I’m asleep again that evening, when Janet comes in to see me, with more water. I fell asleep sitting up in the corner because my ribs hurt too much to lie on my back.
“You can have this water, if you answer my questions,” she says.
“Just don’t ask me to move.”
“You called out to Martha McLeod during the show today. What makes you think she’s still alive? According to our informant …”
“You mean Garai?” I ask.
“Yes, Garai. According to Garai, Miss McLeod…”
Janet places emphasis on “Miss,” so I interrupt her again.
“It just kills you that Martha and I are married, doesn’t it, Janet? We’re married and in love and right with God. I have to ask myself: Why does an atheist like you care?”
I watch her face carefully, and see that Janet cares a lot. I’ve rattled her, but not because she wants me; she wants love. Janet continues.
“According to Garai, your wife was in the place you called Gethsemane House, and it was surrounded by jamming devices. They had no way of sending or receiving communications, or detecting any incoming threat. They should’ve been taken by complete surprise, and yet you seem quite sure that she’s still alive. Why?”
“Gethsemane House? You told me Martha died on the street in Sheridan from a stunner to the head. I’ve always known she’s a remarkable woman, but my wife is quite extraordinary to have survived that, isn’t she?”
“I told them you’d see right through that lousy video.”
Janet shakes her head.
“Again, Garai guaranteed us that everyone at Gethsemane would be taken by surprise,” Janet says. “What makes you so sure she’s alive?”
“There are two reasons. I’ll give you the first one for half of the water in advance.”
I try to smile through the heavy bandages, but Janet gives no indication she’s seen the effort. She hands me the water. I’m not feeling thirsty, but I gulp it down just the same. She stops me when I’m about half done.
“The first reason is that men who are in love know these things about their wives. It’s a special thing, being in love. Don’t you think so, Janet? Tell me: what’s his name?”
“Who’s name?”
“The guy you love - the one you hope someday will love you enough to marry you?”
I see Janet shudder, and it isn’t because the room is cold.
That got to her…
“Give me a better answer than that, Cephas, or I’ll pour the second half of the water over your head.”
“The other reason is that we removed all the jammers. I ordered the facility to stay silent and act like it was still jammed, and Garai fell for it. Before I walked into the old church, I ordered Gethsemane abandoned. You bombed an empty warehouse. Didn’t anyone notice how we used Garai’s jammers to take down the drones at my parents’ old house? You guys are pretty slow sometimes.”
I neglect to mention the symbols that Martha hacked onto the broadcast for me to see. Janet hands me the water, and I finish it before she can change her mind.
“It sounds like you have jammers in your life too, Janet.”
I know I’m pushing a line, but it could be very useful to touch Janet’s heart.
“All the enhancements, all the casual sex … they jam your ability to send and receive love, don’t they?”
She turns her face away and her hand goes up, presumably to wipe a tear.
Who’s in whose head now, Janet?
“Thanks for the water, Janet. If you’re interested in drinking from the well where you’ll never thirst again, I’m easy to find.”
The door opens abruptly and the guard pokes his head in.
“Henry wants you out of there - now!”
I bet he does.
I look directly into one of the cameras that watch me around the clock.
“You should have listened to Aunt Jennifer, Henry. You’re not in control here.”
*****
I spend the night wondering if I should’ve taken the painkillers. I probably have at least one cracked rib, and my abdominal muscles are bruised beyond belief. Breathing is painful; but I take comfort in the fact that I’m not coughing up blood.
At exactly nine o’clock, the screen comes on and some bread, fruit, and water arrive. For today’s lead news story, Henry has selected short clips about the ratings my beating got, and how today is expected to have even more viewers. There are no “man on the street” interviews to tell me if the world simply enjoys watching torture, or if they’re watching in order to pray for me.
The next story is about the status in McIntosh, South Dakota. There is no rain in the forecast; but the faithful are holding firm. Unfortunately, they’re also getting bold. Last night a group of armed Christians attempted to steal a Federal water truck and take it into McIntosh, and wounded three Corps kill team members in the process. They didn’t get the water, but they did play right into Henry’s hand. Sooner or later, he’ll use such violence as an excuse to attack the town and kill everyone in it.
The last story is designed to show me just how little time I have left. Airborne spread of the plague is continuing, and many newborn babies have died. The synthetic virus does not cross the placenta; so babies in the womb do not receive the gene therapy. Tissues taken from aborted pregnancies show that mothers who are vaccinated before getting pregnant pass the protection to their children.
My Jocie is safe.
The government announces that they’re sending people to every remote corner of the globe, and have vaccinated all babies in utero. If the story is true, Henry can release his airborne toxin anytime he wants. As far as I know, there’s only one thing delaying his final assault: me. He still wants every Christian in the world to hear me deny Christ before he wipes out all who have not been vaccinated.
Again, at precisely nine-fifty, the door opens and the guards tell me it’s time for the show. One of them is the guy who first hit me yesterday. I look down at his hands and see his knuckles have fresh scars. He hit me so many times that his hands started to bleed.
“I wish I could heal those for you,” I say.
His gaze snaps around to meet mine.
“What?”
He clearly isn’t accustomed to hearing prisoners speak.
“Your hands. They got nicked and bloody from beating me. If I had the power, I would heal them for you. I’ve already forgiven you.”
“No talking,” he grunts.
“Perhaps your hands aren’t the highest priority. I’ll pray for the healing of your soul,” I say.
He shoots me an angry look, telling me I had better shut up.
When we enter the studio, Henry takes one look at me and starts yelling at everyone around him.
“Why is he still wearing bandages on his face? I told you to have them off by show time.”
His tantrum reminds me of a child.
“The doc didn’t show up in time,” the guard protests.
“You don’t need a doctor to rip off some bandages. You take them off. We go live in five minutes.”
The guards chain me, and proceed to rip the bandages from my face. It feels like the bandages did reduce the swelling; but there were cuts on my face that were starting to heal - which have been ripped open again by the rough treatment. I feel a trickle of blood, or puss, run down my cheek, and I smile. The doctor would have undoubtedly taken more care.
When the lights come up on Henry, I see there are over seven hundred million people watching before the show even begins. That’s nearly a quarter of the world’s population of three billion or so. It’s far fewer than the number who watched the Travelers Initiative, but it’s still a staggering number.
Henry opens the show with a recap of yesterday; then crosses the stage to where I’m chained to the posts.
“Shall we debate today? Or would you like to spend more time having the “Christian Experience,” like yesterday?” he asks.
“I have nothing to say to you, Henry. To the audience, I’ll say simply: ‘pray for me.’”
I stare straight ahead.
Henry predictably flashes to anger, but calms himself quickly.
“I thought as much.”
Henry smiles to the camera.
“But I know a topic where Cephas is the expert. Since he brought up the subject of his beloved Martha yesterday, let’s talk about her.”
He looks at me to assess my response, but I stare ahead blankly.
“For those who don’t know, Martha McLeod is an operative in the group known as Four. She was sent to kill our dear Cephas, but ended up falling in love with him and recruiting him into the group instead. Now they claim to be married. Can you imagine - in this day and age - anyone wanting to be married? He even wears a gold wedding band on his finger.”
The camera zooms in on my left hand.
“What a lovely ring,” Henry says.
He turns to his two security men.
“Remove it,” he orders.
I’m chained around the wrist; so I can still make a fist. The bigger guy, with the torn up knuckles, comes over and laughs. He thinks it will be simple. He grabs my fist and tries to straighten my fingers, but cannot.
“I’ll break them if I have to,” he warns, but I don’t respond.
“Not today,” I say directly into the camera.
I look at him. He’s so intent on removing my ring that he’s completely exposed himself. My feet are not chained; so I could easily kick him in the groin and end this, but I don’t need to do that. My hand feels like a solid rock and he feels like a fly trying to move it. It’s as if the strength of God is surging into my clenched fist.
The other security guard joins him; but even together, they cannot make headway. They finally give up.
“We could cut his finger off,” one of the guards says.
“Beat him until he lets it go,” Henry replies.
Fresh from the frustration and embarrassment of being unable to open my hand, the guards go into a frenzy, when given the order. They must have been told to lay off my face, because today they take turns punching and kicking my ribs and abdomen, until I’m hanging by my wrists again. The cuffs tear open the cuts in the same spots as yesterday. This time I know I felt one of my ribs crack.
“Get the ring,” Henry says.
The guards try again, but again my fist is like a solid rock, and they fail in frustration. For just a moment, I see that Henry is amazed and confused, but he regains his composure.
“I knew he would never give it up,” Henry says, in order to declare some sort of victory. “His ring is a symbol of being bound like a slave. Slavery is one of the most repugnant chapters in human history, and something in which I want no part.”
I manage to raise my head, and see the viewer counter is approaching one billion people actively watching.
Henry retrieves the copy of the Bible.
“Didn’t I promise Cephas that we’d return to Matthew, Chapter 27?” he asks the camera. “Ah, yes, here it is. Apparently the full ‘Christian experience’ includes being scourged. I like the sound of that.”
When Jesus was scourged, He was on His hands and knees, with His hands tied to a post above His head; but Henry leaves me standing, with my arms outstretched. I want to laugh when the guard comes out with a Roman-style flagellum made of seven long straps of leather. Henry is reading a Bible printed in 2029 that simply says Jesus was scourged. If he was reading a King James Version, he would know that Jesus was whipped using a lead-tipped flagellum, and that scourging alone took Him to the edge of death.
This whip is going to hurt. It will even cut through my skin so I’ll bleed; but it’s a child’s toy, compared to what the Roman’s used on Jesus.
I won’t be the first to follow Christ’s path; but like so many before me, I will bleed for what I believe.
When Jesus was scourged, the thongs at first cut only through the skin and produced an oozing of blood and plasma from the capillaries of the skin. However, as those initial blows fell, the balls of lead struck with such force that they produced large, deep bruises in the deeper layers of skin and muscle. As the leather thongs cut deeper and deeper towards the subcutaneous tissues, those bruises eventually broken open - until Jesus was spurting blood from the veins and arteries of the underlying muscles. By the time the soldier was done, His back was an unrecognizable mass of torn and bleeding tissue, some of it falling away from His body in long ribbons.
Henry’s men unchain me long enough to strip me to the waist; then return me to the posts. The smaller guard takes the first turn.
The whip cracks, and pain sears across my back on the first strike.
One down. Only God knows how many to go…
Crack! Two down.
This guy might have made a good Roman soldier.
Crack! Three down.
Jesus didn’t cry out, even when they drove the first nail through His wrist. I want to deny them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.
“Stop,” Henry says.
His smile after the third strike falls tells me it’s not an act of mercy.
“Cephas isn’t in proper wardrobe,” Henry says.
He jumps up and places a wig of long brown hair on my head and a short, brown beard on my chin. I try to shake them off, but they’re stuck on using some sort of strong adhesive.
“If you want to play the part, you must look the part.”
Henry signals for the scourging to continue.
There goes the first trickle of my blood down the small of my back.
Unlike the punching, where I quickly lost count of where and how many blows were landing on me, I’m agonizingly aware of exactly how many times the whip falls across my back.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
“Aaahhh!”
The sound leaves my mouth involuntarily.
I wanted to have the strength of will to bear it in silence … but I’m just not strong enough.
When the lash lands the eleventh time, I hold back the cry - but I don’t think I can hold it back again.
Crack! Twelve. “Aaahh!”
This time the cry is much longer and soulful.
They can get sounds out of me, but they will not make me sound like an animal. I will show them that I have a soul.
As number thirteen, I call out: “Faaather!”
As I call out to God, my knees give way so I’m hanging by my wrists again. The guard waits a moment for me to stand, but when I can’t regain my footing, Henry waves for him to keep whipping. He hands the whip to the larger guard for him to take a turn.
At number fourteen, I yell: “Martha, close your eyes.”
At number sixteen, I say: “Mercyyyyyy.”
Henry leaps to his feet, with his hand raised to stop the scourging.
“Are you ready to talk?” he asks.
There’s glee in his eyes at my suffering.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Henry. I told you that God is in control here. I was asking Him for His mercy.”
Henry’s face flushes red and he barks at the guard to continue the scourging.
Seventeen.
Stand for me, Cephas.
Eighteen.
“Wait!” I cry out.
The guard stops the whip.
“Unless you’re ready to say something that interests me, the scourging will continue,” Henry says.
He waves his hand to the guard, but I’m looking over my shoulder at him and have the man transfixed with my eyes. He makes no move to continue.
“I’ll stand now. I cannot stand in the place of my Savior -but I’ll stand in his name,” I say.
I struggle to my feet, with many groans and cries. I nod to the guard to continue, and hear the whip as it slashes through the air.
“Nineteen,” I announce through gritted teeth, a split second before it lands.
“Twenty,” I announce the count again, directly into the camera.
Henry looks furious.
“Twenty-One.”
I look over my shoulder again.
“I personally forgive you; but only God can forgive your sins,” I say to the guard.
Number twenty-two lands much lighter than the others, and I smile. Henry orders the guards to switch again.
Twenty-three also lands lighter than this man is capable of whipping.
“Harder!” Henry screams.
“Twenty-four,” I call to the camera, before the blow lands heavily and I again lose my footing from the pain.
I’d like to say I’m bearing the pain well; but the truth is the pain is so great that, for now, the additional lashes don’t add much to the agony. Even so, I know my body can’t take much more, and I’m going to pass out soon.
Twenty-five.
I’m hanging limply, and my head is rolling around involuntarily.
“Is there anything you want to say?” Henry asks.
“Not today.”
Twenty-six.
As the blow falls across my back, I feel myself passing out. If a real Roman soldier had been holding the whip, I bet I would have passed out after the seventh stroke.
Forgive me Father. I’m just a man.