Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He’s dying,” the young woman announced impersonally. “You might as well let him go. You can’t save him. Don’t make it any harder on him than it is.”

  “I have to try,” said Sister Maggie.

  “Why?” The young woman looked at the Rat with flat, pitiless eyes. “It only means that he suffers longer. Leave him at the other end of town.”

  “No!” Sister Maggie declared. “I will not leave a human being—let alone a child—on a refuse heap. Not this boy, not anyone. I told him I would do everything I can to save him.” She put her hand to the Rat’s forehead, knowing his temperature was much too high.

  “You can’t expect anyone to bury him, not with the DRUY coming. It wouldn’t be safe. Anyone who can get out will be gone before midnight.” She hunkered down beside Sister Maggie. “I’ll help you get him off the roof. I’ll try to get a place you can take him, somewhere you won’t get shot, somewhere the pigs won’t eat him. But don’t try to hang on to him. He’s lost already. All he has left is pain.” She pulled out a brown cigarette and lit it with a wooden match. “Come on. Let’s get to it.”

  “I can’t abandon him to death,” Sister Maggie persisted, reaching for new rolls of torn sheet in order to change his bandages. “I must do what I can to help him, as long as there is life in his body. And mine.”

  The young woman chuckled once, a sound like a pistol shot. “There isn’t life in him anymore. There’s infection, that’s all.” She stared at the Rat’s sunken features. “He’s gone, you foolish cunt. He’s just breathing meat.”

  It was all Sister Maggie could do to keep from screaming. “He is not dead. Until he is dead, he is in my hands and I have an obligation to do everything I can to keep him alive. I took an oath, one that most of you prevent me from keeping. I promised to heal the sick, for the honor of Christ. It is my sworn duty as a nurse.” She hated the way she sounded, more pompous than devoted, but it was all she could do to keep her rage under control.

  “Well, if you have to torture him—” The young woman shook her head once and stood up. “I’ll help you get him off the roof. He won’t broil down in the hotel.”

  This time the offer felt more like a threat, and after a brief hesitation Sister Maggie rocked back on her heels. “All right, but I need a protected place. I don’t want you—any of you—near him.”

  “If we get to fighting at close range, you’ll have more to take care of than the Rat. It won’t matter where you’re hiding then. They want the village, the group out there, DRUY. We don’t know why. This place isn’t important now that the clinic’s gone.” With that she ambled a short distance away, showing her indifference to danger. She took up a guard stance on the corner of the roof. She finished her cigarette while Sister Maggie pulled down the tented blanket and rolled it so that it could be turned into a sling-stretcher for the Rat.

  When Sister Maggie had shifted the moaning boy onto the blanket, she signaled to the young woman. “He’s ready. We can carry him down now.”

  “Fine,” said the young woman. She took one last look around the roof, then came back to where Sister Maggie waited for her help. “You’re a fool,” she told Sister Maggie dispassionately as she knelt down to pick up one side of the blanket,

  The shot tore through her shoulder and neck, spraying blood and tissue in sudden eruption. The young woman lurched, her arms suddenly swinging spasmodically. She half-staggered a few steps, then collapsed, twitching, blood surging out of her destruction. Her assault rifle, flung away at the bullet’s impact, clattered down the side of the hotel to the street below.

  Sister Maggie made herself go to the young woman’s side, though she knew there was no help left to her, not in the world. She knelt beside her, trying to block out the continuing violent trembles and shudders of the young woman’s body while she made the sign of the cross on her broken forehead, uttering the prayers of redemption and salvation; there was nothing else to do.

  She knew the Rat was dead, but would not permit herself to admit it, not until she had reached safety for him, where he could lie in peace. The body in the improvised sling tied around her shoulders and across her chest was limp, flopping against her back as she made her way through the street in the first light of day. He would not be flexible much longer; he would become as rigid as carved wood. His shattered arm was bloated with the infection that had killed him; the stench of decay riddled his flesh.

  A blackened bus lay twisted on its side, and Sister Maggie decided to avoid it—the wreckage had been there long enough to provide cover for one side or the other. It would give them no protection.

  A helicopter fluttered overhead, searchlight probing the long shadows as it hovered near the tallest rooftops in the village. From time to time its machinegun beat out a tattoo in counterpoint to the chatter of its blades. The morning light struck its side with glare; there were no identifying marks painted on it, no way to know whose it was or what it presaged. Once someone hidden in the old tannery took a shot at the helicopter, but the bullet missed and fire from the helicopter blasted the south face off the old building, setting the rest in flame.

  As she walked Sister Maggie made herself pray, reciting the rosary although she had not held one in her hands for more than three years; people here regarded rosaries as bad magic, the tools of witchcraft rather than religion, and so she had not been surprised when hers—gift from her grandmother—disappeared. She was on her ninth Hail, Mary when she heard the sounds of voices up ahead. As quickly as she could with her burden, Sister Maggie found a doorway and stumbled through it, seeking the dark corners where she could wait until the voices were gone. As she drew away from the light her lips continued to move in prayer, but now she made no sound at all.

  More voices came, men’s voices, and the sound of marching feet. This was more than a few resistance fighters returning from raids. Sister Maggie wished now that she had given more attention to the young woman who had been killed the evening before, to what she said about the DRUY, if that was who these men actually were. She felt the stiffening weight of the Rat’s corpse drag at her shoulders, but she would not put him down, not here.

  After an hour or so there was a flurry of gunfire from inside one of the buildings—the hotel? the school?—and some sort of heavy vehicle—more than Jeeps and less than tanks—roared and lumbered down the streets, lurching through the blasted pavement to whoops of approval. There was one large explosion, and the impact of one of the vehicles hurtling into the side of the building where Sister Maggie hid, followed by several minutes of intense firing that left her with ringing ears. And then the remaining troop carriers were bouncing down the street again, and the men in them laughed and shouted their victory. Two of the officers posted men at the door to the old hotel, where the injured lay in the lobby, joking about the makeshift first aid station and the suffering children.

  Sister Maggie shut out the coarse yells and bursts of laughter. She was fiercely thirsty, and she could feel the relentless heat growing as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The body she carried made breathing nearly unbearable, but she realized it provided her a curious protection, for the stench might keep the invaders away from this building.

  “Later,” Sister Maggie whispered, a promise to the Rat. “Later we’ll make sure you have a proper grave, and a cross with your name on it. It’ll take a while. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She knew no name but the Rat, and she hoped he would understand when she wrote it. Perhaps, she thought, during the afternoon while everyone else was napping, then she might be able to sneak out of the village and find a place where the Rat could be laid to rest. She tried to think of an apology to offer the boy, to make amends for what he had endured. “It has to be done, for the sake of your soul, and mine. God is merciful, Rat. He understands,” she said in an undertone. “God will welcome you, for your courage and your youth.”

  A ragged cheer rose up outside; she flinched at
the sound. She inched closer to the door, crouching down as far as the body on her back would allow. The posture was uncomfortable and precarious, for if the corpse shifted Sister Maggie would be pulled off her feet. But it was most important to know what was going on. It was too risky to peek around the door, so she contented herself with listening. Soon she wished she had plugged her ears.

  “What about this place?” one soldier called to another. “Worth holding?”

  “No,” the other answered from further away. “We’ll mine it later. Don’t leave anything for the terrorists to use. They’ve probably been given refuge here, anyway. Villages like this one—what can you expect?”

  “Tonight?” His question was laconic, utilitarian.

  “No rush. Not for a shithole like this. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” The indifference in his voice made Sister Maggie want to vomit.

  Four villagers had been found and driven out of their shelters to provide the invaders with amusement. One was an elderly man, whose high, piping voice screeched with fear and wrath; one was a woman who wept constantly, begging for her life; one was a blind boy who used to play a hammered zither for coins but was now a beggar; the last was the retarded daughter of the last village leader, a sweet child who had no more reason than a puppy, and no recognition of danger.

  “Make them run,” suggested one of the invaders who stood not far from Sister Maggie’s hiding place.

  “Too easy,” said his companion. “Look at them. No sport in running these beasts.” He clapped his hands several times for attention. “Is this the best the village has to offer? Those wounded are useless to us.”

  The old man hurled insults at the newcomers.

  There was a short burst of automatic fire, and the unmistakable sound of a body falling. And then there was silence.

  The retarded girl began to whimper.

  “Think of something you can do to amuse us,” said the second man, and his boredom made this a fatal pronouncement.

  It was all Sister Maggie could do not to scream, to run from her protected spot and flail at these proud men. It was too much to bear. She felt it shiver through her, the enormity of her burden. She folded her hands and pressed her forehead against her fingers, as if faith could blot out what was happening just four strides away from her. She made herself remain still, thinking of the work she had yet to do for the Rat. If she were discovered she would not be able to help any of the villagers, she would only be able to join them in suffering and the Rat would be cast onto the refuse heap; she had vows and promises to honor, a purpose beyond the momentary and futile satisfaction of naming these DRUY soldiers as the murderous outlaws they were.

  By midafternoon the soldiers had almost exhausted their three victims; they had tormented and tortured the villagers through the heat of the day and were beginning to run out of ideas. The woman had stopped crying some time before and now did little more than scream softly when a soldier threw himself on her. The blind boy no longer struggled but knelt passively, lost in a darkness greater than his eyes.

  “Too bad the girl’s dead,” Sister Maggie heard one of the soldiers say; he was close enough that she could have stretched out her arm and grabbed his ankle. “But that’s war, I guess.”

  What his answer might have been was lost in a sudden eruption of gunfire from the east side of the village.

  The blind boy, his face streaked with blood and semen, stared up blankly at the sound. Then an antitank shell struck next to him and he vanished in a ruddy haze.

  The DRUY troops bolted for cover, most of them swearing as they searched for shelter that provided a place to shoot from. One of the troop carriers went out of control and slammed into the entrance of the battered building where Sister Maggie crouched with the Rat, dead, locked in rigor mortis on her back.

  For an instant Sister Maggie feared the troop carrier would explode, and then that fear was replaced by a more insidious one as she realized that she was now trapped inside the building. The thirst she had been able to hold at bay flared afresh, and hunger, which she had denied, sank into her body like a burn.

  There were three helicopters overhead now, and the firing was constant, a rage of noise like the overwhelming shriek of a hurricane. Bits of stucco and metal and masonry flew into the street. The remaining shards of glass splintered in windows, crumbling sharp as diamonds. The wreckage of the clinic was broken again as mortar fire struck the one remaining section of roof.

  The old hotel where Sister Maggie had lived in her dovecote took four direct hits and broke apart.

  Sister Maggie was weeping, but she did not know it. She tried to pray for the children buried in the lobby, but the words stuck in her throat. If she were not so thirsty, she thought, then she could pray. If the guns were quiet. If she were not alone. She coughed in the acrid fumes of battle and tried again to find the words to heal the souls of that human annihilation, but could not utter them. Her eyes stung, her skin prickled, and she realized how cramped her muscles were. “It’s too loud,” she shouted and could not hear herself against the clamor of battle. The helicopters swung over the village, circled twice in their task of demolition. The remaining two sound buildings were their most obvious victims, one sundered from its metal skeleton, the other burning, toxic smoke blackening the remaining walls like a body in the sun.

  The DRUY soldiers were cut down, their troop carriers shot and shelled.

  Very deliberately Sister Maggie began to repeat the prayers for grace with which she had accompanied Father Kenster when he administered extreme unction, begrudging the few tears she shed, for she was so thirsty that even tears seemed too much precious moisture to lose. Her hands shook as she crossed herself.

  And then it was quiet again, the helicopters slipping away to the east, following the rutted road that led to the next village.

  “Spirit of Christ, give me life. Body of Christ, be my salvation. Blood of Christ, quench my thirst—” Sister Maggie gagged, then made herself continue. “Water ... water from Christ’s side, cleanse me. Suffering of Christ, enable me to suffer courageously. Merciful Jesus, hear me. Keep me always close to You. From Satan’s wiles defend me. In death’s hour, call me. Summon me to Your presence, that forever with Your saints I may praise You. Amen. Spirit of Christ, give me life. Body of Christ, be my salvation ...” She did not know how many times she repeated the prayer; finally she realized it was nearly dark in the village, where the only brightness was the dying fire in the bombed buildings.

  Insects had found the Rat’s body; several long lines of them made their way across the ruptured floor slab to the now-flaccid figure that no longer seemed quite human—bloated and sunken at once. The endless, relentless minuscule armies moved industriously over the swollen corpse, searching out his wounds, his nostrils, his eyes.

  Sister Maggie wrestled the blanket knots loose and flung herself away from the body, brushing her clothes to rid them of the multi-legged vermin that bit and stung and wriggled on her flesh. As she clawed off her worn, filthy jacket she stared in horror at the ants and beetles and things she did not recognize making their way along the curve of her ribs, as if they did not know the difference between the living and the dead. She felt the raw and painful tokens the insects left for her; disgust, abhorrence went through her, leaving her retching and dizzy.

  Thirst was the most overwhelming of her desires, a greed so pure that it filled her soul like prayer.

  She dared not look back at the Rat, for fear of what she might do. The stench was thick in the air, and if she saw what she knew he had become she would be unable to pray for him, now or ever.

  Water. Without that, she was no different from the Rat, just a little less ripe. Her body shuddered, in hurt or laughter she could not tell. There were no prayers left in her, no sworn duty to discharge. There was only water. Nothing else was real.

  She approached the troop carrier blocking th
e entrance; it filled the doorway almost entirely, and what small areas it did not block could not provide sufficient room for escape. Sister Maggie shoved at it, trembling with the effort though it produced little force and no effect. Her vision muddied and blurred and she clung to the grille to remain upright. She had to find another way out, but she knew she would not be able to move much longer, and night was closing in.

  There were stairs, but after the fifth one the treads were gone; Sister Maggie moaned with despair and felt her way along the hall, listening to the cluttering and scuffling in the dark, her need for water making them unimportant. She was too consumed by thirst to be frightened. What was the more dangerous to her than her thirst? She was haunted by the sound of water falling— faucet? rain? a river?—and it impelled her as nothing before had ever done. Water. Deep pools shimmered at the edge of her sight, brimming cups sloshed and squandered the precious stuff just out of reach. It was sacred. Her search went on though she was not able to think about what she was doing anymore.

  The broken glass cut her hand, but she paid slight attention as she dragged herself out of the collapsed sliding door at the rear of the building. The ceiling showed gaping holes from the floor above, and occasionally there were bright eyes flickering in the darkness.

  The storm was driven by high winds; lightning tore through the sky and thunder battered at it. Sister Maggie stumbled into the deluge, afraid that it was a continuation of her hallucinations. After her first shambling steps she fell, and the rain ran into her hair and ears. With the last of her strength she rolled onto her back and parted her cracked lips to the tumultuous sky.

  By morning the rain was nothing more than a steady, pattering drizzle, likely to pass shortly as the day heated.

  There were no more fires in the village. Nothing stirred. No voices called in greeting or warning or anguish. No screams or groans, no crying alarmed Sister Maggie. She sat on a fallen section of wall at what had been the jail when she had first arrived here to take up work at the new clinic, the hope of the region. Then the village was nothing more than the support to an old hotel where few tourists came. Her skin hurt, her eyes were hot in her head, her guts felt raw. The prospect of walking was hideous.