Antioch

  Biggs leaned over to Andalynn and said, “They’re makin’ a racket.” She nodded, frowning in her scars. All of the sailors shifted around, watching out of the inn’s big windows, which seemed very fragile when they thought about it.

  After the last song, the congregation settled and prepared for Betheford’s sermon. Whispering near the entrance drew attention. Michael stood in the middle of the whispers, looking around the room. He hadn’t attended one of his father’s services in more than thirty years. Andalynn held up her hand. He held up her bundled goggles and surgeon’s cover. She’d asked for them.

  The man between Andalynn and Fergus stood up and offered Michael his seat. He shook Michael’s hand with both of his own, smiling at him and welcoming him to the gathering. Betheford also smiled at Michael and waited once again for silence.

  Betheford opened his arms wide and said, “Brothers and sisters, daughters and sons…” He went on, and on, to talk about friendship, family and accepting the sailors into the community. Though loquacious, it was a wholesome message.

  Fergus was disgusted. He whispered to Michael, “Fwah! Look at him up there, that preachy, preachy…” Michael shushed him. Fergus frowned and turned to Margot.

  Margot put a finger in his face and hissed, “Fergus! Don’t embarrass us.”

  Betheford spoke about the importance of contributing to society and produced a list he’d taken the time to collect from the fellowship. It contained available work and more permanent living arrangements for the sailors. Betheford had just begun reading it when Fergus turned around and saw Ditch. Fergus twisted with his arm over the back of the chair and went, “Psst!” Ditch scowled.

  Fergus whispered, “Do you see him up there? He’s terrible! God must work in mysterious ways. Why he’d let Betheford speak for him I’ll never know!”

  Ditch said, “Look, man…” obviously not interested in anything Fergus had to say right then.

  Fergus shushed him, motioning that he should keep his voice down. Then he went on to complain to his new friend in whispers about Betheford, quickly comparing him to both a toadstool and an old trout.

  Ditch’s face was a raisin. He wanted to hear what Betheford was saying and he didn’t want to listen to any complaining. One of his friends had just gotten cut up. Another one was gone.

  Fergus said, “Now I know how you sailors feel. I lost my home last night too. I don’t know when we’ll be able to move back in. So I have to sit here, drinking Betheford’s sour milk.”

  Ditch snapped. With a little less volume than a shout, he said, “Hey! You lost a house, man! Everybody I know is dead! Now I’m tryin’ to listen to this guy so, like, shut up!”

  Betheford paused. The congregation turned to stare. Fergus rotated, sinking into his chair. Margot and Sarah covered their faces.

  Ditch shouted, “Hey, man, sorry, can you go over the jobs again? I missed it.”

  Betheford said, “Of course!” and recited the available work. Then he moved on to the proposition of building a wall around Antioch and the donations it would require. The congregation grumbled. They didn’t want to build a wall around their city. If something threatened their safety, the church would take care of it. A wall was impractical and costly, too much trouble. Also, such fortifications were against the king’s law.

  Michael shook his head at what he heard. Fergus turned around in his seat and scowled at Ditch. Ditch scowled right back, ready to bust Fergus in the mouth. Then everyone noticed a commotion outside. People were screaming.

  Someone shouted through the doorway, “They’re here! They’re in the street!”

  ***

  A gold and green meadow stretched east of Antioch, shimmering in the midday sun and breeze. Two rotten bauran limped through it. Their black eyes saw none of the meadow’s rippling color. As their paths converged, the monsters appeared to one another as empty shadows against fields of gray. To one another, they were not important.

  They didn’t feel the sun’s warmth or the coolness of the wind and they smelled neither wild flowers nor their own deathly reek. They heard the hymns of the fellowship, though - those were important - and hurried toward them.

  Antioch’s buildings and streets were a maze of sharp, black angles that had to be navigated to find the songs. The worship lulled into a steady, conversational thrum, but was still a sound stored in vital instinct, the sound of people. It came closer with every turn and at every turn the bauran’s only desire became stronger. They were like men desperate for air, heading for the surface of the water.

  Then the angles opened into a lane filled with riin, hundreds of tiny suns. Each light hovered within a shadow. The shadows started to scream.

  Faith shrieked, “Oh my God, it’s them! The devils of Meroe!” She was trapped. The crowd was a deep dead-end that held her in the alley for the two shuffling, jerking zombies. The people who saw them pushed against those who had not.

  “Who’s pushing? Stop that!”

  “Get out of the way! Move! Run!”

  “Help me! Please, help me!”

  Faith pleaded and clawed at the crowd’s backs. The bauran dragged her down. They bit and thrashed her as the fellowship pushed itself away. Terrible bony fingers ripped through her clothes and flesh, pushed into her chest and, with a horrible crack, pulled one of her ribs away from the rest like a lever. Her screams oscillated from the trauma.

  Someone shouted through the doorway, “They’re here! They’re in the street!”

  Two courageous men leapt from the crush to Faith’s aid and wrestled the powerful ghouls. They grabbed one together and pulled it away, but then burned in its smoke and reeled.

  Michael shoved through the retreating flow, knocking people down. He flattened three citizens to burst from the throng, pulled his caligan and took two, rapid strokes: the first sheared head and shoulders from the ghoul above the woman, the second split the other as the coughing men released it.

  Michael dropped his sword and ripped his gauntlet from the mail before the second fiend fell. The blade clanged on the cobblestones in a shower of ink and ringlets. He shoved his bare hand into the gore under the bauran’s vomiting trunk and reached Faith a moment before death. Light blazed from the horror.

  Her new skin sealed around his fingers like a glove. He slid them out and pushed the corpse away. She’d been mutilated. Torn flesh swung in flaps from incomplete patches of hasty scar tissue. Her body had isolated pockets of ink in cysts. Broken bones were set at drastic angles, some exposed, like horns. She trembled in an abominable puddle.

  The two rescuers retched in the poison behind him. Smoke rolled out of the baurans’ cloven chests and burned into the retreating crowd. Eyes wide and glowing, Michael shouted, “No! Don’t run!”

  ***

  Biggs said, “It’s a stampede!” looking out the window at the flooding citizenry. “What’re they runnin’ for? Michael’s - right - there.” He tapped on the glass, pointing at Michael, whose face flashed from one to the next: Faith, the convulsing men who had tried to help her, the smoking corpses and the fleeing crowd. He couldn’t take care of them all by himself.

  Ditch said, “They’re buggin’ out, man!”

  Andalynn said, “Many of them have been infected. They cannot be allowed to hide.”

  Biggs pulled his bandana over his nose. “Michael’s got his hands full. Let’s round ‘em up.”

  The sailors shouted quick directions to the congregation inside and then charged across the emptying street. The double doors shut behind them. They went into a courtyard out of the alley’s breeze and shot their weapons into the air, beckoning with their free hands. The loud reports gained attention but only redoubled the frightened mob’s desire to get away.

  Ditch almost threw his rifle on the ground. “Aaah, come on, man!” He took off alongside the crowd like a cow-dog, jingling and chuffing from his pumping speed. Biggs ran after him, but wasn’t half as fast. They both fired their rifles as they went and yelled for everyone to go back to t
he courtyard and to hold their breath. By the time Ditch reached the front runners, the people behind had started following orders.

  Andalynn shouted, “Come out of the wind! Come out of the wind!” and waved them in. They filled the courtyard, some in the sun and some in the shop-awnings’ shadows. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders. A boy and a girl straddled the well’s roof while other youngsters stood in a ring around the lip, looking out over the gathering. Across the way, frightened faces stared from the windows of Betheford’s inn.

  The two men who had tried to rescue Faith rounded the corner, reporting that Michael was dragging the corpses away. Several people shrieked and pointed at what followed those men. Someone shouted, “Look! Another devil!”

  Faith cried, “I’m not a devil!” She was clutching Michael’s tabard around her shoulders and chest, and trying to hide her face as she joined the group. Andalynn stared at her.

  Ditch and Biggs came jogging back. Ditch spoke through a cough. “That’s… all of em… I think… man.”

  Biggs said, “You’re the fastest son of a gun I ever saw!” and clapped Ditch on the shoulder. Then he noticed the cough. “Caught it, huh?”

  Ditch bent over and put his hands on his knees, gasping and retching into his respirator. “Yeah, man… It’s like… hard… to hold your breath… you know.” Coughs stuttered through the crowd as well.

  Andalynn shouted orders to organize the afflicted. She asked for those who felt stronger to stand back and she failed to ease fears by saying, “Remain calm! You could have up to three hours before death!” People gaped, prayed and made holy signs.

  Biggs shouted, “Come on y’all, the better we help Michael, the faster he’ll go.”

  When Michael returned, he was the only one in the street. His naked mail’s leather laces ran from neckline to waist. His left hand glistened red and black under the torn sleeve. He shouted, “I stowed them in the toilet! Stay away from the toilet near the inn!” He repeated himself and the crowd passed it along. Don’t use the toilet at Betheford’s! Hey! Don’t use the toilet at Betheford’s!

  Michael scanned up and down the empty way, breathing. Then he said, “The lane is safe! We need to start curing the disease!”

  They flooded out to him, begging for hospital. Michael worked as quickly as he could. As they lie down on the cobblestones, he touched them and moved on to the next. Each took no more than four seconds of his time, but long minutes passed in the presence of thousands.

  He could not speak often at the pace he kept, but when he reached Ditch, Michael said, “Thank you.” Ditch nodded through the wretched coughs and gave Michael a “don’t mention it” slap on the arm.

  Those who’d recovered or were waiting for their turn worried and questioned the sailors. Some asked about the bodies in the toilet. The answers were unsettling.

  “Yup, gotta burn ‘em.”

  “They, like, keep smokin, man.”

  “Their lungs do not die.”

  Word spread of blasphemy. Michael grimaced at the scandal while he worked. The sailors defended the necessity of the act and, though some citizens understood, many protested and spoke of damnation.

  “It’s terrible sin!”

  “You’ll deny their souls to rest!”

  “They’ll be doomed as ghosts!”

  One pious man even refused hospital with a curt, “No thank you!” Michael grabbed that man’s face and forced it on him. Then he moved on to the next. A runner knocked on the doors of the inn and passed word through to Betheford, who’d been watching out of a window. Listening to the tale, the deacon flashed a look of shock at his son.

  It took more than three hours to cleanse the crowd. Michael could not be sure he’d gotten to everyone. Some people went twice. Others might have followed that pious man’s example and removed themselves from the order on principle. No one was waiting for him, though, and he had not found an infection in a long while. The fellowship argued around him.

  Michael raised his arms and shouted, “Everyone! Listen to me!” They gave him their attention. The torn chain gathered at his shoulder. “You’re all going to die!” They gasped. A child started to cry. The arguments resumed.

  Biggs said to Andalynn, “You n’ Michael, sure know how to work a crowd.”

  She said, “What do you mean?”

  Michael tried to get their attention again, to finish what he’d meant to say, that they were only going to die if they didn’t make the necessary changes. But, it was too late. His voice drowned in the crowd’s discussion and he ended up explaining himself to angry, frightened individuals for hours.

  He didn’t mind the work. The hours of talking to them and healing them did not frustrate him half as much as the conversation with Abraham that morning. The fellowship was made of friends and family, brothers, sisters and cousins among them, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. They were his history. Michael didn’t share all of their beliefs, but he loved those people.

  They were shaken to learn he was the only one left in the church. They were just beginning to realize the weight of the threat. The sailors’ tales hadn’t been enough. And after being attacked during service, most of them were ready to help however they could. They were ready to stand together and to protect each other.

  Michael was resolved to teach them all, every one of them that wanted to learn. He’d already made plans to begin with Edward the following morning. He decided then he would teach Edward to teach. They would make the way as common as speech.

  He took the time to answer questions and told everything he could, the open truth. It was a tremendous relief, like he’d been holding his breath for decades. In the corner of his eye, the lowering sun glinted gold from his tabard’s circle. He turned to it and saw Andalynn speaking with Faith on the steps of Betheford’s inn.

  16 Gunders and Greer

  Antioch’s day of worship gave way to night and a full moon. The fellowship locked themselves in before sunset, just beginning their plan to survive. The entire city was on alert. Toward that, Marabbas stalked through the apple trees. At the glowing door of the Cauldron’s kitchen, he smelled smoke, milk and Michael. He crept inside.

  Michael’s sleeve was at the forge again, but his caligan was next to him. He scrubbed the butcher table with a big bristle brush by the light of the fireplace. Another brush jutted up from a bucket of milk on the cold grill.

  Marabbas crept closer, sniffing. “That’s milk.”

  Michael nearly jumped out of his longhandles. “Aaah!” With one hand over his heart and the other over his weapon, he realized who it was. Then he picked up the brush he’d dropped and shook it at the gunder. “Marabbas! Stop… stop sneaking around!”

  “Ok.”

  Michael hadn’t been startled like that in a long time. He had to collect himself. Marabbas studied him and then looked back and forth from the bucket to the brush. Michael could tell he was thinking something through.

  Marabbas said, “You’re scrubbing the table, not the milk.”

  Michael smiled a little. “Yes, I’ve decided to see for myself if it works. The sailors said it gets the smoke out.”

  Marabbas snorted and sniffed his way through the kitchen. “I smell the smoke. It’s different with milk on it.”

  Michael brightened. “It is? Can you tell if this is working? What do you smell?”

  “Smoke with milk on it.” Marabbas had a keen sense of smell but his speech was an unfortunate distillation of what it gathered.

  “Ah…”

  Michael stroked the butcher table and put his finger in his mouth. The infection didn’t fizzle against the riin. Encouraged, he handed the other brush to Marabbas and the two of them scrubbed the kitchen together. As Marabbas sniffed around, Michael tested for the infection and they compared what they found. They soon discovered that the smoke was alive… and that milk killed it. Marabbas could point out the dead patches from the living by scent.

  ***

  The front door stood open to the night,
shining from the common room’s fireplace. Michael sat scrubbing the stairs and Marabbas worked on the long table. Each had a mug of cider in reach and each was keeping to his thoughts.

  Michael thought of Margot. How happy and grateful she’d been when he told her he would try to clean the smoke out of her house. She’d called him an angel. He’d always liked Margot.

  Marabbas remembered eight years before, when he’d been only a beardless pup, making frequent visits to the inn’s back door. Fergus was always there with something good to eat. Betheford would shout, you’ll have gunders at my door day and night! It’s not right! When Fergus opened the Cauldron, Marabbas got to sit inside.

  Marabbas said, “I like Fergus.”

  Michael had been half-ignoring such childlike statements for hours. “I know you do.” The ink on the stairs made his milk suds black.

  Marabbas had an awkward, inefficient style of scrubbing, like an ape at the easel. He would also spend long moments in motionless contemplation. His progress was slow. He drank some of his cider, snorting in the tankard. “I like Margot.”

  Michael drank to that. It was delicious. “I do too. She’s a fine woman.”

  Cider was the drink in Antioch and Margot’s family made it the best. They’d been keeping secrets of body and flavor for generations. Michael thought of them as a sort of Cider Circle, with Margot as their mistress.

  Marabbas absentmindedly scratched himself with the brush and then jumped at the touch of milk that trickled out of it. He sniffed it cautiously. “Margot says ooh filthy beast go to the well.”

  The marble-mouthed impersonation of Margot made Michael laugh. “I don’t blame her. I’ve seen how you track mud into the kitchen.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Marabbas said, “I was in the tree outside her window. Margot said filthy beast and threw her apple at me. I fell.”

  Michael put down his brush and covered a laugh. “God’s mercy, Marabbas, what were you doing in the tree outside her window?”