would not be enough. Bruno would have to act with
the ruthlessness of a frontline soldier, not with the controlled aggression of
a law enforcement officer. If he acted like a cop, he wouldn’t last long.
Shaking off his anger, he plunged into the copse of pines.
The soft silver light of the moon now gave way to a brighter orange glow behind
him as the station burned in earnest. The flames’ glow let him get a better
look around. He found himself in a narrow, grassy clearing on the terrace, on
the next level below the station. He knew if he continued down in this
direction he would eventually stumble on the road that wound up from the bottom
of the island, starting at the Marina Grande and leading all the way to
Anacapri at the top of the island. As he stood on the terraced hillside looking
at the shadowy houses to his left just below, his eyes wandered across the
water towards the coast. He saw orange specks dotting the arc of the coastline
from the peninsula of Sorrento jutting out towards the island, all the way
around the bay. Cristian’s words about Naples were not just hyperbole; they
were prophetic. The city was in flames.
The silent burning of Naples mesmerized Bruno, and he stood
for a time before plunging down the terrace, scrambling through an open field,
and ending up on a side street. He followed the side street, past darkened
houses, onto the Via Marina Grande, the main road that wound up the side of the
island back up toward his flat in Anacapri. But he was only going partway home.
First, he needed to get to the hospital. He needed to find Carla, make sure she
was all right.
Concrete buildings and stone houses crowded right up to the
street’s edge to his left, while to his right, a low wall punctuated by gates
to private dwellings ran along the side of the island on the downward slope.
There was no sidewalk to speak of. Bruno looked up the narrow road towards
Anacapri. In happier times, the road would have been brightly lit, with
streetlights and houses casting a glow into the night. Now, the darkness made
the already narrow road feel even more claustrophobic than before. Bruno
adjusted the duffle bag on his left shoulder and started up the long road. His
breath billowed in a white cloud as he quickened his pace. He followed the road
up and away from the station, above and behind him, then came to an
intersection, and a road sloped down to his right. He continued up the road and
found what he was looking for: the traversa , a long staircase and paved path
winding up between houses and buildings. It would save him some time. Instead
of following the road as it wound up the slope of the island in a long S-shape,
he would take the traversa, cutting off the bend and leading directly to the
higher level of the road. The danger was that the narrow staircase and landings
with doors into each dwelling limited his options if anyone caught him there.
But the quicker he could get to the hospital, the better, and he judged it
worth the risk.
He retrieved the flashlight from the duffle bag and held it
in his left hand, but then he hefted the bag onto the same side. It was
awkward, but Bruno wanted to keep his right hand free, in case he needed to use
his pistol. He debated even using the flashlight at all, as he didn’t want to
draw attention, but his fear of twisting an ankle or breaking a wrist
outweighed the fear of detection. A sprained ankle in this new world might be a
death sentence.
Bruno’s heart pounded in time with his footfalls as he
started up the stairway. He progressed as rapidly as he dared, fearing the
clanking of the duffle bag would draw unwanted attention. He did not stop to
pause on any of the landings, but noted the shut doors of silent apartments.
They stood in mute testimony to their owners’ absence, or worse. He pushed the
burning in his legs and lungs aside as he bounded up the stairs, sometimes two
at a time. But the duffle bag weighed him down, his pace slowed, and his
footfalls
the ruthlessness of a frontline soldier, not with the controlled aggression of
a law enforcement officer. If he acted like a cop, he wouldn’t last long.
Shaking off his anger, he plunged into the copse of pines.
The soft silver light of the moon now gave way to a brighter orange glow behind
him as the station burned in earnest. The flames’ glow let him get a better
look around. He found himself in a narrow, grassy clearing on the terrace, on
the next level below the station. He knew if he continued down in this
direction he would eventually stumble on the road that wound up from the bottom
of the island, starting at the Marina Grande and leading all the way to
Anacapri at the top of the island. As he stood on the terraced hillside looking
at the shadowy houses to his left just below, his eyes wandered across the
water towards the coast. He saw orange specks dotting the arc of the coastline
from the peninsula of Sorrento jutting out towards the island, all the way
around the bay. Cristian’s words about Naples were not just hyperbole; they
were prophetic. The city was in flames.
The silent burning of Naples mesmerized Bruno, and he stood
for a time before plunging down the terrace, scrambling through an open field,
and ending up on a side street. He followed the side street, past darkened
houses, onto the Via Marina Grande, the main road that wound up the side of the
island back up toward his flat in Anacapri. But he was only going partway home.
First, he needed to get to the hospital. He needed to find Carla, make sure she
was all right.
Concrete buildings and stone houses crowded right up to the
street’s edge to his left, while to his right, a low wall punctuated by gates
to private dwellings ran along the side of the island on the downward slope.
There was no sidewalk to speak of. Bruno looked up the narrow road towards
Anacapri. In happier times, the road would have been brightly lit, with
streetlights and houses casting a glow into the night. Now, the darkness made
the already narrow road feel even more claustrophobic than before. Bruno
adjusted the duffle bag on his left shoulder and started up the long road. His
breath billowed in a white cloud as he quickened his pace. He followed the road
up and away from the station, above and behind him, then came to an
intersection, and a road sloped down to his right. He continued up the road and
found what he was looking for: the traversa , a long staircase and paved path
winding up between houses and buildings. It would save him some time. Instead
of following the road as it wound up the slope of the island in a long S-shape,
he would take the traversa, cutting off the bend and leading directly to the
higher level of the road. The danger was that the narrow staircase and landings
with doors into each dwelling limited his options if anyone caught him there.
But the quicker he could get to the hospital, the better, and he judged it
worth the risk.
He retrieved the flashlight from the duffle bag and held it
in his left hand, but then he hefted the bag onto the same side. It was
awkward, but Bruno wanted to keep his right hand free, in case he needed to use
his pistol. He debated even using the flashlight at all, as he didn’t want to
draw attention, but his fear of twisting an ankle or breaking a wrist
outweighed the fear of detection. A sprained ankle in this new world might be a
death sentence.
Bruno’s heart pounded in time with his footfalls as he
started up the stairway. He progressed as rapidly as he dared, fearing the
clanking of the duffle bag would draw unwanted attention. He did not stop to
pause on any of the landings, but noted the shut doors of silent apartments.
They stood in mute testimony to their owners’ absence, or worse. He pushed the
burning in his legs and lungs aside as he bounded up the stairs, sometimes two
at a time. But the duffle bag weighed him down, his pace slowed, and his
footfalls
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