***
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.
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