No Flesh Shall Be Spared (17 page)

And so, he listened. He listened to the chatter, listened to the cries for help, listened to the denials and justifications, listened to the soul-crushing reports of how things were going elsewhere in the world. Slowly, he began to get an idea of the enormity of the situation and how dismal it looked for everyone. From the stories he heard the priest knew his situation was hopeless and that was something he could not bear to let roam his conscious mind. For sometimes even a holy man such as he could not exempt himself from feeling a sense of futility and a deep and abiding loathing for the horrible and unforgiving things which had slowly, but inexorably, taken over his world.

However, he’d taken an oath—a sacred and holy mandate—and sworn to himself and to the Heavenly Father to lead His children to salvation. And, like it or not, these terrible creatures which now sat staring gape-mouthed before him were still his fold and, more importantly, His flock. Father Handel looked down and as he steeled himself for the impending service his mind continued to recall how it all had gone down.

After the initial outbreaks had been reported by the news services it wasn’t long before the numbers turned and the shambling minority became the moaning majority. All too soon, it was apparent that he would be unable to escape the city due to the sheer magnitude of the dead and so it seemed prudent for the priest to figure out some sort of purpose for himself to show this undead occupying force, if only so that he would be allowed to continue to live.

…and to preach God’s word, of course.

He could still remember how desperate the times had been when the first reports started coming out of Butler County in Pennsylvania. Soon the "phenomenon," as it was being called by the radio and television, had spread across the country like one of the plagues from the Bible itself. It wasn’t long before everyone had lost someone and the final days of the contagion were only just beginning. The thought of it… Well, it all seemed so utterly outrageous. Who could have ever believed the things they’d been hearing coming from their television sets: "Armies of the dead", "Human cannibals" who wouldn’t stay dead unless you destroyed their brains, "Lock your doors", "Dispose of your dead immediately"? No one had ever imagined that something like this was possible; that something like this could ever happen outside of a fevered imagination. It was that error in judgment that cost humanity its initiative and therefore its hope and future. When a respected network anchor came on the
Nightly News
and devoured his co-anchor just before the Weather and Sports, the world at large realized that all was lost.

Humankind was quick like that.

It wasn’t long before The Dead had more or less taken control, their rapidly increasing numbers saw to that. They made sure that every human they encountered was either stripped as a food source or became one of the "converted." In no time, they became a horde of walking pestilence; an army with only hunger as their coalescent dogma. All that they had were the echoes of lives passed, routines dimly remembered and patterns they were compelled to repeat.

They’d needed some sort of guidance, a unifying force.

…a theology.

And so… When The Dead finally began banging on the door of St. Joseph’s, Father Handel had been ready for them with a plan in hand. He would attempt to awaken Them, much like Jesus had done at the tomb of Lazarus. He would give them a brilliant flash of the evangelical memory that had once shaken them to the very core of their beings. His message would be simple: "You are all still God’s children. You will always be God’s children. He still loves you. And only through Him" (and Father Handel, of course) "can you find absolution and an end to this pain and suffering." If it worked, it would buy the priest some time until help could arrive.

The only thing was… help had yet to arrive.

His plan worked like the proverbial charm, the Lord had seen to that. The Dead quickly came to accept him as their Shepherd, a leader that God Himself had sent to guide His malignant Flock to Paradise. However his life as a captive, while in many ways safe and secure, was not without its hazards. Several times he’d been careless and come dangerously close to being bitten early on. But now as The Dead had come to think, in their limited capacity, of Father Handel and their dimly remembered God as synonymous, his life seemed spared. He was cared for and allowed to eat from the larder of food left behind by the city’s now deceased residents. None of The Dead made attempts to eat him any longer and that was a plus. It looked, for better or for worse, as if he’d been allowed to survive and would continue to do so for as long as he preached to the Living Dead their version of the Gospel.

Father Handel rationalized to himself that he must do whatever he had to in order to stay alive so that he could guide these murderous children back toward God’s salvation. It was the very definition of his role as priest. But there were downsides to this plan of his. The service he was about to conduct would have once been considered an abomination by the Church and therefore unthinkable. However some of the more lucid Dead had been quite insistent upon it being conducted. They’d silently made their wishes quite clear. In fact, it was the one thing they seemed determined to have him do since it was a seminal rite in their religion. He’d agreed to do it, but only once he saw how passive they were after he had performed it.

The crowd before him had by now grown restless and the motion from their impatient movement brought Father Handel back from his reverie. He cleared his throat, looked around with his most benevolent expression and spoke from the Missal.

"Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation," Father Handel began, his voice a low monotone. He was careful not to raise his volume too abruptly or too sharply since he didn’t want to risk exciting the throng assembled before him. The priest was still learning just how far they could be pushed before civility was cast aside and blood was spilled. The last thing he wanted was to incite a feeding frenzy where he would well become the center of attention. "Through your goodness we have this food to offer, which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the Bread of Life."

A silence fell across the faithful as final as any death shroud and Father Handel shifted anxiously on his feet as he waited for what he hoped would follow, their dutiful response. His heart felt heavy and his blood was slowed by the fear. Fleetingly, he wondered if today was the day that The Dead had finally come to St. Joseph’s serving a more sinister purpose.

After a short silence, the throng stood and drew a collective breath. As one, they mechanically opened their mouths and moaned, "Blesssss beee Gaaaa’ forrr e’er."

Father Handel sighed softly in relief, then smiled so that the congregation could see his approval. Lowering his gaze, he continued reading, "Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation. Through your goodness we have this wine to offer, fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become our spiritual drink." He paused for effect and took the time to look up from the heavy, leather book which he held open in his hands.

The throng stood wide-eyed and, for an instant, the priest felt as if he’d caught a glimpse of the people they once were, caught just an all too brief image of the lives and the memories which were held captive behind those clouded eyes. And it was in that moment that he was convinced, now more than ever that he’d been correct. These shambling abominations truly were his flock and they all looked to God, and to him, for a sense of security and an unwritten guarantee of their exemption from Hell’s all-consuming fire.

While it was true that they had become a congregation of monsters, like something out of a dime-store novel, it was also true that it was only through His word they could find redemption. And while they were now no much more than beasts who gave little thought to the act of killing as well as to the ingestion of human flesh, they could still be granted Salvation through His Grace. Now that they’d been held safe in the cold yet comfortable embrace of the Elysium which laid behind Death’s exclusionary door (even if that door had needed to be thrown open, creaking on hinges lubricated by the blood of the fallen, to do so), they knew better than anyone the glory of Heaven and of the majesty of His plan.

As one, the parishioners sucked in a collective breath and groaned, "Blesssss beee Gaaaa’ forrr e’er."

An odor of mold and of the grave swirled about the room as the fetid air held within their stagnant lungs was expelled. A stomach-turning smell drifted across the room and up to the podium. The priest, his stomach lurching suddenly, set the leather bound book in his hands down on the lectern and ran his index finger across the underside of his nose. He knew that the smell of the incense which lay trapped in the folds of his sleeves would mask the putrid stench. It was a small trick he’d learned early on. He knew instinctively that vomiting before Them—and because of Them—would absolutely send the wrong message. So steps were taken, adaptations were made.

"Pray, brethren, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father," continued Father Handel, raising his voice just a notch. He spread his arms out, mimicking the figure hung on the cross behind him, and bowed his head. From the look in the crowd’s glassy eyes, the posture achieved the desired effect.

The congregation was in full recollection now and the words flowed, albeit clumsily, over their swollen tongues and blackened lips. "May ah Lo-o-or’ accep’ aah sacrifi…aah yor han’s fah ah pra-ase aah g’ory ah hisss na-a-ame… ffah argh goo’ ah daa goo’ of ahhl hisss Churrrrsh."

Father Handel allowed a full smile to drift across his face as he thought of all the progress his fold had made. When they’d first started arriving at his door, they could barely focus their attention on one thing for any length of time without trying to put their mouths on it. Now, through their continual repetition and his dogged persistence these past few weeks, they were almost understandable. He looked back to his book and continued, "Lord, make us worthy to celebrate these mysteries. Each time we offer this memorial sacrifice, the work of our redemption is accomplished. We ask this in the name of Jesus the Lord."

Another stuttering breath was drawn by the crowd and they spoke as one. "A-a-a-a-mennnn." The word, which once had been the very personification of the devotion of the faithful, now sounded hollow like the echoes of sanctification long lost and forgotten.

As the priest continued reciting the ritual, he noticed more of The Dead trying to gain entrance to the church. There were just so many more of them these days. All of them lured here by either a memory of the forgiveness offered or drawn by the rumor of what was freely given in this macabre communion. Since all of the seats of the cathedral’s pews were now filled, the others were forced to stand awkwardly at the back or were left to aimlessly roam the aisles.

A few of the newer Dead, those having come bewildered into their new state of being, clawed at the feet of the carved statue of the Holy Mother which stood on one side of the room. It was as if they believed that anything even remotely human in form would yield some form of sustenance. Father Handel drew his arms back toward his body and slowly raised his right hand in a replication of the Sacred Heart. He drew a stuttering breath and continued the ritual.

"Bless and approve our offering; make it acceptable to you, an offering in spirit and in truth." He raised his voice even louder now, feeling the power of the words and forcing—by shear potency of will—the crowd to feel their power as well. "Let it become for us the body and blood of Jesus Christ, your only Son, our Lord."

"Throoo Chrisss’ aah Lor’, A-a-a-a-mennnn."

The congregation fell back heavily into their seats and waited as Father Handel closed his book and left it on the podium. Forlornly, he looked out over his fold and walked to the middle of the altar. There a silver tray lay on the heavy cloth Corporal which completely covered the table underneath. In the center of the elaborately engraved platter, a silver knife and a chalice covered with a dark purple cloth commonly called a Purificator was set. The exposed metal gleamed in the half light and the priest briefly touched it, meticulously adjusting its placement on the pall.

Off to the side of the Chancel, Father Handel heard the door to the sacristy open. Almost immediately, he sensed the congregation’s concentration waver and he knew he would need to hurry the service along. He would be only able to hold The Dead’s attention, and by extension of that, their civility, for a short time once the Offering was wheeled in. It was, after all, the thing for which a lot of Them had come. Well that and for their absolution, of course. He looked out of the corner of his eye and indeed saw the hospital gurney being pushed into the room by Javier, the young Hispanic boy who’d been serving as his acolyte these long weeks.

On the small metal table a young boy lay gagged, his hands securely strapped to his sides. There were a number of loosely wrapped, yellow tinged bandages covering several large bites which had been taken from the child’s torso and upper arms. Each bite in and of itself would have sealed the boy’s fate, sentencing him to a slow degeneration into one of the very Dead who now filled this church. It was now the order of things.

The wounded child’s gasp was audible through his gag as he caught his first glimpse of the congregation sitting attentively in the church. Weakly, he wriggled against his restraints. The horrified look of betrayal in his eyes was unmistakable. A small cry of fear escaped from beneath the cloth around his mouth and the sound of that cry broke Father Handel’s heart.

A palpable ripple went through the crowd as they all became aware of his presence, for even the ones who still clung to their faith became agitated as the living body was brought in. Yes, the priest thought, he would indeed need to hurry or this service would deteriorate into a scene from which he surely would not be able to escape.

The priest looked into the child’s frightened eyes staring up at him and despite the heart-rending empathy he felt, he tried to separate himself from the desperate emotion which lay trapped there. He stroked the boy’s messy auburn hair and bent over him, tenderly laying his lips upon the boy’s forehead. He paused and whispered, "My child, I absolve thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost of any and all sins of this life and I send you to sit at God’s side knowing that it is a far better place that you go to now than the one where you have been. May God have mercy upon your soul," and he paused, then whispered under his breath, "and mine."