March Into Hell

by M. P. McDonald

  "Nobody is talking about taking away any rights. It's not even about free speech, it's about maintaining national security. Do you have any idea how valuable your 'gift' could be? But that's beside the point. If you didn't cooperate, where did she get the photo of you? It's an old one, so someone had to give it to her."

  Mark stifled a yawn and scrubbed his fingers against his scalp. "I have no idea. It's kind of funny, actually. The picture is one of the first taken with the camera."

  "You mean the special camera? I thought only you used it."

  "Not long after I came back from Afghanistan, I had the camera sitting on a counter in the studio while I was doing a commercial shoot with a few kids for an ad. One of the kids picked up the camera and caught me off guard. I meant to send that picture to my mom because she complained that I'm a photographer, but she never had pictures of me." He shrugged even though Jim couldn't see him. "I never got around to giving it to her though." He put his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them as he searched for the TV remote in the cushion of the couch.

  "So how did the reporter get it?

  Damn, Jim was like a dog with a bone. "How the hell should I know? I haven't seen the picture since I got out. I figure it disappeared with just about every other thing I owned." He couldn't resist that last dig.

  "Mark, I'm sorry if this is coming off like I think this is your fault. I know it's not. It just makes me really nervous to have one of my guys in the spotlight."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mark felt their presence before he heard them. He bolted awake. Hands--it seemed like dozens of them--yanked him to the floor. The covers tangled around his legs and a vise-like grip in his hair immobilized his head. He lashed out with his feet and arms, feeling impacts and hearing grunts, but there were too many hands.

  Panting, he swore, the torrent of words erupting as a harsh growl. The blows landed on every part of his body, but he ignored the pain as terror fueled his efforts. A hand brushed his face and he lunged at it, biting hard. The metallic tang of blood washed over his tongue, but he only released when forced by a hard kick to his ribs. Frozen in agony, he couldn't resist as they dragged him away from the bed and hauled him to his feet.

  His eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he flinched when three shadowy forms swarmed on his right and grabbed at his arms. The shadows, loose hoods hiding their faces, surrounded him. More of the hooded figures converged on his left and slammed him against the support beam in the center of his loft. They held him tight.

  "It's no use, Taylor. Stop fighting, and it'll go easier for you." A face loomed above his own and Mark recognized it. Pale light from the streetlights reflected off the snake eyes.

  "No! Let me go!" Mark arched his back, every muscle straining to escape, but the intruders didn't relent.

  "Uuuhhhh!" He sagged, his breathing ragged and harsh. It filled his ears. "Wh...what do you...want?"

  Kern laughed. "We want to see if it's true, Mark."

  A bright light shone in Mark's eyes and he squinted against the intensity. "See if...if what's true?"

  "If it's true that you're the second coming."

  A soft chortle followed the comment, but the flashlight prevented Mark from seeing anything except vague shadows. He picked out the tallest one and tried to focus on him. "What? That's...that's crazy!"

  "Oh, but is it? See, I've been doing some research on you, Mr. Taylor." He paused to smile, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. "It seems like you have saved a lot of people. Hundreds, if the tally is right. You have a 'gift' for saving people." Crossing his arms, the leader leaned back slightly. "And isn't that what Jesus did? He saved people? He's the Savior, right?"

  Mark shook his head back and forth. "No! It's not like that! Th...that's insane! You're all insane!"

  Grinning, the man stepped close to Mark. "We shall see. I have a little...test for you. Just to see what happens."

  "I'm not doing any damn test!" In blind panic, he fought to escape. His muscles screaming in protest as he raged against the arms that held him. His tee shirt ripped, and he could feel fingers and sharp nails biting into his skin. In his frenzy, he managed to free one arm and used it to claw at the nearest person, grabbing onto the hood. The dark cloth fell back and even the darkness couldn't hide the bright blond hair or the delicate features.

  Stunned, Mark's arm dropped and someone immediately grabbed it and restrained him once more. "Judy? I... don't understand."

  "I'm sorry, Mark, but it's beyond my control. This is where I belong." And then she smiled. "It'll be okay."

  "Let's get on with it people," Kern snapped.

  Mark's hands were wrenched behind his back and bound. Another rope circled his neck like a noose. He tried to resist again, but a sharp tug on the rope tightened it enough that, instinctively, he stilled.

  His captors urged him forward with a pull and he had no choice but to comply. He stumbled down the steps and out the back door of the studio. A light snow drifted down, and he gasped at the pain of the snow on his bare feet. The rear doors of a large van opened and the holder of the rope stepped in, yanking Mark in behind him. The rest of the group piled in the side door. Mark knelt on the floor while one of the members held his leash.

  Chills wracked his body, and he fought to control his trembling. He remembered the horrifying details from Judy's ordeal. There had been that pole, and he recalled the ropes attached to it. Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallowed hard.

  Far too soon, the van pulled into a deserted alley behind an old building. Mark had no idea where they were and he tried to look for landmarks when he staggered out of the van, but a jerk on the rope tugged his head forward.

  "Ahhhhgh!" He struggled to breathe and sank to his knees as his vision dimmed. A roar filled his ears.

  "Loosen the rope! We can't have him dying out here. That would ruin everything."

  A rush of air poured into his lungs and Mark sucked it in as fast as he could. Hands clamped onto his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, the lead rope left mercifully slack this time. A door opened and the group quickly entered, maintaining their almost complete silence. With the exception of Judy and Kern, no one had uttered a single word during the whole ordeal.

  A long hallway opened into an empty warehouse. A bonfire blazed in the middle of the room. A half dozen black clad members of the cult greeted the new arrivals with bows of their heads. Someone threw a piece of wood onto the fire, sending a cascade of sparks shooting into the air. Broken windows high on the walls ventilated the room and the fire flared as a cold breeze swept the space.

  A make-shift wooden cross loomed over the room. A small ledge jutted out from the bottom of the pole. Mark stopped in his tracks and even the tugging on the rope couldn't get him to budge. His trembling intensified, and he uttered a hoarse, "No."

  Kern approached him. "Oh yes, Mark. How else can I test my theory?" He looked to the cross and back at Mark with a mocking smile. "Be grateful we didn't make you haul it in here."

  Hands tightened on his biceps and jarred him into action. Spinning suddenly, the grip on his arms slipped and he lowered his shoulder, plowing his way through the group. Two people fell and Mark made a break for the hall. He hadn't gone three steps when the rope tightened, snapping his head back. His legs flew out from under him and he crashed hard on the cement floor, his skull cracking with a dull thud on the pavement. Sparks shot through his sight. The impact knocked the wind out of him and pain rocketed through his back and shoulders. The rope bit into his neck and when he tried to breathe, his diaphragm spasmed.

  There was nothing left to do but pray.

  The cult members dragged Mark, face up towards the cross. He closed his eyes; barely registering the movement. Flashes and snippets of his childhood and adolescence played in his mind like a movie on fast-forward. His thoughts filled with images of his parents. It bothered him that he couldn't remember exactly what he had said in his last conversation with them. Had he told them he loved them? Maybe he'd told his mo
m, but probably not his dad. His dad didn't go much for expressing his feelings. What his dad lacked in verbal expression, he made up for with handshakes and claps on the shoulders. Mark's mom had no qualms about telling Mark she loved him and no visit ended without lots of hugs and kisses.

  Vaguely, he heard clatters and clanks, but ignored the intrusion into his thoughts. He concentrated on the kaleidoscope of images swirling in his brain; his first bicycle, first home run in Little League, and later, the first time he ever made love. All his friends and loved ones made their appearance in his parade of memories.

  Several people rolled Mark onto his side, rudely yanking him from his reverie and thrusting him into the present. They tore off the remains of his shirt and cut the rope around his wrists. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they pulled him onto the long vertical part of the cross, which now lay on the floor. Gasping, his eyes darted around him and his heart beat at breakneck speed. This can't be happening! His terror ratcheted up another notch when a drum started pounding and the cult began chanting.

  Stretching Mark's arms wide, they held him down. He tried one more time to get free, kicking with his legs, but within seconds, he felt his arms and legs lashed to the wood. Another rope circled his chest, holding him fast. The drum tempo increased and the chanting matched it beat for ominous beat. Then, silence.

  Kern bent over him, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Are you ready?" He placed a hand on Mark's chest. "Hmm... your heart seems to be beating pretty fast. Are you nervous? If you'd like, I could convert this to a different kind of ritual."

  Mark couldn't answer, his whole body felt paralyzed. Why the hell didn't they hurry and just get this over with? His throat spasmed several times before he managed to respond, "Why can't you just shoot me?"

  Kern threw his head back and laughed. "But that wouldn't serve our purpose, now would it?" He drew a sharp knife out of a leather case attached to a belt around his waist. "What I could do, though, is make this into more of an Aztec sacrifice than a Christian test of faith. Hmmm...I've always been intrigued with a culture that was so advanced and yet, worshiped in such a blood-thirsty way. Utterly fascinating."

  The gleam in his eyes was replaced with a cold, flat effect, and he touched the tip of the knife against Mark's upper abdomen. "Are you familiar with their rituals?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "They would cut the heart right out of a person, and while it was still beating, show it to the poor victim."

  Mark could only gape at him in mute horror.

  "It could be all over in a matter of seconds if I just plunge this in right...here!" Kern shoved the knife in and Mark cried out, his whole body writhing as he tried to get away from the pain.

  "You're lucky. I held back or you'd be dead."

  Slowly, he withdrew the weapon and Mark groaned. He went on as though carrying on a casual conversation. "No, I don't think we'll go the Aztec route. I'm too curious about you, Mark. I've always despised the Church and its silly belief that the son of God walked amongst ordinary men, performing miracles and healing the sick." Kern paused for a long moment, his eyes took on a faraway expression before snapping to Mark's. "Do you heal the sick?"

  Mark moaned, his head lolling in pain and shock, Kern's question barely registering. For a minute, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing. He almost wished the knife had gone deeper--just to end the whole thing. His eyes opened wide and he gave a hoarse cry when Kern poked his finger into his wound and then held it up, the blood dripping down.

  "Apparently, I've answered my question. If you could heal the sick, self-preservation would demand that you heal yourself first. As you can see, that is not the case." And then he laughed as though he had told the funniest joke in the world. "What I want to see is if your God can save you. Do you have faith, Mark?"

  With a short nod to the cult members restraining Mark, he turned abruptly and strode away. The chanting renewed; the members' voices louder, more insistent.

  They began with his right hand. Mark didn't want to look, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. "No...don't...don't do this...please...stop...oh God!"

  Nobody looked at him; every person who held him kept their heads bent, ignoring his pleas. They forcibly pried his fist open, spreading his fingers and scraping his knuckles against the wood. The drum increased its tempo and a hooded figure held a long, thick nail to Mark's palm. He could feel the cold metal point digging into his flesh. The chant surged in time to the beat of the drums, and the firelight flashed off the hammer as it slammed down.

  Mark never heard it connect with the nail head. He stiffened, his back arching in pain and shock. Before he could catch his breath, they moved to his left hand. He didn't look this time. Instead, he closed his eyes, his lips moving in prayer.

  "Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven..."

  He felt the bite of the metal against his left palm; heard the chanting reach a crescendo. Mark raised his voice, hoping to drown them out.

  "And bless us oh Lord, with these, thy gifts which we are about to receive through Christ our Lord, Amen."

  The hands holding him tightened, and his heart raced, the beat pounding in his ears. Any second, the hammer would fall.

  "And yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death --"

  A bolt of pain shot through his palm. When he could breathe again, he licked his lips and swallowed. Mark had lost his train of thought and began again with the first prayer that came to mind.

  "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death --"

  They held his feet, one over the other, distracting him. He raised his head to look down at them, feeling sick fear at the spike held over his left foot. He couldn't look any more and turned his head as acid burned the back of his throat. The drums increased the tempo, matching the staccato rhythm of his pulse. The chanting reached a frenzy while embers from the fire drifted in the air above him, like pieces of hell.

  The last prayer was silent, his breathing too harsh to give it voice.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...

  They drove the last spike home and mercifully, darkness claimed him. When Mark roused again, the cross was upright, and he hung above the cult members. He didn't know how long he had been there, but the room was dimmer. The drums still beat, but the tempo had changed. The earlier frenzy had been replaced by a slow erratic beat. Kern held up a staff and the cult members bowed to him.

  The pain in his hands went beyond anything he had ever felt. His weight hung on them, only the ropes binding his arms helped ease the burden. He almost didn't notice his difficulty breathing until he had to consciously make an effort to take a breath. Mark could feel his throat closing, the abuse his neck had taken earlier taking its toll. Sweat dripped down his face, the stress causing him to shiver and perspire at the same time. Each chill that shook him increased his agony until finally, his mind shut down.

  * * *

  "No! Oh God!"

  Jim started awake and shot out of the recliner. "Taylor?" He glanced around his living room. The voice had been so clear, as though spoken by someone in the room. Mark's voice. He was sure of it. He'd heard that panic once before when Taylor had been water-boarded. Had he flashed back to that interrogation? Why would he re-live it? While unpleasant, he'd never felt terror during them.

  Grabbing the remote off the floor where it had fallen from the arm of the chair, he pointed it at the television and clicked off the infomercial that droned on about a miracle weight loss solution. It couldn't have been the source of the voice he'd heard.

  His shoulders ached, and he grunted and rotated one as he made his way to the kitchen. He must have slept on it funny. Instead of the pain decreasing as he tried to work out the kink, it intensified, and he gasped and sank onto the nearest kitchen chair. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead. Was he having a heart attack? He was only 48 and in good shape. His heart thudded, resona
ting in his ears, the sound deafening in the silent house.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death...

  Jim staggered to his feet and spun in circle. "Mark? Where are the hell are you?"

  The kitchen was lit by only the light from the oven clock. The green glow created a surreal atmosphere as the beating in his ears grew. After a moment, he realized it wasn't his heartbeat. It was a drum. No...drums. He checked the radio on his counter to make sure it was off.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...

  Jim stumbled back, bumping into the counter. The kitchen dissolved and instead of his table, chairs, stove and refrigerator, he was in a room. A huge room. To the left, in front of him was a bonfire. The woodsmoke stung his nose, and he rubbed his eyes. Chanting kept time to the drums, but Jim couldn't decipher what was being said, and as he tried to filter it from the rhythmic pounding, he picked out the dark hooded people kneeling on the floor before him in a half-circle. A shadow crossed the floor between him and the worshipers, and he turned to see the source. Looming to his left rose a cross. Jim blinked. A cross? Holy shit.

  Hanging from the cross, as real as the kitchen stove that should have been there, hung Mark Taylor.

  Stunned, Jim stared. Was Taylor dead? The drums increased in volume, resonating through Jim's body. The sour taste of bile rose in throat. It was so vivid, so real but it couldn't be. He was in his kitchen, not standing in some warehouse. The hairs on his arms stood on end as a chill shook him.

  He tried to rush towards Mark, but his feet seemed nailed to the floor. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reach the cross. While only appearing a scant ten feet away, it might as well have been an ocean that separated them.

  The drums reached a crescendo, and stopped. The fire crackled and snapped, breaking the silence.

  A man in a black robe lifted a staff, the others bowed to him. His mouth moved, but Jim had to strain to hear him as he mumbled, "Satanus, non sum dignus... sed tantum dic verbo."