Angela watched Dorothy and Gary edge deeper into the section of the classrooms that remained intact. In her black jeans pocket, she rolled the lighter back and forth and thought: Clara should stop smoking. She would be sure to tell her that, once they found her.
She examined the pattern of the wood splinters on the floor and realized they were, for the most part, all spraying from the same direction: away from the kitchen. It was then Angela noticed the door was missing, and the naked doorway, drowning in blackness, had been staring her straight in the face since she arrived. All the clues seemed to lead into its depths and Angela was left with no other option, but to follow them.
Without too much hesitation, she walked to the edge of the darkness and peered inside. A faint heat emanated from somewhere in the kitchen. Again, Angela’s hand slid down the wall in search of a light switch. Her deer-like alertness told her there were eyes upon her; or, if not eyes, there was something in the room that had become aware of her, prompting her hand to roam more aggressively; eager to bring light upon whatever it was.
In her haste, her hand slipped onto something wet. Although the liquid was warm, a numbing sensation chilled up her arm and rested in the joint of her shoulder, effectively freezing it.
For fear that her hand would be drenched in red, should she pull it into the light, Angela decided to continue groping for the switch. Her shaky digits carried on and fumbled over soggy wallpaper before they found what they were searching for. They clenched the plastic light switch like it was a buoy in shark-laden waters. She flicked it on.
A spark flickered out from the bulb at first, giving a brief flash of the room. It lasted just long enough to reveal one detail; there was something lying at Angela’s feet. After this tease, the light managed to squeeze out a bit more juice and the kitchen was illuminated.
It was Clara lying on the floor. She looked to be sleeping. Then, like a miracle, a twitch of life stirred in Clara’s hand. She was hurt, but she was alive. Her head rose from the floor and she looked at Angela with a smile. The two of them glowed at each other. The love they shared had conquered the evil that threatened to tear them apart. Now that they were reunited, the darkness that surrounded them fell back timidly in the brilliant shine of their compassion. Together, they could withstand whatever life had in store for them.
All of this, of course, was a comforting concoction of Angela’s traumatized mind. The effects of this intoxicating fantasy lasted a few moments before dissolving into the unrelenting horror on display before her.
Only a part of Clara was actually piled at her feet; though, which part was impossible to say — she had been so utterly disassembled. It was as though her body had been transformed into confetti, slice by slice. Her legs were spread open, but most of the flesh had been carved away and generously spread to all corners of the room. Like hollowing out a pumpkin, Clara’s torso was open and the ribs snapped outwards so she could be effectively emptied. Angela stared into the gaping cavity that used to be her chest – the heart, the lungs, the stomach, everything was gone, meticulously diced beyond recognition. The hollowing procedure continued up to Clara’s neck, leading to her head, which had been twisted back as if arched in profane ecstasy. Her eyes were open wide and also the only part of her body spared the frenzied slicing of the razor. The expression on her face told Angela that Clara had fully suffered the obliteration of every inch of her body.
Sometimes dreams are wrong, very wrong.
As the reality of each heinous detail dripped into Angela’s consciousness, she could feel her stomach lurch in protest. She turned her back and grabbed hold of the doorway, as her vision grew dim around the edges. Her balance disintegrated and suddenly she was in free fall, though she remained standing with her back propped up by the wall. Uncontrollable gasps sent her body quaking, as if someone were jabbing a knife randomly into her stomach.
Dorothy came running with Gary chasing behind her. He would have restrained her, too, if the debris had not caused him to slip, sending him, face first, onto the cement.
“Clara are you in there?” Dorothy asked with heartbreaking innocence. She stumbled into the doorway and feasted on the full view of the remains of her daughter.
“Dorothy, stop! Don’t look!” Angela jumped in front of her, but Dorothy was determined to see. She grabbed hold of Angela’s shoulder and shoved her aside with enough force to slam her flat against the wall.
Gary got to his feet, but it was too late; Dorothy was already a witness.
“Clara... What are you doing?” she asked the bloody pile. The mass of torn flesh and cracked bone did not answer, nor did the tortured face that at least still resembled her daughter.
Dorothy collapsed to the floor like a building under demolition. Her knees gave way first, followed by each respective hip. The wave of structural failure followed up her spine until she landed on all fours.
The thing in front of her was not her daughter. It was not possible. Her special girl, who she loved, who she cared for beyond all else, who she had periodically taken for granted, was reduced to this ghastly thing – an inhuman sculpture, the unbearable hideousness of bodily life reduced to bodily death.
“No,” pleaded Dorothy, her words fighting through festering sorrow. “God please, no. Christ, no!”
CHAPTER 23
By the time the first night crept upon the church, everyone in the congregation was ready for the sweet escape of sleep. Not just the congregation in fact, but the entire building seemed quiet and ready to forget the atrocities committed within its walls. The church rested, still and alone, on the open field, lulled by the chilled air and silently passing twilight.
People felt safer in numbers, so everyone had remained in the sanctuary, which had been scrubbed clean except for the stains on the fabric mural. This was not the only housekeeping duty that had kept the congregation busy; the bodies of their fallen members had been moved to the basement kitchen, food from the picnic had been reorganized and evenly divided among families, and an overall sense of structure had been established. There had developed two main overseers, Angela and Gary, who naturally became the ones people went to. They filtered, debated and made decisions for the good of the group. Dorothy would have also been part of the elite three if Clara’s murder had not pushed her into catatonia.
These tidy, comforting chores of cleaning and organizing were all well and good, but the main problem, the problem of escape, remained ignored for the most part.
Cushions and blankets from various rooms in the church lined the pews, covered the floors, and anywhere else that had been taken for a bed. Candles lit the sanctuary soothingly with a warm, gentle illumination.
Angela remained awake and sat on a pew with her knees pressed up toward her chin. She had discovered in grade two that this was her most self-soothing position, one where she felt protected and solid. Next to her slept Alex, wrapped in a thick quilt Angela had found stuffed away in a forgotten cupboard. Before drifting off, Alex had remarked how the candles reminded him of their Christmas services, which every year used little flames to symbolize the star that announced the birth of the baby Jesus. Angela hoped everyone shared that cheery association. Maybe they did, she thought to herself, noting how quickly the room had succumbed to sleep. However, neither the candles nor the quiet helped Angela rest. She did not trust in the peace they peddled.
A trickle of cold, blue moonlight snuck through the top of the stained-glass window and poured down the length of one of the pews like an elegant brush stroke from an invisible, but gifted hand. But, whose hand? Angela asked herself, as soon as the light appeared. She sat a mere three rows down from it. Was that play of light supposed to be God’s attempt at comfort, or was it a symbol of His powerlessness to intervene in any meaningful way? Was He merely the God of smoke and mirrors, or was it just coincidence that brought this visual delicacy into Angela’s view? She half-hoped there was no reason for the light at all – that it was just nature doing something natural – for if, indeed, t
here was a Mastermind at work, then He had a lot to answer for. First question Angela would demand was: why Clara? Why was she the one meant to suffer? Furthermore, why was this beast, this Behemoth, allowed to terrorize them? Was it all a sick test of faith? If it was, then the simple morals Angela had pieced together through her short life were more than enough to convince her that the test itself was bullshit, unfair, and could only be concocted by a God of supreme cruelty and malevolence. If she were God, she considered, she probably would have skipped the inventions of pain and death; it seemed obvious that life would be better lived without those things. And she certainly wouldn’t have kept so many secrets and allowed her children to blunder through torture after torture with the hope that blind faith would carry them. Was God’s morality so deeply undeveloped? These harsh questions eventually led to a suspicion she had been toying with for a while now – they were alone. There was no Heavenly Father or Holy Ghost. No one listened to the private prayers of the devout, or rewarded the righteous for doing good. All they had was each other, as tenuous as that was. However, if Angela conceded that, then Clara really was gone. She did not shimmer off like a roaring star into Heaven to be reunited with her father, whom she loved. Instead, the reality was, she had been gutted for protecting the children, and there was no eternity of peace as a reward for her valor. She was ended. The notion of such injustice boiled up a repellent nihilism, and brought Angela back to God. Her thoughts continued in this vein and circled around each other like a rusted hamster wheel. Even within herself, Angela was trapped.
Or, maybe that thing from the woods really was God. At least that would better explain the current state of things. The beast was a merciless master, an attentive author of each and every agony that plagued them. Despite that, it had one positive characteristic. At least, unlike the depiction of the crucified man Angela now glanced at, the Behemoth was honest about its immorality.
“Hi, Angela,” a voice whispered from behind her.
She turned her head and was shocked to see Tina standing there. The makeup Tina wore so thickly, now stained her tired face like the peeling paint of a neglected house. Needless to say, her usual sense of cheer had escaped her, but that was okay, Angela liked her better that way.
“Hello, Tina.”
“Am I interrupting? You looked... pensive.”
“No, it’s fine. What’s wrong? Couldn’t sleep?”
“I tried,” she said, while taking a seat next to Angela – a seat that was not offered. “But, I doubt I’ll get a wink of rest tonight. Gary’s out like a rock. You’ll probably hear him snoring in about ten minutes. I usually find candles so soothing, but not tonight.”
“No? Me, neither. But, it’s the best we can do with the power gone.”
“There used to be an old generator downstairs.”
“It’s still there, but we didn’t want to use up all the gas just yet, if we don’t need to.”
“That’s good thinking. Who knows how long we’ll be here.”
“We know. He gave us two nights, Tina. Two nights and this was the first we wasted.” Angela decided to be blunt.
“Yes,” she said dismissively. “And how about you, are you going to get any rest?”
“I’m not worried about me.”
“Well, you need to get rest for your son’s sake, then. You won’t be much use to him exhausted. How is he doing?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t spoken since it happened. I tried talking to him, but he just stares.”
“Maybe he’s in shock. It’s been a hard day.”
“Hard?” Angela responded with thick sarcasm. “Oh, I don’t know about that. There were some good moments, too. Depends on your perspective.” Angela restrained the maniacal cackle that was building within her. A hard day? Was that really the best word Tina could have found to describe it? Angela found plenty of others: a shitty, brutal, fucked-up day. A day so awful, most people would kill themselves before having to relive it.
“Sorry, you’re right. That was stupid. I’m just at a loss at what to say, of how to handle everything that’s happened. That’s all.” Finally, Tina had revealed some honest emotions. Angela latched onto them.
“I know. I thought I knew what it was to be stuck in a nightmare, but I had no idea until now.”
“Gary told me about the basement. He said how you found Clara and I wanted to say that I’m so sorry.” She placed her hand on Angela’s knee. “Normally, I’d say she’s with God, but, I don’t know what that means anymore. So, all I can say is I’m sorry.”
There was no response given, nor did Tina wait around for one before she got up and walked away. It was clear she had offered her sympathy earnestly. Unlike her normal gossip-driven self, this display of compassion was solely to show her support, not elicit a reaction. It was tender and genuine, and it was for this reason Angela felt compelled to say something.
“Thank you,” Angela eventually uttered quietly, unsure if Tina even heard her since she was already halfway across the room.
Once Angela couldn’t bear to look at the stream of moonlight anymore, her eyes adjusted to the dark and soon she could see all the way to the pulpit. Someone was standing there, with their back turned looking upward at the fabric mural of bloody worship. It was a few seconds before Angela realized it was Dorothy.
Angela’s pew creaked as Chris slid down closer to her. She started to suspect there was not a single person in the room who was actually asleep.
“She hasn’t moved in hours,” he spoke softly, motioning to Dorothy.
“I’m not surprised. I doubt she’d move even if the room were on fire. She probably wouldn’t care much right now.”
“Mrs. Morris, can I ask you a question, and can you answer honestly?”
“Chris, you can ask me anything, just so long as you drop the Morris. It’s Angela.”
“Alright, Angela, but, do you promise to answer the way you really feel? I asked my parents, but my mom keeps feeding me shit.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do you think we’re going to live through this?” he asked, seriously. There was a stumble in the question, as if he didn’t really want to ask it, or rather, didn’t really want it answered.
“Yes. We will. We have to.”
“We have to? What the fuck does that mean?” His voice rose, but was restrained enough not to wake Alex.
“It means I’ve decided to be hopeful, for the sake of my son. There’s only so much loss you can take before something good has to happen.”
“And that’s really what you think?”
“Sure. Look, Chris, it’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it. I’ll help you anyway I can, but don’t depend on me to lift your spirits, not after Clara.”
“I’m not asking you to help me feel warm and fuzzy. I doubt you could do that even if you tried. I don’t really like to trust people.”
“You’re kind of an intense kid. How old are you anyway?”
“Sixteen.”
“So, if you’re not looking for hope, then why did you ask?”
“Everyone seems content to just sit here, but that’s like waiting on the Titanic, hoping it will just suddenly start to float again. It won’t. We’re sinking. I feel it, Matthew feels it, and I think you feel it, too.”
“Yeah.”
“I think most people haven’t really gotten it, yet. I saw Mr. Sawyer checking his phone, every few minutes, for a solid three hours. Three hours! Non-stop checking his stupid phone. We haven’t had any contact out here all day, but he thinks, what? Someone is just going to call him up, out of the blue?”
“Maybe its worth it to keep trying.”
“Trying, yes, that’s worth it. But he’s just wasting time. We’re alone, and someone needs to go for help.”
“Go outside? That’s nuts.”
“There’s no other choice. No one is going to come and save us. We haven’t been missing long enough for anyone to come looking, let alone looking for us at this shitty church. We�
�re fucked, unless we do something.”
“You didn’t see what that thing did to Sandy.”
“Good, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know .—not if it will change my mind.”
“It would,” she said, remembering the horror for herself.
“It’s the only plan I have.”
“Well, it’s not a very good one.”
“Angela, I’m scared.”
“We all are.”
“I’m scared of what people might do once they realize nobody’s going to call, and time runs out. There are fifty of us in this room. Only three seem to actually acknowledge what’s happening. That’s scary.”
Angela met his eyes with mutual concern. Until then, her worries had focused mostly on Rick and his beast; she had not considered that her fellow congregation members could, in fact, turn on each other. Or, at least, she had not treated the threat seriously. How much pressure does it take to turn people into rabid dogs? Angela feared that before too long, she’d have the answer.
On this ominous note, Chris returned to the corner he left and Angela lay down next to Alex. She cradled him tightly and let her eyes shut the world off.
If she had taken only a moment to glance at the front of the sanctuary before lowering her head, maybe she would have seen that Dorothy was no longer there. But, as fate would have it, no one had noticed her disappearance.
CHAPTER 24
The mess hall was an empty inkwell when Dorothy stepped into it. She found calmness in the black nothingness that surrounded her. Spatial details were stripped away by the night, which freed her from the church, and from the death of her daughter, into an endless canyon she could wander through and hopefully get lost in, never to return.
What did she have to return to anyway? In just a few years her entire family had died. All the little details which once consumed her, the picnic, the bulletins, the carefully mapped geometry of her garden, all of them had vomited her back out, partly digested, onto a severe stone floor. That’s all she was now, a discarded, unwanted, useless slab of regurgitation. The only person who could ever have cared for such a wretched thing like her had been butchered less than twelve hours ago – the full reality of which was buried somewhere deep in the pit of her mind, hiding in the dark, or perhaps she was the one hiding from it.
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