by D P Wright
Both crouching down close to the ground, they made their way across the church yard, obscured under the cloak of darkness and by the dense rainfall. Bethany led Kessler by the hand, nimbly navigating her way through the many obstacles that lay on their path, however Kessler still managed to trip over and knock into gravestones and statues at any given opportunity. She must have spent many a childhood day playing here, he thought, and could easily imagine her running around in her younger years, her uncle calling after her, unable to catch or find her.
Eventually they came to a stone structure with four steps which led down to another crumbling wall. Kessler looked up from underneath his hood, water cascading down over his coat, and immediately fell back in horror as a monstrous face appeared out of the dark. He gasped and half yelled over the noise of the rain, “What type of place is this?” Two stone carvings stood either side of the structure. One held a knife aloft, its open maw revealing long fangs, the other sat with wings spread wide, ready for flight, a huge mischievous grin on a hideous face.
Bethany smiled, “Don’t worry. They’re only gargoyles. In the past people used them to ward off evil spirits.” Kessler looked out into the gloom, nodded in understanding and joined Bethany huddled at the base of the steps, a small stone overhang giving them some reprieve from the torrent.
“I thought you were going to get us into the church?” Kessler was confused, they were still some distance away from the main building and he could not see anything resembling an entrance that would get them inside.
“Below us are the old crypts where people used to keep their dead. I spent many hours down there as a kid. It’s quite beautiful.”
“Sounds great.” Kessler said sarcastically. “You spent your childhood hanging around dead people, rather you than me.”
“I can assure you that I had a very well rounded and fulfilling upbringing.”
“So how are we going to get in then?” Kessler was getting impatient. The faint glow of the Venter’s lights could just be made out over the wall on the far side of the church.
“I was getting to that.” Bethany placed her hand into the open mouth of the gargoyle holding the knife and grabbed hold of its tongue. With a slight twist of her hand the wall began to open with a deep rumble. She looked up at the detective smugly, “I told you, I know this place.”
“Let’s get in quickly before the Venters catch sight of us. If that happens I guarantee you that we will both be joining your dead friends sooner rather than later.” Kessler could not help but raise a slight smile under his hood, he was impressed by the girl’s resourcefulness.
“This crypt was used by some wealthy family back in the days before the Purging. The family crypts are down here, come see.” Being inside the church seemed to have an almost instantaneous effect on her as she excitedly darted around the familiar surroundings of her childhood.
Bethany climbed down into the darkness with the same dexterity she had shown in the graveyard. Kessler stumbled down the steep, well worn ancient stairs and immediately struggled for grip as rainwater flowed over the smooth stone. He felt awkward, hands either side of him braced against the walls keeping his large bulk upright as he fumbled in the dark. His clothes were heavy, soaked through, and now that he was sheltered from the elements he could smell the rot of the rain which mingled with the damp odour of the crypt itself. He sneezed and with a quick, panicked curse tumbled down the final few stairs with a crash. Hard plastic crates broke his fall, and their contents, thousands of sheets of paper, now lay scattered everywhere some still fluttering gracefully through the air. The detective lay on the ground, cursing to himself and rubbing the back of his head.
He came round to see Bethany standing above him. She had her hand outstretched, offering to help lift him from the mess in which he now found himself entangled. Feeling like a naughty child he swore again, “I can’t see a damn thing in here,” he mumbled under his breath, feeling awkward at his sudden show of vulnerability. He took off his optics and put it in his coat pocket and gave his eyes a rub, they itched like hell. He could feel the chem leaving his body and his strength going with it.
“Mr Kessler, you must be quiet if we are to avoid the attention of our friends outside.” Despite the gloom, Kessler was sure he could see a smile on her face. She had a candle in her hand, lit it and again offered her hand out to him, “Let me help.”
Kessler batted her away, “I can manage.” He was too old for all this, out of shape and he knew it. But what he also knew was that there was no way that he was going to let Bethany Turner discover this. Not a chance.
Untangling himself from the mess, Kessler straightened himself out, pulled back his hood and surveyed the scene around him. The pale light of the candle revealed thousands of sheets of paper strewn everywhere. He could just make out at the edge of the light a stone column that reached up to a large vaulted ceiling about twenty feet above their heads. “Is this real paper? It looks old.” Kessler picked up one of the many yellowed crisp sheets that littered floor. “I remember seeing some in the markets but it was only a small torn piece. It didn’t have any writing on it.” He fingered the paper in his hands, the writing was a language he did not understand however he gazed in wonder at the beautiful long elegant strokes that made up the lettering. He could not help but think that something so delicate belonged to a very different time.
Bethany picked up a pile of paper and neatly stacked it inside an empty container, “Old manuscripts, letters, books. Anything that mentions God or his teachings we find and try and retrieve the knowledge, learn from it. All are from the old world before the Purge.”
“I didn’t think much survived.”
“You’d be surprised. Some have travelled deep down into the lowest parts of Dis and returned with fantastic treasures. I’ve seen them.” Bethany waved the candle slowly around the room to get her bearings, revealing more of the crypt. Many sarcophagi came into view, ghostly faces of long past carved into the stone, the dancing light throwing shadows across them giving each of their expressions a more menacing look. It was beyond Kessler the reasons why people wanted their dead hanging around, it gave him the creeps.
The ceiling was supported by cylindrical columns each bearing intricate designs that Kessler could just make out to be lost scenes from a different time. Trees and flowers, myths from a lost age, were carved into the stone, images now only found in children’s stories, corporate ads and infogrammes.
Walking slowly through the crypt, carefully watching each step for fear of falling flat on his face, Kessler followed Bethany and her candlelight. He passed many boxes which, on closer inspection, contained bottles, hundreds of them full of a brown liquid all labelled ‘Holy Ale.’ “What is this place used for these days?”
“For storage mostly.” Bethany turned to see Kessler closely inspecting one of the many bottles. “My uncle also brewed some alcohol down here to pay for the upkeep of the parish.”
He looked at her and smiled, “Your uncle brewed ale?”
“Yes, in the past the priests at St. John’s used the hidden rooms below the church to brew ale and make wine.” She put her hands to her hips and shook her head, “It’s not what you think. They sold it to make the credits needed to maintain the church and its grounds.”
“Some operation he had going on down here.” He looked around the room, the light now revealing boxes, hundreds of containers, glasses, jars, jugs and, up against the wall just ahead of them, barrels.
“It was for the community.” She stated flatly.
The thought of drink made Kessler feel edgy. His mouth became dry like sandpaper, images of that half-full bottle of Piper’s back in his junker came to mind. He cursed himself for not bringing it with him.
Despite having spent years enduring the pain of a chemical comedown it had not got any easier for Kessler. His skin felt clammy and was beginning to itch. The familiar tremor had also begun in his left hand, it always started there, a warning of future troubles. He shook his he
ad, he had to focus on the job, be professional. Blinking his eyes he focused on what lay ahead, wiped his brow with his sleeve and he gritted his teeth. He noticed Bethany staring at him, hands on hips, biting her bottom lip. Kessler took a breath of Ox and spoke, “That’s a very lucky community, must have been shifting some cred looking at this lot stored down here. The Council, however, mustn’t have appreciated the competition. Might explain the Venters taking an interest in this little operation, people disappear to the Undercells for much less.” Like many things on Dis, the production of booze was strictly prohibited and heavily regulated by the Council. Only approved corporations were allowed to produce and sell it throughout the city, and would make a fortune doing so. With a quick sharp burst of gas that seemed to reverberate around the crypt, he popped the top on an ale and glugged its entire contents down his throat. Placing the empty bottle back on top of the box he belched and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Mmm, not bad.” He closed his eyes, appreciating the fine beverage. “Your uncle knew what he was doing. It has quite a kick, what’s his secret?” A quick scan around the crypt answered his question for him. Barrels marked with the familiar winged and haloed ‘M’ and ‘L’ logo of Merryll Laboratories lined the far wall. He smiled at the irony of highly dangerous, illegal chemicals being stored right beneath the feet of citizens seeking forgiveness from their sins.
“It was a tradition passed down over the centuries. The clergy believed in the words of St Benedict who wanted all those in the service of God to live by the labours of their own hands, Mr Kessler. The community in Downtown have very little credits and the church is not going to ask them for charity.”
“No, but you would sell them booze for profit?” Kessler had already grabbed hold of another bottle. “Must have been difficult getting chems from Merryll all the way down here passed the Vents guarding the Rim.”
Bethany ignored Kessler’s comment and continued, “Now, if you don’t mind we have to be getting on.”
He stared at the bottle, probably for longer than he would have liked, before setting it down carefully. It was good ale, he mused before turning to Bethany, “Yes ma’am, you’re the boss.” Kessler chuckled and felt somewhat secure in the grim knowledge that everything and everyone was tainted on Dis, no exceptions. At least life in this damned city was consistent.
“There is a stairwell that leads from here all the way up to the nave. A trap door opens right by the north transept which is just across the way from my uncle’s study,” Bethany stammered, “where the police found him.”
Kessler followed Bethany to the base of the stairwell. He could hear the dripping of water from somewhere in the darkness, beyond the candlelight, reminding him of the harsh conditions outside. With every movement came the creak of sodden material and the squelch of waterlogged boots. Puddles of water pooled around his feet as they made their way up the stairs which consisted of narrow steps, well worn by the feet of the many clergymen who had lived and worked at St John’s over the years.
The steep stairs ended abruptly at an old wooden hatch which Bethany immediately began to open. Kessler quickly grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her back, “Careful. Let me go first.” He whispered to her with short, abrupt urgency. “We’ve come this far. It’d be a shame to get caught by the Vents and not find out what’s so damn special about this place.” Kessler had to admit to himself that he was curious. “Anyway,” Kessler drew himself closer towards Bethany to emphasise the importance of what he was about to say. She winced and turned her head at the smell of his stale breath as he continued, “Our day would not end well if they found out we had sneaked in here.”
Bethany looked up at the trapdoor for a few moments then down at Kessler who still held her arm in a tight grip. “Of course.” As she nodded in agreement she audibly exhaled as if she had been holding her breath all this time in anticipation of what was to be discovered above their heads.
Leaning against the rough stone wall to the left of her he squeezed past. The soaking wet cloth of her dress clung tight to her body and Kessler could not avoid noticing Bethany’s cleavage which, the candlelight revealed, grew with every excited intake of breath. Realising he was staring he looked away, blushing, and carefully pushed the hatch open just a few inches. Despite his caution, the old rusted metal hinges creaked loudly.
Peering out of the small opening, Kessler found himself looking across the nave to the other side of the church. The walls consisted of beautifully carved stone and highly polished dark golden wooden beams which arced gracefully far above the church floor. Columns, much like those found in the crypt but on a larger scale, elegantly rose from the floor to hold another beautifully grand vaulted ceiling. A silence seemed to caress everything within the church and calmed Kessler’s nerves. He listened to the rain hammer against huge windows which had long ago been robbed of light by centuries of muck and grime and shivered in his wet clothes.
A sudden clatter shattered the calm. Kessler watched as a man stormed inside slamming shut the church’s large front doors, the force of which reverberated throughout the building. He was dressed in a long grey military great coat with gleaming gold buttons and black shoulder boards embossed with the golden cog of the Council. Kessler knew that he was a Vent and an important one at that. Instead of the full plate helmet and respirator worn by those guarding the church outside, he wore the grey cap and gold trim of an officer. He had the look of disgust about him as he stood at the end of the nave patting the rainwater from his iron grey uniform. His frame did not have the bulk of the grunts outside, he was of a slight build, his face grey and gaunt with pallid skin which seemed to be stretched almost to breaking across his high cheekbones. His features were further twisted by an ugly scar that cut into the left side of his face at jagged angles giving him a ghoulish, sinister look. The shadows cast over his deep sunken eyes seemed to add to his menace. He ruefully looked at the state of his bare hands. The thick greasy rain had covered them in its brown soup, which he tried to rub off without much success. It brought a smile to Kessler’s face at the officer’s discomfort, he obviously had not been this far down before or he would have worn gloves.
The officer looked up from his sodden uniform to convey the innards of the church with an aloof-like nausea and began to walk through the rows of ancient wooden benches. He lashed out and threw to the floor books that were laid out ready for service, each one crashing with a thud that echoed throughout the building. The Vent did not show any care for the rarity of the paper just hatred for what lay within.
Soon, with the books now haphazardly piled high in the centre of the room, the officer stood just feet from where Kessler hid, smirking up at something obscured behind a pillar to Kessler’s left. Close up, candlelight revealed that where his eyes should be now glowed red cyberware implants. Purple veins mixed garishly with wires under his sickly pale, taught skin and from this close, Kessler could hear the gyros hiss and whirl as they tried to focus. In the warmth of the church and the candlelight, the dank wet from outside seeped from the officer, encasing him in swirling smoky, toxic tendrils. The distinct smell of burnt flesh and chemicals oozed off of him making Kessler turn away back under the trapdoor, trying not to gag. Bethany looked up at him from the stairs, the flickering light shadowing her creased brow, “What’s going on? Are you ok?”
The detective batted away her concern as he composed himself, “Quiet,” and returned his attention to the Venter just in time to see him spit on the floor, adjust his coat, turn and march out of the church, his heavy set boots clattering the worn stone floor as he went. Once gone, silence returned. Kessler ducked back under the hatch and spoke to Bethany, “Ok, we’re going to make our way quietly to the opposite side where the far aisle is shrouded in shadow. It will give us good cover.” Bethany nodded her understanding.
Crouching low to the ground, Kessler, with one hand round Bethany and the other resting on his holstered carbine, cautiously climbed up into the nave and they began to make their way to the other si
de. Halfway across, Bethany released his hand and stopped, frozen to the ground, colour drained from her cheeks. “Bethany?” Kessler whispered, trying his very best not to attract any unwanted attention but failing miserably as his voice echoed throughout the large empty expanse of St John’s. “Quickly, before they come back!”
Bethany dipped her fingers in a bowl of water that lay to the side of the altar. With eyes fixed in front of her she knelt and crossed her body, “By this Holy Water and by your Precious Blood, wash away all my sins O Lord.”
Kessler’s eyes darted between the kneeling Bethany and the large doors of St John’s where, he was sure, just outside a whole lot of trouble was getting ready to join them. He knew this would happen. What was he thinking of agreeing to this insanity? He cursed himself. He was getting soft in his old age. “Bethany!” The detective barked and pulled her towards him when the focus of her attention came into view.
Beyond the pulpit was the large, beautifully carved stone figure of a man nailed, hands and feet, to a cross wearing a barbed crown. His head was bowed, eyes closed bearing a terrible pain. A dark substance, which appeared to be blood, had been sprayed over the sculpture and five rats, some of the largest rats he had ever seen, lay dead at its feet. Kessler had heard of this Christ figure, the man who called himself the son of God. He had seen his Christians on the newsreels which always depicted them, and the hundreds of other cults which sprung up on Dis every week, as illegal and troublesome, a breach of Council Protocols, all promoting lazy and unproductive behaviour. Citizen’s energies, the Council preached, should be focused on the advancement of commerce and the city, not wasted on false idols. It was a mantra bored into the mind of all the children of Dis from a young age. Kessler could never work out why they risked and endured persecution just to look up to a man bearing so much agony, who endured so much suffering when all around them their own lives were nothing but pain and misery. Surely they would want something that allowed them to forget this sorry existence?