Rebecca leaned her weight into the sergeant's strong arms as she inspected the creepy death-child. In one hand was the sickle, but the other held a scale. The chain was made from tiny vertebra and the weighing pans were half pelvises. It had caught her eye because the scales were not balanced. The right was lower than the left. The strange statue really was weighing something.
"Can you raise me a little higher?"
She could feel the strain of his muscles as he lifted her. The same strain she felt earlier in the evening as he had laid her onto the bed. Shaking off the memory, Rebecca peeked over the edge of the left pan. It was empty. Knowing her instincts were correct, she looked into the right pan.
"There's thirty silver coins in here," she relayed to Brandt. "The minting is later than the original ones. Maybe twenty years later. Exactly the time frame for the fall of Jerusalem."
His response was a muffled curse. The sergeant knew as she did that Christ was close. But where?
The right scale was lower. Did that indicate the right alcove with its prerequisite mummified monk? But that awful body couldn't be Christ. Maybe the alcove hid a sliding panel or a false wall.
Reaching up, she went to remove the coins so that she could inspect them when Brandt barked, "Don't!"
But it was too late. As her fingers lifted the silver from its pan, the floor gave out from under them. The sergeant tried to keep hold of her, but they tumbled through the darkness, banging against one wall then the other until they hit the bottom of the shaft. Actually Brandt hit the bottom, and she fell on top of him, her impact cushioned by his body.
Rebecca rolled off, but not quickly enough for the sergeant.
"Move!" Brandt yelled.
He hit the wall at a run, scrambling up the sheer face. She didn't understand his urgency until the trapdoor slammed shut. Cursing, he fell back to the floor.
"New rule," the sergeant said as he dusted himself off. "No touching, pulling, or lifting ancient artifacts until I get the fuck out of the way."
Brandt sounded like the fall was twenty feet longer than it was, but then again he had been on the bottom of the pileup.
Rebecca apologized. "Sorry. I didn't even think that could be a release latch, but I should have, I mean-"
Shaking it off, the sergeant offered her an outstretched hand. "I didn't think of it either until the last second, but new rule number two. When traveling with you, we carry at least a couple dozen glow sticks."
As he pulled her to her feet, they found their sole flashlight had cracked a lens, and Brandt had to squeeze the casing together to get any illumination out of it. But once he did, Rebecca wished they were still in darkness since the entire tunnel was covered in skeletons. At eye level were a row of skulls, their fleshless faces staring blankly into the darkness.
"Shall we?" Brandt asked pointing the flashlight down the only corridor open to them.
With a gulp, Rebecca followed the sergeant, who traveled exceptionally slowly. He took a single step at a time, testing the bony ground beneath his foot before walking forward, but she didn't complain.
The crypt above had spooked her bad enough, but now that the trapdoor echoed the entrance to the tomb back at the Vatican, she was even more shaken. Clearly someone within the Order, at some time in its long history, had knowledge of the Knot and Christ's resting place.
But as they crept along a floor made of ribs and spine, Rebecca feared that such forbidden knowledge had twisted the monks, triggering the bizarre bone art up above and now here deep in the earth. Instead of embracing life, the monks had become fascinated with death. Their own mortality gruesomely displayed for all to see.
Rebecca couldn't help but wonder if they didn't want to hurry hers along as well.
They reached a staircase which was, of course, made of bones.
These monks were plain fucked up.
Brandt didn't want to touch the femur-lined railing but also didn't want to trust the humerus steps. The lattice staircase had some give so that each footfall made it feel like the plank wasn't going to hold, and he'd had just about enough falling for an entire lifetime. Cautious to the point of paranoia, the sergeant led Rebecca down the spiral stairs.
Gun up, Brandt check above and below him before descending another step. If this truly was the resting place of Christ or even if these freaked-out Capuchins just thought it was, they were in danger.
Finally they reached the landing, which was thankfully devoid of bones. Stamping his boot into the dirt, he made sure there wasn't another surprise. Confident there was only earth beneath his feet, Brandt stepped onto the small clearing.
Panning the area, he found nothing amiss which made him even more concerned. The only thing differentiating this landing from the tunnel was a dull roar echoing off the low ceiling. Making sure to survey their periphery, Brandt moved them forward, but he checked and double-checked his corners as the sound became deafening.
Then they ran out of landing. The ground fell off at a sharp cliff with a raging river far below. They walked the length of the edge, but found no stairs. No way down.
"Okay. Rule number three. Always come equipped with mountain climbing gear," Brandt rumbled, pissed that he didn't have fifty feet of rope.
As he formulated a plan to shoot open the trapdoor, gather his team, then repel down the ledge, Rebecca asked, "What do we do now?"
"Help us find the tomb," a voice suggested from behind.
Brandt was already firing by the time Rebecca recognized the voice as Petir's. Answering bullets flew from the tunnel, trapping them against the cliff's edge. They had nowhere to go. It would only be a matter of time before a stray bullet caught one of them.
The ledge crumbled under the sergeant's boot, but somehow he caught his balance. "Get ready," he said as the gunfire's echo became louder than the river.
"For what?" Rebecca asked, but Brandt didn't answer. He just tackled her, throwing them both over the edge of the cliff as an RPG sailed overhead, finally exploding on the far wall, showering debris.
They fell threw through the air, weightless, arms flailing until the sergeant grabbed her, stabilizing their fall. "Head down!"
Clinging to his back, legs wrapped around his waist, Rebecca tucked her head into his chest, but it still felt like her neck almost snapped when they hit the water. Then they were churned under and Brandt's hand slipped from hers. It was like a washing machine. Not a wimpy Maytag, but a frigid, industrial-strength washing machine with bullets zinging past you for added agitation.
River froth in her mouth, Rebecca gasped for air as the water spit her up then sucked her under just as quickly. She had a brief glimpse of the sergeant, but he was pulled under before she could be sure he was still alive.
Rebecca could no longer tell up from down, right from left. Was she even kicking in the correct direction? Then Brandt caught the back of her shirt, hurling her up and out. She landed with a thud onto a sandy beach before the river dove deep into the earth.
Panting, Rebecca crawled over to the sergeant who was heaving mouthfuls of gritty water from his lungs. His lips were tinged purple, and blood coursed down the side of his face, another blow to the temple.
She was worried until Brandt commented, "Lopez is going to be pissed he missed that ride."
Instinctually she pulled him into her arms and hugged him. Hugged him for saving them one more time.
Brandt returned the hug, not so much out of affection but to keep his balance. He felt queasy and dizzy, but he didn't want Rebecca to worry. Her grip was like a vise, panic fueled.
They had been carried well past the plateau so Petir and his mute boss didn't have a clear shot, but that didn't mean the two weren't correcting that problem. They needed to get up and away.
"Come on," he encouraged. Rebecca was on her feet within seconds, but he stumbled to his knees as he tried to take a step.
"What's wrong?"
The sergeant didn't know until he felt a warm trickle down his leg.
"You've been shot!"
And the doctor wasn't wrong. She pulled up his shirt to reveal a bullet wound oozing a steady stream of blood.
"Check for an exit wound," Brandt urged.
Rebecca felt up and down his back. "Nothing." From the look on her face, she knew as he did that this was a bad sign. A very bad sign.
Out of the icy cold water, the throbbing pounded behind his eyes, threatening to overwhelm his vision. But lying here wasn't going to find the bullet or stop the bleeding.
Braced for the pain and his weakened left leg, Brandt rose.
"What do you think you're doing? You've got a bullet bouncing around in your pelvis!"
"Got any better ideas?" he asked, tearing off a strip of his shirt to use as a bandage.
Rebecca mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but nothing better came out.
"Then I guess we are moving out."
At first Brandt had shrugged off her help, but now he leaned heavily into her as they followed the beach up a slight incline. As they crested the rise, Rebecca glanced over to find the sergeant already seeping through his crude bandage.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
She thought Brandt was referring to his wound until she looked up to find a wall, inscribed with Hebrew, Latin, Aramaic, and Greek. The languages of Christ. But that wasn't the problem. The sergeant was cursing at the opening of a maze that lay before them.
"This is not good," she added as she peered down the multiple entrances. None looking welcoming.
"No shit. Like all the rest wasn't bad enough. Now a fucking labyrinth."
"Actually, it's a maze."
Brandt leaned against the wall, checking his bandage, cringing when he found it bright red. The sergeant ripped another strip of shirt as he spoke, "And the difference would be?"
Rebecca peered into the darkened passage. There was no obvious threat, but the tangled path before them filled her with foreboding. But how could she explain why?
"Actually the difference is important," she said as she helped him wrap the cloth around his midsection. "A labyrinth, especially associated with Jewish mysticism, is supposed to be open. The pathway is meant to hone your focus. To bring your consciousness to a single point so that you might heal or find enlightenment. There are even finger labyrinths to help you achieve the same sense of serenity while sitting at your office desk."
Flinching, the sergeant gritted his teeth as she cinched the tie. "Then what's a maze?" he asked.
"A corruption of the ideal. The labyrinth is supposed to set you free. A maze is meant to confuse you. Trap you."
Testing his balance, Brandt asked. "And reward you in the end?"
"That's the problem," she said, her tone lowering. "Just like they twisted the Jewish tradition of honoring their dead, these monks have perverted the path to enlightenment. To be honest, I'm worried."
To her surprise, Brandt chuckled. "Really? Just now is the first time you've felt worried?"
"You know what I meant."
"Yeah," he said, with a pained smile on his face. "If you're worried, then I'm pulling my gun."
Brandt used the wall as support as he crept forward into the maze. Rebecca wasn't exactly behind him, but neither was she at his side. Her expression made it clear she expected him to fall over at any moment. She should have known he was made of sterner stuff.
"There's a Star of David," Rebecca said, reaching out.
He blocked her hand. "What did I tell you about touching ancient artifacts?"
"I wasn't going to handle it. I was going to point out that there's a thin piece of metal attached to the back of it."
On closer inspection, Brandt found the trip wire. They both checked the floor. It felt solid as solid could be. Plus, how much deeper could they go before hitting magma?
"Should we risk it?" she asked.
So far, the symbols had only helped them. Hurt them first, but ultimately helped them. "I think we have to." He put his gun into its holster and pulled out his silencer. "Stay behind me."
Ever so slowly he used the muzzle to pull the Star of David from the wall. Immediately another, much larger and far sharper star flew out from the opposite wall, impaling itself deeply into the wood. If Rebecca had still been standing there, she would have been dead.
"Like I said, corrupted," the doctor commented.
Brandt stared at the metal sticking from the wood. Men of faith did not act like this. "No, these monks are now officially fucking crazy."
Drenched, Tok dragged himself up the gentle slope of the river bank. He had intended to travel at least halfway up, but his muscles gave out and he flopped onto his back, panting from the exertion. The turbulent river had tapped any reserve he might have had.
Petir was at his side. "Master, I begged you to wait on the plateau for my return."
"And allow you all this glory?" Tok tried to interject some levity into their dire circumstances, but accomplished only making himself cough.
"Your bandages are saturated."
He should have risen at least into a sitting position, but Tok was so beyond the effects of vanity and pride. God had brought him low.
Tok had thought he would ride into this battle high atop his horse, breathing fire, vanquishing all that stood in his path. Instead he could barely walk. Such was God's wisdom.
His mentor opened the medical pack, pulling out fresh bandages. Petir assumed the worst, yet somehow brought about the best.
"Please allow me to administer another dose of narcotic."
Tok shook his head sharply, but pride did not prevent him from accepting any further pain medication. Instead it was a matter of practicality. He knew he would need every neuron firing precisely to survive this night.
After applying the dressing, Petir still fussed with his feet. Having to use a concentrated effort, Tok lifted his head to find his mentor fitting splints onto his damaged ankles.
"I told you, no!" he said, trying to pull his feet from the older man.