Fires Rising (9 page)

The two former altar boys locked gazes, and it was at this moment they seemed to connect on a deeper, mental level—that in this instant of life or death they came into full understanding of one another, and what needed to be done.

More tentacles wound down from the ceiling and wrapped themselves around their arms and legs. One closed around the toilet paper dispenser. It yanked it off the wall. The paper roll landed in a puddle of sludge, rolled a few inches before it was snatched up and pulled into the bulk.

Timothy, eyes suddenly bright and alert in the darkness, assured his grip on the rosary…

…and in this moment Jyro recalled Timothy's words moments before they entered into the bathroom: Perhaps we can use this to protect us…

…and lashed it into the gaping mouth of the devouring bulk.

A sound that rivaled the slaves of Hell ripped through the room, a thousand throats screaming out, deep guttural grunts alongside the high-pitched screeches of women and children in agony. The tentacles whipped away, writhed frantically then turned black and melted into runny sewage that spread across the floor in a deluge of gunk. From above, the liquefying appendages rained down on them. The massive bulk in the middle writhed and flopped back and forth like a salted slug before melting into a massive heap of waste. The atrocious sound it made—a colossal passing of gas—reached down into their guts and urged their gorges out onto the floor.

For a moment there was no sound other than Timothy crying alongside the huge pile of gunk. Jyro aimed the penlight at him and could see him lying on his side with his arm still outstretched, still clutching the rosary.

Jyro was about to say something when a loud slam shocked them both out of their skins: the door bursting open. Light filtered into the room, offering a doubtful view to those peering in upon the aftermath of the war had taken place inside.

Jyro shot a harried glance toward the door, and over the sounds of Timothy throwing up alongside him, cried, "Get us the hell out of here."

T
he silence is deafening
, Pilazzo thought, peering about the church. He'd remained seated in the pew, staring at the altar, vaulted ceiling, and walls—all dimly lit beneath the flickering glow of the prayer candles. No one else had come in for confession, leaving him time to replay in his mind the events of the day.

Despite the daunting, prophesizing confrontations with the homeless men, he again found himself mentally occupied with the demise of his former church. Having been forced to pack up and leave had been quite stressful. It had brought about harsh periods of uncertainty, coupled with headaches and bouts of stomach distress. But as that all lay in the past now, it was the actual deterioration of the church—something he'd seen for the first time today—that flooded him with insecurity and mourning.

How will I feel when I enter through those doors and see for the first time the walls being torn down, the pews being dismantled, the statues being moved out?
He knew that the negative emotions besetting him were just a sampling of the feelings that would assail him upon finally entering the battered interior of the Church of St Peter, and likened the forthcoming affair with having to sit beside a loved one during their final painful minutes of life, a circumstance anyone would find difficult to endure.

His thoughts drifted back to memories of his mother's dying days: of how he found no alternative but to put her away in a city-run home for the elderly because he couldn't afford a private facility on Long Island. He recalled how she lambasted him from the discomfort of her soiled linens for his decision to become a priest, how in her illness she'd cared less about his faith and worldly goodness and wanted only to be comfortable, not saved, in her dying moments. How she cried to him about how the screams from the other patients at night were driving her toward madness—even more so than the lashing periods of dementia and delusions of ruby scars around her fingers. And then, how she refused to say goodbye to him the night she snuck out of her room while the night-nurse was making rounds, climbed out onto the roof of the old building and hurled herself into the path of an oncoming cab four stories down…

I'm sorry Mother…

The afternoon grew late, and the time had finally come for Pilazzo to retire to his quarters for the evening. Outside the shuttered doors of the Church of Holy Innocents, rush hour prevailed: the hustle and bustle of Manhattan's workers escaping the rigors of everyday life; cabs fighting against one another for precious road space, the subways racing back and forth in the tunnels below. The city's lifeblood, coursing through its concrete veins.

Despite it all, deep silence dominated the church's interior, and it frazzled Pilazzo.
What was once a comforting escape
, he thought irrationally, shaking away the horrific memories of his mother's death,
is now a daunting calm before the storm.

The war…

Trying to clear his mind of the ruthless shambles awaiting him inside the Church of St Peter, he took a long, deep breath. He tasted the faint odor of incense from masses past, which under normal circumstances always brought a small sense of comfort, of solace.

Today, however, feelings of darker ruin prevailed.

He couldn't help but be wholly concerned with the convincing images of devastation he'd seen in his mind's eye; it had been no dream, no simple musing or imaginative reverie. The homeless man had
touched
him, delivering into him a message that was clear-cut and tangible, undeniable. He'd been able to
smell
the charred remains of the visual's destructive nature,
feel
the heated wind upon his skin as the distant flames raged and burned,
hear
the tortuous roar of the army as they gathered before it like bats in a cave at dusk.

Homeless men…thousands of them…

He'd never experienced anything even remotely like it. It had been as though a snippet of a motion picture had played out on the surface of his mind, revealing to him a record of something that had occurred in the past. And yet, he knew this could not be.
Two homeless men, one delivering his message intuitively, the other conveying his own—and confirming the first's—through speech.
Not only was it impossible to ignore, but he knew it would continue to haunt him until he was able to unearth some form of rationale in it.

He stood up and grimaced as his bones cracked like tiny firecrackers. He walked around the altar to the rectory entrance, noticing suddenly how unusually hot it was in the church. The door to the rectory, eight feet tall, was fitted well into the rear wall, its grain a perfect match to the sides around it, making it appear invisible beneath the church's dim lighting. A recessed brass hinge acted as a doorknob; he gripped it, turned it to the left, and pushed inward. The door moved, hinges squeaking like mice as he crossed the threshold.

From the darkness behind, something cold and bone-dry touched the back of his neck.

He shuddered as wrinkles of gooseflesh triggered every hair on his torso to stand on end. A rancid odor arose in his nostrils, like that of human waste, and he nearly slipped down on the floor as he whipped a hand around to swat away the terrible sensation against his skin.

Slowly, he turned around. Saw only the door as it slowly closed and sealed out the disconcerting calm of the church.

He stood still and silent for a few moments, listening to the blood rushing in his head, his heartbeat filling his ears. He took a few deep breaths to help ease his heaving lungs, then moved away, turning only as he entered the rectory's meeting room.

Must be the anxiety of the move catching up with me. I saw the exterior of the church in shambles, and now the reality of the situation has set in, bringing about in me a surge of tenseness and discomfort. There is nothing to be afraid of, nothing out of the ordinary. It is my sensitized nerves playing games with me, aggravating my senses, and nothing more.
 

But as he entered the rectory, he realized that things were without question far from ordinary.

Typically alive at this time of day, the rectory's meeting room lay in bitter emptiness, a no-man's land devoid of life. The card table and counters had been wiped cleaned, a customary task carried out before the priests set to bed around ten, still four and a half hours from now. The television was a black hole beneath the pallid splay of the end-table lamp; the room's lone window, looking out past a set of iron bars into a small alley, lay clouded and corpselike beneath its partially drawn shade. The kitchen, which should have been tossing its hearty aromas into the air (thank goodness for Father Keene, Holy Innocents' resident chef), looked oddly barren with no pots or pans stewing atop its surface.

Heart running, Pilazzo looked around suspiciously. He called out, "Hello?"

No answer.

Leading away from the kitchen alongside the gas oven was the rectory's lifeline: a twenty-five foot hallway that angled to the right and abutted the entire back length of the church. Fondly referred to as 'Heaven's Walk', it was from here that the bedrooms branched off, each priest and deacon having the luxury of his own quarters—one of the few extravagances Holy Innocents claimed over St Peter's, which housed only one stark barrack-like room for the five priests in residence.

Pilazzo stepped down the hall, lit only by crystal nightlights plugged into the four wall-sockets. Again he called: "Hello?", his voice nearly absorbed by the absurd stillness of the place.

Again, no reply.

The first bedroom on the left belonged to Monsignor Sanchez. It was the largest of the rooms, fitting a double bed, an easy chair, and a private bathroom that always reeked of lavender.

The door to the room was ajar.

Pilazzo paced over, grabbed the doorjamb, and quietly peeked inside.

He saw the Monsignor. The man was kneeling on the floor before the carved wooden cross on the wall, a set of black rosary beads gripped in his trembling hands. He was dressed in his violet robe and cloak, odd to Pilazzo because he wasn't scheduled to perform mass tonight. Pilazzo's eyes fell upon Sanchez's shadow on the wall, elongated and ominous beneath the dim light seeping in from the bathroom.

"Tom?" Pilazzo whispered weakly—it was the best he could do as he stepped into the room. A whiff of something gone afoul wrenched his nose—the same odor he smelled upon entering the rectory moments earlier. He peered curiously toward the bathroom.

"Tom—" he said, more sternly now. "What's going on here? Where is everyone?"

Monsignor Sanchez twisted to face Pilazzo. The man had been crying. His eyes were watery and red, their common spark of kindness lost beneath a sea of misery and confusion. His hair jutted at untidy angles, as though he'd been running his hands through it in utter frustration. His face was drawn of its color, the once jovial features caught beneath a burden of unmistakable worry.

Pilazzo had never seen his friend looking like this. He stepped forward, shaking badly, wanting to help but somewhat hesitant to do so. Something wasn't right here, and it inflamed in him the fear festering in his blood like venom.

"Tom…please, what's going on?"

"Anthony…" Sanchez finally whimpered. His eyes fluttered, releasing a spring of fresh tears. Voice trembling along with his body, he said: "We…are…being…summoned…" then closed his eyes and returned to his prayers.

An immediate glut of emotions assailed Pilazzo, adding to his fear and uncertainty a flood of concern and mourning. Despite the absence of any noticeable threat, he'd never felt more scared in his life, his mind completely unable to make any logical judgments. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to speak, but his hammering heart had muscled its way into his throat and muzzled him. He could do nothing but clutch his chest and continue to wonder if everything occurring today—the church, the foreman, the workers, the visions—were all tied together somehow.

And now this: here in the rectory at Holy Innocents, something gone terribly afoul, beating back the brotherhood's close-knit bond of religious joy with sadness, fear, and uncertainty.

Why am I coming to assume a common bond between these seemingly unrelated events? No evidence exists that my conversation with Henry Miller or my being eyed by the construction workers has anything to do with the homeless men, or with Sanchez's sudden despair.

Still, I wonder…

Finally, after a few ill-defined moments, Pilazzo found the strength in his mind and body to place a reassuring hand upon Sanchez's shoulder.

The man was hot to the touch. Doused in sweat. Pilazzo felt a vibration under his fingertips—not a trembling, but a
vibration
—and it made him jerk his hand away, as if a bug had skittered across his knuckles.

"Tom—"

"Do not tend to me, Anthony," Sanchez murmured, head still facing forward, eyes still closed. "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…"

The evil that promises man the end of days…

Oh my dear Jesus…

Pilazzo staggered. Dizziness rushed through his head and he had to grip the dresser for support. All he knew of life, the miracles of God and the studies he'd devoted his life's work to, the sacrifices he'd made, of the vow of celibacy he'd adhered to for so long,, had instantly crossed into a realm of null and void where nothing seemed to matter anymore, and that all he could concern himself with was this defining moment in time, where his lifelong friend and confidant had spoken the
same exact words
as the vagrant in the confessional.