The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  “All right,” said Jenny, opening the passenger door and starting to climb out of the car. “Come on then, let's get going. There's no sense sitting here wasting time.”

  Eric got out of the car too and they both climbed the steps up to the front doors. Eric pushed them open and they walked inside, looking up and down the white corridor within. There was not a soul to be seen.

  “Doesn't seem to be anyone about,” said Jenny.

  “Which is really odd,” said Eric, “because there's a reception desk right over there.” He pointed to their left.

  “Maybe they leave it unmanned unless it's visiting time?” suggested Jenny.

  “Perhaps,” said Eric, “but it seems odd to me. I'd have thought every hospital would have had some sort of measure to prevent any Tom, Dick or Harry from simply walking in unannounced in this day and age. We'll need to tread carefully. I don't have a good feeling about this.”

  “You think he's here already?” asked Jenny.

  “I don't know,” said Eric. “I'm just saying this doesn't feel right. We need to be careful no matter what.”

  “So how do we go about this?” asked Jenny “Run up and down, shouting 'Everybody out!'?”

  Eric grinned in spite of himself. “That might work,” he said, “though I'd suggest a more cautious approach just in case he is here, or maybe some of the other infected have got this far. Let's take it quietly. I'll take this floor, you take the next. We'll try to gather everyone together and move them out as quickly as we can.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “I don't know,” he shrugged. “Hell, we can only do one thing at a time. There was a minibus in the car park, maybe we could put the most poorly kids in that and get the more able ones walking towards the next town until we're able to come back for them?”

  “That's a piss poor plan, but it's better than nothing,” said Jenny. “Okay, let's get about this.”

  Eric set off down the corridor while Jenny climbed the stairs to the upper wards.

  The first few rooms Eric checked were empty, but they were staff rooms, consulting rooms and stores rather than actual wards.

  He pushed through a set of fire doors and entered one of the side wings of the hospital. Here he found the first of the ground floor wards and it was a sight that made his heart bleed. Every bed contained a mass of suppurating tissue that had once been a child. It was no longer possible to tell whether they had been boys or girls. Most of them had no remaining features, just lumps, scabs and sores. Some were sightless, hardly any could move. Some were already dead, others were in a coma. An unfortunate few squirmed pitifully in their beds and made faint whimpers. And the stench of putrefaction choked his lungs, a mixture of honeyed sweetness, sickly and cloying and a sharp acridity like old sweat. He knew there was nothing he could do to help and it would have been death to enter the ward.

  Eric backed away, trembling and sickened, and moved on to the next ward, where a similar sight met him. A couple of the afflicted children were still able to walk here and they shambled slowly towards him, mouths hanging slackly open and their arms outstretched in mute appeal as the flesh hung from their bones like loose, cheesy rags. Hating himself for doing so, Eric used a nearby mop to barricade the door, feeding it through the handles, so that they couldn't reach him. They wailed piteously and banged themselves feebly against the door in despair as he moved away with a heart full of horror.

  Eric scoured each ground floor wing of the hospital in turn, but it was the same story everywhere. The beds were filled with sick and dying children. A couple of the rooms had nurses in them, in similar states of accelerated contagion. The only thing he was thankful for was that this contagion passed on from Wulfred himself seemed to be much more virulent, consuming the victim's body much more quickly and completely, so at least they suffered for a shorter time. More to the point, they were too ill and in pain to be very mobile, so Eric was able to keep his distance from them.

  He had soon done a complete circuit of the ground floor, having explored every wing, which formed a large quadrangle. He had found a scalpel in an operating theatre which he had put in his jacket pocket; a poor weapon, especially against an enemy whose close proximity meant certain death, but better than nothing. He had come back to the main entrance, the point at which he had started. He was about to go upstairs to find Jenny and see whether things were any better up there when he spotted a door which bore a sign saying that it led to the basement and was to be used by authorised persons only.

  “Well, I'd better be thorough,” he said. He pushed the door open and descended the narrow stairs beyond it.

  Jenny had also found nothing but hideous death in the first ward she had looked into. But the second ward contained an array of pale, worried faces, who looked at her with fear and apprehension.

  “Who are you, miss?” asked one boy when she stepped through the door. “We heard screams and none of the nurses or doctors come when we ring for them. What's happening? What should we do?”

  Jenny did her best to smile, though she knew it wasn't very convincing. “We all need to leave the hospital, children,” she said. “You need to come with me. Can you do that? Is there anybody here who isn't able to walk?”

  “Nathan can't, but I can push him in a wheelchair,” said one boy bravely.

  “Good, that's very good,” said Jenny. “I know you must all be worried, but we need to get outside and then we'll drive away. We can see about getting you all home to your mums and dads then.”

  “I don't want to go,” cried another boy. “Why do we have to go?”

  “There's a bad man in the hospital and he's hurt some people,” said Jenny. “We need to go quickly so that he won't be able to hurt us too. Then the police can deal with him and you can see your mums and dads. Okay?”

  There were a few tears and a great deal of frightened uncertainty, but the children accepted Jenny as an adult who would tell them what to do and they reluctantly followed her. Since she had discovered that Wulfred had evidently already visited at least one of the other wards on this floor, she decided that her first priority must be to get these particular children to safety before she searched further to find any others. If she ran into Wulfred with the children in tow, the poor mites wouldn't stand a chance. She had to get them out of here right now.

  “Come along, children,” she said. “Follow close behind me, as quietly and quickly as you can. We'll go straight down the stairs and out the front door. Stay close and stick together.”

  She led the way, with the children shuffling timidly behind her.

  Eric walked warily along the narrow basement corridor, scalpel held before him, alert in case of any ambush. He doubted that Wulfred would have come down here, as there were no victims for him to infect, but he wasn't prepared to take any chances.

  The corridor was long and if he had extended his arms he could have touched both walls simultaneously. It was bare brick, with exposed pipes, but every surface had been painted white, which at least prevented it from being gloomy. If anything it was too bright, bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, glaring and reflecting off the walls.

  There appeared to be only storerooms down here, together with the boiler and the generator room. There was a large janitor's closet, plus laundry storerooms and storage for simple supplies such as linen, cotton wool and surgical spirits. Just first aid stuff, there were no medicines stored on this level. Eric looked everywhere before concluding that he was wasting his time down here. He turned and headed back towards the staircase back up to the ground floor.

  Jenny was half way down the stairs with the children when a man appeared down below. He was large and stocky, wearing a parka coat with its hood drawn up over his head and drawn close, concealing his face. She slowed and then stopped, motioning the children to stop and wait behind her. Whoever this was, it certainly wasn't Eric; she may not be able to see the face, but the height and build were all wrong.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, a sligh
t tremor in her voice.

  “Jenny? Is that you? What are you doing here?” called back a voice that she recognised, a voice she had heard and known ever since its owner had cradled her on his knee.

  “Dad?” she said. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, sure it is, honey. You know me, I got away no problem at all. I took this coat from one of the vans and kept it all zipped up. This way, even if one of 'em gets close, they'll find it difficult to touch me. Smart, huh? You can rely on your old Dad to have all the best ideas. Come on down here.”

  Jenny almost went down to him, but something in her father's voice was nagging at her, some undertone of silky charm that he had never possessed. Terry Gaunt was a blustering bully a lot of the time and sometimes he could be content and relaxed when among friends, but he had never exhibited this smoothness. The voice was his, the words were his, but the way in which they were projected wasn't. So after a single step, she hesitated and stopped. “I'd feel a little more comfortable if I could see your face, Dad,” she said.

  A deep chuckle came from beneath the hood, then the man raised his hands, still concealed by the long sleeves, and threw the hood back.

  Jenny recoiled from the horror beneath. Somewhere within the septic mass her father's features could still barely be discerned, his eyes rolling like boiled eggs in a pan of bubbling water. Great holes had been eaten through his cheeks. The skin was pure white, with purple and yellow eruptions all over it. He had lost nearly all of his hair. “Hiya, darlin',” he said. “Come on and give your old Dad a kiss.”

  “So they caught you,” Jenny said hollowly, feeling her stomach twisting with loss and disgust. “I hoped and prayed that you'd got away. But they caught you and infected you...”

  “Prayed?” laughed her father. “That's not like my psycho little girl at all, is it, honey? Maybe it's me who should be concerned about you, not the other way around. You've been spendin' too much time mixin' with priests and monks. But no, you're wrong, they didn't catch me. They were never gonna catch me. They were never intended to catch me. I got away from them and I hid.”

  “Never intended?” asked Jenny, confused. “What do you mean? And how did you...?”

  “How did I improve my complexion?” he laughed. “I wasn't infected, honey, not like the others. There was something much bigger than that planned for me. There always had been, ever since the idea of coming to Scratchbury entered my head all those months ago. Did you never wonder where that idea came from? I wasn't infected with Wulfred's disease, I became Wulfred's disease! In fact, I became Wulfred.”

  “You're Wulfred?” shouted Jenny. “You're his new body? So you murdered all those children I saw! How could you do that? You're not my Dad! You're some fucking monster from the Dark Ages!”

  “Try not to judge, sweetheart,” the abomination smiled. “It was beautiful, watching their flesh curdle and discolour, lovely blossoms of sickness pushing to the surface and blooming into sores and deformities, their little, supple bones twisting and distorting as sickness ate into their marrow. Their suffering was exquisite, their little cries for pity were music. I would probably even have ejaculated watching them if my dick could still feel anything. You know, back when I was a kid we were piss poor, I never had much. That's why I grew up so hard. But I did have a box of little plastic toy soldiers that my Dad gave me after he found them on the tip. I used to sit in front of the fire and put one of the soldiers on a piece of coal near the edge. I'd watch it slowly melt, losing its shape, its limbs folding and its features running, till it finally went up in flames. That would keep me spellbound. And this is no different, as I watch their faces twist and pucker and swell and finally collapse as the inflammation within them breaks through and consumes them utterly. It is simply beautiful. Wulfred saw this in me and knew how much it would turn me on. That's why he chose me. I was even able to appreciate my own suffering. That's why he allowed me to live on, sharing this body with me instead of snuffing me out completely. Because I love his art!”

  “That's so sick!” shuddered Jenny. Then, realising the irony of what she had said, she added, “I mean, the attitude is even sicker than the disease. Now I know that it's not you talking, Dad.”

  The corrupted body of her father seemed to swell and shift, the head swivelling and adopting a new posture, until suddenly the stance and demeanour seemed completely different. The voice that issued from the foetid mouth was now deep and warm and resonant, no longer anything like her father's at all. “Ah, but it was your father, my dear. I find him an amiable companion and permitted him to speak with you. It has pleased me to fuse my soul with his. We are now one being.” The wasted flesh creased in a horrible parody of a smile. “My own will is master, of course, and he is my servant. But he really does appreciate my art and would have it no other way.”

  “Abbot Wulfred, I presume?” said Jenny, trembling and retreating a step. The pure malice that radiated from her father's ruined body was palpable now that Wulfred had resumed control.

  “Indeed, and through your father's memories, I feel that I know you as if you were my own daughter. We are so looking forward to seeing contagion take root within your firm, strong young flesh and bear its suppurating fruits. We shall carefully manage your sickness. I have promised your father that you will not die before your time, so we shall eke out your years with long, slow necrosis, so that you may live your full span. Your body will not even look human when you finally die, simply a bloated, corrugated torso with a hole on its eyeless top to eat and breathe through. Doesn't that prospect excite you? Don't you savour the excruciation of your long metamorphosis? I am salivating just to think of your apotheosis.”

  “I won't let you touch me, you filthy scumbag!” spat Jenny, starting to retreat up the stairs. “Not me or these kids!”

  “My dear, I don't have to touch you,” said Wulfred. He advanced to the foot of the stairs and laid his leprous hand upon the bannister rail. Behind Jenny, several of the children were holding onto the banister to steady themselves. These youngsters immediately screamed in pain and shock. They lifted their hands, which had already begun to twist and knot in contorted shapes, the skin thickening and discolouring, weeping foul-smelling fluid as the fingers rotted and fell away. The contagion swept across their torsos and flowered in putrid growths upon their faces, swelling in their glands.

  The poor victims slumped to the ground, writhing in their torments, thrashing and shivering, squealing and gurgling. Inevitably, they brushed against many of the other children who stood next to them, who touched others, until every child was a tortured prisoner within their own bodies, which had turned against them, polluting all that they were and setting their nerves on fire until all sensation mercifully ceased, nerve centres too diseased to function.

  Jenny screamed in horror and tried to cover her eyes and ears from the unbearable scene. And when one little boy turned pleadingly towards her, arms stretched wide in a mute appeal for help, his haunted face vanishing beneath thick lumps and lesions, Jenny could not backpedal quickly enough to prevent the young sufferer's hand from brushing her own.

  She took three steps back, speechless, her mouth opened in an expression of denial, her eyes wide. She spun on her heels to face Wulfred, who looked up at her, once again letting her father take the fore. “Welcome to my world, daughter,” he said.

  Jenny felt only a slight queasiness to begin with, which quickly built to sever cramps in her gut, which caused her to double over, screwing her eyes closed against the pain. Bile rose, burning her throat, and her chest started to rattle as mucus rapidly multiplied, making her breathing laboured and painful. “Oh fuck, it's doing me from the inside out,” she shuddered.

  “As I promised, daughter, it will be slow and exquisite for you, so that you may savour every nuance of your metamorphosis,” said Gaunt / Wulfred.

  Jenny's sight began to blur as her eyes became filmy and she could feel her teeth loosening in her mouth, wobbling as she let out a series of wet, percussive coughs. �
��Help me!” she begged. “I'm dying!”

  “No, my daughter, you won't die, we won't let you,” said Gaunt. “You can join us and rule with us over a new aeon of pestilence. We shall be the Lords of the Earth and all flesh will play our symphony of suffering.”

  Jenny's hands now looked like raw sausagemeat and she could feel lumps swelling up on her face. She screamed in rage and frustration and terror. “Fucking kill me and be done with it!”

  She heard a clatter on the stairs at her feet. Looking down she saw a sharp scalpel lying there, the gleam of its blade keenly clear even to her failing eyesight. She looked up and saw a figure standing in the doorway of a small stairwell to her left and slightly behind Wulfred's position. It could only be Eric and he had thrown her the only salvation she could now have.

  She stooped to pick up the surgical blade with numb, fumbling fingers. “Thank you,” she mumbled through pus-bubbled lips. Then she blissfully drew the knife across her throat in a swift, straight motion. There was a moment's pain, then she went strangely cold even as her front turned warm and crimson, hot blood pumping rapidly down over her. Her vision blacked out, her knees went and she slumped into a heap. After a few last twitches, she lay dead.

  “No!” bellowed Wulfred, turning to face the direction the scalpel had been thrown from. The door to the basement stairs was just slamming shut behind Eric, who had fled back down there.

  Wulfred lurched across the reception area and pulled the door open, looking down the flight of stairs beyond. “Turner!” he called, sniffing the air. “You've been a thorn in my side long enough. You will beg for death!” He began walking slowly down the stairs. He was in no hurry, he knew there was no other exit from the basement and he wanted to maximise Eric's terror and the realisation that he was trapped. Wulfred was really going to savour this one's death. He paced slowly down, letting every footfall ring out, echoing down the whitewashed passage at the foot of the stairs, a pronouncement of approaching doom. Although Gaunt's body was riddled with pestilence, it remained strong and hale in spite of its afflictions; Wulfred's driving will made sure of that. He was more than a match for Eric. He began to curdle a gangrenous miasma in his lungs, exhaling the corruptive gas before him. He wouldn't even have to touch the troublesome reporter to make him succumb.