The Last Day

by Glenn Kleier

  Di Concerci leaned forward and narrowed his gaze at his defiant rival. “The mark of the beast is to be found precisely where the prophecy says. On the head of the Antichrist. If you look closely at video taken of Jeza at the Mount of the Beatitudes, you will notice, entirely visible under her hair, on her scalp, the burns left from Satan's fingertips where the Evil One ordained her. She's been claimed by the devil. She is the anointed Antichrist!”

  The rabbi was stricken. “These are not the marks of Satan!” he gasped. “My God, man, what you speak of are simply the abrasions left on the poor lady from the electrodes She was forced to wear during Her cruel gestation! You twist things to your designs.”

  “I twist nothing,” the cardinal maintained. “It is you who rationalizes.”

  Hirschberg was not about to concede. “There are other, far more critical Final Signs you conveniently ignore,” the rabbi insisted. “You have yet to identify for us the signs for the battle of Armageddon! Your pope claims that we are on the eve of the Judgment. But where, I ask you, are the armies of Gog and Magog, the prophesied armies of Armageddon? Where are these signs?”

  Di Concerci pursed his lips in constrained triumph. Turning to the camera, he reached for a blank tablet of white paper on the coffee table in front of him. “May I bring to the attention of my esteemed colleague,” he said, printing an unseen word on the pad with a large-nib marking pen, “a rather conspicuous observation which has apparently gone unnoticed by him?”

  The rabbi spread his hands out in front of him and arched his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Rabbi,” di Concerci said, “you've just made reference to the apocalyptic armies of Gog and Magog?”

  “Yes,” the rabbi confirmed, disdainfully. “These are two important signs of Armageddon still left to be revealed. In the prophecy of the Old Testament, Ezekiel 38 and 39: Gog is the ruler from the land of Magog who will attack Israel in the battle of Armageddon and who will be met with destruction. Likewise, the names Gog and Magog appear again in your Book of Revelation, chapter twenty, verse eight. This time representative of two separate entities of Satan, the two wicked armies of the Antichrist.”

  Di Concerci gleamed with his certitude. “Is it lost on you, Rabbi,” he asked, pointedly, “that the names of the two major factions currently opposing each other over the issue of Jeza's divinity are known as the Guardians of God and the Messianic Guardians of God, respectively?”

  Hirschberg fell back in his chair as if a thunderbolt had struck him.

  The prefect continued with the now obvious. “When broken into their separate acronyms,” he said with self-satisfaction, turning his pad of paper so that both Hirschberg and the camera could see the two phrases he had written, “the Guardians Of God and the Messianic Guardians Of God reveal the two apocalyptic names of the Book of Revelation, G-O-G and M-E-G-O-G—or Magog, if you will.

  “These are the armies prophesied to descend upon Jerusalem from the north, from the ancient mountains of the city of Megiddo, Israel.” He wrote again on the tablet. “In Hebrew, ‘H-A-R’ means ‘mountain.’ Therefore, you have ‘Har Megiddo,’ or ‘h-A-R-M-E-G-I-D-D-O-n.’ That is, ‘Armageddon’ as we all now know it.”

  Hirschberg slumped in his seat. Feldman's knuckles were white as he gripped his armrests.

  “And now,” di Concerci said, turning sideways to face Feldman full on, “let me call your attention to another bit of conveniently ignored information of which you should also be aware. As you now know, your Jeza carries within her brain a number of sophisticated neuromicrochips which provide her with a variety of spectacular functions.

  “Let me remind you that one of these chips—and I have personally studied the descriptions recorded in the Leveque diaries—one of these chips happens to be a very advanced communications transmitter-receiver.

  “As explained by Jozef Leveque, this unique microchip is powered by the normal electrochemical currents of the brain, and was designed to both transmit and receive messages in a form of silent telepathy.”

  The cardinal waited for these facts to sink in. “I submit to you that all your prophetess need do is cock her head in the proper direction and she can send out or tune in messages on any radio or microwave frequency; send and receive messages via satellite; enter and peruse any computer database she chooses, anytime she desires, for any information she wishes. The world's entire computer network is her brain, Mr. Feldman. Jeza can access any intelligence, all of mankind's collective knowledge, whenever she wants, merely by thinking.

  “All of which explains her seemingly omniscient mind. And which also explains how Jeza was able to penetrate the Vatican Secret Archives so effectively. She knew all about the papal records in the Bibliotheca Secreta because these records had all been entered into the Vatican computer files.”

  Which also would explain, an astonished and deflated Feldman had to admit to himself, how Jeza could have known of his early childhood trauma—by accessing the computer records of his therapist.

  Di Concerci did not pause to savor his masterfully executed performance. He pressed on to his final point. “Even more disturbing, gentlemen,” he said, his demeanor growing intense and his voice taking on an ominous timbre, “is the greater probability that your so-called Messiah is not in full control of her thoughts or actions. Rather, I suggest to you that she is still the recipient of special instructions being fed to her through the cerebral receiver she carries in her head.

  “She is, I submit, a living robot. A cybernated slave, obedient to the dictates of evil forces. Not a messenger of God, but a messenger no less. A messenger sent by individuals from within the Israeli Defense Ministry! Jeza. and her secret overseers, whoever they may be, are agents of the devil.

  “What the world confronts here, my well-meaning friends,” di Concerci asserted with bombast, “is the ultimate perversion of deus ex machina. Jeza is not the innocent, benign entity that appears to you in the deceptive guise of a sweet young girl. She is indeed the Antichrist. The False One! Whether she be man-made or hell-sent, the major signs of the apocalyptic prophecy are now in evidence.”

  There was no time for rebuttal, the period of programming allotted WNN by the Vatican having now lapsed. Not that Feldman or Hirschberg had any defenses left to counter the totality of these arguments. Both men could only slump in stunned dejection as Erin hastily reentered the set to rescue the sign-off.

  95

  Vatican City, Rome, Italy 10:53 P.M., Monday, April 3, 2000

  Standing on the wet, mist-swept cobblestones of St. Peter's Square, Feldman watched the ambulance work its way fitfully off through the throngs massed beyond the Vatican gates. Mordachai Hirschberg was being taken to a nearby hospital, suffering from acute angina.

  Feldman felt guilty not accompanying him, sending along WNN personnel instead. But the rabbi wasn't the only one whose heart was ailing. The events of the evening had left the reporter deeply pained and anxious. Declining dinner invitations from his European associates, he stood aloof and preoccupied near his shuttle van, impatiently awaiting a ride to his hotel, a hot shower and the blessed relief of sleep.

  The sound of clip-clicking heels approached from behind him and Feldman felt a consoling arm lightly encircle his waist. “You were absolutely chivalrous tonight, Jon,” Erin commended him, drawing close. “I'm really proud of the way you went up against that cardinal.”

  He glanced around, snorted, and returned to scanning the crowd. “A hell of a lot of good I did,” he complained caustically. “Jeza's completely vulnerable now. God knows how long she'll survive this.”

  “You and the rabbi did everything you could,” Erin assured him with a squeeze. “How could you know what the Vatican had up its sleeve?”

  “They outfoxed us,” Feldman acknowledged. “Di Concerci set us up perfectly, holding those dammed Final Signs in reserve till the end, and then ambushing us. We walked right into his trap, we just…” He trailed off, suspending his upturned hands out in front of him in a gesture of
utter futility.

  “Look, Jon, we just need to fall back and regroup. We'll think of something. Another special report, maybe. But right now, you have to take your mind off all this. You're all tensed up. You haven't eaten a thing all day.” Her voice assumed a tone of maternal lecturing. She rolled around in front of him, tossing her hair, insinuating herself between his still outstretched arms until he could no longer avoid her eyes. “What you need is a nice hot meal and a good stiff drink!”

  He shook his head, pulled back and turned aside, but she moved with him.

  “We're going to find us a quiet little trattoria where you can relax,” she coaxed, “have some dinner—”

  His retreat backed him into the side of the van, which jolted him out of his incognizance. Grasping her firmly by her shoulders he held her at arm's length. “No!” he declared brusquely, glowering at her.

  She appeared hurt, turning away, staring at the ground. Recalling Hunter's tale of her unfortunate childhood, Feldman immediately regretted himself. He gave her a quick, apologetic pat on the back and his voice softened. “Erin, forgive me. I didn't mean to yell at you like that, I'm just very upset right now.”

  Still averting her eyes, she nodded her acceptance.

  “Listen,” he suggested, pointing over to where a large number of newspeople were evading the drizzle under the eaves of the great cathedral. “You've got a dozen WNN brass dying to show you the city. It's a good career move. Go on and enjoy yourself.”

  She turned back to him, the mist gathering in little beads on the fringes of her hair, reflecting the lights of St Peter's behind her like strings of pearls. There was the glint of a new awareness in her eyes.

  “You're really taken by that little woman, aren't you?” she ventured, searching his face closely. “She's gotten to you, just like the cardinal said…”

  Feldman avoided her gaze.

  “I'm worried about you, Jon,” she breathed. “I'd like to help.” But her expression was one of intrigue, not compassion.

  Feldman returned to his hotel room. He slammed the door behind him, immediately stripped himself of his clothes, wadded them in a ball and threw them in a corner of the bathroom as if they were contaminated. Standing under the cleansing water of a long hot shower, he sought to rid himself of the evening's seamy residue.

  He finished, wrapped a towel around his waist and flipped another over his head to rub dry his hair. Stepping out of the bathroom, he walked blindly into the next room, intending to switch on the TV and look in on how the world had reacted to this last incendiary telecast. Instead, he tripped headlong over a surprise obstacle.

  Feldman sat on the floor, rocking back in forth in pain, swearing and rubbing his stubbed toes. Peering out from under his towel, he saw a carpet strewn with ice, along with a tripod stand, a toppled silver ice bucket and a full magnum of champagne with a note attached. Snatching off the envelope, he shook it open and read the card:

  Let's celebrate! Erin.

  She had obviously made these arrangements prior to the telecast. He tossed the card aside and grabbed up the bottle. Popping its cork he ducked back under his towel as it sprayed the room with effervescence. Once the eruption subsided, he turned on the TV and sat back down on the floor, amid the melting ice and champagne dew, swigging directly from the large bottle.

  The latest reports were not comforting. The ex cathedra decree had been taken to heart by substantial numbers of viewers. There was, however, no word yet on Jeza or her current whereabouts.

  Pointing accusing fingers at each other, both the Guardians of God and their bitter rivals, the Messianic Guardians of God, now had added impetus to annihilate one another. Each was firmly convinced their counterpart was the prophesied army of Satan. Additionally, Feldman learned, millenarian leaders of both camps were mobilizing their forces, urging their fanatical followers to begin an immediate return to the Holy Land for the now-imminent Second Coming.

  The reporter watched the scenes of uncontrolled religious fervor with renewed alarm. It was the New Crusades, he thought to himself, forlornly. He rose to his feet with the intention of eliminating some of the spirits he'd consumed, but found himself suddenly light-headed. Sitting back on the bed, he beheld in his hand a half-empty bottle. The intensity of the news reports, he decided, had reduced him to a state of oral fixation. He'd been gulping champagne as if it were spring water.

  Once his equilibrium stabilized, he righted the stand, inserted the ice bucket back in its cradle and replaced the bottle. The exertion made him nauseous, his lack of food taking its toll.

  He placed his glasses on the nightstand, dropped his towel to the floor and crawled in naked under the cool sheets of his bed. With his face buried in his pillow, he fumbled around the headboard for the light switch and plunged the apartment into welcomed darkness.

  Feldman slept deeply for an extended period before slipping into yet another dream. This time, he was out alone in the desert night, a wandering nomad. Lost, lonely, and confused. And desperately tired. He staggered and fell in exhaustion, facedown in the dust There was suddenly a bright light in front of him and he looked up to encounter the ethereal visage of Jeza, suspended above the ground, floating, arms outstretched, silhouetted by a massive full moon, her robes extraordinarily long and billowing around her. She was speaking to him, but he couldn't understand her.

  Suddenly Feldman was aware of a red cast to the desert sand in front of his face, as if the sun were dawning behind him. He looked up and Jeza, too, was bathed in a rosy glow. She gazed past him in the direction of the light. He rolled on his side and looked over his shoulder. But it wasn't the sun blazing behind him, it was the meteor—large and churning hellfire, barreling straight for him. He was transfixed.

  The meteor struck him, but he felt nothing. There was a loud ringing like a phone, jangling, pausing, jangling again. A shower of sparks, brightness all around him, and a feeling of confusion and helplessness. Reflexively, he flipped over on his back, holding out one hand in front of him to protect himself, hiding his face in the crook of his other elbow. Someone was softly calling his name. And finally, Feldman realized that this was just another dream. He relaxed, awakened himself and removed his arm from his face to open his eyes.

  He was in his hotel room. But he was not awake. There, floating in the air, in the dark just beyond the end of his bed, was the glowing figure of Jeza. Larger than life. More lustrous than life. Her arms were outstretched to him her robe open, revealing a divine, surreal, phosphorescent nakedness.

  “Jon,” she called to him again. He rose on his elbows and tried to focus his nearsighted, alcohol-dulled eyes on the apparition. Jeza stepped out from space onto his bed and descended to her knees, straddling him.

  This was not a dream! He could feel the motions of the bed as she rolled downward, her weight upon him, her bare breasts brushing his chest She enfolded him, caressing his face with her warm, soothing, moist hands. He could feel her wet lips enveloping his.

  Dropping from his elbows to his back, he pulled away, reached up and clasped the shimmering face in his hands. This was certainly Jeza's tousled mane of dark hair. This was Jeza's gleaming brilliance, if considerably brighter in candlepower. But this was not Jeza!

  “Love me,” the voice whispered to him.

  He withdrew his hands and his palms glowed in the darkness. “Erin?” he gasped incredulously.

  “Love me, Jon,” she cooed again.

  “Erin, what are you doing? How'd you get in here?”

  She leaned down, nuzzled against his neck and began to slowly wrap herself around him. “Just lose yourself to me. Let yourself go.”

  Grabbing her wrists tightly, he unwound her, casting her off forcefully as she collapsed beside him in reluctant resignation. The bed sheets were stained with luminescence.

  “Dammit, Erin! How the hell did you get in here?” He flipped on the lights and retrieved his glasses.

  Lying on her side, her head resting submissively on her outstretched arm,
her hair in her face, she said nothing for a moment, and then with a curt sigh, “I told the desk clerk we were married.”

  Exasperated, Feldman grasped the edge of her robe to cover her unselfconscious nakedness. “Jesus! What could have possessed you to do something as crazy as this?”

  She dispelled the hair from her face with an upward puff of breath. “If you haven't noticed, Jon,” she said, rolling her eyes up at him, “ ‘crazy’ is the prevailing disposition of the world these days. A little inoculation of crazy is exactly what you need to deal with all this.”

  “What I don't need are more complications in my life,” he snapped, irritably. “Please, just leave.”

  “There don't have to be any complications,” she assured him, inching closer. “No one needs to know anything.” She rose on her elbow and leaned toward him again. “I can take you far away from all this turmoil,” she whispered softly. “I can be any woman you want me to be. I can clear your mind and unburden your soul. And all you have to do is just give yourself to me. Just let yourself go,” she purred as her robe fell away once more and her painted breasts glistened up at him pointedly.

  It wasn't the sensuality, but the notion of surrender itself that was alluring. His psyche, wearied by weeks of relentless emotional expenditures and frustrations, longed for escape. To weightlessly, aimlessly free-float in the ethers of irresponsibility. He said nothing, allowing the concept to fill him.

  “I understand what's troubling you,” she declared, her confidence growing with his indecisiveness. “The way you took on that cardinal tonight. The way you defended her against him. She's seduced you, hasn't she?” Erin sat upright to engage him directly, her eyes narrowing with the certainty of her prosecution. “You're infatuated with her. You've come under her spell. She's compromised your relationship with Anke and you don't know what to do!”