M McDonald - March Into Hell

Chills wracked his body, and he fought to control his trembling. He remembered the horrifying details from Judy's ordeal. There had been that pole, and he recalled the ropes attached to it. Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallowed hard.

Far too soon, the van pulled into a deserted alley behind an old building. Mark had no idea where they were and he tried to look for landmarks when he staggered out of the van, but a jerk on the rope tugged his head forward.

"Ahhhhgh!" He struggled to breathe and sank to his knees as his vision dimmed. A roar filled his ears.

"Loosen the rope! We can't have him dying out here. That would ruin everything."

A rush of air poured into his lungs and Mark sucked it in as fast as he could. Hands clamped onto his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, the lead rope left mercifully slack this time. A door opened and the group quickly entered, maintaining their almost complete silence. With the exception of Judy and Kern, no one had uttered a single word during the whole ordeal.

A long hallway opened into an empty warehouse. A bonfire blazed in the middle of the room. A half dozen black clad members of the cult greeted the new arrivals with bows of their heads. Someone threw a piece of wood onto the fire, sending a cascade of sparks shooting into the air. Broken windows high on the walls ventilated the room and the fire flared as a cold breeze swept the space.

A make-shift wooden cross loomed over the room. A small ledge jutted out from the bottom of the pole. Mark stopped in his tracks and even the tugging on the rope couldn't get him to budge. His trembling intensified, and he uttered a hoarse, "No."

Kern approached him. "Oh yes, Mark. How else can I test my theory?" He looked to the cross and back at Mark with a mocking smile. "Be grateful we didn't make you haul it in here."

Hands tightened on his biceps and jarred him into action. Spinning suddenly, the grip on his arms slipped and he lowered his shoulder, plowing his way through the group. Two people fell and Mark made a break for the hall. He hadn't gone three steps when the rope tightened, snapping his head back. His legs flew out from under him and he crashed hard on the cement floor, his skull cracking with a dull thud on the pavement. Sparks shot through his sight. The impact knocked the wind out of him and pain rocketed through his back and shoulders. The rope bit into his neck and when he tried to breathe, his diaphragm spasmed.

There was nothing left to do but pray.

The cult members dragged Mark, face up towards the cross. He closed his eyes; barely registering the movement. Flashes and snippets of his childhood and adolescence played in his mind like a movie on fast-forward. His thoughts filled with images of his parents. It bothered him that he couldn't remember exactly what he had said in his last conversation with them. Had he told them he loved them? Maybe he'd told his mom, but probably not his dad. His dad didn't go much for expressing his feelings. What his dad lacked in verbal expression, he made up for with handshakes and claps on the shoulders. Mark's mom had no qualms about telling Mark she loved him and no visit ended without lots of hugs and kisses.

Vaguely, he heard clatters and clanks, but ignored the intrusion into his thoughts. He concentrated on the kaleidoscope of images swirling in his brain; his first bicycle, first home run in Little League, and later, the first time he ever made love. All his friends and loved ones made their appearance in his parade of memories.

Several people rolled Mark onto his side, rudely yanking him from his reverie and thrusting him into the present. They tore off the remains of his shirt and cut the rope around his wrists. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they pulled him onto the long vertical part of the cross, which now lay on the floor. Gasping, his eyes darted around him and his heart beat at breakneck speed. This can't be happening! His terror ratcheted up another notch when a drum started pounding and the cult began chanting.

Stretching Mark's arms wide, they held him down. He tried one more time to get free, kicking with his legs, but within seconds, he felt his arms and legs lashed to the wood. Another rope circled his chest, holding him fast. The drum tempo increased and the chanting matched it beat for ominous beat. Then, silence.

Kern bent over him, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Are you ready?" He placed a hand on Mark's chest. "Hmm… your heart seems to be beating pretty fast. Are you nervous? If you'd like, I could convert this to a different kind of ritual."

Mark couldn't answer, his whole body felt paralyzed. Why the hell didn't they hurry and just get this over with? His throat spasmed several times before he managed to respond, "Why can't you just shoot me?"

Kern threw his head back and laughed. "But that wouldn't serve our purpose, now would it?" He drew a sharp knife out of a leather case attached to a belt around his waist. "What I could do, though, is make this into more of an Aztec sacrifice than a Christian test of faith. Hmmm…I've always been intrigued with a culture that was so advanced and yet, worshiped in such a blood-thirsty way. Utterly fascinating."

The gleam in his eyes was replaced with a cold, flat effect, and he touched the tip of the knife against Mark's upper abdomen. "Are you familiar with their rituals?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "They would cut the heart right out of a person, and while it was still beating, show it to the poor victim."

Mark could only gape at him in mute horror.

"It could be all over in a matter of seconds if I just plunge this in right…here!" Kern shoved the knife in and Mark cried out, his whole body writhing as he tried to get away from the pain.

"You're lucky. I held back or you'd be dead."

Slowly, he withdrew the weapon and Mark groaned. He went on as though carrying on a casual conversation. "No, I don't think we'll go the Aztec route. I'm too curious about you, Mark. I've always despised the Church and its silly belief that the son of God walked amongst ordinary men, performing miracles and healing the sick." Kern paused for a long moment, his eyes took on a faraway expression before snapping to Mark's. "Do you heal the sick?"

Mark moaned, his head lolling in pain and shock, Kern's question barely registering. For a minute, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing. He almost wished the knife had gone deeper-just to end the whole thing. His eyes opened wide and he gave a hoarse cry when Kern poked his finger into his wound and then held it up, the blood dripping down.

"Apparently, I've answered my question. If you could heal the sick, self-preservation would demand that you heal yourself first. As you can see, that is not the case." And then he laughed as though he had told the funniest joke in the world. "What I want to see is if your God can save you. Do you have faith, Mark?"

With a short nod to the cult members restraining Mark, he turned abruptly and strode away. The chanting renewed; the members' voices louder, more insistent.

They began with his right hand. Mark didn't want to look, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. "No…don't…don't do this…please…stop…oh God!"

Nobody looked at him; every person who held him kept their heads bent, ignoring his pleas. They forcibly pried his fist open, spreading his fingers and scraping his knuckles against the wood. The drum increased its tempo and a hooded figure held a long, thick nail to Mark's palm. He could feel the cold metal point digging into his flesh. The chant surged in time to the beat of the drums, and the firelight flashed off the hammer as it slammed down.

Mark never heard it connect with the nail head. He stiffened, his back arching in pain and shock. Before he could catch his breath, they moved to his left hand. He didn't look this time. Instead, he closed his eyes, his lips moving in prayer.