by Douglas Falk
“I was shocked to hear what you were accused of. I could hardly believe it. Good gracious, William. Murder?”
“Lies. A pack of lies, all of it. I promise! It’s a rigged affair, this trial that’s coming up. And you can’t expect to win something that’s already been pre-decided. I did not ask you to come all this way to defend me in court.”
“Of course I will defend you! You need legal counsel, no matter what it is you have gotten yourself entangled in. And I believe you. I don’t think you could harm a fly.”
William sighed. “Lennart, it’s a long, long story. You wouldn’t understand. All you need to know right now is that if you care for me, and every other human being you hold dear, you’re going to have to help me out in another way. I asked for you to come because I want you to deliver a message to someone. It needs to be you, Lennart—I couldn’t think of anyone else who I trusted whole-heartedly, and you also happen to be a lawyer. I don’t think Vance would have allowed for me to be visited by outsiders unless they were related to my impending trial.”
Hilding had the look of utter confusion on his face, and his wrinkles seemed to have multiplied over the span of seconds. “Humm…all right, William. What’s the message, and to whom should I deliver it to?”
“Pen and paper, please.”
Hilding opened his case and dug through the contents of it. He pulled out a notebook and ripped a blank page out of it and gave William the piece of paper and a blue ink pen. William grabbed hold of the pen and began writing a name, an address in Stockholm…and the letter itself. Hilding could not for the life of him understand what possibly could be so important that it had to be written down on a piece of paper for him to forward to someone else, and how this letter to an unknown individual could ever help William out of his cell. William put the pen down and slowly read what he had written, and he re-read it several times with the utmost concentration. When he had re-read it enough and deemed it satisfactory, he put the paper down on the bed and removed the pin needle wolf head that had been pierced on his chest all this time. Hilding had not even noticed that his young protégé had worn a brooch until now. The piece of paper and the brooch now rested in the palm of William’s right hand, and he extended it to Hilding.
“I don’t expect you to understand or make sense of his, Lennart, but maybe one day in the not-too-distant future you will be enlightened. It is of paramount importance that this piece of paper and this brooch will safely arrive to the person intended. Of utmost importance—I cannot stress it enough, Lennart.”
“I will see it through, my boy. I don’t know what all of this means, but I will see it through. I promise.”
William leaned towards Hilding and gave him the paper and the pin needle, and he put his trembling hand on the old man’s frail shoulders. “The future of the world is at stake,” whispered William.
Epilogue
The month of June was upon them, and at last Stockholm was a hospitable place on Earth again. Professor Celeste Wood deemed the climate during wintertime tolerable at best, but right here and now all was forgotten.
We do have our fair share of murderous winters even back in Boston, but they were shorter and milder. Maybe…maybe it’s time for me to move home soon. Move home for real. Leave and say au revoir to this socialist tundra. Say fare-thee-well to their weird cuisine, the snus and their surströmming, and God knows what additional devilry they’ve got going for them that I have not yet tried, nor ever will I.
But then came May and washed the slosh away from the streets, and the city was brought to life again. The area surrounding the Royal Institute of Technology happened to be one of her favourite strolls during the few hours she could spare in between classes and lectures. The lush and verdant Lill-Jan Forest, which connects the university grounds to Stockholm Stadion, was a wonderful place this time of year, and she tried to walk there as often as she could.
Eleven lectures in total next week at the auditorium. Three on Wednesday. Four on Thursday! Will they ever leave me in peace?
She sat in her study ploughing through intranet memos and looking over next week’s schedule.
I need to get out of here already. It’s Thursday and six o’clock. What am I even doing here? I should be in my couch at home with a generous glass of Rioja in front of me and fall asleep to some movie on Netflix. Good gracious.
She made herself ready to leave and packed up her laptop and went for her coat, when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” said Celeste gently.
“Pardon me, Dr. Wood.” Her assistant, the young and lively Julia Langdon, pranced into her room carrying a package.
“This arrived earlier today. I was just on my way out and nearly forgot to give it to you. In any case, I will be going home for the night if that’s all right with you. Clocking out. I only work till 5:45 on Thursdays, as you know.”
Celeste looked at the large clock in her study, which showed 6:10. “Oh, but of course. Of course you should go home; you shouldn’t have to work overtime. Go now, off you go. And thanks for the package. Do you know who sent it?”
Julia shrugged. “No idea. It arrived in the morning, and I didn’t see who delivered it. There’s no sender on the label.”
“All right, Julia. Good night with you.”
“Good night!”
Celeste put her coat back on the hanger and held the package in front of her with both hands. There was a logotype depicting a falcon clutching a fish in the bottom right corner, with the text Hilding & Aldvik written in red above it.
Hilding & Aldvik? The attorney firm at Hamngatan? What do they want from me?
Her name was written in hand on the middle of the package along with the address, Doctor Celeste Judith Wood.
Judith. Judith? Nobody’s referred to me as Judith for…fifteen years, or the like. Not even my professional colleagues call me by that name. Not even on formal occasions.
She unwrapped the parcel slowly and poured its contents out on the desk. Two items fell out of it—a silver brooch and a white scroll. She went for the scroll first and unrolled the piece of paper. Just like the text on the parcel it came with, the note was written by hand.
Doctor Wood. Professor Wood…Celeste. It’s been a long time since we met in person, and even longer since our regular correspondence over the internet. I don’t have time to be longwinded, so I’ll keep this as brief as possible, as time is a luxury that I do not possess: I am being imprisoned in New York, and my future looks bleak to say the least. There’s a chance that I will never see the light of day again…it’s a very long story. The item I sent you will explain what I have been up to the past couple of months, along with my partner John. A picture says more than a thousand words, they say. Well, a video should speak even louder.
Celeste! We found it. We journeyed to Antarctica and beyond. To Amundsen-Scott and further down the road. We walked, we walked, we walked…and eventually we found it. We found absolute proof of what they are hiding down there. We saw with our own eyes but a sliver of the landmass being hidden from the general public’s unknowing eyes. We saw the tip of the iceberg, and God knows what else lies beyond where we walked. You need to do something for me now. You need to play the video, and let it sink in. And then, you will have to act. For my sake, for John’s sake, for your sake, and for the sake of the free world. If we are to break free from this tyrannical cabal that rules the world from the shadows, the video needs to be released and spread before their draconical endgame will be upon us all. The most ambitious false flag event of all time is coming, and it’s coming sooner than you think. They intend to unleash their staged alien invasion. If they succeed, the world will never be the same again. Send it to all corners. Send it to mass media, alternative media, every newspaper, television channel, and every authority you can think of. Send it to everyone. From the moment the video’s gone viral, the world will be changed…forever. There is no going back—will this lead to total chaos on a biblical scale across all nations, or will
it lead to something good? I hope and believe in the latter. The truth will out. Change the world for me, Celeste.
—William Milton, May 29, 2020
The 29th…that was just six days ago! Is this a joke? I had almost forgot…almost. It’s been a long time since the encounter with him and his green friend. Now it all washes over me like a tsunami. Did I inspire them to do something hasty? Reckless?
She placed the scroll on the desk and began examining the pin needle, like instructed. She held the wolf head brooch in her palm and shined a light on it to see what could possibly be of interest with a metal trinket. On the front side, there was nothing unusual—a perfectly regular pin needle made in silver stainless steel with the figure of a wolf. She flipped it around and shined the lamp on the underside.
Oh my God! That black spot on the front side that is supposed to be eye of the wolf in profile…it’s a micro camera!
On the backside of the brooch she discerned two words, Lockheed Martin. The micro camera was wired to a tiny USB memory stick.
It’s one of those mini USBs. How clever. What on Earth is stored on this little device?
She grabbed the USB and plugged it into her laptop. The device showed up on the computer, and she clicked to reveal its contents.
One file. That’s all there is. An mp4 file…a large one. It’s the video.
She drew five deep breaths, launched the video in VLC Media Player, and pressed play.
She saw them walk in Antarctica during daylight. She saw them walking in Antarctica at night with torches in their hands. She saw them climbing and reaching the summit of a great mountain. She saw them gazing out from the peak of the mountain over the view…a large rain forest! She saw them walk through the forest and be captured my military police. She saw the hearing in New York. She saw John be thrown into a cell, screaming his lungs out for William. And she saw William being locked up himself in a highly protected cell.
The clip ended. She sat for a long while just staring at the screen.
The magnitude of what I just saw…it will take time to process. We were right, and now it is confirmed beyond a shadow of doubt. What was shown on the video could not be argued against. The director of the Security Council of the United Nations, Colin Vance, he unknowingly admitted everything. And the man next to him, was that Jim Bridenstine?
She removed the USB stick from the computer and looked at the tiny thing.
Imagine that something so miniscule like this little gadget could make the difference that shapes the future of mankind. And the ball’s in my court now to mould the future which way I want it to. Worldwide chaos…crisis of faith…anarchy… death and destruction. Absolute turmoil will await should I go through with this; I am not naïve enough to tell myself otherwise. I either go through with it, or I go the other way. I destroy this memory stick right now, thus allowing the status quo paradigm to continue. The world will continue spinning on an imaginary ball as the sleepwalkers and sheep carry on with their day for all time to come. Who am I really, to wake people up? Who am I to stir the pot?
She weighed the options for about five minutes. And then she knew what to do.
Every fibre of my body screams…screams that I ought to do this. Need to do this.
She plugged the USB stick into her laptop once again.
June 4, 2020, will go down in the history books as the day when the veil disguising the greatest lie in human history is lifted and its true colours revealed. To break a curse you need to fight it down to the bone and marrow. Remove it all together, root and stem. To lift a curse, you need a ruthless and powerful wand to wave.
I choose panic, death, anarchy, and destruction. Chaos in its purest form. Total chaos. Because it is the sensible thing to do in an insensible situation.
She gazed at the painting of Sir Isaac Newton hanging on the wall over the bookcase. She reached for the fruit bowl on the desk and grabbed ahold of a very particular green fruit. As she took her very first bite of the apple, one of the windows in her study suddenly flew open. A gust of wind blew through the room and knocked over a large object in front of her. The frayed globe on her desk wobbled around and fell hard to the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces.
THE END
Photo Credits
Cover
Levi, Eliphas. “Baphomet.” Wikimedia Commons, 28 Oct. 2017, commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flammarion.jpeg.
Macrobius. “Macrobian Planetary Diagram.” Wikimedia Commons, 31 Jan. 2007, commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Macrobian_Planetary_Diagram.jpeg.
Ross, Sage. “Jean Fusoris Planispheric Astrolabe in Putnam Gallery.” Wikimedia Commons, 24 Nov. 2009, commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jean_Fusoris_planispheric_astrolabe_in_Putnam_Gallery,_2009-11-24.jpeg.
Chapter 4
Strebe, Daniel R. “Azimuthal Equidistant Projection SW.” Wikimedia Commons, 15 Aug. 2011, commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File: Azimuthal_equidistant_projection_SW.jpeg.
Chapter 5
Prespective image designed by Jasmine R. White.
Stöckli, Reto. “globe_west_2048.” NASA, 8 Feb. 2002, visibleearth.nasa.gov/view.php?id=57723.
NASA. “PIA18033.” NASA Image and Video Library, 30 Jan. 2012, images.nasa.gov/details-PIA18033.html.
Chapter 8
Infinite plane image designed by Jasmine R. White.
Freemason image designed by Jasmine R. White.
Stöckli, Reto. “globe_east_2048.” NASA, 8 Feb. 2002, visibleearth.nasa.gov/view.php?id=57723.
https://i.imgur.com/kDAQRMd.png
Chapter 13
Flammarion, Camille. “L’Atmosphère: Météorologie Populaire.” Wikimedia Commons, 10 Nov. 2010, commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flammarion.jpeg.
Chapter 15
RaviC. “Antarctica.” Wikimedia Commons, 29 Mar. 2017, commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Antarctica.svg.
Chapter 22
Infinite plane image designed by Jasmine R. White.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thanks to everyone at Mascot Books who had faith in me all along the way—especially Jess Cohn, Daniel Wheatley, and editor Megan Doyle. I owe them for their guidance and encouragement—helping me navigate these uncharted territories. I also want to thank the ever-helpful Debbie Nosil and Abby Simpson.
Special thanks to Conrad Gunell and Karl Stiernman, who encouraged me (at a certain Irish pub) two years ago to put pen to paper. They had a part to play in how this wild idea of mine came to fruition.
Thank you Peter “Nippe” Nierenburg, for taking a gamble. Thank you, Carl “Calle” Falk, for planting a seed in my brain by making an off-handed comment.
Thank you Johan Yngwe, for your excellent work with the website.
Jamie, I hope you won’t mind that I named a character after you. I never did learn your last name, and you’ll probably hate this book if you ever get around to reading it… hell, you’ve probably even forgotten about my existence, seeing as we haven’t talked for years. But, still. Consider yourself honored if you get the chance of picking up a copy of this one of these days.
Thank you Betsy. I hope you’re out there somewhere, living your life. You’ll hate this book too, no doubt.
Thank you Cameran “Cam” Simms. A true friend who tolerates my oddities and obscurities—no matter what. We’ve argued over the years over which one of us is crazier—I’m pretty sure that I have you beat, with this novel and all.
On a final note, I would like to thank all my friends and family members who supported this endeavor since day one. My parents, Michael and Elizabeth, deserve a mention—as does my beloved grandmother Astrid for being ever-helpful.
I can’t please everyone. One thing I kept reminding myself when in the thick of this was the realization that if I kept living my life constantly worrying what other people may think of me, it’s going to cripple and shape my life in a negative way forever. I can’t wake up in the morning every day with a list to tick off, making sure that I won’t upset this or t
hat person. I want to be myself.
Given the risqué nature of my story, I had to steel my mind every day—knowing that I would undoubtedly face criticism over this once the cat was out of the bag. Self-shaming is the death of creativity—had I backed off from all of this arduous work, giving up out of fear that it may ruffle a few feathers… I know that I would have regretted it forever.
Thank you, everyone.
About the Author
Douglas Falk is 26 years old and lives in Stockholm, Sweden. (He’s also lived in Birmingham, UK, in the past.) Writing’s in his blood, always has been. His grandfather, Christer Falk, founded the very first local newspaper in Stockholm, called Östermalmsnytt, in 1968. His father, Michael, took over the reins when his grandfather retired and gave him the opportunity to write a couple of articles in the paper. Reporting on sports events and the like is a whole different can of worms than writing a fictional novel—that much is clear since writing this story was arduous to say the least—but it is the next step for him, as he has fallen in love with the whole writing process.
