Theoretically, it would take just under ten minutes to get down from the town to Piane D'Archi, but with Vanni at the wheel, it took a good sixteen. The old man managed the feat - decidedly difficult at ten in the evening - of creating a line of half a dozen cars behind his Fiat Panda, but he didn't seem to give a shit.

  Berto, on the other hand, was quite nervous. He expected that at any moment someone would start honking madly. The interior of the car was as unhealthy as he expected. It smelled of dust and farts, and the holy picture of Padre Pio looked at the driver's seat with his epic half-fingered gloves in the act of blessing Vanni. Berto had never thought about it but now he realized that Padre Pio's drip was sick, he looked like the fighting monk of some fantasy monastic order.

  Berto was still lost in those bizarre thoughts when Vanni turned left and pulled over next to the old gravel quarry, then began to go down the dirt road running alongside the factory until it branched off at the base of the bridge.

  Vanni made a sharp turn and launched himself towards the pillars of the bridge, suddenly increasing his speed. The only light in the depression was that of the Panda's high beams, which illuminated up to ten meters ahead, beyond which there was the blackest darkness. A human figure appeared in their field of vision, and Vanni hit the brakes. Clouds of dust invaded the beams of light from the headlights, and Vanni leaned backward to retrieve something at the foot of the rear seats. It was a double-barreled shotgun.

  “Since when have you had a gun license?” Berto asked with some discomfort. He had not noticed the weapon when getting into the car.

  Vanni smiled, “These days you have to think about how to protect yourself, Berto.”

  The man in front of the car shielded his face from the dust and was now trying to get up. His eyes were wide, he was terrified. He was probably thinking of running away, but it wouldn't be easy to hide down there.

  “Well, it doesn't seem like a great idea to point a gun at him anyway,” Berto tried to dissuade Vanni.

  “You leave it to me,” Vanni said. He seemed sure of himself. But he was a madman. A madman with a rifle. To avoid getting a blow in the face Berto didn’t protest further.

  Vanni threw the door open and rushed out with his rifle drawn. Berto was amazed by the agility of the gesture. Vanni didn't exactly have the hunter's physique.

  Hearing the door click, the man ran away, and Vanni gave chase and shouted, "Stop and hands up!"

  The man had advanced only five meters along the gravel road surrounded by low grasses. Even though it was dark, the probability that a shot fired from the rifle would reach him was high, so he obeyed.

  “Now turn around, slowly,” Vanni ordered.

  As he turned around, the man narrowed his eyes, dazzled by the panda's headlights.

  “Damn it! You really are Quintino!” Vanni exclaimed.

  “And who are you, sorry?” the man asked.

  “What the fuck is that question? You idiot, don't you recognize me?” Vanni replied in astonishment, “I'm Van – no, wait. I'm the one asking the questions here. How the fuck is it possible that you're alive?”

  “Even though I understand why you're asking me, I don't know what the hell to say,” the man rambled.

  Vanni looked at him over the barrels of his shotgun, confused by the enigmatic answer.

  Taking advantage of that moment of silence, Berto arrived behind Vanni and Vanni started, then realized that it was only Berto, and stepped aside as if he wanted to give him some space, continuing to keep the man at gunpoint.

  Berto joined the conversation and asked, “Can you confirm that your name is Quintino Liberatore?”

  “In the flesh,” the man confirmed.

  “You are an impostor!” Vanni shouted, then waving the weapon added, "Quintino would recognize me for sure, he’s the one who sold this baby to me!"

  “Did I sell it to you?”

  “Yes, Quintino sold it to me at his hunting and fishing shop in Montemarconi. Me and him are thick as thieves!”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “It's not possible, I closed the shop more than fifteen years ago. During the war in Georgia, after the fall of the Berlusconi government – ??"

  “What the fuck are you raving about?!” Vanni screamed.

  “Be calm, Vanni,” Berto ordered him, trying to make him lower his rifle, then turned to Quintino, “And you, damn it, are you capable of telling us a story that makes sense?”

  Quintino sighed, put his hands in his worn Adidas tracksuit pockets, and began to tell his story.

  *****

  “I don't know what kind of place this is, but it's definitely not where I'm from. The sky is blue and the clouds are white, and in the hills, I still see places that should have been razed long ago.”

  “Huh? And what color should the sky ever be?”

  “Red, as it always has been. Getting to the point, yes, I should be dead. I stepped on some bad people's toes. I've been dealing cocaine to factory workers for a few years, and lately, I've thought about branching out a bit. But when I intruded into territory that wasn't mine I was reckless, and the local pushers beat me up and stole my stuff. I wasn't able to repay my debt to the suppliers, and when they realized they wouldn't see their money again they decided to get rid of me."

  “Don't talk bullshit, Quintino would never sell that shit!”

  “Well, back in the day, certainly not. I was once a believer and a prohibitionist. But war, hunger, and poverty put things back into perspective. In the first phase of the conflict, there were riots and the rioters robbed my shop. When the dictatorship took power, they confiscated what I had left to send to the front. Besides, civilians weren’t free to enjoy hunting and fishing in those times. I couldn't reopen. I was already too old to be sent to the front, and my only hope of earning some bread was to work in the factories in the valley, reconverted to produce ammunition and armored vehicles. The shifts on the assembly line were exhausting. Many other workers began doing blow to survive the stress. It seemed like the only way to make it through. New criminal organizations flourished, with the complacency of the army, and sold their shit cheap. But I wanted nothing to do with it. I knew I would ruin myself. So rather than consume it I decided to sell it. I didn't have much choice, you know?"

  “War, hunger, and misery? What are you talking about? This nation has not gone to war in eighty years!”

  “Uhmpf… yeah, it seems you're right. The scars of the bombings have disappeared. But I didn't imagine it. I still remember the day the Eastern fighters took to the skies and unleashed hell, and everything that happened after that. Anarchy, dictatorship, anarchy again, the compromise of the military junta.”

  “Quintino, you're sick. Maybe it's because of the hit you took on the head. Listen, if you get in the car with us we'll take you to Lanciano, to the emergency room. I hate psychiatrists, they are just stupid quacks. But you need to see one immediately.”

  “He didn't get a hit on the head, Vanni. They shot him, fucking hell. We need to see clearly into this. What do you remember about these last two days?”

  “Let's see... Rosselli's men, the mafia family head who sells me the stuff, took me under the Brecciaio bridge and made me walk towards a patch of reeds. Then someone pointed a gun at the back of my head and shot. It's strange, I heard the shot but I've always thought that your brain blows before the bang reaches your ears. I didn't understand anything about it. I only remember that the world didn't shut down, so I started running through the reeds. At first, I thought they had missed me, but then I turned and saw that Rosselli's men were no longer there. I looked up at the sky and saw that it was blue. Not knowing what to do, I walked home. I had some trouble with the lock, but then I remembered that I used to hide my back door keys in a flowerpot back in the day. I hadn't left it there for years, but I found it there. I ate what I found in the fridge – luxury stuff compared to the crap I can afford in these days. Then this morning the police rang. They thought no one would open the door and were about to break it down. But I opened it and they looked at me with their cop faces. They seemed annoyed. ‘Are you Mr. Liberatore?’ they asked me. And I said yes. They stammered something, and then it seemed as if a gear jammed in their excellent brains. They started shaking like fan blades, so fast it seemed they had become transparent. They grew bigger and their faces became like wax masks. They started saying something like 'aberrant subject', 'terminate aberrant subject instantly', and I got scared. I slammed the door in their face and ran out the back. I heard them breaking down the front door, so I ran into the alley and then in the opposite direction from where they were parked. Thank God they didn't take the car. So I kept running as if my life depended on it. I went to the river and started following it upstream until I got here. You won't believe it just like you won't believe the rest, but coming here on the street I glimpsed at least a dozen identical cops. They were looking for me, I'm sure of it. So I just stayed down here hoping they wouldn't find me.”

  “Fuck, Mr. Liberatore, this is a crazy story. I mean, I realize that you're serious and that maybe what you say is true, but I can't make sense of it and I don't know how to help you. Taking you to a shrink certainly doesn't seem like a solution to me, though.”

  “I… I'm scared. I don't want to leave here, they're looking for me."

  “I know what we have to do.”

  “Let's hear your great idea, Vanni.”

  “The church of the Seven Sins. We need to talk to Father Geronimo.”

  “What place would that be? What the fuck is the point of dedicating a church to sin?”

  “I don't know, but Father Geronimo is a very good priest. An exorcist, a great expert.”

  “And what the fuck do we need an exorcist for?”

  “I smell the Evil One, Berto. The story that Quintino told us is very serious and diabolical. Only Father Geronimo can tell us what to do.”

  “I don't know, but it doesn't seem a religious problem.”

  “So you have a better idea?”

  “Actually, no.”