Fires Rising (20 page)

They were looking at him.

They were covered in blood.

Altogether, the men—seven or eight in all—began staggering toward the priest in the same monstrous way the workers in the subway had: arms punching forward, heads bobbling, feet smacking the ground. Like the other workers, their eyes were turned up into their heads, baring stark, vein-ridden whites.

Uttering a hopeless prayer, Pilazzo slid between two cars, then lunged across the sidewalk and grasped the rusty handrail on the steps to St Peter's.

The men, mouths chomping, blood streaking down their stubbled chins, continued moving forward. Pilazzo saw in their hands a variety of blood-drenched tools: screwdrivers, wrenches, box cutters. They were swiping the air with them, like explorers in the jungle digging through dense foliage.

They can't hurt me because they're scared of me
, Pilazzo tried desperately to convince himself, but unadulterated fear kept him from standing his ground before the approaching ghouls. He struggled up the church steps, tripping over his own feet, all the while watching the men as they thumped into a BMW parked at the curb.
   

Instead of going around the car, the workers began climbing
over
it, leaving bloody smears in their wake. The harsh contact of the tools in their hands gouged jagged lines into the shiny finish. As they climbed, they maintained their hideous grins, muted snickers sifting out from between their clenched teeth.

Pilazzo groped blindly for the handle to the church door…the same handle he grasped every day for the last seventeen years. He managed to get a hold of it.

It felt warm to the touch,
different.

He pulled it.

With a loud screech, the door opened. A gush of bitter air rolled out, sending whorls of dust and grit up into his face.

The workers stopped, frozen in their tracks, fixed to the car like slugs on a beer can. One of them, a middle-aged man with dark sunburn, slid off the BMW's roof and landed face-first on the sidewalk. In no noticeable pain, he leaped up on all fours like a cat righting itself and bulleted a glance at the priest, white eyes glistening.

Pilazzo stared wordlessly at the man, couldn't believe or understand what had become of him: nose crushed into a pulp, white eyes glaring through a mask of blood and bone. His tongue flitted in and out of his mouth while making a horrible gargling sound. He held a bloody boxcutter in his hand and jabbed the air with it.

The other workers were also staring at the priest, each of them making hideous sniggers, mouths showing bloodstained teeth. They began clanging their hand tools against the car, creating a wicked tolling sound that echoed up and down the street. In the distance, Pilazzo could hear a chorus of loud shouts—those workers answering the sudden toll of the men eyeing the priest.
 

Pilazzo trembled nervously. His eyes burned from the onslaught of dust from the door. He performed a hasty sign of the cross, and slipped inside the church.

From the vestibule he peered out at the staring workers. They kept their distance, heads weaving back and forth, trying to keep their sights on the priest. Their clanging toll went on and on…

The church door ripped free of Pilazzo's hand and slammed shut, closing him inside. For a tense moment he stood there with his back to the church, pulling on the now impassable door, listening to the echo of the slam fading away. Outside, he could hear the workers laughing and clanging, some of them now only inches away, on the other side of the door.

He let go of the door's handle and stepped back.

Then, with his heart beating furiously and his nerves screaming bloody terror, he turned around and faced the gloomy interior of the Church of St. Peter.

J
yro was standing five feet from the door, eyes glued to the darkness beyond the ten-inch opening. Timothy stood directly beside him, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. Weston was close behind, wielding the wood plank nervously like a baseball player in a batter's circle. The rest of the group was poised at various points in the lobby, away from the albino's knotted corpse.

"I sure as hell ain't gonna try it," Wilson said uneasily.

With a show of determination, Weston stepped around Jyro and Timothy, and examined the slight gap. He positioned the slab of wood inches away from the space. Jyro could see his eyes shining in the dim glow of the emergency lights. "Well…what do you guys think?"

A pause of silence followed where everyone contemplated what might happen if he touched the door with the plank. Jyro frowned and shrugged his shoulders, unable to offer any guidance. This was a crapshoot he didn't want to bet on it.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Marcus said firmly. He coughed into his hand and this was the first time Jyro had seen him without a Winston tucked between his lips. Perhaps he was tapped out.

"I think you should go for it," Dallas said, tugging his beard. "What's there to lose?"

Marcus continued, "He'll end up with french fries for fingers."

Wilson tucked a dreadlock into his mouth and chewed on it nervously. "Hell, man, he used to have 'em, but not anymore."

That much was true. Weston's hands, and Wrath's for that matter, were free of burns. For a fleeting moment, Jyro considered the true miracle of their healing; under normal circumstances, the pair would have worlds of followers at their heels in a matter of days. But here and now, the big picture had diluted their miraculous gift from God and turned it into small potatoes. Still, it couldn't be fully ignored. Something was healing the men, perhaps even making them
stronger
. It was all they had to rely on at the moment. "He's got a point, fellas. Your hands are cleaner than they were before you hit the streets for a living."

Rollo held his bible up and shouted, "It's a miracle of the Lord! He protects us all from evil. We are his children, and he will guide us to safety!"

For once, Jyro thought, the chubby preacher had it right.

"So let's try it, then," Weston said indulgently. Ever so slowly, he arced the plank down into the open gap between the door and the jamb.

Nothing happened.

There was a great sigh of relief in the room…but still, no overwhelming sense of accomplishment. He still had to push the door open a bit farther, enough so they could slip through.

Don't do it
, Jyro thought, but said nothing. His mind shrieked with anticipatory fear, and he wondered if madness would set in soon.

"This is crazy, man," Wilson said. "Just flipping nuts."

"May the Lord be with you, brother Weston!" Rollo went on. "Let him shine down upon you the gift of everlasting life!"

"Enough Rollo, that ain't helping any," Jyro said anxiously.

Sweat ran down the sides of Weston's face. He looked back at Jyro, plainly scared, like a man who's sense of normalcy had flown the coop, and rightly so. He blew out a nervous gush of breath, and it was here Jyro noticed that the man's head had stopped bobbing.
Is he…healed?
A moment passed where it looked as if Weston were going to hand the torch to someone else…but then slowly…slowly…slowly, he moved the plank of wood to his left, until it came in contact with the door…

…WHOOSH!…

A blue flame burst out of nowhere. It swallowed the wood, and then Weston's arm. He tried to drop the plank, but the flames instantly fused his hand to its surface. A horrible stench permeated the room, like hotdogs left too long in a campfire. He collapsed back into the group of men, who scattered like fish in a pond, then tore around in a circle before tripping over the albino's legs. He landed on his side with a dull thud. The plank splintered into blackened pieces as it hit the carpeted floor…except for the square section that still burned freely in his hand.

Weston's silent scream gave way to a sickening wail. He shrieked,
"Put it out! Put it out!
, eyes bulging horrifically, wet lips puckering for air. Foam spewed from his mouth. He held his cooked arm up, and ogled it stupidly. White blisters coated his red skin like a froth of boiled milk. Flames burned on it in scattered patches.

A man's scream came from inside the church, seemingly answering Weston's wails. The men jerked their gazes toward the door, terror painted on their faces.
Larry
, Jyro thought quickly, his stomach feeling like it had shrunk to the size of a pea.
What the hell is happening?

Outside the walls of St Peter's, something exploded. The walls shook and Jyro and Timothy rocked on their heels and covered themselves with their arms. Dust rained down on them. Wrath fell to his knees and attempted to snuff out Weston's arm with the same dirty towel he used on the crucified man.

Weston babbled loudly, "Help me, please help me!"

Unexpectedly, a blue flame lanced out from Weston's arm. Wrath yelled out, "Ahg!" He let go of the towel and lurched back from the burning man, eyes wide and fearful, hands shaking up and down and back and forth. He fell to his knees, grimacing. Tendrils of smoke rose up from his fingers. He'd been burned again.

The fires
, Jyro thought.
It's as if they're…alive.

Jyro got a good firm grip on Timothy's arm. He looked at the boy, silently protective, and then at Weston. For a fleeting moment he considered trying to help the injured man, but ultimately stayed back like everyone else, unwilling to counter the need to protect himself and Timothy. Wrath had given it a good try anyway. There wasn't much more he or anyone else could do.

Timothy looked at Jyro, gaze dark and vacant. He shook his head with confusion. Jyro thought he looked utterly lost, as though he'd just woken up in a place he'd never been before. "We have to—"

Weston blithered something indecipherable, a croaky
"arck!"
His bulging eyes rolled up into his head and another gagging sound exploded from his throat that startled everyone in the room much like the explosion had a moment earlier. His fingers, white and oozing, clawed against the floor in an attempt to stand. Everyone watched with horrible anticipation as he struggled to his knees…but no farther. Here he remained wavering like a scarecrow in the wind, smoldering hands floating loosely at his sides.

"What the hell…?"
Wilson screamed.
 

Weston's posture changed. He
stiffened up
. His face turned a sickly shade of blue, upturned eyes as wide as a deer's in car-shot. His arms jutted up and down like pistons. His throat swelled profusely, like a frog's.

"I think he's swallowed his tongue!" Dallas shouted. Still no one moved to help.
We're homeless men who've lived years on the street fending for ourselves, not helping others. This situation is out of our hands.

But then Wrath, in a brave yet hopeless move, blundered forward again and positioned himself behind Weston. He wrapped his arms around the convulsing man's waist, hands fisted into Weston's gut, fingernails grasping his shirt. Wrath managed to perform one or two Heimlich moves on him, but that was all. He couldn't hold on. Weston was bucking and thrashing too much, plus his arm was still on fire. Wrath surrendered his grip and stumbled back. Weston collapsed to the alongside the albino, arms and legs drumming the floor crazily. Sheets of seared skin spread out from his injured arm and smeared the carpet like oily webs.

He choked one last time, a final effort to push his tongue out of his throat, and then fell silent. At that moment, the flames on his arm subsided, giving way to winding curls of smoke. It was as if someone had cut off their source.

Moments passed in horrid silence. The men stared groggily at Weston's body. It was stuck in a discarded, mannequin-like pose, head arched back, limbs at odd angles. His burned arm was as black as charcoal. One by one, the men backed away, eyes wide, mouths agape.

"Is he dead?
Is he?"
Timothy asked.

No one responded. The answer was all too obvious. Weston had met his maker. Jyro leaned back against the wall, holding his head in his hands, listening to the blood roaring in his ears.

Rollo broke the silence with a sudden, boisterous prayer. "May the good Lord look down upon our brother—"

"Will you shut the fuck up?" Wilson shouted. "We don't need that shit right now."

Jyro looked up.

Timothy was standing just inches from the church door.

"Hey kid…"

Timothy turned. "The gap…it's wider," he said hypnotically. He shifted his body sideways, eyes moving back and forth between the door and the jamb. "I can do it," he said.

Jyro shook his head vehemently. "No you don't."

Wrath said, "You're gonna end up like Wes if you try." The big man leaned against the wall, his face dazed and unbelieving. His skin glimmered, coated in sweat.

"But he caught fire when he
touched
the door, not when he went between. Just look at the gap…I can fit through. I'm the thinnest one here by far, and the door is open a few inches more."

Seymour warned, "You'll get burned, kid, just like I did, just like he did." Jyro looked over at the frail vagrant. His hands, although healing, still looked painfully pink and shiny. His eyes were dead blanks behind the dirty lenses of his glasses.