Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

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.