No Flesh Shall Be Spared Part 9

Soon, Monk leaned back in his chair and belched loudly, signaling that he was done.

"So," he said raising and lowering his eyebrows as he picked at his teeth with the edge of his fingernail, "you want to go look at more training tapes, my young prodigy?"

"Sure," Cleese said and stuffed the last bit of a roll into his mouth. "As you know, I live for that s.h.i.+t."

They got to their feet and quickly bussed their trays. The conversation in the room had more or less died down to a dull roar now that almost everyone had eaten. There were still bursts of laughter as well as some hooting and hollering going on, but for the most part things became a lot more quiet. For the majority of the fighters, this meal signaled the end of another tough day of training. The only thing left to do was unwind, soothe tired muscles and try to get some sleep in order to be rested enough to do it all again tomorrow. These were the fighters who took things seriously enough to adhere to a regimen and because of that, they stood a better chance of surviving.

The rest of them would drink, shoot pool in the Administration Building and try not to go stir crazy. These men were the ones who'd come here carrying a lot of personal baggage. They were the ones who'd been recruited from biker and street gangs and raising h.e.l.l would always be their primary vocation. Cleese understood the mindset all too well. He often wondered which group he would have fallen into had it not been for Monk, who believed in a happy medium between the two.

Monk and Cleese dumped what little remained of their meals into one of the big rubber trashcans near a back door and left their trays in a bin nearby. They walked the periphery of the room and, as they approached the exit, Cleese saw Masterson moving like a shark toward them.

"Ah, s.h.i.+t," Monk said turning his face away so Masterson couldn't see it. "Keep walking."

"Monk," Masterson said as he intercepted them at the door. "Cleese."

"Masterson," Monk said and smiled a mirthless smile.

Cleese just nodded.

"How are things going with our new man here?"

"They're ok. I still think he's too old and he doesn't listen too well, but... Give me enough time with him and he shouldn't get himself killed too quickly."

"Hey, man..." Cleese said feigning insult, "that s.h.i.+t hurts my feelings. You wound me, Monk. You really do."

"Yeah, well... if you're looking for sympathy, it's in the dictionary between 's.h.i.+t' and 'syphilis.'"

Masterson smirked and nodded.

"I see things are indeed going well. Well, welcome again, Cleese. We're happy to have you here with us."

Cleese raised his eyebrows in surprise. Masterson didn't seem the type to give out compliments or warm greetings. This was not the same guy who'd kicked him out of bed not so long ago. For the life of him, Cleese wasn't sure whether it was a sign that things really were going well or that Masterson was merely blowing smoke up his a.s.s.

He hoped it was the former because he hated the latter.

"You aren't going to get all mushy on me are you, Masterson?" Cleese said. "You know how I hate it when you get emotional."

"I think it's a safe bet to say, 'No.'" Masterson said, coming as close as Cleese had ever seen him to genuinely smiling.

"Well, we'd love to stand around talking all night," Monk said, "but we were just on our way to the Tape Library to review some of the last Live Event matches."

Monk moved toward the exit.

"Come along, young squire."

"Yep," he said, and took a step away, inwardly glad to be away from the conversation since Masterson-from the day they first met-made him feel skittish. Every fiber of Cleese's body told him not to trust the guy. Maybe it was the memory of their first contact when Masterson demanded he get onto that Blackhawk. Maybe it was the way he never felt he knew what was going on behind that dark suit and those even darker eyes. Maybe it was just simply that viper-like smile. Cleese didn't know and, quite frankly, he didn't want to know. He knew that he couldn't be trusted and that he wanted to always keep a little distance between Masterson and himself.

"Hold on one second, Cleese," Masterson said. "Monk, Cleese will catch up with you in a moment."

Monk shot a glance back and locked eyes with Cleese as if to say, "Watch yourself."

Masterson pulled Cleese over to the side of the door.

"Son," Masterson said in a tone that was almost conspiratorial, "I was asked by Corporate to let you know that some very important people have been watching the training tapes of your sparring with Monk and we're all very impressed. We see big things in your future if you continue to do as well as you have been."

Cleese looked at him for a moment and wondered, what would make someone who couldn't have cared less if he'd lived or died a few short weeks ago suddenly start sucking his d.i.c.k like this? It just didn't make a whole lotta sense. While he considered it, he decided to dole out a little more rope to see if Masterson would hang himself with it.

"Well, thanks. I'm actually enjoying this more than I thought I would."

"That's good to hear, Cleese," Masterson said with that snakey smile again and all the while staring at him. After pausing for effect, he continued talking, "You don't know how close you came to being booted outta here after that piece of business with Michaels in the weight room." He paused as if to make his point and then, "We want to see you do well here. If there's anything you ever need, you let us know, ok?"

Little alarms starting going off in Cleese's head. The feeling was like termites eating their way into the back of his skull. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something suddenly felt more than a little bit hinkey to him. A voice in the back of his head urged him to move along; to get as far away from this slimy f.u.c.k as possible. It was a voice that Cleese was used to listening to and he couldn't comply fast enough to suit him.

"Well, golly..." Cleese said, his voice spiced with just a hint of sarcasm. Despite the creepy feeling he got from Masterson, there was still a part of him that took a bit of pleasure from f.u.c.king with him. "I really appreciate you saying that, Buddy, but I really should go and catch up with Monk."

Masterson's shoulders almost imperceptibly bunched up, but he quickly regained control of himself and smiled that unnerving smile again.

"We'll talk again, Cleese. We're looking forward to seeing what you can bring to The League."

Cleese nodded and stepped away from the conversation. He smiled slightly and slowly walked toward the door.

Almost dismissively, Masterson returned his gaze to the crowd in order to continue his observation of the fighters still left in the room. After a moment, he turned to eye Cleese suspiciously as he disappeared through the doors.

Communion of The Dead Before...

But now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them that slept.

For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead.

For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.

- I Corinthians 15:20-22 The first rays of the sun broke through a dense cloud bank and fell upon the city as the bells of St. Joseph's Catholic Church rang out into the crystalline morning. The once bustling metropolis around the little church lay, as it had for weeks now, not merely sleeping, but quite literally dead to the world. Newspapers with headlines which proclaimed "The Dead Walk," "National Guard Overwhelmed," and "President Declares State of Emergency," blew about the deserted streets like origami tumbleweeds; detritus from a world gone terminal. Packs of what were once domesticated dogs roamed the desolate streets and avenues and searched for whatever food might have been left behind. Their masters, who were now far beyond caring about much of anything except the unrelenting hunger burning in their gullets, searched alongside them although their goal was for a far more elusive prey. The skysc.r.a.pers and office buildings of this slain city towered above the tiny, masonry church and cast its painted edifice in a continual shadow. The heavy, wooden doors of the parish stood propped open in welcome and, one by one, the reanimated dead were slowly finding their way inside.

The interior walls of the church rose up majestically toward the heavens, adorned in the consecrated imagery of faith and forgiveness; portraits of repentance granted and redemption won. What little light there was inside had seeped into the building through two large, stained gla.s.s windows set in the masonry walls on either side of the gilded altar. The ornately decorated Sanctuary loomed at the far end of the church. Above it, a domed apse loomed high and was painted a soft sky blue. Statues carved with an obvious reverence stood regally on either side of the expansive nave where the congregation would sit and bear silent witness to the downfall of an over-confident and sinful world. The light of the fluttering candles at the feet of the sculptures added minutely to the spa.r.s.e illumination within the room. Once, this place of wors.h.i.+p had as its guests king and pauper, billionaire and b.u.m. These days, only the shambling mult.i.tude came to hear the Word of G.o.d, for they were all that seemed to be left.

As the sun pressed its way through the clouds and continued its rise in the eastern sky, the lumbering host straggled in through the church's doors for that morning's ma.s.s. The Dead had come in all manner of creation-or disintegration might be a more apt term-held together despite the ravages of Time and her twin sister, Decomposition. But come they did for this was once a holy place in their minds and therefore held great import in their lives. They would come and continue to come, no doubt, for as long as their slowly putrefying bodies were able.

An uneven hush settled over the a.s.sembled congregation as Father Handel entered the church proper through a side door. He approached the pulpit at a languorous pace, carefully orchestrating his arrival's sense of drama. Tall and once considered to be good-looking, the priest moved slowly across the Chancel at the front of the room, his gait betraying both his stress and his advancing age. What remained of his once dark hair had gone silver and now laid slicked back across his rapidly diminis.h.i.+ng pate. The white vestments of his station hung from his bony shoulders like a flag on a windless day. His manner was that of an already fatigued man pushed far beyond his limits of endurance. It would have been obvious to anyone looking into the church that these last weeks had been an exhausting ordeal for him. Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone in the vicinity left alive to witness his deterioration, so that point was a moot one.

Silence settled erratically over the crowd like a flock of nervous pigeons as he took his place at the lectern. Father Handel quietly waited for the crowd to completely calm themselves before looking up and addressing them. He was confident that there would be none of the disruptions that sometimes interrupted his services of the past. For this was St. Joseph's and those gathered, despite their advanced state of decay and murderous recent history, instinctively knew that here-now-propriety would still rule the day. Father Handel had seen to that, gently but insistently. This almost civil behavior was one of the small accomplishments in which the priest felt he could take a slight amount of pride. He'd managed to make contact-to really connect-with these dead souls and impart to them a concept they'd actually been able to understand and one with which they could comply. Yes, there were odd disturbances here and there, but for the most part, things went according to the church's preordained liturgy.

As the priest looked up from his podium and formally addressed the congregation, the group rose clumsily as one to their feet. Some did so awkwardly, rocking from foot to foot like they were drunk or mentally ill. While others stood in stillness, blindly following the group, staring gape-mouthed straight ahead. Hair mussed, clothes torn and spattered with blood, they stared with wide eyes and open mouths at the altar, awed as if by the presence of G.o.d himself.

There was Mrs. Roselli in her usual pew. The heavy Italian woman who once wore her piety like a shawl now stared blankly up at the Corpus Christi and reacted as if she were seeing the sculpture for the very first time. A bit of her husband's half-chewed and decomposing lower leg, which she still held lovingly in her arms, fell unnoticed from her torn lip and hit the floor with a sharp wet sound. A small toddler with blue-tinged skin crawled about the floor under her seat and quickly retrieved the fallen morsel. Eagerly, the child stuffed the meat into her toothless mouth.

Despite the service beginning around him, The Honorable Judge Harris sat wearing his pajamas in the centre aisle, legs splayed akimbo, trying in vain to form a cross with the two matted femur bones he'd brought along with him. He continually looked from the crucifix on the wall to the bones in his hands as if unsure of how he might make one become the other. Soon his attention wandered and his gaze came to rest on the thing he'd set lovingly in his lap. The crimson lump was now a highly valued thing in his undead world and one that he considered to be of the utmost importance. He'd torn it unceremoniously from his wife's chest as she slept. Now the chambered muscle lay cold and still in his hands. He cradled the treasure protectively for it was to be his offering for the service's expected collection plate.

Along the main aisle near the back of the room sat little Julie Brown, a raven-haired girl to whom Father Handel had given First Communion only a month or two earlier, in a time just before the world unraveled. As she fingered a small hole in her torn and darkly matted dress, one of her bright blue eyes hung limply from its shattered socket. When Father Handel's gaze fell upon her, she smiled. Her grin was at once wide and malignant. Her mouth held splintered teeth and clotted blood; clumps of human flesh caught between the shattered dent.i.tion.

It was evident from the empty gazes and confused stares that most of The Dead could not remember how they had come to be what they were. None could recall the cataclysm which had brought them this state of decrepitude. They only glimpsed ghost-like shadows of their past on the ragged curtains of their minds. Knowing nothing else, the mult.i.tude was forever compelled to try to recreate their dimly remembered lives. It was why many of them were here today.

Father Handel placed his tired, worn hands on the pulpit and bowed his head. The congregation fell back clumsily into their seats. He waited patiently for silence to once again return to this, his undead fold. In that short time his mind wandered and he was free to momentarily consider his present circ.u.mstances.

In the first few days of The Dead's return the priest would have been very much opposed to the idea of willingly walking into a room full of "Shufflers," as they were called by those who were still living in the fortified encampments outside the city. He'd heard some of the refugees talking on the short wave radio which kept him company through the long nights in the empty rectory. At first, he'd begged them repeatedly to come to his aid, but it soon became apparent, due to the overwhelming numbers of The Dead still left in the city, that any such rescue mission would only end in all of their deaths. Father Handel soon came to accept himself as a sort of Robinson Crusoe who was marooned amidst a lethal and yet lifeless sea.

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-crus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.d's children. You will always be G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sive 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, G.o.d 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 a.s.sembled 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 s.h.i.+fted 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d, and to him, for a sense of security and an unwritten guarantee of their exemption from h.e.l.l'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 paris.h.i.+oners 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 G.o.d, 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 gla.s.sy 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 repet.i.tion 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 G.o.d's side knowing that it is a far better place that you go to now than the one where you have been. May G.o.d have mercy upon your soul," and he paused, then whispered under his breath, "and mine."

The boy's eyes darted about, unsure of the priest's full meaning. Violently, the child shook his head back and forth as if saying, "No! No, you don't have to do this!" He watched amazedly as the priest standing over him made the sign of the cross and touched his hand to his forehead. Finally tired from the extent of his exertions he fell still; panting rapidly. Tears slowly rolled down his dirty cheeks leaving wet discolorations in the filth.

Father Handel stood to his full height once again and gently picked up the silver knife on the table before him. He grasped the chalice and raised his voice to the throng. "The day before He suffered to save us and all men, He took an offering in his hands and looking up to heaven, to you, His almighty Father, He gave You thanks and praise. He took a gla.s.s, gave it to His disciples, and said: 'Take this, all of you, and drink it: for it is the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Drink ye all of it; For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.'"

Feeling the power and majesty of the scripture himself, Father Handel pointed with the blade's tip out over the heads of the crowd as if it were the very Flaming Sword of Uriel. "Let us proclaim the mystery of faith: Father, we celebrate the memory of Christ, your Son. We, your people and your ministers, recall His pa.s.sion, His resurrection from The Dead, and His ascension to glory; and from the many gifts You have given us we offer to you, G.o.d of glory and majesty, this holy and perfect sacrifice: this child of G.o.d who has now become the body of Christ and the cup of eternal salvation which is His life's blood."

For the briefest of moments, the boy and the priest locked eyes and an impa.s.sioned, but wordless exchange pa.s.sed between them. The boy's eyes pleaded for help and release. The priest's cried out for forgiveness. The emotion that clouded the doomed child's eyes was one that shook Father Handel to his very core. He gave the child the smallest of smiles in the hope that it would make the next moments more tolerable. Somehow though, he knew it would not. Abruptly, he dragged the glistening blade in his hand across the soft flesh of the young boy's throat. Blood pulsed out of the gaping wound and pooled like oil onto the vinyl padding of the gurney. The child made a frantic gulping motion as his life pumped out of him in thick, syrupy surges. The priest quickly placed the chalice under the pulsing torrent at the boy's throat, filling it with the hot, crimson fluid. An impa.s.sioned sigh ran through the crowd as the air became charged with the coppery scent of plasma.

Within moments, the boy stopped moving.

Father Handel set the now nearly full chalice aside and raised the now b.l.o.o.d.y knife into the air. He raised his gaze and once more looked out over the crowd.

"It was then that He, who is the one true messiah, looked to his faithful and, as they were eating, Jesus took the bread, and blessed it, and broke it, and gave it to the them, and said, 'Take, eat; this is my body. Do this all in memory of me.'"

The priest turned back to the gurney and, with a sawing motion, he sliced deep into the meat of the boy's exposed upper leg. The milky, white skin split and parted, exposing bright, yellow nodules of fat and the grey-red fibrous muscle tissue beneath. Once the initial cut was made, the priest discreetly handed off the knife to the boy, Javier, who had come up to stand quietly next to him.

Father Handel would leave the rest of the cutting for the boy to finish. The acolyte dutifully began slicing away small pieces of flesh and stacked them on the silver ciborium which sat next to the now dead boy. Javier busied himself with the task making sure, as he'd been told, to keep the pieces out of sight of the faithful who sat moldering in their pews. Father Handel picked up few of the first stacked morsels and deftly palmed them. His vision was now blurred by the tears coursing down his cheeks, but he knew that since he'd come this far,going the rest of the way was a given. He held the blood-covered morsels in his blood-soaked hand and reached over to retrieve the goblet.

He turned back to the congregation and motioned for them to begin their approach to receive this most unholy of communions. The crowd stood and began their protractedly shuffling, one by one, toward the altar.