by Max Kramer
***
Minutes after the Swiss Guard’s radio call, two fully loaded Augusta/Bell helicopters rose from the tarmac on the roof of St. Peter’s Basilica, in pursuit of the night train to Paris. The mechanic-priests of the Church were fiercely proud of their ability to keep the aging choppers flying. In fear that man was doomed to repeat past mistakes, the knowledge needed to create new aircraft had been purposefully misplaced, the robotic machines that had once built such vehicles disassembled and scrapped. That, and fuel oil was a rare luxury. For the most part, man had ceded control of the skies back to the insects and birds.
The helicopters caught up with the train just as it was crossing a gorge between two mountain peaks. Coded radio calls to the conductor and engineers brought the train to a sparking halt midway across the steel bridge. Both helicopters disgorged their occupants on top of either end of the train and then hovered in midair, bathing the stalled vehicle with high-powered search lights. If anyone were to attempt to leave the train onto, over, or under the bridge, they would see be seen, and shot on sight. No one departed the train.
The locomotive was an older model biodiesel-hybrid, a monstrosity lugging nearly one hundred and fifty passenger cars through the mountains with ease. The once opulent interior had been gutted long ago, leaving bare bench seats and stiff bunks.
The strong arm of the Church moved methodically through the rail cars, scanning every square inch for life. Every passenger was identified, and restrained in their seats. In most cases, the soldiers took the liberty of forcefully collecting donations for the faith. One burly drunk in no mood to be pushed around by anyone was unceremoniously eviscerated and dumped off the bridge. No one else complained about their rough handling. The Swiss Guard never apologized.
Near the center of the train, the two groups quietly met outside of the car their quarry had purchased from the ticket man. Whispered orders were passed down the line, and a door ram was brought to the fore. At exactly 3:37 in the morning, the Swiss Guard burst into Konstantin’s reserved sleeper car, guns at the ready. The fugitives were not there. By the unruffled look of the bedding, it was possible that they had never been. Queries to the conductor on hand proved that no one had entered or left the car on that particular trip. Stymied, the soldiers returned to their helicopters, and the train limped on into France.
***
Konstantin jerked awake. He had been dozing in his position by the train window; his breathe leaving an expanding circle of fog on the chilly pane. Rubbing bleary eyes, he glanced at his illuminated wrist-watch. 4:05 am. Konstantin smiled, leaning back on his couch. Soon they would be in Munich.
4
For Sister Brita Konstantin, the border city of Munich was a revelation. When the train slid into its morning berth in the bustling Hauptbahnhauf, she felt like she had entered a different world. She had imagined that all cities mirrored the capital, a place of order and piety, dark stone and darker looks. As a Franciscan nurse, she had oft travelled into New Rome to work the clinics and hospitals. The capital city was a drab and solemn municipality. The Church’s desire for cleanliness had resulted in sterility. Levity was hard to find in the shadow of the Vatican.
Munich, by comparison, proved to be a wonderfully gritty place. The ragged crowds moving through the station were a lively bunch, shouting greetings to familiar faces as they went about their business. Performers drew small crowds in out of the way corners with music, dancing and sleight of hand. Strangers laughed and argued playfully. Even here though, pockets of sullen quiet could be found around the frequent police personnel, uniformed in the livery of the local bishop.
Open mouthed, Brita soaked in the novel experience. A man pushing a cart of handbags noticed her amazed stare and began approaching, but swiftly retreated under her brother’s glare. She shivered. It was colder than she was used to here. Even inside the station she was grateful for the thick clothing Frederick had insisted she bring. Pulling her coat tighter, Brita glanced at her companion as he stood on the platform, ceaselessly scanning the chaos for danger. In many ways the sad, bad, mad man she found herself traveling with was a mystery.
When their father died, all of Frederick’s energies had been spent keeping them both alive. There was plenty of need for skilled labor rebuilding the city, but little money available for a child. It was only a matter of time before he failed to make rent on their father’s flat and they were living on the street. There was work, of a sort, available for desperate young boys in secret houses of ill-repute that catered to a very specific type of clientele, but Konstantin never made that difficult choice. He resorted to stealing scraps from the local vendors in an attempt to keep Brita fed and healthy. Eventually he pilfered one meal too many and drew the attentions of the Church’s enforcers. Brita knew the punishments for thievery were severe, but he never spoke of his time in the dungeons. His torturers must have seen something in their defiant young captive however, for when he emerged it was in the robes of an acolyte of the Inquisition. He had changed more than his dress too. The child who had entered prison had been replaced by someone ancient in the ways of pain. Young Brita, as a female, was of no use to the Inquisition, and was taken in by the kindly Franciscans. She saw little of her brother after that.
Moved by a sudden impulse, she stepped toward him, gripping his hand tightly in her own like she used to as a child. Startled, he looked down at her, suspicion flaring in his dark eyes.
“Thank you for helping me Frederick. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, even like this. I’ve missed you terribly.” Standing on her tiptoes she brushed her older brother’s cheek with her lips before looking away shyly.
With his free hand Konstantin touched the cheek his sister had kissed, his glower momentarily faltering. For a brief instant they were children again, their biggest worry being whether their father would catch them breaking curfew. For that one instant, standing in a hostile city, pursued by terrible forces, Frederick Konstantin smiled. When he grinned, years seemed to melt away, leaving behind the face Brita remembered. A moment later and he recalled where they were. Like an errant sun beam eclipsed by storm clouds Konstantin’s grin failed and his frown returned.
Extricating his captured hand, he turned with a grunt. “Come on, we’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”
Brita stood for another heartbeat watching her brother depart. Hunching her head against the cold she hurried after.
***
Inquisitor-Brother Solomon Rex noted that from this angle the girl looked like she was merely sleeping. The Inquisitor leaned forward in the chair, placing his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin. The child was on the bed in the fetal position, covered to the chest by blankets. The only detail breaking the illusion of sleep was a faint bluish tinge to her exposed skin and the complete stillness one can achieve solely in death. Inquisitor Rex knew that if he were to move around to the other side of the bed he would find the girl’s eyes open, staring blankly at the wall. He also knew there would be a long knife slid delicately between the child’s ribs, piercing her heart. Solomon Rex had put it there.
He felt the mildest twinge of regret. He was not usually so forceful with his playthings. Not anymore. He knew he would be chastised for the girl’s death. After his meeting with the tribunal the night before however, he had been overcome with excitement. Reflecting now on what he had learned sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. The Inquisitor moaned softly as he thought about it. Down in their chamber of fire, those monstrous old men had given him surprising news. Inquisitor-Brother Konstantin had gone rogue. Worse, he had released a witch into the world where she could work her evil. Rex was charged with apprehending the witch, so that she might stand trial for her crimes. Konstantin was to be killed. He shivered again. The Inquisition was, by necessity, an insular group, and the active inquisitors were a competitive lot. He knew of Konstantin, knew this would be a challenging chase. Solomon Rex was looking forward to it. His superiors would overlook this momentary breach in decorum
with the girl. They always did.
Prior to his capture and re-education, he had been a serial killer, a monster. Now, he was a monster with a purpose. As long as he continued getting results in the field, his inquisitorial brethren found it convenient to look the other way when he sometimes lapsed into his old habits.
Gripping the arms of his chair, the Inquisitor stood swiftly. His shaven head came dangerously close to brushing the ceiling of the chamber. Rex was huge, almost seven feet of corded muscle. His massive arms and barrel chest were densely tattooed with scripture from the Malleus Maleficarum. Solomon Rex lived for hunting witches. His quarry often underestimated him because of his barbaric exterior. They eventually found out that beneath the muscular frame was a quick and agile mind. By the time they realized their mistake Solomon already had them. He worked hard to keep both body and mind performing at their peak. For Solomon Rex, perfection was the only option.
He felt that he was closer than ever to achieving his goal. Recently God himself had begun speaking in his dreams, reassuring him that he was special. He knew that this hunt for the rogue brother was another of God’s tests.
Solomon scratched idly between his shoulder blades, huge muscles knotting and unknotting. The skin over his back was feeling dry and uncomfortable. He reminded himself to stop by the apothecary before he left on his hunt in order to get a soothing cream. Kneeling, he laced up his boots over his heavy pants. Then he reached into his closet and pulled out heavy black robes to cover his bare torso. Solomon never wore shirts while he hunted. He preferred to intimidate his quarry with the site of his righteous tattoos. Reaching into the closet once more he pulled out a combat shotgun and checked the action. Perfect. Satisfied he slung this over his shoulder. Crouching down on the balls of his feet, he reached under the bed, pulling out a finely polished cherry-wood case. The box was nearly four feet long, with an inscription etched across the top in Latin. Unlatching it revealed a purple velvet interior. Sitting on the plush fabric was an enormous double-headed war hammer. Rex reverently ran his huge hands over the weapon. The head was a block of solid steel inscribed with silver crosses. The shaft was titanium alloy with a leather wrapped grip. The book of his order, the Malleus Maleficarum translates roughly from Latin to mean the Hammer Against Witches. It had been written centuries before by the honored Inquisitors Kramer and Sprenger as a manual for exposing and convicting heretics. Post-Judgment, its lessons had been embraced by the Church like never before. Solomon had taken a more literal interpretation. Nothing brought him more pleasure than turning the heretic into jelly with his very own Witches’ hammer.
Hefting the solid instrument in a meaty paw, he gazed for a time into the dead child’s eyes. Solomon wondered what she saw. Leaning over he gently kissed the girl’s forehead. She remained staring, her ashen face forever frozen in a grimace of pain and terror. Inquisitor-Brother Solomon Rex lumbered out of the room. He had an appointment to keep with someone in the dungeons. Whistling cheerily, he jogged down the hall, enthusiastic about his new hunt.
***
Konstantin walked through the streets of Munich, angry at himself for being distracted by the witch. In the deepest recesses of his mind there still lurked a small kernel of the boy he had once been, and the more time he spent with his sister the harder it got to repress. He quickened his stride. The sooner he cured Brita, the better.
The hunter walked invisibly among the inhabitants of the city. He was one with his surroundings, the apex predator of the concrete jungle.
They were passing through Marienplatz square, in the shadow of the ancient Frauenkirche Cathedral. Konstantin had always made it a point to stop here during his hunts for a moment of quiet reflection. He enjoyed looking at the paintings in the Cathedral. They weren’t all gruesome. This time he simply lowered his head and hurried past. The Frauenkirche housed a branch of the Inquisition, and he felt no desire to deliver his sister back into their hands. Only when they reached the far edge of the square did he slow his stride. He thought that his ruse with the train was working, but knew it would not last forever. Before approaching the man in the ticket booth at Termini Station, he’d had his sister pay a street child to buy them tickets for the Munich train at one of the electronic kiosks. The homeless in the capital held little love for the soldiers of the church. They would avoid speaking to the Guard. Having long ago been captured by them himself, he could appreciate the sentiment. For the moment his location should be a secret from their hunters, but his was not an unknown face in this part of the world. Eventually, he might be recognized. Konstantin hoped to be done with his business in the city before that occurred.
The hunter was hungry. Wraithlike, he lurked in the darkness searching for his prey. His gaze settled on an unfamiliar couple entering his territory. The hunter’s breathe quickened. He would eat well this night.
Feeling the beginning of hunger working its way through his abdomen, Konstantin checked his watch and was pleased to see that it was still before noon. Beckoning his sister to follow, he moved to one of the snack carts lining the edge of the square and placed an order. Noticing Brita’s confused glance he explained. “Weisswurst traditionally stops being sold after twelve. We’re lucky to have gotten here early enough.”
Her look did not abate. She had never been to Germany, and could not speak their language. “It is a white sausage;” he continued, “you eat it with sweet mustard and pretzels.” Retrieving his order, he offered a plate to his sister and muttered a quick grace. Brita wrinkled her nose at the dish, tapping the sausage experimentally with a finger. Still uncertain, she crossed herself and slowly took a bite. Konstantin hid a smile as her face brightened and she began eating enthusiastically.
The hunter stalked his prey, willing them to leave the public areas for someplace quieter, where his strike would go unnoticed.
Still nibbling on his snack, Konstantin led his sister down one of the quieter avenues out of the square. Munich was a city of industry now; factories ran day and night to supply the war machine of the faith. Thick smokestacks constantly belched soot into the atmosphere, coating everything in a ubiquitous layer of filth. Through the corner of his eye, Konstantin watched his sister stick her tongue out to catch some of the floating grime, and then gag on the chemical taste.
“It’s not snow,” he said, pointing to the looming stacks. “It’s ash from the factories. The city is covered in it.”
“How can people live like this?” she asked incredulously.
“Simple. They do not have a choice. They can either live within the protection of the Church’s cities, or die in the wilds. A little grime is a reasonable price to pay for safety.”
The hunter was pleased. His prey had been stupid to enter his city. They would now pay for their trespass. Coiling his body like a great spring the hunter struck with bared teeth and grasping claws.
Trailing a pace behind, the only warning Brita had that they were under attack was a blur of movement at the corner of her eye. Before she could gasp a warning, someone burst out from a side alleyway, streaking toward her brother with frightening speed. There was no way he could possibly see the attack coming, but at the last moment he spun and in one fluid movement, somehow swept his assailant off his feet with one hand, while drawing a pistol with the other. Stomping down a booted foot, he pinned their attacker to the ground, where it kept twisting and striking wildly. He stilled it by putting a bullet in the ground near its head. Now that it was motionless, Brita was surprised to see that their attacker was a young boy, the ash covering his body from head to toe creating a perfect natural camouflage. At the moment, fat tears were tracing streaks through the grime on his face as the child groveled under Konstantin’s heavy boot.
“Why did you try to kill me?” Konstantin growled menacingly. The boy’s eyes stared fixedly up the barrel of the gun held to his head. Working his jaw, it took a moment before words began to spill out.
“Please, I would never kill anyone, I swear. I thought you was tourists; I was onl
y trying to get some money so I could buy some food. Please, I’m hungry.”
Konstantin shifted his grip on the handgun, bringing it down until it hovered just above the child’s forehead.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t kill anyone. Perhaps you would. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have killed before. And I have no problem doing it again.”
Brita had seen enough. Shoving her brother off the child she knelt down, pulling his frail frame to her body. Skinny arms wrapped around her neck as the boy pressed his dirty hair to her shoulder, smearing ash and tears across her coat.
“Shame on you Frederick Konstantin! How dare you threaten this poor boy?”
“He tried to rob us Brita.”
“He’s hungry! Look at him, he’s skin and bones. There was once a time when we were hungry children Frederick. Remember? Were you so different than him?”
“I never got caught.”
“Yes you did. Once.”
Rocking the child back and forth, she gently stroked his hair as she glared up at her brother. As he stared down at her with his cold dark eyes she became frightened that he would carry out his threat, her intervention or no. Instead he heaved a heavy sigh, and turning away he returned his weapon to its low slung holster.
“Once was enough.”
Pulling the sniffling boy away from her shoulder, Brita stood him up in front of her. Reaching into an inner pocket, she produced a handful of Church coin, pressing it into his cold little hands.
“Here child. Get yourself some food and find a warm place to spend the night. It’s going to be cold.”
Smiling tentatively, the youth gave her a desperate hug before scampering back into the alleyway from whence he came. Embarrassed, Brita brushed some soot from her coat, fully expecting an angry lecture from her stern sibling. Instead he only gave her a strange look before gesturing for her to move on.
