by Mark Carver
Claude’s stone-cold expression softened a little, and his voice became less like a soldier’s and more like a father’s.
“But Patric, don’t you see? What we’re building here is the seed of hope for the world.”
“I don’t care!” Patric roared, jabbing the gun towards the other man. For a moment, Claude fully expected him to pull the trigger.
“I watched my brother murder the Voice of Satan!” Patric cried as tears streamed down his cheeks. “And I watched him die just minutes later! Then she left me, and took my… Don’t you understand? I will never, never, believe in your God, or any other god ever again! I don’t care about this world, or your deluded ‘quest from God,’ or your brainwashed daughter, or the church, or any of it! I just...”
His words were choked off by aching sobs, and he crumpled to the floor. He pressed his hands to his head, still clutching the gun tightly.
His voice was very faint.
“...I want to die.”
Claude gasped.
“No!” he shouted, hurling himself forward.
Patric pressed the gun against his temple. As he squeezed the trigger, Claude’s massive hand smacked the gun barrel away. The round discharged just in front of Patric’s forehead. The bullet buried itself in the cement wall.
Patric grimaced and pressed his hand against his forehead. The scorched skin felt slick and warm. For a moment he was lost in a swirl of pain and confusion, then he heard the click of the gun.
He looked up. Claude's meaty hand gripped the pistol with unwavering steadiness, and the barrel was pointed right at Patric’s eye.
“Go on,” Patric muttered, dropping his gaze. “I guess you just wanted the satisfaction of doing it yourself.”
“You still do not understand, Mr. Bourdon,” Claude answered as he flicked the safety switch and holstered the gun. “When a man gives his life to God, he surrenders everything. Even his emotions.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “And just as God has forgiven me, so I must also forgive you.”
“You’re right,” Patric said as he wiped his eyes. “I don’t understand. And I never will.”
Claude smiled. “'Never' is a strong word, Mr. Bourdon.”
“I know. So believe me when I say that I will never help you with whatever you are planning.”
Claude exhaled and placed his hands on his hips. He regarded his boots for a moment.
“I am beginning to realize that.”
Patric rose slowly to his feet and walked over to a small mirror mounted on the wall. He frowned as he examined the burned skin just above his right eye. Nearly half of the eyebrow had been singed off as well.
He turned to face Claude, blinking away the last of his tears.
“So please just let me go. I won’t interfere with your plans or tell anyone anything. Thanks to you, that’s pretty impossible now anyway. I will just disappear and no one will ever know what happened to the fanatical brother of Tourec Beauchamp.”
The muscles in Claude’s jaw tightened, stretching his mouth into a thin, grim line.
“So what will you do?”
Patric shrugged. “I don’t know. I just want to get away from here. Leave the country if I can. I never want to see another cross or pentagram for the rest of my life.”
A shadow of a smile flickered across Claude’s face. “Sometimes I feel the same way.”
He inhaled deeply and stared at Patric with penetrating eyes.
“All right. You can go. Perhaps I was wrong to force this burden upon you.”
Patric’s mouth fell open.
“Are…are you serious?”
Claude nodded. Patric narrowed his eyes.
“Just like that?” he asked, snapping his fingers. “One moment I’m your puppet on a string, and now you just open the cage?”
Claude nodded again.
“You could have been very important to us. To our cause. But I’m not going to have your suicide on my conscience, and I can’t spare the men necessary to watch you 24/7. There are many problems that need my attention, but some problems are not worth the trouble.”
Patric considered Claude’s explanation. The man seemed serious, and Patric knew better than to hesitate at this opportunity, even if he was taking his life into his own hands by venturing out into a world that had branded him a fanatic and a traitor.
Claude stared at him as if he was reading his thoughts. Then he cleared his throat.
“I will ask one of my men to drive you to the edge of the forest. There is a small village that you can walk to. Perhaps they don’t watch the news there.”
Patric caught his wry smile, and he felt a chill shiver through his spine. Maybe he was being too hasty in wanting to get away from here. After all, this was a safe place, and all he had to do was pretend to be on their side when the camera was recording.
At least for now…
“What about Christine?” he asked. The burned patch of skin on his forehead began to throb, and he felt himself cringing inside, waiting for Claude to burst into rage.
Instead, the man turned and raised an eyebrow.
“What about her?”
Patric coughed and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Will…will she be glad that I am gone?”
Claude raised his chin and peered down at Patric as a man regards an ant. “I would be, if I was her.”
Patric nodded, unable to look at him.
There was a moment of silence, thick and uncomfortable. Then Claude motioned towards the door.
“After you, Mr. Bourdon.”
Patric hesitated, still not entirely sure of Claude’s sincerity. But he knew better than to test the man’s patience.
The floor trembled, then a searing concussion blasted through the corridor. Patric spun and dove to the ground just as a torrent of debris rushed past the open door. Smoke and dust poured into the room, and Patric felt Claude’s strong hand yank him to his feet.
“Go!”
His ears were ringing and his legs were shaking badly. Then the sounds of gunfire and angry shouting turned on his survival switch. Took him back to that moment on the clammy floor beneath the Temple of the Dragon, fighting for his life...
Claude whipped his gun from its holster and pointed it towards the murky doorway.
“What’s happening?” Patric gasped, making a face as dust filled his throat.
“Don’t know. We’ve always had enemies. Looks like they finally caught up with us.”
He turned around and looked at Patric with cold eyes.
“Or perhaps they just want you.”
Patric’s heart froze.
Claude’s grim face cracked into a smile.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bourdon. I’m sure that’s not the case. And even if it was, we’re not prepared to hand you over to them like this.”
“Why not?”
Claude flattened himself against the wall, his pistol clutched to his chest.
“Because they didn’t ask politely!”
He launched himself out into the dust-filled corridor, firing twice. He motioned for Patric.
“Hurry, we have to go!”
Patric leaped to his feet and followed Claude out of the room. He couldn’t see anything through the shroud of smoke and dust, but he felt his foot strike something soft.
“We need to find Christine!” Claude said through clenched teeth. His eyes darted back and forth like a predator.
There was a scream. Claude’s eyes widened.
“Christine!”
He rushed past Patric, nearly knocking him to the ground. Patric turned to follow, tripping on the corpse sprawled out on the floor. As he pushed himself up off the ground, he felt his hand touch something hard and metallic.
A gun.
He could just barely see the shape, but in his hand, it felt like a flaming sword. Then he realized that he was alone. The gunfire was drawing closer, followed by another explosion.
“Claude!” he shouted down the hall. There was no reply.
Cursing again, he scurried down the corridor, keeping on hand on the wall. The dust and smoke that surrounded him trickled into his lungs, making every breath was painful.
“Claude!” he called again. “Christine!”
He doubled over, coughing so violently that he tasted blood.
“Claude!”
“Patric!”
Patric jerked his head up.
Christine.
Gripping the gun tightly, he stumbled through the hallway towards the sound of her voice.
“Christine! Where are you?”
A door opened and he was pulled inside.
The first thing he noticed was the air. Pure, clean, and smoke-free. He gulped great mouthfuls, drinking it like water.
“Patric!” Christine pulled at his hand. Patric looked down.
Claude lay on the ground, clutching his leg in agony. Spurts of dark red blood seeped through his fingertips. Beside him, two men in black uniforms lay face down on the concrete floor, blood pooling around their heads.
Patric and Christine knelt down beside her father. Patric whipped off his belt and tied it around the man’s bleeding leg.
“We have to get him out of here!” Christine’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“No!” Claude snapped, gripping her arm with surprising force. “I will get you killed. You need to go, right now!”
“No, I won’t!” she sobbed. She tried to embrace him but he held her back.
“Do you remember the tunnel I showed you when we were here last summer?”
Christine nodded, tears streaming down her face.
Claude grimaced as he leaned forward. “Take the tunnel. Save yourselves.”
“What about you?”
Claude snatched the weapon out of Patric’s hand. “God will watch over me. Now you need to go!”
“No!” Christine wailed, flinging herself on the old man.
Claude squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to hold back the tears. He kissed her on the cheek, then pushed her away.
“Listen to me. I will be fine. I promise I will see you again, my angel. But you have to go.”
Christine let Patric pull her to her feet.
“Je t’aime, Papa.”
Claude’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“Je t’aime, mon ange.”
A loud burst of gunfire erupted just outside the door, and Claude pointed towards the door with his gun.
“Go, before it’s too late!”
Patric gripped Christine’s arm and pulled her towards the door. Crying into her hands, she disappeared into the smoke. As Patric rushed out of the room, he threw a glance behind him. Claude was dragging himself across the floor, leaving a bloody smear. His eyes locked with Patric’s.
Thank you.
Swallowing hard, Patric ducked into the smoke after Christine. He could barely see anything. Then he felt her fingers grab his hand and guide him through the haze. He had no idea where they were going, but he was relieved that the sounds of violence were growing fainter.
The smoke was also starting to clear, though the corridor seemed identical to all the others he had seen. They crept forward on tiptoes, afraid to even speak to each other. The gunfire and shouting grew more distant. Patric realized that the complex they were in must have been massive.
After several minutes, Christine stopped in front of a metal door. She turned towards Patric, her chest heaving.
“It’s through here,” she said.
Patric nodded.
Christine placed her hand on the door handle and pressed it down. The door opened with a loud metallic screech.
She turned and looked into Patric’s eyes.
“I’m not going with you.”
Patric's mouth fell open.
“You have to. You’ll get killed if you go back there!”
“He’s my father. He’s everything to me.”
“And he’s the one who insisted that you get out of this place.”
Christine shook her head. “He’s back there, bleeding and alone. I don’t care what he said. I have to get back to him.”
Patric seized her arm. She glared at him with eyes of fire.
“Let go of me.”
Patric obeyed, but he didn’t back down from her stare.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” she demanded. “You don’t care about any of us or what we’re trying to do. This is your chance to leave. Just go and let us take care of ourselves.”
She started to push past him but he moved in front of her.
“Get out of my way,” she growled.
“Your father wants you to be safe. It’s my responsibility to make sure that happens.”
Christine’s face darkened with outrage, then she blanched white.
“Patric!”
She threw him aside as he turned, and he heard the crack of a gunshot. He heard Christine scream as he saw the dark figure aiming the pistol directly at him. He knew Christine was hit, but he couldn’t arrest his momentum.
His body was on autopilot. Without thinking, he crouched and rolled, flinching as the gun fired again and a bullet whisked past his cheek. He sprang to his feet, blindly throwing up his hands. He was stunned when his hands collided with the gun, knocking it into the air.
The shooter was equally shocked, surprised by Patric’s startling agility. He watched the gun sail through the air, then his world exploded into stars as Patric’s fist smashed into his jaw. He collapsed in a daze, and Patric began mercilessly pummeling his face until he was unconscious.
Christine’s moans jolted Patric out of his frenzy. Ignoring his bleeding knuckles, he knelt beside her, his face clenched with worry.
She was shaking, her trembling fingers clutching her arm. Blood streamed between her fingers like melting wax.
Patric's heart began to beat faster and faster as panic spread through his nerves. He was amazed at how calm he had been when the shooter was firing at him, but now he felt paralyzed. Cold fingers of dread seized his heart as he pressed his hand against her wound.
Another rumble shook the ground. Patric knew they couldn’t stay where they were. He ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped it around her arm. Christine’s face was white and she winced as he cinched it tight.
He leaned close to her, brushing her hair away from her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Christine, but we have to move.”
Christine nodded, her eyes wide with pain. Patric could see that the bullet had only struck the muscle tissue, though it did leave an ugly gash in her shoulder. It was more painful than serious, and he felt strangely relieved. He didn’t know what he would have done if she had been shot in the leg or torso.
Probably leave her here...
He shut his eyes tight, forcefully evicting such thoughts from his mind. He helped her to her feet as gently as he could, though she still gasped with pain.
“It’s okay; you’re okay,” Patric whispered as he reached out and swung the door open. Gunfire and angry voices trickled down the corridor behind him. Their time was running out.
“Stay close to me,” he said, gripping her hand tightly. She looked at him with gratitude despite her pain.
“Follow me,” she said.
She ducked through the open door and Patric went in after her, closing the door behind him.
They entered a dingy concrete stairwell illuminated by naked bulbs in rusty cages. For a moment, Patric forgot about the imminent danger they were in, about Christine’s bleeding shoulder.
He thought about another stairwell, beneath a magnificent temple in Paris...
“Down here,” Christine said. She squeezed his hand as she led him down the stairs. Patric followed quietly, scanning their surroundings but also keeping a close eye on her. Her hand trembled and her breathing was heavy and fast. Blood had soaked through the crude bandage and was seeping down her arm. Patric knew they needed to find something better to dress the wound or it could get infected quickly, especially in a dank, clam
my dungeon like this.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Christine pointed weakly.
“Down this passageway.”
Patric nodded and stepped in front of her, prepared to lead the way. Christine didn’t move, and Patric, still holding her hand, was jerked to a stop.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
Christine’s face was grim. “I told you. I’m not leaving him.”
A torrent of anger flooded Patric’s emotions and he threw his hands up in the air. “Are you crazy? You’ve been shot! There’s an army up there tearing that place apart! What do you think is going to happen?”
“God will watch over me, like He watches over my father.”
Patric looked up at the dark ceiling, his neck veins bulging. He almost reached out and seized her by the shoulders but he checked himself just in time.
“You’re unbelievable! You’re insane!”
“He’s my father, and we are doing God’s work. Together.”
Patric clenched his fists and resisted an overpowering urge to smack her in the face.
“All right, you know what? Go back. Go up there and die. See how happy that will make your father.”
Christine’s nostrils flared as she glared at him. “Goodbye, Mr. Bourdon.”
She spun on her heel and began marching back up the stairs.
Patric didn’t know why he did it, and he knew he would regret it for a long time to come.
He leaped up after her and seized her by the waist. Before she could scream, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat and began stomping angrily down the passageway.
“Put me down!” she screamed, weakly pummeling his back.
“Your father wants you to live,” he snarled, pressing her down against his shoulder. Despite her wounded condition, she was putting up quite a struggle, and he had to exert every effort to keep his balance as he navigated his way through the corridor.
Christine continued to rain blows on his back, kicking like a little girl in the midst of a tantrum. She also started shrieking in a language that was unfamiliar to Patric’s ears.
“What is that?” he grunted as he tottered to the right.
Christine huffed with indignation. “It’s Farsi. My mother was Iranian.”
That explains the exotic flavor, Patric thought to himself, then gasped, suddenly fearful that she might have heard his thoughts. After pausing to answer his question, however, she resumed her assault on Patric’s ribs, which were starting to get a little bit sore.