The 40th Day (After the Cure Book 5)

by Gould, Deirdre

  “Amen,” finished Vincent, before cradling the head in one arm and gently shutting its eyes.

  Twenty-two

  The boat was a problem. He’d been too hasty, the night before. What if it needed a crew? Or fuel? And where in blazes was it? As far as he knew, there were only two people who knew for sure. And somehow, they’d known enough about what Father Preston had done to get Gray kicked out of the Colony. There was no way he could just saunter up and ask. He was certain there’d been more solid planning over the radio that morning, but he wasn’t able to get close enough to the farmhouse to hear. Not without being spotted. Short of searching the farmhouse, he wasn’t certain how he was going to find the one seaworthy boat between there and the City. He was going to have to get someone in the quarantine camp to help him, to ask for him. One more play then. One more scheme for one more sucker. Gray’s stomach rumbled and cramped. If Father Preston wouldn’t help him, he’d have to risk the farmhouse. It’d be better than starving anyway.

  He watched the quarantine camp from the treeline. Father Preston’s tent backed up to the fence and Gray slunk up behind it as he watched the priest fling himself out of a far cell and stride down the camp’s lane toward the tent. Gray waited to see if Father Preston would say anything, in case Lisa or Vincent were inside. He could hear pacing footsteps but no one spoke. “Father?” he said in a hushed tone.

  The pacing stopped.

  “Father, it’s me. It’s Gray.”

  “You? What are you doing here?”

  “I know, I know you’re angry. You have every right to be,” said Gray quickly, but his face wore the old greasy smile. Father Preston couldn’t see it with the canvas between them. “The last time we spoke— I was harsh and I said things I didn’t mean. I knew your temperament. I knew how self-sacrificing you are, and I didn’t want to let you come here. I didn’t want to risk you becoming infected, so I tried to make you angry with me. I tried to be angry and cold so that I could part from you easier. I know now, I was wrong. I was wrong to doubt your miracle and I was wrong to think that God wouldn’t protect you. I’ve come to my senses, after some prayer and reflection—” he waited to see if Father Preston would object, would claim the ring of mounds at the end of the camp as his fault. When he didn’t, Gray’s smile widened. Still too proud to admit you’re a fraud, eh? I’ve got just the thing, he thought. “But your people, the ones you led so faithfully from the hospital, they’ve betrayed you. Betrayed us. These people are unrepentant sinners. They aren’t worthy of a miracle. That’s why God withholds it, not to punish you but to punish them. There are other people that need us. People that need your healing, certainly, but people that also need to hear your preaching. We just have to get you out of there.”

  “Gray, you betrayed me. You awoke the anger of the woman who denounced us. You left the Cure dart as irrefutable proof that miracles don’t happen—”

  “I was wrong, and I’m so sorry. The Cure dart was mine. It was in my arm when I woke up. I wanted you to stay so I made you think it was yours. I want to atone for what I’ve done. I want to help you escape this wretched place, these undeserving animals. I can’t undo the past, but I can help you save the future.”

  There was a short silence. “How?” asked Father Preston.

  Gray knew he had won. “There’s a boat. The others want to use it to kill the Infected. Wipe out the City with poison without even attempting to save any Immunes who might be inside. But we can save the innocents trapped there instead. We just need to know where it is. That couple— the ones that accused us, they know where it is. Find out for me and we’ll go together. I’ll gather supplies for us and let you out of here. We can leave tonight, and save the Infected in the City before anyone knows we’re gone.”

  There was a sigh. “I can’t save the Infected. I can’t save anyone Gray. And I’m not going to flee on a stolen boat and add to my crimes. I hope you are sincere, I hope you have found your faith at last and are becoming a better man. You should go. You should leave these people in peace. Find another settlement. Help them rebuild, be an example, but not mine. Go back, and seek forgiveness from Bernard. From Ruth if you can find her. I was wrong. I was proud and I let pride lead us instead of compassion. I knew who you were and what you really wanted, Gray, though you think you had me fooled. Maybe you still think you have me fooled. I thought I could change you. Make you a force for good. As if a person can ever force another to change. As if I could step in where God would not. Go, Gray. Don’t return. The only help I can offer is my prayers.”

  There were footsteps and then a whipping snap as the canvas flapped back and Father Preston was gone. Gray swore and slunk back to the trees. The hard way then, he thought, though he admitted it would be more fun that way.

  Father Preston walked down to the opposite end of the camp without looking back. Vincent was digging a new grave. He didn’t look up from his shovel.

  “I thought you were weak,” said Father Preston, “I thought you lacked faith when you came back to the monastery. I thought you were— bad.”

  “Maybe I was,” said Vincent as he lifted another shovelful of soil. “I was certainly a younger, more questioning man. I blamed God for causing the misery I saw around me. For not stopping the famine. For not saving innocent children. I know better now.”

  “What do you know better? What is it, Vincent? Because I’ve tried everything. I pray without ceasing. I go back to the book. I observe the rites. Nothing is helping. Nothing changes. They are still turning. Why did He cure me if not to help them?”

  Vincent stopped and leaned on the shovel. “So help them,” he said.

  “I am. I pray with them, I read to them, I ask for guidance on their behalf—”

  Vincent shook his head and pushed the shovel down again with his foot. Father Preston stopped. “What?” he asked, “Is that not the duty of a priest?”

  “Brother Michael,” said Vincent, his voice warm and gentle, “how many years did you know the woman who ran the hospital?”

  Father Preston shrugged. “Six or seven.”

  “What did she do there? How did she care for the Infected?”

  “She— fed them, cleaned them, kept them warm. They were like infants. Or animals.”

  “And you too, before you were cured?”

  “Yes, for a time.”

  “It must have been very hard taking care of all those people without electricity, without running water or an easy way to heat the place. And by herself too.”

  “She had people to help. Me, Bernard, Ruth. Some of the families.”

  Vincent paused and looked up at him. “Oh? What did you do to help?”

  “I read a sermon every morning to the inmates. Took a few hours, we’d do a few cells at a time, and my congregation would pray for them.”

  “I see,” said Vincent. “Did you ever stay to feed them? Do some of the laundry? Haul some water for baths?”

  Father Preston grew red. “I was busy trying to save their souls. Their bodily wants were a distant concern that was being handled by others.”

  “Bread is the religion of a starving man, Brother Michael. You remember the hospital and see people that were cured by science. People that, for all your prayers and well wishing, not only weren’t cured by your miracle but attacked you. You should have been the exception. They should have loved you enough to bypass you. After all, you were spared before. Singled out for a miracle cure. It infuriated you, so you were willing to believe they had to bite you to partake in the miracle. That a little dart couldn’t possibly have saved your lives. That’s how we got here. You know what I see when I look at those people?”

  Father Preston made no move, so Vincent went on. “I see people not just cured by a miracle, but left almost unscarred by their time as Infected. Those people should have died years ago or wandered committing brutal acts of violence until they came to a Cure camp. But they didn’t, because of one woman’s faith. Seven years, Brother Michael, think of it. Day in, day out, all
the time she was ill herself. She carried water, she split wood, she risked being bitten or killed, she changed their diapers and their bandages, made their food and went hungry or cold herself when there wasn’t enough. Because she believed that one day, the Cure was coming. That one day, those people would be themselves again and that someone would want them. It doesn’t matter that the medicine finally came in the shape of a tranquilizer dart or that it was made in a lab instead of a stroke of divine lightning. Juliana was the miracle. And her friends, that helped without hope of thanks or repayment or any advantage to themselves. You think they remember a single one of your shouted sermons? I guarantee they remember her. The times she bandaged their hurts when they couldn’t tell her how much pain they were in, the warmth of new clothes in the winter.”

  “I can’t be responsible for what they remember of me. I did my best.”

  “Did you? Maybe you were cured to help her. Maybe you were cured to give you a second chance at understanding faith. At understanding kindness. You came down here, and you didn’t have to. You came down here though you knew, somewhere deep down, that you didn’t cure those people. That you couldn’t cure these. Some part of you wants to help them. Have you stopped to ask yourself why?”

  Part of Father Preston wanted to lash out, humiliated at being questioned by someone he thought had a lesser faith, by a murderer. But he pushed it aside. Pride had helped no one. It had led him here. He was beaten. “I want to be worthy, Brother Vincent,” he said, his voice breaking in the middle. “I want it to matter that I was cured.”

  Vincent put a dirty hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Then help them.”

  “What do I do?” asked Father Preston. “Should I say a funeral service for Colin?” he looked down into the empty shallow grave.

  Vincent shook his head. “I will care for Colin. I promised.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s time for the waste buckets to be emptied.”

  Father Preston just nodded and picked up an empty bucket before walking off. Vincent went back to shoveling, but a small hope gathered in his chest. Maybe Father Preston would make a miracle after all.

  Twenty-three

  He’d considered waiting until night. It’d be easier to just climb over the wall without being seen in the dark. But the plan for the City had to be in the Farmhouse and too many people were still sleeping there at night. Over half the Colony still had unfinished or nonexistent houses and split their nights between the Farmhouse and the barn. During the day, it was all but deserted. Unless someone was injured or ill, they worked. And he wasn’t certain Father Preston wouldn’t blow his plan, given enough time. He had to move before they realized he was coming.

  Getting into the Colony wasn’t really a problem. They’d only built the wall on one side, expecting the thick forest that surrounded the other three sides to protect them from any serious assault. But the house was in the center of the Colony, a gray-shingled heart and everything radiated from it. There was no way he’d reach it unseen. Not without a distraction, anyway. He had to draw them all away long enough to find what he was looking for and get out. They’d all run to protect the garden, that was sure. But there were always people in it. They’d see Gray coming and drive him off before he could do anything. Besides, he’d no tools, only himself to cause damage. There was nothing in the garden that would help. He squatted in the deep shadow of the trees, scanning the small Colony as it began its day. The residents were scattered, their attention divided between many projects. Some worked on the unfinished cottages, their hammers a comforting, erratic series of thumps that quickly synchronized. Several carried water from the well or the shrinking pond for laundry or food. Could hit the well, Gray thought, looking around him for any plant he might recognize as poisonous. He quickly discarded the idea. It would take too long and wouldn’t affect everyone all at once. He could see a few people checking the rickety drying racks near the barn. Without refrigeration, it had proved the easiest, most efficient way to store the Colony’s excess crops for winter. Gray watched as they filled a barrow with dried corn and wheeled it into the barn. Once the barn caught his eye, Gray didn’t even stop to plan. He kept to the woods, giving the little cottages and knots of people wide berth, though they weren’t looking for him at all. He kept an eye open for Amos and Henry, but only saw Molly. Did they leave this whole place to the cripple? Can’t be. He kept looking for the others. Where’s the loudmouth lady? And that smoker? After a moment, he shrugged. The two most dangerous were definitely gone. He’d deal with the others if he had to. The barn was a good fifty yards from the tree line. The back door was open, but the interior was too dark to see if there was anyone inside. The people at the drying racks had moved on, but whether it was only to the barn or if they had gone to complete other tasks, Gray didn’t know.

  Fortune favors the bold, he thought. A stupid person would have sprinted. A less confident person. Gray strolled instead. As if he belonged there, as if he’d just stepped into the woods for a break and was returning to work. There were other people not very far away. Some of them must have seen him. But he hadn’t mingled much with the people from the City. Only Father Preston’s people really knew who he was, and Gray depended on the consistent divide between the two camps to protect him. Nobody stopped him. Nobody went running for the nearest guard. Nobody even stopped their work to look up at him. He slipped into the barn. It had been emptied months before and used as a place to house people. Now it was slowly filling up again as people moved into their own new homes and large wooden bins waiting for harvest lined the walls. A few were filled, and one wall shone with glass jars where they’d canned what they could not dry. It was a pitifully small amount for the number of people that would be relying on what was stored there. And they’d worked themselves ragged just to set that much by. For a short moment, even Gray hesitated. What if the boat thing doesn’t work? What if I need this food later? He looked around at it. There was nobody in the barn. He could grab whatever he wanted. Enough for a few weeks if he was careful. Probably nobody would even notice. And it had been easy to get in here. He could do it again when he needed. Maybe he should just find a nearby farmhouse and hole up for the winter instead. Just until he found a new crew. And the whole plague-thing blew over.

  It’s easy until you get caught, old boy, he told himself, they aren’t going to toss you out the front door so easily next time. And they aren’t going to care even if you come crawling on your knees begging. Next time they find you, they’re going to kill you. And you know what that means, old boy. Got to hit them first, boat or no boat. So they know you mean business. So they know not to mess with you. He didn’t waste any more time with doubts. He looked around. A large barrel of diesel still sat in the corner, though the tractor it went to had been pushed out long ago. Gray dismissed it. Good to keep a fire going, but not so great at starting one. Same with the small shelf of motor oil bottles above it. He pushed aside a few crusty cans of house paint and found a small can of turpentine. He shook it and it still sloshed. He whistled an old tune as he climbed up into the loft. It had been swept clean when the colonists moved in to sleep, but Henry had stored most of the spare lumber and insulation now that people were moving out. Oh yes, this is going to hurt them badly, Gray thought, hunting around for some tinder. He swept together some small piles of sawdust where some of the lumber had been cut to length. An old paperback novel lay in the corner, forgotten by one of the colonists who’d moved out. Gray saw it and ripped the flimsy pages out in clumps, fanning them out over the sawdust. The turpentine came next, he splashed it over the paper and then as far as he could reach across the spare lumber. He pulled out his old flip lighter. Joe had given it to him, back when things had been better. Back before Gray had sliced his tongue out for betraying him. He looked down into the floor of the barn. Still empty. He was going to have to get back to the woods before they noticed the fire, otherwise, he’d be caught before he could reach the farmhouse. He took a deep breath and jogg
ed a few steps in the loft, warming up. Then he bent down and held the lighter to a book page. The little pile went up with a whoosh and a little ball of flame that almost singed Gray’s hand. He laughed nervously and then, seeing that the flames were spreading instead of going out, climbed down the ladder, slipped out the back and strolled just as casually back to the tree line. Then, he waited. His bladder squeezed painfully as the first shouts reached him. He hadn’t been this excited in months. Years maybe. He grinned and relieved himself as he waited for the momentum to build, for the people to come running and gawking at what he’d done. He wanted to look for himself, to see the angry blades of flame piercing the roof of the barn, to watch the timbers slump and then cave in like ribs when you kicked them hard enough. He shook himself, forcing himself back to the task at hand. He slipped behind the stragglers to the farmhouse. They’d be back for pots and buckets in a few seconds. He didn’t want to risk being found. He avoided the front door, shoving the living room window up in its peeling frame instead. He slithered through the window and let it crash down behind him as he bolted for the stairs. He wasn’t certain where the papers he needed were, but he was going to start with the second floor until the firefighting was in full swing. He slunk into one of the bedrooms and carefully pulled back the curtain to look. The air was thick with dark smoke and the barn’s open doors acted like wind tunnel whipping the flames into a massive twisted crown. The people below looked tiny and helpless. A few of them splashed water onto the barn, but they couldn’t reach high enough to do much. He could see Molly stopping them, directing them to splash the nearby cottages. Then she ran inside the barn. He wanted to see if she’d come out again, but tore himself away. If she died, so much the better. He turned to the dresser and began yanking out drawers.