The Last Day

The “Mr.” was deliberate, and Astarte looked annoyed. He answered patiently. “It will occur at midnight, of course, and the signs, as you can see”-he gestured to the storm with his head-“are already upon us. We do not yet know the manner of the transition.”

“All right, we thank you for your time and we'll let you get back with your group in time for the transition.” Astarte closed his eyelids to the camera, made a stilted bow and exited. No doubt, Feldman thought to himself, this last guest would hold the Christians in their seats long enough for them to ensure that good triumphed over evil.

More crowd shots. “And we're coming up on five minutes until the turn of the millennium,” Feldman announced. The wind had picked up only a trifle more and, unfortunately, Feldman realized, the squall seemed isolated and still too far away to bring any real fire and brimstone to their melodrama.

Into Feldman's earphone came the breathless voice of Bollinger. “Jon, we got one of those Witness delegates coming up. He saw our broadcast on a portable TV and found his way over here. We're gonna put him on, get ready.”

Beyond the blinding camera lights, Feldman made out the form of a short, shaggy-haired man being led toward him. Without skipping a beat, Feldman announced to the camera that WNN had been successful in locating one of the Jehovah's Witnesses mentioned earlier, and the delegate was ushered onto the balcony.

“Your name, sir?” Feldman inquired.

The small, bearded, serious-looking Witness, who reminded Feldman of a miniature Rasputin, squinted up at the reporter and said in a surprisingly deep voice, “I am John Jacob Maloney of the Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society governing board, and official delegate to the Second Coming of Christ!”

“Mr. Maloney, I understand you're here on behalf of Joshua Milbourne representing the Jehovah's Witnesses. Can you tell our viewers exactly what you believe you'll be witnessing here tonight?”

Maloney stepped forcefully toward the camera and glared into its lens with the feverish expression of a certified fanatic. “The hour has come, O ye of little faith! The Judgment of God is at hand and it is too late to save your-selves. You would not listen, you would not repent, you would not make ready the way of the Lord. And now the Hand of God is upon you. It is the Last Day!”

His eyes bulged and his hands flitted wildly above his head. “It is the Abomination of Desolation and ye shall be smitten and marked and damned forever to the bowels of hell! Praise be the Name of the Lord! Praise be the Paraclete of Kaborkah! O Lord, in Thy glorious Name-”

So frenetic was his delivery, Maloney unintentionally expectorated on the camera lens, which forced the production team to cut away to a side shot. The view of him raging into an inanimate machine removed much of the sting of his comments and gave the whole encounter a ludicrous perspective.

Taking back control, Feldman placed a firm, calming hand on the doomsdayer's shoulder as the smaller man looked around, bewildered, for a live camera. “Thanks, Mr. Maloney. I'm assuming you'll make yourself available later for some follow-up commentary?”

Maloney was guided off the balcony, still railing and spouting. The production crew could hardly contain itself. This was precisely the mania the New York headquarters had been wanting to showcase.

Feldman repositioned himself in the center of the balcony and initiated the final sixty-second countdown to the new millennium. As the cameras and searchlights panned over the uneasy scene, Feldman considered what a sweet touch it would be to play a little “Auld Lang Syne” from loudspeakers. Everyone could certainly do with a little forgiving and forgiveness tonight. But he knew the humor would be lost on this somber gathering.

The crowd picked up the count. And suddenly it occurred to Feldman, with midnight less than twenty-five seconds away and all the cameras and crews occupied with the crowd, he now had the perfect opportunity to steal a kiss from Anke. At the stroke of the new millennium, an indelibly romantic occasion!

When the clocks struck midnight and the cameras explored the crowd reactions, Feldman would have the opportunity to catch her off-guard for a change! He unhooked his lapel microphone and started to move toward her. Anke was unaware of him, her eyes intent on the world outside, searching curiously.

It was the sacred moment. As if on cue, the wind subsided. For the first time since their assembly, the crowd of irrepressible millenarians held its breath. The world held its breath. And all over Judea there was a deep and solemn silence, culminating at the stroke of midnight with a large clap of thunder in the distance. Simultaneously the Church of the Ascension's bells pealed, along with a dozen other counterparts throughout the Holy City, tolling in the twenty-first century.

Feldman was perhaps the only person present whose mind was on other things. This was his personal, sacred moment. As he approached Anke, he appreciated how truly beautiful she was. So fresh. So unsuspecting. It must have been the emotion of the moment, but Feldman was feeling light- headed. Awkward. He was losing his balance. As was Anke and the whole production crew around him. The entire apartment began to spasm and shudder violently.

Cameras and lights on tripods went hopping, rotating, toppling. The electricity cut off and there was an ungodly eruption of screams and panic from the throngs on the mountain. In a horrific return to reality, a revelation of fear gripped Feldman unlike anything he'd ever felt.

17

Brookforest subdivision, Racine, Wisconsin 4:00 P.M., Friday, December 31, 1999

Halfway around the world in the quiet, close-knit bedroom community of Brookforest, it was still Millennium Eve, late afternoon, Central Standard Tune.

A light snow was falling, adding to die several inches that previously blanketed the picturesque middle-class subdivision. Street lamps and the lights of many front-yard creches and holiday displays were already aglow, hastened by overcast skies, tall spruce trees and the early nightfall of the season.

Abruptly, the winter serenity was shattered by a chorus of screams erupting from homes all across the neighborhood. Out the front door of one house burst a middle-aged woman, shrieking with fear, followed closely by her terrorized, howling dog.

Michelle Martin had made the mistake of swapping her customary afternoon Oprah Winfrey show for the spectacle of WNN's heavily promoted Millennial Eve vigil. And now, rather than the festive New Year's celebration she had anticipated, the forty-seven-year-old mother of two had just been broadsided by her greatest dread.

Mrs. Martin was oblivious to both her slippers and the snow as she fled out into the cul-de-sac to meet up with a gathering of her equally distraught neighbors.

“God help us all!” wailed a young mother, clutching her preschooler to her bosom.

“It's the Angel of Death!” Mr. Krazinski, an elderly retiree, cried. “It's the last plague of Egypt!”

“Yes!” Another near-hysterical resident made the fearful connection. “Just like in the movie The Ten Commandments! The Angel of Death is sweeping over the land, bearing judgment at midnight! We've got eight hours till it reaches us!”

Michelle Martin went whiter than the snow and dropped to the ground.

Weeping and gnashing their teeth, some twenty-odd people formed a prayer circle right there in the middle of the street, kneeling in the slush, salt and cinders, appealing to the mercy of their God.

18

Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 12:02 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000

Feldman was hopelessly disoriented. It had taken every ounce of his concentration to reach out and snare Anke as they collapsed to the apartment floor. He had cradled her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her, placing his cheek tightly against hers.