So, I'm working on a prequel about Pestilence's father-in-law. There are serious reasons. Grandpa Hudson revealed some interesting stuff about his service in Vietnam and his life prior to marrying Grandma Hudson while I was writing Pestilence in Pumpkin Spice.
Here's a little preview of that prequel novella, and I hope to announce the Kickstarter soon!
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He never thought he’d have the chance to visit Europe until he was an old man. However, a plane ticket and job offer from his Army unit’s chaplain was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.
The driver stopped in front of the hostel and quoted an outrageous demand for his fee. Ed refused and named the original price. In the little English the driver spoke, he made a few anatomical suggestions that would impressed any cabbie in Chicago and even a few in Saigon. After a bit more haggling, they agreed to a price, and Ed handed over the appropriate amount in lira.
Black smoke poured from the tail pipe as the driver gunned the antique car and sped off in search of a more gullible prospect. Ed shook his head. He hadn’t been many places in his twenty-three years of life, but cabbies all over the globe hustled the same way.
He slung his duffle, courtesy of Uncle Sam, over his shoulder and strode toward the front door of the hostel. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior after the brilliant morning sunshine. Unlike the street, this place smelled like his barracks during boot camp. A little bit of cleaning products, a touch of processed snacks, and a whole lot of bodies, both washed and unwashed.
The entire place seemed to be painted a shade lighter than industrial gray. The only colors in the place were the outfits worn by the handful of people sitting in the lobby. One long-haired guy with the round, granny wire rims John Lennon had made popular played a guitar with a lot less talent than the former Beatle.
Father James Lambert stepped out of the right hallway and gestured for Ed to follow him. Like Ed, he was clad jeans but his casual shirt was a solid yellow instead of the mustard and scarlet stripes Ed wore. And his receding hair was more white than the salt-and-pepper it was three years ago.
“Not even a hello?” Ed murmured as he trailed after his former Army chaplain.
“Not until it’s safe,” the priest hissed.
A sense of déjà vu smacked Ed, but instead of crawling through a wet, muddy jungle to avoid soldiers trying to kill the two of them, he strode down the relatively clean floor of an Italian hostel. A shiver ran down his spine. From past experience in the little village the Vietnamese farmers simply called “Home”, Father Lambert would explain things when they were safe.
Which meant they weren’t at all safe at the moment.
Ed’s fingers clenched. He had the Swiss army knife his dad had given him for good luck when Ed was drafted. He could have gotten out of the war since he was already attending college, but his dad had done his time in the Pacific, so going to Vietnam seemed the right thing to do despite popular opinion in the States. Besides, Uncle Sam had picked up the last two years of college and the classes for his CPA exam. Dad hadn’t said much about his own service, other than the knife had gotten him out of a couple of scrapes. Except for the knife, Ed had no other weapons with him.
He swallowed hard and picked up his pace down the long hallway as the priest did.
Father Lambert rounded a left corner and pushed open the door. Once again, Ed was out in the sunlight. The priest headed straight for a little blue car parked in the alley, which had its engine running and had seen slightly better care than the taxi that had brought Ed to the hostel, but not by much. He jogged after Lambert.
But when Ed hesitated at the rear passenger door, the driver yelled at him in Italian.
“Get in,” Father Lambert snapped.
Ed gritted his teeth and opened the door. He threw in his duffle and wedged himself into the rear bench seat. The driver didn’t wait for Ed to close the car door before he stomped on the accelerator and left a relatively thick trail of rubber on the stone pavement.
“Sorry, man.” The driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror grinned. “Didn’t realize you didn’t know the local vernacular.” He had a Scottish accent, but he sure sounded Italian a moment ago.
“Ed Hudson, this is Father Deacon McAvoy.” Father Lambert waved his left hand. “Deke, this is Ed, the kid I told you about.”
“Nice to meet you, Ed.” Father McAvoy bobbed his head while he drove wildly, dodging other cars and scooters. Like Father Lambert, he wore casual clothes. Tan chinos and a pale blue short-sleeved oxford shirt.
“You sure you’re a priest?” Ed braced himself when McAvoy swerved left to avoid a couple of old ladies attempting to cross the street.
The younger priest laughed. “My pop drives cab in London. He taught me. The skills have come in handy.”
Ahead of the traffic, a dome stood out over the surrounding buildings. A majestic and imposing done. One that Ed had only seen pictures of. And McAvoy was driving straight for it.
“Is that what I think it is?” Ed asked.
“Depends on what you think it is,” McAvoy quipped.
Father Lambert remained quiet.
Ed whistled in amazement. He’d planned on visiting the Vatican. Maybe even see the Sistine Chapel. He wasn’t Catholic, but there was a hell of a lot of history and art behind the walls of the world’s tiniest nation-state.
McAvoy drove around the wall, away from the entrance at Saint Peter’s Square. He turned into a tiny drive that ended abruptly in a very tall wrought iron gate. Two guards stood at attention. McAvoy showed his identification to the gendarme who approached the driver side window. The other guard scowled as he examined the passengers.
The first gendarme nodded, but the signal was to whoever controlled the gate. It slowly slid back. Once the iron cleared the opening, McAvoy gunned his tiny car. The engine whined and the wheels spun before the rubber caught and the vehicle surged past the wall.
They drove down a tiny lane, and Ed gawked like a typical tourist. With its buildings, gardens, and parks, Vatican City reminded Ed of the small town colleges he visited in Illinois during his last two years of high school. Spring flowers lined the roadway. Definitely not what he was expecting when Father Lambert contacted him about a job.
McAvoy guided their vehicle to what appeared to be an outbuilding. He pressed a button on the dashboard, and one of the wide doors slid upward. Of course they had automatic garage door openers. Vatican City had the money. McAvoy braked hard, and the garage door rumbled back into place. Ed blinked while his eyes adjusted to the dim interior after all the bright sunshine since he got off his flight.
Father Lambert had already exited the car while Ed was dealing with the purple afterimages. The priest bent over and looked into the rear seat. “Come on, kid.”
Ed grabbed the latch, pushed open the back door, and climbed out. The most surprising thing was the number of different models and years of cars. A couple were rust buckets like the taxi that picked him up at the airport. But the rest were much newer and cleaner, including the Ferrari at the end of the row of vehicles.
He grabbed his duffel, slammed the rear door shut, and ambled after the two priests. They exited through a nondescript gray door at the end of the garage into a stairwell with fluorescent lights overhead. He peered over the railing. The steel, preformed steps led down four stories.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the next door opened into a tunnel formed by masonry stones. He read that ancient tunnels and crypts crisscrossed all over Rome. It made sense there were tunnels beneath Vatican City, too. Father Lambert led them past a few doors on both side of the corridor, but all of these were plain unpainted wood and carved with the same protection symbols Father Lambert had taught the unpossessed folks like Ed back in Vietnam.
“Why don’t you use steel doors down here?” Ed asked.
“Too damp,” McAvoy said. “They rust faster than the wood rots.”
Father Lambert opened the fifth door they came to on the left side of the corridor. Ed gasped as he stepped inside.
The huge room was a catacomb. Instead of stonework, the walls were layers of bones and mortar. Skulls formed the supporting arches, including the door. Once again, things he’d only seen in library books.
But it was the people that surprised him the most. A tall Black man with a clean-shaven face who wore the black coat and white collar of a priest. A shapely woman who appeared to be Ed’s age with long, light brown hair and dressed in jeans and a white peasant blouse.
But the third person was very familiar from the news. A white cap covered his gray receding hairline. White robes flowed from his stooped shoulders. A huge gold crucifix hung from his neck.
Father Lambert stepped forward, bent, and kissed the ring on the second man’s hand. “Your Holiness, I present to you Sergeant Edward Hudson, formerly of the United States Army.”
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