The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

Bahadur finished the last of his soup,
mopping up the remaining few lentils with a crust of bread held between two massive fingers. It had been the first thing he had eaten in a very long time, and although it had done him tremendous good, he was still not satisfied. He hunched over and picked through Fra Bartolomeo’s pack, wondering if he might have missed something. He found a bottle of water and a flashlight.

“This is very strange,” he said to himself. “Perhaps they left their food and water behind in their haste, but how far could anyone go in this darkness without light?”

Bahadur tested the switch and saw that the batteries were still good.

“Something is not right,” he muttered, his voice as deep as the catacombs.

Groaning in pain, he rose from his chair and turned, leaving the warm fire behind him as he made his way to the room where the guards had found the pack. Shining his flashlight into the chamber, Bahadur passed the beam of light over the somber mounds of bones until it arrived at a small blanket that lay spread out on the floor.

“Why sleep here when you could sleep by the fire?” he said slowly.

Grunting with effort, Bahadur bent low and squeezed himself through the tiny opening, unholstering his handgun as he went. He made his way to the blanket and pulled up the edge.

“Allah be praised,” he said in his deep basso.

There in the floor, directly beneath where the blanket had been, was a trap door made of heavy wooden planks. Holding his gun in one hand, he took hold of the door with the other and swung it open, his eyes opening wide at the sight before him. There, lying trembling in the cold ground, he could see three figures looking up at him, their eyes wide with fright.

“What have we here?” he said, holstering his gun. “You all look quite old, but hardly ready for the grave.”

Bending down, Bahadur took hold of Suora’s arm, and gentler than might have been expected, helped her out of the shallow pit.

“Sister,”
he said respectfully, his voice like a booming bass drum. “Please, allow me.”

He shook the blanket that had been lying on the floor, and wrapped her shivering body in it.

“Thank you,” said Suora, utterly surprised.

The enormous bald-headed man appeared to be a monster. His scarred face was badly cut and bruised, and there was a gruesome image of a black moth tattooed to his tortured neck. He wore a black, tight-fitting sweater and black military pants, his massive, horse-like muscles stretching the material taught. Strapped to his waist, on the opposite side of his handgun, was a massive, and very dangerous looking, military combat knife. Even still, there was a deep wisdom in his intelligent eyes. The three seniors could see that this was no monster who stood before them, but rather a tame and noble giant.

“Please,” he said to the Bishop and the Brother, reaching down to help them.

They each took hold of a massive hand and rose slowly to their feet. They had only lay there for ten minutes at most, but the ground was cold and damp and their old bodies had not taken kindly to the accommodations. Bahadur helped them out of the pit, looking back over his shoulder as he did so.

“You need not fear me,” he said, his grim and battered face at odds with his words. “I am not a murderer, and especially not of those in the holy service. I only ask that you assist me in my endeavor. Where is the Cube of Compostela?”

“I am the Bishop Marcus Di Lauro,” said the old Bishop, “and I thank you for your kindness and civility. I must say it is greatly appreciated. The Cube is not in our possession, although we were close to its keeper not so long ago.”

“Gabriel Parker,” said Bahadur, frowning. “Where is he?”

“That I do not know,” said the Bishop, “but I must confess that even if I did know, I would not tell you under any circumstances. You see, the Cube belongs to Gabriel by birth. It is his for the keeping and I will not betray him.”

“Yes, of course, your Eminence,” said Bahadur, nodding solemnly. “This I can understand, but you must also understand that if you will not cooperate with me, I will be forced to take you as my prisoners until the Cube is recovered. It is not I who decide it, but those to whom I am bound.”

“You are a good man,” said Suora Angelica suddenly. “In your heart you are true, my son. It is the wickedness of others that has led you astray.”

Bahadur turned to face the little nun, his expression gentle.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said in his deep voice. “You are very kind and very observant, for ugly as I am, I try to be my best under the eyes of Allah. I have taken many lives, but never those of the innocent. You are safe while under my charge, but I cannot guarantee that my master will be so kind. Please now, you must come with me.”

He led them out into the tunnel.

“I will give you a choice,” said Bahadur, stopping and looking very serious. “I will be taking you to our headquarters. To do this we must first leave the catacombs. We can do this by going back to the monastery the way you have come, or we can take the much easier route up through the catacombs, and out the public entrance.”

The Bishop moved to say something, but Bahadur silenced him with a gesture.

“Were we to take the way through the catacombs, and enter into the general public, any one of you could easily scream out and draw attention to us. What kind of promise can you give me that you will not do this?”

“You have shown us mercy, my son,” said the old Bishop in earnest. “In exchange for your kindness, I give you my word that we will not cry out. We will go with you peaceably to your headquarters, or anywhere else you wish, and we shall trust in God, or Allah if you choose, for He is the father of us all.”

“And I will honour your promise, your Excellency,” said Bahadur. “Please, come this way.”

The sun had already set when they approached a black van parked on the roadside, meters from the catacomb entrance. Bahadur slid open the side door, much like a chauffeur might do, inviting the three to enter with a polite bow.

“Please,” he said. “Enter and sit. You will find the seats very comfortable after your long flight.”

“Thank you, my son,” said Fra Bartolomeo, being the last to enter. “God bless you.”

Bahadur closed the door and Fra watched him through the windows as he made his way around the van. He stopped just outside the driver’s door and made a phone call. Fra listened in with his sharp ears.

“He must be talking to Nasrallah,” he whispered to the Bishop and nun. “Judging by his tone.”

He listened intently.

“He is telling him that he has found us, and that his men are still searching for Gabriel and Natasha.”

Fra looked at the Bishop in surprise.

“He has been told that they are no longer in the Catacombs.”

The Bishop took hold of the Brother’s arm, a combination of joy and worry engulfing his features. The old Brother held up his hand in a gesture of silence.

“They do not know exactly where they are. Somewhere in the city centre. Bahadur is agreeing to regroup at headquarters.”

Just then the driver’s door opened and Bahadur entered the van.

“Do you require food or drink?” he asked over his shoulder. “I am afraid I have eaten all of your provisions.”

“Perhaps a cup of tea would be nice,” said Suora. “If you might be so kind.”

“It will be my pleasure, Sister,” said Bahadur, “and a fair price for such fine lentil stew. The honey cake was also very good.”

“Oh, I am so glad that you enjoyed it, my son!” said the old sister. “It is my specialty. The lentils however, were Fra’s humble invention.”

She timidly pointed her thumb at the old Brother, and smiled ear to ear.

“I thank you,” said Bahadur. “My employer had given me a severe beating and nothing to eat for more than a day.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said the sister, but just then, the Bishop’s phone beeped.

“Excuse me, your Excellency,” said Bahadur. “It would appear you have a message waiting. Perhaps you might put the phone onto its speaker mode, so that we all might hear.”

“Of course, Bahadur,” said the Bishop, fumbling with the phone. “I understand.”

Gabriel’s message played itself out. Bahadur turned in his seat to better hear.

“-before we do anything about the Cube, I’ve got to get Amir’s family out of there. I’m responsible for all this. Natasha’s insisted on coming with me. We’ll be flying to Gibraltar tomorrow, and then heading to Morocco from there. Call me the minute you get this. We need to know you guys are safe.”

Bahadur nodded slowly.

“Amir is my cousin,” he said. “His family is my family. It would appear that Nasrallah is an enemy to us all. If you will please excuse me for one moment.”

With that Bahadur left the van and began pacing around outside, bent in thought. He returned within moments, speaking out immediately after he had closed the door behind him.

“I have made a decision,” he said. “I will help Gabriel Parker. We will bring Nasrallah down together. He is a very bad man. I will now make a few calls. When I am done, if your Excellency will please call Gabriel and inform him that you are here with me, and that you are safe. I will arrange a private flight to Gibraltar for us all tonight. Allah willing, we shall free my family, even if we must raise a small army to do so. We must do this quickly. The moment Nasrallah learns that I have betrayed him, he will order my family killed.”

Suora Angelica squeezed both the Brother’s and the Bishop’s hands excitedly, delighted with the new plan. Bahadur produced his phone and put it on speaker mode so that they all might hear. The connection went straight to Nasrallah’s voicemail.

“Master,” he said. “There has been a change in plans. I have extracted information from the hostages and killed them. A trap has been laid for Gabriel Parker at the Trevi Fountain tomorrow night at twenty-three hundred hours. I have learned that he has hidden the Cube. For this reason he must be taken alive and made to talk. I promise to have the artifact for you in thirty-six hours. Please call me if you have any questions. I am your humble servant.”

Bahadur closed his phone and then opened it to dial another number.

“Stop your search,” he said sharply. “Regroup all the men. We will be laying a trap at the Trevi Fountain tomorrow at twenty-three hundred hours.”

He was silent while the mercenary spoke.

“No!” barked Bahadur in his deep basso. “I have other business I must attend to. I am putting you in command. You will position the men around the square. I want two snipers on the rooftops, and everyone else in plain clothes. We will be taking Parker alive.”

He was silent again.

“Yes, that is correct,” said Bahadur. “I will meet you in the southwest corner of the square at precisely twenty-two hundred hours. Is that clear?”

Bahadur put away his phone.

“The game is afoot,” he said. “May Allah help us.”

Pulling out into traffic, Bahadur accelerated up to speed.

“Now for more important matters,” he said. “British tea. We must not disappoint.”

Los Picos De Europa, Northern Spain.

“To the Black Lake!”
hissed a demonic voice.

The sun had already disappeared behind the mountainous peaks as Isaac battled his way down the rugged terrain. Around him the tangled branches of countless black trees seemed like threads in a spider’s web. At his feet, a tarp covered sled fashioned from plane wreckage carried what was left of the rotting corpse of his son, the stench of the thing filling him with constant nausea.

Dear Father, give me strength to endure this trial.

Isaac could do nothing to escape his fear. In the end the demons had won, taking possession of his faculties, but leaving him with enough consciousness to know what it was they were making him do. He was in a waking nightmare, and it was not easy for him to formulate thoughts. His memory told him that he had at last managed to free himself from the wreckage of the plane, and that he had been dragging the corpse for days now, crossing impossible barriers, descending perilous rifts, and all the time being made victim to an icy voice that filled his mind like a swelling ocean.

“To the Black Lake,”
it hissed over and over again.
“To the Portal of Ahreimanius.”

It was his son who spoke, and if he knew this, it was only because he was of his own flesh and blood. Isaac had spent a lifetime at his side. Singing to him, caring for him; loving, as best he could, a child who had never once uttered a single word to him; a child who had caused the death of his beloved wife. It had been a thirty-three year long vigil of parental duty, and even now, in death, the child would still give him no peace. Isaac felt a deep hatred for his son rise up within him, and with it came an encompassing sense of guilt for feeling this way.

“To the Black Lake! To the Portal!”

It was an incessant plea; a cyclical litany; minute after minute, day and night. It came as from a hungry infant; pleading, insistent, selfish, parasitic. On occasion the corpse would throw itself into violent tantrums, its hardened bulk twisting and jerking beneath the battered tarpaulin like a great dying fish.

Isaac made his way downward into the woods. Below him he could see a tiny island; the place of his son’s conception. He suddenly began to feel a great weight pressing down on him. It drove the air from his lungs, and the sight from his eyes. He brought his hands to his face as a vivid memory flooded into him.

He could see his late wife, Alina, materializing out of the blackness. She was on the edge of a circle of standing stones, the tangled trunks of the little island’s interior surrounding her. They had only just docked their boat. Alina had playfully run into the woods with a picnic basket. Isaac relived the intensity of his love for her. It ached in his heart, and made any other pain he was experiencing pale in comparison.

Almost thirty-four years earlier, Alina had been introduced to him by Father Adrianus. She had been a beautiful girl, over a decade younger than himself, and deeply in need of love and support.

“It is time you took a wife, my son,” the priest had told him one day. “You will take this young woman as your bride, and together you will raise a family.”

As always, Isaac had done as he was told, and it was not long before he had found himself on his honeymoon, walking the pilgrimage of the
Camino de Santiago
with a wife at his side.

Now, in his delirium, he was revisiting that time and place, and he saw that he and Alina were once again making love atop the great monolithic stone. A chilling fog had settled in. Something was terribly wrong. He looked down at Alina, but to his horror and repulsion found that the corpse of his son had taken her place.

Isaac broke from his twisted reverie, his eyes finding the cadaver at his feet. Through the tarpaulin he could make out its macabre form, and a sudden desire to destroy the thing filled him to the quick.