The Plague
A Good Omens AU fan-fiction
Death hung in the air. The rank stench could be smelled for miles. Along the roads and in the town streets fires burned. The fires were strong, but they were not enough. The unmistakable smell was everywhere, as were the bodies. There wasn't enough spare ground left to bury them anymore. Every pit and ditch held the decaying remains, avoided by even the hungriest of wild animals.
Buzzards didn't circle. They sat in trees and on the tops of buildings, staring down in ominous fashion, as bringers of doom.
Perhaps this was why the doctors were viewed as death themselves, with the black leather robes and the bird-like masks. For also like a buzzard, they only arrived when all hope was gone.
It seemed that every other house bore the mark of death- a large black dot painted on the door. No family was exempt from the loss of life, not the poorest or the richest. No one was safe. Everyone had lost someone.
Down the streets rumbled carts pushed by human hands. Rough lengths of fabric covered the mounds in the carts; a limp black hand or foot poking out showed the sober load.
And everywhere there echoed the cry of "Bring out ye dead! Bring out ye dead!"
From the thatched huts to the great castles, the collectors walked, and wails and cries followed. Prayers and supplications rose to the Heavens on the smoke of the cleansing fires.
Yet, Heaven was silent. The priests and men of the cloth continued to cry out with no answer. It could be that this dreadful plague was a divine punishment from the Almighty. If forgiveness couldn't be obtained by asking, perhaps more drastic measures were needed. If there was sin to be accounted for, it had to be disposed of. Some people were beaten, others died in this search for deliverance. The doctors tried everything at their disposal, from lighting fires to herbs and even enchantments.
In spite of the prayers, repentance and purging, nothing changed. People continued to be covered in boils and to experience high fevers, chills and terrible pains before the end came. Countless animals suffered as well, the cattle, pigs and even the sheep. Death continued to run free.
Behind the collection carts walked a nun. Her habit was dark and fitted the horror of the town around her. The edges of her robe were discoloured from the filth and mud of the streets. Sewage was only one of the things dumped there, mud was the least offensive of all.
The nun no longer saw the filth. The blood and vomit didn't cause her nose to wrinkle, nor did the foul air make her sick. She was sick, but it was a different kind of illness. Her heart was heavy with distress and sorrow at the suffering around her; suffering she could not alleviate, pain she could not remove. So she walked and she chanted, offering what words of comfort she could to those still alive.
"Oh lord, in thy mercy, look down and heal this land. Offer forgiveness and pardon the offender; that the Righteous may again praise thee and dance with joy in thy courts, oh Lord."
As she chanted, she fingered the beads of a rosary. The rosary hung from the sash of her gown and the pale cream beads were strung on a sturdy cord ending with a silver cross. The cross she held firmly, rubbing at the middle where the polish was worn away. The two years this black plague of death had swept over Europe had taken a toll on the angel. She could not catch the disease herself, being an immortal spirit, but nevertheless, she worried.
There were people dying all around her; men and women and children, rich and poor, murderers and saints. It didn't matter who they were or how they had lived. They all died the same way, writhing in agony.
Aziraphale had no tears left to cry. They had been used up months before, as had her prayers. It was horrible for an angel to admit she had no words to pray, yet it was true. Aziraphale felt useless. Her prayers went unanswered. Her miracles hardly seemed to have an effect. All she could do was give comfort and she couldn't give much at that.
The carts stopped at another house. The door was marked with a black circle.
The cry for the dead was repeated and the door opened. A body was brought out. With it came a doctor.
The appearance of these doctors was now almost synonymous with the plague. For wherever there was any death, so were they. Many thought the doctors brought the death with them, as they were often the last thing a dying person saw. These ominous figures were covered from head to toe in thick, stiff layers of cloth and leather smeared with grease and stitched tightly together.
To add to the fear, no one ever saw their faces. The doctors wore masks fashioned of leather which often resembled a bird's beak, with two tiny holes covered in mica for them to see out of. A heavy scarf tied this mask securely to the head of the wearer and was topped by a black wool hat.
The doctor who came out of the house of death was no different. From the gloves to the long robes and the mask, there was not an inch of flesh to be seen. It might as well have been a monster and not a man.
Aziraphale shuddered as the body of the latest victim was tossed unceremoniously onto the cart.
"Oh, Lord, when will it end?" she whispered in despair.
"Is that really the right question to be asking?" came a muffled voice.
Aziraphale looked up. The doctor was beside her. She had forgotten the doctors could speak.
"What is the right question?" the angel asked, staring up at the mask.
The doctor's gloves reached up and unpinned the scarf around the head. The scarf was tightly wound in place and had to be untwisted. Then came the mask.
"The right question," the man said as he pulled the mask free, "is why."
A flushed, damp face came into view.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped. "What in Heaven are you playing at?"
"I'm not playing at anything," he replied, rubbing one of his gloved hands across his cheek. There were raw, red lines on his chin and forehead from the mask. The only part of his ginger hair not covered by a black hood were his sideburns.
"Why are you masquerading as a doctor?" Aziraphale asked.
"Not masquerading, angel. Just trying to be of use."
"To… Hell?"
"Hell doesn't need my help and you know it, Aziraphale. Remember the Arrangement."
"Yes, well, it's not really the time or place to discuss it," the angel said quickly. "People are dying."
"I know," Crowley sighed. "And no matter how many people survive, they just keep dying."
Crowley looked worn and haggard. His eyes had circles under them, as if he had spent all his life trying to cure the sick without ever pausing for rest.
"How many have you healed?" Aziraphale asked softly, running her rosary beads through her fingers.
"Don't say that out loud," Crowley hissed. "Hell might be busy spreading death and sickness, but it's never too busy to snoop. Hell's ears could be everywhere."
"Even in this awful place?"
"Especially in this place. Demons thrive on this stuff."
Crowley sounded very bitter. He had no smiles to share or hope to convey. The centuries were taking its toll on him and this century in particular. If it wasn't war, then it was famine, and if it wasn't famine, it was plague. There was nothing even remotely good about this century.
"Could this be punishment?" Aziraphale voiced.
"Punishment from whom?"
"From… God. Everyone's saying it is…"
"And you're starting to believe them."
"No!" Aziraphale cried. "I just don't know what to think. The humans are trying every way they can think of to repent, even taking it out on each other."
"Don't see how killing even more people would stop this plague. At most all it does is cause animosity."
Aziraphale shook her head. "It's all awful, no matter why. When will it end?"
"It will," Crowley said.
"How do you know?"
"It has to. Everything has to come to an end sooner or later. Just like when winter ends to give way to spring. You have to hope, even in the middle of a storm."
Crowley was speaking for himself as well as for the angel. He felt no hope, but he had to for her. If she lost hope, he didn't know what he would do. The demon lived for her smiles and she hadn't smiled in a long time.
"Hope," she said. "Where can anyone find hope here?"
"We can hope that someday this will stop," Crowley said. "Remember the Flood. Remember the Fire. They all stopped. This will, too."
Aziraphale looked at Crowley's red, swollen face.
"When?"
"I don't know, angel. I can't see the future. Only God can."
Aziraphale had fully expected this reply. "Until then?" she asked.
Crowley fingered his leather mask. "Until then, we work, and we hope."
I was sure by now
That You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say amen…
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am…
Notes:
-Credit for lyrics belong to "Praise You in this Storm" by Casting Crowns, Bernie Herms and Mark Hall.