The Heavens' Inferno

The Heavens’ Inferno

By Nicholas DeAntonio

Copyright 2015 Nicholas DeAntonio

Smashwords Edition

Today Americans would be outraged if U.N. troops entered Los Angeles to restore order; tomorrow they will be grateful! This is especially true if they were told there was an outside threat from beyond whether real or promulgated, that threatened our very existence. It is then that all peoples of the world will pledge with world leaders to deliver them from this evil. The one thing every man fears is the unknown. When presented with this scenario, individual rights will be willingly relinquished for the guarantee of their well being granted to them by their world government.

-Henry Kissinger, 1992

Introduction

Virtually all civilization has recorded accounts of mankind’s beginnings and prophecies of its end. Although impossible to verify, it is undeniable that the Earth has bore witness to the rise and fall of multitudinous civilizations, dynasties, theologies, and ages, thus granting a modicum of credulity to the zealot who proclaims the End to be nigh.

And yet, despite the ebb and flow of civic dominance, since at least the beginning of the Colombian Age in the 16th Century, there have been a seemingly chosen few who have not only survived, but prospered despite war, revolution, revolution, and economic duress. These gilded dynasties of industrial and banking families as well as hereditary nobility are disaffected by turmoil, always seeming to acquire greater power and resources despite the conditions of society at-large.

Police often apply the axiom of who benefits? while seeking a suspect or a crime. If we acknowledge that the aforementioned elites have stood to benefit the most from all manner of chaos, death, and destruction, we must ask ourselves why? What motivates a group of people who covertly conspire generationally to corrupt and degrade our laws, morals, and social institutions? For what reason would 19th Century men act to ensure the machinations of power remain in the hands of their 21st Century progeny? If the present global upheaval is in fact contrived by a cabal of elite dynasties, to what end are these individuals working?

The story that follows explores not only the motives of those few who have benefitted from the unprecedented suffering of the many over the course of the last century, but also a fictionalized culmination of this orchestrated global calamity – the prophetic End. This story was not written to advance a particular theological dogma or a political agenda. My hope is that I leave you with more questions than answers, and inspire you to take it upon yourself, reader, to explore the machinations of power and draw your own conclusions about the motives behind inequality, war, and turmoil.

Although this is my first novel, I sought to create a vibrant environment of well-rounded characters amid rich, hopefully unforgettable settings; to do otherwise would be a great disservice to you, in my humble opinion. Writing this novel has been a truly enjoyable experience because, perhaps selfishly, it is a story that I myself have always wanted to read. You will meet at least one character who I believe occupies a completely unique place in the literary world, and although I leave much to imagination, allowing you to think for yourself, I think that you will find that all aspects of this story, even the most minutiae, come full circle as invaluable parts of the whole. I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Chapter 1

Explain this to me sheriff, the man in the suit said after taking a long drag from his cigarette, undoubtedly in order to build anticipation and draw in the full attention of his dining companion. According to Charles Darwin and his theory of evolution, human beings are slowly evolving; slowly, yet constantly adapting to their surroundings and passing onto their offspring, desirable genetic traits which will aid in the perpetuity of said specie and familial line while suppressing those traits which are seen as flawed or would produce weak characteristics. The man in the suit methodically paused again to extinguish his cigarette and allow the sheriff a moment to absorb this first statement.

Clearing his throat, the suited man began again with a more serious tone, removing his spectacles and holding them in his right hand as if for emphasis: Yet, somehow, a large segment of the ever-evolving human population requires the aid of eyeglasses. According to Mr. Darwin and his boisterous proponents, any retardation of physical or mental abilities will be corrected over time as those individuals within the homo-sapien specie with a, for lack of a better word, disability, are systematically removed from the gene and breeding pool by their own inability to live up to the basic standards of their non-impaired counterparts.

Impaired eye sight makes for a poor hunter, especially among a nomadic, tribal society with little or no knowledge of hand tools and agriculture. A poor hunter, in turn, makes for a poor mate in the eyes of the prehistoric female population, I would imagine. Our visually impaired prehistoric man has, through no fault of his own, thus been alienated from his prehistoric brethren. Lacking practical survival skills and a mate, this man is proven to be genetically unfit to perpetuate his own lineage and will live a brief and miserable existence as a social pariah, ultimately culminating in his own demise due to starvation, or perhaps, a particularly violent end at the hands of a non-impaired, non-human predator. Taking a dramatic and drawn out sip of his coffee, the man continued: "Now, assuming that our genetic makeup lives up to the standards of the proponents of ‘survival of the fittest’, our DNA would inherently detect the threat posed to its perpetuity and suppress this threat in the relative short term, eventually removing this trait outright, or developing a physical characteristic in order to offset the effects of impaired vision, such as larger eyes, a second, impairment-correcting eye lid, night-vision or infrared eyesight, et cetera and so forth. Pray tell, sheriff, from an evolutionary standpoint, how, on God’s green earth those individuals like myself who are troubled to wear eyeglasses have found ourselves in this impairing situation after millions of years of evolution which should have removed this genetic defect outright?"

The suited man smirked with a warm air of confidence, as he finished this last statement, expressing to the sheriff the ease at which his rational mind can address any theoretical scientific exercise. The sheriff was indeed impressed as he was every Sunday morning; knowing the innate ability of his companion to recite what may sound like a well-rehearsed PhD dissertation in a casual conversation. The man seated across from him was truly brilliant, exploring all possible angles for the solution of any dilemma. He did not possess a fear of delving into the Divine as a solution to universal quandaries, and vehemently maintained that the most taboo of theories cannot be accepted as irrational at a time in which Albert Einstein had proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt over one-hundred years ago, that time travel into the future was indeed possible and proven in the Theory of Relativity. His Einsteinium retort was always followed by a warm smile and a wink as he confidently stated Possible and practical are two different concentrations. The former lies in the realm of casual conversation, the latter lies in the realm of science.

More coffee sheriff? Doc?

Yes, please. The sheriff smiled at her with a nod of gratitude as he lifted the beige mug for a refill of the bitter, black liquid.

You boys really crack me up.

Is that so? The doctor asked as he returned his spectacles to their proper position atop his nose.

I should write a story and send it to Hollywood. A baby-faced, cigarette smoking medical doctor and a middle-aged policeman meet for breakfast every Sunday morning in a small-town diner to discuss topics of philosophy and politics. Ha! This has prime-time TV all over it. she stated light-heartedly. Of course I wouldn’t forget you boys if I were to do it, royalties and all that. Hell, maybe even George Clooney could play you sheriff and Leo DiCaprio the doc. Let me know if I can get you boys anything else. Kathy left the check next to the sheriff, who could easily be mistaken for the young doctor’s father, for which he was by most other diner patrons unfamiliar with the two. The sight of the duo had become a familiar one to Kathy, but it still amused her. So familiar to her that she knew it was the sheriff’s week to pick up the tab.

The scene was indeed comical, the sheriff reflected as he smiled and nodded to Kathy. It had been about six months since the new doctor at the county hospital had suggested these weekly rendezvous. The intent being to stimulate the mind, sharpen the senses, and above all else, to stay boredom; the unhealthy cousin of sloth which can lead to serious health complications in the aging male body.

A solitary man, the sheriff politely declined at first, citing his duty as sheriff and the unpredictable nature of police work. But at the insistence of the doctor, who assured him that thought-provoking conversation regarding debatable topics would only improve his critical thinking, thus improving his police work, the sheriff was obliged to accept the young doctor’s standing invitation. Now, here he was all those months later, a fifty-one year-old law man in a backwater town debating in favor of evolution against a thirty year-old urbanite medical doctor. Even more comical have been the holes exposed by the young doctor in the evolutionary theory held by the sheriff.

The sheriff was grateful for the Kathy-induced pause in the conversation which allowed him to collect his thoughts and momentarily absorb the aromatherapy of frying bacon wafting into his nostrils. Well doctor, I would think that it may be instinctual to help one of your own, even in primitive times. The prehistoric humans that couldn’t hunt would have had other skills, right? Like as healers, such as yourself or artists or other things. The sheriff helped himself to his own dramatic pause with a slow sip of coffee. The hunters then would have helped and protected those with other skills, I would imagine.

Surely these individuals would also be affected in their other duties at a time prior to corrective lenses. Despite the development of loose social norms and a sense of communal well-being, why then has our DNA been so stubborn in refusing to correct this genetic crime against humanity? the doctor asked with a smile.

Maybe it is just unavoidable. Maybe everyone has the same gene and it works like a random light switch whenever a baby is born; perfect eyesight on or off.

"Sheriff, I must say that as a man of science, it is troubling to think that a known, agreed-upon truth in the ‘scientific’ community can have such a high degree of uncertainty and an even larger degree of inefficiency and the potential for error. Theoretically, plants must also follow an evolutionary path in order to explain different varieties of an individual genus. There are over one hundred types of rose stemming, no pun intended, from the genus rosa. All must have come into evolutionary existence as a genetic mutation of the original. Furthermore, we find no cases of retardation or impairment among roses of a nature that would affect their ability to thrive; no spectacle-wearing roses, as it were. Across the board, we can infer logically that each type of rose that came into existence as a genetic mutation of the original specimen has only benefitted from evolution or faced outright extinction. We as humans have supposedly evolved from primates, according to your position, but it appears to me that if we had evolved it should be in a continuous fashion. Evolution of the human race, unlike the evolution of the rose has not appeared to have occurred genetically in a significant manner for some hundreds of thousands of years. If human evolution has taken place, it seems only to be in a converse fashion through the degradation of our genetic makeup, taking the form of disease and both mental and physical retardation. Disease and disorder are stronger now than at any point in recorded history, yet where sheriff, are the genetic supermen whose theoretical existence should be the natural next step for our specie?"

The sheriff met his friend's wide grin with one of his own, and took another long sip of his coffee and before stating confidently It’s a possibility that these ‘super’ people do exist. Perhaps they don’t tell anyone out of fear of being rejected or maybe they don’t even know their own capabilities.

Bravo, sheriff, quite impressive indeed. I’m certain that I can cite specific historical examples, including the men and warriors of renowned and even unexplainable ancient monument construction that may provide credence to your theory of potential genetic supermen using evolved skills to accomplish amazing feats.

The doctor toasted the sheriff with his coffee mug. As the two men drank to their toast, an excited plump man clad in camouflage with the unmistakable orange hat of a hunter burst through the entrance of the diner and rushed to the table of the sheriff and doctor, shouting Sheriff, there you are, I’ve been looking-.

The sheriff recognized the sweaty, red-faced man at once as he was one of his two deputies, Herb Blacker. Herb, is everything all right?

Good morning sherf, doc. Herb removed his orange hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his large, red hand. I don’t mean to bother you but I think we got a problem sherf, I think we got some poachers.

The sheriff pulled out his wallet and left a twenty dollar bill on top of the check. Well, doctor, duty calls. I best attend to this concern before Herb here requires you medical expertise. As always, it’s been a pleasure.

The pleasure is all mine, sheriff. Thank you again for breakfast. Please let me know if you are in need of any assistance with the matter at hand. I can recall one famous sleuth who would require, from time to time, the help of a Doctor Watson in matters of intrigue and crime. The doctor gave the sheriff a firm handshake and lit up a cigarette as he sat back down to finish his coffee.

By the way, doctor, I believe it’s against the law to smoke inside a restaurant. How would it look if I were to allow myself to work with a known criminal? The doctor cleverly replied, Well if you must arrest me, can it please wait until after 10am mass?

The men parted cordially with one last nod. The sheriff smiled to himself as he walked towards the door at the one detail he always seemed to forget: the young doctor’s name was Watson.

Well Herb, let’s have it. Tell me what you know about these poachers.

Chapter 2

There’s no deer, sherf, no deer-they’re all just gone. The sheriff walked briskly with an excited Herb at his heals towards his vehicle. There’s no game. Poachers, sheriff, it has to be. I’ve been in the woods by 5am everyday for the past three days. I ain’t seen nothin’. The sheriff stopped dead in his tracks and turned towards the anxious deputy. Herb, do you mean to tell me that you’re all worked up like this because you haven’t gotten a deer yet? The sheriff knew that something more was afoot by the look on his deputy’s face, but he needed coherent details.

Hey, listen. Take a breath, calm down and start from the beginning Herb. The sheriff resumed walking at a slower pace while Herb gathered himself and explained.

"Sherf, the past two days I’ve been going out into the woods between Old Mill Road and the lake nice and early and getting up in a tree stand. The stand I’m using is near a clearing with some clover and a nice game trail. This spot definitely gets some action. Well I’ve been up in that tree stand and I ain’t seen nothing, ain’t heard nothing. Yesterday morning I get out of the stand and walked the game trails and I can’t find any fresh scat neither. You know there’s coyotes and black bear up here, but I couldn’t nothin. Well I go out again last night into the woods and I don’t hear nothin’, I don’t see nothin’. Now an odd thing dawns on me sherf; there ain’t no birds to be heard neither. You go in the forest and there ain’t no sounds to be heard at all, it’s eerie. It’s like everything just disappeared."

The sheriff looked at Herb’s red face and reflected on what he had heard. Herb was an experienced hunter who grew up in these woods, but he was prone to jump to conclusions; especially regarding the intrusion onto the town’s game lands by outsiders. The sheriff and his deputies had dealt with poachers in the past and leniency was not an exercised virtue when dealing with well-armed and unknown men wandering the largely private countryside and woodlands out of season.

The sheriff thought deeply about the last time he remembered seeing a deer. Has anyone reported any trespassing or seen any suspicious people about town? asked the sheriff, searching his own memory.

Well I don’t know sherf, not that I recall. J.D. may have gotten some calls back at the station.

Why don’t you head over there now, Herb. I’ll meet you there after I have a word with Arch Spitzer. If anyone’s been sneaking around in the woods they may have run into him.

It had been about a week or so since the sheriff remembered seeing a deer, a buck actually, just standing outside his window looking in at him while he slept on his couch. That may have actually just been a dream. He could not recall all of the details of the encounter.

Hey, Herb… the sheriff called out as the two parted ways. … let’s not get people panicked about this, we don’t need any vigilantes roving through the woods armed to the teeth. Keep this under wraps until we actually have some information to give the people. Hell, as far as I’m concerned I’m about to launch an investigation based on the paranoid ravings of my deputy about his inability to find an animal to kill."

Cal, I ain’t stringin’ you along here, something’s going-

I know Herb, you’ve lived here all your life and you’re a good cop. I trust your instincts, but we need evidence of impropriety. Head to the station, radio me if anything comes up.

Yes, sir Herb said as he moved hastily towards the driver’s seat of his pickup truck.

The sheriff got in his SUV police cruiser and headed towards Spitzer’s farm, thinking back to his earlier conversation with the doctor. The memories that he fought so hard to suppress flooded into his mind. Any form of happiness that other man had in that other life was overshadowed by an unspeakable tragedy. So many years later it was almost surreal to Cal Rodgers, but the imprint of those memories remained upon his spirit, twisting, from time to time like a knife plunged in his heart. An albatross hung about his neck, and he could not escape the empty feeling, the feeling that the best part of him was lost on the day he lost his son.

Now that day seemed to be more of a fleeting nightmare, and his old life a distant echo of a memory. As the years progressed the sheriff forgot small details of this former existence; once cherished smells, sounds and feelings had become the ghosts of that reality, distant and unreachable.

The sheriff shoved those painful thoughts aside as he pulled off of the paved state route and onto the unmarked dirt road. Spitzer’s barns and silo were situated about 50 yards off Spitzer Road on the right, with Spitzer’s old, wooden-sided farmhouse another fifty yards past the barns on the hill and off to the left. The old man’s pastures and crops across the road, which had been in Spitzer’s family since before the Civil War, ascended the rolling foothills rising towards the Blue Ridge Mountains. The sheriff noted the lack of grazing cattle and pulled up the driveway towards the barns.

He left his keys in the ignition after killing the engine and walked towards a Deere green tractor with a pair of knee-high, manure-covered boots poking out the ground beneath it.

How’s it going there, Arch? the sheriff asked while removing his aviator sunglasses and his hat, holding the hat at his side with his right hand.

Just a bit of tinkering, sheriff, no crimes being committed here. Archibald Spitzer pulled himself out from under the tractor and got onto his feet, wiping his grease-covered hands on a red bandana pulled from the back pocket of his equally greasy pants. I would shake your hand, sheriff, but I don’t want to dirty up that pretty costume of yers the old man said as he wiped his brow with the red bandana, streaking a thin line of grease across his forehead.

"That’s