No Flesh Shall Be Spared

by Carnell, Thom

  The interior walls of the church rose up majestically toward the heavens, adorned in the consecrated imagery of faith and forgiveness; portraits of repentance granted and redemption won. What little light there was inside had seeped into the building through two large, stained glass windows set in the masonry walls on either side of the gilded altar. The ornately decorated Sanctuary loomed at the far end of the church. Above it, a domed apse loomed high and was painted a soft sky blue. Statues carved with an obvious reverence stood regally on either side of the expansive nave where the congregation would sit and bear silent witness to the downfall of an over-confident and sinful world. The light of the fluttering candles at the feet of the sculptures added minutely to the sparse illumination within the room. Once, this place of worship had as its guests king and pauper, billionaire and bum. These days, only the shambling multitude came to hear the Word of God, for they were all that seemed to be left.

  As the sun pressed its way through the clouds and continued its rise in the eastern sky, the lumbering host straggled in through the church’s doors for that morning’s mass. The Dead had come in all manner of creation—or disintegration might be a more apt term—held together despite the ravages of Time and her twin sister, Decomposition. But come they did for this was once a holy place in their minds and therefore held great import in their lives. They would come and continue to come, no doubt, for as long as their slowly putrefying bodies were able.

  ~ * ~

  An uneven hush settled over the assembled congregation as Father Handel entered the church proper through a side door. He approached the pulpit at a languorous pace, carefully orchestrating his arrival’s sense of drama. Tall and once considered to be good-looking, the priest moved slowly across the Chancel at the front of the room, his gait betraying both his stress and his advancing age. What remained of his once dark hair had gone silver and now laid slicked back across his rapidly diminishing pate. The white vestments of his station hung from his bony shoulders like a flag on a windless day. His manner was that of an already fatigued man pushed far beyond his limits of endurance. It would have been obvious to anyone looking into the church that these last weeks had been an exhausting ordeal for him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity left alive to witness his deterioration, so that point was a moot one.

  Silence settled erratically over the crowd like a flock of nervous pigeons as he took his place at the lectern. Father Handel quietly waited for the crowd to completely calm themselves before looking up and addressing them. He was confident that there would be none of the disruptions that sometimes interrupted his services of the past. For this was St. Joseph’s and those gathered, despite their advanced state of decay and murderous recent history, instinctively knew that here—now—propriety would still rule the day. Father Handel had seen to that, gently but insistently. This almost civil behavior was one of the small accomplishments in which the priest felt he could take a slight amount of pride. He’d managed to make contact—to really connect—with these dead souls and impart to them a concept they’d actually been able to understand and one with which they could comply. Yes, there were odd disturbances here and there, but for the most part, things went according to the church’s preordained liturgy.

  As the priest looked up from his podium and formally addressed the congregation, the group rose clumsily as one to their feet. Some did so awkwardly, rocking from foot to foot like they were drunk or mentally ill. While others stood in stillness, blindly following the group, staring gape-mouthed straight ahead. Hair mussed, clothes torn and spattered with blood, they stared with wide eyes and open mouths at the altar, awed as if by the presence of God himself.

  There was Mrs. Roselli in her usual pew. The heavy Italian woman who once wore her piety like a shawl now stared blankly up at the Corpus Christi and reacted as if she were seeing the sculpture for the very first time. A bit of her husband’s half-chewed and decomposing lower leg, which she still held lovingly in her arms, fell unnoticed from her torn lip and hit the floor with a sharp wet sound. A small toddler with blue-tinged skin crawled about the floor under her seat and quickly retrieved the fallen morsel. Eagerly, the child stuffed the meat into her toothless mouth.

  Despite the service beginning around him, The Honorable Judge Harris sat wearing his pajamas in the centre aisle, legs splayed akimbo, trying in vain to form a cross with the two matted femur bones he’d brought along with him. He continually looked from the crucifix on the wall to the bones in his hands as if unsure of how he might make one become the other. Soon his attention wandered and his gaze came to rest on the thing he’d set lovingly in his lap. The crimson lump was now a highly valued thing in his undead world and one that he considered to be of the utmost importance. He’d torn it unceremoniously from his wife’s chest as she slept. Now the chambered muscle lay cold and still in his hands. He cradled the treasure protectively for it was to be his offering for the service’s expected collection plate.

  Along the main aisle near the back of the room sat little Julie Brown, a raven-haired girl to whom Father Handel had given First Communion only a month or two earlier, in a time just before the world unraveled. As she fingered a small hole in her torn and darkly matted dress, one of her bright blue eyes hung limply from its shattered socket. When Father Handel’s gaze fell upon her, she smiled. Her grin was at once wide and malignant. Her mouth held splintered teeth and clotted blood; clumps of human flesh caught between the shattered dentition.

  It was evident from the empty gazes and confused stares that most of The Dead could not remember how they had come to be what they were. None could recall the cataclysm which had brought them this state of decrepitude. They only glimpsed ghost-like shadows of their past on the ragged curtains of their minds. Knowing nothing else, the multitude was forever compelled to try to recreate their dimly remembered lives. It was why many of them were here today.

  Father Handel placed his tired, worn hands on the pulpit and bowed his head. The congregation fell back clumsily into their seats. He waited patiently for silence to once again return to this, his undead fold. In that short time his mind wandered and he was free to momentarily consider his present circumstances.

  In the first few days of The Dead’s return the priest would have been very much opposed to the idea of willingly walking into a room full of "Shufflers," as they were called by those who were still living in the fortified encampments outside the city. He’d heard some of the refugees talking on the short wave radio which kept him company through the long nights in the empty rectory. At first, he’d begged them repeatedly to come to his aid, but it soon became apparent, due to the overwhelming numbers of The Dead still left in the city, that any such rescue mission would only end in all of their deaths. Father Handel soon came to accept himself as a sort of Robinson Crusoe who was marooned amidst a lethal and yet lifeless sea.

  And so, he listened. He listened to the chatter, listened to the cries for help, listened to the denials and justifications, listened to the soul-crushing reports of how things were going elsewhere in the world. Slowly, he began to get an idea of the enormity of the situation and how dismal it looked for everyone. From the stories he heard the priest knew his situation was hopeless and that was something he could not bear to let roam his conscious mind. For sometimes even a holy man such as he could not exempt himself from feeling a sense of futility and a deep and abiding loathing for the horrible and unforgiving things which had slowly, but inexorably, taken over his world.

  However, he’d taken an oath—a sacred and holy mandate—and sworn to himself and to the Heavenly Father to lead His children to salvation. And, like it or not, these terrible creatures which now sat staring gape-mouthed before him were still his fold and, more importantly, His flock. Father Handel looked down and as he steeled himself for the impending service his mind continued to recall how it all had gone down.

  After the initial outbreaks had been reported by the news services it wasn’t long before the numbers turned an
d the shambling minority became the moaning majority. All too soon, it was apparent that he would be unable to escape the city due to the sheer magnitude of the dead and so it seemed prudent for the priest to figure out some sort of purpose for himself to show this undead occupying force, if only so that he would be allowed to continue to live.

  …and to preach God’s word, of course.

  He could still remember how desperate the times had been when the first reports started coming out of Butler County in Pennsylvania. Soon the "phenomenon," as it was being called by the radio and television, had spread across the country like one of the plagues from the Bible itself. It wasn’t long before everyone had lost someone and the final days of the contagion were only just beginning. The thought of it… Well, it all seemed so utterly outrageous. Who could have ever believed the things they’d been hearing coming from their television sets: "Armies of the dead", "Human cannibals" who wouldn’t stay dead unless you destroyed their brains, "Lock your doors", "Dispose of your dead immediately"? No one had ever imagined that something like this was possible; that something like this could ever happen outside of a fevered imagination. It was that error in judgment that cost humanity its initiative and therefore its hope and future. When a respected network anchor came on the Nightly News and devoured his co-anchor just before the Weather and Sports, the world at large realized that all was lost.

  Humankind was quick like that.

  It wasn’t long before The Dead had more or less taken control, their rapidly increasing numbers saw to that. They made sure that every human they encountered was either stripped as a food source or became one of the "converted." In no time, they became a horde of walking pestilence; an army with only hunger as their coalescent dogma. All that they had were the echoes of lives passed, routines dimly remembered and patterns they were compelled to repeat.

  They’d needed some sort of guidance, a unifying force.

  …a theology.

  And so… When The Dead finally began banging on the door of St. Joseph’s, Father Handel had been ready for them with a plan in hand. He would attempt to awaken Them, much like Jesus had done at the tomb of Lazarus. He would give them a brilliant flash of the evangelical memory that had once shaken them to the very core of their beings. His message would be simple: "You are all still God’s children. You will always be God’s children. He still loves you. And only through Him" (and Father Handel, of course) "can you find absolution and an end to this pain and suffering." If it worked, it would buy the priest some time until help could arrive.

  The only thing was… help had yet to arrive.

  His plan worked like the proverbial charm, the Lord had seen to that. The Dead quickly came to accept him as their Shepherd, a leader that God Himself had sent to guide His malignant Flock to Paradise. However his life as a captive, while in many ways safe and secure, was not without its hazards. Several times he’d been careless and come dangerously close to being bitten early on. But now as The Dead had come to think, in their limited capacity, of Father Handel and their dimly remembered God as synonymous, his life seemed spared. He was cared for and allowed to eat from the larder of food left behind by the city’s now deceased residents. None of The Dead made attempts to eat him any longer and that was a plus. It looked, for better or for worse, as if he’d been allowed to survive and would continue to do so for as long as he preached to the Living Dead their version of the Gospel.

  Father Handel rationalized to himself that he must do whatever he had to in order to stay alive so that he could guide these murderous children back toward God’s salvation. It was the very definition of his role as priest. But there were downsides to this plan of his. The service he was about to conduct would have once been considered an abomination by the Church and therefore unthinkable. However some of the more lucid Dead had been quite insistent upon it being conducted. They’d silently made their wishes quite clear. In fact, it was the one thing they seemed determined to have him do since it was a seminal rite in their religion. He’d agreed to do it, but only once he saw how passive they were after he had performed it.

  The crowd before him had by now grown restless and the motion from their impatient movement brought Father Handel back from his reverie. He cleared his throat, looked around with his most benevolent expression and spoke from the Missal.

  "Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation," Father Handel began, his voice a low monotone. He was careful not to raise his volume too abruptly or too sharply since he didn’t want to risk exciting the throng assembled before him. The priest was still learning just how far they could be pushed before civility was cast aside and blood was spilled. The last thing he wanted was to incite a feeding frenzy where he would well become the center of attention. "Through your goodness we have this food to offer, which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the Bread of Life."

  A silence fell across the faithful as final as any death shroud and Father Handel shifted anxiously on his feet as he waited for what he hoped would follow, their dutiful response. His heart felt heavy and his blood was slowed by the fear. Fleetingly, he wondered if today was the day that The Dead had finally come to St. Joseph’s serving a more sinister purpose.

  After a short silence, the throng stood and drew a collective breath. As one, they mechanically opened their mouths and moaned, "Blesssss beee Gaaaa’ forrr e’er."

  Father Handel sighed softly in relief, then smiled so that the congregation could see his approval. Lowering his gaze, he continued reading, "Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation. Through your goodness we have this wine to offer, fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become our spiritual drink." He paused for effect and took the time to look up from the heavy, leather book which he held open in his hands.

  The throng stood wide-eyed and, for an instant, the priest felt as if he’d caught a glimpse of the people they once were, caught just an all too brief image of the lives and the memories which were held captive behind those clouded eyes. And it was in that moment that he was convinced, now more than ever that he’d been correct. These shambling abominations truly were his flock and they all looked to God, and to him, for a sense of security and an unwritten guarantee of their exemption from Hell’s all-consuming fire.

  While it was true that they had become a congregation of monsters, like something out of a dime-store novel, it was also true that it was only through His word they could find redemption. And while they were now no much more than beasts who gave little thought to the act of killing as well as to the ingestion of human flesh, they could still be granted Salvation through His Grace. Now that they’d been held safe in the cold yet comfortable embrace of the Elysium which laid behind Death’s exclusionary door (even if that door had needed to be thrown open, creaking on hinges lubricated by the blood of the fallen, to do so), they knew better than anyone the glory of Heaven and of the majesty of His plan.

  As one, the parishioners sucked in a collective breath and groaned, "Blesssss beee Gaaaa’ forrr e’er."

  An odor of mold and of the grave swirled about the room as the fetid air held within their stagnant lungs was expelled. A stomach-turning smell drifted across the room and up to the podium. The priest, his stomach lurching suddenly, set the leather bound book in his hands down on the lectern and ran his index finger across the underside of his nose. He knew that the smell of the incense which lay trapped in the folds of his sleeves would mask the putrid stench. It was a small trick he’d learned early on. He knew instinctively that vomiting before Them—and because of Them—would absolutely send the wrong message. So steps were taken, adaptations were made.

  "Pray, brethren, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father," continued Father Handel, raising his voice just a notch. He spread his arms out, mimicking the figure hung on the cross behind him, and bowed his head. From the look in the crowd’s glassy eyes, the posture achieved the desired effect.

  The congregation was in full recollection now and t
he words flowed, albeit clumsily, over their swollen tongues and blackened lips. "May ah Lo-o-or’ accep’ aah sacrifi…aah yor han’s fah ah pra-ase aah g’ory ah hisss na-a-ame… ffah argh goo’ ah daa goo’ of ahhl hisss Churrrrsh."

  Father Handel allowed a full smile to drift across his face as he thought of all the progress his fold had made. When they’d first started arriving at his door, they could barely focus their attention on one thing for any length of time without trying to put their mouths on it. Now, through their continual repetition and his dogged persistence these past few weeks, they were almost understandable. He looked back to his book and continued, "Lord, make us worthy to celebrate these mysteries. Each time we offer this memorial sacrifice, the work of our redemption is accomplished. We ask this in the name of Jesus the Lord."

  Another stuttering breath was drawn by the crowd and they spoke as one. "A-a-a-a-mennnn." The word, which once had been the very personification of the devotion of the faithful, now sounded hollow like the echoes of sanctification long lost and forgotten.

  As the priest continued reciting the ritual, he noticed more of The Dead trying to gain entrance to the church. There were just so many more of them these days. All of them lured here by either a memory of the forgiveness offered or drawn by the rumor of what was freely given in this macabre communion. Since all of the seats of the cathedral’s pews were now filled, the others were forced to stand awkwardly at the back or were left to aimlessly roam the aisles.

  A few of the newer Dead, those having come bewildered into their new state of being, clawed at the feet of the carved statue of the Holy Mother which stood on one side of the room. It was as if they believed that anything even remotely human in form would yield some form of sustenance. Father Handel drew his arms back toward his body and slowly raised his right hand in a replication of the Sacred Heart. He drew a stuttering breath and continued the ritual.