by Steve Alten
“A friend of yours sent me to speak with you. Something about your needing help. By the way, who’s Trish?”
“Trish?”
“You yelled out her name.”
“You mean Beatrice. Beatrice is… was my wife. DeBorn sent you, you’re the shrink.”
The old man smiled. “Not what you expected when you asked for help.”
“You look more like a refugee from the sixties than a psychiatrist.”
“How should a psychiatrist look?”
“I don’t know. More brainy.”
“This was the best I could do on short notice. Should I lose the beard?”
“Dude, I could care less what you look like. And just to set the record straight, DeBorn’s not my friend; he’s just using me for some new Army recruiting deal of his. You should know up-front I’m not doing it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just like that?”
“Well, we could torture you, I suppose, but I’ve always been a proponent of free will.”
“DeBorn’s not going to pay you if I don’t do as he says.”
“Let’s not concern ourselves with Mr. DeBorn. Besides, what’s said between us stays between us, isn’t that the rule?”
“It’s more complicated than that. He can keep me from seeing my family.” Shep slid off the bed and pulled the sweat-soaked tee shirt off with his right hand, carefully working it around his new prosthetic arm.
“Has he kept you from seeing them up until now?”
“Well… no.”
“Then why haven’t you seen them?”
“I guess I wasn’t ready.”
“But you’re ready now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How long has it been since you last saw them?”
“Too long. Eleven years, give or take. It’s hard to remember.”
“Then why see them at all? Seems like you’d just be opening up old wounds.” The psychiatrist picked up the leather-bound copy of Dante’s Inferno lying on the desk. Casually flipped through the dog-eared pages.
“Old wounds? They’re my family. I just found out they’re here, in Manhattan.”
“Don’t you mean, your estranged family. Eleven years is a long time, give or take. As your shrink, I’d say it’s time you moved on.”
“You’re not my shrink… and could you put that book down! Borrow it from the library if you want to read it so badly.”
“Oh, I’ve read it.” He turned the book over, reading the summary aloud. “Dante's Inferno, written by Dante Alighieri between 1308 and 1321, is widely considered one of the greatest and most revered works of world literature. Divided into three distinct parts—Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven — Inferno describes Dante's journey through Hell, depicted as nine circles of suffering. Allegorically, the Divine Comedy represents the journey of the soul toward God, with Inferno describing the recognition and rejection of sin—”
Patrick snatched the book from the old man. “I know what the story is about. I’ve read it so many times I’ve practically memorized it.”
“And do you agree with the author’s conclusions?”
“What conclusions?”
“That the wicked are condemned to an afterlife of misery without any hope of salvation.”
“I was raised a Catholic. So yeah… I believe it.” The question weighed on Patrick. “Just out of curiosity, what do you believe?”
“I believe that even in one’s last instant of life redemption can still be achieved.”
“You don’t believe God punishes the sinner?”
“Every soul must be cleansed before it moves on, but punishment… what I prefer to call obstacles, are opportunities to gain access to the Light of God.”
“You sound like some sort of New Wave guru. What religion are you?”
“Honestly, I’m not a big fan of religion.”
“So you don’t believe in God?”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t believe the Creator intended spirituality to be an open competition. What about you? Do you believe in God?”
Patrick sneered. “I believe God fell asleep at the wheel long ago. As useless as teats on a bull. I have zero faith in Him. The guy’s a bigger screwup than I am.”
“You blame God for the loss of your arm?”
“I blame God for the world. Look at all the evil, all the needless suffering. Two wars going on, another one looming. People starving. Dying of cancer—”
“You’re right. Screw God. If He was any kind of creator, he’d have cleaned up this mess eons ago. Lazy no-good bastard.”
“Yeah… no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, some of it’s our fault, free will and all that.”
“But you blame Him for your life.”
“No. I blame Him for separating me from my family.”
“Didn’t you say they’re in New York?”
“Yeah, but—”
“They lock you in at night?”
“No.”
“So leave. Go find your wife and kid… or don’t. But stop playing the victim.”
The blood drained from Patrick’s face. “What did you say?”
“I think you heard me.”
“You think it’s that easy?” Shep sat on the corner of the bed, the edginess returning. He fidgeted with the steel pincers, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. “There are things, you know… in my head.”
“Ah… the nightmares.”
“You’re a real man of genius. Yeah, the nightmares. And don’t ask me about them either.”
“You’re the boss.” The old man sat back, flipped through Dante’s Inferno. “An interesting read. I enjoy books that deal with challenges of the human spirit.”
“Inferno deals with justice. Punishment for the wicked.”
“Back to God being asleep at the wheel?”
“I’ve been in combat. I’ve seen innocent people suffer. Why must there be so much hatred? So much senseless violence and greed… so much corruption. There’s no justice in the world. That’s why these things keep happening.”
“You want justice or happiness?”
“Justice would give me happiness. If God’s really out there, then why does He allow evil people to prosper while the good among us suffer?”
“Are you counting yourself among the good?”
“No.”
“Are you suffering?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, there’s justice in the world. Be happy.”
“Ugh! You just don’t want to get it, do you?”
“I get it. You want God to strike every sinner down the moment they sin. But what good would that do? Ever watch how they train animals? When the animals complete a desired action, they get a treat. When they do something bad, they get shocked. Spirituality isn’t about being conditioned, it’s about free will and resisting the negative urges to react to temptation. It’s about controlling the human ego… the true Satan. Satan is clever. He removes time from the equation of cause and effect, making it confusing to track rewards to good deeds and evil acts to punishments.”
“Okay, but real justice still comes, right? Say I’ve done things… things justifiable in war, only maybe I’m no longer sure. Will I be punished?”
“Let’s be clear: Sin is sin, there’s no wartime exemption for killing or rape. As far as real justice — the fire and brimstone of Dante — no soul returns to the Light without being cleansed. For some, the cleansing process can be quite painful.”
“You keep saying the Light.”
“My apologies. By Light, I’m referring to the Light of the Creator. The infinite. Endless fulfillment.”
“Like Heaven?”
“If you want to simplify it.”
Shep pondered this. “What happens when evil surrounds you… when it seems to be everywhere all at once, when every choice is the wrong choice, and you can’t escape it?”
“When wickedness achieves a critical mass, when it becomes widespread like a runaway plague so t
hat it shuts off access to the Creator’s Light, then even innocent souls are subject to destruction. In that case, a cleansing must take place, on a scale that transcends the depravity of the wicked. You remember the story of Noah? Of Sodom and Gomorrah? Ah, but I guess those cleansings took place before God fell asleep at the wheel.”
Shep didn’t reply, he was staring at the old man’s left wrist. The sweater’s sleeve had ridden up, revealing a number tattooed along the outside of his forearm. “You were in the Holocaust?”
“I was there.”
“Then you know evil better than most.”
“Yes.”
Patrick’s eyes teared up. “I know evil, too.”
“Yes, son, I believe you do.”
“I’ve done some terrible things.”
“Things your wife would never approve of?”
“Yes.”
“And now you want her back?”
“And my daughter. They both left me. I miss them so much.”
“What makes you so certain your wife wants to see you again?”
“Because she’s my soul mate.”
The old man sighed “Those are powerful words, my friend. Do you even know what the term means? A soul mate is two halves of a single soul, divided by God.”
“I never heard that before.”
“It’s part of an ancient wisdom, one that predates religion. The reunification of soul mates is a blessed event, but know this: Soul mates cannot be reunited until both parties complete their tikkun… their spiritual correction. And you, my friend, are far from ready.”
The old man stood to leave.
“Whoa, Doc, wait a minute. I changed my mind. I do want your help. Tell me what I have to do to get my soul mate back, and I’ll do it.”
“Everything has a cause and effect. Fix the cause, and you’ll fix the effect.”
“What the hell does that mean? She left me, remember. You want me to apologize? Would that make it right again?”
“Take some time. Think about things. Decide what it is you want out of your life. When you’re ready to stop playing the victim, come and see me.”
The old man fished through his sweater pocket, extracting a business card. He handed it to Shep and left.
Patrick Shepherd stared at the card.
virgil shechinah
inwood hill, new york
Inwood Hill, New York
1:51 P.M.
Located at the very northern tip of the island, Inwood Hill was a Manhattan neighborhood unlike any other. There were no skyscrapers here. The Harlem River marked its northeastern border, High Bridge Park and Washington Heights situated directly to the south. Among its western landmarks were athletic fields belonging to Columbia University, nestled close to a heavily wooded mountain terrain that seemed a thousand miles from the Big Apple.
This was Inwood Hill Park, the only natural forest left in Manhattan. Climb its rocky summit, and one was rewarded with a magnificent view of the Hudson River. Explore its dense wood, and you might discover ancient caves once inhabited by the Lenape Indians long before the first Europeans arrived.
* * *
The Black Chevy Suburban entered Inwood Hill, made a U-turn at the intersection of Broadway and Dyckman Street, then parked.
Bertrand DeBorn exited the car. Slammed the rear door. Crossing the street, he walked to a new i-pay phone, verified that it was operational, then dialed a number on his cell phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Call me back at 212-433-4613.” The secretary of defense hung up and waited. Snatched the payphone receiver on its first ring. “What happened?”
“Someone unleashed Scythe.”
DeBorn’s skin crawls. “Where? When?”
“The UN Plaza. About five hours ago.”
“Five hours? Five hours is a lifetime. You have no idea how fast this biological can spread in a major metropolis. I need to get to the UN before they run out of vaccine—”
“Bert, Scythe was genetically altered. It’s not responding to any of the harvested antibiotics.”
A cold sweat broke out across the defense secretary’s forehead.
“Homeland Security shut down access in and out of Manhattan. Where are you now?”
“North. Still on the island.”
“Are you clean?”
“For the moment. I’ve been in a secure location, meeting with key council members.”
“And?”
“They support the plan, all of which has just been rendered moot.”
“Not necessarily. Think about it. If Scythe broke out in Tehran next month, no one could possibly blame—”
“Enough! You have no idea what you’re even saying. If Scythe leaves Manhattan in its present form, we’re all dead. All of us! Without a vaccine, Scythe is a runaway train. I need to get off this island quickly before I’m infected. Where’s POTUS?”
“He’s being held in quarantine at the UN. No one’s allowed to leave.”
“POTUS will be airlifted out, so will the others. They’ll all be sent to Fort Detrick and held while a cure is found. I need to get to the UN, it’s my only hope. Call me on my cell with any updates.”
“Bert, it’s not a secure line.”
“No one’s listening. Plague has infested Manhattan.”
Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac
The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.(translated from its original French)
Diary Entries: January 17, 1348
(recorded in Avignon, France)
Plague has infested Avignon.
What began as a whisper in the night has blossomed into the wails of the dying and bereaved. And there seems no escape.
Within days of the first mortalities, the dead and dying had passed the death onto their caregivers and loved ones. Bells tolled each hour as the graves filled quickly. Terror consumed the living while Death’s cold hand wound through the streets, sparing barely a soul from its invisible embrace. Neither parent nor child. Cardinal or prostitute.
Villagers collapsed in pubs and in pews.
Entire households were vanquished of the living.
Last rites were canceled, lest our remaining priests catch the scourge.
The sick were robbed while they lay dying in their beds, the thieves succumbing to the Great Mortality days later.
And oh how the body count did rise; dozens yielding to hundreds, hundreds to thousands. When the churchyards were filled, the Pope purchased a new cemetery. When it, too, was filled, massive graves were dug outside the city walls. When the grave diggers fell ill, rustics came down from the hills to claim a beggar’s wealth — Avignon paying them a small ransom to cart off its dead each morning and afternoon, burying them by sunset. Piled atop one another, the deceased are wheeled to mass burial pits and laid out in neat rows by the hundreds. By nightfall, the top layer of the day’s collection is covered by dirt, only to be decimated hours later by wild dogs and pigs that tear the toxic flesh from the bones, leaving the scraps to the rats.
Every night I bed to incessant weeping in the streets, with each new dawn I awaken to the sound of pull carts and my own fearful breaths as I check my vital signs. By midmorning the newly afflicted form lines at my door, coughing mothers cradling their crying infants, husbands their fallen wives. All seek aid I cannot give, and they are far too numerous to treat even if I knew of a cure. The Pope requires my services, and so I take my leave, tending to those I can upon my return from the palace if only so I might live to understand this sickness and one day find a cure.
When it comes to disease, I have been taught that it is the body out of balance that is prone to sickness. For so many to have perished would require a mighty imbalance… and one has come to light. Months earlier, a rare galactic phenomenon became evident in the night sky, bringing Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn into alignment. This cosmic imbalance has no doubt cast its toxic vapor upon the E
arth, infecting mankind. The vapor may indeed be worse in the city, causing the rich among us to flee to their chateaus in the countryside.
I have begged Clement VI to leave Avignon, but the Pope refuses. Instead, he has allowed me to place fire pits in his personal chamber, the heat and flames perhaps capable of incinerating the toxic miasma vapor. So far it has proved effective in keeping the Pope free of the sickness—
— but the stench of evil lurks all around us and I fear the worst is yet to come.
— Guigo
BIO-WARFARE PHASE V: SOCIETAL BREAKDOWN
“Seeing the swine flu virus spread within a raft of countries, the United Nations health agency today raised the international alert to Phase 5 on a six-point scale, signaling an imminent pandemic and urging all countries to intensify preparations.”
— United Nations News Centre, April 29, 2009
“Disruption of life-as-usual could come from economic collapse, runaway climate change, war, peak oil, pandemic, or some unforeseen combination of these and other factors. What makes these prospects especially terrifying are potential human responses to them. We could see either societal breakdown — in which each person turns on others in a battle for dominance or survival — or fascism, in which people allow all-powerful leaders to run things out of fear of chaos.”
— Sarah van Gelder, Executive Editor, Yes Magazine
December 20
Secretariat Building
United Nations Plaza
2:39 P.M.
(17 hours, 31 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
The thirty-nine-story Secretariat Building loomed high over the United Nations Plaza. Rectangular with a green glass facade, it was one of the more easily identified structures in New York. As part of the UN, the building was considered “international territory” and its delegates had never been subjected to the laws of New York or the United States—
— until today.
Heavily armed members of New York’s Emergency Service Unit (ESU) were posted in the Secretariat lobby and on every floor. Electricity had been shut off to prevent the spread of Scythe through the ventilation systems, the cold temperatures adding insult to injury. Updates were delivered every hour, the stall tactic allowing six teams of CDC units to make their way floor by floor, office by office, performing triage on the UN’s imprisoned diplomats.
