Glenn Kleier - The Last Day

Quickly, Feldman's time was up and the live signal was passed back to WNN International for a comparative glimpse of Rome, New York City and the Great Salt Lake. As the red on-air light went out, the crew relaxed and Feldman stepped in from the balcony to a round of congratulations.

The breeze was picking up slightly, and the clouds Feldman had noticed earlier off to the south had apparently collected into a squall. It was too far away to affect the telecast here, but would perhaps create enough of a wind to add some drama.

At Feldman's suggestion, Hunter would begin the final segment with a tight camera zoom on the storm. Flashes of lightning were developing in the distance and Feldman could make good use of the metaphor. As the clock came up on 11:45, Feldman again took his position on the balcony, Bollinger cued the camera on the squall, and Feldman smiled quickly at Anke, who responded in kind.

“There's a storm brewing over this ancient Holy Land tonight,” Feldman began, as the camera zoomed back from the angry clouds to include the young reporter in the shot. “As you've witnessed over the last few months, a great spiritual movement is taking place across the globe in anticipation of the coming new millennium, only minutes away now. There are an estimated two million people assembled in this vicinity who firmly believe that, in less than fifteen minutes, we are about to experience a climactic end, or perhaps a new beginning, to our world as we know it.”

The camera pulled back, panning to the right to include in the picture a frumpy, middle-aged woman.

“One of these people,” Feldman continued, “is Allissa Bateman from Trenton, New Jersey. Miss Bateman is a member of a religious sect who believe they are in communion with the archangel Gabriel, the spiritual harbinger who will herald the Judgment at midnight with a blast from his golden trumpet.”

Bollinger switched to another camera angle to better frame the smaller woman with the tall Feldman. The developing storm sat nicely behind and above the woman for the perfect dramatic touch.

“Miss Bateman, you've traveled thousands of miles from home to be here tonight. Can you tell our audience what you previously did for a living, and why you're here?”

“Yes, I'm forty-three years old, married with two children, Bill and Tommy, and my husband, Frank, he had to stay home with the kids and his job, of course.” Miss Bateman babbled on about a personal spirit messenger for a few more moments and Feldman wrapped her up quickly, not to lose momentum.

Cutting away between guests, Bollinger switched to cameras surveying the masses below, which were getting truly emotional now as the final moment neared. The rising wind had had a chilling effect. The majority were kneeling, praying, crying, singing, fainting. The fighting and antagonism had ceased.

Bollinger checked the clock, twelve minutes till. He cued the next guest, a tall, gaunt young man with shaved head and black robes. Very much like a monk, except he wore upside-down crucifixes from his earlobes, and his eyelids were tattooed to resemble open eyes. Very Sodom and Gomorrah, Feldman decided. He was going to have a hard time playing it straight with this guy, but the audience would love it.

“And this is Mr. Astarte. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“Just ‘Astarte,’ ” the man answered solemnly. “Yes, I am of the Second Realm.”

“And what's the Second Realm anticipating here tonight, Mr. Astarte?”

“Only ‘Astarte,’ ” he insisted. “We are here for the changing of the realm, the new time in which the natural cycle will occur and Lord Lucifer will ascend to His throne to rule for the next two thousand years.”

“And will this transition be a peaceful one,” Feldman wanted to know, “or will we be confronting Armageddon here?”

“We do not yet know,” Astarte informed the world. “We must be prepared for resistance, but the Lord Lucifer comes into his realm by divine right, and nothing can prevent it. If we must fight to safeguard his passage, so be it!”

With that there was a significant roll of thunder from the distant storm, and Feldman took full advantage of it. “Exactly when and how will this transformation take place, Mr. Astarte?”

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.