Fires Rising (14 page)

All of the men nodded, a clear sense of understanding showing on their grief-stricken faces, as if they too had been drawn in the same unearthly fashion.

Listening to Timothy's story, Jyro realized that he himself might very well have been 'called' here. Somehow he'd known the church would provide him with much more than a bed and a temporary roof over his head, as if there was a voice in his brain, calling all the shots.

Didn't you think it odd that the air-duct grates leading from the subway to the church had come away much too easily? And then, you dreamed of the men and the crate…and then you found the crate. That's no coincidence. You are here for a reason…

"While walking here, I remembered thinking not of my gym bag, but of something else…something vague and imperceptible, and yet so undeniably important—it was as though I
knew
I'd find something else here!

"It was mid-morning when I arrived. There was a foreman outside. At first I didn't think he would let me in, but when I told him that I'd left a few things behind, he just gave this creepy blank stare, and showed me the door."

Jyro thought:
I saw this 'foreman'. On the first day I arrived. And he saw me too, as I was rushing across the altar into the rectory. I thought for sure that he would come and chase me away. But he just stood there, staring at me with this weird look in his eyes, as though he were
frightened
of me.

"So I came into the church, and was sickened at what I saw: dust and demolition everywhere. I mean, this place had been my sanctuary for two years—to see it like this made me sick to my stomach." The boy shut his eyes, took a deep breath and blew it out, long and slow. "There were a number of workers here who eyeballed me up and down as I stepped up onto the altar. I remember feeling so anxious and scared that I thought I was going to pass out."

He paused, and said, "But I knew: I
needed
to be here. So I ignored the men and went through the doorway on the altar that leads here into the rectory. When I reached this point…" Timothy pointed toward the closed door in the lobby that gave way to the church hallway, "the door leading back out to the altar slammed shut. At first I thought one of the workers had not realized that I'd come back here, and closed it. So I ran back and tried to get out, but when I grabbed the handle to the door, the…the blue flames shot out at me and burned my hands. I panicked, had tried a couple times to get out, but got burned each time."

He displayed his stained hands. Unlike earlier, there were no tiny white blisters peppering the palm.

"You don't show no wounds," Wrath said.

"They were there," Jyro interjected. "I saw them. But…they're healed now." He gazed at Wrath's hands and saw the big man flexing them, grimacing as he did so. He thought:
If I had to venture a guess, I'd say his hands are starting to heal too.

Timothy added, "Even the doors leading into the rectory did the same thing: they shot fires at me. I was trapped in that hallway."

Jyro's eyes searched the gloom in the rectory behind the boy, his harried mind wondering:
Why are we just standing here talking? We should be trying to find a way out of here, to find out why we're here!

As if in response, his mind answered:
You know there's no way out of here. You were called here for a reason. A purpose. And until you fulfill God's need of you, then you must allow the chips to fall where they may. A game is about to be played, and you are an integral part of it. You were the one who found the rosary...

Timothy continued, "I waited. For hours it'd seemed. I screamed and yelled through the crack in the door, hoping that someone in the church would come and get me out. But my shouts fell on deaf ears. The workers, they were out there, I could hear them drilling and hammering and sawing, but they didn't come for me. I even waited for the noise to stop before hollering out, but it was no use.

"Eventually, their tools stopped altogether. Then the lights went out, and I was alone in there, in the dark."

"How did you get out?" Marcus asked, snuffing out a cigarette on the carpet.

Timothy cleared his throat. "During the night, the door to the rectory opened. A construction worker appeared. I was laying on the floor and immediately feigned sleep. He must've not seen me in the dark. When I squinted I could see his outline. He walked right by me and went out into the church area. I waited a minute or so, then snuck out into the rectory. I immediately heard some noises here, and when I looked down the hallway, I saw a flickering light spilling out from the rec room. I thought there was a fire."

And Jyro remembered:
The chalice, floating in the air, with its splay of evil light and din of raging fires. It seems Timothy was set free after I opened the crate and went back upstairs with the rosary.

"So I went down the hall, keeping my eyes on the flickering light, and looked into the rec room." Timothy paused, took another deep breath in an apparent attempt to gain composure, and said, "What I saw in here nearly killed me."

After a pause, Wilson said, "C'mon man, fess it up. What did you see?"

"An atrocity." He took another deep breath, then gazed hard at Jyro, who nodded as if permitting Timothy to commence with his story. "At first I refused to believe what I was actually seeing. My mind…it wanted to reject it all as some vision straight out of my worst nightmare…but…but I knew it was real. It was just so hard to absorb! The place…it was barely lit from the emergency beacons on the walls, but it was enough for me to make out everything. There were a group of construction workers there. They were gathered about the hole. Some were tearing at the edges with shovels and crowbars; the others…they were…"

"They were what?" asked Wilson.

"They were cutting up bodies."

A horrible silence filled the room. The men stood motionless, staring at Timothy, burdened by the fact that was to follow.

"Who were they cutting up?" Jyro asked, already knowing the answer.

Timothy's eyes darted back and forth, catching for a moment all the tortured eyes of the men in the room with him…and the burned albino, who had fallen unconscious.

"Homeless men."

"Christ man, how were they doing it?" Wilson was clearly shaken, trembling, yanking nervously on his beard.

Timothy said, "With their tools. Saws, axes, knives. I…I saw it all."

Jyro peered at the carpet under his feet, noticing for the first time a smattering of thick, irregular stains.
Blood.
He stepped back a foot or so to an untainted section of the carpet, head jerking back and forth as additional stains came into view beneath the dim lighting. A dizziness beset him. The room seemed to grow very warm, and he nearly collapsed to his knees.

"And yet," Timothy said, "despite having witnessed a massive human slaughter, nothing could prepare my mind for what happened next."

The men waited in silence.

Timothy opened his mouth to speak…then stopped, eyes and mouth suddenly knotted with unmistakable terror. He raised his hand and pointed to the wall, gagging on the scream that would emerge from his throat seconds later.

Jyro spun around, along with the other men, who all began cursing out in fear as they staggered backwards toward the staircase.

The albino was crucified on the wall.

R
osary…rosary…rosary…

There was no mistaking it now. It was
there
, replaying in his head over and over again. The music remained as well: an eerie reverse-playing environment to the whispering back-masked voice filling his head like a terrible headache.

And yet, despite its supernatural nature, and the fear it provoked in him, he knew that it was
good
, just as the stigmatic message from God had been: terribly frightening, and yet so mystically acceptable. He saw no choice but to heed its implication, and move on with his still unknown duty.

The rectory was indeed empty; he could not see so much as sense its barrenness. He'd been left to fend for himself by the others, all of whom were well on their way to setting their required tasks into action, whatever they may be.

In Sanchez's room, the digital clock on the nightstand was dark. But the battery operated clock (showing upon its face an image of Jesus shepherding sheep in a pasture) read exactly three AM. He assumed this to be the time until he felt his way through the darkness into the kitchen and saw the clock on the wall there, bathed in the pallid streak of light from the overhead emergency beacon, also reading precisely three AM.

Struggling to see, he stumbled his way through the rectory passage (where he again received a sharp twang of static shock upon gripping the doorknob) and moved back into the dark and empty Church of Holy Innocents.

Utter silence prevailed in the church, save for the quick, deep rush of air escaping his lungs, and pound of blood inside his head. Guided solely by the faux pulpit candlelight, he stepped across the dark harbor of the altar and moved down the three marble steps into the nave. His footsteps creaked hollowly as he went, the eyes of the saint statues on the altar seeming to pursue him down the center aisle. He shuddered, never in his life feeling so
unprotected
amid the consecrated walls that had always provided unparalleled levels of security and comfort.

Halfway down the aisle he stopped. He trembled uncontrollably, sensing he may not be alone after all. He twisted around, peered back at the altar. Here he observed the surrounding statues, gazing away from him as they should be; the crucifix, hanging upon the wall above the altar; and then, the confessionals, where hours earlier he'd been confronted with malignant images later to be encountered in his dreams.

Visions of apocalypse. Of an army of tattered men standing before a wall of raging fires and billowing black smoke. Of its aftermath: death, destruction, and decay, all but an embodiment of evil surviving its devastating perils.

He heard a noise: a light tapping from above, as though a pigeon were perched in the rafters, drumming out its boredom against a wide beam of wood.

He called out: "Anyone there? Monsignor Sanchez? Father Monteleone?"

No answer. The tapping ceased.

A wave of unsettling dizziness caught him and threw him off-balance. He sought out the firm stability of the closest pew, peering toward the altar in an attempt to seek comfort in its silent repose.

The statues continued to peer away from him, as though denying him their offer of solace. The life-sized Jesus figure hanging upon the cross behind the altar maintained its pained gaze toward the heavens, seemingly in search of an answer Pilazzo could never provide. He thought of the nightlight in his room and shuddered at the image of the painted Mary's eyes examining him, torn away from their faithful point upon the wall above his bed.

Your church awaits…

The tapping in the rafters returned, a bit louder this time. He drew his eyes away from the statues and looked into the darkened heavens above. He could see nothing, as the altar candles lacked the strength to cast their flickering glow to such heights. Ignoring the senseless sound,
that tap, tap, tapping of some mindless pigeon
, he moved on, more slowly now, eyes attentively exploring the pews. His blood raced hotly in his veins. A sweltering flash consumed his head like a burst from an open oven, and he used a hand to wipe his perspiring brow.

Tap…tap…tap…

Louder now.

Directly above him.

Something warm and wet beaded down upon his hands; he flinched, clenching his hands in immediate, anxious prayer.

He looked down…

…and saw dark, wet drops pooling between his fingers.

Tap…tap…tap…

Dear Jesus…

Blood.

Gooseflesh sheeted his body, infecting him with terror. He could feel the skin around his mouth tighten with fear as he twisted his neck upwards.

In the dark area above the crossbeam, he glimpsed a pair of eyes peering down at him.

There was a man up in the rafters.

A series of lightning-strike thoughts assaulted Pilazzo. The first thing he wondered was exactly how the man got up there; clearly one would need the aid of a ladder to explore such heights, as was evident by the paint crews that had treated the beams a few weeks back. Now, as his fear spread and his vision adjusted to the gloom, Pilazzo could see that the man perched upon the crossbeam was dressed in a white jumpsuit, heavily spotted and streaked with paint.

"Hey…" the priest called out weakly, his voice a notch above a whisper. He stood still, listening to his voice echo away into nothing. And then, at the very brink of audibility, the faint, wet drip of blood hitting the floor somewhere in the darkness.

The man, eyes gleaming despite a lack of reflective light, tapped something against the wood beam between his feet,
tap…tap…tap…

Pilazzo's eyes pinned the object in the man's hand, and upon identifying it, felt the mounting fear in his body thrust him into a state of unbridled terror.