Aftertime

by Sophie Littlefield

  Hannah approached the podium, not looking at Monica as she spoke. “Sisters,” her voice boomed through the speaker system, echoing off the far corners of the stadium. “We please our Lord with our works and our prayer, but we are weak. We are flawed. Each day we stumble on our journey and sometimes we fall. And then the Lord calls upon us to deliver what is due. Justice, my sisters-we are to serve as the hand of our Lord and return to each as she has done.

  “We insult our Lord if we allow offenses against Him to stand. We must not invite the weakness to grow and gain a foothold. We must smite it with conviction. When we do as our Lord commands, the blemish is lifted, the penance is done and we welcome our sister back among us.”

  It was all double-talk, no mention of a specific crime, no chance for the accused to defend herself.

  “Sisters!” Hannah’s harsh voice rang out, as she pointed an accusing finger at Monica. “Here before you, our sister Monica awaits the cleansing of her sin!”

  41

  AFTER THAT THINGS MOVED QUICKLY.

  Brenda picked up a long silver baton from the table and touched it to Monica’s shoulder. When the girl jerked and fell backward, Hannah’s grasp on her hair loosened, Cass realized the thing was an electric prod. The crowd gasped as Monica writhed and spasmed on the floor of the platform, her eyes rolling back in her head. Hannah picked her up under the arms and together she and Brenda wrestled her into place at the pole in the center of the platform. Hannah forced Monica’s head between the padded clamps while Brenda spun a wing nut until it no longer turned freely, then twisted it manually until her prisoner shrieked in pain, held captive by the pressure.

  She fought against the clamps, her face red and grotesquely distorted, lips pursed and cheeks bulging, squeezing up until her eyes almost disappeared.

  “Sister Brenda, still the sinning mouth of our Sister Monica!”

  A cry went up as Brenda selected objects from the table and bent to her task. In one hand was a long curved needle, a tail of black thread fluttering in the breeze.

  As Brenda leaned in close, Monica made a keening sound and blood trickled from the clamp where it pinched tightly against her temples. The wail escalated to a scream as the needle pierced her flesh, but Brenda didn’t flinch. She drew the thread slowly through Monica’s lips, taking care not to let it tangle, and then she knotted off the ends.

  As she poked at Monica’s lower lip with the needle, starting the second stitch, Cass bolted out of her chair and made it almost to the steps. She was tackled from behind and went crashing to the ground. One of the women who had been posted behind her pinned Cass’s arms and spoke into her ear.

  “Bad idea,” she said. Then she pulled up on Cass’s arms, causing white flashes of pain. “Gonna be good?”

  Cass nodded, gritting her teeth, as the woman eased up the pressure on her arms and led her back to her chair. The assembled crowd could not see the blade the woman held in her palm, but Cass could feel its cold sharp edge at her neck. If she made another attempt to break away, the blade could slice through her skin with ease. The guards were taking no chances-not even with her, Mother Cora’s chosen one.

  Brenda had made a couple more stitches. Tiny red dots of blood bloomed where the needle had gone into the skin-less than Cass would have expected. More shocking to see was the row of neat black X’s sealing the outer corner of Monica’s mouth. Saliva drooled from her dirty chin as she frantically moaned and struggled for air. Her breathing was becoming labored as one of her oxygen sources was slowly sealed shut, and the sound of her desperately trying to get enough air through her nose was as terrible as her cries of pain. Unless she calmed down, Monica was in danger of suffocation, of choking on her own vomit or her tongue.

  Maybe that would be a kindness. The holes made by the needle were bound to become infected; there had been no sterilization of the skin-or for that matter, of the instruments.

  The sharp, cold steel at Cass’s neck kept her still even as the last stitches were tied off and Monica could only snort desperately for air, blood trickling down her grotesquely distorted chin.

  Abruptly Brenda spun the wing nut counterclockwise. The clamps opened and Monica fell forward, out of the padded restraints. She would have hit the floor, but Hannah caught her and eased her into a seated position, bent awkwardly with one leg splayed out in front of her. Brenda took a key from her neck and worked at the manacle until Monica’s other leg was freed, and then she moved the leg gently into place as though concerned only for Monica’s comfort.

  She stepped out of the way and her handiwork was on full display. Monica stared out into the crowd with pain-deadened eyes, her mouth a ragged row of angry black X’s.

  There was a swell of voices among the tables. Mother Cora took to the stage again and held up a hand for silence. She waited until the only sound was Monica’s muffled whimpering.

  “Sisters, the path of the chosen is not easy!” Mother Cora’s imperious voice filled the stadium. “But you have taken up the yoke because you are strong. Because you are the ones who are called to act. Ours is a community of love, and the Lord never asks more than when he asks us to guide one of our own, because the guiding can be harsh. Today you saw the evidence of that.”

  Monica swayed as though she was about to faint, and Brenda stepped forward to steady her, but Cass wondered how many in attendance noticed. They were all focused on Mother Cora.

  “Now, however, it is time for joyous news. Sister Cassandra,” Mother Cora called with a regal outstretch of her arm. Approach the altar.”

  Cass did so, knowing the guards would force her if necessary. Monica didn’t appear to see her, though she passed a few feet away.

  “Sisters, this is Cassandra, who has come to us on a mission from our Lord. He spoke to Sister Cassandra and commanded her to come here to us and make of herself a sacrifice. Our Lord promised Sister Cassandra that when she gives herself to the fallen, He will lift her up from their scourge. He will heal her fever and her wounds. He will make her whole again. With the power of our prayers she will join us in an exalted position as a full sister of the Order.”

  Suddenly, horrifyingly, Cass understood what Mother Cora meant to do: she intended to give Cass to the Beaters to be infected. The disease would take root and she would be shown to the others like an exhibit at a zoo, her flaming skin and pinpoint irises proof of the disease. She would shuffle and babble and slowly lose her awareness and for the second time she would start to pull out her hair and bite her own arms, and then at some point the disease-Mother Cora was counting on it-would reverse itself as it had the first time, and Cass would be the proof Mother Cora needed to further strengthen the faith of her congregation.

  Mother Cora had run out of things to give them. Safety and sustenance might not always be enough-not when the women were forced to live under the rule of an unforgiving faith whose punishments were harsh and whose demands were draconian.

  The Order could not succeed forever unless it delivered. One miracle after another was needed to keep the illusion alive. Shelter and safety had been miracles enough in the beginning. But that had been a long time ago now, and the women were hungry for more.

  Cass was this woman’s next miracle.

  “And to witness Cassandra’s sacrifice, we bring our most precious resource,” Mother Cora continued, as a small commotion erupted at the back of the assembly. Cass scanned the field, looking for its source. “The next generation of the Order. The children.”

  Down the center aisle, between the tables, a girl of nine or ten made her way uncertainly. She wore a white dress that was too short for her lanky legs, and her freckled face was pink with anxiety. But most arresting of all was the fact that she had been shaved bald.

  The hair and the dress, Gloria had said. Scoured clean of this world. Some religions demanded the hair be covered; the Order had taken it away entirely.

  The first girl was followed by another, and another, each younger than the one before-and each one bald. All of them
looked nervous and frightened, and they all wore white dresses. A child of six sniffled as though she was trying not to cry; another little girl wiped her eyes with her fists. The younger ones were accompanied by adults-their teachers, their tenders, women who looked as nervous as the charges. As the smallest children came down the aisle, Cass searched frantically for Ruthie. Was it that one, with the pudgy arms, or there-but wasn’t she too small? Wouldn’t Ruthie have grown taller by now? When the last of the children entered the aisle and walked toward the platform, Cass felt her heart seize with agony.

  Where was Ruthie?

  A loud rattling came from the direction of the enclosure at the other end of the field and the crowd turned to see the Beater cart emerge, being pulled by a guard whose face was covered by a white mask. Inside, the Beater howled, scrambling and stumbling as the cart rolled unevenly along.

  And then, at the back of the crowd, one more figure hurried into view. It was a slender woman with a halo of frizzy brown hair-and a child in her arms. She was frantically smoothing the little girl’s dress into place as she tried to catch up to the others. Cass leaned over the platform as far as she dared, craning to see. The child wore little black shoes buckled over white socks, and she pressed a fist against her mouth as she leaned against the woman’s shoulder.

  The same way Ruthie always had.

  Ever since she was an infant, Ruthie had never sucked her thumb or a pacifier like other children, but she would press a fist to her mouth to comfort herself. How many times had Cass found her that way in her crib, sleeping sweetly with her hand curled against her sweet rosebud lips?

  And there-even with her hair gone-Cass knew the shape of her baby’s head. A thousand times she had run her hand over Ruthie’s head. There were her long eyelashes, dark brown with sun-lightened tips. And there was the faintest reminder of the funny little fold in her pudgy forearm.

  As the minder drew closer, the sleepy child yawned, and then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Cass, and in their bright emerald depths Cass saw her baby, her Ruthie, and knew that she had been wrong, so wrong-she would not leave here without her child-she would die before she ever let her go again.

  Ruthie’s bright green eyes widened, and she stiffened in the woman’s arms. Then she started to thrash wildly, trying to get down, but the woman only held her tighter. Mother Cora’s smile faltered as she watched the struggle. She covered the microphone and said something to one of the other women on the platform. The adults were guiding the children into a line across the platform, but they stepped aside to create a break in the row, and Ruthie’s attendant hurried past and disappeared behind the others, out of sight. But Cass had seen and she was sure.

  Mother Cora leaned back into the microphone. “I give you the future,” she murmured, her voice amplified to fill the stadium. On cue, the children clasped each other’s hands and lifted them into the air, and they looked like a chain of paper dolls, eerie and silent as stones.

  Cass waited for them to pray, or sing, but they did neither. They stood still above the crowd, frightened and unmoving. No, no, no talking, Gloria had warned Cass. You won’t know her. The women in the audience held their collective breath; they were waiting, too, both joy and grief reflected in their faces. Were they remembering other children, other times?

  Mother Cora had bought Cass’s lie, that it was children who had healed her. So Mother Cora had no choice but to bring them out now, when she was about to sacrifice Cass. As if reading her thoughts, Cora stepped forward and slipped a cool hand into Cass’s and led her down the stairs to the Beater’s cart. A few of the smaller children started to cry, but they were silent even as tears spilled on their cheeks. They had been trained-or threatened-effectively.

  The Beater hung on to the wire sides of the cage, moaning softly and snorting its need and its longing. In daylight, it was clear that there had been no healing at all. It was as torn and scabbed and crazed as any Cass had ever seen, missing several teeth and most of its hair and chunks of its lips. Great patches of black and red filled in where skin had been torn away.

  Cora avoided looking at the Beater as she handed Cass off to Hannah, who waited close to the cage’s door. “Blessings on you, Cassandra,” Cora said, before returning to the podium.

  “Don’t worry, it probably won’t hurt any more than getting your mouth sewn shut,” Hannah said quietly, so that only Cass could hear her. “And then you get that whole euphoria thing. That’ll be fun, don’t you think? Oh, you must be so excited.”

  The gloved and masked attendant who had wheeled out the cage was gone. The Beater had managed to jam an oozing and crusted hand through the bars. Strips of dead skin hung from its arm, and its scabbed lips were pulled back in a furious leer.

  The women at the farthest tables scrambled to see what was happening near the stage, mounting chairs and tables to get an unobstructed view. The guards stationed at the periphery of the crowd moved closer.

  Hannah seized Cass’s arm. “Ready, Cassandra? I can guess what you must be thinking-this is gonna hurt like hell. And you know, I think you might be right.”

  She removed a key from the key chain around her neck. “You understand that I don’t want to get too close, not being the Chosen One. You do the honors, Cassandra-open up, and shut the door behind you. And just so you know, Brenda’s a hell of a shot.”

  Cass had only seconds left. She scanned the line of silent children one more time, searching for Ruthie.

  I’m coming for you, she thought, and then she took the key from Hannah’s hand.

  42

  BRENDA HAD SLIPPED ON A MASK AND GLOVES and stepped up to the cage brandishing the shock baton Monica had been stunned with. Stretching out strategically, to be as far away as possible from the thing, she pushed the baton through the bars and jammed it against the creature’s shoulder blades. It twitched and screamed and fell to the floor, spasming in pain.

  “Now,” Hannah ordered. Cass fitted the key to the lock with shaking fingers, trying not to look at the form shuddering on the floor of the cart only a few feet away. “Get inside or Brenda will shoot.”

  But there was one thing that Hannah couldn’t know. In the split second after Cass slid the key into the cage door’s padlock, she whispered Ruthie’s name, and all the months of longing and guilt and grief twisted into one fine strand and pulled taut inside her. She opened the cage door, put one foot inside, glanced at the wrecked abomination writhing on the floor and then she did the one thing that even she would never have guessed she was capable of: she prayed, she called out to God and in one word asked His indulgence, asked for one more day one more hour one more minute with her daughter in her arms

  please

  and she seized Hannah’s wrist and she pulled with everything she had and Hannah grunted and stumbled and she never saw it coming and she tripped and fell and there was Cass, Cass who had willed herself stronger than five women, Cass whose body had spurned and rejected disease, Cass who flung Hannah like a used and dirtied rag into the cage and then slammed the door shut and jammed the padlock back into place and flung the key in a spinning sparkling arc through the gilded sun of Aftertime until it disappeared far down the field, landing in a planter box of golden poppies the likes of which no one ever expected to see again.

  The Beater was getting slowly to its hands and feet, foam and spit wetting its screaming mouth, as it crawled toward Hannah.

  Cass turned away in time to see Brenda swinging the electric prod through the air toward her, but she dodged out of the way. Before she could recover her balance Cass slammed into her hard and Brenda fell, landing on the baton and screaming as it delivered its jolting energy into her body. Cass stomped on her jerking hand and she screamed harder.

  Women shouted and guards fought their way through the crowd toward her, and Cass knew she had only seconds.

  She scrambled up on stage, where the children had stopped singing and were clutching their caregivers and each other in fear. Monica leaned against the post,
her eyes rolled up in her head, and Cass couldn’t tell if she was even conscious, her mouth swelling into a grotesque clown’s visage. A guard broke through the front of the crowd and Cass steeled herself for the shot but the woman stumbled and went down as the congregation surged around her, all the other women trying to get close enough to see the excitement. A few rows back, those pushing into the aisles surged over each other, trampling the ones who fell. There was a sound of a gunshot and one of the nearest acolytes fell to the ground, a red stain blooming on her shirt.

  The children’s caretakers were trying to herd them down the steps but the growing chaos slowed them down, the girls clutching each other in fear. And still none of them made a sound. Cass pushed through the line toward the back of the platform and there she was, the woman who’d carried Ruthie, crouched at the back edge, as though she was about to jump. It was at least a dozen feet down but she looked scared enough to do it-but where was Ruthie?

  Cass fell to her knees beside the woman, grabbed her arm, shook her. “Where is she?” she demanded, but the woman fought her, scuttling sideways out of reach. “Where-”

  The woman jumped, the sound of a bone breaking followed by screaming and she lay on her side, her leg bent unnaturally. A second woman jumped, narrowly missing the first, though she was luckier; she managed to get to her feet and staggered away, limping.

  All through the stadium women panicked. Some crawled under tables. Some crowded the exits to the stands, pushing and shoving to get out. The platform’s stairs were jammed with children, and Cass glimpsed a guard trying to find a shot at her between them. She glimpsed a hand clawing at the bars of the cage, but whether it was Hannah’s or the Beater’s, she was too far away to tell.