Krisis (After the Cure Book 3) (30 page)

He rose from his seat and drew closer to the hospital. He thought he’d heard a word in the scream. His team should have just entered. Maybe it had been Ruth. The people in the cop car reached out to him and cried as he passed. It irritated him; he wanted to hear what was going on inside the hospital, not the whining of thieves.

The others went back to their work, the men finishing up the scaffolds, the women cooking a meal for the Congregation. Gray sat sharpening the fire ax with a rusty file he’d found. Father Preston ignored him.

The sun broke over the horizon and lit up the heavy mist in the field turning the crushed weeds a dull sepia, like they’d been splashed with a light rain of gore. Another shriek came from the hospital. Far off in a corner of tall grass near the road, an Infected woman sat up and blinked at the glaring white fog around her. She heard the shriek and stood up, unbound from a wall for the first time in years. Her legs were weak and shaky from disuse. She stumbled a few steps toward the sound, became confused and stopped for a moment. Her mouth hung open and she sniffed the air, turning her head from side to side. Somewhere in the nearby fog someone was humming. If she’d been well, she would have recognized it as an old spiritual her mother had been fond of. But her brain only connected the sound with the possibility of food. She shuffled toward it, then broke into a trot as the sound continued and grew closer.

An ancient crown of white braided hair separated from the mist and the Infected woman lunged at it. The humming stopped as the old woman snapped like a twig under the Infected. There was one high crooning whoop of triumph and fierce joy from the Infected before she bent over the old woman and tore into her throat.

The women cooking over the massive bonfire in the back of the camp stopped and looked at each other. “What was that?” asked one.

Another shrugged. “Was it Mildred?” asked another, “She was laying out rope for the— the judgments. Maybe she tripped in a rabbit hole. You know, her bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“I’ll go check on her,” said another who had been stirring a great pot of hot cereal. She tucked the long spoon into her tidy apron pocket and straightened her skirt.

“Mildred?” she called as she disappeared into the fog. Her voice woke three more Infected. They stirred and sat up. If the fog had been any thinner they would have seen each other. Instead they moved toward the voices and the crackle of the fire.

“Mildred, are you all right? We heard you call and were afraid you had fall—” the woman’s gasp swallowed her last word. She found herself only a foot or two from the scraggle of hair and limbs that crawled over Mildred’s small body. Teeth snapped and the Infected woman’s head jerked up, spraying tiny fans of blood droplets. They spattered the woman’s white apron and the skin on her bare arms. She screamed and backed away, waking more of the Infected. She ran in the direction she thought she had come, but no gold warmth of the bonfire met her, only more cool swirls of fog, like clots of milk bunching around her. She kept screaming. The other women were calling her, but she couldn’t hear them over the blaring thud of her heart and the shrill cries that tumbled out of her own throat.

A skinny hand shot out of the fog and grabbed her arm. It yanked her down onto the crushed grass and knocked the wind from her lungs. She lay there, limbs aching, gasping at the thick air. A ring of jagged yellow teeth opened over her face and descended. Clawing fingers scraped her skin and twisted into her hair.
It hurts!
Her brain screamed,
It hurts!
But she fainted before it really could.

Ruth sat on the bed staring at the dresser, willing it not to move. Juliana paced, her breath ragged and her eyes huge, listening to the struggle on the stairs outside. Neither dared to speak. Ruth checked and rechecked the small knife in her pocket. There was a distant scream from outside the hospital. The grunting outside the door paused for a second and then resumed.
They’re waking up,
thought Ruth,
we just have to hold on a little longer.
The dresser jiggled as something banged into the door. Juliana jumped a little and then sat next to Ruth on the bed. Ruth grabbed her hand and held it tightly. The dresser squealed as it moved a half inch from the wall.

Commotion near the new scaffolds made Father Preston turn around, irritated that his attention was being divided. He was
so close
to defeating Ruth.
So close
to routing out the evil that had held sway over the hospital and Juliana for so long. And now, in the hour of his greatest triumph, he was being called away, for what? Someone would answer for this distraction. He stomped toward the rear of the camp. The fog was beginning to burn away around the campfire and he could see the shadow of figures moving very quickly as he drew closer to it. There were shouts and a few screams. The turned leg of an antique table stabbed out of the fog toward him, its end blazing. Father Preston dodged it, ducking sideways.

“F-Father, I’m sorry,” stammered the man holding it, his arm was bleeding and his eyes darted wildly side to side. He grabbed Father Preston’s arm and dragged him back toward the hospital. “You can’t be back here, not safe. We have to get to the hospital, where it’s safe.”

“What is going on?” growled Father Preston.

“It’s the Infected— dozens of them. The devils came in with the fog. Attacked the women. They are everywhere.”

The man whirled around with the burning table leg. Figures struggled all around them, shrouded by the fog. There was a sudden shriek near Father Preston’s left ear. He dropped to the ground, flattening himself against the rough weeds. An Infected sprang onto the other man’s back, ripping at his shoulder with its teeth. The table leg fell into the grass and began to smolder. Father Preston leapt up to help, but the Infected turned on him with a snarl. He grappled with the wiry, bony thing, its face too criss crossed with scars and missing chunks to tell what gender it had been. The other man held his shoulder and stumbled backward into the fog, hollering for help.

Father Preston was furious. He recognized the bandage covering the Infected’s missing eye. This was Ruth’s work.
She let them go. She’s used them against me. Against ME. How dare she? I’ll kill that bitch myself!
His rage gave him as much strength as the Infected. He beat it down, stomping it to the ground. It flailed and twisted against the smoking grass, its hair and clothing catching almost immediately. Father Preston backed away, but it rose up and lurched toward him, a flaming pillar of teeth and claws and hate. Gray emerged from the fog, screaming at everyone to stop, not to harm the merchandise. Father Preston sneered at him and snatched the ax from his hand. One hearty swing and the momentum of the crazed Infected were all it took. It fell down, headless, starting small grass fires. Father Preston clutched the ax and shoved Gray aside. He plowed through small knots of people locked in death struggles and up the concrete steps of the hospital. He threw open the front door.

It was very quiet inside. The foyer was dark, windows still untouched by the rising sun. He crept down the hallway. The cells gaped open, all empty. It felt like he was walking backward in time, for a moment his mind overlaid the monastery dormitory. As if he were still watching his brothers succumb to madness, as if he were still sick. Maybe he’d never really recovered.

The kitchen too, was empty. He opened the pantry door, expecting them to be hiding there, with their spoils. He was dumbfounded to find it barren. He’d never bothered to look when he was living there. There had always been enough. Juliana had always fed them all without blinking. He’d just assumed there was always more. Dust lay on most of the shelves. She’d been struggling for a while then. For a swift second, the thought of Gray burning the greenhouses and ripping up the garden, bubbled up inside him, enraged him. But it was shoved aside by the idea that Juliana had known the hospital was failing. She’d
known
the Afflicted wouldn’t survive the winter; he had thought she was bluffing. She’d never have to face the consequences, though. She could play the saint and would be long dead by the time the suffering started.

That’s why she’d chosen Ruth. That’s why she wouldn’t give the Afflicted to him. It would have exposed her even more than her speech. Everyone would know that she had failed, that it wasn’t just a tactic. He felt a sour sickness begin in his gut. All this time he’d protected her. All this time they could have taken the Afflicted away. Moved south and started over. And he’d waited because he didn’t want to disturb a dying woman. He’d been weak. He’d let sympathy get in the way of duty. Now the Afflicted and his loyal flock would slaughter each other to pay for his wavering. He couldn’t let Ruth get away with it. She’d put Juliana up to it, he was sure. She’d been the puppetmaster the whole time. She wouldn’t leave this building without paying, in blood, drop by drop, for all the agony she’d caused him.

He stalked back down to the entryway, no longer hearing the carnage outside, no longer seeing the bodies of his brother monks in each empty cell.

“I’m still here Ruth,” he roared, “You used your charges against me! You thought you’d trick me. Run me off, kill me. But I’m still here. And I’m coming for you, Juliana or no.” He brandished the ax and began pounding up the stairs, bouncing a little with each step to create a more intimidating stomp. There was a scrabbling sound, like a hundred large rats scraping a wall at once.

Father Preston stopped, peering up at the gloomy attic. A handful of figures stood at the top of the stairs, breathing heavy, heads turned toward him. Father Preston had time to back down one step before the Infected reached him. He fell, his head hitting the stairs even as the heat of their breath made him scream in fear. A jaw snapped shut on his outstretched leg. He realized he had wet his pants as the ax flew away behind him and needles of pain dug into his soft belly. His head was lifted by squeezing hands and then dropped again as one of the Infected shoved another back. His head hit the tiled floor again, and this time he blacked out. He didn’t even have time to call upon his God for help.

Chapter 30

“I’m no sharpshooter Frank,” said Nella with a sigh. They stood on the edge of the field, trying to peer into the fog that was rising gradually in thick strands as the sun arced higher above the horizon.

“Maybe they’re distracted enough that we can just stab them with the darts. I mean, listen to that.”

The shrieks and grunts floating through the field overwhelmed almost everything else. Nella glanced at her husband.

“It takes about ten minutes to work, remember?”

Frank shook his head. “If we wait for the fog to burn off, everyone might be dead. There’s no other way. How many darts do we have?”

Bernard hovered anxiously nearby, his good hand holding the dog. Nella pulled two large boxes from the pack. “Well, they were manufactured with the idea of encountering massive hordes. I think each case has five hundred darts, but we only have two cases with us.”

Frank looked over his shoulder at Bernard. “There’s no way they were able to take care of a thousand Infected. He said it was just him and his friend.” He sighed and rubbed his head. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to tell who’s Infected. And if we leave the Immunes awake, they’ll just continue killing the others to be safe. We’ll have to dart every person. That way no one will be able to kill someone while they are vulnerable and sleeping.”

“And if they turn on us?”

“Bernard, if we run straight from this point we’ll hit the hospital?”

Bernard nodded.

“And your friends will let us in if we need help?”

Bernard hesitated. He untied the sling Ruth had made him and handed it to Frank. Frank looked at it for a moment and nodded.

“Okay, you stay here. Be ready to run when we get back, if your friends are in bad shape, we’ll need help,” Frank turned to Nella. “Don’t leave me in there,” he said quietly, “I know you’ll be all right, you’ve taken care of yourself a long time before I came around. But I don’t know if I’m ready to see— to see
us
in a large group.”

Nella brushed her thumb over the raised scar in the palm of his hand. “They are no more to blame than you were, and in a few days, they are going to feel as terribly as you have. They’ll need to know there are others like them in the world.”

He scanned the field, his face drawn with worry. She pressed several cool plastic darts into his hand. “I’ll be right here, the whole time,” she said when he looked back at her. “Aim for a limb, you’ll be more likely to hit a vein. Don’t pull the dart out, it takes a few seconds to release the full dose.”

He pocketed a handful of darts and grabbed more from the box. Nella stuffed her own pockets as well. “We’ll have to stay low until the fog clears,” she said, “We can see underneath it that way, and we’ll be less likely to run into someone’s weapon or teeth.” She put a handful of darts in Bernard’s hand too. “Just in case anyone wanders out. But don’t try to fight them. Just hide. It takes a few minutes, not like the movies used to show.” Bernard nodded.

She knelt next to Frank. “Ready?”

He took a deep breath and then nodded. Crouching, they ran forward into the fog. The grass swished around them, the sweet smell of it crushed underfoot and mixed with wood smoke from a nearby campfire. The thuds and groans of people fighting drew closer and Nella dragged Frank toward an opening in the grass. She pulled a dart from her pocket and held it point out in her fist. A man knelt over another form, the butt end of a welding torch descending onto the unconscious face of his opponent. He saw Nella and Frank as the mist evaporated between them and hesitated.