Good Day In Hell. J.D. Rhoades

directions from memory. “Turn here…left here…straight…” They had left the main road by now and were wandering apparently aimlessly past bare harvested fields alternating with stands of trees. It was all the way dark by now, and the only lights this far out were their headlights and an occasional lone streetlight set on a post in a farmhouse driveway. Roy’s directions were as sure and terse as if he were a harbor pilot navigating them into port. “Here it is,” he said finally.

      There were a number of vehicles parked outside the wooden building, mostly older sedans and pickups. Here and there, a newer and flashier pickup gleamed in the reflected light off the building, but most of the vehicles were sober, economical. The building was a simple structure, a rectangle with a steeply pitched roof. It was painted a gleaming white made even brighter in the darkness by the spotlights pointing up from the ground. There was a plain square steeple perched on the roof. A lighted sign out front named the building as the FIRST CHURCH OF GOD OF PROPHECY. Below were words spelled out in black plastic letters that slid into runners on the sign. FRIDAY PRAYER MEETING. 7:00 P.M.