nucmednet Chapter 79 Heretics, the reckoning begins!
Chapter 79 Heretics, the reckoning begins!
Chapter 79 Heretics, the reckoning begins!
Sacred Heart Church, North District of San Antonio.
A third of the stained glass was broken and nailed together with wooden boards.
Sunlight streamed in from the remaining cubicles, cutting into strips of light and shadow on the back of the bench.
Aaron Yabo sat at the end of the first row of benches, not wearing a ceremonial robe, but only a wrinkled black casual dress.
He held an open Bible in his hand, the edges of the pages rolled up, but he wasn't reading it.
He stared at the cross above the altar.
Made of wood, it's quite old, with peeling paint, and the face of the Christ statue is blurred in the shadows.
There was a sound behind me.
It wasn't a prayer, but suppressed sobs and short gasps.
He knew how many people were there without even turning around.
The church can seat 400 people, but it's crammed with at least 600.
People were kneeling in the corridors, on the steps of the altar, and at the entrance to the confessional—anywhere they could put their feet.
Everyone is holding their own cross.
The air smelled of sweat, and something even stronger:
Fear, mixed with a suffocating sense of bewilderment.
"No, Lord—"
Aaron heard himself speak, his voice as dry as a tumbleweed in the desert, "Have you abandoned us?"
No one answered.
There was only more sobbing.
Three days ago, the Vatican's statement was released through all mainstream media outlets.
The statement was strongly worded, citing doctrine, condemning Milk Dragon's remarks as "presumptuous and blasphemous," and warning believers not to be misled by "false miracles."
And then no more.
They did not excommunicate him, did not convene a cardinal council, and did not form even a symbolic "defense group".
They didn't even send a special envoy.
Four hours after the press conference, the Pope attended a charity luncheon hosted by an African children's foundation, as usual, cutting the cake, smiling, and posing for photos.
It was as if that statement was just a necessary step in the official document process, and once it was done, everyone went about their business.
Yesterday afternoon, the bishop returned from a phone call in Rome.
Aaron heard the sounds outside the study. At first, it was a suppressed argument, then a long silence, and finally a muffled thud, like a heavy object falling to the ground.
When he pushed the door open, the bishop was already hanging on the chandelier bracket.
Gundam is still hanging himself from a tree in the southeast.
Aaron didn't ask anyone to handle it.
He didn't know what to do.
Suicide!
The miracle is real.
He watched those videos repeatedly:
Nai Long looked radiant in front of the camera, causing the reporters to collectively lose their composure;
Three thousand people roared in unison in the square of Hegang Town, and flames engulfed the Gundam pile;
And then there's Utah, three million people, half a day.
Those are things that grew out of evangelical soil.
Rednecks, conservatives, scripture literalists, and those who claim America is "New Canaan".
It wasn't ordained by Heaven.
What does the Heavenly Religion have?
It has a 700-page canon, a hierarchical system of hierarchies, rituals and traditions that have lasted for two thousand years, and a rigorous, almost harsh, process for identifying miracles.
All of this pales in comparison to the miracles that actually exist.
Aaron felt his knees go weak.
He slowly slid off the bench and knelt on the cold marble floor.
I pressed my forehead against the wooden edge of the seat back in front of me and closed my eyes.
The scripture slipped from his hands and fell to the ground with a thud.
"Merciful Heavenly Father—"
He tried to pray, but the words got stuck in his throat.
A middle-aged woman suddenly stood up from the crowd behind her.
She was wearing an inexpensive printed dress and clutching a cross necklace tightly in her hand.
"Are they telling the truth?"
Her voice was shrill, echoing beneath the church dome, "Did the Lord really—choose the other side?"
No one answered.
The woman started to cry, not sobbing, but wailing.
She turned and pushed aside the people around her, stumbling and rushing towards the door.
The door was pulled open, and the scorching afternoon sun poured in, so bright it was hard to open one's eyes.
The woman's figure disappeared into the light.
Then came the second, and the third.
It started slowly, then it burst like a dam breaking.
People stood up, silently, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, and walked toward that door.
No one stopped them.
Aaron remained kneeling, listening to the footsteps grow from dense to sparse until only a dozen or so of the oldest believers remained stubbornly in the shadows, their lips moving silently.
Seven miles away, a Qing Dynasty temple.
Ike Abraham sat cross-legged on the prayer rug, with the Bible spread out in front of him.
But he wasn't reading it.
He was looking at his phone.
The screen displays the Twitter interface, with the keyword search "#Utah#miracle".
Real-time push notifications refresh like a waterfall, including images, videos, and eyewitness accounts.
Most of it was blurred, but what the mosaic couldn't cover was even more suffocating: piled-up limbs, congealed blood pools, and the empty eyes on the survivors' faces.
He refreshed the page once.
A new tweet popped up from an evangelical pastor's account, accompanied by a picture of an aerial view of Temple Square in Salt Lake City, with only one sentence: "Every tree that does not bear good fruit shall be cut down and thrown into the fire."
The number of likes jumped from 10,000 to 50,000 in 30 seconds.
Ike put down his phone.
There were about fifty people in the chapel, mostly men, sitting cross-legged with their heads bowed.
No one speaks.
The same fear permeated the air, but with something else added compared to the church:
Desperate anger.
Because the situation is worse.
The Catholic Church at least has the Vatican, and still has nominal universality and historical depth.
where are they?
In America, Islam has always been considered "the other".
Even in relatively tolerant cities, mosques are always on the surveillance list.
Now a miracle has occurred in America, an evangelical.
How do evangelicals view Islam?
Ike knew it without even thinking.
He had heard too many of those sermons: the final battle, the Antichrist, the camel riders.
Previously, this was merely scriptural rhetoric; now, miracles have given rhetoric power.
He heard the sound of an engine outside.
More than one.
Heavy-duty pickup truck with a modified exhaust pipe, producing a harsh roar.
Then came the sounds of the brakes, the doors opening and closing, and boots hitting the gravel.
At least a dozen people.
The men in the chapel all looked up at the same time and exchanged glances.
Someone reached for their waist, where a dagger or pistol was hidden.
Ike raised his hand, signaling not to move.
He stood up and walked towards the door.
Before I could even touch the doorknob, the door was kicked open from the outside.
Six people stood in the sunlight, all white men, wearing work pants or camouflage uniforms, with American flag armbands wrapped around their arms.
The man at the front was bald, about forty years old, with a cross tattoo on his neck, and carrying a Remington 870 shotgun.
Good afternoon, brothers.
The bald man spoke in a calm voice, even with a hint of a smile.
The people behind him dispersed, blocking the doorway and windows.
Everyone had a gun; some were holding AR-15s, while others had them tucked into their belts.
Ike stood inside the threshold, blocking the people behind him.
"This is a place of worship."
He said he tried to keep his voice steady.
"Heretics—"
Inside the window, bullets kept falling.
Outside the window, the sky began to darken.
In the distance, the faint sounds of more engines could be heard, along with scattered cheers that were torn apart by the wind.
The cleaning has begun.