The tunnel smelled of damp stone and old incense.
Sofia's phone flashlight flickered over cracked brick walls and rusted pipes as she and Diego half-ran, half-stumbled down the narrow passage Father Ramirez had sworn was only for "extreme emergencies."
Right now qualified.
Behind them, far above, muffled shouts and the crack of rifle fire echoed down the stairwell they'd just abandoned.
The rosary in Sofia's pocket pulsed like a heartbeat every time her foot hit the ground.
Diego kept one hand on the wall, the other clutching his scapular.
"You still got that crazy light coming out of your head, sis," he panted. "It's like a target painted on you."
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her lungs were on fire.
They rounded a corner and slammed into a dead end: an ancient iron gate, padlocked, the kind that hadn't been opened since Prohibition.
Beyond it: nothing but blackness.
Diego rattled the bars. "Perfect. We're trapped."
Sofia's knees buckled. She slid down the wall, chest heaving.
The glowing cross on her forehead reflected faintly on the metal gate, painting it gold for a moment.
Then the gate swung open by itself.
Not creaked. Not unlocked.
Simply opened, smooth as a cathedral door on Easter morning.
Diego took a step back. "Tell me you did that."
"I didn't do anything."
A voice came from the darkness beyond, low and hoarse, laced with guilt thick enough to choke on.
"I did."
A man stepped into the circle of her phone light.
Tall. Early thirties. Black hair too long, clerical collar crooked, the white rectangle stained with what looked like wine, or maybe blood. His Roman collar was unbuttoned at the throat, and his eyes were red-rimmed like he hadn't slept in days.
Father Elijah Callahan.
The associate pastor everyone whispered about: too young, too handsome, too broken.
The one who heard confessions until 2 a.m. on Saturdays because he couldn't sleep either.
He was holding a heavy brass key in one shaking hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other.
"You're Morales's kids," he said, voice flat. "I watched you grow up. Sofia, you used to serve the 7 a.m. Mass in those little white gloves." His gaze flicked to the glowing seal on her forehead and something cracked in his expression. "You're sealed."
Sofia found her voice. "You can see it?"
He laughed, a bitter sound that echoed off the walls. "I can see it. I can see yours. I can see Diego's. I can't see mine."
He lifted his bangs with the barrel of the shotgun.
Nothing. Just pale skin and sweat.
Diego tensed. "You were left behind too, padre?"
Father Elijah's mouth twisted. "Left behind. That's one way to put it."
He stepped aside and gestured into the darkness. "Come on. This tunnel links every Catholic church on the South Side. Built during the 1920s when the KKK was burning crosses on lawns. We've got maybe five minutes before they figure out where the gate leads."
Sofia didn't move. "Why should we trust you?"
The priest met her eyes, and for the first time she saw the full weight of whatever he was carrying.
"Because I was in the rectory when the trumpet sounded," he whispered. "I was… with someone I had no business being with. A woman. We were—" He stopped, throat working. "The bed is empty now. She's gone. I'm still here. God left me behind on purpose, Sofia. I'm the one who should have vanished in disgrace, and instead He marked you children and left me to rot with my sin."
He lifted the shotgun slightly. "I'm getting you out of Chicago. After that, you can shoot me yourself if you want. But right now, move."
Diego glanced at Sofia. She nodded once.
They stepped through the gate.
Father Elijah pulled it shut behind them and slid a new padlock into place, one he produced from his pocket.
"These locks are blessed," he muttered. "Exorcised and sprinkled with Lourdes water. The drones can't see through them. Yet."
He started walking. They followed.
The tunnel widened into an old storage room: stacks of forgotten statues, boxes of palm branches from Palm Sundays past, a life-size St. Michael with one wing broken off.
Father Elijah moved like a soldier now, all the haunted priest gone, replaced by something harder.
He knelt by a wooden crate marked "Christmas Pageant 1998" and pried it open. Inside: canned food, bottled water, flashlights, and three backpacks already packed.
"I started prepping the night the sun danced over Lake Michigan last month," he said without looking up. "Figured if Fatima's hundred years were up, we were in for it."
Diego whistled low. "You knew."
"I suspected." Father Elijah handed them each a backpack. "There's a brown scapular in every pocket. Freshly enrolled. And these—" He pulled out two small vials of holy water and pressed one into each of their hands. "Drink half now. Pour the rest on any Mark they try to force on you. I've seen it work once already tonight."
Sofia's fingers closed around the vial. "Where are we going?"
"First safe house is St. Rita's in Gary. Sister Mary Grace used to be a Marine. She's sealed too. After that… I don't know. Rome's gone silent. The Pope hasn't spoken since the vanishings. Some say he was taken. Some say worse."
He slung his own pack and checked the shotgun. "One more thing."
He reached into his collar and pulled out a Miraculous Medal on a broken chain. The metal was warm.
"I want you to have this, Sofia. It belonged to my mother. She died when I was twelve. Said it would protect the woman I—" His voice cracked again. He cleared his throat. "Just take it."
Sofia took the medal. The moment it touched her skin, the glowing cross on her forehead flared so bright Diego flinched.
Father Elijah stared at her like she was the Host itself.
"You're not just sealed," he whispered. "You're… something more."
A distant explosion rocked the tunnel. Dust sifted from the ceiling.
"They found the gate," Diego said.
Father Elijah cocked the shotgun. "Then we run."
He led them deeper into the darkness, past statues of saints whose eyes seemed to follow them, past side tunnels that smelled of candle wax and prayers older than any of them.
And as they ran, Sofia clutched the Miraculous Medal and felt the rosary in her pocket begin to heat again.
Behind them, something that was no longer entirely human began pounding on the blessed lock with fists that left smoking prints in the metal.
To be continued…