One Day In Budapest. A Thriller.

Chapter 11

Morgan watched László swallow, chewing a little on the long dead flesh, and she felt a rush of nausea at his cannibalism. The camera light still glowed under Zoltan’s hand, and she realized that this footage would show the politician as a madman. Where people would tolerate racist violence, bigotry and hatred, they would not accept superstition and desecration. Eröszak was standing for economic revival in a greater Hungarian Empire, not the resurrection of myth and dictatorship.

“Enough,” Zoltan whispered, pressing a button on the camera. They slipped back around the corner and he handed it to Morgan. “You need to get this out of here so that it can transmit above ground to Georg. It’s the evidence we need to stop the rally. I’ll deal with these two and then I’ll bring out the relic.” 
The look in Zoltan’s eyes was that of a man defending his family from invasion. Morgan knew that he wouldn’t stop until Hungary was free from these fanatics, when it was a country where all Hungarians could live together, whatever their beliefs. She nodded and touched his hand, leaning in close.
“Be careful,” she whispered. “Your people need you alive.” Then on light feet, she ran through the cave, back the way they had come.

***

Zoltan watched Morgan go, sending up a prayer that she would make it in time to stop further escalation. He pulled the tire iron from his pack, rounding the corner as the prayers of the táltos reached a crescendo. László knelt in front of the altar facing the twisted cross. As his mouth opened again to receive the final libation, Zoltan stepped from the shadows, crashing the weapon against one of the metal roundels as he ran towards them. The noise resounded through the cave and the táltos fell silent as both men spun to face the sound.
“No,” László bellowed with rage, leaping up, his ritual of power interrupted. His hand fell to his belt for a weapon but as his fingers closed around the butt of a gun, Zoltan was upon him, swinging the tire iron. László rolled away and the blow glanced off his shoulder as Zoltan swung back for another strike. The táltos backed away, his tattooed face showing no fear, only a curiosity at this development. His prayers changed again and Zoltan heard the beginnings of a curse, words that had echoed down the centuries as a harbinger of desperate suffering. 

László pulled his gun and turned, firing just as Zoltan slammed the tire iron down on his arm. The shot went wide, ricocheting off the stone walls and the gun fell clattering to the ground. As László clutched at his arm, Zoltan shoved the metal back into his stomach, driving the wind from him as he fell to his knees, coughing. After all the years of politics, the man was soft, relying on others to fight his battles. Zoltan stood over him with the metal bar raised, muscles tense.
“It’s finished, Laz. I’m taking the relic back to the Basilica.”
László laughed through his wheezing attempts to draw breath, looking up at Zoltan from the ground as he clutched his damaged arm.
“You just don’t get it, do you? Always the brawn, never the brains, eh, Zoltan. Even your father knew that I was the better man.”
Zoltan gripped the tire iron harder, wanting to slam it down and destroy this man, responsible for so much violence and capable of so much more.
“You can’t stop the march of progress,” László continued. “This country wants change, it wants the fucking Jews and Roma out. We will finish what Hitler started and the Soviets continued.”

Zoltan felt a strange sensation possess him. It was as if he stood at the pivotal point of a chain of history, violence repeating itself throughout generations. He was alone, standing against the tide of hate, but he felt the weight of history buoy him up. The Jews had survived unceasing waves of brutality against them, and he would survive this. To bring the tire iron down and finish László would make him a martyr, killed by a Jew, sparking further cycles of retribution. Zoltan stepped back towards the gun. He needed to get László out of there to face some kind of public reckoning. But then the prayers of the táltos stopped and Zoltan heard the rasp of the gun, and a faint click.

He dived for the shelter of the nearest stone pillar just as the tattooed man fired. Zoltan felt a burning sensation in his arm and heard László laugh as he clutched at the wound, feeling warm blood pulsing out.
“You see, Zoltan, even the Magyar ancestors reject you. But I will be a hero today, wounded in action while killing the Jew who stole the relic and returning it to the people myself.” László looked briefly at his watch. “I will produce you at the rally, the perfect scapegoat, a Jew with a personal grudge against me.”
Zoltan heard László get up and walk across the cave towards the táltos, knowing that if László got the gun, he was finished. What did he have to lose anymore, he thought, and launched himself back out of the shelter of the rock, hurling himself at his old friend. Zoltan slammed into László, using his bulk to smash his body against the altar and knock them both into the táltos, who dropped the gun in his haste to back away. They ended up on the floor, a tangle of bodies, each scrambling to grab hold of the other, a snarling mass of aggression, reduced from men to beasts.

Zoltan landed a blow to the tattooed nose of the táltos, and blood gushed immediately. Zoltan saw the hatred in his eyes as the man scrabbled away on hands and knees, before standing and running off down the corridor.

His attention momentarily diverted, Zoltan felt László roll out of the grip of his damaged arm and lurch for the tire iron lying close by. He spun quickly and grabbed the man, slamming his head against the hard ground, pinning the searching fingers with a tight grip. László groaned and Zoltan felt his blood lust rise, aware that he had only to carry on smashing the man’s head and it would be over. He thought of Srebenica, the moment he had seen the truth of his friend’s heart. He slammed once more and then stopped, lying panting against László’s prone body, trying to catch his breath. He spotted the gun a little way from them and stood, shaking with the effort.

Zoltan fell to his knees by the gun, wanting to rest now, to lean against the wall and just close his eyes. He reached for the weapon, and as he did so a sound came from behind him, a scream of rage, almost inhuman in its ferocity.

***
Thanks for reading!

There are 3 more books in the ARKANE series, so you can join Morgan Sierra on more adventures in Pentecost, Prophecy and Exodus.

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