Walking In the Midst of Fire rc-6

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Francis cautiously joined him. “Feels awful in here.”

  “Awful is what was done here,” Remy replied. He could see staccato images of this room’s past: surgery after surgery, skulls cut open and brains played with as if nothing more than modeling clay.

  “Shit,” Francis said.

  Remy looked toward his friend. The old ghost who had led them to the surgery was standing beside a rusted operating table upon which was his own body. A bloodstained surgical team surrounded him.

  “He wanted us to see this,” Remy said.

  “There’s something else, though.” Francis’ eyes were riveted to the nightmarish scenes unfolding around them.

  Remy looked away from the ghosts. “What?”

  “I didn’t think of it until now,” Francis said. “Charnel houses.”

  “Charnel houses?” Remy repeated. “Isn’t that another name for a slaughterhouse?”

  “Yeah, among other things; but it’s also the name used for special places of ill repute.”

  “A whorehouse?”

  Francis nodded. “For special customers with special tastes.”

  “What do they have to do with . . .”

  “They’re not located in this reality,” Francis started to explain. “You can find them on other planes of existence—really bad places that have been sealed off.”

  A ghostly surgeon with a saw was cutting into the head of a man who struggled against his restraints, sending geysers of phantom blood into the air.

  “So how would one get to these charnel houses?” Remy asked.

  “There are weak spots,” Francis explained. “Wounds in the flesh of reality that allow these bad places where the charnel houses exist to temporarily bleed through.”

  “And where can these weak spots be found?” Remy asked, the pieces starting to fall into place.

  “From what I understand they move around, appearing at random times in places where the most horrible acts of cruelty have occurred.”

  “So you think that a passage to a charnel house opened up here?” Remy asked.

  They watched as the doctors worked, feeling the psychic scars that the surgeons were leaving behind in this reality.

  “This place would be a prime candidate,” Francis said.

  Remy walked farther into the operating room, passing through the lingering specters. “So, what, you just show up in a place where something really bad happened, and hope that the entrance to one of these charnel houses opens up?” he asked, turning back to his friend.

  “It’s not as random as that,” Francis said. “These houses are pretty exclusive.”

  “So you’d have to be a member or something?”

  Francis nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “An invitation?” Remy suggested.

  Francis shrugged. “Wouldn’t know where to show up without one.”

  “We should head back to the mansion,” Remy said, passing Francis as he walked from the operating room out into the hall.

  The old ghost that had led them there bidding them good-bye with a wave.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gareth had been crying nonstop for at least a day.

  Left alone to think about what he had done, the young man could only huddle in the corner of the concrete bedroom and pour out his emotions to the shadows.

  When his keepers had learned of his transgression, there was hell to pay, and he had been banished to his room.

  He pulled his legs up closer to his chest; a whiff of body odor mixed with that of drying blood wafted up to tease his senses, and to remind him of the act he’d committed.

  The hate had always been a constant companion; it was with him when he awoke every morning and when he closed his eyes at night. It was the only thing he could truly count on in his troubled life, and he was certain that his brothers and sisters felt the same. Hate gave them the strength—the power—to survive in a world that wished to see them dead.

  Gareth’s mind wandered back to the moment that had filled him with such distress. He hadn’t been told who the large man with the booming voice was, but when he saw him, Gareth knew.

  The hate told him.

  And the hate that Gareth never dreamed could grow any stronger did just that, and it took everything he had not to lose control of it.

  He wanted to tell somebody about the man, and had considered bringing it up to one of his brothers or sisters, but he wasn’t supposed to have been at the house. He was supposed to stay on the island with the others like him—with his siblings—but since he’d learned his special trick, he hadn’t been limited to the island anymore.

  Gareth was the eldest, and he briefly wondered if the others would soon be able to come and go as they pleased as well.

  But don’t let Prosper know.

  Prosper ran the house, and also took care of him and his siblings on the island. Prosper was also a mean son of a bitch.

  He said they all owed him their lives, and that was probably true—but it wasn’t like their lives were worth anything anyway. From the youngest of ages they had been told how worthless they were, how they had been cast away like so much garbage, and that only Prosper gave two shits about them.

  But that was about all he gave. Two shits.

  Gareth had finally managed to calm the hate down to a dull roar, and had never said anything about the man to anyone.

  But then the man who made Gareth’s hate sing had come to them. Had come to the island.

  It was Prosper who had brought him, and Gareth could see that Prosper was nervous in the man’s presence. As if he was afraid; but that wasn’t possible, was it? There was only one other person that Prosper was afraid of, and he didn’t come around all that often.

  Just every now and again to make sure that Prosper wasn’t screwing up.

  Prosper had taken the man who stirred Gareth’s hate to the building that he used as his dwelling when he visited the island.

  Gareth distinctly remembered how he had felt when he’d seen the man again: how he had wanted to follow Prosper, how he had felt as though he might rip out of his skin, revealing somebody completely different than he currently was—somebody forged from the fires of pure hate. But he had held back, knowing that it wouldn’t have been wise for any of them to interfere with Prosper’s business.

  Soon after, Gareth and his brothers and sisters were summoned to Prosper’s dwelling. The others were excited; attention from Prosper, whether good or bad, was something to look forward to.

  They didn’t know who this man was—what this man was. But Gareth did. And since he’d seen this man, his temper had grown, and he’d spent more time torturing the island rats before eventually killing them.

  He had changed with the sight of this man, and he wondered if his brothers and sisters would be affected as well.

  Wedged deep into the corner of his room, awash in the stink of himself, Gareth relived the experience.

  Those who kept watch over them, the walking dead men, had herded them all into a line, marching them single file into the broken-down concrete building that served as Prosper’s home. The others giggled and shared nervous glances. They thought that something big was going to happen, something important, and in hindsight, maybe they were right.

  Gareth was the oldest, and the others looked to him as they marched toward their destination, their furtive gazes desperate for answers. But he revealed nothing, for they had to see for themselves.

  Their own hate had to show them—tell them.

  They entered Prosper’s dwelling. It was so much nicer than the squalor in which they lived. As they lined up in the front room, Gareth could hear Prosper and his guest talking in the next room, the man demanding to know why he had been brought to such a forsaken place.

  Gareth remembered what Prosper had said.

  “Just you wait and see.”

  The wind outside Gareth’s room howled, and he could hear the incessant patter of rain against the building. It was like the hate inside him
, raging against the confines that kept it locked away.

  Gareth didn’t want to remember anymore, but the memory was crystal clear in his mind, and would be, he was certain, for what remained of his life.

  A door at the far end of Prosper’s front room opened with a sharp click, followed by the whine of hinges rusted by the heavy, moisture-filled air of the island. Prosper led the guest into the room with a guiding hand, although he seemed careful not to touch him.

  Gareth could not look away from the man, as if his stare would tell the man who he was. . . .

  Who they all were.

  Then an odd sensation filled the stale, damp air of Prosper’s quarters. Gareth managed to tear his gaze from the powerful figure that stood before them, and looked toward his brothers and sisters.

  Their hate . . . their hate was coming alive as his had.

  They knew this man as well—this powerfully built, finely clothed figure that looked at them with dripping contempt.

  Their hate knew him, as Gareth’s did.

  And the air around them began to crackle with a power both awful, and awesome.

  What soon followed was why Gareth was here, alone in his room. Even in the darkness he could see the blood on his clothing. He lifted his trembling hands and stared at the dried gore of his brutal act. His hands remembered what they had done, and shared with him the memory.

  For the briefest of times, the hate had been replaced by something else. Hope? Was it hope? Gareth wasn’t sure, but the hate was quickly back again as he learned what the man wanted of them.

  What he wanted to make them.

  Gareth would not stand for it.

  The ripping and tearing, the screams of pain and anger, and hate so much greater than it had ever been before. The hate had changed him. . . .

  The hate and the blood had transformed him, and given him the special talent to change the others.

  And he would do just that, if he was to survive what was to come.

  If he was to survive his punishment.

  Gareth was suddenly distracted by the sound of someone approaching his room. He figured it was time. Perhaps he would finally leave this life, but he was all right with that.

  For he would leave satisfied, covered in the blood of the one who had abandoned him, one of those who had cast him and his siblings aside as if they were filth.

  Covered in the blood of his father.

  The door opened with a creak and a figure silently entered the room. Gareth had seen this man before. This was the man that Prosper feared, the one who came from time to time to check up on Prosper.

  The man casually looked at him before turning around, finding the chair, and sitting down across from him.

  He said nothing, staring at Gareth, who gazed back, not sure what he should be doing.

  Finally Gareth could stand it no longer.

  “Who—,” he began, his voice sounding dry and old, perhaps changed by his act.

  “Simeon,” the man said. “My name is Simeon.”

  He crossed his legs, and looked at Gareth even more intently, tilting his head to one side. He played with a ring on his finger.

  “And your name is Gareth.”

  Gareth nodded slowly.

  “You have created quite a problem for me, Gareth,” Simeon said, turning the ring round and round.

  “So, how are we going to make things right?”

  * * *

  Remy and Francis appeared in the foyer of Aszrus’ Newport home. They were in the midst of conversation.

  “If there are any clues to the whereabouts of this charnel house, they’ll probably be in here somewhere,” Remy said as he folded his wings, already on the move toward the study.

  “Are you sure about me being here?” Francis asked, attempting to keep up.

  Remy was just about to tell his friend that he was certain everything would be fine when a blast of divine fire flashed by his face, striking Francis and sending him hurtling backward, engulfed in the flames of Heaven.

  Spinning toward the source, Remy released his wings again, hurling himself at this latest seemingly endless array of adversaries. He was shocked to see that it was Montagin.

  The angel had shed his fussy, human form and appeared as Remy remembered him during the Great War, adorned in shining armor and mail of silver, his wings a black-flecked white, a burning sword in his hand.

  “Montagin!” Remy raged, pulling back to flutter before the angel. “What do you think . . . ?”

  “How dare you bring him here!” Montagin screamed. “Do you not know who he serves, Seraphim?” He flapped his powerful wings, swaying from side to side. “Have you brought him here to kill us as well?”

  Is that slurring? Remy wondered, instantly convinced that it was. The angel, Montagin, was drunk.

  Great.

  “That’s about enough of that,” Remy warned, advancing toward the inebriated creature of Heaven.

  Montagin flew backward, slamming into the wall and a table that held an expensive-looking pitcher and chamber pot. The table crashed to the floor, the pot and pitcher shattering upon impact.

  “Perhaps you’ve allied yourself with him,” Montagin considered. He started to raise his sword. “Perhaps you’ve weighed your options and believe that siding with the Morningstar would be more beneficial to your pathetic human existence upon this forsaken mud ball that you—”

  Remy lunged at the angel and grabbed hold of his wrist.

  “You dare!” Montagin raged, attempting to pull his hand free.

  “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Remy said, bending the angel’s wrist in such a way that he could easily have snapped the bone.

  Montagin continued to struggle, but it was useless, and Remy drove his fist into the angel’s drunken face. Montagin’s head snapped back, arms and wings flailing as he dropped to the hallway floor.

  “How dare you!” the angel roared again, scrabbling for the sword that he had dropped.

  “Stay down,” Remy commanded, his stare intense and piercing.

  Montagin must have sobered up just a tad with the warning, for he stayed where he was.

  Remy turned his back on the angel, and rushed down the corridor to where his friend lay. He was glad to see that the divine fires had been extinguished, but Francis’ entire body was now covered in what looked to be a thick membrane of solidified darkness.

  The package of shadow writhed upon the floor, and a razor-thin knife blade suddenly pierced the fabric of night from the inside out, slicing downward. Francis, looking none the worse for wear, crawled out from the incision.

  “Okay,” Remy said cautiously, not sure of what he was seeing.

  “I know,” Francis replied. “Pretty fucking cool, isn’t it?”

  His eyes traveled down the hall to Montagin who leaned against the wall, armored legs splayed out in front of him.

  “What’s up with him?” Francis asked.

  “He’s drunk,” Remy responded with supreme annoyance. “So drunk that he’s forgotten that he can shrug off the effects of the alcohol with just a thought.”

  “That is drunk,” Francis agreed with a slow nod.

  Remy started down the hall again. “Montagin,” he called.

  The angel’s head was leaned back against the plaster wall, eyes closed. The effects of Remy’s blow were still evident around the angel’s mouth.

  “Are you going to hit me again?” Montagin asked. “Or maybe you’ll slay me just like you did all those others during the war.”

  Remy had heard enough. He reached down and grabbed hold of the angel’s armored chest-plate, pulling him to his feet. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Do you seriously think getting soused is what we need right now?”

  “What’s the use,” the angel groused, his voice still slurring. “They’ve already been here . . . and it’s only a matter of time before they come back and then—”

  “Who?” Remy demanded, giving the angel a violent shake.

  “Aszrus’ subord
inates. They were looking for him but . . .”

  Malatesta came around the corner at the end of the hall then, his hands glowing with magickal power.

  Francis, Pitiless pistol in hand, reacted with the speed of thought, and aimed.

  “Not necessary, Francis,” Remy said. “He’s on our side.”

  “Who is he?” Francis asked, hesitating a moment, before lowering the gun’s barrel.

  “Works for the Vatican.”

  Francis let out a loud laugh. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

  “Is everything all right?” Malatesta asked. The power in his hands receded as he took the magick back into himself.

  “Everything’s just fucking ducky,” Remy said, annoyed to no end with the entire situation.

  “He saved us . . . for now,” Montagin said, looking toward the magick user.

  “Do I dare ask?” Remy questioned Malatesta.

  “The angels showed up and were demanding to see Aszrus,” he explained. “So I showed them Aszrus.”

  “Glamour spell?”

  Malatesta nodded. “Yes, and it worked.”

  “Nice,” Remy replied. “That’ll buy us some time—not a helluva lot, but enough to put some things together.”

  Montagin began to laugh.

  “Did I miss something?” Remy released his hold on the angel.

  “It’s all quite comical,” Montagin said. “Here we are scrambling to hold on to a secret, and you’ve brought someone who could very well be responsible for the murder right into our midst.” He looked to Francis with a snarl. “I know what you are, Guardian,” Montagin spat. “And I know what your master has done.”

  Francis reached into his pocket, and Remy prepared to respond, but his friend simply removed a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and placed it in his mouth.

  “Why don’t you fill me in?” Francis suggested, lighting the smoke with a lighter.

  “There’s no smoking in here,” Montagin snapped.

  Francis ignored him, taking a huge draft, and blowing a cloud of smoke in the angel’s direction.

  Montagin pushed off from the wall threateningly, and Remy pushed him back.

  “There will be no more of that,” he told him. “I trust Francis with my life.”