Fires Rising (21 page)

"I won't get burned if I'm careful."

Jyro nodded. "And then what?" What will you do after you go through?"

Timothy peered through the opening, into the dark hallway. He tilted his head sideways. "I can see the door leading out into the church. It's wide open. I'll go in there and look for the chalice."

"Larry's in there," Jyro cautioned. "Or what used to be Larry." He peered through the gap but couldn't see much in the darkness. "Evil's got him. You don't need me to tell you to be careful."

Timothy nodded, and before anyone could protest—to Jyro, it didn't seem anyone planned to—the boy slipped an arm into the space between the door and the jamb.

All the men visibly flinched…but nothing happened.

Timothy pulled his arm back, and blew out a long nervous breath.

Then, sizing up the space one more time, he twisted his body sideways and stealthily slipped through the gap into the dark hallway.

Baited silence followed. Horrible gooseflesh riddled Jyro's body. He stepped to within inches of the door, peered through the gap, but saw nothing.

"Kid? You in there?"

Timothy appeared, standing about a foot away from the door. His face was bathed in shadows. "I'm here." He looked different to Jyro in the darkness of the hallway. Older. Wiser.

"You made it!" Jyro said, voice an excited whisper.

"Just stand close by." Timothy said. "I know that if anything happens, you won't be able to help me, but…I'll feel better knowing you're there."

For the first time since this all began, Jyro smiled, and it was at this moment that the bond between them grew stronger, more definitive. If there had been any doubt that the two of them were supposed to be here, it was now gone; just as Jyro knew Timothy's name earlier, he now knew the boy would risk his life to make certain every task set upon him was accomplished.
And so will I.

"Just go see what's in the church," Jyro said. "And…and while you're at it…"

"What?"

He looked Timothy right in the eyes and said, "Find the sinless, and tell him to get us the hell out of here."

Timothy smiled grimly, then disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

P
ilazzo flinched at the explosion, this one close by, perhaps only a block away. He could feel the church vibrating in its aftermath, the faint din of screams and shouts outside seeping in through the shuttered doors.

He took a deep breath and stared about the vestibule. It made him sick to his stomach. This used to be his
home
, the place for years in which he’d
 
slept and eaten, prayed and worked. Now it was the victim of a great evil trying to tear down its walls.
And to think up until yesterday, I'd assumed this to be a war waged against corporate America. How wrong I was…

He saw the antechamber bulletin board, hanging askew by one rusty nail, the glass shattered, pointed shards shredding two month-old activity announcements. The threadbare carpet beneath his feet was ripped from the weighty tugs of construction equipment. Splinters of pinewood lay about like tiny carcasses.

The only thing that remained untouched was Henry Miller's foldout table of yellow hardhats and orange vests.
There's some protective gear on the table to the right, as soon as you walk in. There's also a yellow envelope. Inside are the documents for you to sign.

Pilazzo didn't see an envelope. Not that it made any difference.

Still, compelled by some irrational force, he leaned down and looked under the table. A wave of dizziness set into him. He closed his eyes and gripped his head, taking in slow, even breaths in through his nose. When the dizziness faded, he opened his eyes and waited until his vision readjusted to the gloom.

He then placed his left hand against the interior doorjamb, and gazed at the miserable scene inside the church.

A wicked sin has been committed, may those guilty of this travesty burn in the fires of…

He thought of his mother, presumably the bride of Christ—
does this make me the son of Christ?
—of how she'd maintained her devout convictions all her life, even more so during the later stages of her mental illness. He recalled her image from the dream, how she stood in the ruined landscape and told him:
After I was gone, you maintained your faith steadfastly, which enabled Him to behold the strength in you. You are His son. And now, he needs you. Do as He says, Antonio.

I am the sinless one…

Indeed, he'd remained true to his faith, even in his mother's dying days. And now, he had no choice but to do the same.

He beat back an impulse to flee

…your church awaits…

and whispered a silent prayer to his mother, seeking some spiritual guidance before entering the Church of St. Peter.

What used to be the Church of St. Peter.

The interior of the century-old building cast away most natural light, except for that filtering through the stained-glass windows in the vaulted ceiling; with the church sandwiched between two buildings, the windows running along both sides depicting the events leading to the birth of Jesus had never seen any daylight.
 

Dim lights gleamed in from the altar. He stood at the vestibule, fixing his gaze on the two industrial spots at the forefront of the church. For a fleeting second he wondered why the crews had left these on, but realized given the ungodly circumstances, that nothing should come as a surprise.

He shivered upon sighting the marble holy-water basin at the entrance to the nave, coated in sawdust and plaster chips. He walked to it, slid his fingers through the grit, and crossed himself with it. He frowned.

There was no usual bountiful feeling, no impassioned touch of God.

Dear Lord, I pray for your strength.

He pinched his dry lips, and advanced into the church.

The gothic architecture was nothing as he remembered it. Without the yellow glow of the dome-shaped fixtures above, the columnar supports and vaulted stained-glass ceilings that had always suggested a heavenly presence lay shrouded in darkness. Half the pews were gone, the only evidence of their existence the rectangular shreds of wood and glue on the marble floor where they once stood.

Strangely, the altar remained untouched. He admired the power it demonstrated, even now despite the destruction surrounding it, its marble solidity somehow equalized by the delicacy of its contents: a half-dozen blessed statues draped in drop-cloths and shadows, still undelivered to the various parishes who'd requested them as donations.

Seeing the statues made him think of the conversation he'd had with the foreman, Henry Miller…

Our crews are not insured for moving such valuables, Father. I strongly suggest you hire, immediately, a moving company. We won't be able to move them out unless you sign a damage waiver…but I advise against that. Our men aren't quite trained to be delicate, if ya know what I mean…

Pilazzo looked up. Gracing the wall behind the altar, the great crucifix remained exposed to the elements: twelve feet high, intricately carved in wood, its extraordinary detail still visible despite the film of dust and dark shadows enveloping it. Gazing upon it, Pilazzo could almost feel the pain carved and painted upon the face of the crucified Jesus: the thorned head; the tortured eyes searching the heavens for an answer to this disgrace of God; the mouth contorted so passionately that Pilazzo could almost hear echoes of its pained suffering.

It looks different…

He cleared his throat and paced farther down the aisle, footfalls gritty in the sediment, crunching hollowly. He ran his hands along a rank of untouched pews as he kept his sights upon the wooden Jesus.
The blood…it looks more real, unscathed by the degenerating environment.

He heard a noise ahead. Footsteps, shuffling across the dusty floor.

He stopped, looked.

From the shadows at the left of the altar emerged a dark figure.

Moving in a stopped position, it staggered up the three steps to the altar, and disappeared behind the statues.

A gust of wind rose up from out of nowhere and sent a whirl of dust about Pilazzo. He squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face beneath his hands. The wind, howling amid the exposed beams and stained glass windows, seized the inner doors of the church and slammed them shut with a forceful
bang
.

Heart pounding furiously, Pilazzo pulled his hands away from his face and cowered alongside the side-rail, keeping himself in this position until the wind died down and the echo of the slamming doors faded.
 

He looked back toward the closed doors. Saw nothing there.

Nothing he could
see
.

He faced the altar again.

Despite the dim glare of the spots, he could see the shadowy figure standing before a shrouded statue, face diverted from the priest. It bobbed up and down for a few moments, as if praying, then limped to the great crucifix, where it gazed up toward Jesus's face and began bobbing again.

Pilazzo took a step forward, then another.

"Hey…" he called out weakly, thinking,
this is no construction worker
.

He took another step, now a foot away from the altar steps.

Without warning, the inner doors to the church slammed back open. Pilazzo staggered around and watched as the doors slammed shut again with the same tempestuous ferocity. A cloud of dust billowed up and out over the pews, revealing nothing.

He reminded himself that with all he'd seen and heard today, all he'd dreamed and experienced, nothing should come as a surprise.

It didn't.

It scared him to death.

He faced the altar again.

The shadowy figure was still there, standing beneath the crucifix.

A little more loudly, Pilazzo called out: "Hello? Can you hear me?"

No answer. No movement.

The hunched figure sidestepped to the left and stood before another covered statue, this one at the very front of the altar.

Pilazzo went to the foot of the altar steps. He tilted his head sideways, seeing the figure's hands now. They were moving fervently over what appeared to be a necklace or charm.

Follow the message that God delivers to you. Heed His word and do your part to bring down the evil that promises man the end of days…

"What are you doing?" Pilazzo called out, voice cracking. A mystifying tingle ran along his spine, causing the hair on his neck to stand.

The figure ignored Pilazzo…or was wholly ignorant of the priest's presence.
Or
, Pilazzo thought,
he's one of them. A worker…

He could see the figure's fingers moving, conducting some manner of intense prayer about the charm he held. He stepped to the left, finally escaping the glow of the construction spots.

Without the glare in his eyes, he could see that the figure was a man, and that he was not a worker but a vagrant. His clothes were doused with filth and…and dark stains. They were piled atop his body like rags. He carried a stench nearly impossible to tolerate.

Pilazzo stepped closer. He could hear fervent but unintelligible whispers coming from the man's mouth, and also noticed a twisted mass of scar tissue where his ear should have been. "What are you doing?"

The homeless man kept to his prayers.

Pilazzo stepped up onto the altar…and heard something oddly familiar in the vagrant's mumblings.
I've heard this before…

Despite the mask of unruly hair hiding the vagrant's face, Pilazzo could see his hands clearly now, and in them was a large rosary, made up of what appeared to be unpolished wood. He was running it through his grimy fingers, grappling at the marble-sized beads, the cross, and other oddly-shaped charms.

Rosary…rosary…rosary…

As the vagrant increased the energy of his prayer, Pilazzo was able to distinguish a word or two amidst his foreign mumblings.

And it struck him.
How can this be?
he thought.
This man's language is Latin
.

"Are you okay?" Pilazzo asked. In the past, as homeless people made their way inside the warmth of the church on cold winter days, he or another working member of the parish would contact the city shelter three blocks south, who would then send two or three volunteers over with food or even a coat and escort them out, either back on the street, or most preferably, to the shelter.

Pilazzo sighed, feeling a strange and brief sense of relief knowing that this was a vagrant.
The homeless seem responsible for delivering fateful messages from a trusted source.

Turn away!
his mind shouted, defiant of what his heart told him.

Pilazzo came to within inches of the praying man…and that was when he saw the blood, a dark splotch of it on the white drop-cloth covering the statue. Pilazzo staggered, gazing at the stain with fear and loathe, not only with the presence of it, but because it was also
seeping
across the pallid whiteness of the drop-cloth, bleeding out from all sides, a circular shape with jagged edges halfway up the height of the statue.