She sees the most amazing thing.
There are thousands of candles, as far as she can see. A reverent crowd standing in awed silence. They bow their heads. Many kneel or join hands.
A few shout out.
We love you, Juliette.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Praise be to Yeshua, the King.
Praise be to the risen Lord.
Then hundreds of phones flash.
Juliette gives them all a wave and goes in.
Silent night.
Ho-lee night.
The world spins back to normal, inside their hospital room. They’re an ordinary couple having a baby. First comes the pain, then the I can take it, I can take it, then the getmedrugsdrugs, then the epidural. Then waiting, metered out by contractions.
They have a visitor. It’s Thomas. He barges in, all pomp and circumstance.
“How are my-uh favorite two people in the-uh whole world?”
“We are not that great, pretty tired. I think she’s got through the worst of it, though.”
Joe points his thumb back at Juliette.
“Isn’t he the-uh smart one? I just wanted you both to know that you-uh have nothing to worry about, we have the very-uh best here looking after you.”
“Okay, but let us know when then the wise men start showing up.”
“Ha-ha, okay, Joe, maybe you’re the-uh wise guy. Anyway, good luck-uh to you both. As you probably know, you have-uh a lot of people praying for you.”
“We know and thanks.”
Thomas kisses Juliette’s hand and leaves.
“Brother, that man is a phony. It’s like he owns us.”
“Careful, honey, don’t bite the hand that feeds us.”
She puts her chin down and looks at him.
“Ho-lee, Juliette, I was just kidding.”
Juliette has another contraction. She squeezes his hand. The needle took the edge off only slightly.
Time runs slow and fast. Her waiting funnels forward into a few pointed moments.
breathe breathe breathe.
Another contraction rips through her, and she thinks of the original Mary on a straw bed under cold stars.
Melodic voice. Heavy timed breaths.
“Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow.”
She squeezes Joe’s hands. Looks into his eyes with her soft brown eyes, through to his core. Through to his core into the core of it all. Through the core of it all into us.
Madonna of the sweet, silent night.
Thomas tries to get Christian on the line. He knows he won’t answer. For some reason, he just wants to try. It’s such a huge moment. Boss would be pleased.
Christian warned that he would be incommunicado after the implantation. It’s useless trying to find anyone else at Earthen Swan who might know anything. They’re all blindly following orders from a ghost.
He’s got full power of attorney, but feels lost without the Boss. Fortunately, he has enough instructions and financial incentives to last him.
He will just have to continue to run COHC and Earthen Swan Global as entrusted.
He steps out the back of the hospital to wait for his presidential limo. He stands with the smokers watching the candlelight vigil in the park. There’s no wind. The air is warm. The stars are out. Cicada music fills the night.
The city glimmers in the distance.
The awe of the moment catches up to him. He’s the leader of the Church that has filed for patent protection over God’s only Son. He’s president of a billion-dollar conglomerate. He has the virgin mother about to give birth to an empire under contract.
He calls Angelica to tell her that they aren’t expecting the baby until morning and that he’s going back to his room for some sleep. He tells her that he loves her and that he is reminded of the birth of his own children.
He texts Lilith that he’s coming and to be ready. He sends her a ;-).
It’s good to be-uh king.
Chapter 40:
Operation Roman Candle
“A rare moment when the world stood together in peace.”
Andron turns off the TV, and re-measures the visco fuse. He’d try it in his room, but he doesn’t want to start a fire or set off the smoke alarm.
It should burn from one end to the other in eighty seconds. That’s an inch every two and a half seconds. Manufacturer’s specs. He needs eighty seconds to get from where the cars are parked to the corner at the back entrance to the hospital. Where the smokers are.
Thirty-two inches to pay dirt.
He’s going to blow up a car to create a diversion. Then he’s going to quick-change out of his jogger clothes. He’ll have patient clothes on underneath. He’ll use the noise and confusion to blend with the other smoker patients and get into the hospital. With his Walther strapped to his back.
A Moscow Circus of moving parts, one slip and it all falls down, but fuck it. It’s all he can come up with.
He calls it Operation Roman Candle. He’s going to stick a fat Roman candle in the filler neck of a car, light the fuse and slide a popping Happy Birthday cake underneath.
Boom. Get in.
He loves the name Roman candle. He knows its origins. Emperor Nero liked to use Christosians as human torches for his garden parties.
He had them nailed to stakes and fixed their necks with hooks. He had molten wax poured on them and then lit them on fire. He liked to say that they were finally the light of the world they’ve always wanted to be.
He was detestable man, who was ugly and stank. When he was finally cornered, rather than face execution, he asked a servant to kill him. Before dying he cried out, oh, what an artist dies in me.
Nero, Hitler, Cygnus. He’s not going to miss this time.
He sniffs.
Okay…here’s the deal.
Can’t find an old car without a locking gas cap? Street’s not clear? Car doesn’t blow up? Abort and keep running. Throw myself at her feet. Beg forgiveness. Go to the authorities.
So hit or miss. God, you decide.
He’s been doing recon every morning at seven, jogging past protesters and onlookers and waving at the security guard posted on the corner. He’s planned where he’ll cut in when the bomb goes.
His plot’s a little fuzzy after that. He’ll need to find a way into the maternity ward, he guesses.
So it’s not perfect. So sue me.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
He can’t make spit. His jaw’s locking. He hasn’t slept in days.
He caught the same bus, and got on and off at the same stops. Bus drivers don’t care about sweaty passengers with darting eyes as long as they pay the fare and sit quietly. He doesn’t talk to anyone.
No one noticed. They were all lost in the digital world, sucking on the glass tit, slowly becoming Cygnuses.
At times he’s so absorbed in his routine that he forgets why he’s rehearsing. He imagines that many perfunctory practice runs preceded many diabolical acts. To numb down moral recoil.
Just stick to the routine. Don’t think about it. Automatic. Robot. Soldier. Beggar-man. Assassin.
Tomorrow is the day, come hell or high water.
No more dress rehearsals. No nets.
He checks the Walther. Removes the clip. Makes sure there’s nothing in the chamber. He puts it in the holster strapped to his back. He goes into the washroom. Whips the gun out. Runs to the bed. Dry fires it.
Click click click.
On target and then up under his chin.
Click.
He does this ten more times.
Then he checks his gear.
He bought the firecrackers at a fireworks store. And the fuse. He flashed Ezra’s veteran’s card for ID. The clerk rang up the sale promptly. Thank you for your service, sir. Five one-inch diameter Comet Buster Roman candles, and a seventeen-shot Happy Birthday cake.
Andron knows that his circus stands a good chance of tanking. Not only does he he need to find a car without a locking cap. The tank needs to be
nearly on fumes.
God, you decide.
He butt-slaps the clip back in the Walther and takes it into the washroom.
He clicks the safety off and jams the gun hard up under his mouth. Finger on the trigger. He thinks about ending it right there.
Desperate breaths through his nose.
He looks into his shell-shocked eyes, hardly recognizes himself.
He is Analog Man. He is Dude.
He has become death, destroyer of gods.
He hears his cell phone buzz on the nightstand. Two strides and he’s staring at the blue-green display. It’s Naomi. He stares at the name for a moment and shuts it off. Battery’s dying anyway and he’s down to his last dollars.
The end of days.
His jaw locks again.
He aims his loaded gun at the imaginary target.
Death to Shaman. Nero’s a baby.
I’m going light that little fucker up like a Roman candle.
Chapter 41:
Wheel of Fortune
The Grand Croupier spins the roulette wheel and fires the ball so they twirl in opposition, a wheel within a wheel.
He sweeps his hand over the table and calls out rien ne va plus.
No more bets.
Spin, fucker, spin.
Where it stops, nobody knows.
~ At the First Circle ~
Andron rounds the corner out of breath. Just as he feared, the added weight slows him. His lungs scream for air and his legs beg to stop.
He’s looking forward to stopping to rig his bomb. He’ll have an honest cover. He’ll look like an old jogger catching his breath.
He worries about having a heart attack running next to a hospital. He doesn’t have any insurance.
The slower pace puts him at least ten minutes behind. That could prove to be a disaster.
His nostrils are sucking morning air straight into his brain. His extra clothes are sweaty. The holster digs into his back. The backpack bounces on his shoulders.
Life is pain. It burns. Man, it burns.
Nearing the long row of parked cars, his mind goes into a mad spin, scanning for traffic, people and a suitable car. If not a heart attack, maybe a stroke.
Nobody’s around and every spot’s taken.
There-breathe there-breathe. He spots it.
A ‘67 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible. Cherry-red, a block long and all chrome. Dignitary parade special.
C’mon, have an empty tank.
He bumps it. Gasoline swishes. Good sign. He tears off the backpack and puts it beside the car. The gas cap twists off like a birthday ribbon.
Yes.
He looks around for people or traffic again. None. He grabs a Roman candle out of his backpack and shoves the business end into the filler neck. Perfect fit.
No need for duct tape. The Galaxie’s giving it up easy.
He throws his backpack under the car. He takes out the cake and puts it under the tank. He stands up and looks around again. All clear.
His knees ache from the pavement. He ass-bumps against the car a few times to stir up fumes. It’s hot out already. That’ll help. He reaches for his lighter.
He lights the fuse.
Run.
Running away from an about-to-explode Galaxie without his backpack, he has to work at slowing. He has no idea where he is in relation to where he’s supposed be.
Fuckshitballs.
He runs by a young couple walking toward it.
Fuck-breathe fuck-breathe.
He wants to turn around to warn them, but his momentum carries him too far. It’s too late anyway. He prays they’ll be far enough away.
He nods at the security guard. This is supposed to be his finish line. Nothing happens. He runs past his insertion point.
So onto Naomi, then.
Thank you, Mr. God.
And then it happens.
Big fucking boom.
Shattering glass, screams and car alarms.
He sprints for the bushes beside the building. Rips off his jogging clothes. The Cake goes.
Just like guns. He runs for the door. Lights a cigarette.
The security guard is crouched down on the street with his hand on his gun. The people in the park are running every which way. Alarms, screaming, and burnt plastic fill the air.
That Galaxie fucking blew. Man, it blew.
All the smokers have their backs to him and are looking toward the park. He jumps up a few steps and joins them. Security guards soon rush out and direct everyone back in.
“Excuse me, was it a terrorist attack?”
“We don’t know, sir. Please just get back into the building for your own protection.”
Nobody notices his late arrival or cares that he’s sweaty. He blends in with the group ushered back in. They are hurried past the security checkpoints and told to remain inside.
Suckers.
Fear of a terrorist attack puts the hospital on lockdown. His plan has got him inside. But it’s going to be tricky getting further.
He thinks that they won’t risk moving the mother or child.
There’s going to be more popping. And it ain’t going be firecrackers.
God spoke. And he didn’t say quit.
He said boom.
~ At the Second Circle ~
The disorder makes finding where the little Anti-Christos might be hiding easier. All he has to do as follow the security, like wasps returning to their nest.
The wasps lead him to the obstetrics ward. Very clever.
Fuckshitballs.
Geoff and Scott are guarding the door. He turns away. Quick-walking. He glances back after a safe distance. Luckily, they didn’t seem to notice him.
So his former security guards are watching the door, no doubt with orders to shoot on sight. There’s secondary screening and a metal detector.
So much for trying to steal someone’s ID.
He recalls his chess teacher’s advice.
Don’t panic. Study the board. There’s bound to be an opening somewhere — a move that will allow you to break out. Use the clock. Think.
He guesses he’s got about four hours on his clock. It will take them that long to go through security footage and perhaps piece together his backpack.
They’ll likely suspect that the explosion was more a protest than an all-out terrorist attack. They might as easily conclude that the bomb was a distraction, an undercard to the main event, and start reviewing the entrance tapes.
If that happens, he’ll be the one with a Roman candle up his ass. A true terrorist would have placed the bomb where it would have done more carnage. He knows this, but he doesn’t quite have the stomach for blowing folks up.
He thinks about the couple again. His stomach in knots, he feels like puking.
He thinks it’s better for him not to stand around so he heads for a nearby a cafe.
At the cafe, he buys a large dark roast, a newspaper and pen. Working on a crossword puzzle ought to buy him seat time in the cafeteria if he can get one.
There’s a crowd around the television. Banner on the screen.
Bethlehem Hospital, Under Attack
The videos uploads don’t show him, at least.
News anchors speculate on a link between the bomb and Yeshua’s rebirth. Experts are asked to masturbate more speculation.
Sorry to interrupt you, Jim, but apparently the Bathsheba police chief is about to give a statement.
The cameras cut to a pressroom with Police Chief McClain walking up to the podium, flanked by his deputies.
At approximately seven-fifteen hours, an explosion occurred on the east side of Bernard Street about five hundred feet from the rear of Bethlehem Hospital. We have determined that a large firecracker inserted in the gas tank of a parked car caused it.
So far there are no casualties but two individuals who were nearby when the explosion occurred were injured and taken to a hospital.
The extent of their injuries is not known but are believed to be serious. The identity of the bomber is also not known and we are asking the public to come forward with any information they may have pertinent to the investigation.
Yes?
“What kind of firecracker was used?”
We are unable to say at this time.
“Witnesses reported hearing multiple gunshots, do you have any comment?”
We believe those were actually secondary firecrackers placed at or near the scene.
“Any information about who might be behind this?”
As I said, we don’t know this at this time.
“Is this a terrorist attack?”
We are not able to say at this point.
“Is there any indication that the attack is related to the human cloning birth taking place at the hospital?”
We have no information on whether the explosion is connected with any activity that may be going on in Bethlehem Hospital.
Andron turns pale. He tries to push away the memory of the faces potentially walking to their deaths.
Believed to be serious.
Fuck.
He’s locked in now. He’s got to make it work. He’s got to atone.
Peripheral vision. The chess board presents an opportunity. There’s an unguarded exit to the obstetrics ward.
He dumps his unread paper, pen and the rest of his coffee in the trash and walks casually to it. He tries it. It’s locked, but he doesn’t have to wait long.
Two interns walk out the door. He stops them.
“Sorry, ladies, you can’t leave here. You’ll have to go out through the main entrance through security. I’m undercover and have been tasked with securing this door.”
He flashes his gun.
“Awww, no one told us and it takes so long to go around.”
He pretends to inspect their identification tags.
“Okay, just hurry up and remember to use the main doors next time.”
He holds the door open for them.
They thank him and walk past.
He’s in obstetrics.
Killer on the ward.
~ At the Third Circle ~
He’s in the stairwell. He thinks top floor, but checks all five on the way up.
The Cygnus Virus Page 26
