15

It was as if someone had let the air out of the room. Dr. Luke Gillespie, Sgt. Nicholas Myra, and Mrs. Furey stood transfixed by what they were watching on the television.

Dr. Gillespie could not believe that Father Cooke had gone through with his plan. Sgt. Myra was trying to mentally prepare himself for the onslaught of victims who would be coming forward. Mrs. Furey was envisioning the media that would soon be swarming the hospital.

The doors of the great basilica had closed. Reporters and camera people stood in different areas around the church doing closing shots so they could file their stories. The female news anchor looked pale when the studio camera came back to her. She stumbled through her words as she ad libbed through the wrap-up on the biggest story of her career.

“If you’re just tuning in, Father Peter Cooke, a Roman Catholic priest from the Basilica of St. John the Baptist in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, has just made a stunning announcement on the steps of that church.” She cleared her throat. “Father Cooke has just proclaimed that God has created a disease called Wormwood that seeks revenge on pedophiles and possibly kills them.” The news anchor could not believe what was coming out of her mouth. She struggled to keep up with the information appearing on the teleprompter in front of her. “Father Cooke claims he became aware of the disease when some of his parishioners started showing signs. The main sign of this disease is a bloody nose.”

In the news control room, a producer was screaming, “Find me some pedophile victims who will talk! Find me someone with a bloody nose! Goddamn it, get me the Pope on the phone!” Producers and reporters were scrambling in all directions. The producer put his microphone, a direct line to the anchor person’s earpiece, close to his mouth and slowly said, “So God has created a disease that marks pedophiles, then kills them . . . about time.”

The news anchor stared solemnly into the camera pointed directly at her and repeated the sentence word for word, even though the producer hadn’t meant for her to repeat the last two words. Now it was out there. The media had taken sides. The lynch mob was starting to form. People throughout the world watched in shock. Taking to social media, one by one, they lit their torches, picked up their pitchforks, and joined in. Until every tweet, every Instagram update, every Facebook status became a sworn allegiance to the support of Wormwood.

For the first time in social media history, God began to trend.

The media did not have to wait long for a person to interview on the street. Before they had a chance to pack up their trucks parked around the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, people began to flock to the church where it was all happening. Cars began to block Military Road on both sides as the faithful came to the church in hordes and droves. They stood with their phones stretched out to the end of their arms taking selfies with the Blessed Virgin in the background. Then with the saint himself, John the Baptist. Within a short time, the road was blocked, and the police showed up to direct traffic through the narrow streets.

The doors of the basilica were soon flung open, and people began to fill the church. For the first time in years, staff opened the two balconies on either side of the altar. Father Peter Cooke, like the Apostle John himself, was perched on the ornate gold chair behind the marble altar. He sat quietly and prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for guidance. But mostly he prayed a prayer of thanks.

Once it was standing room only, he stood up. Still dressed in his Eucharist vestment, he walked to the grand pulpit on the left of the altar. The church suddenly went quiet, and all eyes watched this priest climb the steps to the pulpit and stand in front of the microphone. He surveyed his church. Not a seat available. He had dreamed of this moment. He thanked God, cleared his throat, and began.

“Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him. John would have prevented Him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by You, and You come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as He came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were open to Him and He saw the Spirit of God, descending like a dove and alighting on Him. And a voice from Heaven said, ‘This is My Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ Matthew 3:13-17.” Father Cooke never took his intense stare off the crowd the whole time he spoke. He didn’t need any notes or the Bible in front of him. He had practised for this moment his whole priesthood.

“Welcome back to the Church, my brothers and sisters. Welcome back home.”

All of a sudden, the quiet was broken by sobs that started out muffled but turned into great cries as people began to feel they were a witness to something great. Something bigger than themselves. A feeling of anticipation hung over the basilica, the hairs stood on the back of people’s necks, and shivers went down their spines. They could feel the presence of something unworldly.

“Let us renew our own baptismal covenant.” Father Cooke lowered his head. “Do you believe in God the Father?”

The crowd voiced loudly and in unison, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.”

“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God?”

The thunder of voices reverberated through the arches of the church as the faithful recited, “I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended to the dead. On the third day, He arose again. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead.”

Father Cooke looked toward the heavens. “Do you believe in God the Holy Spirit?”

The media had set up cameras throughout the church to capture people in prayer. They recited by memory, “I believe in God the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.”

“Will you continue in the Apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?”

Nobody noticed the media cameras, because every second person had a phone stretched high in the air, recording the service, either streaming it live to a social media account or recording it to post as soon as it finished. Others were taking pictures and posting them as fast as they could. They answered, “I will, with God’s help.”

Father Cooke was basking in the glory of it all. “Will you persevere in resisting evil and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?”

Church etiquette had flown out of the stained glass windows. “I will, with God’s help,” they responded.

“Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ?”

The chants were getting louder. “I will, with God’s help.”

“Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbour as yourself?”

Throughout the world, people were watching the service on their TVs and speaking in tandem with the mass of people at the basilica. “I will, with God’s help.”

“Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?”

People of all religions tuned in through social media, and the response began to trend worldwide. “I will, with God’s help.”

“Will you strive to safeguard the integrity of God’s creation, and respect, sustain, and renew the life of the Earth?”

The warrior cry could be heard throughout the world. “I will, with God’s help.”

“Brothers and sisters. Jesus told us He would come again to judge the living and the dead. You may have believed that He was coming back in the form of a man, as He did before.” Father Cooke surveyed his audience, who hung on to his every word. “This time, He has returned in the form of a disease called Wormwood. This disease will judge the living and the dead.” The audible gasps could be heard outside the church.

“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! For the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.’ Well, the children came to Him, didn’t they?”

Heads nodded throughout the church.

“What did we do?” He took on the tone of a TV evangelist. “What did we do?” he asked louder.

Shouts could be heard from the pews.

“We turned our backs. We protected the perpetrators and hated the victims. We were wrong.”

The people jumped to their feet and cheered.

“We were wrong! And we are sorry!” His voice became gentle as he choked back tears. “I come to you today to ask for your forgiveness for my Church. I beg you for your mercy.” Throughout the basilica, people wept openly as they finally heard the words they had waited their entire lives to hear.

“God will have his revenge on those who sinned in His name.” Father Cooke’s voice rose again. “He will show no mercy.” He took a deep breath and said the words that would damn sinners for all time. “You will know the sinners by the mark of the blood of the lamb. They will have severe nosebleeds to show their sins, severe pain to pay for their sins, and an unquenchable thirst until they confess their sins.”

The cheering from inside the Basilica of St. John the Baptist could be heard as far away as the St. John’s waterfront.

* * * * *

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” cried Mrs. Furey. For the first time in her career as hospital administrator, she doubted her abilities to do her job. Her thoughts were in overdrive as she almost fainted into the nearest chair. “What the hell are we going to do?” She looked toward Sgt. Myra and Dr. Gillespie.

At the same time, her assistant flung open the door to her office and came barging in. “The hospital lobby is full of reporters! They are running through the emergency department looking for patients with signs of this new disease!” She was visibly shaking as she continued. “The emergency doctors are asking for security. Other floors are calling for security, too. Patients are fighting patients! Anyone who is showing signs of Wormwood is under attack! What are you going to do?”

Mrs. Furey felt her stomach turn, and bile rose to her throat. She choked down the taste of her own vomit. “Call security. Tell them to bring in everyone they can get. Call Code Black. The hospital is on lockdown.” Her assistant ran to her office and began making calls.

Sgt. Myra’s cellphone began to vibrate. He grabbed it from its holster and put it to his ear as he hurried to a corner of the office, as if he could talk privately. It was a habit. He answered with quick yes and no responses, then put the phone back in its holster. “That was the chief’s office. I have to get back to headquarters. Apparently, our lobby is full of reporters, too.” He looked from Luke to Mrs. Furey. “Get ready for a crisis of epic proportions.”

As Myra left the office, Mrs. Furey closed the door behind him, locking herself and Luke in the office. “I need a spokesperson. It has to be you.”

Luke’s mouth fell open. “I am not media trained,” he protested.

“I don’t care. You’re a doctor. You are now the official expert on this. We are staying in here until we get our story straight, then we are going in front of the cameras.” Mrs. Furey sat behind her desk and pulled out the tray to her keyboard.

“Why are we speaking? Wouldn’t it be best to wait and see how this plays out?” Luke knew this was a bad idea.

“Wait for what? This is a crisis. You heard Sgt. Myra. We have about two hours to respond, or the reporters will go elsewhere and create a story we can’t control.” She picked up her phone and pressed the direct line to her assistant. “Get me the PR and communications people. Now!” She banged the receiver down so hard Luke jumped. “Look at the TV screen.”

She stared transfixed by what she was watching. Father Cooke had finished his sermon and was walking through the crowd gathered in the basilica. People flocked around him taking pictures, shaking his hand, reaching out to touch his vestment.

“Look at him,” Mrs. Furey said. “He looks like Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. I’m surprised they’re not singing hosanna, waving palm branches, and spreading their coats on the ground in front of him to walk on.” A knock came on her office door, and her assistant showed the PR and communications team in.

Luke sat quietly, thinking. He knew the story of Palm Sunday, when Jesus rode the donkey into Jerusalem. He feared Mrs. Furey didn’t know the whole story. Luke knew from his Catholic upbringing that Jesus did this to mock the Romans. When the Romans marched home after violently conquering a territory, they would ride their stallions through the streets as people waved palm branches as a sign of victory. Jesus knew this would enrage the Romans.

What Luke knew, which Mrs. Furey didn’t, was they were now the Romans.