“Brother Matthew,” he cried, holding his prior firmly by the shoulders, “recall where you are. Can’t you recognize us? Think, man! We’ve shared all of our days, all of our deepest prayers! Remember whose commands you live by, remember what you are!”
There was a breath of silence. Everyone waited and Brother Matthew stared at Father Preston.
Let this be my miracle, Father Preston had time to think, let me be the hand of the divine.
And then Matthew’s chest rumbled and he stretched his jaw open as far as it could. Father Preston felt the wet heat of Matthew’s breath and smelled the metallic tinge of fresh blood as Matthew lunged for him. This time the others were ready and held Matthew back before he could bite. Father Preston was shaken. He sat down carefully in the crooked pew. He gazed up at the carved crucifix. It had been restored only the year before, its paint brightened, its details sharpened by hand with fine sandpaper. It had been a source of pride when visitors exclaimed how lifelike it seemed, how much closer it made them feel to God. But as Father Preston looked up at it, his eyes seemed to play a trick. The thin threads of red that trailed from the figure’s sharp crown now elongated, clustered on the corners of the mouth, to stain the thin wooden cheeks. It must be a trick of the shadows. He passed a hand over his eyes. One of the younger monks bent down near him.
“Brother Michael, what should we do?”
Father Preston shook himself and saw that they were all waiting for him. Brother Matthew strained and wriggled but was unable to harm anyone. The brother he had so fiercely embraced, however, bled freely from a wound in his neck and lay upon another pew.
“Put Brother Matthew in his room. Block the door, just as we’ve done for the Abbot. With time and prayer, he will hopefully recover. Brother Aaron’s wounds should be tended to as best we can. I believe the first aid kit is in the kitchen.” He sank back into the pew as the others hastened to either help or take themselves out of harm’s way. A few of them stumbled over the threshold and Father Preston made a mental note to repair the flagstone, though he didn’t remember any unevenness.
He tried to return to prayer. Though he knew the Abbot would have gently chided him for it, Father Preston was partial to Christmas Eve. It had formerly been his favorite night of the year, the most sacred in his mind. Not this year. The courtyard echoed with Brother Matthew’s roar and the Abbot, hearing the commotion, joined in, multiplying the chaos. He looked around him. The pews were crooked from the sudden violence and there was a shallow pool of darkness where the injured monk had lain. Father Preston sighed and tried to concentrate on a short prayer before rising to clean. He bowed his head and looked down. There was blood on his stole from Brother Matthew’s dripping mouth. Instead of praying, he felt hot tears streak down his face and catch at the corner of his mouth. The Abbot was mad, his brothers were sickening around him, and God had denied him. He leaned forward onto the pew in front of him and wept for sheer loneliness.
A clatter of wood on stone and the sudden chime of bursting glass woke him. Father Preston had cried himself to sleep on the hard wooden bench. He looked up, his eyes still blurry and crusted with salt. The church doors stood open and a table had tipped and its oil lamp crashed to the floor. Most of the others had gone out and the room was very dark. A dim glow came from the open door, whether from the moons reflection on the snow or the approaching sun rise, Father Preston did not know. A darker shadow of a man blocked some of the door and he squinted for a better view of who it was.
“Mile? Bru’er Mile?” the figure slurred and swayed as if he were drunk.
“I’m here,” Father Preston called.
The man careened up the aisle and tripped on the edge of the crooked pew. Father Preston reached out and caught him before he could fall.
“Brother Joseph, What is it?” he asked, thinking the monk wanted to confess to breaking into the wine cellar. But Joseph’s breathing was ragged and shallow, as if he had been running, not slow and sleepy with drink.
There was a terrified scream from the courtyard. The monk glanced toward the doors and pulled on Father Preston’s arm. “Bro’er George is sick, and Bro’er Matthew got free.”
“Free?”
Brother Joseph nodded and another cry crawled along the stone walls. The monk lurched back toward the doors and pulled Father Preston behind him. “We have to go,” Joseph muttered.
“And leave our brothers? They need our help, they aren’t themselves.”
Joseph tripped on the fallen table and Father Preston helped him up. “They’ll kill ush. Look.” He pointed out of the open door into the silver-blue snow of the courtyard. A man lay motionless and dark against the pale ground. Another man crouched over him. Brother Joseph went back into the sanctuary and emerged with a large flashlight. Its broad beam flickered and then arced over the ground and onto the two men. The one that was crouching spun around to look at them, squinting in the bright light. It wasn’t Brother Matthew or Brother George, but another, also sick. He stood up slowly and Father Preston could see his clothes were rent and trailing and a clump of hair was missing from the side of his head.
“It’s okay,” said Brother Joseph and stumbled again as he descended the steps. The flashlight dropped and rolled and he went sprawling. The sick man wasted no time but sprinted toward Joseph. Father Preston stepped forward to protect him, but Joseph had risen and he pushed Father Preston out of the way. The two men grappled and fell into the snow. Father Preston tried to pull them apart, but neither one paid any attention. Brother Joseph’s face twisted into a snarl as he fought, and Father Preston heard a sickening, crunching snap as Joseph’s arm was twisted too far, but the monk didn’t even slow down. Joseph was able to twist himself over the other man and lunged in to bite. Father Preston realized Brother Joseph had succumbed to the Plague and it broke his motionless daze.
He backed up into the stairs, fell onto his back and turned to scrabble up them. He made it into the church and slammed the door. He pulled the back pew foot by foot until it stood in front of the door and refilled one of the remaining lamps with shaking hands. He turned it up high and lit the tall wax candles that sat at the end of each row to chase away the dark. He was relieved to see that he was alone in the building, though the flickering candles made him keep glancing doubtfully at the massive crucifix, his eyes tricking him into thinking the half starved figure was moving, reaching for him with thin, clawed hands and dull, ripping wooden teeth.
He crouched near the door, trying to peer out of the frosty windows at what was happening. But there were no more sounds from the courtyard. At last, the adrenaline wore off. Exhausted, he drifted off, his forehead resting against the cold glass.
When he woke again, a pale light sliced through the windows and the church was bright with morning. His stomach rumbled as he walked around the church extinguishing the candles. He pushed the pews back into place, except the one that blocked the door. He gently folded his vestments and placed them next to the podium. He found himself much calmer and knelt for his morning devotions. Halfway through, a creaking shudder came from behind him and he sprang up. Someone was trying to open the door. Father Preston walked quickly and quietly to the door. There was a soft, insistent rap.
“H-hello? Is somebody left in there? Please let me in. I’m not sick. I need to come in before one of those— one of those things finds me!”
Father Preston hesitated. The monk pressed his face to the small crack in the wooden door, trying to see in. “Please,” he begged, “I’ve brought food from the kitchen. You’ll need it too. We can share. Just let me in before they get me.”
Father Preston pulled the pew away from the door, just enough for the young monk to slide his narrow body through. “Brother John, are you all that’s left?” he asked.
“All that’s sane,” the monk replied and helped Father Preston shove the pew back against the door.
“Did you— did you kill anyone?” Brother John said into the echoing room.
That’s n
ot right, that’s not what he said. Father Preston shook his head, trying to clear the memory. He was sitting in the hot hospital kitchen eight years after the chilly monastery. He didn’t even remember walking here, though he’d intended too.
“I’m sorry, what did you say Juliana?” he played with the cup of water. She sat across from him, the harsh summer light making her look bleached, wrinkled, as if her skin were a size too large.
“I said, don’t Christians say you ‘ought not to judge, lest you be judged?’ I don’t think anyone who is still alive can claim innocence. You have no right to perform these executions. And you have no right to harm Ruth either. The people who asked her for help, they only did what they had to do to survive. And she only did what she thought was right. In all the time that you were sick, can you honestly say you never harmed anyone? Do you even remember? Didn’t you ever have to kill anyone when you were ill, to defend yourself or to get— to get what you needed?”
“Ruth doesn’t kill because she needs to—” he began shouting.
“That wasn’t my question,” said Juliana evenly.
But Father Preston didn’t want to remember the Plague. He shouldn’t have to justify himself. He was the hand of the divine. His cure was proof of a miracle, that he was meant to carry on his work, that he was meant to lead the people out of this silent Sodom. He burst up angrily from the table. “I am not on trial here. I don’t kill little children because their parents tire of them or are greedy for their belongings. Think well, Juliana, who you are letting into this place. Your charges rely on you for protection. And if they cannot rely upon you, then I will make sure they may rely upon me. Ruth will never get her hands around their throats. I will not allow it! God will not allow it!” He left the kitchen and strode off into the overgrown field. He found Gray and reversed his earlier decision, instructing his Congregation to begin construction of another post. He’d shown enough forbearance. If kindness couldn’t convince her, then righteous action must.
Chapter 25
The dog’s sharp yelp woke Bernard. He sat up too quickly, forgetting his injury. He was instantly woozy and eased himself back down onto the restaurant floor. He tried to calm the dog with his good hand, but it continued to bark. When the world stopped spinning, Bernard inched his way up to the plate glass window. It was dark now, no one would be able to see in, but the dog’s bark would alert anyone in the area. A streak of bright light smeared over the glass and then bounced away. Bernard squinted. It was an electric light. Rare these days.
He wondered if it were solar, like Ruth’s little pocket charger. She had been excited to trade for that. They weren’t just lying around for the taking. She’d said she was sending help. But what if it was Gray instead? Bernard stuck to the corner of the glass and kept trying to hush the dog. The light flickered on the glass again and swung away. Bernard could see it coming from the water this time. A boat. His muscles tensed. Was it his boat? Did they take it? He looked around, but the flat canoe still lay on the floor of the restaurant where he had dragged it. Who had a boat? Why? He leaned into the glass, excited. The boat was only a few dozen yards from the docks; farther out, he saw the hulking shadow of a bigger boat, a sailboat. Bernard forgot to be scared. It was someone else. Someone new, someone else was out there, out beyond the rotting concrete, someone was still alive. He hadn’t seen someone from out there since before he became Bernard. What little he remembered of his life as Joe Mackey he tried to forget, not quite believing his own memory of a southern city, or soldiers, or cures.
He stood up slowly. The boat people were going to die if nobody helped them. They’d hit the rocks and sink or they’d fall into a subway station and drown. Or Ruth’s plan would kill them. They’d be overrun by the Infected from the hospital before they even realized what was happening. He had to warn them, somehow. He snapped his fingers to call the dog and walked out of the restaurant and down toward the beach, waving to show he was unarmed.
The beam of light fixed on him. He walked down the beach to the shallow sand where he and Ruth had launched the canoe that morning. The boat followed him and slid in safely with a hiss.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice came from the boat. Bernard waved as a tall figure unfolded itself and stepped out. It stepped forward and shook his hand before Bernard realized it was another man. “Are there other people here?” asked the woman in the boat as Bernard helped the man pull the small craft safely up the beach. The woman stepped out and helped push.
Bernard nodded and pointed toward the center of the city.
“Good,” began the man, a smile crinkling a dark scar on his cheek, “We were beginning to think there was nobody left. I’m Frank Courtlen.” He stuck out a hand to Bernard. Bernard shook it with enthusiasm, trying to pour as much friendliness into the gesture as he could. Frank and the woman looked at him expectantly. After a few seconds the woman stuck out her hand, “I’m Nella,” she said, “Can I ask your name?”
Bernard hesitated. He hadn’t been asked to explain why he couldn’t speak since Ruth had found him beaten in the road years before. He shrugged and opened his mouth wide for them to see.
“Oh,” said Nella, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were Cured.”
“He can’t be Cured,” said Frank softly, “Nobody has come this far with it.”
Bernard grabbed a stick of driftwood. “Cure?” he scrawled into the sand.
“Yes,” said Nella, “There’s a cure for the Plague. Do you have an Infected friend? Someone you are caring for?”
He pointed toward the city’s interior. All Nella could see was a dull orange glow from some distant bonfire. Bernard waved at them frantically.
“Just a minute, friend,” said Frank, holding up a hand, “we don’t know anything about you. Why don’t you tell us a little about where we’re going and then we’ll see. We don’t know the city, we wouldn’t want to get lost— or anything.” He glanced at Nella and reached for her hand.
Bernard scrubbed his face with his good hand. There wasn’t time. Ruth said to be ready for early morning. If she let the Infected go overnight, he’d never find them all. They’d scatter before they could get the cure. He tapped the stick on his shoe. He wasn’t ever a big reader and his spelling wasn’t great even before Gray had scrambled his brain with heavy fists.
But Frank and Nella weren’t going anywhere until he tried. He couldn’t blame them. Bernard knelt on the damp sand and began the best he could. “Old crazy house. Lots sick. We help them.” He pointed up toward the hospital. Nella sat down beside him and propped up the light so she could read. “No time. Bad people take them away, still sick. You have cure?”
Nella glanced up at Frank. “We’ve got it,” she said.
Frank folded his arms. “Tell us about the bad people first.”
Bernard brushed the sand smooth and started writing as quickly as he could.
Chapter 26
Ruth slung the last of the plastic bags into the rubble of the abandoned wing. It made a puff of dust but no noise. Even so, she glanced back toward the small guard fire to be sure that Father Preston’s people hadn’t noticed. She wasn’t sure if they hadn’t discovered her escape route yet, or if she were walking into an elaborate trap. They must know she’d left the hospital; Bernard’s escape would have told them that. That they were still here told her they were waiting for her return— or Juliana’s death. Ruth shuddered.
She went back to the road to hide the cart in the bracken. It didn’t really matter if it was a trap, she decided. The odds of anyone surviving more than a few hours past dawn, herself included, were as thin as rice paper. Which was why her last errand had felt so pointless. But Juliana had insisted. Ruth crept back to the end of the abandoned wing and struggled to get the first large sack to the entrance door.
She’d managed to visit almost fifty different families scattered over half of the large city. They’d all been skeptical at first, and why not? She wasn’t Juliana, and the families didn’t know her. A strange wom
an coming to the door with an offer of free food and warnings about maddened zealots was enough to make anyone suspicious. But hunger won out every time. Each time they’d traded old clothes and shoes for a chance at Bernard’s stash. Some had been related to the Infected in the hospital and some not. She’d wanted to warn anyone she could.
They’d agreed to meet and storm the garden together. That part, at least, gave Ruth some comfort. It would make Bernard’s pain worth something when all those people survived the winter. And in three hours, Ruth thought, that coordinated attack will be providing a distraction for Gray and Father Preston.
She grunted softly as she pulled the second bag to the door. She had received a lot but still, not quite enough. Shoes were in very short supply. Ruth was convinced they were just dressing the Infected in their burial clothes anyway. She was far more worried about the poppy shortage. They were roughly a dozen doses short. There was nothing to be done now, though: all the poppies were ash in the blackened greenhouse. She pulled the third bag up and carefully peered through the door. The entryway was empty and the bar lay across the front doors, just as she had left it.
“Now or never,” she told herself and pushed the bags inside. The entryway was quiet and the thick, starchy smell of boiled beans hung in the air. Ruth crept quietly down the hall, careful to avoid brushing the walls or doors. The kitchen was silent but well lit. She risked peeking in. The gas lights made the room a pale, sickly gold. Juliana sat at the large, scarred table. She was dozing and her head drooped slightly. There was nobody else there.
Ruth let out a shaky breath, but she only traded the worry of immediate capture to a longer-term worry about Juliana as she watched the sleeping woman. The skin on Juliana’s face was drawn too tight, thin and yellow, like old vellum. Ruth tried to pretend it was the awful dim light, but she knew it was more. Her friend looked exhausted even as she slept. She was thin, dry, a bleached, desiccated reed. Ruth wondered how she’d missed seeing it for so long. She had to end this whole thing. She’d take Juliana south, where it stayed warm. She knew there was no escape from the cancer, but Ruth knew there were still places out there that would make dying easier. She could make Juliana’s last weeks peaceful. Quiet.
Krisis (After the Cure Book 3) Page 20
