Omega Plague: Collapse (27 page)

They turned Bruno over on his stomach. He yelled as they
slammed him on the cold stone. His mangled left hand hung over the right side
of the altar now.

“You like movies, Bruno? Remember that old American movie
where they gutted that Scottish guy, right at the end. Remember that? That’s
what I’m going to do to you. I’ll start with your balls and work my way up!”

“Go to hell,” Bruno answered.

Il Serbo laughed. “You’ll beg for death before your friends
can help you!”

Bruno smiled. Death hovered over them both, but only Bruno
could sense it. Bruno tasted its cold bitterness as he spoke. It was close now.
“Go to hell!”

“I don’t believe in hell, Bruno.”

“You will,” said Bruno, the remaining fingers on his mangled
hand finding the switch. “You will.” He smiled to himself one last time.

The blast wave broke over Bruno as he rolled off the altar,
and a wave of debris cascaded down in a dark mass. The last thing he saw was Il
Serbo’s face, contorted with rage, falling towards him. But the debris caught
up before Il Serbo could reach him and all went silent and dark. Bruno’s mind
faded into shadows. His last thoughts were of Carla, his mother, his brother,
and his father.

Epilogue

The man awoke parched, with the taste of blood and ash on
his tongue. He didn’t know where he was or even who he was. But in an instant,
memories came flooding back to him, memories of explosions and darkness. He lay
in a fetal position, forced to one side by a heavy weight, squeezing him
against hard, cold rock. He turned his head. A ray of light not much thicker
than a hair shone down to his left. Rubble and rock surrounded him, entombed
him, and he couldn’t stand up. The cold, white stone of the altar bore the
brunt of force from the collapse; the altar had cracked, but still held true
against the strain. He realized he was pressed up against the altar. The man’s
head throbbed, and with the fingers of his right hand, he felt the gash and
congealed blood where stone had struck him. He had no doubt the altar had saved
his life.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light. Looking towards his
feet, he saw a bloody arm. The rest of the body lay squashed under tons of
rubble. He reveled in his own survival and in the other’s death, and thought
that now, now it would be so easy to sleep, to surrender to darkness and rest.

Yet something stirred in him. The urge to escape, to be free
of this place, overwhelmed him. He tried to move, but his right arm was pinned.
Pain stabbed into his shoulder, making him shout as he freed his arm from the
rubble. The pain focused him, bringing him out of his daze and sharpening his
mind. He couldn’t see much, but he knew which way was up. With the remnants of
a once-great cathedral threatening to crush him into nonexistence, he dug,
using pieces of rubble as leverage, one rock at a time.

***

By the time he broke through, the dust and soot had nearly
choked him, and the man’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Even if he had
wanted to speak he couldn’t have. Pushing his way through the last bits of
debris, he gasped as he lay on top of the rubble heap. Cut and battered, but
reborn into the world, he could hardly see; the dust and tears made him
half-blind. Yet he knew he could not rest here. The debris was unstable, and he
could hear the shifts and groans of stone and cement. He scrambled down over
the rubble pile of the once-great cathedral and out through a huge gap in what
was left of its front. At the bottom of the pile he stood, staring at nothing,
dizzy and disorientated. Then he looked back up at the grey ruins.

The twilight—or dawn, he didn’t know which—made the scene
around him blurry and indistinct. He realized that he was standing on rubble
well past what used to be the steps leading to the front door of the cathedral.
Three sides of the cathedral still stood, jagged, but the façade and roof were
obliterated. He stumbled over the final pieces of debris and found himself now
well into the middle of the piazza, still fearing that what was left of the
structure could collapse at any moment. The abandoned cars—red, green,
white—stood out more than the grey corpses that lay strewn about the area, the
last remnants of a battle that now seemed part of another century. Out of the
corner of his eye, the man spotted concrete chunks arranged in a neat circle
not far from where he stood. In the middle of the circle was a backpack. He
stumbled over and grabbed it, and almost tore the zippers as he fumbled it
open, ignoring the pain in his shoulder.

He guzzled the water, only stopping when he thought he might
vomit. Panting and nauseous from having drunk too fast, he sat on the ground
and took inventory of the backpack. Not much: some packets of crackers and
cookies, the water bottle, now empty, and a plastic bottle of insect repellant.
He would have to make do with what he had.

Then his hand touched something soft. He rummaged around and
pulled out a wrinkled map, folded into a rectangle. He unfolded it across his
lap. Scrawled handwriting in smudged blue ink drew the man’s attention.

He drank in the words with almost as much eagerness as he
had the water. Dehydration slowed his mind, and the smeared words made it
difficult to understand the note. But it emerged, word by word.

Waited as long as we could. DeLuca said to try to find
you and dig you out. We tried, but the rubble nearly collapsed. He made me
promise to leave something behind in case you lived. Before he died, he said
that at Ravello, they kept the blood of another saint at the cathedral. Pagans,
the lot of you! That’s where I’m going, then on to Assergi. Good luck. (Not
that you’ll ever read this.)

Cristian

He crumpled the map and shoved it into the backpack. His
eyes wandered. The man wobbled to his feet. There was a pile of rubble the
length of a coffin close by. Thoughts of death left him colder than the chill
wind whipping his face. He turned and looked down the grey, empty streets.

The man, whose name no longer mattered, stood with tears
running down his cheeks, though from the wind or something else he could not
tell.

Acknowledgements

After the witching hour on some nondescript night, when
staring at a blank screen, writing seems a most lonely way to spend an evening.
And yet, while writing itself can feel solitary, no book, including this one,
could ever be completed without collaboration and assistance. In my case, I was
fortunate to have help spanning Europe and the United States. Thanks to Andy G.
in London, my wife, Anne, and my parents, Alfredo and Mary. Their support and
suggestions were vital in the completion of this book. I am deeply indebted to
Becky J. in Seattle, who graciously read my manuscript chapter by chapter as I
wrote it, while it was still very raw. Thanks also to Moe G. in Washington, DC,
whose late-night banter provided the seeds of an idea that became this book. I
am grateful, as well, for T. Fisher’s insight into law enforcement tactics and
procedures.

Ivan Zanchetta’s unique flair, coupled with an understanding
of the images of Naples, gave the cover a distinctive “look” that only an
Italian cover artist could have done. Finally, huge thanks to my editors,
Trevor Byrne and M. J. Hyland. Their (always gentle) prodding made this book
much better than it otherwise would have been without their outstanding
guidance and creative advice.

About the Author

P. R. Principe has served on active duty as a commissioned
U.S. Air Force officer and has lived in Italy, France, and the United States.
In between writing and contemplating civilization’s collapse, he spent time in
Glastonbury, England, learning to forge a broadsword, and obtained his amateur
radio license. Visit him at
www.prprincipe.com
.