The inside of the church echoed the outside. Dreary and half broken down. A fading fresco of the holy Madonna solemnly looked down at Belaphorde in prayer. In the empty mess hall stood tables and chairs in several island constellations. An island with weapons, another with food crates. A table for playing cards and a space for papers and heavy suitcases. Belaphorde seethed. To know this place should be a beautiful sanctuary of faith and culture, and to have it so defiled…

“Move along.” Belaphorde felt the edge of a knife poke at his back as the magenta Skull girl led him down through an archway and into a side room.

He was hit by horrible miasmas of sickness and feces. Flies buzzed around the bed where a woman lay down on her side. Sweat drenched her black skin. Her braids were thin and frayed. Her cheeks were so sunken, she looked like a rotting corpse.

“Go on. Do your magic and fix her up!” The Skull snarled, her voice filled with mad desperation.

Belaphorde was stunned. He was no doctor, but observing the woman he guessed she was dying of dysentery. Something was turning her into a human raisin. The room was so unsanitary he felt himself getting sicker by the minute. No one was getting cured in here and somehow his and Vigo’s life was on the line for this.

“The ichor has set in deep. I will need some time and preparation if she is to be safely Guided. First, this room needs to be disinfected or become as clean as we can make it. The woman needs to be wiped off and given a change of clothes. I’ll also need water and clean towels.” Like water running out from a tap, Belaphorde spoke his lies.

His mind wildly searched for a solution to the situation, but in the end, he was no doctor and really did not know how to treat the person in front of him. Guiding would not accomplish anything, but if he did anything foolish Vigo would be on the chopping block. He trusted Vigo. The old veteran could break out if he only got a signal that Belaphorde was safe. He needed to escape first.

“What are you talking about? Do your Guide thing and fix her up!” The Skull continued to threaten him.

“I don’t like this situation any more than you do. Please trust me when I say it has to be done this way.”

Clearly, the sick woman was someone important to the Skulls. Two guards were watching by the entry archway as Belaphorde began cleaning out the room and wiping sweat off her face. There were no clean sheets to get and a general lack of hygiene products. It’s how it goes when everybody tries to be gangsters and doesn't do any laundry. Belaphorde remembered plenty of late evenings with Vigo scrubbing down their clothes and pieces of cloth for everyday use. Laundry day was serious work. The scent of soap and chlorine took his mind back to his late mother. She was all about hygiene and service. The kind of woman who would die before admitting that anything was not alright.

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The cleaning act had brought him some time but it would not last. Bel needed to decide how he would proceed. He could try to get an actual doctor. But the only one he knew of was Tobi and there was no guarantee he would even know what to do in this situation. Besides, getting more people into this mess was the last thing Belaphorde wanted. He needed to deal with this alone.

No matter how much he thought it over he was stuck in an impossible situation. The girls outside were getting impatient. Their pacing footsteps echoed through the halls. He had already done all the Guiding he could and tried to get the woman hydrated but it would not do.

"Dude is not doing anything."

“He stupid or something?”

The Skulls were talking in hushed voices by the door. They were too paranoid to leave Belaphorde unsupervised. And apparently, they didn't feel any need to act with discretion.

"We should break his legs. Keep him around as our Guide. Though he also makes for a good maid!" One of the girls cackled while another spit out their chewing tobacco onto the floor.

Thunder boomed overhead. The metal roofs were smattering loudly. The storm that had been brewing had arrived over the Outskirts.

Belaphorde bit his lip. A mask of focused indifference fell on his face as he made peace with his plans. As silently as he could Belaphorde wrapped up a piece of glass with a ripped towel. He pressed himself up against the wall of the archway, hiding as best he could. His breathing picked up in anticipation.

"Oi, bastard. What are you up to? You clowning or something?" A Skull called and tapped her bat against the floor.

The Guide waited as one of the girls came in to check on him. When she passed the threshold he slammed her bat away and lodged the glass shard into her right eye.

She screamed and staggered back, her friend right behind her stood in shock with her mouth open. Belaphored put his weight into the shard and with his free hand on her stomach he pushed her into her companion. With no time to waste Bel bolted into the main hall. He followed the wall and into a small chamber that would have been behind the organ if it was still in the church. There he found stairs spiraled up to the bell tower. Behind him, Belaphorde could hear shouts of the Skulls. With each step he took the voices were more and more drowned out by the howling storm outside.

Rain whipped Belaphorde's face as he reached the top. His heart throbbed in his chest. His body burned with the need for oxygen. He looked down at the stone walls of the tower. There was no time to lose. He climbed down the tower and tried to dig his finger into the cracks in the stonework and find his footing. Bel got down about a meter before lightning struck the top of the tower, sending shingles flying. He lost his grip and fell down on the roof. He rolled down to the side, sliding on the tiles and landing on top of the container extensions with a thud.

Groaning, he crawled to the edge and dropped down into a dark corner between the chapel and the container. He looked around but could not see much of anything beyond a few meters ahead, but it was enough for him to find his means of getting out. Near the container extension stood a pick-up truck. Belaphorde rolled under it and clambered onto its underside. Now it was a game of endurance. It was a dangerous gamble, but he trusted his gut. Even as guards came looking in the truck no one thought to look underneath the car.

For a while, his arms were aching. There was commotion and gunshots could be heard over the rain. There was some sort of fight going on. He closed his eyes. A numb feeling drowned out his mind. Instinct kept him holding on as his ego disconnected from his body.

He did not know if it had been ten minutes, an hour, or a day when the engine ignited and roared into life. Belaphorde was only vaguely aware of the car moving as his head thawed out of hibernation. Trudging through the mud the car made its way into the streets of the Outskirts. The ground was slush. Several streets had become little rivers. Belaphorde was soaked and his fingers had turned blue from the cold.

Belaphorde held on until they arrived at a crossing. The car stopped for a moment before turning the corner. He let go and splashed into the mud. When the car had passed he rolled over with a groan and scurried off into the ally. Lost and alone he waddled along the streets. His vision swam and he could not stop shaking. It was the worst storm in a hundred years. People were throwing buckets of water out their windows, fighting for dear life to save their homes. To his left a house built on wooden poles folded over as the foundation was washed away.