He looked sober and pointed to the length between.
“You think she’ll be too sick to sit?”
He nodded sadly.
“There’s not much room for supplies,” she said. “That is, if I can even find any.”
Bernard smiled and put a finger to his lips. He pulled up one of the floorboards in the boat and showed her a shallow compartment that ran the length of the boat.
“This is where you got the idea to hide the vegetables?” she asked.
He nodded and grinned. Ruth scratched at the back of her neck. There wasn’t much room and she didn’t know if it would even float after hanging for what must have been decades in the museum. Still, they probably kept it restored. And it was better than anything else she had. She struggled to pull it off the wall. It was awkward and pretty heavy, but she could still get it to the beach.
“Can you get the paddles?” she asked Bernard and headed slowly down the stairs, letting it slide gently down to the lobby. They wouldn’t be able to stay in it for long. It wasn’t the floating fortress she’d imagined when she thought out the plan, but it would work for a fairly quick getaway.
She tried to feel relieved as Bernard happily paddled the boat onto the bright water, the dog panting in the bow, but she felt the minutes creeping by and knew she had no more time to improve the plan. She called him back into the shore.
“I have to go. I have to help Juliana and the Infected. I’ll try to send friends with supplies but— I don’t know what else to do. I have no time. There are probably a lot of people who would help Juliana left in the city, but no one is going to helm me. What I’ve done hasn’t left many survivors,” Ruth exhaled. “I’ll try to save what you paid so dearly for.”
Bernard shook his head and hugged her with his good arm.
“I don’t know what will happen. But it will happen tonight or tomorrow morning. Can you guard the boat until then? Will you be all right here?”
He nodded and pointed to the dog.
Ruth shook her head. “I’ve left you with nothing. No food, no water. And no way to get it, now that your hand is mangled.”
Bernard pulled the boat up onto the rocks with his good arm and placed the paddles inside. He tied the rope to a sturdy wooden post and then led Ruth back into the restaurant. He pulled her into the dark kitchen and opened the back door, letting in some light. There was a dead refrigerator case half full of bottled water. He tossed her one and she grinned. The lukewarm water washed the salt off her lips and tasted like nothing she’d had in years. He tapped her on one shoulder and pulled out a plastic bin from beneath the cook’s stainless steel line. She peeled off the cover and he slapped her on the back. It was full of oyster crackers. The mice hadn’t been able to get at it in the bin and the looters either missed it or never hit the place. It wasn’t much; even taken together it’d never get them through more than a few days, but Ruth felt a palpable ease wash through her. At least they had that. At least they would have a couple more days to find a better place. She hugged Bernard and told him to stay out of sight. Then she started back into the sweltering city to handle the toughest part of the task.
Chapter 23
They had begun seeing lights about a week from the capitol. Here and there, just a campfire or two. They had been far apart at first, maybe the people that made them weren’t even aware of each other, but from the boat Frank could see them all. The little lights had cheered them, but with stores dwindling, Nella didn’t want to risk delaying if there were a big group ahead. They had sailed past the solitary camps waiting for the tiny string of fires to become a cluster. As the miles slipped by, they could see planted fields and little markets near the shoreline. In the evening, the windows of the houses shone with lanterns more and more often, sometimes grouping in small squares.
Many of the small harbors were blocked with wreckage. Boats or buildings tossed around in a hurricane years before littered the water around the coast. Rotting wood and jagged metal made the shallows a murky labyrinth, even for the rowboat. Nella regretted passing the groups of people, but it was too dangerous to attempt a landing. The coast fell away behind them and a few days later Frank steered them into a wide bay. Skyscrapers huddled on the banks, their shadows hanging over the water the only relief from the bright glare of the summer morning. The shore roads were all empty, shimmering in the blazing sun. The only movement was the hundreds of seabirds crying and skittering down the sand or wheeling over the road and between the shattered windows of the buildings. One of the largest cities in the world and there were no people walking on the roads, no sounds of industry, no heaps of recent trash. No signs of humanity beyond the decaying structures.
“Do you see anything?” Frank whispered, afraid of setting off an endless echo.
Nella squinted against the sun and pointed to a thin cloud far inside the city. “Is that smoke?” she asked.
Frank framed his eyes with his hands. “I think so.”
“Well, we didn’t come all this way just to turn around without looking,” said Nella.
“We don’t know who’s in there. We should wait until dark so we can get a look without them seeing us.”
“But we don’t know this place. We’ll just get lost.”
Frank thought for a minute. “I don’t see a good place to conceal the boat. I think we should wait until dark and then take the rowboat to one of those little shops on the beach. We can camp out there and then in the morning, we’ll go exploring. I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves until we see what kind of people are in there. Also, if there are Infected—”
“It’s been eight years, Frank. I don’t think there are any Infected left, even in a big place like this.” She tapped the cases of cure darts in her pack. They jingled. “I’m not even sure why we bother lugging these around.”
“We thought there were none left a few months ago and one got you. I don’t want to risk that again.”
Nella sighed and rubbed the scar on her shoulder. “Okay, you win, we’ll go tonight.”
Frank stared at the wisping plume of gray. Let it be people, he thought, let there be SOMEONE in there.
Chapter 24
“She’s loose.” Gray scowled and scraped the ax head over the concrete floor of the old pool hall.
Father Preston regretted using the building while the church was being restored. There were other, cleaner places. Especially now that they would be moving to a quieter farming community and would never get to use the old Spanish cathedral anyhow. Father Preston was beginning to regret many things. That ax Gray had adopted was another.
Father Preston hadn’t said or done anything to rein Gray in, reasoning that the more dangerous a man appeared, the less real harm he had to do to prove his reputation. But now, he regretted Gray altogether. The man seemed insatiable, bent on vengeance. Justice, Father Preston internally corrected himself. Even when that justice had little to do with Ruth. He had been the one who brought the pictures to Father Preston in the first place. He had volunteered to track down their owners in the vast emptiness of the dead city. And then there was the debacle with the gardener.
“Yes, I know she is loose,” Father Preston sighed. “She was probably trying to get to the garden. Thought she could wait us out if she could bring back enough food. But she’s not going to go far. She’ll be back for Juliana before long. And back to finish off the Afflicted while they are vulnerable in their cells. Juliana may be more persuadable while Ruth is away.”
“If she’s away then we don’t need to fear that she’ll carry out mass murder. We can take— we can rescue the Afflicted while she’s gone. We don’t have time to waste negotiating with Juliana.”
Father Preston shook his head. “No. I will talk to Juliana. She will listen to reason. I won’t risk her coming to harm in the confusion.”
Gray shook his head. “This is foolish. We should be breaking ground on the new mission right now, not sitting here at the whim of two old women. We’re going to run out of tim
e before winter. It’s almost July, summer is flying by. Would you let a hundred of your own people freeze and starve just to humor the feelings of one woman? Why is she so much more important than the rest of us, who have faithfully followed you? Than the Afflicted she locked away?”
Father Preston clutched the front of Gray’s filthy, sooty shirt and pulled him close. “Because she’s good,” he hissed, “and I don’t know if there’s another soul alive who is. I know you’re not, though you think you have me fooled. God knows I’m not.” His voice dropped to a mumble as he released Gray. “She saved my life. And all of theirs too. She deserves to be at peace in her final days. She deserves to believe that we will care for the Afflicted as well as she has done. I owe her that much.”
Gray shook his head but raised his hands in surrender. “Have it your way, Father.” He began walking toward the door.
“And suspend the executions until I say otherwise,” commanded the priest. Gray paused and looked as if he would turn to say something, but he shrugged and continued out of the building.
He had surprised himself. He was accustomed to thinking of himself as “good.” Better than other men. But Gray had forced the admission from him. Why had he changed his mind? And when? Juliana was weak. As weak as Vincent had been, maybe. Close to as broken. But she was still better than Father Preston. Still more worthy. The thought wriggled inside him, taunting and biting like a poisonous centipede. He tried to stomp it out. She wasn’t better. She was just untested. Father Preston though, he had been through the fire. Him and all of his brothers. Only he had emerged. Only he was worthy. Chosen all those years ago in that barren December. He’d known he would survive that very first night. He’d known he had to take the Abbot’s place as a leader of the faithful as he had pressed his back against the Abbot’s door to prevent it opening.
The old priest had flung himself at it over and over, as if he were a small child having a tantrum.
Brother Matthew had shaken his head. “He’s going to hurt himself,” he said.
“There’s nothing we can do. If we let him out, he’ll hurt someone else. Find something to bar the door.”
A large oak pew was brought and slid in front of the Abbot’s door. Time did no good, hours later he was still flinging himself against it. Both the doctor and the police were unreachable. As the monks cleaned and prepared Brother Andrew’s body, the air around them thickened with panic, every other breath laced with the unceasing cries of their leader.
Father Preston had paced in front of the door. Some of the others watched him, doing nothing themselves. It was unnatural, this idleness. This thing, this plague, was eroding their sense of duty, their good work. Father Preston was certain it was evil. Brother Matthew refused to believe it was anything but a disease.
He’d passed the door of Brother Andrew’s room, where a few men were scrubbing the floor. One of them looked up.
“Someone has to say the funeral mass,” the man said.
Father Preston stared blankly at him. “But the Abbot—” he started, and fell silent.
The monk shrugged. “Maybe it can wait,” he turned back to the dark stains.
The electric bells clanged for morning prayer. Everyone looked up. Father Preston started walking toward the church. He glanced back. A few of the brothers rose to follow him, but many sat still where they were, or went back to cleaning. He felt his lip curl back in a sneer, but he didn’t waste his breath chiding them. Each man must discipline himself or fall apart. It was not for him to force them into piety.
He tried to clear his mind as he entered the dark, clean room. There were only a handful of brothers. They all looked at him as he crossed to the podium. The Abbot reserved the reading of the morning prayer for himself. But the Abbot was a raving devil, his breath still stinking of flesh and damnation. Father Preston cleared his throat and read the prayer. The Abbot’s shrieks were a distant wail through the stone walls, but he still found himself clutching his book so tightly that he left fingernail marks in the covers each time he heard the sound.
When he emerged from the church, the Abbot had screamed himself to sleep, and falling snow made a hushing echo over the grounds. The illusion of calm was broken by a pair of brothers dressed in travel clothing walking through the monastery’s front gate. Father Preston hurried down the stairs, followed by the few brothers who had been with him.
“Has the doctor finally come?” he called.
Brother Matthew was standing at the gate watching the others go. He looked up at Father Preston and shook his head.
“The police?”
No again.
“Have we received direction from the bishop?”
Brother Matthew looked sadly at the two men trudging toward the gate. They kept their heads down and refused to meet Father Preston’s eye. He felt his face begin to warm with anger. “You’re leaving? When your brothers need you the most you decide to walk away?”
“We have family out there too,” murmured one of them.
“You think it’s better out there?” cried Father Preston. “If the Abbot can succumb, how will we avoid it? Whether it’s disease or judgment, you can’t escape it.” He jogged to the gate and stood in front of them, blocking the path. “If you leave you can never return. You know that.”
Brother Matthew cleared his throat. “They can if they have permission to go.”
“The Abbot is— is unwell. He cannot give permission,” stammered Father Preston.
Matthew placed a hand on Father Preston’s shoulder and pulled him gently out of the way. “I have given it in his stead,” he said.
“What? You? You cannot—”
“I am the prior, Brother Michael. Let them go. They will see that their loved ones are protected and they will return once the sickness here has passed. I have extended the license to all that are uninfected and wish to go. You as well, if you like.”
The two men brushed past Father Preston. “The Revered Father wouldn’t approve. Something terrible has happened, yes, but that is not a reason to abandon the faith—”
Brother Matthew shook his head. “They aren’t abandoning it. I know they will keep their devotions, wherever they may go.”
Father Preston stared out the open gate.
“I cannot keep them here,” Brother Matthew said.
“The Abbot would,” snapped Father Preston. “He’d tell us to be steadfast under this trial, that we ought to shoulder our sufferings gladly, that we are blessed—” the words withered in his throat as he saw the horrified look that Matthew bore.
“What has happened to our brothers is no blessing,” whispered Brother Michael. “I’m sustained by the hope that they will be cured. May they remember nothing of their illness.”
“Who will care for them? Who will recall our Reverend Father to himself if you allow them all to leave?”
“How can I make them stay, knowing they might be in danger of the same fate if I do? How can I sentence them to madness? To— to violence and rage?”
Father Preston sneered. “Are you leaving also? Will I alone remain his faithful attendant?”
“I am not leaving Brother Michael. But you may be the only attendant before long. Of the ten that remain, five are already ill. I too, have started having symptoms.” He watched Father Preston for a reaction, but the priest stared into the blank white road beyond the open gates. The hand that Matthew had placed on his shoulder was shaking and finally he asked, his voice cracking and hoarse with fear, “What are we to do Brother Michael?”
Father Preston turned a cool, dry eye to his brother. “We pray,” he said mercilessly. He swung the wooden gates closed and picked up a heavy snow shovel that lay nearby. He slid it through the gate handle. “Now no one can enter but God,” he said and turned back toward the church.
Brother Matthew shivered, murmuring, “And hopefully no one can escape except those that are still sane.”
The steady snow choked the road outside the monastery. There were no passing cars, not
even ambulances, to disturb the quiet. The remaining brothers spent their day in devotions, stopping only for meals and to take turns caring for their Abbot. Except for the deterioration of the man he had both admired and loved, Father Preston would have found the quiet and the ceaseless prayer blissful.
The relative peace held until just before the Christmas holiday and Father Preston thought they’d turned a corner, that those who had begun to show symptoms must surely begin to recover. He half expected a series of hollow knocks on the gate from postman coming to deliver the holiday letters for the monastery. But no one came. Brother Matthew’s words had become so slurred in the days before, that Father Preston took over the readings. The sanctuary glowed with lamps, the power had gone out a week before, but that made little impact inside the sanctuary. The brothers clustered in the front, almost huddled together in the empty church.
Father Preston loved the way words rolled across the long room, like a warm wave. He remembered the Abbot’s voice curling and pulling at him in every reading. There was a sharp pinch in his chest when he thought of the man’s shrieks that morning. Desperate and raw, with nothing human left in them at all. Father Preston shook himself, realizing he was staring silently at the Reverend Father’s chair. The others were looking at him, waiting for him to continue.
“Peace be with you,” he said and accepted the murmuring response as he turned to prepare the host. There was a shuffle and whispers behind him as the brothers turned to embrace each other.
A rumbling squeak erupted as one of the heavy oak pews was pushed out of place and then a few grunts and one of the brothers shouted, “Brother Matthew, stop!”
Father Preston whirled around to see Brother Matthew hugging another brother tightly. The man sagged with a muffled groan. Two of the others grabbed at Matthew’s arms and tried to pull them open. Brother Matthew clenched tighter and a deep growl billowed from him and echoed down the chamber. Father Preston hurried down the steps toward the pew. Brother Matthew let the man he was holding go. He fell with a thud into the pew. The others lifted him while Brother Matthew turned toward the man who had yelled. Father Preston watched pink drool drip from Matthew’s jaw and his limbs bend into a half crouch as if in preparation to spring. Father Preston reached him before he could attack.
Krisis (After the Cure Book 3) Page 19
