Aftertime

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.

Where was Ruthie?

A loud rattling came from the direction of the enclosure at the other end of the field and the crowd turned to see the Beater cart emerge, being pulled by a guard whose face was covered by a white mask. Inside, the Beater howled, scrambling and stumbling as the cart rolled unevenly along.

And then, at the back of the crowd, one more figure hurried into view. It was a slender woman with a halo of frizzy brown hair-and a child in her arms. She was frantically smoothing the little girl’s dress into place as she tried to catch up to the others. Cass leaned over the platform as far as she dared, craning to see. The child wore little black shoes buckled over white socks, and she pressed a fist against her mouth as she leaned against the woman’s shoulder.

The same way Ruthie always had.

Ever since she was an infant, Ruthie had never sucked her thumb or a pacifier like other children, but she would press a fist to her mouth to comfort herself. How many times had Cass found her that way in her crib, sleeping sweetly with her hand curled against her sweet rosebud lips?

And there-even with her hair gone-Cass knew the shape of her baby’s head. A thousand times she had run her hand over Ruthie’s head. There were her long eyelashes, dark brown with sun-lightened tips. And there was the faintest reminder of the funny little fold in her pudgy forearm.

As the minder drew closer, the sleepy child yawned, and then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Cass, and in their bright emerald depths Cass saw her baby, her Ruthie, and knew that she had been wrong, so wrong- she would not leave here without her child-she would die before she ever let her go again.

Ruthie’s bright green eyes widened, and she stiffened in the woman’s arms. Then she started to thrash wildly, trying to get down, but the woman only held her tighter. Mother Cora’s smile faltered as she watched the struggle. She covered the microphone and said something to one of the other women on the platform. The adults were guiding the children into a line across the platform, but they stepped aside to create a break in the row, and Ruthie’s attendant hurried past and disappeared behind the others, out of sight. But Cass had seen and she was sure.

Mother Cora leaned back into the microphone. “I give you the future,” she murmured, her voice amplified to fill the stadium. On cue, the children clasped each other’s hands and lifted them into the air, and they looked like a chain of paper dolls, eerie and silent as stones.

Cass waited for them to pray, or sing, but they did neither. They stood still above the crowd, frightened and unmoving. No, no, no talking, Gloria had warned Cass. You won’t know her. The women in the audience held their collective breath; they were waiting, too, both joy and grief reflected in their faces. Were they remembering other children, other times?

Mother Cora had bought Cass’s lie, that it was children who had healed her. So Mother Cora had no choice but to bring them out now, when she was about to sacrifice Cass. As if reading her thoughts, Cora stepped forward and slipped a cool hand into Cass’s and led her down the stairs to the Beater’s cart. A few of the smaller children started to cry, but they were silent even as tears spilled on their cheeks. They had been trained-or threatened- effectively.

The Beater hung on to the wire sides of the cage, moaning softly and snorting its need and its longing. In daylight, it was clear that there had been no healing at all. It was as torn and scabbed and crazed as any Cass had ever seen, missing several teeth and most of its hair and chunks of its lips. Great patches of black and red filled in where skin had been torn away.

Cora avoided looking at the Beater as she handed Cass off to Hannah, who waited close to the cage’s door. “Blessings on you, Cassandra,” Cora said, before returning to the podium.

“Don’t worry, it probably won’t hurt any more than getting your mouth sewn shut,” Hannah said quietly, so that only Cass could hear her. “And then you get that whole euphoria thing. That’ll be fun, don’t you think? Oh, you must be so excited.”

The gloved and masked attendant who had wheeled out the cage was gone. The Beater had managed to jam an oozing and crusted hand through the bars. Strips of dead skin hung from its arm, and its scabbed lips were pulled back in a furious leer.

The women at the farthest tables scrambled to see what was happening near the stage, mounting chairs and tables to get an unobstructed view. The guards stationed at the periphery of the crowd moved closer.

Hannah seized Cass’s arm. “Ready, Cassandra? I can guess what you must be thinking-this is gonna hurt like hell. And you know, I think you might be right.”