by Nathan Allen
Time slowed to a crawl. Fr. Gerdtz stood frozen to the floor, unable to move, staring at the Rorschach-shaped bloodblot trickling down the wall behind Krystal’s inert body.
He waited for the chaos to begin. He anticipated screaming from the other patrons. He expected security to come in with their weapons drawn. He was prepared to be gunned down in a hail of bullets.
But it never came. Nothing happened. He turned slowly to see the party continuing as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Everyone appeared to be so caught up in their own business they failed to notice the violent murder that had just taken place right in front of them.
He carefully stashed the weapon away, then put his head down and made his way towards the exit.
He would be out on the street and climbing into a taxi before anyone noticed that Krystal Blayze’s head now resembled a novelty punch bowl.
Chapter 3
Thirteen hours had passed since the shooting, and Fr. Gerdtz was yet to experience a wink of sleep. He sat alone in the church’s sanctum, the sequence of the previous night’s events playing on a continuous loop inside his head. He struggled to come to terms with what he had done. This wasn’t anything like him. Never in his life had he been a violent person. He didn’t handle firearms, let alone use them to murder another human being. He couldn’t even work up the nerve to jaywalk or put his trash in someone else’s bin. None of this felt real. It was like being trapped inside an extremely disturbing dream.
He removed his glasses and used a Kleenex to wipe the lenses. A slight redness appeared in the tissue, the result of a fine blood mist that sprayed across him after firing the gun. This extinguished any sliver of doubt as to whether last night had happened or not.
He was startled by a soft knocking. He spun around to see Ruth, the church’s octogenarian organist, standing in the doorway.
“Father?” she said.
“What is it, Ruth?”
“Something’s happened. Something ... it’s ... you have to ...” She grasped for the right words. “It’s probably best if you come see for yourself,” she eventually said.
Despite having no great desire to see anyone today if he could help it, Fr. Gerdtz slowly rose to his feet and followed Ruth out. He didn’t know what was going on, but something had clearly affected her.
He was led to the church’s entrance, where he was brought to a complete standstill. It was the last thing he expected to see today.
People were in his church. A lot of people. At least forty, maybe more. This would be a remarkable number for any day of the week, but for a Monday it was unheard of. Even more astonishing was the ages of those in attendance. The majority were under thirty, and many looked to be in their teens. The only gray hair belonged to Jefferson Slade, but even he had made something of an effort. He wore matching shoes, his hair was combed down, and his clothes appeared to have been laundered some time in the past year. He was still heavily intoxicated and on the verge of nodding off at any moment, but a sober Jefferson would have been a true miracle.
“What’s going on?” he whispered to Ruth. “What are all these people doing here?”
“I think it’s because of that young girl, the one who died last night,” Ruth said. “Did you hear about that?”
Fr. Gerdtz answered with a nervous shake of his head.
“Oh, it was awful. Some total stranger walked up to her in a nightclub and shot her. Just like that! For no reason at all! It was a completely random attack. It makes you wonder what the world is coming to.”
“How dreadful,” Fr. Gerdtz said quietly.
“I know. Just as she was starting to pull her life together, too. She had checked out of rehab last month, then she dumped her fiancé after she found out he had cheated on her with her best friend. Such a tragic loss.”
“So all these young people ... they came here to mourn her?”
Ruth exhaled quietly. “I suppose in times of trouble the youth of today need somebody they can turn to.”
Fr. Gerdtz nodded in agreement. Despite having a smorgasbord of digital stimulation at their fingertips, the relationship was still very much a one-way affair. TMZ and E! News wouldn’t be there for them in their hour of need.
He found it astonishing that this was what it took to get people back in touch with their spiritual side. Earlier in the year, when a flesh-eating virus claimed the lives of tens of thousands of the world’s poorest people in Southeast Asia, it barely caused a blip on the average person’s radar. But one quasi-celebrity eats a bullet and the world responds as if the Rapture was imminent. Perhaps it was time for some much-needed perspective. Perhaps celebrity deaths should become so commonplace that they no longer seemed remarkable.
He smoothed down his cassock with the palms of his hands, then took a deep breath and made his way inside.
The rest of his day was spent comforting those in mourning. He answered their questions, as best he could, about why a loving God would allow such a terrible thing to happen to such a beautiful person. Much to his surprise, they hung on his every word. They listened to what he had to say, gave deep consideration to the role God played in their everyday lives, and questioned what was truly important to them. For many, this was the first time they had experienced grief or loss in any form. At no point did anyone reach for their phones.
It was almost dark by the time he arrived home. He took a serving of shepherd’s pie from his refrigerator and placed it in the oven, then sat down at his computer as he waited for it to heat.
He logged on to Twitter and discovered that he now had fifty-five followers.
The murder of Krystal Blayze remained unsolved. An investigation was launched as to how her killer was able to smuggle a loaded firearm into the club, and how he managed to leave without apprehension. It was concluded that poor lighting and malfunctioning equipment allowed the gunman to avoid identification on the club’s CCTV cameras, while most patrons and staff present that night mistook the gunshot for part of the hip hop track being played at the time.
Police had few leads to work with, but suspect the shooting may have been drug-related. This theory was supported by the amount of cocaine found in Krystal’s possession, while a toxicology report confirmed the drug present in her system at the time of death. For the most part, the media chose to ignore these facts and portray this as the result of an obsessed Justin Bieber fan (Krystal had received numerous death threats from enraged tweens after photographs of her and Bieber catapulted her to stardom). They also failed to pick up on the fact that while Krystal had previously spoken out about fashion labels exploiting workers in Asian sweatshops, and she supported the banning of cosmetics testing on animals, she appeared to have no qualms in contributing to the narcotics trade – an industry that murdered thousands of impoverished third-world citizens every year.
At a memorial service held in her honor, Krystal was remembered as a fun-loving free spirit who was deeply passionate about her humanitarian work. This was evident in the hundreds of socially-conscious hashtags she retweeted each year, drawing attention to causes ranging from domestic violence to inner-city poverty to the double-standards women faced when walking red carpets at award shows. She was a committed anti-bullying advocate, frequently drawing attention to the online body-shaming models suffered on a daily basis.
Despite their immense grief, Krystal’s family consoled themselves with the knowledge that she died doing what she loved most – photographing herself and being paid to party. In fact, her final ever selfie happened to capture the exact moment the bullet struck her face. The family decided to upload this image to Instagram. They believed this was what Krystal would have wanted.
The image attracted a record 8.4 million likes.
Sleep eluded Fr. Gerdtz for the next three nights. The initial excitement of the nightclub shooting and the subsequent increase in both church attendance and Twitter followers quickly wore off, and he struggled to reconcile his actions with his long-held beliefs. No matter how much warm
milk and chamomile he consumed before bedtime, it failed to put his mind to rest and allow him to forget that he had broken a commandment. One of the big ones, too. One that no amount of Hail Marys and Our Fathers could ever absolve. Irrespective of how many times he tried to justify what he had done, he simply couldn’t look past the fact that he had taken an innocent life. Even if he was able to get away with it – and so far, there had been no indication that the police even considered him a suspect – he couldn’t run from his own conscience. He would have to answer for his crime sooner or later. If not to the law, then to God.
He switched on his bedside lamp and fumbled around for his glasses. After staring at the foot of his bed for an indeterminate period of time, contemplating his options and trying to ascertain if there was any other course of action, he eventually decided he had to do the right thing. He reached across for the phone.
He was midway through dialing when the rumbling began. It came from above, like a low-flying jumbo jet passing overhead. The noise grew louder and louder, the vibrations more intense. The entire house shook by its foundations. The phone’s handset fell from his grip and tumbled to the floor.
A large crack formed directly above him. The ceiling separated, and a flood of golden light filled the room. He looked up into the sky and saw a most remarkable sight. An infinite tunnel of clouds, stretching all the way to the heavens above.
An incredible vision then appeared before him. It was a vibrant mass of light and color unlike anything he or any other mortal being had ever witnessed. It was something so phenomenal, so indescribable, he knew he could only be looking at the face of God.
“Oh, my,” Fr. Gerdtz said. His hand clutched at his chest. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer. “My Lord, please forgive me for my sins. I know there is no possible–”
“My son, you do not need my forgiveness for you have done nothing wrong.”
The voice of God seemed to envelop him, like a fog of words coming at him from every direction at once.
“But I took the life of an innocent person.”
“Believe me, that was no innocent person you expunged from this world. She was nothing but a vain leech whose only function was to facilitate the spread of narcissistic personality disorder. You did the right thing. You did precisely what I asked of you.”
Fr. Gerdtz took a sharp intake of breath. “That was you sending me a message the other night?”
“Of course. You asked for my help, and I responded. I could see that you were pure of heart, and that you had the integrity and the faith to do what needed to be done.”
“But ... I don’t understand. Why did you need me to do this?”
“I needed you because it saddens me to see humanity lose its way. Celebrity has become the new religion of the modern world, and it is beginning to upset the balance. The traits that deserve to be admired, such as kindness, modesty and virtue, they are no longer valued. Instead, the world revolves around these vapid and vacant celebrities. It wouldn’t concern me so much if it was the brilliant minds being worshiped; the poets, the philosophers, the great leaders and intellectuals. But instead it’s these actors, pop stars, models and athletes. And that’s without mentioning those reality television and social media stars who have attained fame, or infamy, for reasons even I cannot fathom. What are their real accomplishments? What have they done to improve the lives of the less fortunate? They have done nothing to deserve such adulation. They are simply empty-headed puppets, performing for the amusement of the ignorant masses. Shallowness is held up as something to aspire to, while true heroism and selflessness goes unrewarded.”
Fr. Gerdtz struggled to comprehend all he was being told. “But hasn’t idolatry always been a part of our lives?” he said.
“Yes, in small doses. People have admired movie stars and professional athletes in the past. I tolerated this. I regarded it as an acceptable distraction from the banalities of everyday life. Everyone still made time for their family and their community. But it is now way out of control. The scales have tipped too far. What’s more, the mantle of celebrity is available to all, and if changes are not made the situation will only get worse. A tipping point is rapidly approaching. Something must be done before it’s too late. And that is why you have been chosen.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The world is suffering through a terrible plague. It is the plague of celebrity. Hollywood is the host, and you are the cure.”
“I ... I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m asking that you remove anyone who is famous from this earth. At least, until the rest of the world gets the message.”
“Oh, my. That sounds rather drastic.”
“Believe me, it is for their own good. It may come as a surprise to you, but I am not completely infallible. From time to time I do get it wrong. The world is an ever-evolving work in progress. What’s important is that I recognize my mistakes and make efforts to rectify them, like I did with Sodom and Gomorrah and the great deluge. The time has now come for another correction.”
“But what can I do? I’m just one man.”
“Noah was just one man. Moses was just one man. It only takes one man to change the world.”
Fr. Gerdtz’s head was swirling as he took this all in. “But I don’t know any celebrities. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“You only need to look deep within yourself. I will be there to guide you every step of the way.”
He didn’t recall a great deal from that point on. The rest of the night was a vague blur as he drifted in and out of sleep, his dreams intertwining with reality. He awoke the next morning to discover his sheets were damp from night sweats, and he had overslept by several hours. He hurried out of bed and quickly got ready.
Before heading off to church for the day, he inspected the ceiling in his bedroom. There were several fine cracks that he hadn’t noticed before.
Chapter 4
A stabbing pain shot through Fr. Gerdtz’s right forearm as he sat at his desk preparing next week’s sermon. The pen fell from his hand and he scrambled for his arthritis pills, swallowing two with a mouthful of water. He opened and closed his palm a few times and gently rotated his wrist in a circular motion, hoping to alleviate the raw discomfort. He winced as he did this; the aching was still there, and that was his third dosage for the day. He hoped his arthritis wasn’t getting any worse. Maybe he was developing a tolerance for the medication, if that was possible, since it didn’t seem to be as effective as it once was.
He did his best to ignore the pain and push through with the sermon. He had hoped to come up with something that summarized his many thoughts and feelings, especially in relation to his recent spiritual awakening. But there were simply no words that could possibly encapsulate the whole experience. He had been at his desk for hours now, and all he had to show for it was a page filled with crossed-out words and false starts, and an overflowing wastepaper basket. He had planned on opening with Luke 18:27, one of his favorite biblical passages – That which is impossible with man is possible with God – but he was yet to progress any further beyond that.
His concentration was interrupted by an urgent rap at the door. Before he could speak, a thirty-ish redheaded woman dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes invited herself in.
“Hello Father,” she said.
He looked up from his desk. He had never seen this woman before in his life. “Yes?”
She settled into a seat opposite and offered her hand. He noticed her face was shiny with perspiration, and she appeared slightly out of breath. She smelled of expensive perfume and stale cigarettes.
“My name is Madeleine Davis,” she said. “The location scout. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“We did?” Fr. Gerdtz scanned his memory. He had made several phone calls earlier that morning, but this woman’s name wasn’t ringing any bells.
“I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice.” Her voice was pitched at a volume several deci
bels higher than a regular speaking voice. Fr. Gerdtz wasn’t sure if that was how she normally spoke, or if she thought he was half-deaf. It was most likely the latter. “This is an incredibly urgent matter. As I explained to you over the phone, we require a church to shoot several scenes for an upcoming Judd Apatow film. We’ve been having trouble obtaining permission from the other churches nearby. It won’t take up any more than two or three days of your time, and we are offering very generous compensation in return.”
It took a moment for Fr. Gerdtz to catch on to what was happening here. This woman apparently failed to hear the question mark at the end of his previous sentence. When he said “We did?” she assumed he was simply confirming that they had earlier conversed on the phone.
It wasn’t until later that it all finally clicked into place. Madeleine must have been speaking with Fr. Jenkins from the United Church on James Street, whereas she was now at the St. James Church on United Way. It wasn’t the first time such a mix-up had occurred. The two churches were constantly receiving each others’ mail, and barely a week went by without at least one guest turning up to the wrong wedding or funeral.
“I have the shooting script here,” she said, digging around inside her bag. “You mentioned that you wanted to review it before making your decision.”
She produced a document and handed it to Fr. Gerdtz. He studied the title page.
“Where’s the Love?” he said, reading the film’s title.
“Yeah, like the Black Eyed Peas song.” Madeleine lit up a cigarette, oblivious to the no smoking sign directly in front of her. “Although we may have to change that due to the trouble we’re having obtaining the rights.” She inhaled a lungful of the noxious fumes, then carelessly blew out a cloud of smoke in Fr. Gerdtz’s direction. “You know your film’s in trouble when even the Black Eyed Peas refuse to license one of their songs,” she muttered to herself.