by P. J. Day
“Where’d the call come from?” asked Fisker.
“It’s a prepaid cell. There are no accounts tied to the phone. We couldn’t get a link on the line. Good news is, though, he’s no longer hiding. Are you watching the news?”
“No, what’s going on?”
“He’s gonna speak downtown around noon. There’s a mass gathering of people at MacArthur Park —thousands, if not hundreds of thousands —all converging due to some social media buzz all started by this fellow. Some Hispanic lady who claims to have seen this guy in person, and who received his message, has managed to rally everyone downtown. She’s babbling about the end of the world and how this guy is gonna save everyone.”
“Did you get info on this lady?”
“Mirabel Maria Hernandez...Los Angeles, lives off Hope Street. Mother of two, husband works in the garment industry. She’s legal...I mean that’s all I can tell you. No criminal history...hardly any debt. I can’t arrest her, judge won’t grant a warrant for her arrest, citing lack of evidence and gross overreach.”
“Get me Mark...” Fisker ordered.
Barry handed Mark back his phone. “This is Mark.”
“What did Logan tell you? Did he give away any of his intentions?”
“Basic revolutionary shit. I mean, he doesn’t sound all that special or what he said was special. In fact, the guy sounds like a walking cliché. Other than him getting his hands on a treasure trove of information that has indicted the financial sector, he’s really just spouting platitudes. He said he’s challenging the divine order of things now that he has everyone’s attention. A crackpot if you tell me. Also, I have this meteorite sitting in my backyard, you know anyone who come get it for me? I’ve called...”
“...thank you, Mark,” Fisker said, interrupting Mark’s spastic chatter. “Help out Barry with whatever he needs.”
Fisker hung up the phone and turned toward Israfel. “He is heading toward MacArthur Park. How should I approach the situation? Should I use everything we have at our disposal on Earth? Call all units, take him out like a mortal, or should I risk revealing our hand by taking him out as a demigod, you know, with the Seraphs?”
Israfel’s large body rested, as it usually did, as Earth’s gravity made it hard for the large Seraphim to move around swiftly like his underlings. He pursed all his lip before granting his order. “Uriel, no more Seraphs, no more handling the situation by revealing ourselves to the world, we’ve made too many errors. We must approach Logan with the mortal expertise you have accrued in the time you have prepared for the harvest. The police presence will already be at full maxim at the park. Assemble your best sharpshooters and snipers and position them around the rooftops surrounding the park. Remember, Logan is a demigod. He can be taken out just like a man.”
Fisker nodded. “We shall neutralize him.”
“Be wary, Uriel. Calculation might be involved.”
“Once Logan is neutralized, we shall ascend to Caeli and witness Adonai’s son descend to absorb all.”
Chapter Thirty-six:
The Shrine
Bernadette Harris was 63.
Her small apartment in Echo Park was just large enough to hold a small fridge, her twin-sized bed, a 19” LCD television, a worn-out loveseat, and a miniature cutting table she’d use to prepare her favorite dish of paprika sugar pears—a simple recipe, actually. The ingredients included paprika, sugar, and pears; not the fresh ones though. She felt that the taste was “accentuated” by the kind that came in the syrupy can. Bernadette rented the apartment on the floor level of a four-unit building built in 1918. It sat on a basement of some sort. In the cellar, the only civilian-made shrine of Thalia had been erected. It was assumed that it was the last of its kind and the only one built since the year 3 A.D. when a sheepherder named Nikos, on the Isle of Delos, built one, hoping Thalia would appear and teach his awkward, unibrowed daughter how to sing. A statue of Thalia, a most necessary artifact if one were to build a shrine for a forgotten goddess, stood at the center of an improvised wooden altar, pieced together from the remnants of a particleboard end table. Made of cheap plaster from a do-it-yourself pottery store, the statue stood with pride but still looked somewhat malformed.
Bernadette awoke to the rumblings of a small tremor. Part of a string of quakes that began once the arena collapsed.
“Ah, geez,” she said, slipping out of her bed. She wore her favorite nightgown, the one with the faded bird prints she’d received from her donation to the Audubon Society. She put on her slippers and mumbled drowsily, “Another goddamn quake?”
Expecting the quake to increase in intensity, she opened the door and stepped outside for a moment. Birds chirped. Morning commuters pulled out of their driveways. Nothing out of the ordinary. Another aftershock, I guess. She shut the door. Then came another loud bang, as if some improvised pressure cooker bomb exploded underneath the apartment. Bernadette stood still. Quiet. Her eyes bugged in fright. The door to the basement was inside the storage closet next to the refrigerator. She removed the brooms, the bottles of bleach, and the dried, crusty mop, then slowly opened the slim, cracked door. “Hello?” she said, as she tentatively stuck her head through the doorway, facing darkness head on.
“Hello?” replied Cindy’s voice. “Who’s there?”
“Umm...who are you? How’d you get in here?”
“I don’t know,” said Cindy. “We need light. Can you turn on the light, please?”
The voice sounded young and female and harmless. Bernadette obliged and flipped the light switch next to the door. She stared down the withered and splintered flight of stairs. There was nothing on the small slab of concrete that was visible at the end of the cascading corridor.
“Show yourself,” Bernadette commanded.
Cindy popped her head over the stairs and looked up at Bernadette. “Where are we?”
“In my basement, where else?” replied Bernadette, dryly. “Who the hell are you?”
Cindy looked over her shoulder, studying every inch of the basement, and then looked up at Bernadette, whose wrinkled jowls drooped and swayed with fear and panic. “Is this a shrine?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You’re not going to believe me, but I have her. She’s weak, on the floor.”
“You have who? I’m gonna call the police.”
“No...no...wait,” Cindy pleaded. “Listen to me, please. Do you pray to Thalia?”
“Yes...yes I do,” Bernadette answered. Her fear gave way to mild curiosity as soon as Cindy mentioned her divine muse.
“I have her, but she’s fading. Come downstairs.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, it isn’t.”
A soft voice emanated from the corner of the basement, traveling up the stairs like a breeze and into the old lady’s ears. Thank you, Bernadette.
Bernadette shook her head. She prayed almost every day to Thalia. Her acting career had always been on the fringe. A local commercial here, a bit role in an independent movie there. Although her looks had faded, she hoped that by praying to Thalia, she’d land some meaty roles fit for frumpy old ladies.
“Thalia?” Bernadette said, standing at the top of the stairs. “Is that really you?”
Make your way down the stairs, Thalia’s voice murmured.
Bernadette wobbled down the creaking and flimsy steps. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment once she saw Paolo cradling Thalia’s body in his arms. He gently favored her head and flashed Bernadette a somber look.
“She’s beautiful,” Bernadette said, in awe of Thalia’s radiant energy, even though she was weak and discolored.
“What is your name?” Paolo asked.
“You don’t know? She just called my name.”
“No, she didn’t,” Cindy said.
“Um...yes she did,” Bernadette insisted.
Paolo looked up at Cindy and said, “She’s still communicating.”
Cindy knelt down and caressed the goddess’s forehead. “Please, say
something to me.”
Thalia rested in Paolo’s arms, pale and unresponsive.
“I can’t believe she’s real,” said Bernadette, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean I had faith, but faith is different. There’s still a smidgen of doubt when it comes to faith. Actually, I shouldn’t say a smidgen, but rather, major doubt, because I stand here and can’t believe this is happening.”
“What kind of praying do you do?” Cindy asked, glancing over her shoulder up at Bernadette. “This has to be the only shrine of Thalia in existence.”
Bernadette cleared her ragged throat and said, “See, this whole thing began when I challenged a friend of mine that I’d pick the most obscure god imaginable. She was a pagan, the trendy kind. All gothed up, black nails, green hair, pentagram necklaces, the whole shebang, and this was the 70s, too. Well, I went down to the library and picked up a book on Greek gods and I discovered Thalia, one of the muses, and the one who was the most logical choice if one were trying to get acting gigs. I’m not a successful actress by any stretch of the imagination, but I get steady enough work to put a roof over my head and keep my belly full.”
“Listen, Bernadette. You think you got some more prayers up your sleeve...something that could kinda get her up and moving again?” asked Paolo.
“I...I don’t know. All I really do is chant and ask for work. There’s really no structure to my hymns. In fact, if one were to listen to me they’d say I was just making it all up as I went along. Which is why I can’t believe she’s appeared, because let’s face it...,” Bernadette said, as she gestured at all the artifacts in the basement. “...this is all just...just improv.”
Cindy stood up and paced, her face stilled in deep thought. She then looked at Paolo. “You want try singing and dancing again?”
“I guess,” Paolo said, as he gently placed Thalia’s body on the basement floor.
Paolo cleared his throat and sang the same Katy Perry song, but this time without the dancing. Again, he sang from the heart, but with more soul and purpose. In fact, it was so heartfelt, a tear or two could be seen streaming down his cheeks, which resonated with Bernadette and Cindy, as they got teary-eyed, too. But Thalia did not respond this time. She still lay on the floor, listless, beautiful as ever, as if posing for a master renaissance sculptor who had a fetish for the dying.
Cindy wiped the tear from her eye. “How come she didn’t wake up this time?”
“Probably because you didn’t do it, too, perhaps?” Paolo said.
“Here, let me try,” said Bernadette. There was something whimsical about Bernadette’s hair. In her defense, it was still early in the morning and she wasn’t given the usual time it took to tame it. But even if she were to brush or style her hair, it was hard to ignore the fact that it was comically voluminous, greasy gray, and hopelessly ratty, and no amount of hairspray, or detangling could cure Bernadette’s nest problem.
“I’ve been practicing this one,” she said, before taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. Her mouth opened, lips curled downward like the mouth of Kabuki mask. She yodeled a tragic version of Mozart’s Queen of the Night. Her vocal chords strained as if they were playing a life-and-death game of tug-of-war where the losing team didn’t fall down on their butts, but ended in a dislocation of shoulders. Cindy and Paolo cringed. Thalia did not respond.
“More heart,” said Paolo.
In between the howls, Bernadette said, “I’m giving it all I’ve got.” She took another deep breath and attempted one of the most difficult and skilled coloraturas in music history. Bernadette had no business attempting such a piece, but belted it out without shame. The string of “ah” sounds sounded more like a string of pig-like “uh” sounds or the mating calls of a babirusa. Cindy and Paolo covered their mouths, trying very hard to hide their laughter. It was like watching Benny Hill with a wig, wearing a Wikipedia page of birds, with a head of hair that would put a B-movie mad scientist to shame, attempt to sing one of the grandest songs ever composed.
Cindy and Paolo couldn’t hold back and burst with laughter. On the floor, Thalia flushed with color. She lifted her head off the ground and smiled. Surprised at the resurrection, Paolo shook Cindy by her shoulders and said, “She’s awake.”
Cindy helped Thalia off the ground. Bernadette put her hand on Thalia’s forearm, but was quick to take it away. “Is that okay if I take a hold of your arms?” she asked the goddess.
Thalia flashed a weak smile and nodded.
While holding Thalia’s arm, Bernadette said, “Let’s take her upstairs and put her on the couch.”
“I got her,” Paolo said. He curled Thalia in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Once he reached the small living room, he carefully placed her on the couch. Thalia was still weak but her eyes seemed vibrant and alert.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Here, let me put the TV on, maybe it can help wake you up,” Bernadette said.
“What’s TV gonna do?” asked Paolo.
“It gets me going in the morning...maybe it can do the same for her.”
“I don’t see how Judge Judy berating a teenager who thrashed someone’s lawn jockey during a meth-fueled rampage is gonna inspire a goddess to all of a sudden cure herself from the effects of a thousand-year-old captive state,” added Cindy. “Can you let us know how we can keep you from becoming lethargic?” Cindy asked Thalia, who sat back on the sofa, intermittently closing her eyes and still subdued.
“I should have been more clear, Cindy,” Thalia breathed. “I respond very well to comedy. I have seven other sisters. We are all muses and respond to performance and each of us respond to our own specific form of performance. Mine is comedy.”
Paolo’s face soured. “So, you’re telling me that the reason you responded to our dance at the parking lot was because we were funny.”
“Yes...”
“It wasn’t because my performance touched your heart?”
“It tickled my heart. So yes, it technically touched my heart. Both of you looked absolutely comical.”
Paolo groaned. He thought he had inspired a goddess back to life with his inspirational crooning, but now he felt the pressure to be funny. He’d always seen himself as someone people took seriously, but as a self-reflecting person, it was good to know he was better off as just a linguist, albeit a damn fine one.
“Can you keep going?” asked Cindy. “There has to be a way we can stop this.”
“I don’t know,” Thalia said. “I don’t have the strength to stop the Prophecy. I’m sorry.”
“What Prophecy?” asked Bernadette.
“We’re basically staring down the eyes of the apocalypse,” said Paolo.
“What?”
“The Rapture, Armageddon, end times. It’s here,” Cindy said, with a dry, dread-filled tone.
Bernadette cried uncontrollably. Cindy comforted her. “I’m sorry, the initial shock will wear out. Then I think you will find peace.”
Thalia watched the hosts of the morning show stare into the camera with uncertainty and unease. The male host—a handsome gentleman with short black hair and a fine gray suit—morosely said, “Witnesses are saying that the arena vanished completely. Authorities at the scene state that the implosion left no remnants or a trace of the auditorium behind. As of right now, there are at least 75 people missing, and 13 declared dead.”
“That’s where Matt had his fight,” Cindy said. She began to sob. She kneeled next to the couch and stared into Thalia’s eyes and pleaded, “We need to go to the arena. My best friend was at that fight.”
The seemingly frazzled host looked away from the teleprompter and spoke to the audience candidly, “Folks, I don’t know what to say.” He then stared down at a piece of paper that trembled in his hand. “Caltech is reporting dozens and dozens of small quakes every twenty to thirty minutes. Also, we are getting reports of severe damage in parts of Hollywood. Apparently, it has been confirmed, by experts at the Griffith Observatory and J.P.L. that dozens of small
meteorites actually hit parts of the city.” The newscaster took a deep breath and paused. He then peered into the camera and channeled a solemn version of Cronkite, the patriarchal and comforting version, the one who looked into America’s eyes soon after JFK’s assassination and said, “Southern California, it seems, is at the epicenter of Mother Nature’s wrath. Please be safe and please be prepared for any further cataclysmic events.”
His news team partner, an imposing woman with chestnut-colored hair, and who looked and fit the part of an alpha matriarch, CEO of some Silicon Valley tech company, looked off-screen and conversed with the producer using pantomime and whispers. Her mouth quivered as she placed her fingers up to her earpiece. “Tom, we have breaking news...thousands of citizens have begun marching toward MacArthur Park. A perimeter of National Guard, FBI and hundreds of L.A.P.D. and Sheriff’s officers are converging on the area as well. They have informed us to tell everyone to stay in their homes and do not...I repeat...do not join in on the protest as all major streets in the area are officially closed to traffic.” She looked at her colleague and shook her head. “This is disturbing, isn’t it? I hope for all Angelinos that this protest is peaceful.”
Cindy flashed Paolo a distressed look then grasped Thalia’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “There has to be something we could do.”
Thalia closed her eyes and remained silent.
“Anyone hungry?” asked Bernadette. “I have some Pop-Tarts?”
“No, not right now,” Cindy said, despite her gnawing hunger. She hadn’t eaten in what seemed an eternity, but in fact, it had just been a little over a day. She glanced at the television and the news anchors sat silently in their chairs. Their eyes and ears on the information that continued to trickle in. Then the female news anchor revealed the person responsible for the rally at MacArthur Park after her producers researched the Twitter feeds, the Facebook posts, and every other message board online worth a visit. “Apparently, the protest does have a leader of some sorts. It has just been confirmed that the thousands gathered at the park are there to listen to a Logan Drake speak.”