by Logan Fox
Infectious.
And just like a disease, they should be quarantined. Their victims? Vaccinated.
But Father’s been left to roam free in Mallhaven, touching anyone he pleases. Spreading his disease to hundreds, perhaps thousands. People that allow him to take what he wants. Do what he wants.
And fuck the consequences.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything. The girls, the masks, the DMT. Those vats, the tubes.
In the dark ages, they practiced bloodletting as a way of evicting demonic spirits.
Disease, back then, was always connected with evil.
Right now, I can’t fault them on their logic.
So what was Father doing? Did he honestly believe those girls were so corrupted with original sin that the only way to cure them was to drain their blood?
The forest throws a last pitiful attempt my way — a liana bars my way. I duck under it, but in my haste, not far enough.
A thick stem wraps around my throat.
I’m on my back, wheezing as I try to get air back in my lungs.
And I’m about to scramble up when a foot slams into my breastbone.
The canopy is thick here — so thick that only a few snowflakes have worked their way down to the ground. So thick that there’s barely any illumination.
But I know it’s Father holding me down.
I grab his ankle, but he slams his other foot into my side before I can grip him. I groan, curling onto my side, hugging myself.
A sandaled foot connects with the bridge of my nose. Hot copper pours into my mouth. I choke and wave a pathetic hand out to grasp Father’s ankle, his leg, fucking anything.
Sharp pain blossoms as he traps the fingers of my left hand between his sandals and the mossy forest floor. I feel my bones breaking, and then my skin tearing when he twists with his whole weight.
“You knew the arrangement, Hill,” Father says. His voice is ragged as if the sprint took a toll on his lungs. “Why do you keep trying to take back what isn’t yours?”
Thank God he’s stopped with the whole ‘child’ bullshit — but I guess he realizes I’ll never be part of his demonic flock.
“It’s over. You’re done.” My voice sounds as thick as his.
Father laughs and kicks my head. Stars, brilliant and white, spin through my vision. My body goes limp and all Father has to do to roll me onto my back is to nudge me with his foot.
I swallow so much blood from my broken nose, I gag and spray into the air like a fountain.
“Because you razed my church?” Another laugh, this one heavy and full of delight. “I don’t need a church. All I need is one weak-minded fool.”
“So why do you have hundreds?”
Father crouches at my side. “The weak enjoy company.” He wipes a hand over my face and then licks my blood from his palm with obvious pleasure. “I had what I want, Hill. You know I would have left you alone.”
“I didn’t come for me.” I try pushing myself up but Father keeps me down with a finger. “I came for the children.”
“The—?” Father cuts off with a laugh. “There’s nothing you can do for them. They are lost. Their souls untethered. There’s nothing left but for my Master to reap their spirits.”
“You actually believe that fucking bullshit?” I snap, managing at least a modicum of vehemence.
Father’s expression — such that I can see — changes immediately. “My Lord grants me unimaginable wealth.” Fingertips grasp my jaw, burrowing into my flesh like drill bits. “And he has friends everywhere. Friends who want only what I can supply.”
“What? Insanity?”
Father leans close enough for me to see the moisture coating his teeth. “Blood.”
There are so many people I’ve seen with madness in their eyes. But Father?
As chilling as it is to accept, I can’t see anything but pure conviction in his gaze.
My arm sweeps up.
The syringe I’ve been clinging to since before Lars’s explosion stabs deep into Father’s throat. I managed to edge off the cap while he was raving on about how powerful he was…which I find ironic.
Ironic because, in about ten seconds, he’ll be absolutely powerless.
Chapter Seventy-One
Clover
Kane spins me to face him, grabbing my upper arms and drawing me close. For a fucked up moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. But he just stares at me with such fury, my knees feel like they want to buckle.
I sag.
No, wait, they did buckle.
“Where is she?” His voice is hoarse, broken.
Behind him, the church sticks out a flaming tongue and licks the outside of the wall.
Yum.
“Where. Is. She!”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“But he had her? She was alive?”
“Yes.”
He shakes me again as if calling me out on a lie.
“Yes! I saw her!” Tears streak my face. “She sucked on my fucking tit while he had half his hand up my cunt. She’s alive!”
Kane doesn’t seem to understand. Doesn’t even seem to care. “Where? Where is she?”
“I don’t fucking—”
But then I cut off because I do know.
Oh my god, I know.
My gaze flicks up. I focus through the smoke, the trees, the dancing snow. I stick out a hand, a prophetic finger stabbing toward the barely visible white walls of the church hospital.
“There!”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Hunter
Father rears up with an ear-piercing shriek that seems more suited to a possessed animal than a human being. He plucks the syringe from his neck, stares at it, drops it.
His mouth gapes.
His eyes widen.
Gone is his self-assured conviction that he is immortal, all-powerful, a fucking Demon among men.
Fear blackens his eyes. I push to my elbows in time for him to whirl around and dart away between the trees.
This time, I don’t rush after him.
I don’t know much about Hell, but I do know it should be an intimate, personal experience.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Clover
Kane and I run around the side of the church, holding hands like eloping lovers. My insides are screaming at me to stop, but I’m being dragged more than anything.
As we round the back of the church, a tall man with white-blond hair appears, face bloodied, leading a pair of naked little girls by their hands.
I open my mouth, but all that happens is that I get snow in it.
What the fuck am I supposed to say? Hey, you, leave those girls alone?
Yeah, that could have worked. But Kane sees the man and does nothing.
So I do nothing.
We streak past, eyes ahead, and I immediately will the image of the collars and trailing chains each girl wore from my head. There’s enough of that shit in there already — any more and my brain would surely start leaking from my goddamn ears.
The hospital rears up ahead, and Kane slows a little before speeding up.
Obviously, the nurses could see what was going on. The closer we get, the more fleeing figures we see. They’re all bundled up warm and tight…and are leaving empty-handed.
Abandoning their charges inside.
I’m thankful because I couldn’t even fight off a satanic nurse right now, but at the same time, I’m heartbroken.
Who would look after them now, all these lost souls? They’d probably fill an entire wing at Hunter’s asylum. And if they were being fed as much morphine as I was…
When we encounter a nurse in the doorway, Kane shoves her aside. She screams, but scrambles up and doesn’t stop us going inside.
“Where?” Kane snaps, pulling me ahead of him.
I swallow, take a moment to orientate myself, and do my best to ignore the throbbing agony in my belly.
The stairs. I remember walking down them whe
n Priest came to claim me. I don’t know if she’s up there, but I doubt they keep any patients — even babies — down here.
I try to lead Kane, but soon he’s at my side, one arm’s around my waist and the other shoving aside anyone barring our way.
Soon, he’s just holding onto me.
The nurses have all left. The small hospital is deathly quiet; our footsteps — even my bare feet — ring too loud in the abandoned halls.
Kane pushes open every door that’s still closed before peeking inside. And every time I see his face, it’s a shade darker with trapped blood.
It’s a good thing we didn’t find another nurse. I have no doubt he’d have killed her, and in some really inventive way, too.
We hear them before we see them. A few plaintive wails; the kind only a mindless baby can make.
Kane freezes. Starts up again. Stutters like bad stop-motion animation.
The baby’s ward isn’t like in the movies. There are no big windows to peer through. No transparent cubes filled with pink and blue bundles of joy.
The room is dim. The stench? Sickening.
Makeshift cribs fill the room; a wooden crate here, an old comforter there. They’re all on the floor, and we step between them like soldiers in a minefield. Too many of those tiny forms don’t move.
Sleeping.
Sleeping.
Sleeping.
“Where is she?” Kane murmurs.
I clap a hand over my mouth, barely trapping a laugh. He swings to face me, eyes wild.
“Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t wake the babies.”
If Kane’s expression is anything to go by, then I’ve gone and lost my fucking mind.
He swipes a hand through his hair and then cups my face. “Please, Clover. What was she in? A blanket? A dress? What?”
I shrug. “Don’t remember.” My words are slurring, my feet dragging. I lose my footing, and stand on something. I slap a hand over my face so I can’t see what it was because it was at once cold and soft.
I’m sobbing.
Kane shakes me. “Please. Tell me something. Anything.” His voice rises in pitch. “There’s so many of them.”
“White,” I splutter. “A white dress. Pink flowers on the hem. Pearl buttons. I think. Or not. I-d-d-don’t know.”
Kane abandons me. I sink to my knees, then rock back on my heels. When a wave of dizziness wracks me, I tip forward, blubbering nonsense words through my mouth.
Something brushes my pinkie finger. And then grabs it.
I open wet eyes. Blink away tears.
Boots shuffle on cold, cold cement. “Is this her?”
But I can’t look up. I can’t look away.
Blue eyes peer at me, wide and unblinking. A perfect little hand presses to a perfect little mouth. The baby squeezes my finger and then frowns hard.
Why?
“I don’t know,” I whisper. My arms shudder as I reach down and scoop up the warm little bundle of cloth and flesh. “I don’t fucking know.”
Kane is in front of me. There’s a white bundle in his arms. We look at each other, and then down at the baby in his arms. All I can see is one pudgy hand clutching, clutching at the air like a protestor’s angry fist.
“Is it her?” His voice cracks. “Is it her!”
I nod. “Yes.” Tears run freely down my cheeks now. “It’s her, Kane. That’s Mary.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Hunter
There’s a twang. A snap. A gasp. I hesitate, and it takes me a few seconds to get moving again. I’ve been following Father for five, maybe ten minutes. He left a trail of destruction in his wake — broken branches, torn leaves, blood streaks where he pushed away from tree trunks. I was so close at one stage, I could hear him praying.
This time, it was in English.
This time, he was addressing God. Begging for his life. Begging for an end to his suffering.
Ayahuasca is the Mother.
Harsh, but loving. As ready to discipline as she is to comfort.
Peyote is the grandfather. He’ll swaddle you to his bosom and tell you all about the world. He wipes away your tears and fills your heart with unending joy.
DMT? DMT is a sadistic fuck. An inter-dimensional wormhole. An out of body experience for those that can’t deal with living in this world anymore.
Once was enough for me.
Once is all Father will experience.
I enter a clearing, and those strange noises suddenly make sense.
Father’s upside down in a tree, a snare around his ankle. I walk closer, examining the trap.
It’s large, hefty. Not for catching rabbits, that’s for sure. But then what? Foxes? Wolves? Even then, the ropes look specifically designed for heavier prey.
Masks.
DMT.
White dresses, so easy to spot in a dark forest.
My mind reels. I stagger, barely catching hold of a tree trunk before I can lose my balance.
Father whickers like a terrified horse, his struggles bending the branch above him at a stupefying angle. My gaze flickers through the clearing, searching for something to dispel my theory.
Instead, I find solid proof.
Nearby, there’s a plastic bucket. Neon yellow. Brand new. The hazardous waste symbol on its side glows.
I walk closer to Father. His robe is around his hips, caught on his rough belt, but he seems more concerned with trying to untangle his hair from a few twisted roots in the ground.
When I’m close enough that he must feel my body heat, the man stills.
There’s vomit down the front of his robe, chunks still caught in his beard. He watches me silently, mouth moving as if his prayers haven’t died down completely but only grown too soft for me to hear.
“Blood. You were after their blood, weren’t you?”
He shivers at the word and then nods. “Please, please, take me down. Don’t let the—”
“Why them?”
Father shakes his head.
I can see the madness in his eyes now. It’s as if the DMT destroyed the veil between his reality and this one. As if he can now see there is no such thing as Satan or Lucifer…but only evil.
His evil.
“That’s what he wanted.”
He’s not making sense, but I can’t fault him that. There was enough DMT in that syringe for a life-altering experience. I’d be surprised if he was even seeing me right now and not some other-worldly alien instead.
I fetch the bucket. I position it under him so I don’t doubt he can see it.
He transforms into a gibbering idiot. Rambling, slurring, choking on his own snot and tears. I make out a few words, but nothing more illuminating than, “He wanted the young ones. The younger, the better.”
I’m so nauseous, bile floods my mouth. I want to stop his begging, his pleading, his worthless confessions. But with what? My bare hands? I can’t stand the thought of touching him, just in case his disease is catching.
I look around, find a rock.
But it’s not enough. I need something else. Something I can use to pierce this abscess of a man and let the pus of his soul pour into that bucket.
I slam the rock against a stretch of rocky forest floor. Again. Again. It breaks into three. I lose all but one piece, and that slices into my hand with wicked abandon.
I turn to Father with a crude knife in my hands, the forest singing mournfully around me as I approach.
His eyes are open, but he’s no longer looking at me. His gaze is fixed on something behind me. Perhaps so far behind me that it’s in a different dimension.
Every hair on my body lifts. I spin around and interrogate the shadows in panic.
Nothing.
When I turn back to him, drool threads the corner of his mouth to his cheek.
“Who wanted them?” I ask.
At first, I think he’s past the point of coherence. But as my arm swings back, that sharp rock aimed at his throat, he whispers something to me.
I hesit
ate, bend closer.
“My King,” comes his feeble voice.
I stand back, study him.
King, not Lord. But who knows what pet names he has for Lucifer? And the girls were chanting about the King of Hell. They had to be one and the same.
Father is quivering, face white as his robe. A robe sullied by his journey through the forest, by his own puke. I smell urine and feces on him, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to turn and leave him there.
But this is too important.
If I can only do this one thing in my life, then I believe I would have done something good.
Just this one thing.
Not enough to balance out all my evil, but enough to make a difference.
“I’m sure the King of Hell’s reserved a spot for you right next to his fucking throne.”
I swing out my arm.
Flesh tears.
Blood pours.
The bucket fills, slowly but surely.
And I stay until there’s nothing left inside Father.
No life, no evil… and no more blood.
Part Five
Postpartum
“Life begins where fear ends.”
Osho
Chapter Seventy-Five
Clover
Earlier, Hunter gave Kane an access code to his home. We go in through the back door, shivering so hard it takes us each two tries to open it. My jaw locked half an hour ago, and the sound of my teeth creaking together is driving me mad. So is the fact that the baby bundled in Kane’s arms hasn’t made a single sound that I could hear.
Not one.
If he peels open those blankets and the baby’s dead, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again. I’ve already seen too many dead babies tonight. One more, and I’ll be spending the rest of my life in a goddamn padded room.
Zee’s standing at the end of the kitchen. As soon as I see her, I tense up even more. How is she going to react to this kid — living or dead — that Kane’s brought home?
