Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 45 | 8 MINUTES AGO: EPIPHANY

His strained breath came louder and faster as the corridor outside the basement narrowed. Even if it had been properly lit down there, the underground passage would have still been oppressive and claustrophobic.

Ismael peered down the hall, fighting the blurriness in his vision while holding the gun with both hands. Where are they? He twitched his unharmed shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that the walls were closing in on him. Didn't we hear Abraham outside? Wiping blood and sweat from his forehead, his mind raced with explanations: Perhaps the pipes had carried their voices down there, deceiving him; maybe they were one level above and would never get to where he was now.

Enough! Stop relying on others. They don't matter, he thought, turning left in the next corridor. It's all up to you.

Aware that he needed to find Ofelia fast, the priest tried to make as little noise as possible, trusting his senses to keep him on the right track. His only comfort lay in knowing his goddaughter was tired and wounded, too. She couldn't have gone very far.

"Shit."

A dead end. The network of stairs and corridors the Skulls had built underground was beyond disorienting. The place was a goddamn maze. With passageways that transformed into tunnels, openings that connected to the sewers and rusty staircases that led nowhere, it didn't surprise Ismael that, despite having raided the abandoned construction before, the police had never found them there.

Keep moving. The terrible pain in his hand and shoulder made him clench his teeth. Don't stop.

A few minutes later, fearing he'd lost her, the priest came to an intersection of two corridors and saw something out of the corner of his eye. Ofelia was about to go through a hole in the wall, at the end of a cavernous tunnel that led into the mountain.

"Put the gun down," said someone behind him.

This time Ismael's smile was one of frustration.

"Abe, the Mime King is there." He nodded to his left. "Let's finish this."

"There will be enough Skulls in body bags tonight to consider this a W. I can live with that, as long as I bring you in."

The priest's grip on the gun tightened as he closed his eyes, letting all that had happened come rushing back to him: Marcelo's suicide, his heart attack, Ofelia's revenge, and the never-ending emptiness that awaited him after his last breath. When Ismael died, God had died with him, but something else, something primal, had replaced that faith, forever lost: the will to live.

When administering the anointing of the sick, he had often heard that facing death brought a unique kind of mental clarity. Now he knew this to be true. I am not afraid of the Grim Reaper, for I've seen his face and received his kiss, he thought, not with resentment but gratitude. In his mind, dying had made him realize he hadn't been truly alive, but instead waiting for a salvation that would never come.

I deserve nothing; I am not special. The priest opened his eyes. "And neither are you."

"Shut up and do as I say."

"James 2:18."

"I'm not a walking Bible." The police chief sounded confused. "Drop the gun!"

Ismael pushed everything else out of his mind and focused on the here and now. Ofelia was so close. If I run, I will get to her in time. But Abraham was behind him, his gun at the ready. Would he dare shoot him in the back?

"You said you could live with the king escaping, but that's not true. Your daughter is what matters, right? You haven't found her, but I have! If you want to see her, we must reach the Mime King before it's too late."

After saying this, Ismael ran towards Ofelia with no intention of stopping unless a bullet snatched the life out of him.