Omega Plague: Collapse (25 page)

Bruno stayed on his back. The stone stairs bit into him
while Il Serbo gestured here and there as he loomed, a great, bald figure in
the dim light.

“And while you cops were looking out for your own asses, I
did something! We did something! This isn’t all there is. We have women outside
the city, storing food, growing crops. We rotate men in and out of our base
here, scavenging what we need in the city. We’re starting over.”

Il Serbo strutted around. “And what happens when one of the women
disobeys?” A low chuckle went up from the group. Someone said, “We take turns!”

Il Serbo nodded. “That’s right! Keeps everyone in order,
doesn’t it, lads? It sure kept your sister in line, Bruno.” Not for the first
time, Bruno gave thanks that his parents and little brother never knew that
Carla had suffered for this man’s pleasure.

He turned back towards Bruno. “Whatever happened to her,
anyway? I heard she kind of liked my last group of friends.”

“She’s dead.”

“Now that’s a shame. We could have used a doctor. But after
what you did to my brother, I hope she died in pain.”

Il Serbo laughed. “Enzo told me all about her, all the
things they did to her. Good thing we quarantined poor Enzo when he got back.
Before he died, he told me all about what happened, how two men attacked them.
I knew it was you, Bruno. I knew you were on the island. So close to us.

“And of course, I’ve been waiting for you. We’ve been
watching the main roads and the docks since your last visit. We were getting
ready to come over and burn you out of your little island paradise, for real
this time, when you came back, just like I thought you would!”

As his tirade went on, the seductive thought that Cristian
could help somehow, that he’d stop this, coursed through Bruno’s mind. But the
last rational filaments in his brain knew that there was nothing Cristian could
do for him. Hoping for a quick death was all he had now, and that meant
provoking Il Serbo.

“You’re a real fucking humanitarian, aren’t you?” Bruno
said. “Like your piece-of-shit dead little brother. Shame I blew his brains to
jelly. Should have shot him in the balls and let him live like a neutered
little bitch!”

“Get him up on the altar,” said Il Serbo.

When he tried to roll away, Bruno ended up on his stomach
and saw his own blood in streaks on the steps of the altar. He froze, and two
men on each arm yanked him up and dropped him face-down on the altar, knocking
the wind out of him.

Bruno tried to get up, to fight them off, but soon two more
joined them. With wrists bound in front of him and each of his limbs held by
two men apiece, he was no match for their combined strength. But it didn’t
matter. He continued to fight, even as they lifted him and dropped him
face-down on the altar again. Then a seventh man, the largest one, ran up and
sat on his back, crushing the air from his lungs.

“Untie his wrists and spread out his arms,” said Il Serbo.

Bruno dreaded the interrogation that would start.

“Why are you here, Bruno? Why have you come to Naples?”

Bruno felt the weight of the man crushing his chest into the
hard stone. The lower half of his body hung off the edge of the altar and its
edge bit into Bruno’s abdomen. Two men squashed his arms against the altar, and
Bruno instinctively gripped the edge of the altar with all his might.

Bruno’s mind raced. “We needed supplies . . . we . . . ”

“Don’t lie to me! I’m sure there’s enough on Capri. Why come
here?”

Bruno said nothing.

Il Serbo pressed. “Or maybe I should say, why are you going
to Assergi?”

Even Bruno couldn’t stop a flicker of surprise from showing
through the fear on his face. How could he know?

Il Serbo laughed. “Got you!” Yanking a folded map from his
back pocket, Il Serbo shouted and waved it in Bruno’s face.

“They found this in the parking garage. Now tell me, why
Naples, and why Assergi?”

Bruno searched for a lie. “My—mother’s—family—from—there,”
Bruno grunted.

Il Serbo laughed. “Please! The way you talk? You’re not from
there, and neither was your mother!”

Bruno didn’t respond.

“Don’t worry, Bruno, we’ll find out the truth.” He spoke
louder now, his voice echoing in the church.

“Pull his pants down!”

The words jolted Bruno into action. He struggled, screaming
and cursing to no avail. The light feeling of liberation he had felt only a short
while ago drained from Bruno’s body.

Bruno felt someone tug at his belt, then yank his pants and
underwear down around his boots in one sharp motion. He ached with fear, and
nothing in his life had prepared him for the horror of the helplessness that coursed
through his veins: not the merciless solitude of the island, not the times he
had killed or been close to death himself, not even the death of his mother and
brother and Carla. Bruno’s breath came in small gasps. The only thing that kept
him from telling Il Serbo the truth of why he had come was the other truth that
Bruno clung to like a mother clutched her baby: that no matter what he said, he
would die anyway.

“We found this knife on you,” said Il Serbo from behind
Bruno. “I can find plenty of uses for a knife—it can be a tool or a weapon.
That’s what makes it beautiful.”

Bruno could still raise his head up off the altar. He looked
about in vain for Il Serbo. But then Bruno heard his voice, just behind him.

“I’ll give you another chance, my friend!” shouted Il Serbo.
“Tell me why you’re here!”

“I—told—you,” responded Bruno between gasps.

Bruno felt more than heard movement behind him. Cold, sharp
steel pressed into his left buttock. Bruno stifled a cry as Il Serbo gradually
pressed the point until it just broke Bruno’s skin. Il Serbo dragged it down
the back of Bruno’s thigh, almost gently. Bruno cried out as the knife tip
crept down towards his knee. Amid the pain, he felt the trickle of blood
dribbling down his thigh.

Then the knife tip pushed up between his legs.

Bruno’s entire body seized. “Please!” cried Bruno. “We’re on
our way to Abruzzi—my family is there—please—” Bruno’s voice dissolved into a
sob.

“Maybe you’d better pray to San Gennaro for help!”

Bruno choked out a reply between gasps of breath.
“I—don’t—believe—in—him—”

Bruno felt Il Serbo bend over him from his left side. He
whispered, his breath caressing Bruno’s ear.

“Good. Then we have something in common, don’t we?”

Without warning, Il Serbo retreated. For an instant, Bruno’s
body relaxed. Bruno heard whispering behind him.

Then Il Serbo whirled in front of Bruno. The weight on Bruno
lifted as the man on his back moved off. Bruno raised his head. Il Serbo held
the knife by the blade, offering it to someone outside Bruno’s vision.

“Here, you do it,” Il Serbo said.

Bruno heard a voice from behind him. “No, I don’t—you know I
don’t like this kind of . . .” The voice trailed off. It was Cristian.

Il Serbo chuckled. “Come on, don’t be such a pussy! He’s got
be to taught a lesson!”

Bruno heard footsteps as Cristian walked around the altar.
Il Serbo and Cristian both looked down at him. Cristian took the knife from Il
Serbo’s grasp.

“Please, please don’t do this!” Bruno pleaded.

Cristian looked into Bruno’s eyes, but Bruno saw nothing in
them but a blank stare.

“Make sure you keep him down,” said Cristian as he looked at
Bruno.

“No!” Bruno screamed, and bucked against the crushing weight
on him, but there were too many, and they crushed the breath out of him.
Someone pounded on his left hand until he opened his fingers. He felt pressure
and sharpness, and Cristian brought his fist down with a shout.

The crunch of bone against stone rang in Bruno’s ears. For a
microsecond, the shock of the sound robbed him of feeling. Then pain shot through
his hand. Blood squirted onto the white stone of the altar. Parts of two
fingers fell to the ground, and Bruno screamed. All the goons moved off,
knowing Bruno wasn’t going anywhere.

Il Serbo bellowed over Bruno’s screams. “Next time it won’t
be fingers!”

Bruno writhed, half-naked on the cold stones of the church,
his blood staining everything around him. Huddled in a ball, he wailed until
his throat could make no more sound, and no one moved to help him.

Chapter 24

October 19

Bruno’s head bounced on the stone floor, but what made him
scream was the pain from his fingers as his hand scraped the floor.

“Get up,” growled someone above him.

Using his good hand, Bruno tugged at the stone altar,
raising himself up off the floor, and shambled to his feet. Bruno glanced down,
noticing the dried blood on the altar, another reminder of his maiming. Part of
his pinky and ring fingers were missing. But they had no signs of infection. He
had been carefully pissing on them and drying them off every day in an attempt
to sterilize them as best he could, and because of that, or maybe just dumb
luck, it seemed to have staved off infection. But three more days in the
basement, subsisting on crackers and water, had sapped Bruno’s strength,
leaving him dreading whatever was to come. He wondered for a second what he
must look like: sunken eyes, ratty beard, pasty skin, fingernails caked with
shit and dirt, more like a prisoner from a medieval dungeon than someone born
to antibiotics and running water. They thought him so useless, they didn’t even
bind his hands. And they’d be right. Bruno’s own hopelessness caught him by
surprise.

The morning sun brightened the church, but Bruno could feel
a damp chill in the air. He shivered where he stood, not just from the cold. He
didn’t know why they had dragged him out of his hole into the church this
morning until his eyes fell on one particular figure that stood out from that
ragged, grey group.

Bruno had promised himself not to show any emotion in front
of them, no matter what, but when he realized the identity of that forlorn
person, he gasped.

“DeLuca!”

Il Serbo glanced at Bruno, laughing. “I told you we’d find
your friend. Didn’t you believe me?”

The group moved toward Bruno, pushing DeLuca along until he
tripped on a flagstone near Bruno’s feet.

DeLuca raised himself on one arm, looking up at Bruno.
DeLuca’s battered face showed no emotion as their eyes met.

One of the group piped up. “Old bastard must be tougher than
he looks. Cristian told me he took out our Vetrano.”

“What happened?” said Il Serbo, stepping toward Cristian.

“Vetrano had tied him to a chair when we thought we heard
someone clattering around outside. I went to take a look around. Vetrano said
he had him under control. It was just a fucking cat.” Cristian sighed. “The old
man bashed his skull in with a lamp. He must have gotten loose somehow. I’m
sorry I let you down.”

Il Serbo nodded. “There will be time to mourn Vetrano. He
was a loyal soldier.”

“I was going to send Vetrano back here to tell you to meet
us, but . . . Vetrano . . .” Cristian looked down, rubbing his scabbed
knuckles. “But I took it out on the old man’s head—I was afraid I broke my hand
on his fucking face!”

“What about quarantine?” one of the group asked.

Il Serbo shook his head. “Oh, I don’t think that’s
necessary.” He waved his hand towards DeLuca. “Look at him—the only other
person this guy’s seen in a long while is our friend Bruno.”

“How did you find him?” another one shouted.

Cristian laughed. “Found him wandering towards Sorrento
north of here, a day and a half ago. Fucking knob was walking out of town in
the middle of the day back towards the highway.”

Bruno didn’t know what kind of game Cristian was playing,
with his half-truths and omissions. All Bruno knew was that Cristian’s smile
made him want to smash it, to crush it. Drawing on some well of strength he
didn’t know he had, Bruno pulled away from his captors and bolted full speed
into Cristian, knocking him to the floor.

“Brutto stronzo!” screamed Bruno as he pounded Cristian. One
or two punches were all he could get before the goons yanked him off. But
Bruno’s sharp knuckles were enough to open a gash on Cristian’s forehead that
covered his face in blood.

The melee filled the church with cursing and shouting that
echoed off the stone. Bruno tried to shout over the din, “Cristian, you filthy
liar!” But a swift punch to the gut knocked Bruno’s voice out of his throat
after he screamed, and someone grabbed his head from behind. Il Serbo’s voice
broke over the noise: “Shut him up!”

Bruno tried to shout, but they stuffed a filthy rag into his
mouth until he gagged. He wretched and stopped struggling, afraid he would
vomit and choke. They bound his hands behind his back, the cord cutting into
his wrists. Bruno kneeled on one knee, breathing hard through his nose, spit
running down his chin. He tried to look at Cristian, who now stood looking down
at him. Then Bruno glanced toward DeLuca. No one but Bruno observed DeLuca, so
preoccupied were the rest by discussions about they were going to do. But to
Bruno, their speech was like static. DeLuca shook his head, just enough for
Bruno alone to see and mouthed the word “no.” What did that mean? Did DeLuca
know something? What?

Cristian kept one hand pressing a rag to his head as he
spoke. “I know why they’re here.”

Silence fell, and all eyes fell on Cristian. Then Cristian
spoke words that burned any hope that DeLuca’s gesture might have given Bruno.

“They came for the blood of San Gennaro in the Duomo. I’ve
got it right here.” As Cristian spoke, he produced a phial of blood from the
inside of his jacket pocket. For a moment, Bruno stared at the aged glass. Part
of him wondered if the blood would turn to liquid. But as Cristian told them
about the transmissions, the blood, the weapons cache, everything, Bruno’s head
rolled back, and he looked up at the vaulted ceiling above him. Cristian’s
voice faded to a drone in Bruno’s head. He stared at the white inlay patterns
until his eyes watered. Not praying to a higher power, not begging for help
from something in which he did not believe, Bruno made a simple promise to
himself: he swore that today, somehow, before the day was done, before he died,
he would kill Cristian.

Two of the group yanked Bruno to his feet. Bruno saw Il
Serbo pull DeLuca up by his shirt.

Il Serbo shook his head. “What a pair of fools!” He raised
his voice, speaking to the group. “Time to take a trip, boys. We’re going to
the cache.” Il Serbo dragged DeLuca out the front door of the church while Cristian
followed. The rest of the group followed and hustled Bruno through the great
wooden doors of the church and out into the street.

The bright sun blinded Bruno and tears ran down his face. He
tripped over a misplaced cobblestone, but they dragged him up again and kept
going. His eyes adjusted as he walked. Though the sun shone and the temperature
climbed to a pleasant level, Bruno felt cold to the bone. The wind whistling
down the street cut through him and he shivered. Bruno’s eyes shifted back and forth
as they made their way through the empty streets towards the church and the
cache.

Cristian walked not ten meters in front of Bruno, but he
might as well have been across the Bay of Naples. If he could have spoken,
Bruno would have told them all about Cristian’s past as a cop and would have
been glad to see them gut his former friend before his own demise. But the gag
allowed Bruno only grunts and wails, and when he tried to talk, someone smacked
him in the head. As Bruno’s mind churned, the grey buildings of the city passed
quickly, time slipped by, and before Bruno had a plan for vengeance, he looked
up and found the great church looming over all of them.

The group came to a halt as the street opened into a small
rectangular piazza. Cars and trucks blocked the street across the way in, so
much so that they had to squeeze their way through, this way and that, through
gaps or crawling underneath the now useless vehicles. Bruno knew that once they
were in this piazza, they wouldn’t be getting out quickly. Once through, Bruno
looked around. Even the other end of the piazza looked blocked. But while there
were cars strewn here and there in the piazza itself, around the steps leading
to the great church’s entrance, the way was clear. Its grey and white façade
loomed over all of them to the right, the abandoned city oblivious to its
decorative stonework. Bruno remembered it had more than one name, but everyone
called it the Duomo di Napoli, the place where the blood of San Gennaro once
rested. The cool sun reflected off the façade, making Bruno squint. The ornate
stonework drew Bruno’s eye upward to the steeple at the top. As he stared,
Bruno wondered how many centuries this cathedral would stand and, when it
finally crumbled, if anyone would be around to care. Bruno felt more than saw
Cristian now standing near on his left. He glanced towards him, saw Cristian
looking at the buildings around them, glancing up at the roofs. Il Serbo strode
forward, now taking DeLuca by the arm with another one of his thugs by his
side.

“Come on, old man,” he said.

They filtered around the cars like droplets of water winding
their way down to the ground. Time was running out as they approached the
bottom of the long steps to the Duomo’s entrance. Desperation made Bruno sweat.
Hands still bound, Bruno had no plan. He wanted to rip Cristian’s neck with his
teeth and hope the wound would be fatal, but he couldn’t even do that. The gag,
now soaked with spit, prevented even such a desperate move. But no matter what,
he would try something. Bruno couldn’t care less if his own death was imminent.
He just wanted it all to end and take Cristian with him. The only thing that
gave him pause was what would happen to DeLuca. But there wasn’t anything Bruno
could do to help him anyway, so he shoved his thoughts about the old man aside.

Cristian now stood just to Bruno’s left. Bruno gathered the
last shreds of will, ready to strike what would be his final blow. His body
tensed, and for the first time since his capture, he felt strong. The rest of
Il Serbo’s gang stood in between the cars strewn in the piazza. Now was Bruno’s
final chance. But just in front of them Il Serbo stopped. Bruno watched him
stiffen. Then Il Serbo whirled back, like a soldier performing an about-face,
and marched right up to Cristian, with a curly-haired thug two steps behind,
just to Il Serbo’s left.

Il Serbo stared at Cristian, almost nose-to-nose. The rest
of Il Serbo’s crew looked around, scratching their asses, muttering among
themselves, waiting for their master to do something. Finally Cristian spoke.

“What?”

“How did he know?” murmured Il Serbo.

Cristian looked puzzled. “What?”

Bruno noticed Cristian slip one hand into his front jacket
pocket.

Out of nowhere Il Serbo roared, pointing at Bruno.

“How did he know? How the fuck did
he
know your name!
When they punched him, he said your name!” Spit flew out of his mouth, and his
voice echoed off the stone and asphalt.

Cristian and Bruno both took a step back. Cristian chuckled
a little, but Bruno could hear something in his voice he hadn’t heard before.

“What? I don’t know . . . someone must have said it. Who the
fuck knows?”

With his free hand, Il Serbo yanked his pistol and pointed
it at Cristian’s head.

“Take your hand out of your pocket and answer me! Or I’ll
blow your fucking skull open!”

Cristian held his hand out at his waist, palms up. He
inhaled, opened his mouth to speak, but before a sound came out of his mouth, a
sharp crack reverberated across the square and brains splattered everywhere.