Angels Among Us

By D.H.Irving

“You’ve got this.”

These words greeted the young man as he slowly peeked his head into the large, nearly empty room. Forty feet long by forty feet wide, the room itself was nothing short of an exercise in sterility. White walls, white floors and bare florescent tubing housed in long tin fixtures lit the room in a cool pale brilliance that lent more to the feeling of a surgical setting than the interview that he had been summoned to partake in.

Stark and empty, there were no chairs or desks, nor couches or benches in which to sit. In fact, the room’s only other occupant was an older man dressed in a pristine white lab coat who smiled patiently behind a pair of gold rimmed glasses as he waited for the new arrival to finish his entrance. Bald beyond a small ring of white hair that crowned his head, the interviewer stood in the center of the room and in his hands held a small, clear clipboard containing a few dozen pieces of plain white paper. The source of the gentle yet reassuring voice that had greeted him upon opening the door, the interviewer beckoned the younger man closer and offered another polite, reassuring smile.

“Come now,” He began, glancing down at the clipboard and the notes jotted upon it. “I’m afraid we’re already running behind, and time is of the essence.”

Stepping fully into the room and allowing the door to close gently behind him, the younger man hastened his pace as he apprehensively glanced around the vast, blank sea of nothing that he found himself now shuffling across. Skinny by any standard, but seemingly more so as his head was dwarfed by a pair of large round glasses, he ran a hand through a patch of dirty blond hair and tried to stand as tall and as straight as nervously possible as he presented himself to the older man. There was a mixture of disbelief paired with uncertainty that gave the impression of cautious confusion.

“Please state your name for verification.” The older man ordered with practiced ease.

“Henry.” Came the reply. “Henry Bowman.”

Nodding his approval, the interviewer made a show of reading over the page before him, only occasionally glancing up through his glasses at Henry as if he were silently checking off a list of facts about the man.

Henry Bowman, twenty-six. He read to himself, noting that the younger man did indeed appear to be of that age. And from Warm River Idaho of all places. He mused.

“Don’t be nervous, Henry.” He soothed as he spoke. “You’ve got this.” He tried to sound as comforting as possible, but given the stark surroundings, he deduced that his attempts likely fall flat.

Indeed, he was correct. If anything, Henry seemed to tense at the words, his eyes darting here and there before resting on the wall at the far end of the room. It took him only a moment to realize that the wall was not actually a wall, but a large set of canvas curtains the same color and shade as the surrounding room. Hung over a series of hidden pulleys covered by the cloth, he noted a long, white, braided cord that hung almost invisibly to one side. This was most certainly the device that would be used to reveal the secrets lurking behind the fabric blinds.

“Ahh, right to business I see.”  The interviewer observed, trying his best to sound as friendly as possible. The words, having the desired effect elicited a slight, shy smile from Henry. “Have they explained to you why you are here?” He asked, the question punctuated with a smattering of hope.

“They did, but - ” Henry hesitated in his reply, his eyes moving from the far end of the room back to the older man before him.

“But you aren’t certain that any of this is real.” He surmised, once again nodding in understanding. “You’re unsure if you can believe what they told you. It seems too impossible, too fantastic, and you probably suspect that you’re being set up for some sort of elaborate prank.” It wasn’t a question so much as a perfect summary of Henry’s thoughts.

Henry’s smile widened in anticipation of his suspicions being verified.

The interviewer sighed softly and shook his head. “I’m afraid that this is no joke my dear boy.” Glancing down at the clipboard once again. “What lies beyond that canvas is very real.” He explained, his gentle voice taking on the slightest hint of a hardened edge.

“I’m sorry.” Henry laughed uncertainly. “Who are you?”

The older man smiled. “You can consider me your guide. A mentor of sorts, if you will.”

“And you are asking me to believe, that behind that curtain is…”

“Heaven. Yes.”

“Heaven.” Henry repeated.

“Well, a gateway to Heaven to be more precise.” The interviewer mused. “Some among us have taken to calling them the Pearly Gates.”

“The Pearly Gates. The doorway to Heaven itself.”

“Yes.”

“And you are absolutely serious.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Turning his entire body to face the far end of the room, Henry leaned forward slightly and squinted, before taking a step back to fully face the older man. His expression still held the hopes of humor, but the confusion that had been creeping in earlier was now winning the race by a mile. “I don’t understand.” He admitted. “How can any of this be real? And if it is, why hasn’t it been on the news? Online?”

Still pretending to read the information on the papers laid out before him Henry’s self-appointed mentor gave a non-committal shrug. “The gates were discovered a little over a decade ago. How or why they have manifested on Earth, we haven’t the foggiest. But what we do know is that they are indeed very real, as are the instructions that came with them.”

“Instructions.”

“As for why you haven’t heard of them,” The interviewer continued briefly meeting Henry’s gaze. “Haven’t you noticed how hopeless everything has seemed as of late? How dire and bleak existence has become?” He supplied, expecting no answer. “Social media, violence, hatred, all of the negative and truly vile people that have been running amuck, and all but lauded for their crimes?”

“Well, it has been pretty bad since the lock down.” Henry offered in way of explanation.

The interviewer waved a dismissing hand. “Covid-19 was merely another push towards the raggedy edge. Society was becoming this well before that particular virus swept the world. We have been on the brink of destruction for far too long, and now I’m afraid, it is only going to get worse.”

“Get worse?” Henry questioned, adjusting his glasses in concern. “How so?”

“Oh, I haven’t a clue.” The interviewer quickly admitted. “But it seems likely, doesn’t it? In this, our darkest hour, the gates to Heaven itself would appear? The implication alone teeters on hopelessness. If these gates are real, what else is coming for mankind? Revelations perhaps? Hell on Earth? Humanity falling to its own folly, led astray by demonic forces that whisper in our ears and guide us in our own destruction?” He hadn’t meant to go down that particular rabbit hole, but the allusions were truly horrifying.

“I’m sorry.” Henry shook his head in an attempt to shoo away the glut of images that were now flooding his thoughts. “Where exactly do I fit in?” His voice cracked with worry.

The interviewer smiled, hope in his eyes. “When the gates were initially discovered, some were foolish enough to attempt to enter the Kingdom of Heaven on their own volition. It did not go…well for them.” He gestured to something on the clipboard that Henry could not see. “It was only after we managed to translate the inscriptions, did we realize what they had done wrong.”

“Inscriptions?”

His self appointed mentor raised a shoulder in amendment. “They were more, instructions, really. Written in a language similar to our ancient Sumerian. Enochian is the closest explanation that any of us have, and even that is nothing more than a rudimentary simplification. In fact, it took our Artificial Intelligence systems years to decode and understand any of it.” He glanced up again, a glimmer of amusement shinning behind his gold rimmed glasses. “Just between you and I, we even farmed a bit of it out to the internet in hopes of some bored savant deciphering its meaning by chance.”

“Wait.” Henry held up a hand. “Is that why everyone has been talking so much about Artificial Intelligence lately?” He asked in awe.

The interviewer nodded in affirmation. “Accidental and quite unintentional, but yes, that was us.” There was almost a sliver of pride to the confession.

Henry stole a quick glance back to the canvas, his expression darkening.

“I still don’t understand why I’m here.” He admitted in soft confusion.

A true, appreciative smile spanned the interviewer’s features and all but lit up the already brightly illuminated room. “Because Mr. Bowman.” He paused as he allowed himself a moment to bask in a moment of true hopeful joy. “Out of the billions of people that inhabit this world, there are but a handful that we believe meet the requirements to open the gates, as so the translation states. These few, rare, perfect beings will then be able to release into the world the forces of good to battle the evils around us.” His voice swelled as he spoke. “You, Henry Bowman are one of those people.”

Henry took a blinking step back, physically recoiling in both shock and disbelief. “Me?” He scoffed. “I’m just a schoolteacher.” He shook his head in denial. “You have the wrong man.”

The interviewer looked down at his notes, the smile fading into logic as his voice took on a clinical calm. “Henry Theodore Bowman. Age twenty-six. Never married. Parents Alan and Barabara Bowman, decease.” He recited. “You currently teach second grade English at St. Mary’s School for Disadvantaged Children, and you volunteer at not one, but three separate soup kitchens and homeless shelters in the greater Idaho area.” Looking up from the paper, he reasserted his findings. “Simply put Henry, you are a truly good man.”

Henry’s mouth hung open slightly, before quietly repeating himself. “But, I’m just me.”

Kind, giving and humble. Henry was perfect. He had to be the one.

“You’ve got this.” The interviewer repeated with true sincerity as placing a gentle, comforting hand on Henry’s shoulder as he spoke.

Tears threatened to fill Henry’s eyes as the young man took in the words of his new mentor. He was a good man; he had prided himself on his virtue. And now, because of his devotion to mankind, he had been chosen out of billions on this earth, by God Himself.

“Ready to save the world Henry?” The interviewer asked, his own tears beginning to brim.

“What do I have to do?” Henry replied, his voice now stronger. Strengthened. Emboldened by his own resolve, and the faith that this man had placed in him.

Side by side the two men walked the length of the wide, open room until they found themselves standing before the enshrouded gates; the heavy canvas cloth the only barrier between man and God. Reaching for the long, braided cord, the interviewer gave a sudden, sharp tug and the curtains swiftly parted. Silenced by awe, they now stood in front of the gates of Heaven.

Twenty feet high and wrought of the purest gold, the sensation of peace and hope that washed over Henry was almost overwhelming. His eyes had teared before, but he now found himself openly weeping at their beauty. The golden metal seemed to shine and glow with a life of its own, blinding him with not just their light and glory, but with radiant beams born of pure, unadulterated love.

Henry turned, unseeing to the interviewer, his cheeks wet with his tears. “I can feel him.” He wept joyfully.

The interviewer found himself overwhelmed by the man’s response. “Feel who?” He asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Him.” Henry laughed through his tears. “God.”

The interviewer found himself suddenly alone, as without instruction, Henry stepped forward, his eyes bright with faith. The glowing inscriptions seemed to double in their heavenly brilliance as he instinctively reached forward, his hand enclosing around the gate’s curved, ornately designed handle.

Looking back over his shoulder, Henry paused and smiled, mouthing two inaudible words: Thank you.

Faith bolstered by his love for his fellow man, Henry turned his wrist and opened the gate.

Almost instantly the young man’s skin began to blister and blacken as his flesh popped and bubbled like hot cheese on freshly made pizza. Throwing his head back in a silent scream that from the twisted, tortured look upon his withering, blistered features could be nothing short of perpetual agony, Henry’s eyes exploded into founts of orange flame that erupted suddenly from every orifice, lighting his head like some sort of macabre Halloween pumpkin set afire in an inferno of indescribable suffering.

And then, there was nothing.

No corpse, no ash, not even the fine black soot left behind by the cruel scorching of impossibly hot, supernatural flame. Henry Theodore Bowman was simply gone; unmade, presumably, by the very hand that had made him.

The interviewer frowned, swearing under his breath as he screwed his lips into a grimace of disappointment.

“Nuts.” He cursed as he stared at the golden gates as the softly swung shut, before latching closed once again, their otherworldly glow dimming considerable. Grumbling to himself, the interviewer stepped forward, careful to avoid touching the gate, and roughly yanked on the silken cord that had opened the canvas curtain. As swiftly as they had opened, the curtains collapsed upon themselves and closed, obscuring the gates from view.

 With an exaggerated, annoyed sigh he raised his head towards the ceiling in defeat and let out a long, anguished groan, cursing his luck.

“Send in the next one.” The man droned as he began his journey back towards the center of the room where he had first met Henry. Flipping to the next page on his clipboard as he stomped his feet in a tiny micro-tantrum of frustration, he quickly skimmed the notes in hopes that the next candidate would be more deserving than the last.

A moment later the doorway that the late Henry Bowman, the presumed savior of humanity had only minutes ago graced with his presence cracked open as a young, nervous woman slowly and timidly peeked her head inside. Eyes wide in apprehension, she allowed her shoulder to lead the rest of her body into the room as she cautiously took in the chamber, her bright blue eyes falling to the distant curtains.

The interviewer was surprised to find himself smiling as he glanced down at his clipboard, as he once again read through the notations.

She was perfect.

She had to be the one.

Noting her anxious gait and skittish demeanor, the interviewer took a steadying breath and offered the woman a genuine, appreciative smile.

“You’ve got this.”