Aftertime

by Littlefield, Sophie

“I don’t know,” Cass shrugged, trying to project indifference. “If all you’re doing is standing around praying all day, I’m not sure you would have. From what I’ve seen—”

  “What you’ve seen was a whole lot of shit,” Hannah said, her face darkening with rage. “Which I guess we both know now. But you have no right to judge me. No right.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Shut up,” Hannah said, stabbing the bunch of keys into Cass’s sternum, sending her stumbling backward. “Shut up. Unlike you, I came here because I’m a believer. And you know what I believe in? The future. I will do whatever I have to do to build the Order into something that works. A community. A life. Even if I have to put up with Cora’s insane little Beater project.”

  “But what about me?” Cass demanded, figuring she had nothing to lose. “That part’s true—I really was healed.”

  Hannah shook her head, lips pressed tight together in fury. “You don’t have any proof. So you’ve got some marks on your back—that could have been anything. An accident. I don’t know, some form of mumps or something you caught from your gutter-trash boyfriend. You didn’t get better from prayer, you just…got better.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cass said. “You saw me. There’s no way I could have done that to myself. I would have—Anyone would be dead from what happened to me. Unless something changed me. Unless I was healed.”

  But Hannah was shaking her head. “You could have had someone do that to you. And it’s not as bad as it looks, as bad as Cora wants to think it is, it’s just scratches and scabs, it’s just—”

  “Would you stake your life on that?” Cass demanded, her frustration making her belligerent. “If I bit you, would you be willing to bet that I wasn’t infected then? What if I’m a carrier? What if—”

  The blow surprised her, coming hard above her left ear, sharp enough to stun. Suddenly she was on the floor, warm blood dripping into her ear, her head ringing with pain. Hannah stood above her with her gun in hand; she’d slammed the butt into her skull.

  “That’s right, I wouldn’t get too close to me if I was you,” Cass grunted, pulling herself up off the floor. She was gratified to see Hannah edge backward. “Maybe you ought to start praying after all, for insurance.”

  “You think you’re so smart. You think you can come here and…and suddenly you’re the great hope. You’re Cora’s pet. Well, you might want to think again. I’ve got plans. I’ve got plans for you.”

  “Look, I never asked for any of this. All I wanted—”

  “Save it. I don’t really care what you want. It’s about time I start worrying more about what I want. After everything I’ve done, for the Order, for her…” Hannah shook her head with disgust. She sorted through the keys, then unlocked the door and shoved Cass inside. “Nothing’s going to happen until morning anyway, so you’ll have lots of time to think. Maybe you can come up with your own little theory so we can all get together and talk about healing.”

  Cass caught only a brief glimpse of her prison in the second before the door slammed shut, enough to know she was in an old weight room with a cot set up in the middle. She fumbled her way to the cot in the dark and lay down, wondering if Monica was locked up somewhere like this nearby. After what seemed like hours, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  She woke to Hannah shining a flashlight in her eyes.

  “So Cora’s really going to do it. You’re the princess, I guess.”

  Last night’s fury was gone, replaced by a craftiness that was almost worse. As they walked back up the stairs to the main level, bright morning sun streamed through the walkway, and Cass smelled food cooking.

  The women were gathered for the morning meal. Little had changed since the night before except for a wooden pole that now rose from the center of the platform up front, and a low table that held a tray covered with a white cloth. A drifting feather was lodged near the top of the pole; it quivered for a moment in the breeze and then broke free and floated away.

  It was blue, a bluebird or blue jay feather, Cass didn’t know. She had never bothered to learn anything about birds, and now whole species had been lost. Some sort of small, brown, undistinguished bird had survived and even flourished, and a flock of them chattered from the stands, watching and waiting to swoop down for crumbs.

  The birds’ chatter and the clink of cutlery vied with quiet conversation, but both fell silent as she and Hannah passed. As they neared the platform Cass noticed another feature: an iron ring, bolted to the wood floor. The pole was maybe four feet tall, with some sort of clamp attached slightly above knee level. Two metal plates opposed each other; they were padded with leather or vinyl and there was about a foot of space between them. Cass had no idea what the clamp’s purpose was, but it looked ominous. She swallowed hard—what exactly was Cora planning?

  Hannah directed Cass to a chair placed a few feet to the side of the platform. Two women, one in pale pink and the other in red, silently stepped away from a nearby table and arrayed themselves behind her. Cass guessed they were there in case she tried to bolt.

  A murmur started in the back of the assembly and spread forward. Cass looked out over the crowd, shading her eyes from the sun, and saw two figures approaching from the field. Her heart quickened to see that one of them was Monica.

  She looked exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her clothes were wrinkled and soiled. Her hair was tangled and knotted. A woman wearing a gray shirt and white pants—the only pants Cass had seen in the Convent other than the ones she wore when she arrived—and a long black braid down her back walked next to her, hand on her belt, where Cass was certain she had a weapon.

  Monica passed directly in front of Cass without seeming to notice her. There were deep purple circles under her eyes, and she dragged her feet as she trudged to the platform.

  Cass understood now why Hannah had been smug. Whatever Cora had planned for Cass, there was also to be a public punishment—the reckoning they’d been talking about. But what were they going to do to Monica? The pole that loomed over the platform—was she to be tied to it, perhaps beaten? The things she’d done—challenging the doctrine, even refusing to drink the blood—did they really merit a public whipping?

  Mother Cora appeared from the opening in the stands that led to her quarters, elegant in a wine-colored tunic and skirt. She said a few private words to the deacons gathered at the front table and gave Cass a warm smile as she passed.

  The guard was binding Monica’s hands behind her back, and Monica shivered, frightened and forlorn, in the morning chill.

  Hannah followed Cora to the steps, bowing low before going to stand next to the guard behind the low table. Mother Cora regarded Monica with an expression that contained more sadness than anger, like a teacher whose favorite pupil had disappointed her.

  “Sister Brenda, you may begin,” she said into the microphone, and then she bowed her head and went unhurriedly back down the steps to her place at the head of the front table. The guard lifted the cloth and fussed with the contents of the tray while Hannah seized Monica by her dark hair and forced her to her knees, bending her head back forcefully so she could see what was coming, tears of pain streaming from her eyes.

  Sister Brenda moved with studied grace, lining up objects Cass couldn’t identify from a distance. When she was satisfied, she picked up a bowl and a sponge from the tray. She dipped the sponge into the bowl, drops of water sparkling in the morning sun.

  She crouched in front of Monica and dabbed the sponge almost tenderly at her face, then squeezed it so that rivulets of water ran down her neck. Monica sputtered and coughed, and Brenda returned the bowl and sponge to the table, and waited with her hands folded in front of her.

  Hannah approached the podium, not looking at Monica as she spoke. “Sisters,” her voice boomed through the speaker system, echoing off the far corners of the stadium. “We please our Lord with our works and our prayer, but we are weak. We are flawed. Each day we stumble on our journey and sometimes we
fall. And then the Lord calls upon us to deliver what is due. Justice, my sisters—we are to serve as the hand of our Lord and return to each as she has done.

  “We insult our Lord if we allow offenses against Him to stand. We must not invite the weakness to grow and gain a foothold. We must smite it with conviction. When we do as our Lord commands, the blemish is lifted, the penance is done and we welcome our sister back among us.”

  It was all double-talk, no mention of a specific crime, no chance for the accused to defend herself.

  “Sisters!” Hannah’s harsh voice rang out, as she pointed an accusing finger at Monica. “Here before you, our sister Monica awaits the cleansing of her sin!”

  41

  AFTER THAT THINGS MOVED QUICKLY.

  Brenda picked up a long silver baton from the table and touched it to Monica’s shoulder. When the girl jerked and fell backward, Hannah’s grasp on her hair loosened, Cass realized the thing was an electric prod. The crowd gasped as Monica writhed and spasmed on the floor of the platform, her eyes rolling back in her head. Hannah picked her up under the arms and together she and Brenda wrestled her into place at the pole in the center of the platform. Hannah forced Monica’s head between the padded clamps while Brenda spun a wing nut until it no longer turned freely, then twisted it manually until her prisoner shrieked in pain, held captive by the pressure.

  She fought against the clamps, her face red and grotesquely distorted, lips pursed and cheeks bulging, squeezing up until her eyes almost disappeared.

  “Sister Brenda, still the sinning mouth of our Sister Monica!”

  A cry went up as Brenda selected objects from the table and bent to her task. In one hand was a long curved needle, a tail of black thread fluttering in the breeze.

  As Brenda leaned in close, Monica made a keening sound and blood trickled from the clamp where it pinched tightly against her temples. The wail escalated to a scream as the needle pierced her flesh, but Brenda didn’t flinch. She drew the thread slowly through Monica’s lips, taking care not to let it tangle, and then she knotted off the ends.

  As she poked at Monica’s lower lip with the needle, starting the second stitch, Cass bolted out of her chair and made it almost to the steps. She was tackled from behind and went crashing to the ground. One of the women who had been posted behind her pinned Cass’s arms and spoke into her ear.

  “Bad idea,” she said. Then she pulled up on Cass’s arms, causing white flashes of pain. “Gonna be good?”

  Cass nodded, gritting her teeth, as the woman eased up the pressure on her arms and led her back to her chair. The assembled crowd could not see the blade the woman held in her palm, but Cass could feel its cold sharp edge at her neck. If she made another attempt to break away, the blade could slice through her skin with ease. The guards were taking no chances—not even with her, Mother Cora’s chosen one.

  Brenda had made a couple more stitches. Tiny red dots of blood bloomed where the needle had gone into the skin—less than Cass would have expected. More shocking to see was the row of neat black X’s sealing the outer corner of Monica’s mouth. Saliva drooled from her dirty chin as she frantically moaned and struggled for air. Her breathing was becoming labored as one of her oxygen sources was slowly sealed shut, and the sound of her desperately trying to get enough air through her nose was as terrible as her cries of pain. Unless she calmed down, Monica was in danger of suffocation, of choking on her own vomit or her tongue.

  Maybe that would be a kindness. The holes made by the needle were bound to become infected; there had been no sterilization of the skin—or for that matter, of the instruments.

  The sharp, cold steel at Cass’s neck kept her still even as the last stitches were tied off and Monica could only snort desperately for air, blood trickling down her grotesquely distorted chin.

  Abruptly Brenda spun the wing nut counterclockwise. The clamps opened and Monica fell forward, out of the padded restraints. She would have hit the floor, but Hannah caught her and eased her into a seated position, bent awkwardly with one leg splayed out in front of her. Brenda took a key from her neck and worked at the manacle until Monica’s other leg was freed, and then she moved the leg gently into place as though concerned only for Monica’s comfort.

  She stepped out of the way and her handiwork was on full display. Monica stared out into the crowd with pain-deadened eyes, her mouth a ragged row of angry black X’s.

  There was a swell of voices among the tables. Mother Cora took to the stage again and held up a hand for silence. She waited until the only sound was Monica’s muffled whimpering.

  “Sisters, the path of the chosen is not easy!” Mother Cora’s imperious voice filled the stadium. “But you have taken up the yoke because you are strong. Because you are the ones who are called to act. Ours is a community of love, and the Lord never asks more than when he asks us to guide one of our own, because the guiding can be harsh. Today you saw the evidence of that.”

  Monica swayed as though she was about to faint, and Brenda stepped forward to steady her, but Cass wondered how many in attendance noticed. They were all focused on Mother Cora.

  “Now, however, it is time for joyous news. Sister Cassandra,” Mother Cora called with a regal outstretch of her arm. Approach the altar.”

  Cass did so, knowing the guards would force her if necessary. Monica didn’t appear to see her, though she passed a few feet away.

  “Sisters, this is Cassandra, who has come to us on a mission from our Lord. He spoke to Sister Cassandra and commanded her to come here to us and make of herself a sacrifice. Our Lord promised Sister Cassandra that when she gives herself to the fallen, He will lift her up from their scourge. He will heal her fever and her wounds. He will make her whole again. With the power of our prayers she will join us in an exalted position as a full sister of the Order.”

  Suddenly, horrifyingly, Cass understood what Mother Cora meant to do: she intended to give Cass to the Beaters to be infected. The disease would take root and she would be shown to the others like an exhibit at a zoo, her flaming skin and pinpoint irises proof of the disease. She would shuffle and babble and slowly lose her awareness and for the second time she would start to pull out her hair and bite her own arms, and then at some point the disease—Mother Cora was counting on it—would reverse itself as it had the first time, and Cass would be the proof Mother Cora needed to further strengthen the faith of her congregation.

  Mother Cora had run out of things to give them. Safety and sustenance might not always be enough—not when the women were forced to live under the rule of an unforgiving faith whose punishments were harsh and whose demands were draconian.

  The Order could not succeed forever unless it delivered. One miracle after another was needed to keep the illusion alive. Shelter and safety had been miracles enough in the beginning. But that had been a long time ago now, and the women were hungry for more.

  Cass was this woman’s next miracle.

  “And to witness Cassandra’s sacrifice, we bring our most precious resource,” Mother Cora continued, as a small commotion erupted at the back of the assembly. Cass scanned the field, looking for its source. “The next generation of the Order. The children.”

  Down the center aisle, between the tables, a girl of nine or ten made her way uncertainly. She wore a white dress that was too short for her lanky legs, and her freckled face was pink with anxiety. But most arresting of all was the fact that she had been shaved bald.

  The hair and the dress, Gloria had said. Scoured clean of this world. Some religions demanded the hair be covered; the Order had taken it away entirely.

  The first girl was followed by another, and another, each younger than the one before—and each one bald. All of them looked nervous and frightened, and they all wore white dresses. A child of six sniffled as though she was trying not to cry; another little girl wiped her eyes with her fists. The younger ones were accompanied by adults—their teachers, their tenders, women who looked as nervous as the charges. As the smalle
st children came down the aisle, Cass searched frantically for Ruthie. Was it that one, with the pudgy arms, or there—but wasn’t she too small? Wouldn’t Ruthie have grown taller by now? When the last of the children entered the aisle and walked toward the platform, Cass felt her heart seize with agony.

  Where was Ruthie?

  A loud rattling came from the direction of the enclosure at the other end of the field and the crowd turned to see the Beater cart emerge, being pulled by a guard whose face was covered by a white mask. Inside, the Beater howled, scrambling and stumbling as the cart rolled unevenly along.

  And then, at the back of the crowd, one more figure hurried into view. It was a slender woman with a halo of frizzy brown hair—and a child in her arms. She was frantically smoothing the little girl’s dress into place as she tried to catch up to the others. Cass leaned over the platform as far as she dared, craning to see. The child wore little black shoes buckled over white socks, and she pressed a fist against her mouth as she leaned against the woman’s shoulder.

  The same way Ruthie always had.

  Ever since she was an infant, Ruthie had never sucked her thumb or a pacifier like other children, but she would press a fist to her mouth to comfort herself. How many times had Cass found her that way in her crib, sleeping sweetly with her hand curled against her sweet rosebud lips?

  And there—even with her hair gone—Cass knew the shape of her baby’s head. A thousand times she had run her hand over Ruthie’s head. There were her long eyelashes, dark brown with sun-lightened tips. And there was the faintest reminder of the funny little fold in her pudgy forearm.

  As the minder drew closer, the sleepy child yawned, and then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Cass, and in their bright emerald depths Cass saw her baby, her Ruthie, and knew that she had been wrong, so wrong—she would not leave here without her child—she would die before she ever let her go again.

  Ruthie’s bright green eyes widened, and she stiffened in the woman’s arms. Then she started to thrash wildly, trying to get down, but the woman only held her tighter. Mother Cora’s smile faltered as she watched the struggle. She covered the microphone and said something to one of the other women on the platform. The adults were guiding the children into a line across the platform, but they stepped aside to create a break in the row, and Ruthie’s attendant hurried past and disappeared behind the others, out of sight. But Cass had seen and she was sure.