“Good morning, Brother Vincent,” called Father Preston. A timid chorus of “Good Mornings” echoed around him. That’s not a good sign, thought Vincent.
“I thought you might be hungry after your trip. And I knew you would be busy with other matters, so I’m here with breakfast,” he said as he drew the wagon up to the fire pit.
He could see a few of them staring at the golden rounds, but most were looking at Father Preston, like well-trained hounds waiting for permission. An empathetic ache spread through Vincent.
Father Preston smiled. “Your hospitality has always been exemplary, Brother Vincent. But I’m afraid we cannot accept this gift.”
Vincent’s own smile faded as he watched the circle of people around him sag with silent disappointment. More had arrived, smelling the sweet, yeasty scent of the bread even across the field.
“But why Brother Michael?” Vincent asked, purposely using his old title, “It’s a gift from a neighbor and a friend. Surely, we are going to be friends, aren’t we?”
“It is because I want us to be friends that we must refuse it. It’s too great a gift. I have seen how hard your people are working to feed themselves. We have not come to be a burden and we should not let our friends destroy themselves by giving too much.”
Clever, realized Vincent, he’s trying to figure out how much we’ve got without asking. And he’s establishing that he’s the one with the power to accept or deny the gift, not us in extending it. Good. Let him keep thinking he’s the one in charge.
“I’m humbled by your concern for us, Brother Michael. You are right, our fields are not overflowing. But would you deny a widow the joy of giving her mite? Please, let us celebrate finding new friends by offering you a simple meal. It is so rare these days to meet others.”
Father Preston’s smile loosened, but Vincent didn’t feel much warmth behind it. “How could we say no to that? Of course if it will bring you joy to break bread with us, then we heartily accept.”
Around him, Vincent could see more genuine smiles, ones of relief and welcome spread throughout the little crowd. The ache of empathy deepened. He knew if he took Father Preston away, where neither of them could see, the people would devour the bread within seconds. He also knew they were afraid of themselves, afraid they would return to the uncontrolled hunger of the Infection. He could sense the fraying control they had over themselves, even if Father Preston was oblivious to it.
He looked around and found a young man with a friendly face. Vincent placed a hand on his shoulder. “I wonder,” he said calmly, handing the wagon over to him, “If you would make sure that everyone gets some for me? I don’t know everybody and you will know so much better than I, where everyone is.” The young man nodded, still staring at the bread.
Vincent turned to Father Preston. “I know you are busy,” he said, “but do you have a moment to catch up with an old friend? You are the only brother left from our monastery. I want to hear about the others. And I want to hear about your story too.”
“Of course, Brother Vincent. I’ve always got time for you.” He led the way into the large tent.
It was set up like a makeshift church. A small desk sat in the place of the altar. There were bloody rags draped over the top and a tattered clerical shirt hung on the canvas behind the desk. They were all Father Preston’s. Vincent tried to suppress a shudder as he wondered who was actually being worshiped here. Why were these people so attached to the priest? What had he done or said that gave him such sway? He took the camp seat that Father Preston set out for him. He had just barely become a monk when Vincent had come home to the monastery, discouraged, in crisis and, though he didn’t know it, ill with the December Plague. He hadn’t known Father Preston well, but he remembered him as passionate and ambitious. Almost a biblical literalist.
It only made the story that Father Preston told him seem worse. Vincent knew it wasn’t true, that it couldn’t all be true, but he knew the other priest wouldn’t consciously lie. He believed what he told Vincent. He believed he’d been called to rescue the Infected from the women caring for them. He believed that the people who sought help to end their loved ones suffering needed to be brought to justice. And that torturing them would help their soul. He believed he had not only been miraculously cured of Infection, but that he was able to pass that cure on to others.
Vincent had been prepared to negotiate with a liar. With a braggart. With someone who was taking advantage of the vulnerable around him. But Vincent wasn’t prepared for someone delusional. He’d never convince Father Preston that he wasn’t a miracle. His entire identity was wrapped up in the belief. The best that Vincent could hope for was to save the people around Father Preston from the disaster that would come when he insisted on curing whatever refugees streamed in from the City. He knew what had to be done. He thanked Father Preston and left the tent to look for Amos.
Thirty-six
Marnie sat in the dark tube that made up one of the bunker’s bathrooms. There were two, Just large enough to turn around in, a toilet crowned with a shower head halo. She wasn’t sure how they’d originally planned to house a few hundred people with just the two tiny bathrooms. It didn’t matter now, with just the two of them. It was the only real place to get any privacy. The bunker was mostly one long room, a flimsy curtain between the sleeping area and the front kitchen and living areas and another curtain separating the storage area at the end. The walls made every sound echo down the entire length of it.
Marnie wondered what it would sound like with dozens of others. Maybe it’d be easier. Maybe the sheer press of bodies, the soft skin and clothing of fellow humans would absorb the sound. It’d definitely be warmer. But now, Christine’s sobs vibrated down the bunker like a banshee wail, even as she tried to cry quietly. Except in the bathroom. The bathroom was a cell apart. So Marnie sat in the dark, hour after hour trying to plan her escape. Our escape, she thought to herself with a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t going to leave a pregnant lady to die alone. Especially one who had tried to save Marnie’s life. There wasn’t much else to do, really. There was a shelf of beat up novels, but Marnie still struggled with reading. She’d mostly taught herself, and she still wasn’t certain she understood even some simple words. There was no one to ask and a dictionary was something she’d never even heard of. Even Henry’s simple instructions on the map he’d left for her had stretched her abilities. The few books she’d picked up since they locked themselves in had been fishing and game guides and farming instructions. They’d had plenty of pictures and diagrams, and Marnie had found them familiar after her years outside the City.
But mostly, she studied the utility map hanging in the storage room. She had it almost by heart now, the escape route she’d pick. She traced it in her mind like a mantra, whenever the bunker felt too small or too quiet or too empty. The route and the key code. These are what filled her waking mind. Christine would never give her the code. She’d have to wait the next month out or convince Christine that the City was dead. Or that they were in more danger inside the bunker than out. Today, though, Christine’s depression had leaked into Marnie. She gave up thinking about escape. Instead, she was thinking about Henry.
When she’d seen him at the Lodge, she’d waited for him to kill Phil. He’d been a torturer to both of them. But Henry didn’t know that. How could he? He’d gone mad long before Phil had. She’d watched as he locked Phil into the terrible woodshed overnight, thinking he meant to make it slow and painful. She’d slept on top of the shed roof that night, grinning each time Phil shrieked to be let out. She’d slid behind the back of the small building when she smelled the fire that Henry had lit. She listened as Phil realized what was happening and was shocked as she heard Henry forgive him. She still couldn’t understand him. Not why he came back for her and not why he let Phil go. All she knew was that she’d made a mistake in not going with him. She thought he’d wanted something from her— so what if he did? It was no worse than before. At least she wouldn’t have bee
n trapped in this crypt. Sure, there was enough food here, but how long would it be before she or Christine got sick? Or someone beat down the door and took everything? Even if they both made it, Christine would probably die when the baby came. Marnie’d seen it before, in Phil’s camp.
And then she’d be all alone.
She should have gone with Henry. She should have risked it. He’d said she was all he had left from Before. He was all she had too. Maybe he was the only one left out there who wasn’t sick. A series of dull thuds came from outside the bathroom. Most sounds didn’t carry, but loud ones would. Marnie opened the door to see what strange new project Christine had cooked up. Was she dusting the heavy crates of cans? Turning the bunk mattresses?
The bathroom door swung open and Marnie stood up and peered out. Christine was standing at the far end of the bunker, both arms pressed hard against the steel door. Another series of thuds came from behind it.
“Who the fuck is in there?” shouted a man into the intercom’s microphone. Marnie hurried up to the door as quietly as she could. She could see a small knot of people milling around on the little monitor. They only had flashlights and she could only make out a few heads here, a hand there. It was a jumble of movement and anger in the dark basement, the generator had been dead for days. “Let us in. We’ve got kids out here. We can’t go to the Barracks like the others. How are we supposed to feed them if we can’t leave to find food? Besides, we don’t give a shit about defending the Barracks. Let ‘em have it. Nothing of use left anyway. We just don’t want to be out on the streets with those— those Infected anymore. Every day there’s more. The military can’t even keep up with them anymore.” A fist banged on the door again. “Let us in, damn it! We’ve as much right to be in there as you!”
“Maybe they think we’re sick,” said a woman’s voice in the pause between thuds. There was a long silence. Then the original man began again.
“I can understand if you’re scared we’ll bring the Plague in. We’re all okay. We must be immune. None of us is showing any sign of infection. We can— We can find some bleach or some— some cleaner and we can douse ourselves before you open the door. Just— just let us in.”
There was another long silence as they waited for a response. “Look,” began the man again, “we’ve got nothing to trade, I’m just going to be honest. But we’re healthy, we can work. And— and breed. We’re just asking for a chance here.”
There was a shuffling and then a flashlight shone on a little boy being held by a thick, hairy arm. “This is my boy, Shawn. There’s seven others, his age and younger and four girls, none older than eight. He can’t fight those cannibals. None of them can. And the five of us adults who’re left, we’re too few to fight on our own and the Governor is heartless. He’d put them on a gun or a patrol. You don’t work, you don’t eat, no exceptions even for kids. Please, don’t send us back out there. You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t know. Half the City is dead. The other half’s been forced to retreat to the Barrier and live in the Barracks under siege. More and more are getting sick every day. People turn and wipe out whole patrols by the hour. We don’t want any part of it. Please, just let us in.”
They fell silent again. The flashlight beam shook over the little boy, as if the hand holding it was overwhelmed. A woman’s voice came out of the dark this time. “I know there are a lot of us. The parents— we can fend for ourselves. Just let the kids in. Please. They’re well behaved. They won’t give you any trouble. They won’t eat much, not for the few weeks they have to be in there. We won’t try to barge in if you let them in, we promise. We’ll just kiss them goodbye and we’ll leave them in your kind care. Please, if you can hear me— if you’re a mom or a dad, please listen. I’ll give you my daughter, just keep her safe. Let her live.”
Christine sank against the door, her mouth open in a silent sob and her eyes clenched shut against the monitor’s image. She shook with the cry, but held the sound in.
“Maybe we’re too late,” said a voice softly. “Maybe they locked themselves in, but they were already Infected and they’ve turned. They don’t know what we’re saying.”
“No,” said the first man, “if they were Infected, they’d have started pounding on the door as soon as they heard us. I found some like that, last time.”
“Maybe there’s nobody inside, then,” said another, “Maybe the Governor just locked it so no one would try to leave his little army to come here.”
“I wouldn’t put it past the bastard,” said the first man, “but I’m willing to bet he would have just taken the supplies and left it hanging open. Or chosen this as his last stand. No— there’s somebody in there. And they’re going to let us in, or I’m going to make them let us in. We camp here for now. The entrance is defensible and we can use the parking garage to scout scavenging locations without alerting all the Infected in the area. I will find a way inside this thing, even if it means breaking down the door with something. At the very least, it’s got power and water, and we’re going to need those to survive. You hear that?” he started yelling into the microphone again. “We aren’t leaving. You’ll either listen to us and our children starve one by one, or be at our mercy when we crack this thing wide open. Or you can cooperate and we can all be friends. Your choice.” He glanced up at the video camera. “Oh, and just in case you were waiting for us to sleep to rob and hurt us—” something swung at the camera. The picture stuttered and went dark as a sharp crack rang through the intercom. “Now you’re as blind as we are.”
Marnie reached over Christine’s head and flipped off the intercom speakers. “We don’t need to hear you either,” she whispered and sank down beside Christine. She wrapped her skinny arms around the other woman, not certain whether she was comforting or the one seeking comfort.
Thirty-seven
Frank let go of the knife. It clattered and spun on the tile floor. He was trembling. The dead woman’s blood ran down the tile and made a hollow drip in the floor drain.
“Why?” asked Nella, shaking her head.
Frank took a deep breath to calm himself. “I had no choice.” His tone was flat, as if it were a simple question.
“Of course you had a choice— she wasn’t sick, we could have let her go. Maybe helped her even.”
“Nella, the incubation period on the first Plague was six weeks. How do we know she wasn’t sick?”
“We could have waited to find out.”
Frank pulled off his blood-drenched plastic gloves and dropped them beside the knife. He placed a warm hand on her cheek. “No,” he said, his face calm and grave, “we couldn’t have waited. How could we wait that long? We couldn’t have left her here. There are rotting bodies on the porch that will attract other diseases and wild animals. There’s not enough gas to keep the generator on. Without the generator, there’s no water and no refrigeration. Without refrigeration, there isn’t enough food. Besides all that, if we left her and she was ill, she’d just wander away to infect someone else.”
“Then we would have taken her with us.”
Frank shook his head. “How? How would we quarantine her? Wear masks constantly for six weeks? Build a roof for the dinghy and tow it behind the boat? In another time— in the world Before, we might have been able to do it. If we had biohazard suits and a third person so that someone was always awake watching her, maybe we could have. But we don’t have any of those things.”
“We could have found a way. I never thought you’d do something like this, Frank.”
He let his hand drop away from her and she instantly felt a wave of loneliness slam into her. “Say we did. Say we found some way to take her. Where would we have gone?”
Nella was silent, thinking.
“The City is lost, Nella. Nobody can get in or get out, at least not right now. Nobody else is equipped to help her.”
“What about the Cured colony that Sevita told us about?”
“From what Sevita said about them, they barely took enough to kee
p themselves from starving this winter, let alone set up a refugee camp. And if she turned out to be sick, she could have infected them all. You heard the broadcast— Sevita and Dan risked their lives to save the people in that colony. They knew the City was lost. They were willing to let thousands of people be trapped in the City to save a hundred. How could we risk those hundred for the sake of one woman?”
“This isn’t math, Frank! You killed someone.”
“I know. I couldn’t face making you do it.”
“I wouldn’t have done it!” Nella cried.
“You’ve been trying to find a cure for this for weeks now. We both knew there wasn’t one. You’re still looking for some way to undo it. There’s no way but through. I’ve had time to think about it. Once you realize it, you’ll know what has to be done too.”
“What do you mean, ‘what has to be done’? What are you going to do?”
“We don’t have to discuss it here. We got what we came for. Let’s get out of this place. We’ll leave a warning on the truck.”
“We’re just— we’re just going to leave them like this? We stopped to bury the bodies of the Infected at the tire pit. You just want to leave these people to rot?”
Frank put a hand on the back of his neck in frustration. “If we had more than these flimsy paper masks and plastic gloves, I’d bury them all,” he shouted and then stopped to calm himself.
“We can’t leave them. It’s not just for their sake. What if someone wanders by or some animal drags something infected with the plague out of here? This kitchen worked for months without electricity. There must be some way to start the stoves. If we gather the linens— we don’t have to touch the bodies. We don’t even have to touch any soiled linen. We can just take the tablecloths. Maybe some of the files.”
Poveglia (After the Cure Book 4) Page 20
