The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  Suffer they did. And come they did. The diseased children crawled hungrily to Ellwood and flung their wasted arms around the vicar, twisted mouths yawning open in mute appeal in their slab-like, featureless faces. Craving the affection and comfort they had been denied for a thousand years, they embraced the old man and took him to themselves.

  Ellwood's face turned chalky white in an instant, his eyes becoming opaque and milky, sightless. His lips cracked and his skin bubbled with swellings and sores, which dried and desiccated in moments. His body began to crumble, flaking away into a mouldy dust which floated down to the ground. He had one last moment to raise his face heavenwards and croak the words “God … have … mercy … upon these poor children ...” before he died. All that remained of him was a small pile of bones in a mound of chalky dust, containing enough contagious matter to end civilisations.

  The others had paused and watched horror struck as the vicar had died. But the diseased children were not stopping, shuffling their tainted bodies forward through the room, seeking fresh solace in their uttermost misery.

  “Move! Get the fuck out of here!” bellowed Gaunt, shoving the others out of his way. But he was forced to stand and wait for Bell to move ahead of him once again, stamping with impatient panic, for only the two monks knew the way out through the maze of tunnels. The thought of getting lost down here with those things was more than Gaunt could bear to imagine.

  They moved swiftly through the catacombs, determined to reach the surface before the children could catch up with them. Fortunately, their pursuers' diseased limbs could not sustain speed, some of them having to crawl on all fours or drag themselves along. And yet they were relentless, and the sheer horror of their plight made the group flee before them, at once guilty and mortified because they could do nothing to help, yet in absolute fear of their disease. Would it ever be possible to put enough miles between them to assuage the feelings of guilt, shame and terror?

  “We are fortunate that there was only the single access passage to their part of the catacombs,” panted Bell as they ran. “They cannot circle around to cut us off, they can only follow in our wake. As long as we keep moving, we will be safe.”

  “Once we reach the surface and close that flagstone, they'll never be able to raise it,” said Jenny. “Those wasted stick limbs simply won't have the strength.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” huffed Gaunt, who was unused to running but was pushing himself to his limit. “But we won't be hanging around to find out.”

  The flagstone swung up and open quickly, pushed from beneath by both Eric and Milder. They scrambled out into the library, followed by Gaunt and Jenny, with Bell bringing up the rear.

  They blinked and shielded their eyes, dazzled by the bright light which streamed down through the roofless aperture above them. After spending time down in the dark tunnels under the earth, the day was blindingly bright.

  So it was that they smelled their reception committee before they actually saw them. There was no mistaking that sour stink of infected flesh.

  They staggered back, against the far wall, blinking rapidly to try to adjust their vision, conscious now of more than a dozen misshapen forms slowly advancing upon them. They were surrounded in a semi-circle, with the wall at their back, all escape entirely cut off.

  Now Sandra stepped forward, limping closer to stand before them, a scant six paces away. They could now see her clearly. Her legs had swollen so badly that she had been forced to remove her clothing, revealing flesh as thick and wrinkled as an elephant's, riddled with parasitic fungal infections, her upper half almost skeletal, breasts hanging flat upon her ribcage like deflated balloons, the supporting tissue wasted away to nothing. Her face was like a skull, eyes sunken and mouth lipless, just bone with scabbed flesh stretched over it. At first, Eric didn't recognise her. It was only her hair and the rings that rattled loosely on her twig fingers that made the horrible realisation dawn within him.

  “Sandra,” he moaned in pity and despair. “My God, Sandra, not you! Why did you have to drink that water? I'm sorry, I'm so very, very sorry.”

  “Don't be sorry, Eric,” she slurred. “Look at me, I'm beautiful. Millions of tiny lifeforms live and multiply within my flesh now. My body is their kingdom. I'm a whole world! So why should you be sorry? Come, Eric, embrace me, kiss me. You can join us, you can know the thrill of your body transforming as the superior life of bacillus and virus thrives within it, reinventing you, remoulding your flesh. Every moment is an agony and an ecstasy, life transmuted into enduring orgasmic torment. Even when I die, the disease within me will continue to consume me, infecting others, until the whole world writhes with it. And there is no release, only another transformation. When my body dies, my consciousness will join with the group mind of the disease. The supreme life form on the planet, the apotheosis of evolution.”

  Eric recoiled from her, as repelled by the messianic zeal in her voice as he was by the corporeal horror of her flesh.

  “Still not convinced to join us?” Sandra asked. “That's okay, my beautiful, sceptical reporter. I knew you would be. That's why I've brought you some other friends to show you that everything will be all right.”

  The Wilmots stumbled forward, Sadie a shambling hulk of ulcerous tissue without any recognisable features, her mother a dark red mass of blood blisters, blind and mute, clinging on to her daughter with one misshapen paw.

  “You know Sadie and her mother, of course,” said Sandra. “Their transformation is almost complete. There's very little left of their bodies now. We'll let them die soon, then their minds can join the gestalt, suffering in spirit. What's the matter, Eric? Why the wrinkled face? Can it be that you're squeamish? Or perhaps you no longer recognise them? You only visited them once, after all. Why was that? Could it have been because you were spending all your time with Mrs Williams, you naughty boy?”

  Heather now advanced, pulling her weeping mother along with her. Heather's face was now a mass of bronze coloured sores, lumpy and upraised. She had shed her clothes, displaying her ulcerated thighs and genitals, though her upper torso was mockingly untouched, perfect breasts sandwiched between sickness. Diane was distraught. Her features were still recognisable, though inflamed patches discoloured her skin. Her neck, armpits and groin were grotesquely swollen and blackened with clear symptoms of plague

  “Poor Diane's feeling a little under the weather with the Black Death,” said Sandra, caressing the woman's glands and making her shriek in agony. “Oh, but Wulfred fed well in those years, when many came to drink of his waters in their last desperation. Did you enjoy fucking her, Eric? Would you like to again? Wouldn't that be a nice way to join us, pleasure and pain mingling as your body begins to change? She's right here and she won't refuse you, she loves you. Do you love her, Eric? Or were you just a fake after all? Well, Eric? How deep is your love? Deep enough to comfort a dying woman? Or perhaps you'd prefer Heather's young delights? She's hot for you, you know. Look, she's even undressed ready for you.”

  “For pity's sake, stop it!” screamed Eric in anguish.

  “Eric, please,” begged Diane through gasps of pain. “If you ever felt anything for me, kill me now. And Heather too. I can't bear this, I can't, it hurts so much.”

  A shot immediately sounded, muffled by Milder's silencer, as he put a bullet straight between Diane's eyes. “I'm sorry, Turner,” he said, “but that was the kindest thing anyone could do for her.”

  Eric almost collapsed on the spot. Only a yell of alarm from Jenny distracted him. They all turned to see where the children were crawling out of the catacombs and into the library. They had been so caught up in the exchange with Sandra that they hadn't closed the flagstone entrance.

  “Oh my fucking God!” yelled Gaunt. “We're done for!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE GODFATHER

  For a few moments, there was pandemonium. Everyone was in a panic as the semi-circle of sickness tightened around them, leaving them confined with the leprous children who c
rawled hesitantly into the sunlight, which illuminated every blemish on their corrupted bodies, as loathsome as the flesh of toadstools, clammy, chalk-white and poisonous.

  “Up the wall!” shouted Bell. “It's our only chance!” He began to scale the rear wall of the chamber. Eric was distraught, but he hadn't lost his senses and he very much wanted to survive. He saw at once what Bell meant. The ruined wall was crumbling, with plenty of hand and foot holds among the loose stones, and if they reached the top there was no roof, so they could scramble over and down the other side, or vault from one precarious perch to another to effect a rapid escape. He quickly followed suit, and Jenny and Milder joined him.

  “You're only delaying the inevitable, Eric,” Sandra called after him. “Come back and make it easy on yourself. Embrace the sickness.”

  Gaunt had other ideas, however. He was a big man, and middle-aged and someone as heavy and slow as him would never escape this way. Could that be what the others wanted? Was he being left behind as a sacrificial lamb for the slaughter? Would even his own daughter run out on him, while his own flesh putrefied? Already the diseased children were beginning to shuffle towards him. Why him and not the others? It was as if they were deliberately singling him out, preventing him from reaching the wall even if he'd been fit enough to risk that route. He'd show them! He'd show them all!

  Gaunt reached for Alec Davies' gun, which he still had secreted in his waistband. He quickly checked it. Yes! Alec was no slouch. It was fully loaded, he had six bullets with which to shoot his way out of here. He turned to face Sandra with a fierce grin on his face and raised the gun. “Eat lead, bitch!” He shot her straight between her eyes, her head bursting like a melon.

  The shot was deafening in the confined space. Alec's gun had no silencer fitted. The climbers almost fell from the wall in shock.

  “Dad! What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Jenny. “Get up here!”

  “I know what I'm at!” roared Gaunt. “You've made your choice, girl, but I'm getting out of here!” He swivelled and blew gaping holes in both of the Wilmot women, who had been advancing on him. Two more shots felled two more diseased shamblers and he had a clear run past the rest through the gap he had made.

  He had one bullet left, and as he reached the library's exit, he turned and shouted, “Milder! This one's for Alec, you piece of shit!” The handgun roared again and Milder's right kneecap disappeared in a spume of blood and splintered bone. He gave an agonised wail and fell back from the wall. His shrieks quickly reduced to hideous, gurgling gasps as the leper children crawled all over him and his flesh deliquesced.

  His revenge achieved, Gaunt turned and fled, barrelling through the ruined monastery and out into the open. There was no sign of any further infected people out here now. He heaved a sigh of relief; he had made it. Now to get the hell out of here.

  “Murdering filth!” spat Eric as he clung to the wall, watching Gaunt run from the library, five bodies and a hideous pool of slime left in his wake.

  Jenny shrugged. “My Dad can be a bastard, but he's loyal, and if your man shot one of his...”

  Eric just looked at her in disgust.

  “Keep climbing,” ordered Bell, looking down at them both. Despite the loss of his companion, he seemed the least affected by Milder's death. Eric wondered if all emotion was trained out of the Brothers, or was it simply something that occurred naturally as a necessary defence against the horrors they were expected to witness, and indeed to perpetrate. Whatever the case may be, the man was right. They did need to keep climbing.

  Bell was squatting on top of the wall, waiting for them, when the other two heaved themselves up and over. Eric almost toppled backwards when he saw the long drop on the other side, but managed to control the rush of vertigo and cling on for dear life. To his great relief, the walls were actually very thick, with plenty of room on top.

  “We'll cross to the far side of the monastery before descending,” said Bell, setting off at once. He ran like a monkey along the tops of the broken walls, weaving back and forth through the ruins. With little alternative, Eric and Jenny followed him.

  Heather, one of the group of infected who remained standing in the library, watched them go with a happy smile on her face. Her lips bubbled pus as she said, “The plan is working. All is as it should be.” She reached down and picked up one of the children, a wretched bundle of sick meat with no hands or feet and a face like raw, fatty pork. She kissed it and set it back down again. “Off you all go, crawl into every home and spread the gift.” The children crawled away, whimpering as they went.

  Heather led the other two shambling shapes out of the library. The death of her mother didn't bother her one bit, as the woman's soul was still entwined in Wulfred's psychic grip, unable to find peace. Heather was his lieutenant now that Sandra had been put down and she had work to do. All was being accomplished according to a plan long years in the making. It was up to her to see that it went without a hitch.

  Gaunt ran across the lawn and into the cottage first, jumping over the sprawled body of Alec. The infected had now apparently left the building, but he still kept looking from side to side as he advanced to the kitchen table, wary in case that weasel Treadwell was still lurking about the place somewhere.

  The table was an old, sturdy oak one, probably nearly as old as the cottage itself, large and heavy. It also had drawers built into its underside and Gaunt knew that Alec had kept some spare ammunition here, 'just in case'. He spared a moment to regret the passing of his enforcer; he and Alec had worked together for three decades. The man had always insisted upon the need to keep sufficient bullets close at hand to 'take care of absolutely all witnesses' just in case a project turned sour. He never left anything to chance. And now Gaunt thanked his old friend from the bottom of his heart as he pulled a couple of clips from the drawer and slid one into place. He felt more confident again now that he had reloaded; he was going to get the hell out of here, but he needed some means of defending himself in case any more of those diseased fuckers tried to block his way. He couldn't even punch them, any contact at all would put him at risk of infection, so the shooter was essential. He didn't put the gun away, he kept it in his hand, ready to fire at a moment's notice. He wasn't going to take any stupid risks. There was only one Terry Gaunt, and it would only take one mistake to rub him out; there was no way Gaunt was the kind of man to make such a mistake. Feeling supremely secure in his own abilities, he strode back out of the cottage. He'd take one of the crew vehicles, leave the monastery grounds and turn right, heading away from the village. He'd get the fuck right out of here, keep burning up the miles till he was far away from this thing. Then, when he'd put enough distance between himself and Scratchbury, he'd catch a flight overseas, get out of the country till this disease had been brought under control. He felt a pang about Jenny, but she should have known to rely on him, not blindly followed those other stupid fuckers. But she was a smart, tough girl. She'd come through this too, he was certain of it.

  His new confidence suffered a blow as soon as he stepped back outside into the open air. A large number of infected victims, all bloated and sore with dreadful swellings, were shambling around the vehicles. They hadn't been there just a couple of minutes earlier when he had crossed the lawn. It was almost as if they had been summoned there for a purpose.

  One of the nearest turned on its heels as if sniffing the air, fixing its gaze directly upon Gaunt. It was an almost skeletal figure, its skin hanging in loose folds from its bones, discoloured yellowish-brown and patterned with red wheals. Tiny, yellow-headed pustules peppered the hot, inflamed redness of what remained of its face. Nevertheless, although scarcely a feature remained, there was something about its posture and demeanour that told Gaunt that this tortured creature had once been Dan Treadwell. The television cameras wouldn't be clamouring to display the famed presenter now, that was for sure.

  “Gaauuuunntt!” The bubbling cry issued from the lipless hole that was Treadwell's mouth, his wasted arm ri
sing to point an accusing finger. “He's the one responsible for this! He's the bastard who did this to us!” The voice was thick with mucus, but it was loud enough to direct the attention of all the other infected in Gaunt's direction. Black froth spilled down Treadwell's front, spewing forth from his poisoned lungs by the effort of speech. But even the excruciating pain his body was in could not prevent him lurching towards Gaunt in a stiff-legged run. The other disease victims – many of them members of the film crew – followed him, eager to bring their erstwhile employer down with them into suffering and perdition.

  For a moment, Gaunt stood his ground, considering raising the pistol and opening fire. But he quickly realised he was hopelessly outnumbered and would waste all his bullets in doing so. He needed to save them as a last resort. He nearly chose to use just a single bullet to drop Treadwell, executing him for his betrayal. But no, self-preservation was currently more important than revenge. So he lowered the gun, turned and ran. Besides, he reasoned, leaving Treadwell alive in that condition was a crueller punishment than killing him by far.

  The vehicles were unreachable at the moment and Gaunt rejected the idea of making a direct line through the woods to the boundary wall. He wasn't sure of the way through the woods and might become entangled or slowed down; also, if he reached the wall at the wrong point, he might not be able to climb over it. His best choice was to try to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible and then find a way out of the grounds. He therefore ran the only direction that was left open to him: away from the monastery and along the narrow track which wound through the trees towards the lake. He was able to run much quicker than the sufferers and should be able to outpace and lose them easily.

  Heather stood in one of the ancient entryways to the monastery and grinned after his retreating figure. Everything was going according to plan.