IN THE TEST CHAPEL, a prisoner was already kneeling at the altar.

The walls were pulsing with a strange deep hum, like large stones rubbing against one another. I could feel it in my bones.

I was instructed to hold the man’s hands and pray with him.

I knew very well that if I were infected, this encounter would kill him.

He was so quiet. The frenzied look on his face made me feel like we were animals. It felt like walking up to a tiger in the jungle, or at the zoo.

His breaths were so loud and laboured. It was the closest I’d ever been to a man in my entire life.

I just closed my eyes and recited some Hail Marys as quickly as I could.

May God protect us if I’m infected.

He didn’t say a word.

Only once I was leaving did I realise that I didn’t actually touch him. My palms just ever so slightly hovered over his clasped, praying hands. I couldn’t help it.

Ceiling sprinklers would periodically mist us with Holy Water — a chemical cocktail infused with military-grade antiparasitics. I’d never known air this damp; the white Tyvek habit clung to me like a second skin. The rain persisted even during supper, pooling in our plates, making everything mushy and lukewarm, and at night it kept most of us from falling asleep — like dogs (or martyrs) getting disciplined.

I overheard a group of cloaked men talking about fountains and waterfalls of the solution deeper inside the monastery. They joked that Páter Jovián ritually brushed his teeth with it over five times a day… or at least I assumed it was a joke. I’d never been around this many people before… maybe I misread their laughter.

Despite everything, things felt hopeful the first few days. The quarantined ladies were free to talk about their former lives. It surprised me to learn that some of the sisters had once been doctors and scientists, and although I didn’t approach all of them (in fact, I usually just eavesdropped), whispers about a famous Instagram influencer in our ranks were hard to miss — Quartadora… what a beautiful name.

Strange to think we’d all be named Mary soon.

Unlike my younger sisters, I’d never owned a phone I could escape into. I only had my tattered black Gideon Bible and Žiara radio station — the last Christian station that didn’t harp on the horrors of the end times but instead played joyous songs and encouraged listeners not to lose hope. It was there I first heard of the project: the Sisters of the Marian Parthenogenesis.

My futile attempt to look up the words in the dictionary led me to apply blindly. (If my favorite radio station praised them, it couldn’t possibly be bad!)

Mother only found out after the acceptance email arrived. Would she have been a better mother if she’d never let me go? Maybe.

Had we never gone at all, this might’ve been a completely different story.

My quarantine would end in two days.

“HEY! LOOK SISSY! Mister followed us.”

“Just try to keep up, B.”

“I think your hair looks sooo pretty now. We finally look like sisters!”

“Quit being so cute and let me feel bad for a second! Please!”

“Sorry...

I finally spotted him on our way to the Test Chapels. I thought the sisters were joking, but there he was. A man wearing one of our habits.

He… or She was rumoured to’ve been accepted because of her biological sex.

We locked eyes in the queue.

2 2 : 0 4

“Please stop touching it, B. You’ll get your clothes dirty again.”

“It?… I just wanted to cover him up. I really think we should’ve washed—”

“Don’t. Just don’t… We don’t know how he got the toll. Could’ve been-… We could’ve contaminated the whole water system…”

“But maybe it’s already contaminated.”

The sirens across the valley started blaring—a water contamination warning.

“See?”

“Fuck… We can’t wait for her. Go… go grab the bags from the closet. The two red ones…”

“We’re leaving???”

“You got a better plan? Protocol’s protocol. Bebe will come. She knows to check on us. I’ll go look out for her.”

Bebe was their older neighbor from down the road—Mother had entrusted her with the girls in case of an emergency.

“Where is everyone?” Daysy muttered, her head still spinning with leftover adrenaline. Everything felt like death. She just stood there, beneath the siren poles, their blending frequencies turning into a sort of song. Not a soul in sight.

When Bella came out with her backpack on and a bag in her hand, Daysy glanced back at the house, grabbed Bella’s hand, and pulled her down the road to Bebe’s.

“If Bebe’s not there, we’re leaving town.”

“What??? Sissy, that’s insane.”

“There’s a dead body in our garage, B. We’re part of the battle now.”

“But… will Mother find us?”

“I mean… we aren’t hiding from her. If she goes searching, I’m sure she will.”

Bella trusted what her sister said, the same way she’d had to trust everyone before: the women who freed her, the workers who placed her, and now, the new family raising her. Abandoning things wasn’t difficult yet—she actually felt quite adept at it.

But the air was turning cold. And Bebe’s house—lights out, door left open, windows still—told them everything they needed to know.