Resurrection (Blood of the Lamb) Read Online Free Page B

to sustain the fluttering flame of hope inside her heart. She would return to Onewēre. Would take back the cure and use it to expose the Apostles’ lies.
    Just as her eyelids were drooping again she heard the strangled crow of the mangy old rooster who strutted around the camp accompanied by his scraggly flock of hens. He sounded so pompous she almost laughed aloud. In some ways he reminded her of her father, Natau: so pumped with self-importance he didn't realise how easily his cold-blooded masters could choose to wring his neck. Her father thought he controlled the village of Aneaba, but he was nothing more than a mouthpiece for the Apostles’ lies—another posturing rooster whose time was past. She knew it was sinful to think of her father this way, but his rejection of her when she had sought out his protection hurt far more even than the devastating news of her mother's death.
    But at least this old rooster's sense of timing was intact. Right on cue the dawn penetrated the thick layers of white phosphate dust that coated the windowpane, infusing the room with a soft silver light.
    Maryam was now able to explore the piles of stores around her. Stacked one on top of the other in overflowing heaps were countless large boxes made from some kind of husk-brown toughened paper that reminded her of the pliable bark of the raba tree. She opened the flaps on the closest box to find it was filled with papers—records of some kind, beginning with detailed notes of names, points of departure, dates of birth…the very things Sergeant Littlejohn had asked the three of them when they had first arrived. She rifled through the rest of the box. Yes, each sheet was headed with a different name, and all of them signed off at the bottom by the man himself. But what really caught her eye was the identical check-list at the bottom of each sheet: detained, deported or deceased.
    Most were marked “detained” or “deported” in the same colour as the other information entered on the sheet, but many bore a tell-tale addition marked in red: deceased. Sheet after sheet revealed the damning little red mark, until the murderous colour swam before her eyes. Were they marked with blood?
    She looked inside another box, and then another, struggling to take in the horrifying implications as each revealed more of the same story of detention, deportation and unexplained death. She scanned the room. There had to be twenty or so of the boxes, each containing perhaps four or five hundred of the sheets…literally thousands of lives reduced to this.
    She was interrupted by the crash of an opening door and the brisk clattering of footsteps on the wooden floor. She droppedher handful of papers into the closest box and quickly grabbed her pills and water bottle before clambering into the dusty space beneath the bed. There was just enough headroom to roll over and prop herself against the wall, taking care to ensure her arm was free of any pressure and she could still observe the cleared floor space beyond the bed. But what she hadn't factored in was the layer of choking dust which swirled around as her retreat under the bed disturbed the air. She could feel a sneeze building, and pressed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, but all she did was stifle the explosions as she sneezed not once, but five times in a row—leaving her light-headed and watery-eyed.
    She strained to hear what was happening beyond the room. Running water…more footsteps…and then a chair scraping across the floor. In her mind's eye she could picture Sergeant Littlejohn at his desk, marking off the deadly head-count of those who'd had the misfortune to wash up here when all they'd sought was the opportunity for a better life. Like Saint Peter doing the Lord's reckoning at Heaven's gate, this man had the power to damn them straight to Hell. And damn them he did, judging by the overflow of papers secreted away inside this dusty room.
    There was no flow of fresh air