“Did you gather anything else?” Andrew asks, tucking the blessed water away. “Besides the ruler, I mean.”
David shakes his head. “Some pencils. A globe stand that might make a good head-knocker if push comes to shove. Harry found a letter opener, I think.”
David leans in closer, lowers his voice. “Honestly, the place I really want to raid is the kitchen. These kids are hungry. Starving. We haven’t eaten since breakfast, and that wasn’t much to begin with. Even for this place.”
I agree, and for the first time since the horrid memorial service I realize how hungry I am.
You get used to it after a while: the hunger. It becomes part of you. Familiar. You only really notice it after you’ve had a decent meal, and then time passes, and your body wants more. But there’s nothing more to be had. Most of the time, though, it’s there, inside you, festering and gnawing at your guts. Hearing David talk about food makes the craving inside me heighten its attack. It feels like my stomach is being folded in half, then wrung like wet laundry.
I realize now why he whispered about raiding the kitchen, and focused on finding weapons, lame and useless as they may be. If he can keep the boys’ minds on danger, and on defending themselves, they’ll likely forget they’re starving. At least for a while.
“Maybe we can try later,” Andrew says. “Besides that, how is everyone here? Anyone badly injured?”
“We’re all good, Father,” Byron says. “Scrapes and bruises. A few cuts. David’s been keeping everyone tightened up. The little ones are resting, the older ones ready to do what needs doing.”
David looks to the floor, likely embarrassed at the mild praise. “Just doing my best. I’m no guardian.” Then he lifts his head, stares accusingly at Andrew. “You adults are supposed to be protecting us. You’re the priests here. We’re just a bunch of kids, despite what Peter thinks.”
“Hey,” I say, but Andrew interjects.
“I realize that, David, and I’m here now. You’ve done a fine job, and now I’ll do my best. As for Poole, or Johnson . . . I don’t know.”
Timothy steps forward. “We saw the kitchen staff ru-ru-running for the hills,” he says in his broken way, but loudly, proud of his report. “They were heading west, the th-th-three of ’em.”
Andrew nods. “Maybe they’ll get help,” he says, but he sounds defeated, knowing it’s a fabricated idea. The kitchen help, made up primarily of former prisoners and social outcasts, are likely fleeing to their meager homes, the penance they were paying not worth additional effort, or risk of harm.
“They’ll be drunk by midnight,” Byron says, “Likely toasting our demise.”
No one speaks, or argues. We all know it’s a lot closer to the truth than Andrew’s idealized suggestion that they’re bringing back help. Sometimes you just know the kind of person someone is, especially when they’re lowly and selfish. You find they rarely disappoint.
“It’s not the worst idea,” David says, catching my eye with a significant look I don’t fully understand. “Walking out of here, I mean.”
Andrew is shaking his head. “No, Peter and I discussed this. It’s already dark outside, the wind picking up. The snow will make it hard to see clearly, not to mention we’ll have a good amount of buildup by morning. No path, no light . . . No, it’s too risky.”
“Then we take the horses,” he says, pressing the issue.
“The horses are dead,” I say. “Slaughtered.”
Andrew gives me a surprised look at revealing the information, but then lowers his eyes and sighs, as if realizing, perhaps, this is not the time to withhold hard truths. “Look, you boys keep thinking,” he says. “I want to go check on the others.”
He walks away, kneels next to the cot of one of the younger kids, leaving David and me alone. I start to leave, but David grips my arm.
“Peter?” He speaks in a low voice, eyes shifting left and right. “We could go,” he says. “You and me. We’d make it to the farm easy.”
My poor stomach, already hungry and twisted with worry, now sinks. I’d hoped David had come around. Taken on more of a guardian role with the children, gained a sense of responsibility. It seems I was wrong.
“And leave the others to die?” I say, my tone quiet but sharp. He winces, and his eyes grow stormy in a way I’ve come to know well.
“Don’t play Saint Peter with me. Not now. Not during . . . all this shit.” He grips my elbow hard. “I want to live, Peter. I know you do, too. For yourself, for the lovely Grace waiting at the farm. You know the way, you’ve done that route a slew of times. I know we could make it.”
“I don’t agree. And even if I did, I’ll never leave the others. They’ll die without us.”
“You’re being selfish,” he says, disgust on his face.
“How is helping them selfish?”
“Because it’s for you,” he says, poking me hard in the chest. “You buy into all the shit Andrew shovels at you, and it blinds you. Makes you think you’re something you’re not.”
“Which is what?” I say, angry, but also uncertain.
“We’re not their parents, Peter. We’re not bloody priests.” Tears well in his eyes, and some of my displeasure melts into compassion. I know he’s scared. I am, as well.
But.
“I understand that,” I say, trying to soothe him, but also wanting to instill a sense of honor into his bones. “But they need us. Andrew needs us. Together, we can keep everyone safe through the night. Then, in the morning, maybe you or I can go. When we have the light with us. But not both of us, and not in the dark. Look at them, David. Most of the older kids are with Bartholomew and the others. There’s no one here but . . . children. Byron and Timothy are the only ones who could really fight if it came to it.”
“And Andrew,” David says, but I can tell he’s giving up. The thought brings me no pleasure. “God, this is a nightmare.”
“Besides,” I say, deciding to take the risk of letting David know my thoughts on what’s happened. Even if it means he thinks me insane. “I’m not sure what we’re dealing with is completely . . . natural.”
David looks at me skeptically. I expected no less. “What do you mean?”
I push forward, hoping he’ll see my logic, my reasoning. See what Andrew did not . . . or at least did not want to. “Look, I wanted to tell you this before, but I thought . . . David, there’s something dark at work here. Something evil. I don’t know . . .” I look him in the eye, decide to trust him with this guarded secret. This uncanny belief. “I think those other boys are possessed, David. I think there are demons inside those boys, filling them with all this murderous hate. That man who died? I was talking to Andrew . . .”
“Wait wait wait . . . just wait a second,” he says, looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head. As if I’m mad. “You think the reason those bastards are doing this is because they’re possessed? Like, what, by the devil?”
I nod, but my face reddens. “I do.”