Free Fires Rising by Michael Laimo Page A

of gunk. From above, the liquefying appendages rained down on them. The massive bulk in the middle writhed and flopped back and forth like a salted slug before melting into a massive heap of waste. The atrocious sound it made—a colossal passing of gas—reached down into their guts and urged their gorges out onto the floor.
    For a moment there was no sound other than Timothy crying alongside the huge pile of gunk. Jyro aimed the penlight at him and could see him lying on his side with his arm still outstretched, still clutching the rosary.
    Jyro was about to say something when a loud slam shocked them both out of their skins: the door bursting open. Light filtered into the room, offering a doubtful view to those peering in upon the aftermath of the war had taken place inside.
    Jyro shot a harried glance toward the door, and over the sounds of Timothy throwing up alongside him, cried, "Get us the hell out of here."

Chapter 8
     
    T he silence is deafening , Pilazzo thought, peering about the church. He'd remained seated in the pew, staring at the altar, vaulted ceiling, and walls—all dimly lit beneath the flickering glow of the prayer candles. No one else had come in for confession, leaving him time to replay in his mind the events of the day.
    Despite the daunting, prophesizing confrontations with the homeless men, he again found himself mentally occupied with the demise of his former church. Having been forced to pack up and leave had been quite stressful. It had brought about harsh periods of uncertainty, coupled with headaches and bouts of stomach distress. But as that all lay in the past now, it was the actual deterioration of the church—something he'd seen for the first time today—that flooded him with insecurity and mourning.
    How will I feel when I enter through those doors and see for the first time the walls being torn down, the pews being dismantled, the statues being moved out? He knew that the negative emotions besetting him were just a sampling of the feelings that would assail him upon finally entering the battered interior of the Church of St Peter, and likened the forthcoming affair with having to sit beside a loved one during their final painful minutes of life, a circumstance anyone would find difficult to endure.
    His thoughts drifted back to memories of his mother's dying days: of how he found no alternative but to put her away in a city-run home for the elderly because he couldn't afford a private facility on Long Island. He recalled how she lambasted him from the discomfort of her soiled linens for his decision to become a priest, how in her illness she'd cared less about his faith and worldly goodness and wanted only to be comfortable, not saved, in her dying moments. How she cried to him about how the screams from the other patients at night were driving her toward madness—even more so than the lashing periods of dementia and delusions of ruby scars around her fingers. And then, how she refused to say goodbye to him the night she snuck out of her room while the night-nurse was making rounds, climbed out onto the roof of the old building and hurled herself into the path of an oncoming cab four stories down…
    I'm sorry Mother…
    The afternoon grew late, and the time had finally come for Pilazzo to retire to his quarters for the evening. Outside the shuttered doors of the Church of Holy Innocents, rush hour prevailed: the hustle and bustle of Manhattan's workers escaping the rigors of everyday life; cabs fighting against one another for precious road space, the subways racing back and forth in the tunnels below. The city's lifeblood, coursing through its concrete veins.
    Despite it all, deep silence dominated the church's interior, and it frazzled Pilazzo. What was once a comforting escape , he thought irrationally, shaking away the horrific memories of his mother's death, is now a daunting calm before the storm.
    The war…
    Trying to clear his mind of the ruthless shambles awaiting him