Pantheocide

Chapter Sixty Six

Sampson Household, Sapulpa, Oklahoma, USA

“The following news items contains images and stories that some viewers may find distressing. Viewer discretion is therefore advised. Nikole, are you there?” The news broadcast cut away from the studio into a scene that, from its clear white light, should have been Heaven. Only, the sight of the walled enclosure and the vile, filth-drenched mud of the ground seemed more like Hell than Heaven. The wailing from the crippled inhabitants of the camp made the situation even more confused. John Sampson had spent most of his life as a fairly observant Episcopalian but he was sure that he had never heard of anything like this in Heaven. In the background, a large group of humans were trying to lift an angel out of the mud and load the victim on to a tank transporter so it could be moved away from the scene. For a brief second, the sounds of the camp were drowned out by a Mi-26 helicopter flying overhead, carrying another angel as a slung load. Then the pitiful sounds of the camp returned, the contrast with the roar of the helicopter engines making them even more plaintive.

“Hello, Anita? Good to hear from you.” She turned slightly and faced the camera rather than the monitor off to her left. “This is Nikole Killion reporting from Heaven. Earlier today, the Spearhead Battalion of the Third Armored Division overran this concentration camp, here, in Heaven. Ladies and gentlemen, I spent six months in Hell as your assigned correspondent there. I saw many things in Hell, some too dreadful ever to put on television. I saw our tortured dead being retrieved from the Hellpit. I saw battlefields where the mangled corpses of the daemons who died trying to fight our tanks with bronze tridents covered mile after mile. I saw more than I ever wanted to of horror in Hell but I saw other things as well. I saw our humanity as we succored those in need, I saw the tenderness and compassion of our troops as they treated the crippled and wounded. And I saw the guilt of the daemons themselves as the evil influence of Satan faded and they realized the error of their ways. I saw their joy when the realized the weight of oppression was lifted from them. But never did I see in Hell anything like the scenes I have witnessed here today.”

Behind the camera Killion saw the producer made the traditional ‘you’re laying it on too thick’ sign. Before she could resume though, there was a dreadful scream from behind her. The angel had been lifted on to a cargo palette so that it could be moved more easily but one of its broken wings had caught the edge and been twisted around. Undoubtedly the bones had grated against each other to produce that scream of pain. Killion glanced again at the producer and got a ‘forget it, you were right’ sign.

“This concentration camp is something beyond our understanding. The Armenian Massacres, Auschwitz and the rest of the Holocaust, the Rwanda Massacres, the Hellpit, all of those were executed by one group oppressing another. That isn’t an excuse for them of course but it highlights the fact that this place is different. The only thing that separates the angels in this camp from the rest is that these ones didn’t quite agree with everything Yahweh said. For that one crime, they ended up here, their wings, and in many cases their legs, broken beyond repair. The doctors here have told me they will do what they can but these are the worst bone injuries they have ever seen. Colonel Keisha Stevenson, commander of the Spearhead Battalion, has spared a few minutes of her time to speak with us. Colonel, what is happening right now.”

“Hokay, Nikole. Our first priority is to get the victims in this place out. I’ll be honest with you, some of these angels are not going to make it. The least we can do is get them out of here so they can die in more comfortable circumstances. We’ve got a hospice area set up a mile or so away, we’re moving the beyond-hope ones there and doping them up with morphine so their final hours will be as pain-free and pleasant as possible. The rest, we’re trying to get to hospitals on Earth. It’s triage I’m afraid, separating those who can be saved from those who cannot. The worst duty of any doctor tasked with handling a major disaster has to face.”

Across the bottom of the television screen, a message bar started to roll. It was an appeal for assistance in handling the unfolding disaster. One of many such appeals that had been launched ever since the Salvation War had started. John Sampson looked at his wife, Ellen, and exchanged nods. They didn’t have much left but they’d send a little money to help.

“Colonel, have we any idea who was responsible for this horror?” Killion was having trouble keeping her voice level.

“We do. The orders came from Yahweh himself. We have them exactly. ‘ For defying My Eternal Will they should suffer the agonies of Hell for all eternity. I decree eternal damnation for them with all the suffering that their vile treachery deserves.’ And those orders were issued to the commandant of this camp, the daemon Grand Duke Belial.”

“Belial?” Killion could barely believe it and her voice rose uncontrolled. “Belial ran this camp? The one who was responsible for Sheffield and Detroit? What connection does he have with Yahweh?”

“Appears to work for him. And be Satan’s replacement. Of course, since he seems to have been appointed Satan’s replacement by Yahweh, well, it makes us think right? The guards here are nobodies, lowest rank angels. Hierarchy is pretty strong here in Heaven and the lowest ranks of angels are pretty much servants of the higher ranks. That’s what the lan in their names means. ‘Servant of’. From what we can see, the prisoners here are all middle rank angels so the guards took their millennia of servitude out on them.”

“What happened to Belial? Is he in custody?”

“No such luck Nikole. He portalled out as soon as we appeared. Probably went to Earth and then back to either here or somewhere in Hell. We’ll get him in the end.”

“So Yahweh is directly responsible for all of this.” Killion shook her head. “Where do we go from here?”

“Hokay, here, we need help, need it bad. A single combined arms battalion and a med unit aren’t nearly enough. We’re not trained for it, we’re not equipped for it. We need disaster relief specialists right away. For the Spearhead battalion? We gotta job to do over in the Eternal City. There’s folks that need rescuing over there.”

“Humans or angels?” Killion couldn’t help asking.

Stevenson looked around at the scene surrounding them. “Both, I guess.”

Welfare and Assistance Group, Phelan Plain, Hell.

The queue at the camp was endless, as quickly as those at the head could be processed, others arrived and joined the tail. Once people had been reborn as second lifers or rescued from the Hellpit they had been taken through the identification and induction formalities at the initial reception center. Some who came through the gate had already restructured their finances to allow themselves to continue with their existing assets in the second life. They could leave right away, either to the areas run by their own country or to one of the new mini-states that were proliferating across human-occupied Hell. Others had not had that chance and many, many more, especially the refugees from the hellpit had nothing to start with. And so they came here, reborn or recovered, to get some help easing into what was rapidly becoming the most aggressive free market economy in history. Making sure that they had a fair deal and the best start possible was the duty of the Welfare and Assistance Section.

For a peculiar complex of reasons, Australia had been uniquely placed to fill a gap. Its primary industries were now in overdrive to provide raw materials and refining for the growth of the world’s armies and that had caused its unemployment rate had dropped to levels unseen since World War Two. This slump in demand for welfare and assistance had combined with their existing agency’s experience in operating a large and complex welfare system to give them the experience they needed. Add in disaster and crisis response and the fact that Australia had not yet been and was not likely to be a target for a major attack had made them the ideal choice to lead the new multinational welfare organization.

The past year had been a hectic one for Donald Weems. He’d been heading up what he now knew to be a Yah-Yah enhanced cyclone response task force in Queensland, arranging emergency finance, fast-tracking new identification and legal documents for those who had lost them, managing emergency housing as well as dealing with all of the standard welfare agency issues that the affected population had when the call had come through. Five hours later he’d been a QANTAS 747-400 Longreach to Leeds with two hundred staff, spending most of the flight on a conference call with the British welfare agencies, lawmakers and a gaggle of IT groups trying to figure out how to integrate everyone. They’d barely gotten the mess of bureaucracy and technology sorted out when Detroit had been hit and that had been even more of a mess due to the strange idiosyncrasies of the US social security system.

Then the Plateau of Minos reception point had been taken by the H.E.A., where it quickly became clear that the military was not capable, nor motivated to run that service into the future. The announcement had been made that a new second life welfare agency was being created to supplement and eventually replace the military-run holding and recovery facilities. Funding was a nightmare, not least because of certain elements had started raging about “welfare succubae”. Eventually, it had become clear that there were significant savings being made from retirement and old age pensions funds. People were beginning to realize that there was no real point in suffering through a painfully terminal illness when a new life and body were waiting for them ‘the other side’. Earthside medical costs were already falling as terminal care was made obsolete by the escalating suicide rate. Several countries were already discussing the legalization of euthanasia. The savings that would bring would allow the Welfare and Assistance Group to function in the interim from existing budgets. At least until a revenue stream from Hell could be established.

It had been eighteen months or more since he had taken over the operations at the camp, and progress was being made rapidly. The tent city that had been the symbol of the reception camps was being slowly replaced by Dongas, pre-fabricated dwellings designed for use at mining sites in the Australian desert, perfectly suited for use in hell. Schools, trade colleges and universities were opening to provide modern education and training. A massive hall had been constructed with the assistance of the New Roman Republic to act as a site for a career and job expo, where people could come and look at their options and be wooed by the ever increasing number of nations and corporations that required workers or citizens. Even sports and recreation facilities were now being built, the YMCA (the C now stood for Charitable) had twenty buildings either completed or nearing completion, the IOC had pitched in for the construction of an athletics ground and swimming facilities. Every attempt was being made to make the transition easier, lives better and help people become self sufficient in Hell.

For all the improvements and rose-tinted publicity though, the bread and butter of the job was still dealing with trauma, grief, shock and pain. For every former pensioner who had chosen to end their painful cancer-ridden life in favor of a healthy second life start or rich, dumb kid who’d wrapped their car around a tree and was now suing for early release of their trust fund as they’d never reach 21 years of age, he had a thousand who’s deaths from famine, disease and violence who required far more resources to support. The worst were the long-time Hell victims who needed constant support for weeks and even months on end from the team of psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, nurses, social workers and counsellors just to bring them to a level where they could begin the most basic human processes once more. Recently, the armies had started to establish their own facilities to care for their veterans but that left all too many others without a solid foundation for what promised to be a very long life.

The initial contact point was still manned around the clock, with each new arrival to the facility being processed and added to what was inevitably going to be the largest database of personal information in existence. If possible a brief interview would identify their needs, then they’d be assigned to housing. It never ceased to amaze him when he came into his office which overlooked the main waiting area at the contact point, the variety of humanity that was there. Queues of men and women of every race and age. Special areas where children from newborns to teenagers sat with nurses, social workers and other specialists as they waited to see if any family could be found to assist them. The processes that followed this initial contact were becoming increasingly complex as more and more options became available. He’d decided to make his task for the day to try and build a new streamlined framework to take into account all of the new resources. The phone on the desk rings, pulling his attention away from the mountains of briefing papers, tenders, proposals and financial data that awaited him. “Hi, Weems here. How can I-“

“How soon can you have a crisis response group ready to go?” The voice at the other end of the line was urgent and spoke with the tone that he’d learnt was unique to Colonel’s and above who needed to be heard*right now*.

“That’s a very open question. What kind of crisis? How many affected? First or second lifers? Where is it and…. sorry, who is this?”

“This is Colonel Paschal, Director of Operations for DIMO(N). We’re looking at way over fifteen thousand victims in a concentration camp environment. Hand your work over to your deputy, thin out your staff to the minimum needed and get the rest assembled for a quick move. We have a major disaster on hand and it’s a complicated scenario.”

“Complicated how?” Weems didn’t like being ordered around so abruptly but he’d learned that, here in Hell, the military forces had the upper hand and their brusque, terse approach to problems actually worked.

“Most of the victims are angels.”

Angelic Treatment Ward, Bethesda Naval Hospital, Bethesda, MD

“What is happening? Are we on Earth?” Maion spoke weakly. She was confused and bewildered by everything that had happened. The last thing she could clearly remember was the pain and filth of the prison she had been sent to. Then, the rest was a mixture of half-remembered scenes, flashing lights and humans everywhere. Humans who seemed to be in charge.

“We are. You are in a thing called a hospital, it’s where humans treat their sick and wounded. They call such people ‘patients’ and have people called ‘doctors’ and ‘nurses’ who look after them.” Lemuel paused and look rueful. “Don’t argue with them Maion, just do as they say. They get very angry if others try and interfere with them looking after their patients.”

Maion very carefully lifted her head and looked around. The movement attracted the attention of a human woman dressed in white with a name-tag reading “Grace” on it. She took a clipboard from somewhere and started writing down numbers from the equipment that surrounded Maion’s bed. “Well, Maion, how are we feeling today?”

“I can’t feel much at all.” Maion was slightly confused and also resentful. Humans were menial servants, that was how it had been all her life. The idea that one could address her, not just as an equal but as her superior, drove through the strange fog that filled Maion’s mind.

“I’m not surprised. We had to pump you full of morphine so you could recover. When did you become an addict by the way?”

“What?” Lemuel was shocked by the casual question.

“Don’t interrupt.” Grace snapped the response at him. “Maion, we ran an analysis panel on your blood, once you had enough to analyze that is, and that told us you were a heroin addict. A couple of cops we have helping out here told us where to look and we found the injection marks between your toes. That’s not a good idea by the way, you can get gangrene and lose your feet doing that.”

Maion was bewildered, she couldn’t understand a lot of what the nurse was saying and the fact that the humans had discovered her secret so easily shocked her.

“About two years, two and a half. At first it was just a bit of fun, it made parties so much better. Then, I found how bad it was if I didn’t get it. In the end, I had to work at the club to earn enough.” Maion cudgelled her brain, trying to remember what it was that she could say and what she had to keep secret. “Michael-Lan’s nightclub that is. I had to dance there and do other things, just to get my stuff. I’m sorry Lemuel, I wanted to tell you but I was ashamed.”

Lemuel moved closer to her and took her hand. Grace caught the action and smiled to herself, at least these two would help each other out. She’d seen enough addiction treatments to know that recovering from addiction was much easier if it was a joint affair. “Don’t be hard on her Lemuel, you’re an addict too.”

“What?” Lemuel was genuinely stunned by the offhand comment.

“We ran a panel on you too. You’ve been using opiates in small quantities for quite some time. You’re not hooked the way Maion is, but you’re an addict just the same. Kiddies, don’t mess with this stuff, it will really screw you up.”

“What?” Lemuel simply didn’t understand what was happening around him. He was out of his depth, flailing around in an effort to get his mind around the things he was learning.

“Say that once more and I’ll have you assigned to washing out bedpans.” Grace smiled to take the sting out of her words. “Look, we can handle this. It’s no big thing really. Anyway, Maion, don’t worry about this great lummox, we’ll take care of him as well. When we get time that is, we’re getting overworked with all the concentration camp victims coming back from Heaven. You’re not alone here any more, there are more than a dozen patients just like you here. Some of them worse. If it’s any consolation to you, everything we learned treating you is helping us look after them better.”

Maion lifted her head again and looked carefully around, feeling the strain on her neck and shoulders as she did so. There were three other angels in her ward, all surrounded by the same equipment as hers, all with human staff looking after them. She also saw her own wings stretched out within a wooden frame.

Grace caught her glance. “The surgeons operated on your wings. They managed to repair the damage to the bones between the joints. You’ve got titanium screws in there to hold the bones together. The joints? Well, they’ve done the best they can but the damage was very severe. We had experts come in from Ireland, that’s a place thousands of miles away, to help fix the damage but whether they did any good, we just don’t know.”

“Will I fly again?” Maion was almost desperate, trying to imagine a world when she couldn’t fly any time she wanted.

Grace hesitated. There were times to lie and times to tell the truth and it was hard to know which applied here. In the end she settled for the truth. “I don’t know, but the doctors think the chances are not good. We’re not quite sure how you fly, but the surgeons think those wing joints will be very stiff and hard to move, even when they’re healed. If they heal. That’s all for the future though, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.” She switched her attention to Lemuel. “As for you, you look pretty sick too. Lack of sleep, no food and withdrawal symptoms. Get some rest. That’s an order.”

There was a racking groan from the other end of the ward. One of the other angels was coming around. Grace reinserted the clipboard into its holder at the end of the bed and took off in the direction of the sound. Overhead, the roof of the tent shook as Bethesda’s Mi-26 brought another angel in for treatment.