Lies Wide Open: The Sentinel Saga, #1

By Daryl J. Koerth

After a near death experience and brief coma, a newly-disabled man is offered an astounding charge by God: the chance to become the Sentinel, the guardian of the truth about human history and spirituality.

 

Now he must learn some extremely odd capabilities: using his mind and his faith, he is able to travel around the world and through time. Unfortunately, he faces the mountainous task of identifying and countering five deadly adversaries.

 

Can he find them, and stop what's coming?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rockin' K Publishers LLC
• Release date: Sep 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986042367

Book preview

Prologue

The day I died was a major milestone for me.

I guess anyone could say that, but for me it wasn’t the end of the journey. It was the start of a brand new one. A journey so grand and fantastic I never could have imagined that it was real.

My name is Jimmy, and I am the Sentinel.

Hi there. That sounded much cooler in my head.

The Sentinel is not a title. It’s a function. It’s a thing some human being has to do. I’m not the first Sentinel, and I won’t be the last. My responsibilities as the Sentinel are pretty simple, on the surface. It’s my job to observe and catalog true history, and to preserve it in any way I can. There’s a lot more to it, but that’s the gist of it. Watch what actually happens, and preserve the tale for future generations.

Previous Sentinels wrote poems, or books, or songs. Some composed epics. Some were religious figures. Some were artists. You get the idea. Creative types with a voice and a platform. So...why me?

Well, I’m a writer and musician. I have a blog on the Internet. I’m nowhere near famous, mostly because I really don’t want the hassle. I also love history...and I’ve always had a deep suspicion that what we’re told about history – particularly our history – is a lie.

Yes, I’m a suspicious type. I don’t trust very easily...not people, anyway. That’s apparently one of the foremost reasons I was offered this task. I trust God and objective facts. In that order.

Another reason is my willingness to fight. Preserving the truth means much more than simply writing it down. The Sentinel is a Guardian and Custodian of Truth. I am a classically trained swordsman and am proficient in multiple forms of martial arts and many types of martial weaponry. To make it quite plain, I am absolutely lethal with just about anything that comes to hand, including my hands. Seriously. I’m not a killer, but I was trained as a soldier. If it comes down to it, and there is no other choice, I won’t hesitate to take a life in the service of my purpose.

It is important that I am explicitly clear here. Neither God nor myself are murderers, and the purpose of the Sentinel is neither mine nor God’s. The role of the Sentinel was born of humanity’s desire to write its own story, and is necessary to combat the corruption inherent to such a pursuit. The Sentinel is only one of several roles, all of which are connected. The Sentinel is, however, the only positive role. The other five work together against humanity and the Sentinel.

Constantly.

I’ll give you a third reason I was offered the role of the Sentinel, as unbelievable as it is (even to me).

Love.

No, I’m not a lovey-dovey, wishy-washy person who fawns over everyone he meets. Most people describe me as cold, calculating, and callous. I do, however, have a deep and abiding love for humanity. I believe in our potential. I’ve personally witnessed acts of kindness and compassion that brought me to tears. I’ve watched people give up their own lives to save others.

People have died to save me. It is a debt of selfless love I can never repay.

Hence, I am the Sentinel.

Chapter 1

The world’s been crazy since people took over.

This whole thing started for me when I saw the crazy happening in real time. I must say...it wasn’t nearly as shocking as you’d think. I’d been seeing it my whole life. I just hadn’t been paying enough attention to what came before and after.

I think most of us are like this. We notice the crazy, little bit by little bit, and we just accept the consequences rather than ask questions. We think it’s easier to give in than to ask hard questions and expose the full measure of crazy we’ve given ourselves over to. To be fair, we’re right. A slow painless death by small degrees is easier than standing up to a nameless, faceless fear and risking immediate, violent death. Remaining blind to the truth is easier than opening your eyes and considering the implications of swallowing a lifetime of lies.

It is easier. That’s the sad fact that’s been killing us since the dawn of time.

My responsibility as the Sentinel is to witness, record, and preserve the truth, so those lies – that do so much damage to humanity – can be countered at the right times, by the right people.

That in mind, I saw the crazy for what it is as the world was being driven toward war. Not just any war. The war. World War III. Nuclear winter. The end of all things. Needless to say, the notion that the people of the world were going to destroy themselves over a basket of lies scared the crap out of me. I was so overwhelmed by the truth of the situation it literally killed me. Imagine that both sides of a civil conflict are being lied to, pushed toward open war with each other while antagonizing a few different nuclear powers...and it’s only happening because of the lies. Moreover, one side of the argument is so dependent on the lies, so deeply indoctrinated, that they’ll believe anything they’re told as long as the right people tell them. Now imagine that the right people are the liars.

That’s the scenario. It’s ugly. The Cuban missile crisis was terrifying. This is worse. Constant uncertainty, every moment of the day and night, that could mean the end of the world. The most tense moments of the Cold War, back to back...for years. The rise of religious extremism. The engineered collapse of social structures and norms. Chaos in the economy. Intentional falsehoods in the news. A crashing job market. A constantly rising cost of living. An environment of mistrust and hate. All of it planned, engineered, and executed by a small group of psychopaths.

Sounds totally made up, right? Imagine that it’s totally real, and you get a peek behind the curtain. You see what’s really going on, and that there doesn’t seem to be a way to stop it. The whole world is marching toward Armageddon, and all you can do is watch.

Now you understand why I died. Think nonstop panic attack...for months. And it gets worse every day. The more you learn, the worse it gets...until….

...blackness.

You lay down for a nap and don’t wake up until days later in a hospital ICU. While you’re out, you get handed the loneliest, most insane opportunity to help humanity. Nobody will believe you. Nobody will understand. If you talk about it, you’ll be shunned. If you mention it to the wrong people you risk being locked up in a psych ward. Talk about a drag.

Oh, and did I mention that the opportunity is handed to you by a very grumpy old man?

Just wait. It gets so much better.

So, my afternoon nap turned into an afternoon fatality. It was totally unexpected and due to the most lame excuse for a cause of death you could imagine. My body ran out of energy. Sounds like a joke, but it’s not. My power plant ran out of fuel and shut down.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on top of a hill overlooking a glacially calm mountain lake in Alaska. There was an island in the middle of the lake, complete with a big log cabin. It looked, to me, like a great place to retire. It was peaceful, pleasantly cool in the sunshine, and wildly forested. It looked like the place was in the midst of an Alaskan summer. The whole scene was beautiful in a way that’s hard to describe.

That’s when the old man came out of the cabin, waved, and called to me. You get a good enough look, son? he asked with a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Come on down, and I’ll make us some coffee while you’re in the boat. He hobbled up to the cabin door before he turned around and shouted at me, Hey! You get mud in my boat and you get no coffee!

I had to smile. After I stopped myself from making a very uncomfortable tumble down the steep hillside, I picked my way down the hillside and to the lake shore as quickly as I could without being incautious, and found the little rowboat bumping gently against the muddy shore.

The old man himself had given me the clue I needed. I searched the treeline and found a small pile of evergreen branches. I laid them down to step on as I approached the boat, took my boots off, and got in. There were two oars in the boat, and they made the trip to the island a fast one. I tied off the boat at a small dock, got out, and put my boots back on. When I stood up and turned around, there was the old man, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. Right there. In my face. I hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of fabric to warn me.

I’ll never admit to jumping...but I did. Just a little.

The old man was the quintessential stereotype: gray hair, shuffling steps, gray whiskers on his face, a wrinkled visage, and sleepy eyes that nonetheless twinkled with a look of, I know you think you’re tough but I could still whoop you, boy. He even had that light, open-front sweater jacket. It was a little creepy. Also a little funny.

Before you ask, no. I didn’t dare laugh. I didn’t even crack a smile. Which was fortunate.

Welcome, Sentinel, the old man said. Welcome to your post.

Thunder rumbled loudly overhead, and the old man glanced up. Fine, he muttered. He looked back to me and handed me a mug of coffee as he said, We should talk inside. He led the way up to the cabin. I glanced up at the sky several times, but didn’t see anything. Who did he think he was talking to? Crazy old man.

We stepped inside the cabin and my jaw dropped a little. It was sparsely appointed, but well. Think comfort without a lot of stuff. There was no modern entertainment at all. No television, no game console, no movies, and no radio. Just a whole library of books and rolled-up scrolls. There were also some clay and stone tablets. It was a bit overwhelming for me. I felt like I was in the presence of history. I picked up what looked like a very old stick with lines carved into it.

Ogham sticks, supplied the old man. They belong to the ancient Celts.

So it was old. I hastily, and very carefully, put it back down exactly where I’d found it. Sorry, I said.

We reached the kitchen, and the old man finally stopped and put his coffee mug on the counter. I put down my own mug, looking around. Nothing electrical. A wood burning stove. Cast iron cookware. An old-style wash basin. Candles on the counters. In fact, there were candles all over the cabin. Aside a very few small differences, this cabin was straight out of the 18th century. It was amazing...and a little creepy.

What is this place? I asked. My heart rate had increased and the room had started to spin.

The old man’s grumpy expression softened just a touch, and he muttered, Well, that explains that. Sit down, son. Before you hurt yourself.

I sat down in a nearby chair at a small table and put my head in my hands. I closed my eyes. What was happening to me?

A sudden hard thunk a few moments later made me look up. My coffee mug sat in front of me on the hardwood table, still steaming. The old man slowly pulled out the chair across from me – the only other chair – and sat down. He sipped his coffee and stared at me shrewdly while I collected myself. I straightened up and leaned back in the chair, wrapping my hands gently around the scalding ceramic mug. The intense heat comforted me. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. The old man waited patiently, sipping his coffee and staring at me. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but I finally opened my eyes and asked, Who are you?

The old man set down his coffee mug and crossed his arms with a wry smile. I’m just a messenger, he said. My name and identity aren’t important. Let’s stay focused on you, shall we?

Fair enough, I responded and glanced around the cabin. There’s something...off...about this whole scenario. Where am I, and how did I get here?

The old man’s smile widened. I’m seeing why you were chosen, now, he said. That was quicker than the others.

I raised my eyebrows.

Let’s just get the obvious stuff out of the way, since you’ve already picked up on it, said the old man. This place – the lake, the island, the cabin – is real...but we’re not really here. This is a...well, think of it as a thought construct, a place to be while we talk. This place will be your new home, if you choose this path. I found it funny because you’re not much to look at, but you’ve got it where it counts. It took your predecessors hours to figure out that the coffee never cools or runs out, that I make no noise when I move, and that they weren’t delivered by chopper. You started figuring out all of it within moments...which means you already know how you got here.

I paused for only a moment, swallowing my fear. I couldn’t create a sophisticated thought construct with unknown and unfamiliar people and places. Which meant….

I’m dead, I said.

The old man actually chuckled, pointing at me. Good! he exclaimed. You’re able to admit hard truths! You’ll need that.

May I ask how?

I don’t know the particulars that led to it, beyond stress, he responded. However, your body ran out of thiamine and had no choice but to shut down. You went comatose during your nap until your brain could no longer function. Technically speaking, you’re dead but not irretrievable. Somebody could still figure out the problem and bring you back.

Will they? I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know.

That depends, replied the old man.

On?

On you, of course, said the old man with that knowing smirk.

Vague much? I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

The old man’s knowing smirk deepened. Human life is just about life, except for humans, he said. "For you, everything has to boil down to purpose. You’ve got to ask and answer the one pointless question: why. What you don’t realize is that there is no answer to that question. What is, is. Life exists because God said so. Period. The end. You made up a reason to exist when you were little, and you have now outlived that reason. I am here to offer you another. If you accept it, you will live. If not…." His voice trailed off and he looked around the cabin.

If not...what? I asked, my voice taking on an edge. The snarky, grumpy old man routine was way past amusing. I stay dead? I become a ghost? I go somewhere else and hang out for eternity? What comes next?

The old man stared hard at me, as though he were considering how much to say. His smile vanished instantly. I got a little twisty feeling in my gut, like I had accidentally crossed a very dangerous line. Sorry, I said. I shouldn’t have….

You just might make it, he said flatly. He was squinting his eyes, almost glaring, like a jeweler appraising a diamond to determine if it has just enough or too many inclusions. That look was distinctly uncomfortable. Although you have a bad habit of apologizing when you haven’t done anything.

I don’t understand, I said.

You’re about to, said the old man. This is going to be a little confusing and hard to hear at first, so I suggest you start drinking that coffee. It’s my own blend, and it’s meant to be comforting.

I took a long, slow sip of the coffee and felt myself relax. I decided to hold onto my little cup of liquid anxiety med. Might be helpful.

The first thing you need to understand is death, the old man said. "Like just about every part of the so-called human condition, death is a runaway thought experiment. The condition you call mortality wasn’t created by God. Life was created by God. Death was created by humanity. Read the first book of your Bible carefully. Humanity’s own fear of mortality brought it into being."

My jaw dropped.

We’re not even to the good part yet, he said. Sip your coffee.

I did. It helped. My jaw returned to its upright and locked position.

The old man nodded and continued. So, death is a human stumbling block, and nothing more, he said. What comes after death? More life. He unfolded his arms and picked up his own coffee, taking a sip. What I meant by ‘you just might make it,’ before you ask, is a little more complicated.

I raised one eyebrow and tilted my head as if to say I’m waiting. The old man set his coffee mug down, smiled, and pointed at me. That, he said. That, right there, is why I think you’ll outlive the others. He chuckled when I looked even more confused. Sentinels tend to have a short life expectancy, for one of two reasons. Either they’re too obtuse about their questions, or too timid about seeking the truth. You don’t know who I am, don’t know what I can do, but you aren’t afraid to ask hard questions or demand truthful, meaningful answers.

Sounds like a serious liability, I said.

The old man actually barked out laughter. Smart, too! he exclaimed. I’m convinced. You’re perfect for this role.

That tickled something in the back of my mind. Something uncomfortable I couldn’t quite pin down. This role? It sounded like there were others.

Picked up on that too, did you? the old man asked. That’s precisely the kind of intelligence that’s going to keep you alive. And yes, there are others...but they’re not on your side.

Who are they? I asked.

The old man shook his head and sighed. We don’t know, he admitted. "Well, I don’t know their identities. I only know their roles. Part of the Sentinel’s mandate is to identify the other five, if possible."

So, I would have five enemies as the Sentinel, I said.

The old man glanced aside uncomfortably. I would classify them as ‘adversaries,’ not enemies, he said quietly. And the number is hard to quantify.

I tilted my head again, my brow furrowed, clearly wanting an explanation.

The old man sighed deeper, shaking his head slowly. "I will explain the roles, including the Sentinel, but I cannot give you names or numbers of adversaries. Those two things change all the time. The Sentinel, to be successful, must assume that everyone is an adversary to the truth." He set aside his coffee mug and folded his hands on the table. Once again, the very direct look he fixed on me was unnerving.

I took another sip of the hot, comforting liquid and waited.

There are six roles in this very old game, he began. The Sentinel is the only positive one. The Sentinel observes history and records the truth about it, preserving it for interested parties. Preservation is about more than simply writing it down. Sometimes it is necessary to fight for the truth. People are constantly trying to destroy the truth. So, the Sentinel is, in essence, a warrior for truth. He paused here, as though collecting his thoughts and allowing me to consider what he’d said.

There are five opposing roles, he continued. "The Interferer, the Liar, the Assassin, the Advocate, and the Propheteers. The Interferer makes deliberate changes to history by doing things, up to and including fomenting and perpetuating wars. The Liar reinterprets historical facts to muddy the waters and produce falsehoods which are then presented as ‘facts.’ The