The muffled rumbling began within moments of Harker entering the dimly lit corridor, like a warning to any and all that dared venture within the bowels of the Vatican’s Governorate building basement. At first it sounded like the vibrational buzz of a clothes dryer but, as Cardinal Boyle led Harker ever deeper, followed by Cardinal Baptista, it became clear that what he was hearing was something entirely different.
‘Don’t worry,’ Boyle reassured him in acknowledgement of the ever-increasing noise. ‘It’s secure.’
This mysterious response to a question no one had asked made Harker feel even edgier, but he wasn’t sure which part of the statement he was more concerned about: the mention of an ‘it’ being secure or that anything needed securing in the first place. Despite the numerous questions brewing in his mind, starting with the reason for sneaking around in the lowest levels of the Vatican’s administration building, he remained quiet, even as the noise escalated into a ferocious banging sound.
‘Here we are,’ Boyle announced loudly, and he waved first Harker and then Baptista through a doorway situated at the end of the corridor, before closing it behind them all with a hefty clank.
Inside, two heavy-set men in jeans and matching leather jackets sat at a desk facing nothing but a single metal door lined with double reinforced edges.
The two guards stood up and greeted the cardinals respectfully, and Harker could not help but notice the 9mm black steel Berettas holstered to their thighs.
‘Is it normal to have armed guards here inside the Governorate building?’ he asked, as one of the men moved over to the secured doorway and, unclipping a key from his belt, began to unlock it.
‘No, it is not,’ Boyle responded, ‘but unfortunately necessary, given the circumstances.’
The cardinal’s response only heightened the tension as the guard swung the door open, but Harker continued to stay tight-lipped as he followed Boyle and Baptista inside, both cardinals now taking the lead.
The secured entrance opened into a brightly lit and much larger room with grey concrete walls serving to complete the basement feel, and with a separate passage leading off to some other area at the far end. Neon strip lighting hung from the ceiling, while narrow steel benches lined the perimeter and looked in towards a central desk flanked by white metal filing cabinets. From behind a desktop PC monitor, a man in an olive-coloured wool jumper and dark-brown slacks rose to his feet and welcomed the new arrivals with a strained smile.
‘There’s been another change,’ he explained in a Southern American accent, and then paused abruptly on noticing Harker.
‘It’s fine,’ Boyle replied, ‘he’s a friend, so feel free to speak candidly. Professor Alex Harker, this is Dr Gavin Wheatley, who is kindly affording us his services.’
Harker reached in between the two cardinals and shook Wheatley’s hand. ‘Pleasure,’ he said, which was received with a polite nod, and the man now turned his attention to the hellish thudding sound emanating from along the passageway at the end of the room.
‘What is that noise?’ Baptista asked, turning paler with every thud.
‘We gave him a mild muscle relaxant and something to help him sleep but, as you can hear, it’s not had much effect. He keeps pounding on the walls. It’s been non-stop for the past half an hour.’
‘I thought he was secured?’ Boyle quizzed, glancing anxiously towards the source of the heavy thumping.
‘We had him in a straightjacket earlier but he ripped through it, so we’ve now secured him with straps as best we can. But as you can hear, the restraints are having a limited effect.’
‘He ripped a straightjacket?’ Harker asked, amazed that such a thing was even possible.
‘I know,’ Dr Wheatley replied, ‘but, given his current size, it’s understandable.’
‘Current size,’ Harker repeated. ‘Who is this man?’
While the other two stood silently, Cardinal Boyle headed over to the furthest filing cabinet, slid open the top drawer and pulled out a thin brown folder containing two A5-size photographs. ‘This is Bishop Alfonse Esposito.’ Boyle passed one of the photographs over to Harker. ‘He was the third unfortunate to die in the traffic accident I mentioned earlier.’
The picture showed a thin black-haired man wearing a blue T-shirt and jeans, who was leaning against a wooden fence in an obvious pose. ‘OK,’ Harker said, turning his attention back to Boyle, who was now looking decidedly reticent. ‘So what happened exactly?’
Boyle paused to clear his throat, then clutched the image side of the second photo to his chest, obviously not yet ready to show it. ‘He was buried along with the others, on the same day, and as with the other two men his grave was desecrated overnight and the body removed.’
‘Go on,’ Harker coaxed, feeling like extracting an explanation was akin to pulling teeth.
‘Well, unlike the other two, Bishop Esposito reappeared yesterday within his parish…’ Boyle licked his lips with distaste. He then flipped over the photo to reveal the image of Esposito being forcibly restrained between a couple of suited men, his body contorting violently as he attempted to break free.
At first it looked to Harker as if the man’s mouth was impossibly wide open and in the act of screaming but, as he moved closer he realized it wasn’t that the man’s mouth was open, but that there was no mouth at all. Esposito’s entire bottom jaw was missing, revealing the bloodied opening of his throat, with a swollen black tongue that hung limply downwards.
‘Oh my God,’ Harker muttered as he plucked the photo from Boyle’s fingers and began to study it in depth. The macabre appearance of Esposito’s mouth was nauseating in itself, but the fact that the entire top portion of the man’s face was skinless, and with only one clouded eye remaining, was enough to make Harker gag before thrusting it back into Boyle’s hand. It wasn’t only the photo that was now causing him to gag, for it bore some of the gruesome qualities of the poor devils he had seen back at Cervete cemetery, and he took a moment to compose himself as Boyle replaced the offensive photo in its folder.
‘Is this how the two men you told us about looked?’ Baptista asked.
Harker was quick to shake his head. ‘There are similarities, like the swollen tongue, but the damage to the men I saw were the result of decomposition, whereas that…’
‘Looks like it was inflicted with violence,’ Dr Wheatley said, finishing Harker’s sentence.
‘Exactly,’ Harker replied, as Wheatley went on to confirm.
‘Well, it was. The removal of the jaw, skin and eye all happened sometime between the burial and his reappearance at his parish, because it was an open coffin and he certainly didn’t look like that during the funeral service.’
‘Why would someone do that?’ Harker exclaimed, more as a statement than a question, but it was jumped on furiously by Baptista.
‘Why! The only question pertinent at this time is how is he still alive? The man was dead!’
All three men looked over at Dr Wheatley, who was looking just as perplexed. ‘Every test I’ve done shows that Bishop Esposito is indeed alive. His lungs, heart, blood transfer are all functioning well within the normal range, but apart from the obvious, there are some bizarre processes at work that I just can’t account for.’
‘Like what?’ Harker asked.
‘Like the fact that his body has visibly gone through the early stages of decomposition but it refuses to begin any form of healing itself, and yet it doesn’t degrade any further.’ Wheatley rubbed the palm of one hand across his lips in frustration. ‘It’s as if his body is suspended in a kind of biological limbo…or it was at least up until last night.’
It was now Wheatley who was looking shaken, and at this exact same moment the noisy thumping coming from along the corridor ceased.
‘So what happened last night?’ Harker demanded, ignoring the sudden silence.
His question was met with a blank stare from Wheatley, and Harker glanced over at Baptista, who offered a nod of approval.
‘Last night Bishop Esposito began to…change.’
‘Change!’ Harker sputtered, and he leant in closer, as beside him Boyle began nervously playing with his fingers.
‘Yes, his red and white blood-cell count almost doubled within an hour, along with increased brain activity so far as we can tell.’ Wheatley motioned to the sparse-looking corridor behind him. ‘We don’t have all the necessary equipment for a comprehensive test but that’s what appears to be happening and, given his shift in muscle mass and the increasing facial distortions—’
‘Muscle mass?’ Harker interrupted, not quite sure what the man was alluding to.
‘Take a look for yourself.’
With a wave of his hand, Wheatley did an about-turn and made his way down the corridor. Harker was already following when he noticed that both Boyle and Baptista were not moving a centimetre. Warily, he stopped in his tracks.
‘You’re not coming?’ he asked, surprised by their sudden unwillingness to continue.
‘We’ve already seen him,’ Boyle replied nervously. ‘There’s no need to do so again.’
Baptista said nothing and, seeing that the two cardinals clearly had no wish to discuss it further, Harker turned and hurried to catch up with Wheatley.
‘Dr Wheatley?’ Harker called out, and although the physician momentarily glanced back over his shoulder, he continued to walk at a brisk pace. ‘Has anyone thought of getting some extra staff in here to deal with this? I mean you look pretty undermanned down here.’
His comment on the vacant corridor drew a wry smile from the doctor.
‘Understaffed? The word you’re looking for is non-existent,’ Wheatley said disparagingly. ‘I’m the only one here and, given what’s been going on, it has to stay that way. The cardinals are only right to keep this business under the radar. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if word got out that a dead Catholic bishop suddenly decided to just jump out of his grave and start walking around again? Especially looking as he does: dead but yet alive.’ Wheatley’s shoulders shuddered at the idea. ‘The media circus would be one thing but there’s no telling how all the other cardinals would react.’
‘Just a minute,’ Harker said, grabbing the man by the arm and bringing him to a stop. ‘Are you telling me that no one else knows about this? Not even the Pope?’
Wheatley appeared twitchy at the question and his jaw muscles tensed firmly. ‘Apart from you, me, both cardinals and those two guards who were brought in privately, no one knows a thing.’
Harker was dumbfounded by this response and he was already opening his mouth to voice concerns when Wheatley raised his hand between them.
‘The cardinals believe, as do I, that until we know what is happening here, this must all stay hidden. Look around you, Professor.’ The doctor gestured towards the empty corridor. ‘This part of the building was constructed for storage, not medical purposes. The whole thing happened so fast, we’re only just managing to keep on top of it.’
Wheatley resumed his brisk pace, clearly agitated at the position he found himself in.
‘I’m not saying you have to tell the Pope this very minute,’ Harker continued, while keeping up with him, ‘but didn’t you even consider getting some other doctors involved? There must be others you can trust over this, if only for a short time?’
‘Up until last night I might have agreed with you, but not now given the current state of Esposito.’
Wheatley’s tone was final, and Harker now accepted it as such. It was clear that man was under tremendous pressure from Boyle and Baptista to remain shtum, and their stance was understandable, although in Harker’s opinion slightly misguided.
The rest of their short walk was made in silence and, after passing several empty storage rooms with their doors all wide open, they finally reached the only one which was firmly shut.
‘He’s in here,’ Wheatley said softly, resting his hand on the door. ‘This room was designed to keep any valuables that the Vatican was storing temporarily, works of art and the like, so there’s an inner barred door as well as this one.’
‘That’s handy,’ Harker replied, and if the remark sounded sarcastic, the doctor didn’t notice.
‘It’s why we chose it.’ Wheatley exhaled deeply. ‘He now reacts very badly to the light, as it sends him into a rage like you heard when you arrived, so after I open the door, we’ll wait for him to acclimatise to the corridor lights, dim though they are.’
‘And then?’ Harker pressed, beginning to feel a tightening in the pit of his stomach.
‘And then I’ll turn on a few of the smaller side lights, as they don’t seem to bother him so much.’
Harker gave a nod and then took a step back as Wheatley pulled a Yale key from his trouser pocket and tentatively inserted it into the lock.
‘No loud noises,’ he warned ominously, ‘and no matter how irate he gets, stay calm.’
The doctor’s last few words sent an unpleasant shiver down Harker’s spine just as the lock released with a click, and Wheatley slowly swung open the door.
Harker’s apprehensive stare was met by what seemed a wall of pitch black, as the corridor’s strip lighting cast a single thin path of light beyond the interior barred door, creating a pattern of squares along the green linoleum-tiled flooring and up onto the concrete wall at the rear. From what he could see – which wasn’t much – the room looked empty. But, as Harker ventured closer to the bars, something shuffled off to his left. What it was he couldn’t tell but, as his vision began to adjust, he started to make out a hunched shape – over close to the floor in the far corner of the room.
‘He’s over there,’ Wheatley whispered softly, pointing to the dark shadowy mass. ‘He goes through these periods of violent rages followed by lengthy moments of unresponsiveness.’
Now knowing roughly where Dr Wheatley’s patient was, Harker felt emboldened to move closer to the bars until just within centimetres of them. He called out in the most compassionate tone he could muster, ‘Bishop Esposito.’
The sound of Harker’s voice caused the shape to twitch slightly and then the momentary glint from an eye could be seen glancing over in his direction before becoming shrouded once again in the gloom of the cell. The shuffling started up again and began to get louder as the huddled shadow shifted slowly from one side to another, moving quicker with each repetition, and the now audible sound of heavy breathing quickly turned into a forced panting. The swaying continued with increasing speed, faster and faster as the panting morphed into a low-level growl, and then in an instant the movement stopped. The shadowy mass gradually began to stand up until its back was straight and taut, revealing bulky shoulders that jutted out on either side.
‘Careful,’ Wheatley warned. ‘He’s very unpredictable.’
Harker glanced over at the doctor and acknowledged him with a nod before turning back towards the cell just as something massive exploded from the darkness into the light and slammed hard against the metal bars with such a force that the whole frame shuddered. It was as Harker recoiled in alarm that he got his first proper look at the thing that was Bishop Esposito.
Both the man’s shoulders protruded outwards like bony shoulder pads, while the arms bulged in places with lumpy fat deposits that almost enveloped the thick leather restraints strapped around each wrist. Every one of his fingers was missing its nail, and the denuded tips had become hardened and withered, resembling a claw more than a human digit. Worst of all though was the head, which looked painfully swollen around the forehead, and the orbital bones surrounding the eye sockets had increased in size to give a goggle-type appearance but without the lenses, and in just one of them, nestled deep, a single red eye whose capillaries had burst. The jaw itself was clearly missing but the tongue seemed more ridged than in the photo, and it flapped up and down with each foul-smelling breath expelled as the creature began to howl incessantly.
‘What the fuck is that?’ Harker gasped as he was steadied by Dr Wheatley, who was vastly more relaxed, having undoubtedly become used to the grotesque sight.
‘That is Bishop Esposito…or what’s left of him.’
Harker suddenly felt weak and held on to Wheatley’s shoulder in a bid to remain upright. Even the disgusting sight of the two decomposing men back at the cemetery paled in comparison with this horrendously deformed creature now rattling violently against the bars of its prison.
‘Close the door,’ he begged, and Wheatley obligingly reached over and pushed the door shut, plunging the still screaming Bishop Esposito into complete darkness once again.
Harker collapsed back against the corridor wall and fought the instinct to throw up, but the urge was too strong and he hunched over and vomited. Wheatley placed a steadying hand on his back and then passed him a clean handkerchief.
‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m a physician but I had exactly the same reaction.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Harker coughed and wiped the spittle from his lips, then offered the soiled handkerchief back to its owner.
‘You can keep it,’ Wheatley said with a smile, whereupon Harker managed a thankful nod and placed it in his jacket pocket. He then stood up, his composure now returning to him.
‘How long has he been like that?’ Harker asked, aware of the beads of sweat forming on his brow.
‘Like I told you, since last night. So the change from what you saw in the photo to that thing in there has happened in only hours.’
The thought of such a drastic transformation made Harker feel somewhat lightheaded. The concept of the dead returning to life was hard enough to swallow, but this approached the incomprehensible.
‘I know this is a lot to take in,’ Wheatley offered sympathetically as he guided Harker back along the corridor and away from those ear-piercing screams, ‘but there’s something else you should see.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out several scraps of paper with scrawled notes pencilled on them. ‘When the bishop first arrived, I gave him paper and pens in an attempt to communicate, given his’ – Wheatley motioned towards his own lower jaw – ‘inability to talk. Take a look at what he wrote.’
Harker plucked the crumpled notes from Wheatley’s hand and began to examine them carefully. The writing was no better than a child’s but, given the poor fellow’s condition, it was remarkable he had managed to write anything at all. He scanned the pages and saw that they consisted of – the same three words repeated over and over again.
‘Giorno del giudizio,’ Harker uttered and, with a rising sense of dread, he looked over at Wheatley, who was looking decidedly pale and gaunt.
‘Giorno del giudizio,’ the doctor repeated, for the first time looking truly afraid. ‘Judgement day.’