Krisis (After the Cure Book 3)

by Deirdre Gould

  He was in the abbey again. The morning sun at last glowing through the tinted windows, the monastery silent. Brother John sat up in a nearby pew as he woke. Father Preston was exhausted. He hadn’t been able to sleep under the gaze of the painted wooden figure, terrified it would climb down from its place and scratch at him, bite him in the dark.

  “Brother Michael, what should we do?” asked John.

  “Do?” asked Father Preston hazily.

  “The Abbot is locked in his room. We have to feed him. There were a few monks still out there, sick, when I came in. They are prowling the monastery. Maybe harming each other. We have to lock them up until someone finds a cure.”

  “This is no disease. I told Brother Matthew that this was the devil. Possession. He was headstrong, wouldn’t listen.”

  “We still have to do something.”

  Father Preston stood up and began pulling candles from their iron spikes. He hefted the naked candle holder, its sharp prongs thrusting out before him. “You’ll need a weapon,” he said.

  “A— a weapon, Brother Michael?” stammered the young monk. “But these are our family— we cannot hurt them.”

  “They are not our brothers any longer,” growled Father Preston, “only demons who wear their flesh. I will protect the ones that I can, but we must protect ourselves first. Find a weapon or stay here.” His heart was pitiless. He had no time for cowardice. Brother John trembled but began hunting for a weapon, more frightened of staying alone in the church than of committing violence.

  The pew squealed as they pulled it away from the large doors. Father Preston opened them and stared down into the courtyard. The remains of two bodies sprawled in dark coronas of blood. The monastery gates were still closed, held there by the shovel Father Preston had placed himself. He stumbled as he descended the stone steps and Brother John caught him. The smell of frozen blood was strong and coppery as they passed the bodies. Father Preston’s stomach rumbled disturbingly.

  “We’ll see to them when the monastery is secure,” he said nervously to cover the sound of his hunger. The wooden doors to the dormitory hung halfway off their hinges and the interior was a murky gray after the sunlit courtyard. They stopped to let their eyes adjust.

  “Hello? Is anyone well in here?” called Father Preston.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Brother John.

  “It’s what we’re here for isn’t it?” He gripped the candlestick harder and began rapping on doors. At the third cell there was a scrabbling noise. “Who is in there? Answer me so I know you are sane.” There was a gurgling growl instead. “Well, one of them is in there anyway,” said Father Preston and put his hand on the doorknob. Brother John shook his head and put his hand over Father Preston’s.

  “No, he’ll leap out at us and— and eat us.”

  “We have to secure him and see if there is anyone else in there. Go get a sheet from another room. When I open the room, throw it over whatever is inside. We’ll be able to tackle it without harming it.”

  Brother John scuttled back to the prior cell. Father Preston realized he was referring to one of his brothers, a man he had probably lived with, prayed with, worked with for years, as an “it.” He shook his head to clear it.

  Brother John returned. Father Preston turned the knob and yanked the door open. Brother John threw the sheet without even looking. The man beneath it howled and Father Preston leapt upon the writhing bundle. They lifted the man up and pulled him back to another room, tying him down to the narrow bed with more sheets. It was Joseph, the man who had tried to save Father Preston the night before. Father Preston said a quiet prayer for him as Joseph screamed and struggled. The sound attracted someone. Father Preston heard the sprinting footsteps of someone in the hallway. He spun around to face the door and pushed Brother John behind him. The man that sprung up in the doorway was barely recognizable. His face was smeared with mucus and blood, his eyes almost stuck closed with gore.

  “Brother Matthew?” gasped Brother John. Father Preston hesitated. He had never been fond of Matthew, had found him weak and indulgent of the other monks, and deep down, Father Preston knew that Matthew had been the Abbot’s favorite. But he was the prior, he’d been Father Preston’s mentor as an initiate and for all his willingness to overlook the failings of others, Matthew’s own conduct was unquestionable, even for Father Preston.

  The twisted iron bar of the candlestick hovered between them for a second as Father Preston drew it back in doubt. Then Brother Matthew roared and leapt at him, his entire chest sinking onto the five sharp prongs. Father Preston cried out as if he were the one wounded, and dropped the candlestick. Brother Matthew rolled off of it, breath wheezing in a scarlet bubble out of his punctured chest. Brother John dropped beside him but Father Preston held him back. Even in his last suffocating seconds, Brother Matthew scrabbled and scratched trying to pull one of them in. Brother John sobbed. Father Preston hated him for it, even as he felt his own grief overwhelm him.

  “Make sure Brother Joseph is secured,” he snapped, “and then bring this body outside with the others. I’ll find the rest.”

  He stalked off down the hall.

  In the end, there were only two more, the Abbot and Brother Gregg, both sick. Father Preston helped Brother John secure the three living monks in their cells and they covered the bodies of the others in blankets, waiting for help to arrive.

  Father Preston tried to pretend life was normal, continuing his prayers and cleaning the shattered monastery as if it were just another day. Brother John cared for the three sick monks but spent the rest of his days locked away in his cell, only begrudgingly coming to prayer when Father Preston commanded it. One morning, he entered the church on his own.

  “We are running out of food,” he said to Father Preston’s back. Father Preston stood up from his kneeling position and turned around.

  “We have to do something,” continued Brother John.

  “I am doing something,” snapped Father Preston.

  “We have to leave, find more. Maybe let the others go.”

  Father Preston shook his head. “No. We don’t leave. The monastery is our home. God will provide.”

  “So you just want to sit here and starve to death?” Brother John became angry. “That may be fine for you, but we’ve got three people depending upon us. I can’t watch them starve, too, instead of helping them. Or at least letting them go.”

  “Let them go? They’ll kill each other. Or you. If they starve, at least they will be innocent—”

  “I’ll find a way to let them go that won’t hurt anyone else,” interrupted Brother John. “If I do that, will you help me?”

  Father Preston thought for a moment. “Yes. If you find a way, I will help you,” he said. He slammed his prayer book shut and walked out of the church, stumbling and weaving across the courtyard. He told himself he was just dizzy from standing so quickly. Brother John didn’t even notice.

  A few mornings later he heard the light chimes of bells in the hallway as he was rising from bed. He opened the door and Brother John was leading the Abbot down the hall. The older monk was still bound, a brass hand bell tied to a string around his neck.

  “What are you doing?” asked Father Preston.

  “I’m letting him go. I’ll let Brother Joseph go tomorrow and Brother Gregg the next day.”

  “And the bell?”

  “I read about lepers using them. It will give others some warning.”

  “That’s degrading. I won’t allow it. The Abbot int ‘illy.” Father Preston stopped speaking, snapping his mouth shut in horror.

  “What?” Brother John struggled to hold the Abbot while looking at him.

  Father Preston spoke more slowly, concentrating on each word. “I can’t let you do that. The Abbot is a holy man.”

  Brother John shrugged. “It’s the only way.”

  A flash of rage seared the nerves behind Father Preston’s eyes. “He ‘atha ‘tarf,” he shouted. Brother John stared at him a
nd backed slowly away, pulling the Abbot with him.

  “Come ba’ere!” screamed Father Preston. Brother John began to run. So did Father Preston. Brother John slammed the dormitory door closed behind him.

  “You are not yourself,” he called to Father Preston. The sound of the bell retreated and Father Preston could hear the front gate creak open. He took a deep breath. The rage subsided and shame took its place. He walked quietly back to his cell and shut the door. He was immersed in desperate prayer when the next bell rang the next morning and sobbed loudly as the third passed by that evening.

  He believed he was alone. In the darkest part of the night, he crept past the motionless forms of his brothers in the snowy courtyard and into the church. He could see the massive gray gap of the open monastery gate but turned away from it. Let them all flee. He would keep his word. It was too dark to see the carved statue but he knew it was laughing, gibbering at him. It rang a bell, mocking him. He began to curse it aloud, shrieking for the bell to stop, but it just got louder. Something cold clapped against his throat and tightened.

  “I’m sorry Brother Michael,” said a voice, “but I can’t let you out without it. May you think better of me when you wake.”

  Father Preston blacked out from the pressure of the cord. He was being dragged out of the gate, thrown out of his monastery like a pile of snow covered garbage when he woke up a minute later. He snarled and the man dragging him jumped. He was little and fat and Father Preston was so hungry. His teeth hurt. The bell wouldn’t stop ringing. He leapt up and shook the man.

  “Please, Brother Michael, it’s me!” cried Brother John. Father Preston bit the fat cheek as hard as he could, his lips suddenly splashed with salty heat, his teeth pressing the rubbery skin.

  Someone shook his shoulder and Father Preston woke from the hell of the broken monastery into the torch filled field staring at the dark, hulking hospital. He could still feel the thick skin rolling between his front teeth. He swallowed against a rush of nausea, and forced himself back into the present.

  “Father? Father, shall we begin setting up scaffolds,” asked a heavily bearded man next to him.

  Father Preston smiled and pressed the man’s hands. “No, Daniel, I have a more important task for you now.”

  Chapter 29

  Ruth slumped on the bottom stair watching the men finish welding new steel scaffolds as the sky began to lighten into a deep gray. She didn’t think she could move any more. The circle was closed. The Congregation was surrounded. There were only the ten undrugged Infected in their rooms. They were sleeping naturally. As soon as she summoned the energy, Ruth would quietly open the doors to their cells and she and Juliana would lock themselves into the bedrooms.

  She knew Father Preston was coming. It was only a matter of when. He wouldn’t be able to hold onto Gray much longer. She could see the tension between them. If they didn’t try to come in before the Infected started waking up, they definitely would by the time they were under attack. And Ruth planned to have a surprise waiting for them. She racked her brain for some way to save the people in the cop car, but she was exhausted. More than she’d ever been. Even her thoughts moved as if they were underwater. There was a creaking noise from Ruth’s left in the dark, and a spike of adrenaline pinched her awake. They were already here, trying to come through the abandoned wing. She jumped up and ran up the stairs. On the second floor she began quietly opening cell doors and creeping away. She could hear the people below her shuffling and whispering. She reached the stairs just as the first Infected woke and shuffled into the hall. She raced up the next flight and flung herself into Juliana’s bedroom. She tried to keep quiet as she pulled the heavy dresser in front of the door. Juliana woke, squinting at Ruth in the weak predawn light.

  “Has it started?” she asked sleepily.

  Ruth opened her mouth to answer, but a scream of agony from downstairs did it for her.

  Father Preston snapped out of a light doze as a thin scream pierced the hospital walls. The people around him stopped what they were doing and looked around. He offered the Congregation a comforting smile. “The Afflicted are hungry. Don’t worry, we shall be providing for them soon, and there will be no more distressing screams.”

  He rose from his seat and drew closer to the hospital. He thought he’d heard a word in the scream. His team should have just entered. Maybe it had been Ruth. The people in the cop car reached out to him and cried as he passed. It irritated him; he wanted to hear what was going on inside the hospital, not the whining of thieves.

  The others went back to their work, the men finishing up the scaffolds, the women cooking a meal for the Congregation. Gray sat sharpening the fire ax with a rusty file he’d found. Father Preston ignored him.

  The sun broke over the horizon and lit up the heavy mist in the field turning the crushed weeds a dull sepia, like they’d been splashed with a light rain of gore. Another shriek came from the hospital. Far off in a corner of tall grass near the road, an Infected woman sat up and blinked at the glaring white fog around her. She heard the shriek and stood up, unbound from a wall for the first time in years. Her legs were weak and shaky from disuse. She stumbled a few steps toward the sound, became confused and stopped for a moment. Her mouth hung open and she sniffed the air, turning her head from side to side. Somewhere in the nearby fog someone was humming. If she’d been well, she would have recognized it as an old spiritual her mother had been fond of. But her brain only connected the sound with the possibility of food. She shuffled toward it, then broke into a trot as the sound continued and grew closer.

  An ancient crown of white braided hair separated from the mist and the Infected woman lunged at it. The humming stopped as the old woman snapped like a twig under the Infected. There was one high crooning whoop of triumph and fierce joy from the Infected before she bent over the old woman and tore into her throat.

  The women cooking over the massive bonfire in the back of the camp stopped and looked at each other. “What was that?” asked one.

  Another shrugged. “Was it Mildred?” asked another, “She was laying out rope for the— the judgments. Maybe she tripped in a rabbit hole. You know, her bones aren’t what they used to be.”

  “I’ll go check on her,” said another who had been stirring a great pot of hot cereal. She tucked the long spoon into her tidy apron pocket and straightened her skirt.

  “Mildred?” she called as she disappeared into the fog. Her voice woke three more Infected. They stirred and sat up. If the fog had been any thinner they would have seen each other. Instead they moved toward the voices and the crackle of the fire.

  “Mildred, are you all right? We heard you call and were afraid you had fall—” the woman’s gasp swallowed her last word. She found herself only a foot or two from the scraggle of hair and limbs that crawled over Mildred’s small body. Teeth snapped and the Infected woman’s head jerked up, spraying tiny fans of blood droplets. They spattered the woman’s white apron and the skin on her bare arms. She screamed and backed away, waking more of the Infected. She ran in the direction she thought she had come, but no gold warmth of the bonfire met her, only more cool swirls of fog, like clots of milk bunching around her. She kept screaming. The other women were calling her, but she couldn’t hear them over the blaring thud of her heart and the shrill cries that tumbled out of her own throat.

  A skinny hand shot out of the fog and grabbed her arm. It yanked her down onto the crushed grass and knocked the wind from her lungs. She lay there, limbs aching, gasping at the thick air. A ring of jagged yellow teeth opened over her face and descended. Clawing fingers scraped her skin and twisted into her hair. It hurts! Her brain screamed, It hurts! But she fainted before it really could.

  Ruth sat on the bed staring at the dresser, willing it not to move. Juliana paced, her breath ragged and her eyes huge, listening to the struggle on the stairs outside. Neither dared to speak. Ruth checked and rechecked the small knife in her pocket. There was a distant scream from outside the hos
pital. The grunting outside the door paused for a second and then resumed. They’re waking up, thought Ruth, we just have to hold on a little longer. The dresser jiggled as something banged into the door. Juliana jumped a little and then sat next to Ruth on the bed. Ruth grabbed her hand and held it tightly. The dresser squealed as it moved a half inch from the wall.

  Commotion near the new scaffolds made Father Preston turn around, irritated that his attention was being divided. He was so close to defeating Ruth. So close to routing out the evil that had held sway over the hospital and Juliana for so long. And now, in the hour of his greatest triumph, he was being called away, for what? Someone would answer for this distraction. He stomped toward the rear of the camp. The fog was beginning to burn away around the campfire and he could see the shadow of figures moving very quickly as he drew closer to it. There were shouts and a few screams. The turned leg of an antique table stabbed out of the fog toward him, its end blazing. Father Preston dodged it, ducking sideways.

  “F-Father, I’m sorry,” stammered the man holding it, his arm was bleeding and his eyes darted wildly side to side. He grabbed Father Preston’s arm and dragged him back toward the hospital. “You can’t be back here, not safe. We have to get to the hospital, where it’s safe.”

  “What is going on?” growled Father Preston.

  “It’s the Infected— dozens of them. The devils came in with the fog. Attacked the women. They are everywhere.”

  The man whirled around with the burning table leg. Figures struggled all around them, shrouded by the fog. There was a sudden shriek near Father Preston’s left ear. He dropped to the ground, flattening himself against the rough weeds. An Infected sprang onto the other man’s back, ripping at his shoulder with its teeth. The table leg fell into the grass and began to smolder. Father Preston leapt up to help, but the Infected turned on him with a snarl. He grappled with the wiry, bony thing, its face too criss crossed with scars and missing chunks to tell what gender it had been. The other man held his shoulder and stumbled backward into the fog, hollering for help.