The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “My, what a strong grip,” he shouted as if addressing a room full of people, “but then again, you’ve got me beat by three thousand years. Ha, strapping young lad.”

  “You’re…uh, three thousand years old?”

  “Give or take.” He smiled and motioned to my chair. His eyes gleamed at the tea service. “Ahh, English Breakfast—just like home. He slipped into the chair opposite mine, raised his cup and took a sip.

  I glanced about, examining the room for the butler. He was gone.

  As if by sleight of hand, a manila folder appeared in Sebastian’s lap. He placed his teacup on the table and opened the file. “Brooklyn Aaron Davis.” His eyes darted from the file to me. “B-A-D, BAD. Ha, what could your parents have possibly been thinking? Perhaps I’ll ask them.”

  “My mom and dad are here?”

  He didn’t answer my question, turning his attention back to the file, instead. “Most of the information here comes from Samantha. She’s kept a close watch over you—good woman, fine Guide. Let’s see,” he said leafing through the pages, “born in New York City, attended public schools, part-time jobs, blah, blah, blah—the usual stuff. Now then, joined the armed forces, special services, fought with distinction in battle…was captured, tortured, and escaped. Began a personal protection company—started it with practically nothing—”

  “Wrong,” I said tilting my head towards the file. “Does it say anything about Uncle Sam’s guilt offering? Money heals all wounds—at least it does in the US.”

  “Be that as it may, your company is now one of the most respected security firms in the world. Well,” he said with a chortle, “It was until yesterday.”

  It would have been so easy to teach this English ‘gentleman’ some manners, but I held back. “Now look, Sam told me this was The House of Questions. Well, I’ve got a few—”

  “Sam? Oh, of course, Samantha. All in good time, my son, all in good time. We haven’t finished discussing your state of affairs yet. You see, since coming through the Portal—”

  “The Portal?” I said. Sebastian glanced at me. I glared back. “Did you just call me son?”

  His brow furrowed, eyes squinting, speaking each syllable in a slow cadence, “Since your death…things have been quite—how shall I put it—different?”

  “You got that right—how do you think I feel? One minute I’m alive and well, and the next, I’m standing in an overcrowded city with Samantha…someone who says she’s my guide. Talk about different.”

  “Yes, well, that’s just the point. Before your arrival, things weren’t so…overcrowded.” He took another sip of tea, eased the cup down on the table and stood. Strolling toward the fireplace, he put his hands on the mantle and bowed his head, taking a quick series of breaths, as if panting.

  “Are you okay?” I stood up, searching for a telephone. “Do you need to take a pill or something?” After all, he was three thousand years old. “Where’s your medication?”

  “Oh, my boy, this is exactly what I told them.” With a sudden turn he sprang away from the mantel, took three quick steps toward me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You were born to help—to improve the world. It’s in your DNA. And no, I don’t take medicine. I’m as fit as a man half my age.”

  “That would still make you fifteen hundred years old.”

  “And half that, and half that, and so on, you understand.” His face brightened. “Oh, I knew I could count on you.”

  “Count on me for what?”

  He motioned toward the chairs and we both sat. Lifting his teacup, he pushed his pinky out, and took a sip. “Why, we’re counting on you to help, of course. You see, this concerns the man you were protecting at…well, at the end—Doctor Anwar Knight, a good man to be sure. When the bomb exploded in the arena, twenty thousand people were killed—vaporized, as it were. Messy business, but there you have it.”

  My guts cramped. “I had no idea so many people…”

  “But wait, there’s more,” he said, as if he were a television pitchman. “Many terrorist groups took credit for the bombing, if “credit” for that type of thing can ever be the correct terminology. Your American President—quite an odd man—made the decision to immediately retaliate. He truly believed it was the right thing to do.”

  “Who was responsible for the explosion?” He flat out ignored my question. Maybe he didn’t know—maybe it didn’t matter. In any case, he could have at least acknowledged my asking. This was, after all, The House of Questions.

  “Your president held an emergency press conference, telling the world he knew who was responsible for the bombing. He didn’t, of course. He simply selected a group at random from the list of usual suspects, and well…he pressed the button.”

  “The button?”

  Sebastian raised his eyebrows, took a sip of tea, and nodded. The fire crackled and the grandfather clock clonged seven am. He eased his cup back on the table. “Yes, Brooks, the button—a nuclear response.”

  I couldn’t speak. Yes, the president was considered a “hothead,” someone capable of overreacting—

  “But wait, there’s more. It seems an interested third party sent a salvo of missiles toward Washington D.C., thinking it was the perfect opportunity to launch a quick strike. Well, as you can imagine, one thing led to another, and before you know it…”

  His voice trailed off, so I helped guide him back on course. “Before you know it, what?”

  He stood and waggled his hand, a signal for me to follow. We marched to the window where he drew back the enormous blackout shades. I glanced down at the porch where Samantha sat on a swing. I scanned the avenue, then gazed to the left and right. The sudden magnitude of Sebastian’s words became clear. Millions of people trudged along the boulevard in an endless stream of souls. Like overrun banks of a river, people spilled out onto the sidewalks and into cross streets, flowing along without purpose, without end—

  “What you see are lost souls, my son.”

  “Dead people?”

  “Quite so.” Sebastian turned to me. “There’s simply no room for them. Mr. Davis, to be perfectly honest, we’re not yet capable of accommodating the entire population of earth—seven billion souls—not the way everybody just showed up all at once” —he snapped his fingers— “just like that. We normally accept people as they die, a little here, a little there, you know, as nature intends. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I staggered away from the window and dropped into my chair, my breathing labored. “Is everybody on earth dead?”

  “Well, technically no, not everyone. A few survived. Your American President and his military advisors took refuge in underground shelters designed to withstand the coming nuclear winter. The same is true of most other first-world leaders. And small pockets of survivalists—whoops, I believe they’re called preppers now—sealed themselves up in bunkers stocked with all the dried food they think they can stomach. We’ll see how long they last after a few months of dehydrated lasagna. Just add water—yuk.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke to you?”

  “A joke? No, most assuredly not. This is the furthest thing from a joke. Why, do you think it’s a joke?” His face grew red. I must have pushed one of his buttons. “You certainly have pushed one of my buttons. But, we can’t panic. We mustn’t sulk. Chin up. We have a situation to deal with as best we can, and deal with it we shall. Keep in mind, we’ll soon have more than seven billion guests requiring immediate assistance—processing, housing, final determinations…that’s where you come in.”

  “Me?” The word shot from my mouth.

  “Relax, Brooks, and let me explain. When people on earth die, they travel through a Portal and arrive here. Thank God for that! There’s quite a traffic jam in the Portal at the present time, like the M25 on a Friday night, otherwise we’d be doomed. You came through on the first wave, but the numbers are growing exponentially with each passing hour.” He glanced long and hard at the grandfather clock. “Yes, well, we’re near
ly overrun here as it is.”

  “Here?” Finally. “Is this heaven?”

  He scoffed at my question. “You always want this to be heaven, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He growled, a low murmur in his throat I don’t think he intended for my ears. “Simply put, no, this is not heaven.”

  Surely there had to be more to it than that. “Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not following.” He raised his eyebrows. I took that as a sign to continue. “I always thought that when I died, I’d either go up to the Pearly Gates or down to the fiery pits. Since I don’t see any flames, except for the ones in your fireplace, I’ll assume this isn’t Hell. So, if this isn’t Hell, it has to be heaven.”

  “Ah, human logic—perfectly flawed. No, this isn’t heaven, far from it.” Again, a clipped answer. “Look, you didn’t believe in heaven when you were alive, but, like so many others, you hoped against Hell. You simply weren’t sure, am I correct?”

  To the letter. “It’s not that I don’t believe in a God, or a higher power, or whatever you want to call him, or her, or it—I just have my doubts. For instance, with all the wars, crime, and poverty in the world—I just find it hard to imagine a loving God would allow for that.”

  Sebastian leaned forward and whispered, “Since war, crime, and poverty are caused by humans, why do you want God to fix it? Why can’t you people clean up after yourselves?”

  “What do you mean by that? Who the hell are you?”

  “Me? Why, I’m the Director.”

  “So, you’re the one in charge of everything?”

  “Ridiculous assumption. I’ve held this job faithfully for all these years, and—”

  “Let me rephrase that—who died and put you in charge?”

  “I…I can’t remember. I was simply chosen. Why do you ask?”

  “Because. There’s got to be a reason. A reason for everything. Otherwise…”

  “Yes? Otherwise, what?”

  I couldn’t answer him.

  “Ah-ha,” he shouted, “silence in the face of the unexplained is always the best answer.” He beamed. “It’s that sort of outlook that just may save us.”

  Save us? Save us from what…and who was us? I had to regroup and get back to my original question, “So what is this place then? Where am I?”

  Sebastian sat back and took another sip of tea. He smiled. “Everybody—every single person on earth who dies comes here. This is neither Heaven nor Hell.”

  “A sort of Purgatory then, like a way station—”

  “Hollywood nonsense. This is not where humans come to be judged. This is simply the place humans come to when their life is over—period. It’s called After World. From here, each person decides their own fate—to wait and speak to St. Peter for admittance to Heaven or not. Free will is in effect at all times. The choice is theirs.”

  Perspiration coated my brow. “What about those who don’t believe in a Heaven?”

  Sebastian mocked my question. “Well, they’d better get on board rather quickly then, wouldn’t you think?” He grinned. “I mean, it’s right next door, and the gates are always open—twenty-four, seven.”

  “I’m confused. If the gates are always open, why doesn’t everyone just rush in?”

  His smile gave way to a small chuckle. “There’s a queue, isn’t there? Stretching for miles. All those wishing to enter must wait their turn. Unfortunately, each individual gets only one opportunity to request admittance. If turned away, well, their fate is sealed.”

  “Why are they turned away,” I said, “are they sinners?”

  Sebastian’s laugh filled the room—a joyous noise, almost musical. The sound vibrated through my bones, not an altogether unpleasant sensation. “Brooks,” he said, “there is no one without sin. It’s in your nature—you can’t help it. That’s the way you were created.”

  “So, by that logic, no one gets into heaven.”

  “Listen to me very carefully. You may not be able to inherit the kingdom as a sinner, but you can certainly find peace behind its gates. You see, it isn’t the sin you carry that keeps you out, rather, the sin you’ve shed that allows you in. Of course, there are many who simply choose not to seek entry at all. More’s the pity, but it’s their choice then, isn’t it?”

  “So, what happens to the ones who are turned away, or those who don’t even try to get in? Do they go to Hell?”

  Another puzzled expression crossed Sebastian’s face. “You’re obsessed with this place called Hell, aren’t you? Fire and brimstone, and all that. Sorry to disappoint, but no, they don’t go to Hell. They remain here for as long as they wish. They become the shopkeepers, the architects, builders, bakers, tailors—in short, they are the citizens of After World.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” I said watching him nod, a twinkle flickering in his eye as if he anticipated what I would ask. Perhaps he did. Maybe, instead of just reading my thoughts, he truly was inside my head. “If I choose to stay here and I order a pizza one night, the delivery guy that shows up at the door with my pepperoni and cheese could very well be Adolf Hitler?”

  “Ha. Fear not, for there is indeed a sort of Hell. It’s called The Abyss. But it’s reserved for only the very worst of the lot. Alas, there are more of those than I care to admit. Rest assured, however, no innocent victims are sent to The Abyss. With that said, I must inform you there are criminals living amongst us here—thieves, bullies, and yes, even murderers.”

  “You let murderers stay here?”

  He cocked his head. “And why not? Wasn’t Moses a murderer? And I’ll assume you’ve heard of King David, yes?”

  “Well, sure, but they changed—”

  “Exactly.” He stood, displaying the agility of a much younger man. “Redemption changes everything, but we’ve got to stop there. We could discuss the ins and outs of our kingdom from now until…well, until kingdom come. And it’s been enjoyable, I always relish your questions, I truly do. But time is short and we have a problem to solve, you and I. An overcrowding problem that requires our immediate consideration.”

  I would rather have remained on the hereafter topic, but Sebastian’s demeanor was set. I nodded. “Go on.”

  “What I’m about to say may sound a bit…strange—”

  “Everything you’ve said has sounded strange, so I don’t think anything you say now would surprise me.”

  With a grin, he said, “I’m going to resurrect you, send you back in time and back to earth, to change history.”

  “Wait…what?”

  V

  My skin turned to ice. Not the kind of chill I get when I’m miles away from home and wonder if I’ve left the oven on. This was pure frostbite, the kind of freeze that comes from someone pointing a gun at my face. His words flew through my head, looking for a place to land. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

  “Don’t worry, my son, we’ve done it before,” Sebastian said, his manner casual, voice calm. “Trust me. It’s a thing that really can be done—there’s no danger to you.” His eyes moved up and slightly to the right, indicating his statement was less than truthful.

  I reached down deep and found the part of me that had learned to survive when threatened—the part that keeps going when others stop. “How many times have you sent someone back to earth?” I fully expected him to say, “Oh, we’ve sent thousands back—millions in fact. We do it all the time. Why it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  Instead…

  A log in the fireplace popped. The grandfather clock sprang to life. Clong. He had plenty of time to answer the question I asked. He didn’t. He waited. Time passed. Clong.

  Vibrations from the huge clock grew, spreading like ripples in an IPA brew. Clong. Sebastian held my gaze with dark, steady eyes, indicating a truthful answer this time. Clong. The clock shook my bones with its all-powerful beat. Shadows from the flames danced on the walls like creatures in heat. Clong. Sebastian grinned, at once in my head, at once of the d
ead. Clong. I no longer heard the grandfather chime but felt it inside me. Clong. I needed an answer, so I asked again, “How many times have you”—Clong—“sent someone back?”

  “We’ve sent four people back.”

  The number slapped me full in the face with the final Clong of the grandfather clock, wrenching me out of its hypnotic spell. Of the billions and billions of people who had ever lived and died since the beginning of time, Sebastian had only sent four back to earth. “Why…so…few?”

  “My dear sir,” he said with a scoff, “resurrecting a soul, reversing time, and returning that soul to earth takes an enormous amount of quantum energy, more than you can imagine.”

  I hadn’t breathed in who knows how long, so I overcompensated with a forced gulp of air. “Who were they?”

  “Oh, what does it matter who, or why, the fact is—”

  “It does matter—it matters to me. Tell me about them.”

  Sebastian paused, like he weighed my need to know with his willingness to tell. He finally nodded. “Very well. I suppose you’ve earned the right to hear about the others, but we’ve got to make it quick this time.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean by this time.”

  He drew in a deep breath and snubbed my question. “The first person we resurrected and sent back to earth was Judas Iscariot, the man who betrayed a simple carpenter with a kiss. Who better to send back for a “do-over” than the man who undoubtedly changed everything? I convinced him of the error of his ways and off he went. Of course, what we didn’t know at the time—what no one bothered to share—his act of deceit had been “scheduled” to occur since the beginning of time. Part of the grand plan—hard-wired and all that. So, once back on earth, he took his thirty pieces of silver, again, betrayed Jesus, again, and there you have it. The poor man had no choice but to act the part he’d been born to play. But, that little setback did not deter our attempts at bettering mankind. If anything, we became even more resolute.”

  “We?”

  Sebastian stood and paced to the mantle, once again ignoring my question. “The second person we sent back to earth…now there’s a story…ah, the lives we could have saved.” He remained silent, gazing into the flames.