Constantine - The Novelization - Whoa is (Not)

sections of roof; some walls had crumbled. The doors had long been carted away. Sand dunedagainst the walls, blown inside the church itself.There was a great heap of trash here, outside the door. At some point someone had used eventhis church for a dump. That was sacrilegious, wasn't it? But what did it matter? If God had everbeen to this part of Mexico, Francisco figured, he'd left."Hey-there's stuff dumped here no one's picked through!" Herve said, bending over a pile ofrandom, rain-rotted clothing. "Ay! It smells bad! But look, here's a nice pair of shorts, not muchstain..."Francisco was stepping deeper into the church, where part of the roof remained over the nave.He let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The floor was covered with junk, partly cloaked byblown sand. Most of the junk was without value-he could tell at a glance. An old, broken crossleaning against the wall was half buried in the sand.But there-something shiny, picked out in a ray of light. Maybe an old rosary that could besold. It might even be silver.He took a step toward it ... and stopped, feeling a strange chill, as if he'd stepped through aninvisible wall into someplace cold. His mouth was dry. He wet his lips and called, "Herve-whydon't you come in here, too?""Yes, yes I will. I've found some copper..."He could tell by the older man's voice that he was making excuses, Herve was reluctant to goinside. He'd heard something about this place, all right."Huevon!" Francisco shouted. "Carapecha Boon!" No response, except a clattering noise.Francisco shrugged, and muttered, "Melo paso por los huevos..." He pushed into the interiorof the church-that's what it felt like, as if the air itself was resisting him. Or warning him.The shiny thing - where was it? He'd lost sight of it. A crunch underfoot - his boot had gonethrough something. He pulled it free and bent to look. He'd stepped through the dry-rotted woodof an old crate. It looked as if it had been buried under the tile of the Boor, and someone had dugup the tile recently. But they hadn't touched the crate. Why?He bent closer, and a sound vibrated the air in response: the sound of a million insectschewing at wood and quivering their wings. He imagined beetles and maggots chewing at humanbones in a coffin, their sound magnified to a chittery background grinding, merging into a dronethat rose and fell...But the sound couldn't be heard with his ears-it was heard in his mind.It's fear, he decided. Herve had awakened his superstition.Ignore it, Francisco. There's something in that crate - maybe what the professor man hadbeen looking for.That suggestion came like a voice in his head.Even calling him by name.He shook his head, amazed that his imagination was so lively for once.He steeled himself, and reached down, slowly, into the crate, expecting to feel the sharpincisors of a rat biting into his fingers. Something he'd felt all too often in the dump.The gnawing sound was louder as he reached into the crate, and wetter - like the amplifiedsounds of a feast... crescendos of gnawing...The crate seemed empty, just empty space inside.But then his fingers closed over something firm, wrapped in cloth. A strange feeling shiveredthrough him from the object: a feeling that laughed and growled and lifted him to his feet.He drew the object out, straightening to hold it up in the light. The cloth was the decayedremnants of a Bag, or might be. Wasn't that the crooked cross the Germans, the ones who hatedJews, had used in the big war?Hands trembling, he unwrapped the object in the Bag.Within the cloth was a triangular spike of iron, rusty and stained brown, markings he didn't