he ever made love. All his friends and loved ones made their appearance in his parade of memories.
Several people rolled Mark onto his side, rudely yanking him from his reverie and thrusting him into the present. They tore off the remains of his shirt and cut the rope around his wrists. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they pulled him onto the long vertical part of the cross, which now lay on the floor. Gasping, his eyes darted around him and his heart beat at breakneck speed. This can't be happening! His terror ratcheted up another notch when a drum started pounding and the cult began chanting.
Stretching Mark's arms wide, they held him down. He tried one more time to get free, kicking with his legs, but within seconds, he felt his arms and legs lashed to the wood. Another rope circled his chest, holding him fast. The drum tempo increased and the chanting matched it beat for ominous beat. Then, silence.
Kern bent over him, a wicked gleam in his eyes. 'Are you ready?' He placed a hand on Mark's chest. 'Hmm… your heart seems to be beating pretty fast. Are you nervous? If you'd like, I could convert this to a different kind of ritual.'
Mark couldn't answer, his whole body felt paralyzed. Why the hell didn't they hurry and just get this over with? His throat spasmed several times before he managed to respond, 'Why can't you just shoot me?'
Kern threw his head back and laughed. 'But that wouldn't serve our purpose, now would it?' He drew a sharp knife out of a leather case attached to a belt around his waist. 'What I could do, though, is make this into more of an Aztec sacrifice than a Christian test of faith. Hmmm…I've always been intrigued with a culture that was so advanced and yet, worshiped in such a blood-thirsty way. Utterly fascinating.'
The gleam in his eyes was replaced with a cold, flat effect, and he touched the tip of the knife against Mark's upper abdomen. 'Are you familiar with their rituals?' Without waiting for an answer, he continued, 'They would cut the heart right out of a person, and while it was still beating, show it to the poor victim.'
Mark could only gape at him in mute horror.
'It could be all over in a matter of seconds if I just plunge this in right…here!' Kern shoved the knife in and Mark cried out, his whole body writhing as he tried to get away from the pain.
'You're lucky. I held back or you'd be dead.'
Slowly, he withdrew the weapon and Mark groaned. He went on as though carrying on a casual conversation. 'No, I don't think we'll go the Aztec route. I'm too curious about you, Mark. I've always despised the Church and its silly belief that the son of God walked amongst ordinary men, performing miracles and healing the sick.' Kern paused for a long moment, his eyes took on a faraway expression before snapping to Mark's. 'Do you heal the sick?'
Mark moaned, his head lolling in pain and shock, Kern's question barely registering. For a minute, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing. He almost wished the knife had gone deeper-just to end the whole thing. His eyes opened wide and he gave a hoarse cry when Kern poked his finger into his wound and then held it up, the blood dripping down.
'Apparently, I've answered my question. If you could heal the sick, self-preservation would demand that you heal yourself first. As you can see, that is not the case.' And then he laughed as though he had told the funniest joke in the world. 'What I want to see is if your God can save you. Do you have faith, Mark?'
With a short nod to the cult members restraining Mark, he turned abruptly and strode away. The chanting renewed; the members' voices louder, more insistent.
They began with his right hand. Mark didn't want to look, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. 'No…don't… don't do this…please…stop…oh God!'
Nobody looked at him; every person who held him kept their heads bent, ignoring his pleas. They forcibly pried his fist open, spreading his fingers and scraping his knuckles against the wood. The drum increased its tempo and a hooded figure held a long, thick nail to Mark's palm. He could feel the cold metal point digging into his flesh. The chant surged in time to the beat of the drums, and the firelight flashed off the hammer as it slammed down.
Mark never heard it connect with the nail head. He stiffened, his back arching in pain and shock. Before he could catch his breath, they moved to his left hand. He didn't look this time. Instead, he closed his eyes, his lips moving in prayer.
'Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven…'
He felt the bite of the metal against his left palm; heard the chanting reach a crescendo. Mark raised his voice, hoping to drown them out.
'And bless us oh Lord, with these, thy gifts which we are about to receive through Christ our Lord, Amen.'
The hands holding him tightened, and his heart raced, the beat pounding in his ears. Any second, the hammer would fall.
'And yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death -'
A bolt of pain shot through his palm. When he could breathe again, he licked his lips and swallowed. Mark had lost his train of thought and began again with the first prayer that came to mind.
'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death -'
They held his feet, one over the other, distracting him. He raised his head to look down at them, feeling sick fear at the spike held over his left foot. He couldn't look any more and turned his head as acid burned the back of his throat. The drums increased the tempo, matching the staccato rhythm of his pulse. The chanting reached a frenzy while embers from the fire drifted in the air above him, like pieces of hell.
The last prayer was silent, his breathing too harsh to give it voice.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…
They drove the last spike home and mercifully, darkness claimed him. When Mark roused again, the cross was upright, and he hung above the cult members. He didn't know how long he had been there, but the room was dimmer. The drums still beat, but the tempo had changed. The earlier frenzy had been replaced by a slow erratic beat. Kern held up a staff and the cult members bowed to him.
The pain in his hands went beyond anything he had ever felt. His weight hung on them, only the ropes binding his arms helped ease the burden. He almost didn't notice his difficulty breathing until he had to consciously make an effort to take a breath. Mark could feel his throat closing, the abuse his neck had taken earlier taking its toll. Sweat dripped down his face, the stress causing him to shiver and perspire at the same time. Each chill that shook him increased his agony until finally, his mind shut down.
'No! Oh God!'
Jim started awake and shot out of the recliner. 'Taylor?' He glanced around his living room. The voice had been so clear, as though spoken by someone in the room. Mark's voice. He was sure of it. He'd heard that panic once before when Taylor had been water-boarded. Had he flashed back to that interrogation? Why would he re-live it? While unpleasant, he'd never felt terror during them.
Grabbing the remote off the floor where it had fallen from the arm of the chair, he pointed it at the television and clicked off the infomercial that droned on about a miracle weight loss solution. It couldn't have been the source of the voice he'd heard.
His shoulders ached, and he grunted and rotated one as he made his way to the kitchen. He must have slept on it funny. Instead of the pain decreasing as he tried to work out the kink, it intensified, and he gasped and sank onto the nearest kitchen chair. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead. Was he having a heart attack? He was only 48 and in good shape. His heart thudded, resonating in his ears, the sound deafening in the silent house.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…
Jim staggered to his feet and spun in circle. 'Mark? Where are the hell are you?'
The kitchen was lit by only the light from the oven clock. The green glow created a surreal atmosphere as the beating in his ears grew. After a moment, he realized it wasn't his heartbeat. It was a drum. No…drums. He checked the radio on his counter to make sure it was off.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…
Jim stumbled back, bumping into the counter. The kitchen dissolved and instead of his table, chairs, stove and refrigerator, he was in a room. A huge room. To the left, in front of him was a bonfire. The woodsmoke stung
