You Shall See Him in the East

by Frederick Gero Heimbach

(Editors’ note for non-US readers: POTUS = President of the United States)

Day 1

POTUS led them to the roof of the White House, through the solarium, past the place Eisenhower grilled his steaks, to a spot overlooking the East Wing, where they could get a better look at the thing coming at them.

As usual, Samantha (Press Secretary) stood right next to POTUS, like a wife. They were “old friends.” Ravi tended to defend her to others. She was a moderating influence, or tried to be.

They all looked at the horizon. It was just a forehead. It was the size of a mountain and it bobbed up and down at an inhumanly slow pace. Ravi watched its movement, stately and inevitable like a heavenly body. When the crisis broke, Ravi was the most senior State official in town, and here he was, lifted from important to essential.

POTUS personally assigned him a temporary office in the Old Executive Office Building. It had a couch and he would be living there, essentially, for the duration. But the crisis made all offices temporary.

Someone passed around a pair of binoculars. The flattened perspective added to Ravi’s dread. “The damnedest thing,” said the president. He shook his head in awe, about as much as he would give the Senate majority leader sinking a 20-foot putt.

“Do we know its intent?” asked Homeland. “Anyone know what it’s doing?”

Defense: “We don’t even know what it is.”

Homeland: “Is it approaching? The perspective is… off.”

An email from the Pentagon came in. Ravi summarized it to the group. “They’re saying its physics are, well, weird. It’s appearing all over the world. No matter where you are on the globe, you see it just cresting the eastern horizon. Talk of it ‘approaching’ may be meaningless.”

That sobered the group. “This is serious magic,” said the president. He pulled out his favorite charm, a 1940 silver dime, as he muttered an incantation. Then, an idea: “Have they scrambled fighters?”

Defense said, “Yes,” and checked his messages. “The thing stays just at the horizon, even at 30,000 feet. Reports from ISS say the view from space is nothing. So, yeah. The thing isn’t real.”

The president rubbed the worn coin as he continued to watch. Ravi saw Press Secretary’s fingers unconsciously imitating the movement. “Damn,” said the president.

Physics or no, the thing—the giant man—was approaching. At the peak of each slo-mo stride, they could catch a glimpse of the eyes. Blue eyes. It was that feature that transformed The Phenomenon—Ravi had heard Homeland actually use that word—into The Coming One. Or, as Ravi silently preferred: The Avatar.

Like a good Hindu. Not that Ravi was anything close.

Ravi tore his eyes away. Another message. They had calculated an ETA, absurd as that might be. How could it come here when it wasn’t really there? But the defense apparatus couldn’t stop doing defense apparatus things. Homeland, too, had reverted to type; those people had brought back the color wheel. They had moved the needle to red, of course. Red alert, as if people needed to be told to panic.

One week. That was the ETA.

Ravi looked through the balustrade. The streets nearby held little traffic, odd for midday Washington.

He returned to his new, barren office. Passing through the break room, Ravi caught Nikhil by the arm. “Help me with something. Privately.”

Nikhil was an intern. Ravi had avoided mentoring him because their backgrounds were similar and he didn’t think ethnic cliques were a good look. Events had rendered that kind of calculation irrelevant.

“I’m stuck here for the duration. Pick me up a pizza. Cheese only.”

Nikhil gave Ravi a look. “Giant Forehead’s turned you into a vegetarian?” Nikhil had seen Ravi eating meat on many occasions, something neither of their parents would have approved of.

“Yeah, I guess. And also…” This was difficult. “I want you to go find me a Ganesh.” Ravi handed him some bills. “This is personal. Of course.”

Nikhil just looked at the money.

“You know where to go?”

“I can figure it out.”

“There may be a run on Ganeshes. Because of the, you know. Or, for all I know, all the Ganeshes in DC have been smashed.” Nikhil winced.

They stood there, Nikhil waiting to be dismissed. Ravi paused, telling himself not to ask this kid for advice. What do I do, an unbelieving Hindu, when I see a miracle?

Day 2

Once the morning sun moved out of the way, everyone could see the full face. It was vaguely purposeful but otherwise lacked emotion. Cold bastard.

Everyone recognized him. The president acted fast. He removed the painting of George Washington from the Oval Office and put Jesus in his place, presiding over the mantlepiece.

“Sallman. Head of Christ. Takes me back to my grandma’s house,” said the president, looking at the famous painting—and then the meeting began. State was back in Washington but Ravi was still on the invitation list.

“Sallman?” asked State. He wasn’t the brightest bulb, even in normal times.

“The artist,” said the president. “Christ. How did that guy know?”

“It’s odd,” agreed Homeland. “Caucasian; blue eyes; long, wavy, auburn hair. Makes no historical sense.” The face of the Coming One exactly conformed to the most famous, westernized image of Jesus Christ. He was that sickly weirdo with the beard and the spooky blue eyes.

There wasn’t much to say. The Pentagon’s arrival estimates were more precise but hadn’t shifted. Otherwise, everyone could see exactly what “shit was going down”, as POTUS put it: Jesus was coming.

“We need more experts,” said POTUS. “But who the hell is an expert in this?”

“There are some Bible scholars,” said Defense. “End times prophecy types. They have interesting—”

“I’m sure Sybil would love to chat those guys up,” said the president. Everyone knew the president’s fortune teller. The horoscope she authored was the first thing he read each morning.

“There are some dot com billionaires who have formed a consortium,” said State. “The Burning Man crowd. We could ask—”

The president didn’t like billionaires. He uttered an obscenity, and that ended that. Ravi decided he would make some discreet inquiries. Find out what the billionaires were up to.

POTUS stood. He caught Ravi by the arm as everyone else filed out.

“So, Ravi, what’s the Hindu angle? Who’s your messiah?”

“Well, Mr. President, Hinduism is a big, complicated religion, but the short answer is Kalki, the tenth avatar of Vishnu.”

“Good. So they got one. Because, I gotta ask—”

The president glanced around, as if eavesdroppers were hiding somewhere in the oval room. “—what’s he look like to you?”


“The giant face. We all see the Caucasian Jesus. Who is he to you? Do you see this… Cocky… person?”

“Kalki? No, sir.”

“I mean, I’m asking because, those eyes. Blue. Very Nordic. I mean, Christ, it’s all too…”

“Culturally conditioned?”

“Yeah. Cultured. And that would be okay, if we were all seeing him through our own, you know, lenses.” The president made goggles with his fingers, giving Ravi one last chance to confirm his theory.

“I’m sorry. If the face had blue skin, or—”

“Blue skin?”

“Kalki is typically depicted with blue skin. But all I see is a blue-eyed Jesus—”

“Which, let’s face it, is cheesy. Embarrassing.”

“It is a bit of a… conundrum.”

“It must seem especially, I don’t know, unfair, to someone like you. I mean, what? A million gods? Ten million? They couldn’t have thrown in even one of those guys?”

“If it makes it any easier, most Hindus I know are monotheists. Many forms, but deep down, just one God after all.”

The president’s nose wrinkled.

Back at the office, Nikhil stopped by. He sat statuettes on Ravi’s empty desk, lined up and facing the same way. He had found a Vishnu, a Kalki, and a family set of Shiva, Parvati and Ganesh, all shiny and painted bright.

“The biggest trouble was finding a shop that was open. Washington’s a ghost town.”

“Yeah,” said Ravi. “A lot of people are AWOL. The secret service is working double shifts.”

Nikhil laughed. “In movies, the end of the world is nukes and riots. They didn’t realize Armageddon would look like mid-August.”

“So, actually getting a statue was…?”

“Easy, once I found an open shop. Nobody’s buying murtis.” Murti was the word for Hindu idols.

“So our people—”

“They’re calling Lord Jesus an avatar of Vishnu. Some of them.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “Just be glad you’re not Muslim. They have a lot more backfilling to do.”

He had said you’re, not we’re.

Ravi pulled papers out of his desk. “Look. I’ve printed out the Gayatri Mantra.” Ravi gave Nikhil a page. He set the murtis on a shelf on the west wall of the room. He opened the curtains to let in the late morning sun. He removed his leather shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to pray. You’re going to join me. That’s what good Hindus do.”

“I’m… not a good Hindu.”

“This is the end of the age, Nikhil. The final destruction. If you can’t get religion when you’re staring a miracle in the face―literally the face―”

“Mr. Anand.” Nikhil was unbuttoning his shirt.

Ravi stepped back. He had heard things, crazy things, the interns were up to…

“No, wait,” Nikhil said, and then he had what he wanted, the necklace under his shirt, out in the open. “I’m Team Jesus,” he said, showing Ravi the big gold cross. “I’ve joined the winning side.”

Day 3

Oval Office, 8:00 a.m. The president still wanted Ravi attending the Jesus meetings—and all meetings were Jesus meetings. So many new jokes; so many old jokes that were no longer funny. You couldn’t talk about having a Come to Jesus moment anymore. In Soviet Union, Jesus come to you! (The new jokes weren’t funny either.)

Sybil, the astrologer, sat across from Ravi, wearing a full-on crucifix, painted in living (so to speak) color, a rather huge thing. An end-times preacher from TV Land was also present. He had come straight from a hay-strewn broadcast studio. Someone had given him a souvenir, a glass coaster, and he kept touching the Great Seal etched into it.

“What does he want?” asked POTUS. “Jesus. What are the possibilities?”

Homeland: “He may come to sweep all away.”

Defense: “The possibility that he’s just visiting was dismissed right away. No theologian takes that suggestion seriously.” He glanced at the TV preacher, as a prompt, but the man was dumbstruck—the Oval Office!—which suited Ravi just fine.

Homeland was speaking again. “Basically, we need to get ready for a takeover. Jesus is here to rule.” She looked around, like a villain in a melodrama waiting for the crowd to boo. She had misjudged her audience.

“The only choice is,” she continued, “does he come as an avenging judge? Or as a benevolent king?”

“Late Great Planet Earth, or Christian Century?” added Defense, as if that clarified things.

POTUS: “And these billionaires, this consortium, what are they trying to prove? Whose side are they on?”

Homeland: “I hear they’re building a giant robot. A robot!

Laughter. Everyone thought that was nuts.

POTUS: “I don’t like it. We need to shut those assholes down.”

Sybil said, “You know, there’s one global fact, an incredible fact, that nobody talks about, but it’s important. Worldwide, the poor are emerging from poverty. Getting rich. Every region. Think of it: ‘The poor you’ll always have with you,’ as Our Lord said. That’s over now.”

She crossed herself. Horizontal line, then vertical. Even Ravi knew that was wrong.

Samantha sat up. Everyone looked at her. Ravi knew her to be quietly religious. She had always been open to him about it, telling him in detail about the time she had helped POTUS and Sybil bury sacred objects under the hearth in the Oval Office: a shoe, a mirror, and a “witch-bottle” filled with presidential urine. They had uncovered a desiccated cat, clearly buried there by the previous administration. Ravi got the feeling Samantha didn’t approve of such magic, but had learned to mute her criticism over the years. Ravi had always had a soft spot for her. Opposites attract.

To Sybil, she said, “You know, I can see what you’re—”

POTUS: “So you’re saying, we done good. Jesus likes us.”

“I think we should cast off our fear!” Sybil smiled radiantly. She literally raised her hands.

Defense: “I suppose, inside each of us, there’s this moral scold—”

“Exactly, brother!” said Sybil. Without shame, she had adopted an evangelist’s cadence, even sprinkling in a southern accent (Exahctly, bruthah!). Nobody dared smirk. “We’ve been in guilt mode for so long, we haven’t noticed when we do something right!”

POTUS: “So, we should push that line?”

Homeland: “Happy Jesus or Angry Jesus, doesn’t matter. He’s Jesus. We hand him the keys to the city.”

POTUS: “Clarice,”—that was Homeland—“come up with an appropriate ceremony. Let’s give Jesus the kind of greeting that says, ‘Welcome, New Boss.’”

Day 4

Progress. Jesus was visible from the waist up, wearing a peasant’s tunic and a deep blue mantle over one shoulder. He was walking with a shepherd’s crook. Really, the man was a cartoon straight out of a Sunday School flyer. Except those eyes. Those… dead eyes.

Hindus had more room for this kind of epiphany, Ravi thought; they didn’t expect gods to be their friends. None of this Born in a Stable stuff. For the first time, Ravi could imagine the alienation westerners felt when seeing a woman with extra arms or a man with an elephant’s head.

Ravi checked his phone. He had invited Nikhil to join him in prayer, but there was no answer. He noticed a hand-written note on his desk.

Its message was simple: “#HeadForTheHills.” It seemed like something an intern would do.

Ravi removed his leather shoes and belt and set them outside. He struck the metal shade of his reading lamp; of all the objects in the room, it made a pleasing, gong-like sound. He should have asked Nikhil to buy him a bell.

Ravi recited the Sanskrit alone.

His clinging to Hinduism wasn’t brave or principled, it was just stubborn. There was something about the president’s religiosity that just… rankled. Half of it blow-dried, on-the-make Christianity; the other half folk superstition.

His prayers finished, he went outside to join the motorcade to the National Cathedral. POTUS had declared a national day of prayer.

Jesus watched Ravi, or could have, get in the limo.

It was a bipartisan crowd. There were a few notable absences, most spectacularly Defense.

The sermon was a mess. The Dean had no insight to offer, and said so at length. Ravi’s eyes wandered, taking in the riot of colors and grotesques. A Hindu should have appreciated it, but it made Ravi uneasy.

Ravi pulled his phone out, holding it low. He searched for #HeadForTheHills. It was the slogan of a preacher, the Reverend Durkin, who had never visited the White House. He was denouncing the Coming One as a fake. Durkin’s followers (he actually had some) were fleeing to White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. There was an old bomb shelter there, a relic of the Cold War.

The service ended. The ride back was quick, but not quick enough. Ravi retreated indoors, out of view of the One. He stood before Ganesh with his divine parents and looked at Kalki, bright blue and small.

Why wasn’t Kalki showing up? Come on, man: it’s now or never.

Day 5

More Jesus. He just kept coming. His looming visage was fierce, implacable. Sun, moon, comet, skyscraper: the analogies had run out. People were getting really weird now, ramping up the sex or the piety (sometimes both), greeting Ravi in the halls with “Are you ready, brother?” like some tent revival.

“We done good”: that was B.S.. This Jesus was no friend. No friend of Ravi, that was for sure.

Out on the mall, there was construction going up. The last blue collar workers had been press-ganged, literally, into erecting billboards with blaring slogans (“USA WELCOMES THE LORD JESUS CHRIST!”; “HAIL TO OUR NEW CHIEF!”) with bleachers going up on either side of the Lincoln Memorial.

The Burning Man crowd: what were they doing? Ravi thought of one man to call, a member of the consortium who was also a vocal supporter of the president.

Getting through wasn’t easy. Ravi’s job title didn’t have its old effect. Government itself was losing its power to awe. Jesus was ushering in the post-government era, whether that was his intention or not. A libertarian paradise, unrestricted marijuana and prostitution for all.

At last, he got the billionaire’s scheduling secretary. She took odd pauses, probably chain-vaping.

“How’s the robot effort going?”

“Ah, yes. The robot.”

“Can you answer my question?”

“It’s over.”

“Okay… What happened?”

“Philosophical differences.” (Pause; hiss.) “What was the robot for? Was he an idol, a Wicker Man? Was he a mecha, to do battle with Jesus? A peace offering? A Trojan Horse?” (Pause; hiss.) “Pro-Christ, or anti?”

The woman took an especially long pause. Refilling her vape? “The arguing went round and round, hours and hours. All these CEOs, used to giving orders. It was actually kind of funny. Trust me. The robot is dead.”

“I see.” Ravi ended the call.

It hit him how much he had been counting on having alternatives. The robot idea had been—well, it was insane, frankly. But, an option. Now that it was gone…

Day 6

He was visible down to his ankles. He just kept striding along, undeterred. He was so big now, an approaching storm, arcing up 45 degrees, and it was odd the ground didn’t shudder with each step. Ravi took it in as he rolled off the couch, stiff and exhausted, and opened the east-facing windows. He had meant to bring the dawn light to the Hindu deities, but there Jesus was, more than filling the window, making Ravi bow just to see his expressionless, botoxed face.

Ravi saw the dark grey spot on one ear. People with high-powered telescopes had reported it yesterday. No one could tell what it was, but it was odd in the extreme. Jesus, wearing an earpiece? Like the secret service? (“Jesus, we’re detecting a hostile in your second quadrant.”) Or was it a blemish? The Mote in God’s Ear, thought Ravi, remembering a sci-fi novel from his adolescence, growing up in Cincinnati.

His feelings for that face were coming into focus. Not dread. Hatred. This blank-faced god, this irresistible force, this Jesus, was something Ravi despised. And worse, he had come to despise the Hindu pantheon for its apathetic response.

That was a problem. His default agnosticism, which was really atheism, which was really I-don’t-care-ism, was proven wrong. He, too, needed to change sides. Team… something.

Ravi asked around for Nikhil. They said he had left two days ago. Unremarkable; a lot of people were AWOL.

It must have been Nikhil who wrote the #HeadForTheHills note. Joining Durkin. Ravi couldn’t even imagine how that would work. How many Team Jesuses were there, anyway?

Ravi searched the web again for #HeadForTheHills. Very odd: all the hits were gone. He hated conspiracy thinking but, come on, this was deliberate blacklisting. Instead, the search yielded a lot of hits for the Coming One, all of it worshipful, plus a video about the giant robot effort, which was still going after all.

A splinter group had gone full Wicker Man. The video showed a towering wooden figure its builders were openly calling the Anti-Christ. In the video, the hasty construction collapsed, killing several people. The video cut off as someone raved about sabotage. It was horrible, of course. Ravi chuckled ruefully as he watched it over and over.

Then he felt bad. Okay, smart guy, you got a better plan?

Ravi was having trouble thinking. Too little sleep. What were his options? He had four, but what were they again? Burning Man—no. #HeadForTheHills—no. Hinduism—no.

That left Team Jesus. Ravi couldn’t see himself going that way.

He imagined himself dividing a paper into four, listing pros and cons for each option. He considered praying, but not to anyone in particular. It would be a heaven-directed email, with From and Subject and Body filled in, but To left blank. He thought what the body of that memo would contain, something like “Whoever you are up there, the real God, I want to follow you.” He rubbed his eyes and the thought never jelled. He never wrote the prayer. He never prayed it.

Ravi’s phone buzzed. POTUS wanted him in the Roosevelt Room. When he arrived, the room was empty of furniture. This felt ominous for some reason. He smiled at Samantha, who looked at him, horrified. Why are you here? she mouthed.

Nikhil was there to operate the screen. He didn’t acknowledge Ravi.

It hit Ravi, right then. Samantha had written the #HeadForTheHills note.

The room filled with senior people. “I asked Sybil and Samantha and some others to write a prayer for us,” said POTUS. “No more fence-sitting. We’re going to say the prayer together.

“Maybe…” said Samantha—and POTUS scowled at the interruption. “Maybe we should let everyone read the words first.”

“We’re going to fucking say the prayer.”

Everyone froze. POTUS had his rough edges, but this menace was unprecedented. They stood there, wide-eyed rabbits, paralyzed at the sudden arrival of a fox.

Words appeared on the screen. “Welcome, coming Jesus,” the prayer began. “We proclaim you, and you alone, our Lord and God.” The president and Sybil led the group recitation with bold, bossy voices.

Ravi’s mouth refused to say the words. Around him, he heard an odd mixture of voices, some shouting the words like cheerleaders, others mumbling. Samantha shot Ravi a desperate glance. For a moment, he could read her lips. “…will be done on Earth as it is…”

Those weren’t the words of the prayer on the screen.

Day 7

Out on the Mall, Ravi found his seat in the fourth row of folding chairs, where the government would greet the new King of the World. Since the Lord Jesus had not sent an advance team, part of the schedule was guesswork, but it called for Jesus to enter the mall from above the Capitol while the president emerged from the Lincoln Memorial. (A Greek temple! How fitting, in a screwed-up kind of way.) Hopefully, the two would meet on a stage erected just to the west of the World War II Memorial.

Would Jesus skirt the Washington Monument? Would he step right over it? No one knew, but he was Jesus; he would have it covered. Jesus was shorter now, even as he was closer—more proof normal laws didn’t apply. Everyone around Ravi, all the undersecretaries and special advisors and whatnot, were commenting on it, that Jesus was shrinking before their eyes.

He was taking on human scale. Ravi didn’t… didn’t what? He didn’t trust it.

He glanced around, watching the bleachers fill up. He saw Nikhil sitting among the interns in the top rows.

Around the world, in every capital, similar events were playing out. There were those who stayed and those who had fled. In London, the queen was choreographed to present the jeweled orb and scepter to Jesus in Piccadilly Circus. In Paris, the president of France, reverting to medieval forms, would emerge from Notre Dame to place on Jesus’ head the crown of Louis XV. Some countries, like Israel, Saudi Arabia, and North Korea, had not divulged their plans, but it was widely believed they would bow to the inevitable—bow quite literally.

Samantha had a seat in the second row but she looked back to the lesser levels. She saw Ravi and looked dismayed.

Events were switching from slow motion to fast. They could hear Jesus’ wet footsteps and the rustle of his garments. No longer a two-dimensional thing, an icon painted on the sky, he was now incarnate man, or at least a giant, a creature in space and time, walking across the ocean, displacing air and making a breeze that wafted a lock of his hair.

Hatred was impossible. Ravi didn’t even feel fear. His feelings were purely visceral: a twisting in his gut, a chill on his forehead. Jesus was arriving on a kamikaze, a divine wind. Some trash, paper from the construction work, swirled about in a dust devil.

Jesus’ height was now an estimable thing. Empire State Building, Ravi thought. He was in the district, no question. Now he was casting a shadow over the Capitol, proof of life if there ever was one. Now he was stepping over the dome. And with that, as he entered the Mall, he shrank at high speed and became sharper, more focused.

And there was the grey spot on his ear, the mote. Ravi’s emotions continued to fail but the grey cancer made acid rise in his throat.

“Oh God,” he gasped.

His words were lost in the chatter. Around him, everyone was reacting, using all kinds of bizarre religious talk, obsolete phrases and even foreign languages. It sounded like a zoo, with every variety of cry, laugh, whimper, and shout, as people rejoiced, or shook, or supplicated. In this most phony of towns, souls were laid bare.

The president of the United States, in morning dress and yarmulke (attire literally chosen by committee) was walking down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He was proceeded by acolytes bearing a cross and religious banners. Behind him came Sybil with some bishops and professors and whatnot in ceremonial garb. The president’s gloved hands held one of the original copies of the Constitution. He would lay it at Jesus’ feet, then kiss the hem of his robe.

Jesus was past the Washington Monument and human-scale now, utterly a man, no one you’d pick out of the crowd if it weren’t for his anachronistic clothing. He was, astonishingly, a little shorter (and certainly trimmer) than POTUS. But the mote on his ear, the grey cancer, had grown. Ravi hadn’t seen how it had happened, but the bump had become a human figure, a man all in grey, undersized but growing quickly.

Ravi stood up. His mind didn’t know what to think but his body did.

Others were standing now, like this was a horse race. Ravi pushed his way out of the row, stepping on toes.

“Ravi! Look!” It was Samantha, at Ravi’s side.

As the crowd around them burst into cheers, the president bowed before the Christ. But standing behind Jesus, leaning right on his back, was the grey man, taller than anyone. He was nude, all horns and fangs, and hideous as sin. One arm draped over Jesus’ shoulder. He pressed his lips against Jesus’ ear, whispering urgent commands as his eyes flashed with demonic desire. His other hand was lost in the folds of Jesus’ robe, making it impossible to know whether it was Jesus’ hand or Satan’s (Yes: that was his name) accepting the venerable parchment from the kneeling president.

Didn’t anyone see him? The Devil?

Ravi’s mouth began to moan.

The crowd knocked chairs over and surged toward its messiah. Ravi saw Nikhil, the cross on his chest glinting gold but outshone by the expression of adoration on his young, ignorant face.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Samantha said. It came out as a scream.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Ravi’s eyes darted about for an escape route. The aisle had filled and a mass of people was pressing on them, pushing them toward damnation.

“Fifteen years!” shouted Samantha. “I couldn’t.”

Ravi put his arm around her waist but he couldn’t save her. The ecstatic crowd swept them up. The flood of worshippers bore them toward the One Who Was Come. They had drifted too close to the maelstrom and its pull was inescapable.

Frederick Gero Heimbach lives a pulp fiction life and takes notes. His family lives with him, warily, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Look for his novel The Devil’s Dictum at Amazon and his short fiction in recent issues of Analog Science Fiction and Fact and Cirsova Magazine. He can be found on the internet and other realms of dubious corporeality as Fredösphere. He was the editor of the Protecting Project Pulp Podcast throughout its run.

Frederick says, “This story draws its inspiration from a fresco by Luca Signorelli called Sermon and Deeds of the Antichrist. It depicts the Antichrist as a twin of the stereotypical Jesus with a horned, nude Devil standing behind him, whispering in his ear. They are so close, you can’t tell which hand belongs to whom. The painting is one of the most disturbing I’ve ever seen.”

“You Shall See Him in the East” by Frederick Gero Heimbach. Copyright © 2020 by Frederick Gero Heimbach.

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