Krisis (After the Cure Book 3)

by Deirdre Gould

  Father Preston smiled. “That’s not necessary Ruth. I assure you we’ll take good care of him. We can get him safely out of his bindings—” He stopped and the color drained from his face as Ruth pulled her gun from its holster. Gray ducked behind the priest. The others gasped or shrieked. Ruth hesitated for one more second. It’s for the best, she thought. She heard Bill’s voice in her head again. “It’s time to let him go. It had to be today.” She pulled the trigger and the boy’s head rocked backward. The shopping cart rolled a few feet away from her and caught on the edge of the community board.

  There was time to hear the tin can clatter against the metal bars of the cart and then the cement. Then someone screamed. Then someone threw a stone. It landed in front of her. She turned and saw a look of utter shock on Father Preston’s face. Behind him, the Congregation was a seething mass of fury. She saw more stones in their hands and she ducked. A few hit her anyway. They were small, street rubble. In a few seconds they’d find the heavy stuff. She didn’t want to be there for that. She thought of her gun, but she knew they were too outraged to react to a simple threat.

  She grabbed her pack and began to run. A large rock plowed into her hip and she stumbled but kept to her feet. Another smashed into her back. And then she was gone. She regretted leaving the boy’s body. They’d never let her go back to bury him. They might even attack the hospital. She knew Juliana would never understand what she had done. She would die hating Ruth. But Ruth had to try to explain. And she couldn’t abandon Juliana especially now. She made her way back toward the hospital, hoping she’d beat the mob.

  Chapter 15

  The hospital was in uproar when he arrived. The immense iron bar that was usually seated next to the door had been flung into the tall grass of the yard and the front door stood wide open. The Afflicted were shouting and banging and a mangy dog stood in the foyer growling and snapping. It looked like the gardener’s dog, but Father Preston couldn’t see Bernard anywhere. The dog, nervous at the noise of the Afflicted, turned toward Father Preston and growled.

  The priest backed out and walked around to the kitchen rather than risk being bitten. He called for Juliana but no one answered. He wasn’t sure if anyone would be able to hear him anyway. The kitchen door was closed and the meal carts were empty, though Father Preston knew it was past lunchtime. He shrugged and pulled the door open. Maybe Juliana had already cleaned the dishes. But she’d had no volunteers that day, not from the Congregation anyway. They’d all been with him.

  Maybe it was Bernard, or a family member helping her. Or maybe Ruth had beaten him there after all. Father Preston tasted a dry, bitter flash of fear. Was that why the Afflicted were screaming? Was she slaughtering them even now? His heart rattled against his ribs. He slunk into the kitchen and cautiously peered down the hallway. Just the dog, continually barking. There were thuds on the stairs just beyond the door. Father Preston pulled his head back and pressed himself against the wall. The kitchen door sprang open, almost hitting him. It was Bernard with a small bucket. He lumbered over to the sink, not seeing the priest behind the door. He threw the handle of the hand pump up and then slammed it back down, frantically trying to fill the bucket. Father Preston glanced around the door to make sure no one was with him. Then he slid out from behind it.

  “What’s happened?” he asked. Bernard jumped and twisted around. The skin under his eyes was red, as if he had been crying and his hair was raked and pulled in half a dozen places. He grabbed the priest’s hand and pulled him toward the door. Father Preston pulled back. “Is it Ruth? Is she here?” The gardener shook his head. He pointed up and began pulling Father Preston toward the stairs again. “Where’s Juliana?” he asked Bernard, but his arm was only pulled harder, so the priest reluctantly climbed the stairs, wary of any ambush that might be waiting. It took three floors to house all of the Afflicted now. Juliana stayed in one of the attic offices. Father Preston had stayed in another until the Congregation rebuilt the local church and its parish house. It was suffocatingly hot in the attic, even in midwinter. It was almost unbearable when Bernard brought him to Juliana’s room. She lay on top of the neatly made bed, dust from the garden crumbling from her boots onto the covers. Her face was ashy and beaded with sweat. She was unconscious. Bernard patted her hand and gently shook her shoulder but she didn’t wake up.

  “Go back and get that water,” ordered Father Preston, “It’s too hot in here.”

  Bernard tromped back to the stairs and disappeared. Father Preston opened the window. It was one of the few perks of living up here, the offices all had windows that could open. The kitchen was the only other room that had them. He sat down in a rickety folding chair that Juliana kept beside the window. Bernard came back with the bucket of water. He placed it next to the bed and began soaking a cloth in it.

  “Has she been unconscious long?” asked Father Preston.

  Bernard shook his shaggy head.

  “Was she feeling ill this morning?”

  He shrugged. He put a sopping washcloth on Juliana’s head. She took a sharp, surprised breath and opened her eyes.

  “Did you find Ruth?” she asked.

  Bernard shook his head again and pointed with a grimy thumb toward the priest. Juliana struggled to sit up and see who was there.

  “I came to see you about Ruth,” said Father Preston in a grim tone. “I’m sorry to have found you so ill.”

  The gardener helped her sit up. Juliana smiled. “Nonsense, I just got a little dizzy from this heat. Bernard brought me back. I’ll be fine in a minute or two.”

  “I’m afraid you are overtaxing yourself. Let me handle the hospital for a while. I know what needs to be done.” This is almost too easy, he thought.

  “That’s okay, Ruth should be back shortly. We’ll be fine.”

  Father Preston let the gentle smile on his face wither into a grave expression of pity. “Ruth has done something terrible— I would say unforgivable, except that I save judgment for God.” He shook his head slowly and looked at the floor. Juliana rubbed her temples gently and huddled closer to Bernard, who put a protective arm around her. Father Preston didn’t wait for a response. “There was a boy— a young boy, perhaps twelve. His father didn’t want him anymore. I begged him to give the boy to me, but he refused and brought him to Ruth. I thought she had rules about this sort of thing. She’s never harmed a child before, not even an Afflicted one.” Juliana looked up at him. “I asked her to give the boy to the Congregation, told her that we would care for him, that she didn’t need to worry about straining the hospital’s already depleted resources, that our church had enough and some to spare. She just— snapped. I didn’t think even she could harm a child. She had rules.” He reached for Juliana’s hand and enveloped it in his own. “She shot him, Juliana. Right there, in front of all those loving, caring Christians who were just trying to help him. She shot him and then fled. I know that God forgives all of our sins, no matter how heinous, but I’m afraid human justice isn’t so forgiving. I tried to hold them back, begged them to show her mercy, but the Congregation was outraged and filled with zealous wrath. They scattered and even now seek out justice. I would have followed them, in order to stop any violence, but I was worried she might be headed here and in her unstable condition, well— I’m glad to find everyone here unharmed.”

  Juliana sat for a long moment in silence, her eyes closed. Then she turned to Bernard. “Will you find Ruth for me? I need her to come back. I need her help. Make sure she’s all right.”

  Bernard nodded and tromped down the stairs again. Father Preston waited until he was gone.

  “Are you feeling much pain?”

  Juliana shook her head. “I just get tired and the occasional headache. I can manage.”

  “I’m sorry such trouble has disturbed what ought to be a time of rest and peace.”

  Juliana laughed. “There’s not much peace around here, regardless of what Ruth or you do.”

  “You needn’t work so hard, you know. You coul
d retire, live out the rest of your days in tranquility. I will care for the Afflicted. We are starting a new community, they will be well fed and attended to. They will be healthy with us until a cure is found.”

  Juliana frowned. “Father, I’m past believing comfortable lies. We both know that there isn’t a cure. There won’t ever be one now. But we’ve already discussed this,” she waved a hand at him, “I want to talk to Ruth first, before I decide what happens to the hospital when I’m gone. You can fight like dogs over it if you want then, but let me think that my request will matter while I’m alive.”

  Father Preston released her hand. “Of course your requests will be honored. I know we both want what is best for the Afflicted. But I now know what Ruth is capable of. I can’t possibly allow her to commit the same atrocity again. But she is your friend. Indeed, we ought to all be a friend to Ruth in her time of despair. You will want to hear what happened from her own mouth. I understand that impulse. I urge you only to be cautious. And know that I will be nearby if you need assistance, with Ruth, with the hospital or just to sit and read with you.”

  Juliana managed a dim smile. “Thank you Father. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are lots of very hungry people waiting for me.”

  Father Preston rose. He looked down at her, as if he were about to say something else, thought better of it and gave her a nod. Then he strode out of the hospital, leaving the shrieks and clawings of the Afflicted behind him and turning his thoughts to the future of Ruth’s police station.

  Chapter 16

  Ruth had run through the baking streets for several minutes before the sizzling in her lungs forced her to slow down. She kept glancing around her, sure the mob was chasing her, but her shadow was the only thing that moved in the windless concrete. She ducked into the cool dark of a small alley expecting an ambush but only the echo of her own feet followed her. Her hip and back were sore and hot where the rocks had struck. She was limping badly and knew she’d never beat the others to the hospital. She’d only end up being overtaken by them if she tried. And then what? A lynching? A fire at the hospital? They weren’t going to stop once they found her. She’d seen the complete surprise on Father Preston’s face. He’d been sure she’d never kill the boy. He’d probably told the Congregation as much. If he hadn’t pushed so hard— if he’d let her think for a moment…

  Ruth sank against the brick wall of the building behind her. She had time to think now. Had there been another way? The people in the hospital would never survive the winter. She’d seen the pantry. The bins were only a quarter full, even while they were harvesting the early crops every day from the garden. The shelves were empty except for the very back. A few cans, a few jars of preserves Ruth had made herself from another distant orchard the year before. Family members stopped in less and less, and when they did, they brought very little. Ruth had watched as they, too, lost weight over time. The whole city was in its death throes, not just the hospital. Even if the boy had somehow survived, if she could bring them all through the winter, what was it for? He’d still be sick. Still be suffering. It was just Charlie all over again. It always was. Every day, every contract. She was just repeating and repeating the same hell, watching people wither and die for years and years. Was she really going to do this for the rest of their lives?

  Ruth leaned over and threw up the thin oatmeal she’d had that morning. The boy’s face became Charlie’s in her head. It cracked where she’d shot it and then splintered away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and focused her gaze on the peeling back door of the restaurant across the alley, counting splatter stains until the image in her head went away.

  There was no way she could have given him to them, not knowing what they intended to do with the Infected. Father Preston didn’t understand. He couldn’t. Ruth knew he was dogmatic and stubborn, even willfully stupid. He could be downright nasty in his righteousness. But he wasn’t cruel for the sake of it. If he really saw what the bounty hunter wanted, he’d never go along. Gray must have painted a picture of paradise for him. A vague camp far away that thrived in the wasteland. A utopian dream of the Infected and the healthy as peaceful, benevolent neighbors. But by the time Father Preston admitted the reality, it’d be far too late for the Infected. Still, it was life. It was a chance at a cure. Was it so different from the people in the hospital?

  There is NO CURE, she thought, stop fooling yourself. There’re no more labs, no more doctors, no lost vial of relief waiting out there like a grail. There’s no cure. Just this never ending loop of misery.

  She had given up long ago wondering what the right thing to do was. Now she only worried about what the kindest option was. She let herself examine the memory of the boy one more time and then let it rest. She pushed off the wall and began limping toward the greenhouse, hoping Juliana would meet her there instead of risking the mob following her to the hospital.

  She was surprised to see the vegetable patch empty and unguarded. Juliana never let it go untended lately, not with so many thieves. Though volunteers had diminished, there were always one or two at least that showed up faithfully. And Bernard should have been there, at least. He had become a caretaker of sorts. Juliana,Ruth and Bernard had converted one of the conservatories into a cozy house for him. He slept there, guarding the food supply, and taking care of the medicinal plants for Ruth. She checked his rooms but he wasn’t there. His dog was gone too. She tried to tell herself he was out scavenging, but the stillness in the garden sent a painful chill through her core. She called for him, but not very loudly, afraid of who else might be nearby.

  He had been dropped on Ruth’s doorstep four years ago. He’d been beaten unconscious. His wounds were serious and he took months to recover, even with Ruth’s help. She had no idea who he’d been before, if he had deserved the beating or not, if he’d been a good man or evil, and neither did he. Or if he did, he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t speak and made very little effort to communicate through other means, though she could tell he followed at least some of what Juliana and she said, and would laugh at a simple joke.

  Bernard took care of himself and had been pleased to be trusted with the garden. He was big enough to be scary to people that didn’t know him. The dog had adopted him a year later. They hunted pigeons and crows together, the only game to be found in the massive city.

  Ruth went back to the vegetable patch. She put her pack down and tested her bruised hip and back gently with one hand. The plants were withered and brown. Ruth looked at them for a moment, swearing under her breath. No one had been there for hours. She checked the gun and tightened the holster on her hip, then she grabbed some buckets and headed for the pond.

  The water was so low that the painted concrete winked through the algae and shone up at Ruth. The summer had already been very dry and even hotter than usual. Even the swampy marsh behind the hospital had dried up and become a dangerous, brittle mass of tinder. Ruth was dreading July and August. If it doesn’t rain soon, we may have to resort to the brackish stuff in the subway. She scraped the buckets along the bottom of the pool and began carrying the scummy water to the dwindling pea vines.

  Chapter 17

  Bernard hadn’t thought to check the garden until almost sunset. He’d checked the police station first, where a handful of men were already smashing windows and piling everything flammable they could find in front of the door. He stayed far away, not wanting to be seen. He worried that Ruth might be inside, but since none of the men were really guarding the door, he moved on, hoping she had, too.

  He checked Ruth’s old home and the clinic where she had treated him when she had found him. The clinic had been ransacked, the door torn from its hinges, chairs and desks gone, burned to keep someone warm. Her house was caving in, a leak in the roof had become a cascade, and her living room was now a small, rotten pool fringed with moss and mold. Bernard left those places to their quiet fates and let the dog lead him,not sure where to try next.

  The dog eventually led him home,
where he found Ruth weeding the garden, slick with sweat and crying in great whooping gasps. She didn’t even look up when Bernard’s shadow blanketed her. The dog leapt up in front of her and licked her face. She slumped into the soft ground between the rows of tomatoes and said, “Is she okay?”

  Bernard looked confused and scratched at his thick beard. He crouched beside her.

  “Is Juliana hurt?”

  Bernard shrugged, then shook his head. He pointed a calloused finger toward the hospital.

  “I can’t go back there. She can’t know what’s happened.”

  Bernard pulled her to her feet. He pointed back to the hospital. There was a shout from the far end of the park. A cluster of shadows was forming at the edge of the tall grass.

  “They’ve found me.”

  Bernard waved toward the hospital and picked up a heavy rake. Ruth shook her head. “No, if I leave, they’ll destroy the garden or burn down your cottage.”

  He shoved her in the chest with one large hand and she took a few stumbling steps backward. He pointed to the hospital again. She glanced toward it, though she knew it was out of sight. He gave her another shove, but gentler this time.

  “Okay, I’ll try,” she said. She picked up her pack from the end of the row and began to run. She glanced back and the gardener was facing the other way, his legs planted carefully and solidly between the rows. He held the rake across his body, ready to use it if he had to. The dog’s back bristled as it stood next to him, growling. Ruth hoped they’d be all right. The park’s rustling grass gave out onto cement and she slid into the shadows between buildings, still running.

  When she reached the snarl of brush that surrounded the hospital, she dropped down into a crouch, afraid that Father Preston or his mob were waiting for her there. But there were no angry people waving torches by the door or screaming protesters along the path. The scene was serene, the lamps in the hospital beginning to shine out of the occupied wing just as usual and the slow plaintive echo of a mourning dove calling its mate home to nest. The ordinariness badly frightened Ruth. Part of her suspected a trap, but a voice inside her was convinced that she was in a changeless Hell. The hospital would always be there, a bleak battleship half-sunk in an ocean of scrub and tall grass. The walls would forever be decaying, the Infected would never stop screaming, and she and Juliana would continue to scrabble and starve for them for eternity. She struggled against the burning weight of shame and despair as she thought about fleeing.