Horologion.

Lauds.

...And in another city...

There was something about her, a kind of innocent nobility and youthful elegance that was unusual for a girl her age. She seemed to wear a satisfied, knowing smile. Her dress was a dark tartan, knee-length, as were the white socks that she wore under her polished black brogues. The pink band kept her brown hair from her face revealing the blue lips, the empty staring eyes surrounded by dark circles and the colourless skin. There was no doubt she was dead.

To witness her lying there motionless upon the cold and damp pavement would normally have shocked Agatha, but somehow this tiny child looked at such peace, that Agatha's only emotion was, oddly, contentment. She knew this was strange behaviour, standing on a street looking at a Dead Child. She knew she should call the police, call an ambulance, call someone but she didn't, could not. There was some kind of allure, so strong that Agatha found it almost impossible to move, to take her eyes off the child. It was not something that merely affected her, but the circle of perhaps a dozen or so adults surrounding the lifeless girl like hypnotised ghouls, or dispassionate mourners.

What were they doing? Why were they and she standing there in the pouring rain? These questions ran through Agatha's mind, but she already knew the answers. They were waiting, waiting for a sign, a word, something. They were waiting for the Dead Child to come alive and guide them. Her rational self knew this was insane, but there was some cthonic fragment, some shadow hidden deep in her identity that knew, without any doubt, that the Dead Child was overwhelmingly significant. From the looks of the silent and increasing crowd, they also held a similarly deep faith that something was going to happen.

It was only a matter of time before the authorities concerned themselves. The first police officers began to shove the crowd out of the way, to investigate the occurring phenomenon. Their behaviour disturbed the contemplative almost meditative onlookers who began to react badly after being moved from the object of their devotion. The officers upon seeing the Dead Child, instantly stopped arguing and struggling with the others and took up their places in the expanding congregation. When one of the officers bent the knee, everyone followed.

Prime.

Before long hundreds had congregated, blocking the street. Cars had difficulty passing and everyone who was remotely curious was pulled into the strange uncanny gravity of the Dead Child. In the front, closest to the girl, some who had taken to their knees, muttered quietly as if in prayer to this morbid wonder. Agatha felt at one with the crowd and slowly began to hum a tune that was on her mind. She did not know where she had heard it before but as she sang quietly to herself she noticed others had picked it up and were humming it along with her. In no time at all the entire assembly had joined in, even as other curious souls began to see what was going on. Their singing became louder, a joyous tune, triumphant in its loving devotion to the Dead Child lying cold on the concrete slabs. Some began to clap along, others whistled and the noise brought more and more people who became enraptured by this glorious occurrence.

The Police dispatched more officers with a different plan in mind, containment. Many of their officers had joined in with the proceedings, which made things difficult. The flock were too passive to be a real worry, too busy waiting for something, anything to happen. For a while nothing changed. And then the Dead Child moved, her back rose up from the pavement and her mouth opened and groaned, before gravity took it's toll and her body slammed back down on the wet concrete.

Terce.

Agatha was agog. She could not believe it. “My name.” she declared. “Did you hear that? She said A-ga-tha! That's my name.”

The crowd seemed unconvinced at first, until one other, a man with long grey hair and beard nodded. “Yes...” he began, uncertainly at first. “Yes, I heard her say, Agatha.”

That confirmation was all it took before the gathering, all began to agree that yes, the Dead Child had woken from it's unearthly slumber and spoke. “Agatha.” she had said. There was no doubt about it, they had been witnesses to a miracle. It took moments for the story to be embellished, the Dead Child's eyes had opened, she had pointed towards Agatha before saying her name and returning to rest, and in the telling it became true, even Agatha remembered it that way. She felt blessed, special and others considered her so also.

“What should we do?” One woman asked her. Agatha did not know what to say. “Tell us.” demanded another. Soon the still growing crowd were insisting on her guidance, they saw her as the chosen of the Dead Child, as Agatha then did.

“We must move her from this street.” She said. “She needs her own place, a place away from the rain and cold.”

There was unanimous agreement and soon hands were lifting the Dead Child from the pavement, raising her high into the air, and there was much celebration and singing as the crowd compelled Agatha to show them the way.

There were others, not of the congregation who grew nervous and horrified at the scene of a hundred or more grown men and women and figures of authority raise the Dead Child and march her through the streets like some ghastly totem. Their concerns and questions were met by hisses and threats. “Unbeliever” was used more than once. The police protected the congregation from shocked and angry passers-by, some of whom had to be arrested, some had to be pushed to the ground and handcuffed first. It did not take long for the majority of these citizens to learn to stay out of the way as the group strode through the busy part of town.

Agatha stopped as she gazed at the old church. It was black as coal, filthy from a hundred years of soot and exhaust fumes. A sign outside said, “He called a little child to him and placed the child among them.” The sign was, indeed, a sign.

They prised the iron coverings from the doorway, knocked through the rotting wood of the ancient doors and entered the dirty, dilapidated temple of God. The room was a mess, covered in broken glass and dust the pews long twisted by rain and shat upon by countless birds. Dust and feathers swam through the stinking air. Behind the Altar, suspended in front of rotting organ pipes was the effigy of the Christ, immobile on the cross, his face racked with the agony of two thousand years of torture.

“Remove the graven image!” Agatha shouted. “Wash this house clean, so it may be the dwelling of the sacred child”

Part of her was unsure that this was the thing to say, but it seemed to fit and the others appeared to agree. The Dead Child was placed on the altar, upon a bed of coats and jackets. Candles were set around her tiny body, to illuminate her as her flock began to make the temple habitable for her and for themselves.

Sext.

Out went the rotting pews and up went thick red velvet curtains, down came the Christ and in came the orange plastic chairs. The pulpit was polished and the altar was altered. It became a display cabinet, a glass tomb for the Dead Child. So that all may see her and revere her.

This process of reconstruction did not go without a few hitches. The former owners of the Temple of the Dead Child were unimpressed at the usurpation of their neglected property. There were scuffles, tussles, various threats and recriminations. The now-defrocked officers of the constabulary who had joined in worship of the Dead Child, became the gatekeepers of the temple. They were tasked by Agatha with letting in no-one but the faithful. They did their job well which led to a confrontation with the council authorities who declared, at first, that the faithful needed to vacate the premises. It was former officer Gavin Price who responded to this demand.

“This is a house of God, neither the priests of Jesus nor we are in disagreement on this, and yet they let it fall to ruin, they neglect their duties and their faith, we took over this building mere hours ago and look, have we not made it good? Have we not restored it in both meaning and use? We intend only to return it to its former glory, would the council prefer it to be a ruinous eyesore upon the land, nothing more than a blight of stone which reduces the value of all around it? We have taken this place in the name of this blessing from the Almighty, let He be the one who tells us to leave and we shall leave. Otherwise there will be conflict.”

After this, both the priest and the man from the council were allowed to enter. Both witnessed the glory of the Dead Child and were saved. The priest acceded and the man from the council said he would allow the Temple to continue.

And there was much rejoicing.

None.

With the reconstruction underway, Agatha wondered what the Dead Child would want her to do next. It seemed clear, to her, that this blessed group shared something deeper than the bond of family, or of love. They were all gifted to await the revelation, whatever that might be. Out of all the children of the Earth, they had been chosen to bear witness to the miracle. She felt honoured, humbled, unworthy of such a gift. Were any of the others? Were they as devoted as she? She had to find out.

“Here me!” she declared, thinking it sounded ridiculous but it was, nevertheless, effective. All the eyes turned to her. “We who have communed here to this place, we are the blessed.”

There was a smug murmur of approval to that statement. Agatha wasn't about to let them off that easy. “Are we worthy of such honours? Only a willing sacrifice proves such. Let we who are chosen pay for the gift we have been given. Let us be recognised by this mark.”

From her bag she removed a heavy pair of clothing scissors, placed them in her right hand while she plucked her bottom lip with her left. She then used the scissors to remove that lip, exposing her thin, bloody bottom teeth. The blood loss looked substantial but with assistance of a trainee nurse who could not have been out of her teens and a retired home help. Agatha was treated and the bottom of her mouth bandaged. She was impressed by their charity, their helpfulness, but she was delighted when the young nurse took those heavy scissors and followed her lead.

Vespers.

All had partaken in the Sacrificial covenant, even the children; they cried constantly. It didn't matter, they were now a tribe, they had become greater than the sum of their parts. Dozens of pained, bandaged but content faces filled the church. Most were now subdued, muttering their secret prayers to themselves, just waiting, praying, hoping the revelation would come. Agatha knew it would. She could sense it, far off but moving in, something vast, it's very presence echoing through some place she inhabited but could not describe. The pain in her face irritated, was inconvenient but she knew she had done the right thing. She felt better now, felt ready to receive whatever wisdom was waiting for her. The world was going to change and she would be in the front row.

This made her feel warm inside. She milled through the others, giving them pats on the back to encourage them, sometimes she'd share a wink, or a thumbs up. Speaking was difficult. It didn't matter, the wound would heal. She'd be scarred, but it was only a piece of skin, she had done nothing God had not commanded of others. In her case at least she would instantly know another who was as devoted.

Boredom was, surprisingly, not an issue for the flock. Unable to properly communicate, they worked more, emptying out the rubbish from the rest of the church, not just the front. They found the old costumes of the clergy, but used them as dusting rags, bibles were piled up against a fire-exit for later removal and distribution if necessary. A chalk board was wheeled into the front, to make communication and orders easier. The floor became a makeshift bedding area as night went on, pillows and blankets and sheets and coats were all used as the young children and older folk took to sleep. The night had brought with it a heavy gloom and so more candles were placed around the church, which brought with them a comforting glow. Agatha thought it was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever experienced and rested her eyes.

Compline.

It howled like an air-raid siren. Shockingly loud and quite terrifying. The Dead Child was no longer resting in its comfortable glass case but suspended in the air, high up near the top of the arches. Its jaw seemed dislocated, its mouth horrifically wide, its pale grey tongue lolling like some kind of giant slug. It was from this hole that the howling sound came. It hung in the air like a depressed string puppet, limp and swinging just making that awful sound. It was so high up it was almost in shadow, which made the bright green glowing of its eyes even more unsettling.

Everyone was awake. Everyone was in shock, just staring at the Dead Child. Most had covered their ears to block out the dreadful irritating wail, it had continued for the better part of ten minutes. Agatha could feel the fear ripple around the room and through her own skin. This was not what she expected, not what she expected at all.

As if hearing her the Dead Child became silent. There were panicked, pained half questions and attempts at shushes as the Dead Child just hovered there in the air. It's head moved, it seemed to be looking across at all of them. The place was deathly silent, not even the blubbering of a terrified child.

A voice, sounding strange, as if not a native speaker nor human tongue emitted from the wide slack mouth of the Dead Child. “This is the law. You will obey your God. This world is at an end. You will Kill. Kill all. Kill each other, then kill yourselves. This is the only way to salvation. All must kill all.”

After this statement the Dead Child vanished in front of all their eyes as if it was never there. Agatha could feel the anger rumble through the room and through her own skin. “KIII!” she screamed through torn, bloody bandages.

Matins.

And Kill they did. They were quite merciless and savage too. At first they began on each other but quickly spilled out into the wet streets, stopping cars and dragging people out and beating them to death with hands and feet. Some took the cars and began ramming into those they could find. Others broke into hardware stores, sports stores, any store that they could find something to use as a weapon. They attacked tramps, slaughtered party-goers, bludgeoned late night taxi-drivers and torched 24 hour grocers. They fought with the police, kicked down people's doors and murdered them in their homes. They killed with cars, killed with knives and with golf clubs and with hockey sticks and skewers and shovels. Several were shot by police, others locked themselves into the church and set fire to it. Others were beaten to death in fights. They had no plan, no goal other than to kill, and so they split up, stretched out, caused chaos not only in their own town but in others too. The dead were mounting up fast. No one could even take the time to count.

The police had everyone they could dealing with the problem. While dozens had been subdued, most fatally, the police had just no idea how many were out there. The flock continued to rampage. There were streets ablaze, maniacs everywhere. The cultists had surprised and overwhelmed the police and were still out there, slaughtering hundreds, perhaps thousands. It was out of control.

By dawn, the military had been called in.

Lauds.

...And in another city...

There was something about her, a kind of innocent nobility and youthful elegance that was unusual for a girl her age. She seemed to wear a satisfied, knowing smile. Her dress was a dark tartan, knee-length, as were the white socks that she wore under her polished black brogues. The pink band kept her brown hair from her face revealing the blue lips, the empty staring eyes surrounded by dark circles and the colourless skin. There was no doubt she was dead.