Read Online Fires Rising by Michael Laimo - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Laimo
Tags: Horror
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in his neck tightened, delivering jolts of pain into his head. "I see the army…and behind them, fires and smoke."
Is it a stench of urine and body odor I smell, or is it the charred embers I see burning in my sights?
"It is an image, brother, that will stay with you until we bring evil down."
"We…"
"You and I. As brothers, we will fight to the death against evil."
Pilazzo searched for a fitting response to the vagrant's darkly questionable demand. As he moved to speak, the sound of the curtain's hooks sliding on the plastic bar sifted through the partition. Racing footsteps followed, their ricocheted echoes fading quickly. He leaped up, twisted sharply at the latch. Forgetting it was locked, he caught his index finger between it and the wooden door. He cried out in pain, shook his hand with frustration, then unlocked the door and threw it open.
Ahead, the dark shadow of a figure sped out of the church, an invading beam of sunlight blinding Pilazzo a split second before thinning and vanishing behind the church's closing door.
Pilazzo sprinted from the booth to the nave, realizing with inexplicable remorse that his conversation with the vagrant was over. He stopped with his hands on his knees, gasping, mind racing in perplexing circles. As mad and unwise at it seemed, the coincidental occurrence of two homeless men delivering to him messages of looming destruction—of apocalypse—could not be completely ignored.
He gazed back at the confessional, then slumped down in the pew closest to him. Moments passed in restless silence, the priest unable to render his thoughts away from the strange events taking place today.
The evil that promises man the end of days…
And as he stopped for a moment to reflect upon the uncommonly empty church, he couldn't help but again lament over the demise of his former home, The Church of St. Peter, once bustling daily with parishioners, now dead and being eviscerated beneath the unsympathetic throes of Henry Miller's construction workers.
Chapter 7
T he beam from the penlight in Jyro's hand pinned the odd shadow on the wall, its tall shape still that of a praying Virgin Mary, the stains near her womb nearly black now. Behind him he could feel Timothy's presence, the tall boy peering closely over his shoulder, also seeking an answer within the tainted gloom.
"Jesus, it stinks in here."
Jyro grunted, his mind suddenly rolling in the past—of the devout Catholic ardor he'd shunned years ago while living on the streets. How on his first night sleeping beneath the clouded moon he sought the shelter of a dumpster in an alley, only to encounter a veteran vagrant who took exception to his territory being invaded. The two men, both sodden with drink, had argued, then fought, the conflict coming to an abrupt end when the crazed bum flashed a switchblade at Jyro. Jyro had fled into the night, coming away from the experience with a slashed lip and the ongoing anxiety of entering into some other drifter's domain. From that point forward he knew it would take much time and strength to learn the unwritten laws of the street, so he reached out and sought the protective shelter of the local churches, praying to God daily for some miracle to come along and deliver him from the evils of the cruel world. But as his appearance and cleanliness sunk to repellent levels, even the usual accepting hand of the church rejected him, forcing him to remain on the streets, bitter and resentful of God's chosen path for him.
"Reeks of evil," he replied, staring at the shadow, thinking for a moment that it had moved slightly. Like before.
He entered the bathroom and stepped to the left, allowing Timothy to squeeze in alongside him. He moved the beam from the penlight across the cracked tiled floor.
No sign of the moving blood puddle.
"Did we really see it come in here?" Timothy asked, massaging the rosary. "Or am I crazy?"
Jyro took a step forward. The edge of the porcelain sink nudged into his bruised
Is it a stench of urine and body odor I smell, or is it the charred embers I see burning in my sights?
"It is an image, brother, that will stay with you until we bring evil down."
"We…"
"You and I. As brothers, we will fight to the death against evil."
Pilazzo searched for a fitting response to the vagrant's darkly questionable demand. As he moved to speak, the sound of the curtain's hooks sliding on the plastic bar sifted through the partition. Racing footsteps followed, their ricocheted echoes fading quickly. He leaped up, twisted sharply at the latch. Forgetting it was locked, he caught his index finger between it and the wooden door. He cried out in pain, shook his hand with frustration, then unlocked the door and threw it open.
Ahead, the dark shadow of a figure sped out of the church, an invading beam of sunlight blinding Pilazzo a split second before thinning and vanishing behind the church's closing door.
Pilazzo sprinted from the booth to the nave, realizing with inexplicable remorse that his conversation with the vagrant was over. He stopped with his hands on his knees, gasping, mind racing in perplexing circles. As mad and unwise at it seemed, the coincidental occurrence of two homeless men delivering to him messages of looming destruction—of apocalypse—could not be completely ignored.
He gazed back at the confessional, then slumped down in the pew closest to him. Moments passed in restless silence, the priest unable to render his thoughts away from the strange events taking place today.
The evil that promises man the end of days…
And as he stopped for a moment to reflect upon the uncommonly empty church, he couldn't help but again lament over the demise of his former home, The Church of St. Peter, once bustling daily with parishioners, now dead and being eviscerated beneath the unsympathetic throes of Henry Miller's construction workers.
Chapter 7
T he beam from the penlight in Jyro's hand pinned the odd shadow on the wall, its tall shape still that of a praying Virgin Mary, the stains near her womb nearly black now. Behind him he could feel Timothy's presence, the tall boy peering closely over his shoulder, also seeking an answer within the tainted gloom.
"Jesus, it stinks in here."
Jyro grunted, his mind suddenly rolling in the past—of the devout Catholic ardor he'd shunned years ago while living on the streets. How on his first night sleeping beneath the clouded moon he sought the shelter of a dumpster in an alley, only to encounter a veteran vagrant who took exception to his territory being invaded. The two men, both sodden with drink, had argued, then fought, the conflict coming to an abrupt end when the crazed bum flashed a switchblade at Jyro. Jyro had fled into the night, coming away from the experience with a slashed lip and the ongoing anxiety of entering into some other drifter's domain. From that point forward he knew it would take much time and strength to learn the unwritten laws of the street, so he reached out and sought the protective shelter of the local churches, praying to God daily for some miracle to come along and deliver him from the evils of the cruel world. But as his appearance and cleanliness sunk to repellent levels, even the usual accepting hand of the church rejected him, forcing him to remain on the streets, bitter and resentful of God's chosen path for him.
"Reeks of evil," he replied, staring at the shadow, thinking for a moment that it had moved slightly. Like before.
He entered the bathroom and stepped to the left, allowing Timothy to squeeze in alongside him. He moved the beam from the penlight across the cracked tiled floor.
No sign of the moving blood puddle.
"Did we really see it come in here?" Timothy asked, massaging the rosary. "Or am I crazy?"
Jyro took a step forward. The edge of the porcelain sink nudged into his bruised
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