The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  For several long moments, the onlookers just stood and watched aghast. Some were seemingly in a stupor, others were overcome with revulsion. A couple began retching on the ground at the scene that had just unfolded before them. Was it some sick stunt, a joke played by Gaunt upon his crew? The man was twisted, so it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility. Or was it part of the movie? Were they supposed to have been filming it? Had someone forgotten to update the schedules, and more to the point, who would be blamed when Gaunt realised they hadn't got this expensive effects shot in the can?

  Then the excuses stopped and panic set in as the hideous, eerie wail returned, only this time it was vibrating inside their own heads, an inner scream that it was impossible to block out. Some of the crew just winced and rubbed their temples, but others – the unlucky ones who had tasted the water from the tomb – sank to their knees and screamed as their wills and personalities were subsumed by the monstrous vibration. Their bodies responded to the call, twisting and corrupting as the inner sound caressed their flesh, warping nerves and tendons, raising lesions on the skin, making eyes turn milky, weeping greenish goo, swollen tongues protruding from blackened mouths as lungs churned with putrescent froth.

  Then, as one, the unfortunate drinkers of Wulfred's water rose up from their tortures with beatific smiles upon their ruined faces, their eyes ablaze with fanatical fervour even as they wept pus. They grinned as they slobbered and advanced on those who were clean of infection, seizing them and hugging them close to their contagion, breathing the filth and spew of centuries upon them, until they too began to scream and blister and fester, their heads singing with the hideous hymn of decay.

  The tension in the cottage was unbearable and Eric's heart nearly stopped when a loud banging started. But it wasn't the sound of the Brothers' guns, it was someone hammering on the cottage door.

  “Come on in!” yelled Jenny grinning as she held Milder's gaze. “The more the merrier!”

  Bell and Milder tensed yet further as the door opened, perfectly aware that this could be Gaunt's strong arm boys, possibly armed. Milder continued to cover Jenny, who seemed the greatest threat, whilst Bell aimed at the door.

  It was one of the runners from the film crew who stepped in, though, his face a mask of panic. “Mr Gaunt!” he cried. “Everyone's turning sick. And they're spreading it, everyone's catching it. They're all covered in sores...”

  He stopped dead, his mouth hanging open in shock as he noticed Bell's pistol aimed right between his eyes. Then a pair of suppurating hands reached in from behind him and cradled his head. His mouth hung open in a piercing scream as his eyes clouded over and his flesh sizzled, sprouting boils and raw sores. Even Jenny was shocked by this development, spinning on her heels and retreating into the room.

  Then Bell's gun spat death and the boy's forehead cracked open, black blood spurting from the bullet hole. The impact of the shot threw his body backwards, toppling the diseased actress who stood behind him, pinning her infectious flesh beneath him for a few seconds.

  “We're too late,” said Bell, his face ashen. “The contagion has reached critical mass, Wulfred's will can reach into the world through the infected.”

  Milder looked both Gaunt and Jenny in the eye and lowered his gun. “You can see now that we were telling the truth,” he said. “You've both been duped, and this is the result. This will be happening all through the village and the surrounding countryside. Our only hope for safety is to return to the monastery. Are you coming or not? It's too late for recriminations now, we'll need every capable hand if we're to survive and find a way to put this thing down. And you two are nothing if not capable.”

  Jenny and her father looked at each other. For a moment, it looked as though they were going to refuse and go their own way, leaving these fools to their own devices. But then Dan Treadwell began spitting blood and shivering violently as the mournful howling in his head became unbearable. His bowels emptied as his stomach was seized by agonising cramps, his bones twisted and his body swelled with pus, gangrenous pits appearing in his flesh, which purpled and stank. He screamed and sank to his knees. They watched in horror, until a blissful smile spread across his ravaged features and he lurched back upright, reaching for them. The diseased actress in a nun's costume was also heaving the corpse of the runner Bell had shot off herself, her exposed legs kicking him aside, covered in leprous lesions.

  “We need to get out of here! Now!” shouted Bell. “Go on, through the back door!”

  They scurried out, Eric helping the wide-eyed. trembling figure of Ellwood, who was evidently in severe shock. The Gaunts followed after them, deciding that the greatest safety lay in numbers. Before he left the cottage, however, Gaunt ducked under Treadwell's outstretched arms and snatched up Alec Davies' fallen handgun, tucking it into his belt and concealing it beneath his jacket.

  Ed Gibbs was not so lucky. Treadwell's hand brushed against him as he tried to make his escape. The director immediately crumpled, stricken, as his face began to bubble and corrode.

  Sandra Cullen drove as if in a trance, a broad smile fixed upon her face, even as her eyes stared blankly ahead. She had got out of bed, put on her make up and dressed smartly after Eric had called her. Then she had got into her car and started to drive. She just sat back in the driver's seat, taking comfort from the whispering voice in her brain, which seemed to guide her actions, leading her where she needed to go without any conscious effort on her part. She looked every inch the smart, presentable, professional woman, dressed in a dark business suit, her hair neat, her face pretty from a distance. It was only when examined closely enough to see beneath the make-up that the rough nodules which now disfigured her features could be discerned Nor could anyone see the weeping sores and raw holes in the flesh of her once shapely legs, which caused the fabric of her trousers to stick to her as she sat in the seat. But she felt no pain, or rather, the pain was transmuted into the most exquisite pleasure, every tortured pang a miniature orgasm.

  Sandra parked her car outside Eric's bed and breakfast. She stepped outside, unpeeled the backs of her trouser legs from her sticky flesh, and walked into the house through the front door, which was still hanging wide open following Eric's panic-stricken departure. She sniffed the air, the blank smile still fixed upon her face, then she walked upstairs, ignoring the money which still sat untouched on the telephone table.

  She explored the room which Eric had been staying in, taking the notes that he had left there and ignoring everything else. She then strode along the landing and pulled open the Stoops' bedroom door. The bed was now a liquid morass of lumpy horror, all that was left of Mrs Stoop. Mr Stoop's corpse lay on the floor, arms outstretched as if he had been reaching for the door when he died. His tortured bones dripped the black, tarry substance that had once been his flesh and organs onto the carpet. Sandra's smile widened, splitting her lips, which oozed with sluggish blood. Neither of the Stoops had been of strong enough material to respond properly to the whispered urgings that filled her own head. Yet their hideous ends were beautiful to behold and she found it in her heart to envy them, for their suffering must have been exquisite.

  She left the house and rolled her eyes back in their sockets, the whites of the orbs now yellowing under the onset of her disease. She strove to remember, then grinned again as she recalled Eric's notes in her hand. She shuffled through them until she found the addresses of the two recent healings from the well. Perhaps Eric would be at one of these two places? The power that spoke in her mind and corrupted her body had no knowledge of who Eric was, but it sensed from her that he would try to stop it. He must be embraced by the contagion, and soon. Sandra returned to her car and drove away.

  It was quieter out the back of the cottage. The sounds of screaming and excited shouts could be heard, getting ever more distant, as those unaffected who had not tasted the tomb's water struggled to escape the infectious embrace of those who had.

  “We can but hope they've moved clear of the area of the mona
stery now,” said Bell, leading the party at a crouching run around the side of the cottage. He checked the way was clear, then led a dash across the lawn towards the gravel which surrounded the ruins. It was here that they saw a hideous, crumpled form lying in pieces, its legs mere stumps, its bluish-black flesh swollen and barely contained by the remains of what had once been a smart grey suit, similar to the ones Bell and Milder wore.

  Milder swiftly knelt and examined the body, though he was very careful not to approach closer than two metres; it was ripe with sickness and rot. He looked up at Bell, then to Ellwood. “It's David,” he murmured. “He's quite dead.”

  “He's been dead for some time,” observed Bell, “something which I'm sure our friend here, Mr Gaunt, is only too aware of. Do you see what you've done, Gaunt? You murdered a Brother of the Pariah and dumped the body within Wulfred's sphere of influence. He's taunting us by using the body of a Brother to trigger the outbreak of his evil.”

  “You're speaking of Wulfred as if he's still alive,” said Ellwood weakly, rousing from his stupor at last.

  “Like the children of the catacombs who were his victims, Wulfred's body displayed the horror of his contagion but would not finally succumb to the ravages of time,” said Bell. “His will is still potent. That's why the Brothers sealed his corpse inside a stone sarcophagus. But he still found a way to reach his diseased influence out into the world, through the water.”

  “Then his body is still intact inside that tomb?” Eric realised with horror. “So everybody who has drunk from the water...”

  “Precisely, Mr Turner,” said Bell icily. “They have been drinking the very oozings and secretions of his sick flesh throughout all these many centuries.”

  “Come on,” said Milder, “we need to get to the catacombs, where we can be secure and decide how to put an end to this.”

  “Then what?” drawled Gaunt. “Yeah, I admit it, I killed your man and dropped him in the lake with cement boots on. I wasn't expecting him to turn up again like this, though. So what's your plan? Going to get your revenge by popping a bullet in Jenny and me?”

  “Not at all, Mr Gaunt,” said Mildler placidly. “We are men of God and we do not deal in revenge. You and your daughter are determined and ruthless people, and these are qualities that we need right now. You may have caused this mess to erupt, but you may also assist us to put a finish to it.”

  Gaunt looked at Milder thoughtfully, but followed along when Bell led the way into the monastery ruins, motioning for Jenny to do the same.

  Sandra parked her car outside the Wilmot house and strode up to the front door. She didn't need to knock, she could sense the kindred spirits within, singing to her within her mind, listening to the same warm, loving voice that whispered to her. She opened the door and walked right in.

  Sadie Wilmot lurched forward to meet her, sensing where she was despite the fact that her eyelids were now swollen shut, huge abscesses puffing up the skin of her face into rippling balloons of septic filth. Sadie made trilling, cooing noises from the dripping, toothless orifice that was once her mouth, indicating her great pleasure in meeting her sister in contagion. She lurched aside to reveal the mewling figure of her mother, who was tottering downstairs, her face and hands raw with a weeping, red rash. She too hissed her pleasure at meeting Sandra, teeth wobbling in her rotted gums.

  “So Eric isn't here either?” smiled Sandra. “No matter, we shall try the Williams girl. Come with me, ladies. We have much to do.”

  The three women walked back to Sandra's car. Sandra still looked passable at a distance, but passers-by recoiled and then fled in horror as the two Wilmot women slithered down the path towards the vehicle. The air remained foul where they had trodden, a plague-ridden miasma that slowly spread, infecting those who inhaled it, slowly but surely, one by one.

  Sandra started the car when her two passengers had squeezed into the back, then she drove the short distance through the village until she stopped outside Diane's address. She stepped out of the car, leaving the Wilmots to fester in the back. She walked purposefully up to the door and knocked upon it sharply.

  A minute later, a woman's face was visible peering through the frosted glass from within, trying to make out who was standing there. Sandra deliberately stepped back a couple of paces so that she could not be clearly seen. Diane Williams hesitated and then cautiously opened the door, still on its chain. “Who's there?” she called nervously.

  “Good morning,” said Sandra cheerfully. “My name is Sandra Cullen. I'm looking for Eric Turner. Is he there, please?”

  “You know Eric?” asked Diane. “He told me to stay indoors and not to open the door for anyone until he returned.”

  “I'm Eric's editor, from Otherworld magazine,” said Sandra brightly. “You must be Diane, Heather's mother. Eric told me all about you both, he asked me to help with her school situation. I have some very good news for you both.”

  “Oh, why didn't you say?” said Diane in a rush, unfastening the chain. “Eric isn't here at the moment, but he promised he'd be back as soon as he could. Please come in.” She pushed the door wide open, then screamed when she saw the suppurating lumps that were pushing up behind Sandra's make-up mask, distorting her face, which remained fixed in its mad, staring smile.

  “So lovely to meet you,” said Sandra as she advanced, propelling Diane back into the house as she cringed away from her. “Now, where is Eric hiding himself?”

  Bell and Milder led their party through the ruins of the monastery once again, making their way back through the crumbling edifice towards the old site of the library. Gaunt and Jenny brought up the rear.

  There were abandoned cameras, lights and other equipment in evidence, all of which made Gaunt wince as he calculated the cost in damages. Of the film crew, actors and actresses there was no longer any sign. They had all dispersed outwards from the monastery, the infected chasing those who were still healthy, seeking to draw them into their diseased fold.

  Not all of the infected had departed yet, however, some few were still in the ruins' environs, stragglers who had but recently succumbed, or who were slowed down by the nature of their afflictions. The group passed one lighting engineer, still lying on the ground, moaning and clawing at the weeping wounds on his face. There was also an abominably swollen mass, shuffling along on pulpy legs like tree trunks. It was impossible to tell whether this fungal horror had originally been male or female. In both cases, the Brothers shot the sufferers in the head, killing them without hesitation.

  “Behold, the hand of God at work!” scoffed Gaunt.

  “It's a mercy,” said Milder simply. “Do you think for one moment that even if we manage to dampen Wulfred's psychic field and suppress his will, that any of these poor people are going to revert to normality? They're infected with all manner of deadly diseases, which are progressing at an accelerated rate. They won't just magically recover, they'll carry right on walking around, spreading the infection. And they are all highly contagious, so don't get too close to them. One way or the other, however this all turns out, every last one of these unfortunates is going to have to be put down and their bodies burned. That's the reality of the situation. Even if we manage to imprison Wulfred's will again, he could still have succeeded in wreaking havoc for decades as this sickness spreads.”

  “Sweet,” grunted Gaunt, but he shut up.

  They reached the library and Bell and Eric raised up the flagstone which led below to the catacombs.

  “And that's it?” demanded Gaunt, gesturing to the dark pit. “That's your plan? We just hide away below? Why don't we just get the hell out of here, drive somewhere far away?”

  “Two reasons,” said Bell. “Firstly, the disease carriers are themselves 'getting out of here', spreading outwards from the monastery, so we'd just run into them again. They're finished here and they don't know about the catacombs, so we'll be safe below. Secondly, we need time to think about what to do with Wulfred, which means we need to stay close by.”


  “Won't the government try to close off the area or something, impose a quarantine when they realise what's happening?” asked Eric.

  “They may try,” said Milder, “but they'll be too late. Scratchbury is remote. By the time news spreads, the infection will have spread faster. Carriers will be on the trains, they'll have spread it counties away by then, infecting everyone they encounter. They're driven by Wulfred's will and he wants to see maximum suffering. Witnessing the corruption of flesh and spirit was always his greatest joy; that to him is the most beautiful thing.”

  There being no more to be said, they silently descended into the dark beneath the monastery.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHILDREN OF THE GRAVE

  Gaunt was not impressed with the catacombs. “Nice shithole you've brought us to, chaps,” he jeered as they made their way back to the chamber with the tables and chairs.

  “We wouldn't need to be here at all, Mr Gaunt, if you hadn't proven so weak-willed and morally bankrupt,” said Bell evenly. “Wulfred deliberately sought out someone like you, you know, it's no accident. If you had any inkling of right and wrong, or if you were a man of principle instead of a bully, you would never have fallen under his influence and we all might have slept more soundly in our beds.”