Inviting Oblivion
By
Eli Constant

His heart was beating slowly.

So slowly.

An inconsistent thump beneath his skin that weakened with every passing second.

I felt the ragged rise and fall of his chest, my body pressed firmly against his, savoring the last moments of his humanity. He promised me it wouldn’t end this way, whispered to me night-after-desperate-night that we’d be safe, unchanged, imperfectly mortal. I’d even started to believe him.

I’d pictured us sitting together, growing old, rocking on our front porch and gazing at our grandkids playing hopscotch on the sidewalk of our little slice of serene suburbia. Maybe we’d even buy my parents’ old house – the split level on Dove Street near the mountains. Maybe my childhood crib would house our first sleeping child, all cherub cheeks and strawberry-blonde curls. Like me, like my hair used to be, long and wavy and almost iridescent in the sunlight.

Now my hair was dull, ratty, lifeless. Lifeless.

Like he was about to be.

And there was nothing I could do. Nothing to do.

But wait.

And rest against his body as his breathing became more ragged.

“Laura?”

I lifted my head away from the soft brown hair covering his upper torso. “Yeah, baby. Can I get you something?”

“You…” the cough interrupted his speech, convulsing his entire body, “need to leave me now. I can… feel…” another cough, more violent. It was so hard for him to speak, “It’s happening.”

“We have a little more time.” I spoke softly, my right palm resting against his sweat-slick face. He tried to interrupt me, but I didn’t let him. “Hush. Rest. We have a little more time.”

Not that I knew that for sure, but it was something for him to hold on to, a little ray of light in the darkness that was death. He took a deep, shuddering breath and then sighed heavily, knowing that arguing wouldn’t convince me. “I love you, Laura.” His voice was almost inaudible. Before I could respond and tell him confidently that I loved him also, his body began to move erratically beneath mine. His eyes closed; his mouth pulled into a harsh line of pain. I tried to hold him still, but he was too big, too strong. And I was so petite. I rolled away from him, watching and worrying.

“It’s okay; it’s okay. You’re okay.” I said the words mechanically, uselessly. He’d been right though. It was happening. I should have left when I’d had the chance. Not that a few minutes head start would be enough distance to save me…

We’d been warned of what he’d want most when the change was over, when death had its way and he was reborn a dead, unfeeling thing with a singular desire. Flesh. Blood. Hunger.

His body was perfectly still now. My fingers roved across the floor until they found his left palm. I rubbed the marks there, the deep teeth marks that were now crusted with dried blood, gritty with the filth of our travels. As I touched the wound, I felt the coolness there, the loss of heat and life. Beneath my touch, his hand moved slightly, waking in the aftermath of death and transformation.

I scooted back quickly, self-preservation urging me away from the thing that once was my husband. Yet, my eyes would not leave his face, so ashen and corpse-like. His beautiful, walnut-brown hair – which had always retained its luster even without proper nutrition or showers (unlike my own sad locks) – was noticeably dull now. His defined facial bones became even more prominent, hollows forming beneath the apples of his cheeks.

I should have run, at least made an effort to save myself.

But save myself for what?

He was all I had; all I used to have.

Even this shell of him was better than nothing at all.

“Ethan?” The silence that followed was louder than anything I could have said.

Maybe his body had rejected the change. We’d been told that could happen. It would be a mercy of sorts.

But then I wouldn’t even have the shell of him.

“Ethan?”

I didn’t stand, but inched myself closer to his body in a half-crawl of hesitation.

I reached for his left hand, the bite mark as ugly as ever.

As soon as my fingers grazed his palm, his eyelashes fluttered like hummingbird wings. Then his eyelids snapped open, revealing the absence of the deep storm-gray I’d loved. Now his eyes were glazed over in an opaque, sickly mucous.

Was it wrong to see peace in those eyes? To see the end as an oblivion that I could meet happily?

His fingers were a vice grip around my wrist now, but I didn’t care.

“Ethan, I love you too.”

He looked at me. And I knew it wasn’t him, wasn’t Ethan- the boy that had taken me to prom in his uncle’s too-large suit with the ruffled collar, the law student that had taught me how to fish, the grown man who’d placed a tiny diamond on my finger and called it a ‘placeholder’ for what I deserved. He’d proposed after winning his first big case, everyone that mattered to us had been there, at the celebration dinner. The night had been perfect and special. I’d had the lobster bisque and gotten terribly sick, but I hadn’t cared. He’d been there, holding my hair and placing a damp washcloth on my neck.

No, I knew it wasn’t Ethan.

But tell that to my heart.

His other hand moved to my neck. Another unbreakable grip. “I love you, Ethan.” I squeaked, air fighting its way in and out of my body.

A flash of something in his face. Recognition maybe?

No, I knew it wasn’t Ethan.

But tell that to my heart.

As his mouth closed around my neck, I smiled. Even as his teeth savagely tore at my tender skin, I smiled. I floated into that inviting oblivion, glad to join him as an undead thing.

Finally...

State Of Horror Illinois Cover & Blurb

WHAT IS YOUR STATE OF HORROR?  Come take a unique tour of the state of Illinois. Visit a little known pizza place where the deep-dish pizza is to die for. Spend the night in a haunted house or explore an abandoned resort town. What happens when you disturb the sanctity of an ancient deity? Swim with us in a lake where fish are not the only creatures under the water’s surface. Ghosts, mobsters, and zombies all provide thrills as we explore the Land of Lincoln.  The number 13 is often viewed as an unlucky, even evil number. However , here it is only fitting we traverse the horrors of Illinois through 13 tales to make the heart beat just a little faster. Join us if you dare.  Stories by:  Stuart Conover, Eric I. Dean, DJ Tyrer, Della West, Claire C. Riley, Herika R. Raymer, Frank J. Edler, Julianne Snow, A. Lopez, Jr., Armand Rosamilia, Eli Constant, P. David Puffinburger, and Jay Seate

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Dead Trees 2

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Book Excerpt

Cocking my head, I was able to see the beastie pounce, its body perfectly positioned to mount mine and slam me to the ground. I fluidly rolled, tucking the pickaxe into my body and avoiding the unsharpened point. The undergrounder hit the forest floor where I’d just been crouching. In a flash, I was on my knees, my weapon raised above my head. The beastie also rolled, but towards me, not away. Like the proverbial window of opportunity, I knew it was my time to strike. The beastie realized it too, a screech escaping its mouth as it saw my weapon raised high. The monster took an instant too long to move out of my way. Hesitation will kill you. With both hands gripping the handle, I brought the pickaxe down. The weight of the weapon’s head combined with gravity increased the velocity of the fall, amplifying the force. When the pickaxe made contact with the very centre of its chest, a bone-busting crack shot like gun fire through our surroundings. The undergrounder’s rib cage was split apart, the cavity opening like a clamshell to reveal internal organs. The heart was still beating wildly, pumping blood to an injured body. I reveled in the sight. My right hand, of its own volition, moved from the pickaxe handle toward that moving, thumping heart. It was warm in my hands, fluttering. I squeezed. I squeezed. The sack formed of myocardium muscle burst in my hands, spraying my face with warmth, getting into my hanging-open mouth. And when I contemplated eating its brain, I knew myself in the darkest places, the mental rooms in my mind that housed nightmares and ghouls. Half-beastie. Fully-realized. I was frozen in horror, my human-self flooding into my mind and tossing out the beast. No intelligence could bear under the weight of such psychological turmoil. The curtain of beasties had fallen, the path was open. More undergrounders would come, attracted to the smell of blood, ready to eat, ready to consume the banquet of flesh memory we’d provided.

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As my eyes adjusted, the details became clearer. The form seemed to be a human child, well past the normal gestation period. It was roughly the size of an 18 month old toddler, maybe a tad smaller… or bigger. It was hard to tell through the distortion of water and curved tank walls. There was a feeding tube connected to the lower abdominal area that stretched to the side of the tank where an external device pumped nutrients. The hair was under grown for the age and floated away from the scalp- about two inches in length. Something in the appearance of the child wasn’t quite normal. The face was a tad too elongated and the fingers a bit too bony. The reality of what was before me hit me like a freight train. I staggered back in horror and fell over my own feet. My ass hit the ground hard and my tailbone ached from the impact. The jolt gave me a reminder of my not-so-healed ribs and bruised side. “No… no way. No way did they do… what I think they did.” I got up from the ground and stumbled to the monitor. The lines of code and command had stopped. In its stead was an analysis report on subject: Sheila-2. I moved the cursor around the screen. When it hit the subject name, an underline appeared. I clicked and the screen shifted. Now I could see a conception date, vitals history, and a link to a genetic profile. That link confirmed my fears. The human genome had been crossed with undergrounder and not by splicing or cloning. It was achieved through basic fertilization of Sheila-1 eggs with Anonymous-XY sperm. I had a feeling I knew who that XY might be. One of two candidates… Like a bad accident on the highway, I couldn’t stop looking at the data. Sheila-2 was growing at a fast rate, but not nearly as fast as a pure beastie. Obviously, the human factor had tempered that growth. The vitals were stable. The heart beat a little faster than the average human heart, but not so much that Sheila-2 could be identified as nonhuman during a normal physical. I was pouring over the makeup of the synthetic amniotic fluids (which had been modified to accommodate new needs), when I heard a door open in the distance and lights spring to life in Lab-3. I quickly flipped the screen back to the analysis report and ran. Then I realized that this lab only had one exit- and that exit involved strolling right through Lab-3. “Shit.” I exhaled the word softly and scanned the room desperately. Another door in the back. Thank goodness. This door had no window. Inside was dark and small… a closet. I worked my body between obstructions on the left and right and ended up contorted and restricted, but able to pull the door closed behind me. I heard voices in the laboratory. Funny. Outside these walls, I hid from undergrounders, but inside these walls, I hid from very different monsters. I wished I could make out the words, but the voices were just a continuous string of mumbles punctuated by sporadic pausing. I was stuck in the damn closet for well over an hour. I waited quite a while after the talking died down. Better to be cautious.   It took forever to wiggle out of the closet. I knocked something over as I extracted my body from the cramped space. Whatever it was hit the ground with a resounding crash. Opening the door lightened the shadowed closet a bit. I could see the outline of shelving. When I was officially un-stuck, I found the light switch and flipped it upward. I stared at the shelves. They were lined with gigantic mason jars, each containing a malformed fetus. At my feet lay the broken remains of one of those jars. I was standing on a tiny arm… a tiny arm with tiny fingers. If I was hoping to leave no trace of my presence behind, I failed. Not only did I leave glass, fluid, and flesh; I left a pleasant smelling and steaming pile of vomit. Funny how much I vomited nowadays.

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Serving as the heartbeat of The V Foundation for Cancer Research, formed by ESPN and Jim in 1993, his words throughout the ESPY speech have never been more meaningful. After being diagnosed with cancer at the young age of 46, Jim dreamed of finding cures for cancer. Passionate and committed, he wanted to see his fight through to victory. As a former coach, he began to recruit his team of family and friends to lead the Foundation in his quest to eradicate the disease.

As a cancer patient, Jim recognized the need to invest in young physician/scientists to help establish their careers—after all, someone had invested in him early in his career! Addressing the need to help early-career cancer investigators develop into promising future research talents was the first goal of the Foundation. The V Scholar concept was developed in 1994 to address that need. Today, this highly respected award is eagerly sought by young physician/scientists at the nation’s leading cancer centers.

As with any patient, Jim discovered first-hand how slowly science progresses from the lab to the patient’s bedside. He wanted faster solutions, more progress and better answers. Eight years after his death, The V Foundation announced its Translational Research Grants, designed to accelerate laboratory findings with the goal of benefiting patients more quickly.

Although Jim lost his battle with cancer less than two months after delivering the ESPY speech, his dream of a cure lives on through research grants bestowed in his name. The V Foundation has awarded more than $115 million to more than 120 facilities nationwide and proudly awards 100% of direct donations and net event proceeds to cancer research.

A relatively young organization, The V Foundation has a strong presence in the scientific community. The Foundation is guided by an elite, all-volunteer Scientific Advisory Board who recommends the research projects funded. This Board is comprised of top physicians and research scientists from prominent universities and cancer centers throughout the country. Working with this team of talented professionals, we are proud to carry out Jim’s vision for the future.

Jim’s dream of finding a cure for cancer is one shared by millions. Although we have not yet achieved this goal, every day we get a little bit closer and will continue to honor his inspiring words, “Don’t Give Up . . . Don’t Ever Give Up!” ®

We ask you to join us. Make a donation. Get involved.  Visit Our Site: https://www.jimmyv.org

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THE LAST CASKET COVER REVEAL

And To Whet Your Appetite, Below Is An Excerpt From The Upcoming Book

Last Casket Excerpt

                ACT 1                 one | a hell of a show Everything has changed





Standing here alone again

It's time for my revenge

You put me in this casket

But this won't stop me

You need to burn in hell

No need to run away

I will find you anyway


                       ...Bride of the Monster

Wham! The crunch of the heavy Ibanez ARZ-Series guitar against the back of the zombie's skull sent a screeching feedback through the Blackstar Club 50s amplifier speaker. The sound momentarily stopped the undead bar fight.

“Kitty,” Todd Flash shouted. “Run.”

Kitty Casket was at the lip of the stage, surrounded by zombies, mic in hand and ready to crush any skull to get within striking range.

“Come on, baby,” Kitty squealed, “it's open mic night.”

With a quick windup, Kitty drove the back side of the mic through an eyeball of the nearest undead groupie. The pop of the optical membrane sent chills down her arm and bile up her throat.

“Oh hell,” Kitty protested. “I think I'm going to barf!”

Kitty withdrew the blackish-brown goo covered mic and the zombie dropped with a hollow, wet thud.

“Incoming.”

The shout came from behind.

“Kitty, duck.”

The raging voice belonged to Mike Machine. Kitty knew better than to not comply. The second she dropped to a crouch, a golden cymbal flew over her head and embedded itself into the neck of a monster. The beast didn't drop.

“Fuck,” Tom screamed as he continued forward.

“Tom, don't,” Kitty pled.

Tom was never one to listen. He jumped and landed the sole of his creeper into the symbol to finish the job.

The head and the symbol crashed to the floor.

“Come on, ya ugly bastard.” Billy the Bat was still cranking out power chords as he shouted threats to the undead audience. With each chord the zombies stuttered – almost as if the sound was painful.

“Billy, the zombies say you suck,” teased Kitty.

“Oh yeah,” Billy replied. “They can suck on this.”

Instead of battling back the approaching undead duo, Billy began playing a rockabilly take on Ozzy Osbourne's Crazy Train.

The zombies weren't impressed and marched onward.

It was Tom Mooner to the rescue. He hefted his Fender Squire above his head and dropped it down to cave in the skull of one of the zombies.

“That's how it goes,” laughed Tom.

One moaner remained. The entire band gathered together, encircling the monster.

“Here zombie, zombie, zombie. Kitty wanna play. Rowr.” Kitty teased the zombie. When it turned to face her, Billy the Bat ran a switchblade into the base of its skull. As the zombie dropped, lifeless again, to its knees, the band booed and hissed.

“What? I killed it.” Billy protested.

“Yah, but we were feeling kinda playful. Ya know, give the fucker a show and then, blamo, cave in its frontal lobes.”

“Hey, they're all dead. We did it.” Kitty was glowing with pride. “That was a hell of a show.”

Billy the Bat cleaned off his knife as he spoke. “Our best yet...if you take into consideration our entire audience was comprised of the undead. Actually, this kind of sucked. We need real, living people to play for.”

“And to pay us.”

Tom's interjection sucked the wind out of the band.

“This damned apocalypse,” Kitty started, “it's impossible to find gigs. Before, our only competition was the likes of Nekromantix and Horror Pops. Now we're facing down the living dead and empty venues. I thought the apocalypse would bring a sort of perfect storm for us. I mean, come on, this is our schtick. We own this theme, right?”

The band nodded their heads in unison.

“So why in the hell can't we find gigs?”

Billy raised his hand.

Kitty hissed. “Oh for God's sake, Billy, this isn't a classroom. Put your hand down.”

“Did you ever stop to think no one wants live music now because of the noise? I mean, it is noise that attracts the undead, right?” Billy challenged the group.

Kitty stepped in close to the guitarist. “What are you saying, Mr. Bat?”

Billy's eyes darted to the left and the right, his lip quivered slightly, and his forehead broke out into a sweat. “I'm saying...I don't really know what I'm saying, actually.”

Mike Machine stepped in to save the day. “He's saying we need to find some isolated club where our ear-splitting decibels won't attract the attention of the less-than living.”

“You mean the Mengelites?” Tom Flash interrupted.

 The band booed.

“Oh come on, it's a catchy name.” Tom defended himself. “Seriously, it makes sense. The Mengele Virus is what did them in...hence Mengelites.”

“It's offensive,” Kitty spat. “It's almost as if you're glorifying one of the sickest Germans to ever exist.”

The idea that the virus which brought about the apocalypse was an extension of Josef Mengele's work didn't rest easy on the hearts of Germans. Most survivors on the planet were quick to forget that point. To many of German descent, it was a painful reminder of yet another very dark time of their people

“Come on,” Tom chimed in. “Let's pack up so we can try to locate this Nirvana that Mike mentioned.”

After a round of groans, the band began the slow process of packing up their gear and loading it into the Kitty Mobile. The van was a take on the Scooby Doo Van, only with a predominantly feline theme. Splashed on the side of the van was the band's logo and Kitty's coiffed and lipstick'd visage. The van had already been attacked by numerous zombies as well as a few groups of living humans who simply had enough of walking. Unfortunately, there was little extra room once the gear and the band were on board.

Before leaving the club, Kitty made one last walk-through in search of food and booze. As she stood in the exit, she turned back and purrred before hitting the lights and strutting out to the van.

Meow, sexy kitty, meow.

Eli Constant: DEAD TREES 2 Reveal

Eli Constant
Horror, Science Fiction & Fantasy Author
***COVER REVEAL***
Dead Trees 2

Two years of peace in a primitive setting can make anyone forget a past full of science, beasties, and blood. But when that past comes flooding back- with razor-sharp talons and speed- to pillage the present, who will survive?

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Dead Trees 2 Chapter One Teaser 

The Birth

I turned over, my eyes still closed. Jason’s body felt warm and real next to mine. I needed that… after what I’d just dreamt.

I’d never forgotten him- the way he’d looked at me, knowing he was all male. How he’d stood in front of the others, clearly in command… how he’d escaped at the park, how he’d followed us to NORAD. He was truly a nightmare, but I’d never dreamt about him before, not until this night.

Pregnancy will do that to you- cause your dreams to go all wackadoodle. The past nine months of sleeping had been full of crazy images.

Tonight though, he’d been there and my face was wetted with salty tears.

On top of me, forcing me down, shrieking as… as… I hadn’t even known they had those. It had emerged from his body, between the now straightened legs, long and flexible as an overgrown eel. It was slick, coated in a brown salve that smelled like earth and sperm.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the dream from my brain. It didn’t work. So I got up; Jason rolled away from me onto his side. His breathing was heavy and even.

I knew exactly what made me dream about him. The chorus of shrieking, so close to our little home, that arose after the sound of the helicopters’ thrumming wings had receded into the distance had brought the past flying forward in full color. Jason had stayed up most of the night on watch- squinting into the dark for signs of bestial movement.

Not that the day kept them at bay any longer. For some reason though, they hadn’t chosen to attack us yesterday when the Colonel and his men had left. Maybe there was no challenge in falling upon us unexpectedly. Maybe… maybe, he enjoyed the fear floating to him on the wind.

I’d called him the General for so long, but now, I did not wish to say that name and give him more human attributes. Two years. It had been two years. Why now? I’d voiced my fears to Jason, but he’d brushed them off- saying that he could not have possibly found us and that so much time had passed. No, the shrieks were just a few stray undergrounders; nothing to worry about.

And then I’d ranted about the H2H and that these ‘stray undergrounders’ should be changed by now, fully affected and humanized. Jason had countered with a- they could have been underground all this time and thusly unexposed or maybe they were too far North. “Remember what Benson said, Elise. Our area is too remote to have been affected; the nanotech isn’t stable enough to survive the distance. They could have been roaming these parts all this time or stayed safe underground.”  

His answers and his logic had not satisfied me. And, true to form, I’d beaten the dead horse until it was a rotting, reeking mass of flesh. He’d teased me, but not too harshly; I was carrying his child and that gave me ‘get-away-with-sin’ liberties.

I held my back, pushing gently. It ached this morning, like I’d slept on the stone floor rather than the thick pad. Looking up, my face was bathed in dim light- sunshine peeking through a carved out section of the ceiling. It was deceptive, our cavern home. Journeying into the caves felt like traveling miles beneath the earth’s surface, but in truth, we were less than ten feet from the surface.

I leaned against the hard wall and slipped my feet, one after another, into the leather slippers I always wore. Megan made them for me. They weren’t perfect, the maker obviously a novice sewer, but my daughter made them so I loved them dearly.

Our rooms were interconnected, but many nights, Kara would wake up and travel across the ‘hall’ to sleep next to me on the bed. In the beginning, Megan would follow suit and we’d all be stuffed onto one sleeping pad- a big, happy family. That left Meg alone in the girls’ room, but she never seemed to mind.

Jason used to say that it was the newness of the caverns and the girls would soon sleep through the night in their own room. He’d been right, to an extent. Megan always slept soundly now; Kara, more often than not, would still move in the middle of the night and I’d wake up to the sound of her soft snoring. I never worried about Meg. She was so much more than she looked. I think that’s why Megan felt comfortable staying in their room now- she felt safe with her adopted sister there. Of course, young Abram also had something to do with Megan adapting to this life.

She’d bonded to the young Vuntuta boy almost immediately. I’d seen the way she lit up when he stood in front of the class teaching the history of his people. Abram was several years older than Megan, but, strangely, I approved of their friendship. If it turned into more than that down the line, I’d be happy in the knowledge that Megan had found someone to take care of her and love her. It’s a strange thing to think about when your daughter is not even thirteen years of age, but in this world, archaic social conventions seem of little importance.

I walked across the hall to my girls’ room. Both Kara and Megan were huddled beneath a thick fur, only shiny brown hair escaped their cocoon of warmth. Their room was slightly brighter, the manmade skylight angled better for rays of light. Meg was not in the room, but that wasn’t unusual. She liked to get up before everyone else- enjoy the quiet of the dawn. She knew how to be safe and silent; I rarely worried about her.

I left our cavern wing, working my way through the twisting maze of tunnels that angled slightly upward.

The sun was not very high in the sky; dawn had passed several hours earlier. Normally, we did not sleep so long. We were all tired it seemed. I had less excuse than Jason. I had not stayed up all night on vigil. Many of our friends were already out and about- working the fields, gathering water. I saw several of our men patrolling the outskirts of our encampment. They were armed. I prayed those weapons would not be necessary today.

A strangely high, too-perfect bird call sounded above my head. I looked up, squinting against the light.

“Meg?”

A lithe form descended, branch by slender branch.

“Morning.” Meg smiled, her silvery-blonde hair a long waterfall behind her back.

“You should tie your hair up when you’re climbing.” I’d told her this before, worried the long strands would tangle in the twigs and greenery.

“I don’t like the way it feels tied up.” Meg said, her voice decisive, yet respectful.

I knew this, but it never stopped me from reminding her. She stood in front of me now and I rested both of my hands on her shoulders. I wondered when she’d stop growing. She was nearly five feet tall, signs of womanhood already sprouting. My left hand left her shoulder and I ran my fingers through her pale angel-hair.

“Is he moving today?” She asked, leaning forward and resting her check against my stomach.

“A little.” I continued to stroke her hair. “Why do you always say ‘he’?”

“A boy should be called he, not her.” Meg smiled, knowing she was being coy.

“You know what I mean, Meg.” I used a mother’s tone, but not too harshly.

“He’s,” she pointed at my stomach, “a boy. I’d start thinking up baby names.” With that, my beautiful hybrid daughter turned and sprinted off- her body moving gracefully.

I looked down at my swollen belly; I felt gigantic today, but so very happy. “If you are a boy,” I whispered, “your name is David. He always wanted a son and I only gave him daughters.” My hands were caressing now. When another pair of hands, this pair larger and calloused, covered mine, I was not startled. I knew these hands.

“David?” He asked.

“Yes. David. If Meg’s right and he’s a he and not a her.”

“I wouldn’t place bets against Meg.” He hugged me from behind and I could feel him smiling. I wiggled in his embrace, struggling to turn myself- large belly included- and face him.

“Morning.” A brief, soft kiss followed the word.

“Morning.” He returned my kiss- his less soft and a little longer.

“Girls still asleep?”

“Cuddled down like hibernating bears.”

“Good. I’m surprised Kara didn’t come and sleep with us last night after the…” I didn’t finish the sentence; he knew I was thinking about the screeching. I shuddered in his arms. He held me tighter.

“Elise, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“So you keep telling me.” I pointed to the men walking the perimeter. “They obviously think there’s something worth worrying about.”

“They’re just being cautious.”

A small voice sounded behind us. “Mommy?”

I looked around Jason at the mouth of our caverns. Kara was rubbing her eyes sleepily with one hand, Mr. Grubbykins gripped tightly in the other. It was amazing how long that corduroy bunny was lasting. I washed him weekly, sewing when necessary, glad that the pink material was thick and strong.

Pulling from Jason, I walked to Kara and picked her up with some effort. She was a heavy four year-old. Jostling her to my hip, I felt a sudden, building pain like my stomach was clenching and releasing in scream-inducing cramps. I gasped, quickly setting Kara down. Jason was at my side almost instantly. Kara pouted, upset that I hadn’t held her longer. The cramping lasted a moment longer and then, as quickly as it had come, it left.

“Are you alright?” His hand was on my belly.

“I’m fine. Really. It doesn’t hurt now.”  But I’d been in labor before; I knew what it felt like. Contractions. I wasn’t ready for this… not with the uncertainty in the forest. I could protect my baby… my son… better this way, with him inside of me- layers of skin, flesh and amniotic fluid between his fragile body and the world.

I doubled over as another contraction hit. Jason understood this time; he did not ask me if I was okay.

“Kara, go back to your room and stay with Megan. Wake her up if she’s still asleep.”

The contraction was over. They were short, sharp- like a filet knife cutting through monkfish.

“Jason, that’s too much for her to understand. She’s only four.”

God. It hurt. I should be used to this by now, but it had been so many years. I’d forgotten childbirth, the agony that bonded mother with child.  

“Okay, okay.”

I could see Jason was trying to keep a clear head.

At that moment, a wide-awake Megan walked out of the caverns. Jason sighed in relief, grateful that her appearance had saved him from further thought of Kara.

“Megan, take Kara back into your room. We’ll send Meg in with some breakfast.” His voice was fully calm again; his instance of near-panic completely banished.

I did not double over this time, but my face betrayed the contraction. Jason began to lead me down into the valley- our cavern mouth located at the top of a hill. The pain was strong enough that I stumbled this time. Strong arms caught me.

“I don’t think I can make it that far.”

Delia lived near the edge of the woods; she’d never been comfortable sleeping in the caves- said the hard walls kept her from feeling the earth. She’d been such a comfort to me, coming daily to check on the baby. Her knowledge of childbirth had ensured a safe pregnancy so far; I needed her now.

Jason paused debating and then helped me turn around. We began to walk back toward the mouth of the tunnels. He led me slowly through the passageways. When we were back in our room, he helped me gently down, rolling up our bed coverings and tucking them beneath my head.

“I’ll be back with Delia.” He kissed my forehead. “Megan, Kara?” He called. It took the girls only a moment to tumble over each other into our room, their hurry to arrive making them clumsy.

“We’re here.” They chorused; Kara’s voice so much shriller than her sister’s.

“Stay with your mom. I’ll be right back.” On his way out, Jason kissed both of their foreheads, just as he’d kissed mine moments before.

Not long after Jason left, Meg arrived, her face bright and shining with excitement.

I was struggling against the weight of another contraction when I heard the shrieking; the piercing, blood-curdling cries that could only mean one thing.

The beasties were back.

© 2013, Eli Constant 

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Mastic Excerpt

4 PM

Moving again. In a car.

Is it a car? Am I moving?

My eyes felt heavy again.

I turned my head, straining to focus.

Mikolas was beside me; my body rested against his. When our eyes met, I could see sadness. His hand lifted to my face and he drew his fingers softly across my eyes. I closed them, unable to resist the gentle touch and my body’s urging to sleep once again.

------------------

I was in the garden, but it felt changed- the flowers were different colors, the air felt heavier. No grandfather, but Mikolas strode out from between the fragrant clusters of flora. I looked at him thoughtfully, far removed from fear and fate in this dream world.

“We’re in a car.” I said simply.

“Yes.” He said, matching my simple speech.

“Where are we going? Are you taking me to die?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be the one to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad it will be you.” I turned away from him, walking toward a strange rose– its petals neon yellow with a deep fuchsia border.

“Why are you glad?” He sounded surprised.

“You love me?” I matched his question with a question.

“Yes.”

“I’d rather die at the hands of someone that loves me. Even if the love is cruel, it’s better that way.” I bent over, grabbing the stem of the rose and snapping it. Standing back up, I held the strange flower.

Mikolas was beside me now. He took my hand, the hand that held the rose, and lifted it to his mouth. He took the flower from me and kissed my fingers; his lips came away tinged red.  I looked at his mouth, then at my hand. I had not felt the thorn cutting me.

“Your death will be painless.” He said, lowering my hand from view.

“Like a thorn prick in a dream.” I murmured.

-------------------

When my eyes fluttered open, I was still cradled against Mikolas’ body, but not in the car. I was swaying, feeling the rhythm of his walking. The silver of my dress was brilliant against the bright blue of his robe. I glanced away from him and saw a dark entrance in the ground illuminated only by the dying rays of the setting sun. A circular stair twisted downward into the darkness. Around us were trees, hundreds of trees.

Again I slept.

11:30 PM

It was many hours before I stirred, the sedative tea having lulled me finally into a deep, lasting sleep. My body was cushioned by a thin mat and covered by a soft blanket. I couldn’t see anything. It was so very dark.

I shifted my body, the fabric of the dress rubbing against my thighs uncomfortably. I couldn’t see the silver material, but I knew it was the same dress by the texture. My hair was loose; the long strands tickled my back as I sat up. I touched it and it felt like it was curled into long romantic tendrils.

Tentatively, I let my hands explore the floor area around me.

Hard. Rock-solid. Slightly damp. It was chilly also. When I stood, I lifted the blanket with me, wrapping it around my body against the cool. My eyes were just beginning to adjust and I could now tell that there was an obvious lightening of the dark ahead. I began to walk very slowly, pointing my toes toward the floor and feeling around before planting my foot solidly.

Waking up in the dark had momentarily revived my sense of self-preservation. I’d never liked the dark, not really. Who really likes the dark? We grow away from fear, we leave behind monsters under our bed, but the dark never becomes familiar or comfortable. Evil doings are done in the night and it’s perfectly natural to shy away from shadows. I continued walking, the slow progression of movement no match for the thudding heart in my chest.

I could see a light now- a lantern hanging from a rusted hook in the wall. When I arrived at the lamp, I reached for it, wanting the security of illumination to help me roam the dark passageways. A plink of rock on rock made me freeze and I quickly turned my head to search. A curve in the tunnel lay a few feet ahead; behind me was the dark room that I’d journeyed from.

My fingers were gripping the lamp handle now, holding it out in front of me like a shield. Then they rounded the corner ahead. Three of them.

Fight or flee or give-up? My mind worked quickly.  I turned swiftly and began to run full-speed back the way I had come.

I should have figured it was a dead end. 

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The Eli Constant Interview