Separation

by J. S. Frankel

  Gee, you think so? Harry fought down the impulse to toss off a snotty reply, but now wasn’t the time or place. “Are you badly hurt?”

  “They winged my shoulder. I’ll make it.”

  “Do we have any options?”

  “You surrender,” a voice called out from the darkness.

  Six figures emerged from the night carrying machine guns and holding flashlights. The yellow beams cast an eerie glow upon the ground and illuminated the dead bodies. The smell of blood in the air didn’t help matters either, and Harry wondered if these men were open to discussion. “I don’t suppose you could speak to them,” he whispered to his wife. “You speak Italian, don’t you?”

  “I just know some greetings.”

  Greetings wouldn’t help in this situation, and neither would the excuse of having lost their way.

  Judging from the way they’d acted, these visitors weren’t into friendliness. Dressed in simple clothes, they were young, lean, and nasty looking. “You are Americans, yes?”

  Looking around, Harry got no answers, so he took the lead. “We’re American.”

  “From your accent, I think so,” one man said and spat on the ground. Clad in a ragged shirt and torn pants, he had a number of tattoos, all of them skulls, on his fingers as well as on the surface of his hands. A large and livid scar stood out in the beams the flashlights cast. It ran from the right side of his hairline down to the center of his jaw, as if he’d lost a knife fight of the worst kind.

  “Oh, you see my scar,” he said, nodding. “I get this from one of the animals who come to our country. He was not Italian. He clawed me. But I got him first.” A note of triumph rang in his voice. “He is dead now, and I live.”

  “Not all foreigners are out to hurt you,” Harry observed and fell silent when the man waved off his objection.

  “He tried very hard to hurt me,” the man responded angrily and pointed once more to his disfigurement. “Foreigners, it is foreigners who come here to spoil our country. We are the people of this country. We will rid this place of your pestilence.”

  Struggling up to one knee and then to his feet, Overton announced, “I should tell you, I’m with the FBI. You’re all under arrest.”

  That had to be the stupidest line of all time, thought Harry, and the tattooed leader seemed to agree with his thought as he let out a gale of laughter. “You have no jurisdiction here. If you are with them, then you are also dead.”

  So much for discussion, and they seem so proud of what they’ve done. These men were nothing but murderous thugs. However, they were armed and he wasn’t. Hand to hand he could take them, but he wasn’t bulletproof. “We’re not here to fight,” Harry said. “We’re here to find a friend and take him back to America.”

  God that sounded like the lamest line he’d ever uttered. We need our friend. We will leave here. We come in peace. All the clichés from the books and movies whirled in his mind, and why couldn’t he think of anything original?

  It didn’t seem to matter too much to the man. With a sneer, he glanced at his companions and they nodded. He then swiveled his head around, the sneer still in place. “Yes, you will lead us to your friends. We will wipe them out, too. Italy is for Italians, not for freaks and monsters.”

  With a quick movement, he reached over to snatch the bag from Harry’s shoulder. Examining the contents, he nodded. “You are foreigners, but you have quality merchandise. We can use this.”

  “Scusi.”

  That came from Leo, and in a surprise move, he walked out in front with his paws up, speaking softly in his native language. Even in the dim light, the man’s face looked surprised, and after a moment’s hesitation he answered in an almost civil tone.

  Seconds later, he signaled for his men to put down their weapons. “What are you doing?” whispered Harry, confused by the sudden turn of events.

  “I am taking them to see our friends,” Leo replied, his face devoid of all expression. “They want all of us, not just you.”

  This was madness, but the group started off in the direction of the van. Overton muttered something about walking to his grave, but one of the thugs clubbed him over the head with the butt of his machine gun. “Be quiet!”

  Overton staggered, but managed to remain upright, and they continued on. Halfway there, though, another smell, not of blood but of fur, entered Harry’s nostrils. He took a careful sniff and took greater care to hide his reaction. Yes, it was animal fur, not human skin. Leo was far smarter than he let on.

  Anastasia gave a wink. She’d also smelled the same thing. The smell grew more intense, and just as they reached the van, three figures burst from the darkness and leaped on the posse, smashing them into the ground. They never even got off one shot. The difference here, though, was that the new crew didn’t bother killing them. They simply beat them up—hard.

  Once they stopped, though, they stood up, panting, and nodded at Leo. The leader, a tall mix of man and bear with an ursine face and bearlike body, uttered something in guttural Italian. Leo answered and gestured to Harry and Anastasia. “He say his name is Paulo. He is countryside leader.”

  He pointed at the other two beings, both of them short and squat, mixes of what looked to be pit bulls and men, with stocky, muscular bodies and canine faces accompanied by piggish eyes. A few more words passed between them. “They are his guards. They know what happen here. They say we are safe now.”

  After Harry retrieved the computer, an air of calm ensued and he felt his heart rate return to normal. While the transgenic helpers relieved the hit squad of their weapons and tied them up using their clothes as rope, Overton walked over, rubbing his head and wincing. “What’s the plan?”

  Anastasia threw him a quick look, and then turned her gaze to Leo. “Can you ask your friends to drop fearless leader off at the nearest hospital?”

  Overton started to protest. “Hey, wait a minute—”

  “Wait nothing,” she cut him off. “You’re hurt, and you’ll just slow us down. We don’t have time to fix you up.”

  The agent continued to protest, and Harry had half a mind to slug him just to shut him up, but he reined in his temper. “Agent Overton, Anastasia’s right. You’re just dead weight. We need to go on alone. Leo, could you tell your guys, please?”

  Once Leo did the honors, the leader nodded. “We take him to hospital.”

  The three men quickly hustled the protesting Overton off through the darkness, and Harry and Anastasia got into the van, Harry at the wheel. Leo clambered into the passenger seat beside Anastasia. “I show you way to Rome,” he said.

  They set off, with Leo guiding them along. Roughly an hour later, they arrived near the center of the city with the mole-man pointing excitedly to the side of the road. “Stop here. We walk.”

  Abandoning the van, Leo took the lead and guided them through the narrow streets, occasionally stopping to sniff the ground as well as the air. “I check for our people as well as for polizia. The police, they wear different shoes. My nose smells difference. I smell the leather.”

  It seemed like the appropriate thing to say. Once they got within range of the Vatican, Leo stopped. “There are guards there. They no know you, but they know me. We must be careful and wait.”

  “Wait for whom?” Anastasia wanted to know.

  A click caused Harry to whirl around. Five men-but-not-men stood in front of them. They’d come up very quietly, so quietly he hadn’t heard them, and he let out a soft curse. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down for a moment. “Do not move,” one of them said.

  The men advanced on them. They all held pistols, and at this range they couldn’t miss. Leo seemed paralyzed by indecision, but Anastasia backed up a step, a low but intense whine coming from her throat.

  A second later, Leo found his spine and softly spoke to the advancing group. The leader halted and put up his fist, signaling his compadres to stop. He tucked his pistol into a pair of torn jeans and advanced slowly. As he came into the dim light of early mo
rn, Harry made out his features.

  He wasn’t human, not entirely. Like the transgenics in the countryside, this man resembled a cross between a German shepherd and a man... with the canine part predominating. With massive arms and a thick neck, he presented a most formidable image. He and Leo conferred with one another, and the dog-man turned to Harry.

  “My name is Carlo,” he said. His English was more than fluent, although he spoke with a heavy accent. “You seek one of our people. Forgive us for being overly cautious, but we cannot take any chances.”

  Message received and understood. Anastasia cautiously approached from the side, and Harry gave her a thumbs-up. Carlo led the way, and they moved on over to a metal grate on a small side street. “This is where we go,” he whispered.

  “Sewers,” Anastasia muttered. “It’s always sewers.”

  As if they had a choice. Carlo gave a mighty tug and easily lifted the grate off the hole. “Quickly,” he whispered sotto voce. “There might be spies, and the guards from the Vatican might see us. Not all of them are on our side. We cannot alert anyone.”

  Leo went first and quickly disappeared down the hole. Anastasia went next, and Harry followed close behind her. Behind him, he heard the sound of metal being replaced and Carlo dropped to the ground. “Leo,” he called softly, “Lead the way.”

  Obediently, the mole-man dropped to the ground. They’d entered a sewer, lined with ancient brick. A heavy smell of mold and age lay thick upon the air, and the smell of the garbage floating by verged on suffocating. Harry tried to breathe through his mouth, but still the odors filtered in.

  Leo didn’t seem overly bothered by it. He snuffled along, pausing every now and then to cock his head to one side, as if listening for something only he could hear. The group walked in silence for a few minutes, turning left and then right. The only sounds were of the rushing water and the soft echoes of their footsteps.

  Finally, they came to a brick wall. It was a dead end. “Where do we go from here?” Harry asked.

  “It is magic time, I think you say,” Carlo responded and moved to the front where he tapped three bricks in rapid succession. A grating sound resulted, and indeed, as if by magic, the brick wall seemed to split down the middle. It parted to reveal a hidden world. It was indeed a marvel of engineering. “I designed this,” he whispered. “It is my training.”

  “We go inside,” Leo said. “We rest, and then your friend, he will come.”

  Following his lead, they stepped into a dry room, warm and comfortable, and best of all, odor free, once the door slid closed. “This is our home, at least for now,” Carlo said. “Welcome.”

  Chapter Five: The Hunt Begins

  The cavern seemed to be large and clean, roughly thirty feet in circumference, lit by torches. The walls had been scrubbed smooth by hand, age, and time, and a faint smell of cedar hung in the air. “It is from the candles,” Leo whispered. “They have nice smell, yes?”

  They did, and inhaling deeply, Harry began to appreciate the concept of subterranean life. Air, surprisingly pure, flowed in from vents carved into the rock. No rancid water flowed. In the past, he and Anastasia had been forced to flee through the most incredibly rank sewer systems around. This place was a distinct contrast, and he began to relax somewhat due to being among people like him. Trust, though, remained an issue.

  Off to his left, more chambers had been hollowed out, and a number of figures, all transgenic and all different, passed between them. “Some of them have familia,” murmured Leo. “Others, how you say, are unattached?”

  “I will show you around,” Carlo said. “After that, you will meet those whom you seek.”

  Hold up a moment... he’d used the plural. Harry felt a surge of betrayal flow through him. “You have two people we’re looking for here? What kind of con game is—?”

  “It is no game, I assure you. I will show you. Follow me.”

  As they walked along the dirt path, their feet making soft, hollow sounds, Harry began to wonder if this was some kind of trap, but then realized this was simply a city beneath the earth. If Carlo had wanted to attack, he would have already done so, but he’d holstered his weapon and moved ahead, leaving himself exposed. No, he wasn’t the problem.

  “Harry, hold onto me,” Anastasia whispered. She staggered, but then managed to right herself.

  “What’s wrong,” he whispered back.

  “I’m dizzy and I have to throw up,” she answered.

  Carlo must have overheard, for he stopped and pointed off to the right. “If you need to relieve yourself, there is a toilet there. It is simple and feeds into the ground, but it works.”

  Anastasia immediately tore off in the direction of his finger, and a few seconds later the sounds of vomiting could be heard, loud enough to wake the dead, as it were. Harry spotted some sarcophagi wedged into the walls and had the brief image of bones rising from the stone coffins.

  However, this wasn’t the catacombs, not the pictures he remembered from textbooks. “Where exactly are we?” he asked Carlo, once Anastasia rejoined them.

  “This place is a secret place, directly under the seat of the Catholic Church, one known only to a few of the Vatican personnel.”

  “Why?”

  “It was built centuries ago to guard secrets. It has remained a secret, just in case we have need of it,” a voice said from behind them.

  Whirling around, Harry beheld a small and spare man wearing long red robes. Perhaps seventy years old or more, in the torchlight, his skin resembled ancient parchment. Yet, his eyes were alive. “My name is Monsignor Morello,” he said in a dry and unemotional voice. “I am part of the Vatican, and one of the people you need to talk with. Let me explain.”

  Carlo stood guard, and Morello, in spite of his age and his long robes, dropped gracefully into a seated position. Everyone else followed suit. Once seated, he laid out the details one by one. The Vatican had become aware of the troubles the transgenic community had been experiencing. Initially suspicious of the animal-people, a few of the cardinals, sympathetic to the plight of the transgenics, had spoken to the Pope.

  “We call them God’s children,” Morello said, “for we are all children of God. This is what we must stand for. We cannot do otherwise.”

  “Is the Pope involved?”

  Harry tried not to sound overly skeptical. Up until recently he’d been referred to as a monster, a freak, and an offspring of Satan, but never as one of a deity’s children. However, it was a compliment, so he accepted it as such.

  “He is not officially involved, for he cannot be.”

  However, as Morello hastened to explain, the Pope had met with a few of the transgenics, along with a group of cardinals he trusted. He had reached out to them and offered them sanctuary.

  “We must be careful, though,” Morello continued, and a note of uncertainty entered his voice. “There are those among us who will never accept that which is different. At first, I was hesitant, but I changed my way of thinking. This is something we must do.”

  He went on to add the Pope had already contacted other religious and non-religious groups in France and Spain as well as within Italy itself. Once linked, they had decided upon a plan of action.

  “And what kind of plan is that?” Harry wanted to know more. “All I see are people hiding underground. I can’t blame you, but what exactly are you going to do?”

  Morello offered a wise smile. With a head full of snowy white hair and wizened features, he resembled an ancient prophet. “The answer you seek is in the next room.” He pointed the way. “I must return to the surface and make my report.”

  Carlo came forward to usher him out of the chamber. Once he’d gone, Anastasia whispered while looking around, “Do you trust him?”

  Trust seemed to be the operative word in this scenario. Deep down, Harry trusted no one, only his wife and his two best friends and the man lying in a hospital bed back home. “Wait and see,” was all he said.

  A cough from the next room in
terrupted their conversation, and a familiar smell wafted over, one of a pig. Anastasia broke into a smile and she ran ahead. Harry followed her, and they soon came upon a pink and rotund little figure wearing a blue jumpsuit, sitting on a chair and reading a book. When he looked up, he gave a brief cry of delight. “You are back!”

  Harry ran over and along with his wife embraced Istvan. No words were said, but Istvan sniffled and cried, and the reunion between old friends was complete.

  As Harry had hoped yet dared not believe, Istvan had escaped during the conflict in the Russian bunker. A fire had broken out, and he’d manage to circumvent the flames by burrowing underneath the ground and waiting until the fire had burned itself out.

  “After that, I, how you say, make my way to Italy,” he related, all the while snacking on some food another member of the transgenic crew had brought over.

  Istvan had not devolved much, unlike the other transgenics. Harry had a clue as to why, but first he had to satiate his hunger pangs. He was famished and tore through the simple meal of bread, meat and cheese, while Anastasia ate twice as much and three times as fast.

  “I’m hungry,” she mumbled as she stuffed in half a loaf of bread. “I need to eat. If I don’t eat, I get dizzy.”

  She’d never gotten dizzy before, but fine, foreign travel could make anyone hungry or feel unsettled. She could eat all she wanted, Harry thought, but the main problem remained of who the mystery man was in all this. Leo was sleeping in another chamber, so the question of the voice with an American accent arose. Harry asked, “Did you get a name?”

  Istvan nodded. “I hear the name Allenby. I do not know of him.”

  Harry didn’t, either. “I need to send a message.”