After the Fall (Book 8): Faith of the Dead

by Stephen Cross

  A buzz of static followed by, “Hey Beth.”

  “Be there in one,” said Beth, before keying off.

  They made one last turn into a grand street, the houses taking on a tumbled Victorian appearance; once proud, now all peeling paint and rotten window frames.

  Beth slowed the truck and pulled left through imposing stone pillars into the leafy grounds of a large, gothic-stoned church, burned black with age.

  “Welcome to Saint Jerome’s,” said Beth.

  Someone scurried behind the truck, closing the gate. They drove up a long driveway, their path overhung with thick trees, the grounds around them dotted with old and tottering gravestones, long grass and vegetation obscuring the chiselled epitaphs. Leaves turning brown, autumn on its way. The boundaries of the grounds weren’t visible.

  The path led behind the church.

  “Here we are,” said Beth, getting out of the truck. Grace and Harry followed.

  Father Dave jumped from the back of the truck, his feet crunching on the gravel. He wore an immaculate black suit with white dog collar intact. Somewhere in his fifties, his blonde hair sat carelessly on an old and gentle face. Strong blue eyes. And suddenly, a smile. He held out his hand.

  “I’m Father Dave, nice to meet you.”

  Grace smiled and shook his hand, as did Harry. They gave their names.

  Beth pulled out a box from the back of the truck. “You ok with these guys dad? I’m going to unload this lot.”

  A door opened at the side of the church with a creak. A young man in jeans and a jumper, long brown hair, beard, held it open. He nodded to Harry and Grace then said, “You good with that Beth?”

  “It’s not too heavy.” Beth glanced at Grace and Harry as she walked to the door, “See you guys later.”

  “You were lucky we came along when we did,” said Father Dave. “We’d been watching that horde for a while. They seemed fine in that park. Something happen?”

  Harry said, “Sorry, Father, that was me.”

  Grace tried not to laugh. Harry’s demeanour had suddenly switched, his skin taking on a red tinge. Alter boy memories enveloping him, she wondered?

  “Nothing to be sorry about Harry, we sure pugatoried the hell out them didn’t we!” he offered another wide smile. “Come on, let’s go get something to drink. A cup of tea?”

  Grace and Harry followed Father Dave in through the side door that led into a neglected and bland corridor. Old brown carpet, cream walls, the paint cracking in places. Posters advertising the various benefits of Jesus. Doors leading off to the left and right.

  Father Dave took them through one of these doors, into a small kitchen. A round table with chairs, the type that Grace used to have at school. She noted the light was on. She noted Father Dave turned on the tap and the kettle as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it had been, and was only recently the most abnormal thing in the world.

  “You have power, water?”

  Father Dave smiled, “We do. We have all the comforts; the Lord does provide, if you ask. It also helps that I used to be an engineer in my former life, before I found the Lord, that is. With the help of Gary, that’s the fella you saw before, my daughter’s husband, we rigged up the plumbing to the stream that runs at the back of the church grounds, and got the generator running. As long as we have petrol, we’ll have power. Until the petrol becomes unusable of course. Please, sit,” Father Dave motioned to the chairs. “Not many people know that petrol has a shelf life. The apocalypse will take on a new bent, once the petrol runs out. We really will be back to the dark ages; horses, wood for light and warmth. Unless I can get our solar panels rigged and self-sufficient by then, we will…” Father Dave stopped, and smiled widely. “You know my daughter says I talk too much.”

  Grace didn’t mind the Priest talking. His sonorous voice was comforting, the warm northern accent friendly. She imagined him on the pulpit, removing the worries of his flock with only his words and his smile.

  “It’s fine,” she said, taking a seat. “I’m tired, I’m happy to listen.”

  Harry nodded. “You talk all you want Father.”

  Father Dave smiled and poured the kettle into two waiting cups. “You may regret that one day.” He brought the tea over. Grace took the warm cup and held it close to her, taking in the aroma, feeling the warmth as the rising heat caused her skin to tingle. A simple cup of tea. So much joy. Was this how the modern world had destroyed happiness? It made our wants and needs too complex, too many and intertwined for one to find comfort. Now, a warm bed, somewhere away from the elements, and a hot meal satisfied like no amount of modern convenience ever had.

  She sipped her tea. “That’s great, Father, thank you.”

  Father Dave sat down with his own cup. “So, Grace, Harry, take your time, relax. You look like you have had a few tough months.” He held Grace’s gaze for a second longer than was necessary. “We’re safe here. Most would say luck, but, well, I’m going to thank God, aren’t I?” He smiled the smile of a cheeky child, caught in telling a fib.

  “Have you been here since the Fall?” said Harry.

  “Yes, five of us. Me, my daughter, her husband Gary, Stan, who used to be the janitor, and Brenda, the head of the Church Society. She was in sorting out some books when the undead came. Poor woman, she’s lost everyone. Her husband, Frank, a lovely man, and her two teenage sons. We went back a few weeks after the Fall to check her house. I found the three of them, long gone. The terrible things we have to do.” He paused, staring into space for a moment. “The gates and fences around St. Jerome’s were good and strong to start with, but we spent the first few weeks making them stronger. Then getting ourselves supplies, sorting out the power, the water, the infrastructure if you like. We had to steal a lot of things from empty houses, but the Lord was forgiven us for that,” he smiled again. Grace didn’t know whether his faith was sincere, or a constant source of ironic amusement.

  “So no infected have got in here since the Fall?” said Grace.

  “A few, in the early days. The biggest issue is around the perimeter. Listen to me talking, words like perimeter, I sound like a soldier,” he laughed. “We clear every morning. They join together you see. If we don’t clear them, I fear that within a day or two we’d have hundreds, and we’d be forced out. The plan is to build bigger fences. I’ve got some books from the library on materials and construction, just to refresh my old brain. Make this place a fortress.”

  “What about other people?” said Grace.

  Father Dave shrugged. “We haven’t seen many. You’re the first who didn’t run away or try to kill us,” he half smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “I wonder if you’d have ran away or tried to kill us if you hadn’t been in such trouble. Don’t worry, I’m not judging you, I think it’s just human nature, to lose trust at times like this. We’re all wild animals again, all terrified of being hunted. No longer at the top of the food chain or protected by the state. No policeman, no soldiers. Just yourself and your God.”

  Grace finished her tea. “Well, thank you, for rescuing us.”

  “It’s all meant to be, so don’t thank me, thank the man upstairs,” said Father Dave, not smiling this time. He stood up. “Let me show you to the rectory, you can have a shower there, freshen up. I’ll ask my daughter to get you both some fresh clothes, then we can introduce you all. The rectory is this way, through the church.”

  Grace and Harry followed Father Dave from the kitchen, down the corridor and into the cavernous church. High, wooden beamed ceilings, colourful stained glass windows as tall as busses, stone statues representing the twelve stations of Christ encircled the large seating area of wooden pews. Their feet echoed on the tiles, and Grace felt the stillness, the peace.

  Chapter 7

  Harry was in the shower. The gentle sound of power and water faded as Grace left their room, wandering back towards the church.

  She was clean. At least on the outside. Her hair felt light, and her skin smooth and clea
r. The water in the bottom of her shower had spun dirty brown around the plughole. The smell of the shampoo and the gel had been almost overpowering; so sweet, so new, so clean. She had forgotten such smells existed. Outside was decay and death and desolation. Rotting flesh, body odour, bad breath.

  It was a different world now.

  She pushed open the door that led to the church. It’s old and heavy wood creaked gently. Her feet echoed on the hard stone slabs of the church’s floor. Time slowed down; the great room smelled like a million years; the air still and heavy as if carrying the souls of thousands. If she was to find redemption anywhere it would be here, the silent statues ready to suck up all her sins.

  Somehow she found herself sitting on one of the pews. The cold wood hard against her back. She rested her head in her hands and cried.

  A movement startled her. She looked up to see an old man standing at the edge of the pews. He was bent over with age, leaning on a threadbare broom. Wispy hair floated around his balding head, itself brown with liver spots and tan. Wrinkles like rivers on his forehead. He smiled.

  “You must be one of the new’uns?” said the man.

  She felt relief. For a moment she had thought the old man a zombie. Somehow sneaked in regardless of Father Dave’s fences and divine protection.

  But zombies didn’t speak.

  “I’m Stanley,” he said. “I used to be janitor here.” He looked down at the broom. “Still cleaning even though I don’t get paid. Fancy that.”

  “I’m Grace,” she said, hurriedly wiping her eyes. “You do a good job, it’s beautiful here,” she said, thinking it sounded somewhat stupid, but unable to think of any other small talk.

  “It is, isn’t it,” said Stanley. “As good a place as any to hide from the demons.”

  She assumed that demons meant zombies. Or maybe he was talking about his own personal demons. Who knew?

  “How long have you been here? Since the beginning?” she said.

  Stanley nodded. “Since the beginning, until the end.”

  “The end?”

  “Just a manner of speaking. I’ll be here as long as I can be, I mean,” he smiled again, revealing several missing teeth.

  Another tear. She didn’t bother wiping it away this time.

  “It gets better,” said Stanley.

  She nodded, grateful he was being kind, but would have preferred if he had pretended not to see anything.

  “Are you coming to the service tonight?” said Stanley.

  “The service?”

  “Yes, we have a service every night. There’s nothing much else to do. Father Dave always has something to say. I imagine you’ll be going.”

  “I’m not really religious,” said Grace, not sure if what she was saying was sacrilege.

  “That’s alright,” said Stanley. “It’s not really about religion. More about keeping us together. A get together, if you like. And Father Dave, he’s a great talker.”

  “Ok, sounds good.”

  Maybe Father Dave would say something to help her. She had never tried religion, had discounted it as soon as she was old enough to understand it, and that’s how it stayed for the forty three years of her life so far. Her Mother had turned from God when her Father had died.Ain’t nothing holy about cancer, she had said.

  But, it was the end of the world. What else was there to do for entertainment?

  “That shower is something else,” said Harry, drying his hair. He was wearing a new shirt and pair of jeans, looking more like he used to look, back at the lab. The handsome man she had ignored for years. “I didn’t realise how much I missed being clean. It’s like I can smell it, the freshness, you know?”

  He walked back to the bathroom and hung the towel up. “Imagine what we must have smelt like… they did well to not say anything.” Harry allowed himself a small laugh.

  They were in a bedroom in the rectory, an extension onto the original church. Grace sat on the bed. Harry sat down next to her and put his arm around her.

  “You know, things might get better,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  He took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Look, I know you’ve struggled, since you, well, what happened when we escaped from the lab, with Taylor.”

  Grace felt her insides twitch at the man’s name. The man she had killed.

  “But Grace,” continued Harry. “He was a class-A bastard, you know it. You saw him push those people down the lift shaft, you saw him shoot the Professor. I’d have done the very same thing in your position, most sane people would.”

  Grace wanted to believe Harry, she did. “I’m just not good at killing people. I guess that means I’m not going to be very good in this world.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re feeling, I can’t pretend to imagine. From my point of view, the fact you feel the way you do, for killing someone who so richly deserved it, makes you, in my books, a better person than most on this planet. It makes you special, Grace.”

  His words seemed to reach right inside her. She felt the warmth of them spread throughout her heart. Why not allow herself to believe him, to accept what he was saying? To accept that he cared for her.

  “I don’t feel special. I feel scared, alone.”

  “You’re not alone, not when I’m with you.”

  The pressure of his hands on her shoulders increased slightly, he was pulling her closer. She relaxed to let herself go to him.

  “Hey, Grace, Harry, you guys up there?” It was Father Dave, just outside the bedroom door.

  Harry smiled at her. “Timing, always been my problem.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. What he said seemed so funny she could cry, even more so as she knew it wasn’t really funny. That was what was great, that he made her laugh. He made her feel safe.

  “Yeah, we’re in here,” said Harry.

  Father Dave opened the doorway, a wide smile on his face. “Well, look at you two! Smart as buttons the pair of you. Great stuff! We’re having dinner soon, if you want to join us. I bet it’s been a while since you’ve had a good feed?”

  The mention of food reminded Grace how hungry she was.

  “Head on down when you’re ready,” said Father Dave, disappearing down the stairs as quickly as he had appeared.

  Harry leaned in and kissed her, just for a moment, but fully, on the lips. He pulled away, keeping his face close so she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Let’s go and have dinner. We can pick this up later.” He smiled.

  Maybe things were getting better.

  Chapter 8

  The church; stoic, wooden and aged. The evening light exploded through the stain glass windows in a dazzlement of colour, like a child’s colouring book, all bright and a mess with no order or reason, but beautiful.

  “You know, Harry,” said Grace, lowering her voice as they walked from the rectory to the kitchens, “They have electricity here, I can look at the laptop. See what the Professor had hidden on there.”

  Harry nodded slowly. “Let’s take it slow. And keep the laptop quiet. We still don’t know these people.”

  “We’ll look tonight. Find a power socket somewhere.”

  “Good idea.”

  They found themselves walking down the aisle. The old building begged to be explored, its nooks and crannies calling with promises of magic and mystery. At the back of the church, the light faded as small windows replaced the proud stained glass. A small flight of stone steps led down before meeting a heavy wooden door, secured with a large gleaming lock.

  “What’s down there?” said Grace.

  “Holy stuff, I guess,” said Harry with a smile.

  Grace jumped at a shout from behind. Her and Harry turned. A man was walking down the aisle towards them. It was Gary, Beth’s husband. His brow was furrowed.

  “The dinner hall is this way,” he said. “I’m assuming that’s where you’re going?”

  “It is,” said Harry.

  “Yeah, it’s easy to get lost in
this place,” he smiled. “I’m Gary, I think I saw you when you first arrived?”

  Grace and Harry shook his hand. He was a stocky man, with thick arms and a thick torso. He spoke with blunt vowels, his voice the same as he looked. His hands were rough, the mark of a manual worker.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  They followed Gary through the silent church towards the dining room.

  They dining room had most probably been a Sunday school in the days before the Fall. Bookshelves bent under the weight of the words of Jesus. Posters drawn by the hands of children retold the sermon on the mount, the forty fishes, the miracle of the cripple who walked, and other famous Biblical tales. It was pleasant, and painful, to see the clumsily daubed renderings. It reminded Grace the world used to have a whole population of young souls, full of enthusiasm and love, yet to be tainted with the dirt of experience.

  “I’m Brenda,” said a large woman sitting down next to Grace. She was somewhere in her fifties, with the wide waddling gait typical of women of middle English towns. Grace imagined her spending her days with church events, village fetes, tea, and crumpets.

  “Hi, I’m Grace,” said Grace, smiling as Brenda squeezed into the space next to her.

  A wide selection of food was laid out on the table. Grace began salivating immediately. Slices of what looked like roast chicken filled a large bowl, surrounded by smaller bowls of potatoes, leeks and tomatoes.

  Grace felt a blip of embarrassment as her stomach rumbled in anticipation of a meal that wasn’t from a three month old tin.

  “I’m sorry for our vegetable selection,” said Father Dave. “We are running on our frozen supplies at the moment, but once the veg garden kicks in next spring, we’ll be having a fresh feast every night!”

  “Is the chicken frozen too?”

  Stanley answered, “No. Slaughtered just two days ago.”

  “Come on now Stanley, words like slaughter have no place at the dinner table.”

  “It’s only what it is,” said Stanley, “ I don’t think there’s place for squeamishness anymore.”

  Father Dave shrugged and held up his arms, looking to Grace and Harry, “There you go! You can’t tell Stanley what is and what isn’t.”