The interior of the main cabin smelled of wood rot, burnt fat, and the metallic tang of dried blood. It was the only building with a floor made of actual wood, though the planks were stained and warped. A single kerosene lamp flickered on the heavy oak table in the center of the room, casting long, dancing shadows that looked like grasping fingers on the walls.
"Put her on the table," Roch commanded.
His voice was calm—terrifyingly calm. Gabrielle and another follower, a hollow-eyed man named Jacques, lifted Marie. The girl was barely conscious, her skin clammy and gray from the hours spent naked in the trench. When her bare back hit the cold wood of the table, she let out a whimpering moan.
"She’s in shock, Moses," Gabrielle pleaded, her voice trembling. "She needs warmth, not... not this."
Roch didn't look up. He was busy sharpening the hunting knife on a whetstone. Screee. Screee. Screee. The sound set Gabrielle’s teeth on edge.
"She is in shock because her soul is fighting the corruption in her flesh," Roch said. He tested the edge of the blade with his thumb, drawing a thin line of red. "The 'bad blood' has settled in her feet. If I do not release it, the rot will take her whole leg. Would you rather she be a cripple, Gabrielle? Or would you rather I save her?"
"Save her," the other followers chanted in the shadows of the room. Their voices were flat, a rhythmic drone that felt like a physical weight. "Save her, Moses."
Roch stepped toward the table. "Gabrielle. You are her 'sister.' You will hold her shoulders. Jacques, the legs. If she moves, the Spirit cannot work through my hand. If she screams, it is only the devil leaving her."
Gabrielle moved to the head of the table. She looked down at Marie. The younger girl’s eyes fluttered open, finding Gabrielle’s face.
"Gabrielle... please," Marie whispered, a single tear tracking through the mud on her cheek. "Don't let him."
"I have to, Marie," Gabrielle choked out, her heart breaking as she pinned Marie’s shoulders against the oak. "He’s going to heal you. Just... close your eyes. Think of the Next Level."
Roch grabbed Marie’s right foot. The sores were angry and purple, the skin stretched tight over the swelling. Without a word of warning, he drove the tip of the knife into the arch of her foot.
Marie’s body buckled. A scream tore from her throat—a sound so raw and high-pitched it felt like it would shatter the glass of the lamp.
"Hold her!" Roch bellowed, his face twisting into a mask of fanatical intensity.
Gabrielle threw her entire weight onto Marie’s chest. She felt the girl’s heart hammering like a trapped bird against her palms. She felt the heat of the blood splashing onto her own bare arms. Roch wasn't just cutting; he was digging, his fingers reaching into the wound to "extract the evil."
"The pride is deep!" Roch shouted over Marie’s agonizing shrieks. "See how it clings? See how the vanity refuses to leave?"
The "surgery" lasted for twenty minutes. There was no medicine, no wine to dull the pain, only the cold iron of the knife and Roch’s rhythmic screaming. By the time he was finished, Marie’s voice had given out. She lay on the table, her breath coming in jagged gasps, her eyes rolled back—not in a trance, but in a state of sheer, neurological overload.
Roch wiped the bloody knife on his thigh. He looked at the mangled mess of Marie’s foot, then at Gabrielle. His eyes were dark and glistening.
"It is done," he whispered. "The infection of the world is gone."
He leaned down, his face inches from Gabrielle’s. He smelled of sweat and raw copper. "You did well, Gabrielle. You chose the Prophet over your friend’s comfort. That is the first step toward true devotion."
He reached out, taking Gabrielle’s hand—the one covered in Marie’s blood—and pressed it against his cheek. "Tomorrow, you will carry her to the trench. She will work on her knees. The earth will seal the wound."
As Roch walked away to wash his hands in a bucket of gray water, Gabrielle looked down at Marie. The girl was staring at the ceiling, her spirit seemingly broken beyond repair. Gabrielle realized then that the "bad blood" Roch talked about wasn't in Marie. It was in him. And it was in this place.
For the first time since arriving at the Ant Hill, the "Thousand-Yard Stare" in Gabrielle’s eyes flickered. A tiny, cold spark of hatred began to glow in its place.
The Resistance Begins
The physical horror has crossed a line. Gabrielle is starting to "wake up," but she is still trapped in the wilderness.
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