Krisis (After the Cure Book 3) (26 page)

When he emerged from the church, the Abbot had screamed himself to sleep, and falling snow made a hushing echo over the grounds. The illusion of calm was broken by a pair of brothers dressed in travel clothing walking through the monastery’s front gate. Father Preston hurried down the stairs, followed by the few brothers who had been with him.

“Has the doctor finally come?” he called.

Brother Matthew was standing at the gate watching the others go. He looked up at Father Preston and shook his head.

“The police?”

No again.

“Have we received direction from the bishop?”

Brother Matthew looked sadly at the two men trudging toward the gate. They kept their heads down and refused to meet Father Preston’s eye. He felt his face begin to warm with anger. “You’re leaving? When your brothers need you the most you decide to walk away?”

“We have family out there too,” murmured one of them.

“You think it’s better out there?” cried Father Preston. “If the Abbot can succumb, how will we avoid it? Whether it’s disease or judgment, you can’t escape it.” He jogged to the gate and stood in front of them, blocking the path. “If you leave you can never return. You know that.”

Brother Matthew cleared his throat. “They can if they have permission to go.”

“The Abbot is— is unwell. He cannot give permission,” stammered Father Preston.

Matthew placed a hand on Father Preston’s shoulder and pulled him gently out of the way. “I have given it in his stead,” he said.

“What? You? You cannot—”

“I am the prior, Brother Michael. Let them go. They will see that their loved ones are protected and they will return once the sickness here has passed. I have extended the license to all that are uninfected and wish to go. You as well, if you like.”

The two men brushed past Father Preston. “The Revered Father wouldn’t approve. Something terrible has happened, yes, but that is not a reason to abandon the faith—”

Brother Matthew shook his head. “They aren’t abandoning it. I know they will keep their devotions, wherever they may go.”

Father Preston stared out the open gate.

“I cannot keep them here,” Brother Matthew said.

“The Abbot would,” snapped Father Preston. “He’d tell us to be steadfast under this trial, that we ought to shoulder our sufferings gladly, that we are blessed—” the words withered in his throat as he saw the horrified look that Matthew bore.

“What has happened to our brothers is no blessing,” whispered Brother Michael. “I’m sustained by the hope that they will be cured. May they remember nothing of their illness.”

“Who will care for them? Who will recall our Reverend Father to himself if you allow them all to leave?”

“How can I make them stay, knowing they might be in danger of the same fate if I do? How can I sentence them to madness? To— to violence and rage?”

Father Preston sneered. “Are you leaving also? Will I alone remain his faithful attendant?”

“I am not leaving Brother Michael. But you may be the only attendant before long. Of the ten that remain, five are already ill. I too, have started having symptoms.” He watched Father Preston for a reaction, but the priest stared into the blank white road beyond the open gates. The hand that Matthew had placed on his shoulder was shaking and finally he asked, his voice cracking and hoarse with fear, “What are we to do Brother Michael?”

Father Preston turned a cool, dry eye to his brother. “We pray,” he said mercilessly. He swung the wooden gates closed and picked up a heavy snow shovel that lay nearby. He slid it through the gate handle. “Now no one can enter but God,” he said and turned back toward the church.

Brother Matthew shivered, murmuring, “And hopefully no one can escape except those that are still sane.”

The steady snow choked the road outside the monastery. There were no passing cars, not even ambulances, to disturb the quiet. The remaining brothers spent their day in devotions, stopping only for meals and to take turns caring for their Abbot. Except for the deterioration of the man he had both admired and loved, Father Preston would have found the quiet and the ceaseless prayer blissful.

The relative peace held until just before the Christmas holiday and Father Preston thought they’d turned a corner, that those who had begun to show symptoms must surely begin to recover. He half expected a series of hollow knocks on the gate from postman coming to deliver the holiday letters for the monastery. But no one came. Brother Matthew’s words had become so slurred in the days before, that Father Preston took over the readings. The sanctuary glowed with lamps, the power had gone out a week before, but that made little impact inside the sanctuary. The brothers clustered in the front, almost huddled together in the empty church.

Father Preston loved the way words rolled across the long room, like a warm wave. He remembered the Abbot’s voice curling and pulling at him in every reading. There was a sharp pinch in his chest when he thought of the man’s shrieks that morning. Desperate and raw, with nothing human left in them at all. Father Preston shook himself, realizing he was staring silently at the Reverend Father’s chair. The others were looking at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Peace be with you,” he said and accepted the murmuring response as he turned to prepare the host. There was a shuffle and whispers behind him as the brothers turned to embrace each other.

A rumbling squeak erupted as one of the heavy oak pews was pushed out of place and then a few grunts and one of the brothers shouted, “Brother Matthew, stop!”

Father Preston whirled around to see Brother Matthew hugging another brother tightly. The man sagged with a muffled groan. Two of the others grabbed at Matthew’s arms and tried to pull them open. Brother Matthew clenched tighter and a deep growl billowed from him and echoed down the chamber. Father Preston hurried down the steps toward the pew. Brother Matthew let the man he was holding go. He fell with a thud into the pew. The others lifted him while Brother Matthew turned toward the man who had yelled. Father Preston watched pink drool drip from Matthew’s jaw and his limbs bend into a half crouch as if in preparation to spring. Father Preston reached him before he could attack.

“Brother Matthew,” he cried, holding his prior firmly by the shoulders, “recall where you are. Can’t you recognize us? Think, man! We’ve shared all of our days, all of our deepest prayers! Remember whose commands you live by, remember what you are!”

There was a breath of silence. Everyone waited and Brother Matthew stared at Father Preston.

Let this be my miracle,
Father Preston had time to think,
let me be the hand of the divine.

And then Matthew’s chest rumbled and he stretched his jaw open as far as it could. Father Preston felt the wet heat of Matthew’s breath and smelled the metallic tinge of fresh blood as Matthew lunged for him. This time the others were ready and held Matthew back before he could bite. Father Preston was shaken. He sat down carefully in the crooked pew. He gazed up at the carved crucifix. It had been restored only the year before, its paint brightened, its details sharpened by hand with fine sandpaper. It had been a source of pride when visitors exclaimed how lifelike it seemed, how much closer it made them feel to God. But as Father Preston looked up at it, his eyes seemed to play a trick. The thin threads of red that trailed from the figure’s sharp crown now elongated, clustered on the corners of the mouth, to stain the thin wooden cheeks. It must be a trick of the shadows. He passed a hand over his eyes. One of the younger monks bent down near him.

“Brother Michael, what should we do?”

Father Preston shook himself and saw that they were all waiting for him. Brother Matthew strained and wriggled but was unable to harm anyone. The brother he had so fiercely embraced, however, bled freely from a wound in his neck and lay upon another pew.

“Put Brother Matthew in his room. Block the door, just as we’ve done for the Abbot. With time and prayer, he will hopefully recover. Brother Aaron’s wounds should be tended to as best we can. I believe the first aid kit is in the kitchen.” He sank back into the pew as the others hastened to either help or take themselves out of harm’s way. A few of them stumbled over the threshold and Father Preston made a mental note to repair the flagstone, though he didn’t remember any unevenness.

He tried to return to prayer. Though he knew the Abbot would have gently chided him for it, Father Preston was partial to Christmas Eve. It had formerly been his favorite night of the year, the most sacred in his mind. Not this year. The courtyard echoed with Brother Matthew’s roar and the Abbot, hearing the commotion, joined in, multiplying the chaos. He looked around him. The pews were crooked from the sudden violence and there was a shallow pool of darkness where the injured monk had lain. Father Preston sighed and tried to concentrate on a short prayer before rising to clean. He bowed his head and looked down. There was blood on his stole from Brother Matthew’s dripping mouth. Instead of praying, he felt hot tears streak down his face and catch at the corner of his mouth. The Abbot was mad, his brothers were sickening around him, and God had denied him. He leaned forward onto the pew in front of him and wept for sheer loneliness.

A clatter of wood on stone and the sudden chime of bursting glass woke him. Father Preston had cried himself to sleep on the hard wooden bench. He looked up, his eyes still blurry and crusted with salt. The church doors stood open and a table had tipped and its oil lamp crashed to the floor. Most of the others had gone out and the room was very dark. A dim glow came from the open door, whether from the moons reflection on the snow or the approaching sun rise, Father Preston did not know. A darker shadow of a man blocked some of the door and he squinted for a better view of who it was.

“Mile? Bru’er Mile?” the figure slurred and swayed as if he were drunk.

“I’m here,” Father Preston called.

The man careened up the aisle and tripped on the edge of the crooked pew. Father Preston reached out and caught him before he could fall.

“Brother Joseph, What is it?” he asked, thinking the monk wanted to confess to breaking into the wine cellar. But Joseph’s breathing was ragged and shallow, as if he had been running, not slow and sleepy with drink.

There was a terrified scream from the courtyard. The monk glanced toward the doors and pulled on Father Preston’s arm. “Bro’er George is sick, and Bro’er Matthew got free.”

“Free?”

Brother Joseph nodded and another cry crawled along the stone walls. The monk lurched back toward the doors and pulled Father Preston behind him. “We have to go,” Joseph muttered.

“And leave our brothers? They need our help, they aren’t themselves.”

Joseph tripped on the fallen table and Father Preston helped him up. “They’ll kill ush. Look.” He pointed out of the open door into the silver-blue snow of the courtyard. A man lay motionless and dark against the pale ground. Another man crouched over him. Brother Joseph went back into the sanctuary and emerged with a large flashlight. Its broad beam flickered and then arced over the ground and onto the two men. The one that was crouching spun around to look at them, squinting in the bright light. It wasn’t Brother Matthew or Brother George, but another, also sick. He stood up slowly and Father Preston could see his clothes were rent and trailing and a clump of hair was missing from the side of his head.

“It’s okay,” said Brother Joseph and stumbled again as he descended the steps. The flashlight dropped and rolled and he went sprawling. The sick man wasted no time but sprinted toward Joseph. Father Preston stepped forward to protect him, but Joseph had risen and he pushed Father Preston out of the way. The two men grappled and fell into the snow. Father Preston tried to pull them apart, but neither one paid any attention. Brother Joseph’s face twisted into a snarl as he fought, and Father Preston heard a sickening, crunching snap as Joseph’s arm was twisted too far, but the monk didn’t even slow down. Joseph was able to twist himself over the other man and lunged in to bite. Father Preston realized Brother Joseph had succumbed to the Plague and it broke his motionless daze.

He backed up into the stairs, fell onto his back and turned to scrabble up them. He made it into the church and slammed the door. He pulled the back pew foot by foot until it stood in front of the door and refilled one of the remaining lamps with shaking hands. He turned it up high and lit the tall wax candles that sat at the end of each row to chase away the dark. He was relieved to see that he was alone in the building, though the flickering candles made him keep glancing doubtfully at the massive crucifix, his eyes tricking him into thinking the half starved figure was moving, reaching for him with thin, clawed hands and dull, ripping wooden teeth.

He crouched near the door, trying to peer out of the frosty windows at what was happening. But there were no more sounds from the courtyard. At last, the adrenaline wore off. Exhausted, he drifted off, his forehead resting against the cold glass.

When he woke again, a pale light sliced through the windows and the church was bright with morning. His stomach rumbled as he walked around the church extinguishing the candles. He pushed the pews back into place, except the one that blocked the door. He gently folded his vestments and placed them next to the podium. He found himself much calmer and knelt for his morning devotions. Halfway through, a creaking shudder came from behind him and he sprang up. Someone was trying to open the door. Father Preston walked quickly and quietly to the door. There was a soft, insistent rap.