On the night of judg­ment spi­ral­ing flocks of spar­rows spun above the foun­tain at sun­set. Men’s shoes filled with sand; book­shelves col­lapsed; chil­dren were quiet; even the dogs and cats were uneasy.

At sun­set the sky turned black in a cir­cle over the cen­ter of the vil­lage. Peo­ple came out of their homes into the streets, and stood on their bal­conies star­ing at the great, swirling black­ness hov­er­ing over the square. The air became thick and heavy, and filled with a low throb­bing hum that caused fill­ings to tin­gle and the lit­tle hairs on the arms and neck to stand on end.

Peo­ple began to go insane. At the bak­ery, some of the women fell to their knees while oth­ers tore off their dresses and writhed on the floor. At the bar­ber shop some of the men prayed out loud and oth­ers howled like dogs and pissed them­selves. Some peo­ple ran about on all fours and some didn’t.

At the stroke of mid­night the hole in the sky turned bright, and fiery ten­drils dripped pur­pose­fully from its edges into the streets. A great voice thun­dered in a lan­guage no one under­stood, and some peo­ple died of fright. The fire spread out through the vil­lage and every­one it touched was burned to ashes in an eye­blink. Every­one in the vil­lage — men, women, chil­dren, pets — was incin­er­ated by the strange fire except a home­less drunk­ard and his dog, who was named Perón.

The drunk­ard and his dog, Perón, wan­dered aim­lessly through the empty streets for hours. Even­tu­ally, after drink­ing many bot­tles of Port wine from the ten­dería, the drunk­ard began to believe some­thing ter­ri­ble had hap­pened to the vil­lage. He repeat­edly observed a white owl fly­ing into and out of the houses, from bal­cony to bal­cony. He and Perón stole a car and drove along the road to Cam­bria, six­teen miles of twist­ing, ill-maintained blacktop.

Along the way there were giant bats, and armadil­los squashed in the road, and even a walk­ing saguaro cac­tus; It took them all night to get to the town.

No one in Cam­bria believed the drunkard’s story. Many of the men laughed at him and his piss-stained pants and at his mangy dog, Perón. But later in the morn­ing some men went to the vil­lage and returned white-faced, bear­ing a pair of wom­ens panties half burned from the fire, whis­per­ing of the empti­ness, the silence, the black scars in the shapes of men and women that cov­ered the streets and side­walks of the lit­tle vil­lage. And then no one doubted the drunk­ard anymore.

Panic ensued in Cam­bria. Women wrote to their lovers in other cities to warn them of the impend­ing Judg­ment. Men drank heav­ily and took down their pis­tols and rifles and shot­guns, and made bon­fires in the streets and stared at the sky.

That night no one slept a wink, and even Perón became nervous.

Two days passed and finally the towns­peo­ple began to think they had been mad to believe in a drunk­ard and a dog. But on the sec­ond night the sky became dark as a whirling sea of dung, and the fright­en­ing cir­cle appeared, this time over the church.

Men and women tore the clothes from their bod­ies and mated like wild ani­mals in the gut­ters. Chil­dren ripped their own par­ents to shreds with their fin­ger­nails. Young vir­gins threw them­selves upon the bon­fires scream­ing obscen­i­ties and bene­dic­tions and prayers.

The fire crack­led and dripped from the rim as before. The fire squir­reled its way through all the nooks and cran­nies of Cam­bria and every body it touched was instantly incinerated.

This time the only one who was left was Perón, who found he could speak, although he did not know what to say or who he should talk to. So Perón sat on the steps of the church to wait for a sign.

Perón waited for days until he was nearly dead from thirst. On the third day three drunken min­ers arrived from nearby Man­ti­jera. They wan­dered the streets shout­ing and laugh­ing. They took money and liquor from the empty shops  and pissed on the black shad­ows of the towns­peo­ple, which they found in every avenue.

And when they passed by the church they saw Perón.

One of the men threw a rock at Perón and missed.

“What are you doing here, stu­pid dog? Where are all the women?“
“We have been in the mines for twenty days!“
“Come here, lit­tle bitch. Let me tickle you!”

Perón rec­og­nized the sign at once, and he stood up and spoke.

“The Day of Judg­ment is at hand,” Perón said. “Lay down your hopes. Aban­don your dreams. Pre­pare for your final anni­hi­la­tion. Your God has no fear, and he demands sac­ri­fice. You will all be consumed.”

The min­ers, who had never seen a talk­ing dog before, laughed and hooted. A dog who was a preacher! It was the fun­ni­est thing in the world! They chased Perón around and around the church hol­ler­ing and howl­ing, until finally they caught him and beat him to death with an empty tequila bottle.

That night, the cir­cle appeared over Man­ti­jera, small but growing.

Grow­ing.