Amish Vampires in Space (34 page)

Abraham blew out a breath, breathed in through closed teeth, and then pushed out another breath again. Repeated. Again and again.

The dwelling was much like everyone else’s. A double bed, a small table. Two chairs.

“Where is his shirt?” Samuel asked.

Abraham’s wife sat on the floor near a corner. Her eyes were wide, clearly frightened. A lock of salted hair escaped her bonnet near her brow. Her fingers pinched her bottom lip. Twisted it. “He just said he was heated,” she said then. “And dreadful tired. Pulled off his shirt and hat. Dropped into bed.” Her eyes looked Samuel’s direction. “I thought he’d overexerted again.”

James was seated on the edge of the bed, near Abraham’s feet.

“Is this how the other fevers have been?” Samuel asked.

James nodded. “Ya, more or less.” He shrugged. “This time will pass. It always does. There is no reason for fear.”

Samuel nodded. “Our God isn’t one of fear. It is true.”

Mark stood near the far side of the bed. “This isn’t strange to you?” His eyes darted between James and Samuel. He looked troubled.

“I’ve seen wounds on him,” Abraham’s wife murmured. “On his neck and shoulders. Like small round sores.”

“Sores?”

James raised his hands in a calming motion. “They all get better, brothers. A few hours’ sleep is usually all it takes. Prayer and sleep.”

“And no Englisher knows of this fever?” Mark asked.

“We’ve agreed to limit our interaction with them.”

“Any idea what causes it, though?” Mark looked at Abraham again. “It looks terrible.”

James frowned. “We’ve weathered many a sickness in our day.” He indicated Abraham. “This is not the worse we’ve seen by any means.”

Samuel remembered how he’d left his wife. How very cold she’d felt. Could she be affected too? He attempted to push the anxiety away. Prayed silently in his head. “Yes, but the cause?” he asked.

James sighed, placed both hands on his knees. “There are thousands of new things on this ship. Who knows what he could’ve gotten into?”

“But we were assured of—” Mark paused as Samuel raised a hand.

“Now then. We know better than to trust Englisher assurances,” Samuel said. “But to be just…is there any chance we brought this disorder with us?”

James looked toward the dwelling’s blue wall, clearly staring into the past. “I don’t recall any being sick.” He frowned, looked Samuel’s direction. “All were examined when we arrived. By the—”

Samuel raised a hand again. “Englisher doctor, yes, I know. So they’ve both assured us of no danger and assured us that we’re well.” He brought a hand to his beard. Gave it a thoughtful stroke. “Englishers fight wars all the time, were you aware? Perhaps this is a purposed thing. Something they wanted us to contract?”

“For what reason?” Mark asked.

“For whatever reason they desire. I know not their ways.”

“But it only lasts a few hours!” James said. “Abraham will be up and around in no time.”

Mark squinted. “Who else has gotten the fever?”

James shrugged. “I haven’t kept count. A few dozen, perhaps more. Fifty at the most.”

“Fifty!”

Abraham shot up in his bed, eyes wide. His wife gave a frightened chirp and pressed a hand over her mouth. James didn’t move. But Mark quickly joined Samuel near the door.

Still staring, Abraham did a slow pan of the room, his gaze stopping first on Mark, then on Samuel, and then to where his wife sat, her knees pulled to her chest. “The first will be first,” he said. “The hunger unceasing.”

“Abraham?” Mark said. “Are you well?”

Abraham turned Mark’s direction. Heavy eyebrows moved up and down, but no sound exited his lips. Only a heavy stare.

Everyone exchanged looks, not knowing what to do. Finally, Samuel whispered, “Perhaps we should pray.” But before even a salutation could be uttered, Abraham laid back down, bringing the hat precisely back into place across his chest.

“It is too late,” he said.

“What was that?” Mark asked. “What did he say?”

Samuel felt ice run down his spine. He knew what Abraham had said, and it had the hint of prophecy. He suspected it wasn’t Abraham who’d said it, though. Not really. He suspected something far worse. David, the sisters. It made perfect sense.

Each moment on this ship brought another shadow. Another evil. How many days did they have left? If he talked to the Englishers, could he convince them to just let them off…anywhere?

He backed toward the curtain opening. “We need to get the community together,” he said. “We need to form a plan.” All he could think of was his wife, though. “Put a stop to this. To all of this. Somehow.”

The overhead bay lights were darkened now,
simulating evening for the residents of Bay 17. The circumference of the settlements was marked by self-lighting lanterns on poles—Englisher construction—as were the animal pens.

Initially, Deacon Mark had thought the lighting gave the settlement a warm and together feel, marking their boundaries while encircling them in light. But now he wasn’t so sure. He felt, almost like Samuel did, that this technology symbolized an encroachment on their way of life. An unknown element. A cancer.

Regardless, he carried a lantern with him. He had already bid his wife and children to bed. He wound his way through the maze of Amisher dwellings. He was surprised by how many he found outside tonight. It seemed he was often tipping his head to one of their number. All gave him broad smiles. Acted as if it were the middle of the day. It was very strange. Another sign that things were different here, whether he liked it or not.

Still deep in thought, he reached the edge of the animal pens. To his right he could see the elevated chair the watchers used at night, but surprisingly no one was in it. Mark frowned. He knew the young men could be irresponsible at times, get distracted by little things, but so far the routine had seemed to go well. Of course, it was hard to be vigilant when nothing seemed to be happening. They hadn’t, that he knew of, lost another animal in days now. There hadn’t been any reports.

Except for whatever animals David and his friends were using for pets…

The chair’s emptiness still troubled him. He adjusted his hat and walked the fencerow all the way around to the stained wooden seat. He doused his light, set it on the floor, and climbed up into the chair. It was more comfortable than he’d expected. The carpenter had done good work. Even without padding, it felt relaxing.

Mark made a sweep of the pens. Most of the animals seemed bedded down for the night already. To his right, the sheep and goats were clustered into small groups. To his left, the larger animals had mostly done the same. The horses were all standing, however.

That was odd, in and of itself. Yes, horses could sleep standing up, and typically did so throughout the day. But for really deep sleep, they laid on their sides, with only a single animal standing watch.

Here all were standing though. As if they were in the wild. As if there were lions nearby.

Hmm… Do they know something?

Mark’s chair rocked forward slightly. He startled and quickly looked behind him. One of the young men stood there. Eli. The person Mark was supposed to relieve.

“You frightened me,” Mark said.

Eli smiled. “My apologies, Deacon. It was not my wish.”

Mark shook his head. “I am not bothered. Where have you been?”

The smile broadened. “I like to walk, Deacon. I cannot sit long.”

Mark thought again of his encounter with David. David and his group of women. Mark’s eyes drifted to the right, toward the rows of packages. “Stay away from over there,” he said, nodding. “When you’re walking.”

Eli looked that direction, smiled. “There’s nothing over there but boxes, Deacon. Nothing that will hurt us.” He patted the back of the seat. “I can take my post back now.”

Mark shook his head. “No. Your shift is over, Eli. You can go back to your home. Find some sleep.”

Eli chuckled, loud enough that Mark winced. “I don’t mind,” Eli said. “I can wait for the next man.”

Mark rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m the next man. Figured it was time I took my turn. Shouldered some of the burden.” Mark noticed movement along the exterior of the bay beyond Eli. A group of people walking past the edge of the settlement. They followed the wall of the bay. He frowned. “Now what’re they doing?”

Eli didn’t look. Only smiled. “People walk a lot these days, Deacon. People get bored. Not as tired. Lonely.”

Mark watched as the group followed the bay’s wall, walking in a cluster. They slowly drew even to where he and Eli stood, and continued on. A few young women looked his way and smiled. “So this happens every night?” he asked.

Eli shrugged. “Most nights lately.”

Mark continued to watch them. “And where do they go?”

Eli made a non-specific hand wave. “Generally, they go all over. Circle ’round the pens…” He smiled, looked at Mark. “Other places.”

“Outside the bay, you mean?”

Eli shrugged.

Mark’s stomach flipped. Going outside the bay meant encountering the Englishers, and more communication with the Englishers was not what they needed. At least, that was what Samuel taught, and when it came to obedience to God, he was usually right. Samuel’s leadership had taken them through many hard spots over the decades.

Eli watched Mark as if still waiting for him to exit the seat.

“I’m not leaving,” Mark said.

Another shrug. “That’s fine, Deacon. I may just walk around some more.” He flipped his head casually toward the other walkers. “Maybe I’ll join them.”

Mark squinted. “Now why would you do that—”

Eli only smiled at him and started walking toward the group, which was now very close to the far side of the pens. The place where the storage boxes were stacked.

David’s place.

• • •

EARLY MORNING

Greels’s obsession with the female scientist pulled at him. Even though there were other responsibilities, other things he should be taking care of—the issue with Congi, for instance—still his ice princess beckoned him. He couldn’t help himself. She was the one thing in his life that was truly beautiful. Untarnished and pristine. Like virgin snow on a mountainside.

He’d lost track of how much time he’d spent with her. Even now as he reclined in his apartment alone, he found himself thinking about her. Desiring her.

But he should be sleeping. His shift would start in only a few hours. He sprawled on his bed with both feet dangling over the sides. His coverings were in a heap around his midsection. He stared up at the blue ceiling. The interior lights were on, but dim. And even though modern tech should make it impossible, one of the lights seemed to have a slight flicker. He’d watched it for hours, and it clearly was different than the rest. Clearly pulsated.

He scowled at that.

Finally, he swung himself so his feet hovered over the floor. He wiped his face. Yawned and got out of bed. The bed creaked as he stood up. That shouldn’t happen either. No portion of the bed should allow for creaks. There were no moving parts, no springs. Creaks had been engineered out. He sniffed. Shook his head.

Something in the ship was deeply wrong. He knew it.

Greels had never been a fan of superluminal flight anyway. Any process that was able to accelerate matter faster than light was prone to side effects. It just couldn’t be any other way. There were Guild stories—legends passed down—about objects and people being misplaced during slip travel. Personal items shifting slightly. People finding themselves in places they didn’t remember coming to. Faucets dripping.

Those were just stories, obviously. Yet on the micro level, Greels thought there might be some truth to them. Things were
never
the same in transit. “Some settling may occur,” as the shipping warning said.

Then there was the fog outside. He wasn’t a big fan of that either. He could sense it, even when he couldn’t see it. Only two crewmembers regularly saw it, and those guys were damaged.

Greels looked around the room. Saw the clothes in heaps. The half-finished bottle of “found” splic-ahol on his desk. Stacks of broken harnesses and worn gloves. The stuff his crew used during a typical load or unload. All mundane and meaningless.

He picked up a pair of approved pants, held them up to check for any noticeable spots. Then he gave them a heavy shake and put them on. He repeated the process with his shirt, smoothing it down his chest and stomach after he was done. He picked up his communicator, strapped it to his hip, and exited into the hall.

The hall lights were dimmed too. No flicker, but dimmer than “daytime” nonetheless. That part was normal. A bit of nighttime simulation. People needed that, they said. Needed the routine.

The hallway’s walls were white with dual blue pinstripes down the middle. Greels sort of despised the stripes. He thought they were subtle reminders to increase his speed. And he hated that. Corporate interference.

He walked to the end of the hall, turned left, walked another hall, reached a short, yellow slideway. He entered and rode it to the next floor up and stepped off. He paused in the landing and briefly considered taking the slide all the way to the main slides and then to
her
, but he shook his head. Decided to scrounge for food instead.