Free On the Third Day by David Niall Wilson Page A

for such a moment.  They were overwhelmed, caught up in, and they reached out to one another, sharing the emotion.
                Still, the rhythm was dissolving.  Others up and down the line saw what the old woman had noticed first.  Confusion flickered across their faces, then a growing horror.  Some tried to pull their hands from the grip of neighbors who were not yet aware that something was wrong.  Some cried out, and others stumbled, tumbled and fell about the pews.  Nearer to the back of the church, most of the faithful continued to chant the replies to the litany as if nothing had happened.  They had not yet seen the disturbance near the altar.
    Father Thomas stood with the great expanse of the cathedral stretching up and out before him.  His eyes showed awareness.  Donovan saw them flick from side to side, watching the tableau before him, but his body was too rigid.  His lips moved, but the sound that boomed forth was disproportionate. The voice that rose, deep and powerful, sounded like the voice Father Prescott had heard when the video began, but different.  The volume seemed to have shifted, as if whoever was running the recording had twisted the knob to its fullest sensitivity, then beyond.  There was a sort of pulsing energy in the air surrounding the stage that warped everything slightly. Could the camera have gone out of focus?
                Father Prescott watched as those beside and behind the old woman waved their arms at Father Thomas and pointed.  Some of them turned and fled through the massed, packed bodies behind them, trying to break through the joined arms of their fellows.  Others dropped to their knees and crossed themselves, then repeated this motion over and over.  Their lips moved, but any sounds they made were drowned in the booming thunder of Father Thomas’ voice.
                From the perspective of the camera, Donovan saw the dark line form on Father Thomas’ brow.  The tinny echo of what the young priest’s voice had become, even through the laptop speaker, was powerful and compelling.  It was all Donovan could do to keep his lips still and his voice silent. 
                On the altar, Father Thomas had raised his arms into the position of a man crucified on a cross.  Blood flowed freely down his brow and over his cheeks.  His face was streaked with it.  The sleeves of his vestments were soaked and the dark red liquid dripped from them as well, dribbling to the floor and pooling, rolling forward toward and away in a ruby river.
                His eyes were glazed.  Father Prescott searched the young man’s face carefully for any indication of awareness, any sign that he could have controlled this, or been aware of it, but there was nothing.   The uproar spread backward from the altar and rippled through the crowded church as swiftly and powerfully as the words of the Mass had done only a few short minutes before.  There were cries and screams, prayers and curses, and through it all Father Thomas features remained serene and implacable.  He stood rooted in place, his arms outstretched, impossible amounts of blood pouring from him to the carpeted floor, his head tilted to the side and the holy, ancient Latin words poured steadily through his lips which, impossibly, had fallen still, as though he’d been held up as some sort of cosmic ventriloquist’s dummy.
                Then Father Thomas’ arms rotated, palms face up first, and then flipped forward.  Deep, raw wounds invaded his wrists, clotted with gore and running like spigots with broken tap handles.
                Father Prescott nearly cried out as the camera angle tilted.  The lens veered crazily to the side.  There was a sudden de-focusing of the image as the altar suddenly rushed forward.  Off screen someone cursed.  Then the camera focused again, and was righted, and Father Thomas’ face stared blankly into the lens in