“I’m Father Mateo,” called the priest, as Elliot approached the front. People half shouted now, to be heard through their masks, though it wasn’t usually necessary. “I placed the call.” Elliot thought he detected the soft sibilance of a Latin American accent.
“Officer Howe,” said Elliot. A video camera was set up, pointed at the altar. “What’s all this?”
“A webcast,” said Father Mateo. He had a smooth brown scalp fringed with thick, dark hair. The priest’s baldness was more pronounced than his own, but Elliot noted that Father Mateo’s robes lent it a certain natural graciousness. “Father Christopher will celebrate mass this evening for our parishioners online. One of the young ladies in the choir set it up for us. Very clever, I thought.”
“I agree,” said Elliot. He wondered why he was surprised that churches would change with the times. He imagined the Holy Spirit flowing like a meme through the internet. “So what’s the problem, Father? Something’s been stolen?”
“Follow me.” Father Mateo led the way to a door in the elaborate oak panels girding the sanctuary. Elliot followed him along a corridor and down a set of stairs until they reached the basement. An elderly priest with slightly gaunt cheeks was lingering in a doorway.
“The police arrive faster than the ambulances these days,” he said, spotting them. “Property before people, I suppose.”
“This is Father Christopher,” said Father Mateo, acknowledging his colleague. “Officer Howe.”
“We come as fast as we can,” said Elliot. “The whole system is overtaxed right now.”
“Yes, but how did we arrive here?” said Father Christopher. He held up a hand and snapped his fingers, though the gloves cut the sound. “What systems did we choose to invest in in the first place?”
Father Mateo said, “Officer Howe is here to help us.”
The older priest folded his arms. “I apologize, Officer. We have lost part of our flock, you understand. It’s been very painful.”
“Faith must be a comfort these days,” said Elliot. Platitudes had a time and a place, and never more so than during a crisis. They were the shared language of well-meaning strangers.
Father Christopher nodded as though Elliot had said something profound. “It’s difficult,” he said. “Our congregation could use some solace, but we’ve had to suspend regular services, of course.”
“The webcast seems like a good solution,” said Elliot.
Father Christopher nodded again and stepped aside to allow the younger priest to lead Elliot into the storeroom. The small space was lined with shelving along each wall.
“Our food cupboard,” Father Mateo said, raising a hand to indicate a level just below the full height of the shelves, as though it had at one time been nearly filled. Now there were just odd boxes of spaghetti, some cans that had rolled onto their sides, and a few spurned tins of Spam and sardines. “We always kept a bit on hand in case it was needed, then during the swine flu we thought it was a good idea to keep a little more. Just some emergency provisioning, so our congregation knew they had somewhere to turn.” Father Mateo clasped his hands together in what appeared to be a habitual gesture. “There are times when the Church can do what the government cannot.”
Elliot glanced at the door. “Was it kept locked?”
The priests looked at each other.
“No,” said Father Christopher. “The idea was that it was to be distributed as needed. We didn’t lock it because we received donations and requests at all hours.”
“You see, it had to be one of our parishioners,” said Father Mateo, drawing down his dark eyebrows as he shook his head. “Nobody else knows about it. And they must have been desperate.”
The older priest remained in the doorway of the empty room. “But is it theft if people are starving?”
“I understand,” said Elliot. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” said Father Mateo. He spread out his hands, seeming bewildered. “Absolutely nothing. But it’s my duty to report the crime, is it not?” The younger, anguished priest appealed to the elder, who continued to observe Elliot with guarded concern.
“Officer,” said Father Christopher with emphasis, “there has been no robbery here. And certainly no looting, least of all.” He exchanged a worn-out glance with his colleague. “At least with divine law, you can be sure of mercy.”
Elliot nodded as he prepared to leave. He envied them their certainty.
NextExtinction.com/ForumHome/GeneralDiscussion/ARAMIS
HEPTOMCAT
User since: Sept 2001
Posts: 2083
Forum Level: Admin
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 9:18 a.m.
So the virus has finally landed in Denver. Three people sick, all members of the Chinese Evangelical Church. Surprise surprise. Looks like ARAMIS Girl paid us a visit. What I wouldn’t give to throw her ass in jail.
RAGECORPS
User since: Nov 2009
Posts: 4295
Forum Level: Elite
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 9:33 a.m.
ARAMIS Girl is just the start. Every organized military in the world has mastered hypnosis!! Going forward, you can bet that *INFECTED CIVILIANS* programmed for soft targets will be the weapon of choice for governments overfunded by the liberal snowflake agenda. Need any more proof than the To America With Love concert? Stay vigilant!
GRANTER
User since: July 2010
Posts: 19
Forum Level: Apprentice
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 10:17 a.m.
You guys should know better than to believe all that nonsense about ARAMIS Girl. The arrival and dissemination of the virus on American soil has been well documented. AG is not and has never even been speculated by the authorities to be Patient Zero.
HEPTOMCAT
User since: Sept 2001
Posts: 2084
Forum Level: Admin
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 10:46 a.m.
Oh please. As if you can believe the official story on these things. The left-wing media is so politically correct they’d never point the blame where it really belongs. Next they’ll be saying it was really a white man who was making everybody sick.
BLISTERBURN
User since: Jan 2014
Posts: 761
Forum Level: Sage
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 11:01 a.m.
Agreed. And if we don’t take steps to defend what we have, there are people who will seize this opportunity to take it away. We can’t let that happen. A few more weeks of ARAMIS and you can bet there will be violence, looting, chaos. Protect what you have or else.
GRANTER
User since: July 2010
Posts: 20
Forum Level: Apprentice
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 11:24 a.m.
Have you guys heard of elite panic? Keelan Gibbs talked about it on the news. It’s when people with power and entitlement are afraid that any change to the current world order is going to spark a revolution and cost them their land, money & privileges. And all too often the elite are the ones setting policies, controlling the media, influencing the official response to a disaster. Don’t fall into the trap.
BLISTERBURN
User since: Jan 2014
Posts: 762
Forum Level: Sage
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 11:54 a.m.
Been a while, Granter! Thought you were gone for good. Why do you even spend time here if you think we’re all a bunch of right-wing nutters? Don’t patronize us. Gertiebir
d isn’t here to be your cheerleader anymore. Go back to rowing your little boat merrily out to sea while we deal with reality here on land.
HATBURGER
User since: Oct 2016
Posts: 349
Forum Level: Wannabe
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 2:09 p.m.
I for one think Granter has shared some very interesting ideas. Granter, do you think this panic is driven (deep down) by guilt? The elite suspect they have more than they deserve, so they think people are always trying to steal it?
LIEGEON
User since: Sept 2020
Posts: 4
Forum Level: Neophyte
Posted: November 11, 2020 at 3:24 p.m.
More likely they’re the thieves. The rich are rotten to the core and so they assume everyone else is too. Let’s face it: the whole antiviral shortage is probably a lie. Some billionaire is just stockpiling them in his ten McMansions while his neighbours are dying. God bless America!
KEELAN
NOVEMBER 2020
“So is this it for the human race? Is this the end?”
The television announcer had lacquered blond hair and a thick coating of makeup that made his face look like clay.
Keelan shifted in his seat, aware of the heat of the studio lights and a bead of sweat travelling down the back of his neck. “It’s a very interesting question you pose,” he said. He wondered how much of his usual Socratic method would be sacrificed in editing for a television audience. They’d told him this segment was part of an hour-long feature on the crisis to be aired after the evening news, and his interview would be intercut along with those of other experts.
The interviewer, Neil something, was still looking at him with expectation and a hint of impatience. It was all in the eyes. Once he’d asked the question, Neil probably knew it was safe to give these sorts of silent cues: to encourage, intimidate, compel. It was part of the skill set.
Keelan knew what the man wanted him to say. He wanted him to say, I’m afraid it very well could be.
“I’m afraid…” Keelan began, and it was true, he realized. He was afraid—of the virus, of whatever it was he might be about to say. He almost wanted to stop right there. But the interviewer’s carefully groomed eyebrows shot up in anticipation.
“I’m afraid,” continued Keelan, “it’s too soon to tell.”
Now Neil’s eyebrows were crestfallen, dejected. Keelan had let them down, along with the television-viewing public, who needed to be told how to feel, what to think, what to do.
Relenting, Keelan leaned forward on the desk, closer to Camera 2, revealing the corduroy elbow patches on his tweed jacket. He made his eyes as owlish as he knew how. “But it might be, Neil. It just might be.”
Keelan had made amends to the eyebrows. They were furrowed and intense as Neil seized on the bone he’d thrown. “When you say it’s too soon to tell, is there anything we can do that might make a difference?”
“Absolutely,” said Keelan. He dropped his voice to a suspenseful pitch. “How we conduct ourselves throughout this crisis might very well determine the future of the human race.”
* * *
On his doorstep, Keelan fitted his key in the lock, sparing a look over both shoulders as he did so. He wasn’t sure when this had become a habit—probably around the time he’d started shopping at the bulk stores. But the street was deserted, anyway. The street hockey kids, the toddlers on plastic tricycles, the old men raking leaves from their lawns. All of them gone in the wake of ARAMIS. Gone inside, anyway.
Keelan locked the door behind him and dropped his briefcase beside the umbrella stand, before frowning at the wooden receptacle with a picture of an umbrella and the word parapluies painted on the side. Peculiar artifacts of this sort, so limited and specific, seemed doomed to impeach their fading era of wealth and complacency. Umbrella stands, grapefruit spoons, nose-hair clippers: these were not things that ought to belong to a world in crisis.
In the kitchen, he slid a frozen pizza into the oven and set the timer on the stove.
He didn’t think he had gone too far in the interview. If anything, he’d been cautious. The fact was that a worst-case scenario, while perhaps not statistically more likely than any other—they’d have to ask an epidemiologist about that—felt historically, or at any rate narratively, inevitable. As a species, they were well overdue for reaping what they’d sown.
And yes, maybe it was only because he was old that he believed things were coming to an end; his certainty might be nothing more than garden-variety solipsism. If Annie were still alive, she would probably point out something along those lines.
At any rate, the new Chair would be pleased; he was happy whenever there was something that the university administration called an “interface” with the public. Publicity was good. Being the expert, even on the end of the world, had a certain cachet. But there would be the usual blowback to contend with among his colleagues in the philosophy department. He’d been careful, though, not to simplify or dumb things down. He’d streamlined, perhaps. But that was inevitable, in a sound bite.
Keelan predicted a few of his younger colleagues would wonder, Why him? Or, more to the point, why not them? Perhaps if anyone said anything, he’d deflect with a joke about his beard being the real reason he’d become the face of philosophy on television. A long white beard was still a symbol of wisdom, if only archetypally. And television producers knew almost as well as scholars how the language of visual symbolism worked unconsciously on the viewer. In fact, it would almost be worth bringing one in for a guest lecture on the subject if classes were ever reinstated. For his own part, he had a feeling Owen Grant’s recent departure on a sea voyage had created a vacuum of readily available television experts unbesmirched by the haughtiness of a white lab coat. As far as Keelan was concerned, Owen was the real charlatan when it came to peddling so-called pandemic expertise. Though he supposed it wasn’t the writer’s fault that public discourse was in decline.
The lights dimmed, and Keelan frowned. They had been flickering all week, and he’d littered the place with flashlights—a strategic move of which he was rather proud. Now, in case this was a signal of an imminent outage, he moved towards the computer in the den and turned it on. There was a new email from Edith, his research assistant. She had been busy but curiously absent since the start of the semester—a disembodied presence who emailed him articles and scanned documents. He wondered if the widely reported anti-Asian sentiment in the wake of the ARAMIS Girl debacle was causing her to lay low. A local Korean church had been graffitied and a new Chinese restaurant closed following a boycott. It was hard to imagine the inhabitants of Lansdowne behaving so abominably, but as a town it had the kind of ethnic homogeneity that Keelan knew could spell trouble in a time of crisis, when certain bigots would be prone to racial scapegoating.
I’ve got a new stack of material for you. Books this time. Should I bring them by your office? Or maybe to your place? I heard the department is pretty much closed.
Edith was an odd girl with a serious intellect but a restless energy. Keelan was grateful that he had never felt the need to imagine himself in love with her, which seemed like a free pass under the circumstances. She was Chinese-American, with tiny bones like a bird, and jet black hair that she kept pulled back off her face with an Alice band. She had soft, expressive lips that trembled when she was excited. Just like Annie. She had Annie’s pretty ways about her, too: the deliberate and graceful movements of a small female person. Keelan sometimes wondered what would have happened if Julia had inherited her mother’s delicate genes instead of his own Ukrainian-peasant bones and Irish-boxer build. Would boys have liked her more? Would she have liked them?
At any rate, there was no doubt anymore that Julia really was his daughter. Among the many bl
essings of puberty had been the conferring of several unmistakable physical traits: his robust frame, his snub nose, and an identical pair of deep-set, serious eyes. Keelan had been a neglectful husband and distracted father, but he was her father, after all. It was possible that his fears on that front had made him a little less warm towards her than he ought to have been when she was small.
Keelan pulled out the chair and sat down, repressing a groan as his knees twinged. Age was a battle of will. Next to the computer on the desk was a small sheaf of handwritten pages that comprised a meandering letter-in-progress to Julia.
Dear Julia,
I made the mistake of answering the phone the other day. It was someone from CNN. You know why I answered the phone? I thought it might be you.
It wasn’t, of course, and it was the start of this media rollercoaster. Maybe you’ve seen me on television? It’s both thrilling and maddening that I’ve become the voice of their calamity. My inbox has shifted from a place of dread and avoidance to one of stimulation and anticipation. The student emails begging for extensions or for class notes for the lectures they slept through have been buried beneath hordes of messages from national news outlets and major websites. The other day I stayed logged in, refreshing every five minutes, which I think means that I finally understand the younger generations. I never know who might want me next. I’m even naive enough to suppose it could be you.
Oh, I’m a doddering cliché and I know it. I’m a sad old man who misses his daughter.
When those poor souls in New York got sick and this whole thing started, I almost picked up the phone to call you until I remembered last time, when Dory answered. All that unpleasantness she brought up and the things she said you were talking about in couples therapy. Is it true? I thought I’d apologized for all that long ago. I can tell you it isn’t pleasant being berated for things that happened twenty years ago by somebody who wasn’t even there. You’ve found yourself a zealous champion, at any rate. I hope the therapy doesn’t betoken some chink in the armour.
Songs for the End of the World Page 28
