Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

This way…The voice leeched out of the darkness, and he thought of coal gas spurting from fissures in the rock. This way…

Rakkim stumbled on, head throbbing as he followed the voice. It was coal gas. Or wind caught in the vortex of the flames. Maybe he was light-headed from carbon monoxide or something worse. There was always something worse. He followed the voice anyway. Stumbling, he lurched forward, stepped through a human rib cage. Another step and he crunched through a skull, the bone blackened from the heat, held marginally together by the eroded respirator around its jawbone. Rakkim cried out, disgusted, as the human dust blew around him, and the voice howled in the smoke, laughing now. He hurried on, his breath like fire in his lungs.

This way…

He lost track of time and distance. The map that Winthrop had drawn so carefully for him, the map that he had committed to memory…it was gone now. What had happened to his sense of direction? The pride of the Fedayeen…cover his eyes, his ears, block his nose, suspend him in a warm, saltwater bath so that all sensation is gone. No matter. The Fedayeen will always be able to point to true north. Not today.

A wall of flame rose up before him, higher and higher, twenty…thirty feet tall. Sweat poured down his face as he backed away. The flames undulated, stretching out before him, the smoke itself held back by the heat.

This way…

That way led to death, he was certain. That way led straight into the flames.

I told you, THIS way…

The flames danced in the wind, bobbing along. He felt the rock baking underfoot, thought of the old stories of eggs frying on sidewalks in August, eggs over easy with a side of Rakkim. He staggered back as the flames shot even higher, then flickered, a whole section of the firewall extinguished for a moment before starting to rise again.

Rakkim smiled.

Yes…

He backed off from the heat as much as possible, stayed in the smoke…waiting. After a few more minutes, the wall of fire shot straight up, even higher than before, then just as abruptly died. Rakkim raced toward the guttering fire, leaped over the rocks and into the smoke as the flames rose higher again. Wisps of smoke clung to him as he stood upright. The fire stirred the smoke as he walked forward. Squinting now. The church…he could see the church through the ebbing smoke.

A nice little church, that’s what Winthrop said, and considering the decades spent in the middle of a burning coal field, it was still pretty nice. Paint peeling, windows cracked, the steeple singed, but intact. Everything else for miles around had burned up, but this little church remained. Rakkim walked closer, felt the heat on his back, but his face seemed cooler. He looked around for some natural explanation, a ridge of wind that kept the flames at bay, a cave bathing the chapel in cool, subterranean air…but there was nothing. Just the church.

The wooden steps creaked as he walked toward the door. One of them was broken but he stepped past it. The silver doorknob gleamed in the dim light. Just like Winthrop described it, Christ on the cross embossed on the center. He reached out a hand, felt the heat an inch away. Hesitated. Then grasped the knob, screamed as he opened the door.

He eased inside, groaning, clutching his hand. The door closed quietly behind him, all by itself. No voice in his head now, and though the voice had led him here, he was relieved at the silence. The cool silence. No sound here…except the rustle of running water.

Water? He looked around. A small stone fountain lay to the right of the pulpit, water bubbling up and filling the basin, the overflow running down a channel into the floor. He plunged his aching hand into the basin, sighed as the icy water numbed it. He stared at his submerged palm. The crucifix from the doorknob was clearly marked on his skin. No blistering. A clear brand. Definitely a conversation starter when he got back to the republic.

He laughed as he leaned against the basin, exhausted. Finally removed his hand from the water. It still throbbed, but the pain had subsided. He took out the handkerchief that Winthrop had given him, wet it in the basin, and wiped the grit and ash off his face, scrubbed himself clean. Then he splashed cold water on his face, cupped his hands, and drank until he was ready to burst. He rested against the basin for a moment, reveling in the sensation…the calm. He was tired. He had barely slept since he and Leo had left Seattle, just snatched a few hours here and there, always skimming the surface of sleep, alert to strange sounds, but here… there was peace in this church. Clean air too; the only whiff of smoke came from his own hair and clothes.

The inside of the church was untouched. The pews in place, the hymn-books in their holders, the candles ready. Someone had dropped a small paper fan with a picture of Adam and Eve printed on it. Most images he had seen of the first couple showed them shamed by their nakedness, cast out of the Garden by an angry God, but in this depiction they seemed more like young lovers, a girdle of leaves around their nakedness, holding hands-they looked as though they were embarking on some risky but exciting adventure, a honeymoon even. Rakkim wished he could have gone to this church when it was filled with people, would have liked to have heard them lift their voices in song. He walked over to the organ, pressed one of the keys-the sound echoed. The church smelled like sandalwood, still no trace of the acrid smoke that he had been trudging through for hours. He flexed the fingers on his right hand, saw the crucifix move. No pain. A stained-glass image of Jesus beamed down from above the pulpit. Jesus smiling, a lamb beside him. No fire and brimstone for this Jesus. No smiting the wicked. Forgiveness reigned. No wonder they crucified him.

He checked out the back windows, saw another wall of fire. The church truly was surrounded by fire, unburned among the burning. He knelt down in the aisle. Said a prayer of thanksgiving for his arrival at this holy place. Said another prayer asking to be delivered back to Winthrop’s store. He offered still another prayer, this one for Sarah and Michael, asked God that they be kept safe until his return to Seattle. Rakkim could take it from there. He almost pressed his forehead against the cool stone floor, but stayed on his knees, eyes closed, as he prayed.

He awoke to the sound of thunder, awoke curled on the floor. Up quickly now. Glanced at his watch. Six o’clock! He had slept for two hours. He looked at his right hand, touched it. No pain. The brand was part of him now. He gingerly reached the doorknob, found it cool to the touch. Which made as little sense as anything else about the church.

He stepped outside as the flame wall started its down cycle, ran straight through the guttering fire and into the smoke beyond. Tripped on some loose rocks, landed hard on his arm, and scooted up. Didn’t look back.

The rain started as he walked quickly back the way he thought he had come, the clouds opening up as he ran through the perpetual twilight. Steam rose where the rain landed on the hot rocks, made breathing even harder, but the cool rain soaked his clothes too, and that was a blessing. The storm brought high winds, thinning out the smoke a little, and soon he was seeing familiar landmarks, slabs of rock he had passed on the way in, a discarded camera, a broken water bottle…the crushed skull. He hurried on, slipping on the wet ground, splashing through mud, hurrying faster, not sure he would ever find his way out when night fell.

Faster now as the smoke eddied around him. No ghosts, no whispers on the wind. He was sure-footed, effortlessly dodging the flames that still rose all around him. Faster, faster, faster.

He burst out from the smoldering coal fields, rain beating down as he staggered onto the streets of Addington. Through the haze, he saw Winthrop’s store in the distance, lights on, the generator thumping away. He ran a hand through his wet hair, wiped at his face, walking slower now. His muddy shoes squished with every step. No one was on the street. The other storefronts were deserted, windows spiderwebbed from the heat.