Fires Rising Read Online Free PDF

safety into the crowd of onlookers. When he reached the ground, he staggered through the people gathered around the hole until he broke through the front of the line. Here he was confronted by the waiting gazes of the men in the hole, each and every one of them staring up at him as if he were an intruding enemy. One of the men appeared beside him and grasped his arm, brandishing a knife, its twelve-inch blade coated in blood. Jyro tried to scream but like in any other nightmare, was unable to find his voice.
    The man's eyes turned black, and with a single strong-armed thrust, he plunged the bloody knife into Jyro's gut…
     
    J yro startled awake, the horrific and utterly realistic nightmare giving way to the snores of the sleeping vagrants in the bedroom.
    He rubbed his eyes, and then his stomach, feeling the ghostly ache of the knife from his dream. As the images of his dream faded and his conscious state grew more tangible, he wondered if the chalice he saw floating in the air had indeed been real.
    And if so, was it still there now?
    The rosary!
    Heart pounding, he clawed into his right pocket, and for a moment panicked because all he felt was a torn hole giving way to the rough bare skin of his thigh. But then he realized he was fishing in the wrong pocket, and upon examining his left pocket was relieved to find the beads still there.
    This means the chalice I saw was real…
    He struggled to his knees and started looking around for a good place to hide because he wanted— needed —to remain alone with the rosary. After all, it had called to him and even perhaps had a message for him. He climbed to his feet and a number of tender places on his body reminded him of his fall into the hole: his back, hips, and legs all throbbing with sharp aches and pains. Grimacing, he bent over to massage his right thigh and saw the halogen flashlight he'd taken from Larry on the floor alongside the wall.
    He retrieved the flashlight and plodded away from the carpeted landing, his laceless boots leaving a dusty trail on the hallway's hardwood floor. He passed the bedroom and peeked inside. It was still packed with sprawled bodies, many of them snoring loudly or mumbling in their sleep. Beams of dim light played in through the room's only window, illuminating the dust motes floating lazily over the sleeping men.
    It's morning now…how many hours have I been sleeping for?
    He looked down the hall toward the rectory's only bathroom, its door slightly ajar.
    He limped to it, hesitated at the threshold…then went inside.
    Something is calling me. And I must follow.
    The bathroom stunk to high-heaven. He switched the flashlight on and shined it around. He glimpsed the toilet, now backed up and overflowing with thick, dark sewage. Gagging, he turned, thought about leaving but ended up closing the door behind him, fighting back the stink with a nausea-filled gulp. He took a step forward, placed the flashlight on the edge of the sink and aimed it toward himself, then cocked an ear against the door.
    Certain that no one else was around, he dug a hand into his pocket, and took out the rosary.
    It is beautiful…
    Like an entomologist studying an insect, he contemplated it with heart-pounding fascination, with awe. He touched every marble-sized bead, the lone crucifix, its oddly-shaped charms carved in ancient wood.
    It is mine. It called to me…
    One thing was for certain: he wouldn't let anyone else see it. If they did they would most certainly fight him for it, because a charm like this would fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop on 8 th Avenue and 44 th Street—enough, at least, to buy a good bottle of liquor, or a meal at Tad's steakhouse.
    He closed his eyes and let the rosary slip through his fingers. They seemed to press up against his skin, like a cat looking to be petted. Must be my imagination , he thought, feeling the weighty grain of the beads as they released a pinpoint of warmth into his palms.
    The center of his palms…
    Time