Love in an Undead Age - A.M. Geever (love story novels in english .TXT) 📗
- Author: A.M. Geever
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“And you don’t?” Doug said. “He scares the shit out of me.”
“I have feared that man since I was a boy,” Finn said bitterly. “You have seen what he is, how he toys with us to feed his vanity. He perverts any goodness, murders on a whim, abuses women—”
Finn’s voice became a strangled sob. He looked at Mario and Doug with haunted eyes. “Those of us who want rid of him might be too few, but Miranda said you would help us.” He looked Doug in the eye. “At least I will have tried.”
Doug studied Finn for a long moment, a flinty expression Mario knew all too well on his face. He was trying to figure out all the angles, analyze the outcomes that might screw things up even more.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Doug began. “I like you, Finn, and I don’t think you’re like your father. As long as our interests converge, we will help you if we can, but that is not why we’re out here.”
Finn nodded readily. “Where were you trying to go?”
“Santa Cruz,” Doug answered.
“I will get you there.” He motioned for Dalton to follow as he started for the door. “We will see you in an hour.”
Finn and Dalton left. Mario watched them thread through the increasing foot traffic outside until they turned a corner and disappeared.
Doug scrubbed his face with both hands, then looked at the floor for a moment. “Don’t ever tell her I told you this,” he said as he pulled open a cupboard and looked inside. “But Miranda was right. If I hadn’t become a priest, I wouldn’t be in charge of this fucking mission, striking a bargain with a kid to maybe kill his father. And if there was ever a creep that needs killing, Jesus! Priests aren’t supposed to say shit like that, but compared to what that madman is doing…” He turned back to Mario. “Did you see any booze? I need a drink.”
Mario shook his head and sat down on the closest cot. Doug slammed the cupboard shut. “I can’t believe he’s really immune. I thought he was delusional when he told his story.”
“There’s no other explanation for surviving an untreated bite,” Mario said.
“What if we had some of his blood and got it to a lab?” Doug asked. “The serum wouldn’t matter then.”
Mario shook his head.
“We can’t store blood properly, and the serum is ready to go. We won’t be able to synthesize more serum quickly if we’re starting from scratch with new antibodies. That could take months.”
“And we’ve been gone eight days,” Doug added, sounding deflated. “We don’t know what’s going on out there or how things have played out with the City.”
Mario had not come this far and given up so much to fail now. He could deal with zombies getting the better of them, but this madman? Through the infirmary’s front window, he saw the others hurrying their direction. As Miranda came into view, Mario caught a flash of cornflower blue. He had looked into her fearful eyes not thirty minutes ago, though it felt like a lifetime. The memory made his anger burn brighter.
I promised her we were getting out of here, he thought, though how they might do so he could not imagine. Not with the Prophet so many steps ahead of them, winning the game before they knew it had begun.
He watched Miranda as Connor opened the infirmary door. He could see what her future might be, even now. She would continue the work, partner with Connor, maybe even be happy. It was ridiculous, to think of such things at a time like this, with so much at stake, but he did. Whatever life might hold for her, he would never be part of it. As long as she got away from this place, Mario was okay with that.
The love he felt for her—fierce and powerful—welled up within him. Tears that he quickly blinked away blurred the corners of his eyes.
I have to find a way. If Miranda’s alive, she will never give up, never stop trying to finish this. I have to get her out of here.
The hour came and went, followed by another, but Finn did not return. Doug decided they would start searching themselves, but it would have to wait until morning. Village life wound down early so the hour, not to mention the collective mental state of New Jerusalem’s inhabitants since the Faith Walk, made searching now a nonstarter.
Giving the others the slip took longer than Miranda had anticipated. She had not bothered to run her idea past Doug because she knew what his answer would be.
He should understand seeking forgiveness rather than asking permission…a very Jesuit way of getting things done.
The wood and rope bridge swayed as she made her way across it to the Prophet’s house. Swinging herself on the crutches as they, in turn, were rocked by the motion of the bridge made Miranda feel like she was perpetually stumbling and falling. She nearly had tripped a minute ago, practically jumping out of her skin when a horse whinnied, before she remembered Finn mentioning stables on the forest floor on the far side of the village. Luckily, the gate was just ahead. She reached out to knock, but it swung away from her.
A member of the Prophet’s Guard stood before her. He raised the lantern he held and squinted at her.
“What do you want so late this night?”
Miranda looked down at her feet. “I wish to speak with the Prophet.”
“Where is your husband?” The guard’s voice had a mocking singsong lilt. “Why do you venture out in the dark without him?”
“Earlier, the Faith Walk,” Miranda began, then stopped.
“Go away.”
“But—”
“No one disturbs the prayer of the God All-Father on Earth after a Faith Walk, unless they are bidden.”
Miranda would have tried again, but the look on the guard’s face stopped her. He looked like he would enjoy teaching her a lesson if she pressed the issue.
“It is all right,” said a voice. In the dark beyond the guard’s lantern, it was hard to tell exactly where it came from, but there was no doubt the voice belonged to the Prophet. “Let her pass.”
The guard stepped back and held the gate wide. Beyond him, a shadowy figure stood in the doorway of the structure ahead of her. Miranda took a deep breath and crutched past the guard. She stopped well short of the Prophet and waited.
“What is it that brings you, Our Sister?” he asked. He made no move to come closer so that Miranda might see him better.
“I was hoping to talk to you about today,” she said, ignoring a flutter in her stomach. “The Faith Walk, it—” She stopped, groping for a word that he might find acceptable.
“It woke something in you?”
Miranda nodded.
“Come then.”
He turned and opened the door. Weak lantern light cut a watery rectangular shape into the darkness. Miranda passed him as he held the door, then waited in the spartan entry for him to take the lead. The Prophet passed Miranda and continued to another door a few feet away.
“Come.”
As she stepped through the door, Miranda was reminded of the double parlors common in Victorian houses. These rooms were smaller, about ten feet square, but the effect was the same. She stood in a living room, with two chairs arranged to face one another near a wood-burning stove. A desk and chair were against one of the walls, and on the other side of the room opposite the stove sat a long bench with a high back. Beyond the open thruway to the next room was a four-poster bed.
His private quarters…yes!
The Prophet steered her to the closest chair, which put her back to the door. His rooms felt opulent. As she lowered herself into the chair and set her crutches on the floor, Miranda realized why. Like the others near the stove, the chair she sat in was upholstered in a dark-gray velveteen. She gave the room a closer look. There were cushions on the long bench. The desk looked similar to the desk that had been in her father’s study. And the bed, she decided, had to have been scavenged. It was just too nice, too fancy, compared to everything else she had seen in New Jerusalem.
The outside world is wicked, but that doesn’t include its furniture.
When the Prophet smiled at her, Miranda suppressed a shiver. His narrow face, with its sharp cheekbones and nose, lent a predatory cast to his face. His golden eyes were so cold they seemed reptilian. And calculating, she could see that, too. She felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web when he looked at her so directly. She had not felt this way when she had seen him before, but she had not known what a Faith Walk was then.
“What is it you wish to know?”
Miranda drew a blank. She had not counted on being so unnerved once she and the Prophet were alone.
“I’m not really sure. I just needed to speak with you after—”
“Are you frightened?” he asked, a sly smile playing across his lips.
Maybe this was a bad idea, she thought, feeling the first inkling that perhaps she should have stayed put for the night.
Aloud, she said, “Yes.”
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