goal was to at least reach the top of that rock. Her feet felt like lead, but she willed her weightless form to persist until she got there. What a relief, to stand atop the ledge, high atop the scrub brush. She’d made progress. She stared down at Hank, who dared her to go any higher. “Listen, everybody!” Melanie cackled, spreading out her arms like wings. “Look at me! I finally got the figure to die for! I’m weightless! What’s to stop me from taking off like a silver bullet?” She heard a wailing wind sweeping up toward her, through the craggy rock formations of Furnace Canyon. She knew the strong air current was there, though she could no longer feel the refreshing coolness of breezes. Gracefully she leaped from her precipice, longing to ride the surging updraft and go up to where Sandra was. She was lighter than a dust particle, but the heavy burden of unforgiven sin caused her to plummet like lead and land in a clump of prickly pear cactus. She felt no pain from the thorny landing, only crushing disappointment. “Oh, hell!” she spat. “You said it. I didn’t,” Hank shrugged. Melanie glared fiercely at the dusky sky. She shook her fist in impotent rage. She railed against her impending fate, her demon-driven tongue spinning new obscenities. Her last outburst was her mildest: “I HATE You, God!” Her eyes spat fire. “You can KEEP Your heaven if Bigfoot’s up there stinking it up!” “Hey, shut up already!” Hank cautioned. “After that sermon, we’re dead meat for sure!” “Maybe God’ll just let us roam the earth as disembodied beings,” Melanie whimpered. “Maybe there IS no hell! Please say there’s no hell, Hank!”

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“Don’t bank on it, kid. Once my Aunt Susan pointed out lots of stuff in the Bible about hell. It’s pretty scary, so I’ll spare you the details. Damn! Why didn’t I listen to that woman? She said, ‘Hank, Jesus died for you on the Cross so you wouldn’t have to pay for your own sins. Why won’t you pray with me now?’ “But all I ever did was ride her about bein’ a sky pilot. When I told Mom about her crazy sister, she hit the roof. Said that woman had mental problems and was just tryin’ to saddle me with a guilt complex. After that, I wasn’t allowed to go see Aunt Susan and her kids anymore.” Melanie looked crushed. “So Aunt Susan was right and Mom’s spiritual guide was all wrong. And it’s your mom’s fault you’re sitting on death row!” “Yeah!” Hank growled. “Damn! I hate that woman!” Melanie saw Hank from a different perspective now. A selfish, cold-hearted monster who thrived on hatred. “You knew all along there was a hell!” she wailed. “Yet you made me so mean God locked me out of heaven!” “So sue me,” Hank shrugged, turning away. In the swirling mist of gloom Melanie held out her hands to Hank’s receding, shadowy form. Her pale face was etched with fright. “Hank!” she choked. “I’m scared! I need you! I’ve got nobody else! I can’t love God. I can’t tell Him I’m sorry because that would be a lie. But if I’ve got to go to hell, please say you’ll spend eternity with me! Please say you’ll love me forever, Hank, or I won’t be able to stand it!” His vicous words shattered her last vestige of hope. “I lied. I never loved you! You were just a notch on my belt; just a cheap trick I picked up along the way. There’s all sorts of cute chicks where I’m goin’, and I’m gonna have the biggest harem in hell! Man, I’m gonna have a blast! Let’s see...I can hit on some of those babes from the Bible Aunt Susan told me about. Delilah got taken out by Samson when she was still young, and I’m better lookin’ than he was. And then Aunt Susan told me about all the swingers of Sodom who got nuked by God for partyin’ too hard.”

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“Those guys were gay!” Melanie sneered. “Or at least that’s what I read somewhere.” “Yeah, but lots of straight swingers go downstairs too. Let’s see, maybe I can look up Salome, the belly dancer, and show her some new moves. But then there was Lori, that ninth grader who O.D.'d on speed last year and ended up dead. But oh, heck, I just thought of somebody prettier who's waitin’ for me down there...” “I hate to disappoint you,” Melanie drawled, “but Bigfoot can’t satisfy you anymore. She’s up in heaven.” Hank was stung. “You spasticated slut!” he exploded,. He reared back to hit her. Now the tables were turned. Melanie laughed at Hank’s thrusting fists. They hit empty air. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I don’t have any!” “Oh, but I can still hurt you,” Hank let her know. “When we’re in hell I’ll spread the word about what an easy con job you were. Now that I don’t need your money no more, I can afford to dump you.” “You grotty creep!” Melanie ranted. “I let you borrow my Jag! You looted my dad’s liquor cabinet! You used my charge cards! I starved myself sick for you! I put out for you!”

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Hank chuckled. “Yeah, babe. Life was cool while it lasted. Like one great big party. You should feel flattered, though. I don’t hang out with losers. Bigfoot was a big fat skank. She had nothin’ I wanted. But she kept me laughin’. And so did you!” “You aren’t worth spitting on, you sewer rat!” Melanie shrieked. “Someone will love me! Not everybody is like you!” Hank grinned evilly. “Wanna bet? Let me clue you in on somethin’, kid. What goes around comes around. All you ever did was spread hate and meanness around like horse manure. So guess what’s comin’ YOUR way?” Melanie recoiled from a look that had always been aimed at others, now her. A menacing, savage glare more fiendish than it had ever been during Hank’s short-lived career as a bully. His cavernous eyes burned like coals from the pit of hell. “You little fool!” he hissed. “You’ve always hated people who aren’t just like you. If a day went by that you didn’t make somebody cry, you felt like that day was wasted. If everybody in hell is just like you, who in hell’s gonna love you?” She opened her mouth to cry, but no tears would come. There is a release in tears of repentance which is never found in hell. For that matter, hell has no water of any kind which can grant relief to its tormented captives---not so much as a drop. Her tearless anguish turned to terror. In the distance she could see her captors coming. There were six of them marching along in formation, bearing heavy chains. Wicked, leering, grotesque monsters were dragging a struggling form behind them. Melanie had never seen such hideous faces as theirs, not even in horror films. Weakly their prisoner called out for help, but in vain. “It’s Andy!” Melanie cried. “Let him go!” “He is bound by the chains of his own wickedness, which he forged in life,” replied the horrible creature who held his chain. “He rejected the only One Who could have set him free.” Hank tried to run away, but his own fear paralyzed him. “Well done, my boy!” the evil entity chuckled. “Like father, like son! You have served our infernal majesty well. Now it’s time to go get your reward.” “NO! NO!” Hank screamed. “Go ‘way!” The serpentine monster only laughed all the harder. “You’re rejecting my commendation? I really am stung by that...YELLOW JACKET!” All three lost souls were tied together into a tight bundle, ready to be thrown into that fire which will never be quenched. A shroud of dense blackness swallowed them up as they merged into the rocks of the volcanic mountain to begin their swift descent into the nether abode of the wicked. There that same darkness they had loved in life would forever separate them from the love of God.

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