Three hundred Jews were murdered just last week in Tarrega, dozens more in Barcelona. New tortures are being invented every day, the latest being the violent placement of a crown of thorns upon a Jew’s head, the object then mashed into the skull using a blunt object until the prisoner is dead.
And so the pestilence has unleashed an orgy of not only death but immorality, our fears and hatred bringing forth the very worst attributes of mankind. My soul is sickened by the conduct of my own species, and I have voiced as much to Clement VI. In response, the Pope recently issued a papal bull stating that it cannot be true that the Jews are the cause of the pestilence, for the plague infects them as well.
Still, the slaughter goes on.
Meanwhile, the Pope has left the papal palace for his retreat in Etoile-sur Rhône with Cardinal Colonna, swearing to me that he will keep the chamber fires burning to cleanse the air.
I have refused Clement’s invitation to escape to the countryside. As chief surgeon, my rightful place is in Avignon, but there is another reason I have turned down my Pope’s request–
— I, too, have been stricken with the mortality.
— Guigo
Fourth Circle
Avarice
"It was squandering and hoarding that have robbed them of the lovely world, and got them in this brawl. I will not waste choice words describing it! You see, my son, the short-lived mockery of all the wealth that is in Fortunes' keep, over which the human race is bickering; for all the gold that is or ever was beneath the moon won't buy a moment’s rest for even one among these weary souls."
Patrick Shepherd opened his eyes. The human sleet had passed. The cloud cover overhead yielding to blotches of starry sky.
“Are you all right, son? You fainted dead away.”
He looked up at Virgil, the old man kneeling by his side. “What happened?”
“Something destroyed the barge, probably a military drone. The blast wave must have knocked you out.”
“All those people—”
“They died as they lived… only for themselves.”
Shep’s memory came flooding back. “Virgil, I saw him. He was standing on the shoreline, just before the explosion.”
“Saw who?”
“The Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper. He’s been following me since the chopper crash!”
“Calm down—”
“It’s not the vaccine, Virgil, I’m not hallucinating this! You have to believe me.”
“I believe you.”
Patrick saw the look in the old man’s eyes. “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”
“Not tonight, no. But the souls of the wicked call out to him. We need to hurry if we are to find your family. Can you walk?”
Patrick stood, feeling light-headed. He couldn’t remember his last meal. He could barely remember his name. He looked around, unable to get his bearings.
The shoreline was littered with smoldering debris and the remains of the dead. Arms and legs and upper torsos and parts rendered unidentifiable. Scorched beyond recognition.
To the south, Manhattan’s skyline was cloaked in darkness, the outlines of its buildings blotting the horizon like a towering alien mountain range. The neighborhood to the immediate east was aglow in sporadic patches of orange light, its elevation above the banks of the Hudson making it difficult to discern the source. To reenter the city they must again ascend the gauntlet of highway overpasses and exit ramps, a task that seemed impossible.
“Virgil, I don’t think I have the energy to climb another exit ramp.”
“I know a better way.” Virgil handed him the polished wooden box. “Don’t forget this, your loved ones will need it.”
Gripping Patrick’s right elbow, he led him back toward the Henry Hudson Parkway and a stretch of sidewalk that intersected with Riverside Drive West.
Thumpa… thumpa… thumpa.
The rhythmic pounding was relentless, baiting her consciousness through the blackness like a fish to a bobbing worm.
Thumpa… thumpa… thumpa.
So annoying… just let me sleep.
Thumpa… thumpa… thumpa.
Gavi Kantor opened her eyes, the teen lost in a sea of delirium.
Bare bulb. Bare mattress. The heavy stench of sex. People talking gibberish.
Thumpa… thumpa… thumpa.
She stared like a fascinated kitten at the IV bag dangling high above her head, her dilated eyes tracing its plastic tubing down to her forearm even as her drugged mind fought to gain a foothold on reality. When it did, she could only manage a moan.
“Help. Somebody please… hello?”
The sound echoed in her brain, hollow and distorted. She attempted to sit up and was introduced to the restraining straps around her ankles and wrists.
And that was when the dream is shattered, her captivity rushing at her so fast its gravity drained the blood from her face, and she bellowed a hyper-ventilated, anxiety-induced scream, “Oh my God… oh my God… help! Help me!”
She cried and thrashed about until her captor showed herself.
The Mexican woman was in her fifties. The fatty deposits on the back of her arms quivered as she coldly injected the elixir into Gavi’s IV bag and adjusted the drip. “Go back to sleep, Chuleta. We’ll tend to you shortly.”
The thumpa… thumpa… thumpa of the industrial washing machine faded into blackness as the thirteen-year-old sank back into the depths of unconsciousness.
The MH-60G Pave Hawk soared over New York Harbor, its pilot having taken a circuitous route from New Jersey to avoid the Hudson River’s no-fly zone. The medium-lift combat helicopter contained two GAU-2B machine guns mounted along its side windows and a pair of.50 caliber machine guns situated just inside the cabin’s two sliding doors. A pilot, copilot, and flight engineer were stationed in the cockpit, eight heavily armed US Army Rangers in back… along with one exhausted and slightly intimidated Army Reserve medic.
David Kantor felt like a field-goal kicker among defensive lineman. His insides recoiled as the airship lurched into a dizzying turn and descent, landing with a bone-jarring thud. The Rangers methodically checked their gear and disembarked before the twin engines were switched off.
Alone in the cabin, David closed his eyes, gathering himself mentally. Why am I here? There must be a reason. Forcing his exhausted leg muscles back into action, he regained his feet and jumped down onto the frozen lawn.
An MP stood by a jeep, signaling him over. “Captain Kantor? Come with me, please.”
David climbed in the vehicle, gripping the edge of his seat as they accelerated across the frost-covered lawn, then over a dry moat’s one-lane bridge into the harbor fortress.
Fort Jay’s ancient quadrangle had been turned into a twenty-first-century command post. Rows of generators and a seemingly endless entanglement of heavy-duty cables crisscrossed the compound, providing power to portable banks of computer consoles and satellite dishes. David was led into one of four brick barracks, the interior illuminated using portable lights, the heat provided by kerosene furnaces. At the center of the room was a seven-foot-by-ten-foot map of Manhattan, spread out over a Ping-Pong table.