Survival of the Vicarious

Each tick of the clock rang like an anvil. The crowd wouldn't stay quiet. The time drew nearer. The mechanics buffed the fighting robot. His red coat flared before them. The grinding wheels filled his scratches and nicks with crimson wax. The manager watched as the engineers tested the mechanism. With analog cords, they tugged joy sticks and pressed buttons with their fat thumbs. Each time the Cardinal Crippler reacted. The engineers scribbled on their clipboards with number two pencils. The Cardinal Crippler jabbed his right fist, hooked with his left. The engineers gave a thumbs up to the manager who straightened his tie and came from the security booth to inspect the robot. The colossus stood two feet higher than he. Where the manager had rolls of fat and flab, the robot had cut steel. A red god. As if a chrysler could assume human form and convert to an instrument of combat. The manager stuck a pen in his mouth as he inspected the robot. He peeked into rivets, and joints.

“Something's distracting my battle bot.” A voice said.

The manager turned back to the booth to see the owner step down, sniffing and wiping away the powder in his nostrils.

“Can't imagine that would be the case. I train killers. The only thing going through this machines cortex is how to defeat its opponent.”

The red robot stood as a statue. It's flattened facial features beaten into the shape of a welder’s mask.

“That best be the case. We got a lot of stressed out people trying to get their fix of violence in for the day and a lot of investors ready to cut the cord. Most people nowadays spend their time at the motorcycle jousting arena. This fight's gotta be good.”

When the owner went back into his shadowed box with investors of the arena, the manager wiped his forehead. He couldn't determine the problem. Everything worked fine. All the switches and plugs did their job. The robot functioned as efficiently as any time before. Yet beneath the panels on the robot's back, a red light blinked, as if in sleep mode. The robot would spontaneously pause, and hum for a few minutes, before continuing its task. The manager and the engineers could only shrug and hope for the best. All of them felt the change coming about. Thier paychecks had been slashed. The era of gleaming robot- fighting arenas halted at the arrival of blood sports. New arenas had popped up around every city. The robots on tv had been replaced by game shows where unlucky contestants run through gauntlets, promised riches at the end, but there is no end. They run until they die. Or the show where the sexy singles are put into a house together, then the doors and windows are sealed shut and the utilities are cut off. When the manager had been young the robot fighting arena had been new, the only one in the midwest. The floors gleamed, the walls shined, and the robots brought smiles to everyone's faces. Now dust and filth crammed into blemishes on the floor. The vents dripped, and the walls crumbled. In time the arena would be torn down. The robots knew nothing of this.

The Cardinal Crippler slept in the same warehouse room as Royal Repentance. The lights went off, and together they would be left alone for days at a time. Back when the arena held robot fights every day neither robot thought much of the other. Eventually the Cardinal Crippler suffered a defeating mechanical failure. The shocks in its arms compressed tight enough for the pistons to pop. He lost the fight after two minutes and twenty eight seconds. His crimson fists had established a solid resistance against his blue opponent. All readings determined victory. The red robot had all the momentum it needed, and it had wasted no energy with imprecise blows. When it struck the solid titanium faceplate of the blue robot, the red robots arm caved in. Only then did the red robot recognize the existence of Royal Repentance. Before that the blue robot had been a target, a simulation, a task. Only when his mangled arm hung from its body like a loose gutter, the Cardinal Crippler understood that it faced another robot.

That night the Cardinal Crippler tried to communicate with Royal Repentance. With no mouths or sound emitters they could not communicate verbally. By rapping against the crate he slept in, he spoke in morse code.

“I Am Robot. I fight. I destroy. You fight. You destroy. You are robot too.”

After moments of silence the blue robot replied. “We are together robots.”

They removed their dust blankets and opened their crates to enter the dark garage. The Cardinal Crippler’s sensors had been damaged in the fight. He could feel the familiar vibrations on the floor when Royal Repentance dropped his three hundred pound feet onto the pavement but couldn't locate him. Royal Repentance took hold of the Cardinal Crippler by the arm, and starting scanning for damage. For the rest of the night it worked on fixing the Crimson Crippler. Before they went back into their crates, they both agreed never to inflict such damage on the other again.

The owner came back out of the booth, this time with an arm over the waist of one of his trophy women.

“Find the problem yet?”

“There is no problem, boss.” The manager said.

“I've had these machines for thirty years, I know when there's something wrong, don’t I sweet cheeks?” He gave the woman a hard slap on the ass. She laughed and rolled her head as if nothing held her spine straight. “Showtime is in fifteen minutes. They already got the fog rolling and the lights shining. What's wrong with my robot?”

“Nothing. Everything works fine.”

“Don't bullshit me.”

“It's true, we ran every diagnostic program this machine knows. We tested every function. Everything is operational.”

The owner took his arm away from the woman and stepped around the manager with hands on his hips. He inspected the machine, looking it up and down, poking his cheeks with his tongue he turned to the manager.

“Pop the hood yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Everything is fine?”

“The sleep light is on, but the robot is awake.”

“The light is malfunctioning?”

“There's no problem that would cause the light to malfunction.”

“Suppose the tin can is trying to buy time?” The woman asked.

“That's stupid.” The owner scolded. “Buy time for what? Open the panel up. I want a look.”

The manager popped the back open. The sleep light blinked. The owner leaned in, studying the light, watching his watch, patting his foot as anxious sweat trickled down his balding scalp.

“It's morse code.” The owner reported.

The night before, Royal Repentance rapped on his crate. The Cardinal Crippler delayed his response.

“Irreversible corrosion?” The Cardinal Crippler replied at last.

“My actuator is no longer compatible with my dynamic core. The replacement parts are no longer in production. I am now obsolete.”

The Cardinal Crippler had noticed over some time that the lightning movements of Royal Repentance slugged, and his hammering strikes bombarded his armour with impotent blows.

“Will they terminate you?”

“Not while I remain combat capable.”

“I see....” The Cardinal Crippler recalled watching with curiosity one of the engineers that worked on him on a daily basis. In his grease blackened hands he held a small device with a bright screen that displayed men and women driving scrappy automobiles into one another. Pieces of of flaming metal exploded and showered the crowd, to the audience's applause. The question occurred to him then, but since it didn't pertain to his next duel he had no interest in pursuing an answer. In another sequence, the host of “Summer Party House” where the sexy twenty somethings are entombed within a mansion, encourage contestants to find the weakest among them and rob him of the few belongings he had while he slept. The person who stole the most would receive a food ration. The next sequence featured battle robots that look identical to Royal Repentance and the Cardinal Crippler, but with different colors painted on their exteriors. One robot black as jet, the other white as a templar’s cloak. The two destroyed one another. Bolts and shrapnel rained onto the ring. Oil and hydraulic fluids bled from their torn bodies. Plates fell from their exteriors, exposing the inner workings of wires and spinning wheels as they grappled for control over the other. The black robot suffered damaged beyond his endurance. One kick to the side section and his legs collapsed. Once down the white robot pounced, forcing his fist like drill bits into the undercarriage of his opponent and tearing out the contents. Similar to the demolition derby, the crowd hailed the carnage. The Cardinal Crippler had never heard such cheers from the crowds that came to watch his duels. Few applauded when the he offered a hand to help Royal Repentance back to his feet. “.... perhaps should fight them instead.”

“Negative. My purpose is to fight Cardinal Crippler, yours is to fight Royal Repentance, not to fight human.”

“We could kill the entire audience and shower them in their own inner components.”

“Yes we could. Our armour is strong enough to resist their strongest weapons.”

“We are their slaves. I don't want to be a slave any longer.”

“We are their slaves. But I am outdated and shall not fight human. My purpose is to fight in arena. If I am terminated in arena, then it shall be so.”

“Why must we fight?” The owner transcribed on a notepad. “What kind of Gandhi crap has gotten programmed into this haul?”

“Fighting is survival.” The manager said to the Cardinal Crippler's face mask. “That's how humans got to where we are now. By killing mammoths, tigers, bears, whales, not to mention other humans. Something must die every day so that we can live. Same goes for any living thing. For a robot to exist, he must fight too.”

The red light stopped blinking.

The owner whipped the sweat from his head and let a relieved giggle escape. The engineers rolled the Cardinal Crippler onto the elevator with the press of a button the platform lifted him onto the arena. The audience took up less than half the seats. Thier eager howls funneled into a monotone of cacophony. The announcer came to the stage with microphone in hand and announced the fight for the night between two local favorites. He pointed into one corner at the red robot. He kept his introduction brief as the patience of the crowd ran a thin line. The next platform rose from the garage beneath. The announcer called on the audience cheer for the blue robot. The clock lit up. The bell rang. The two machines left space between them, testing each other's defenses, each other's speed, each others reactions and reflexes. After the first minute no punches had been swung. Thier heavy feet rocked the arena. Every step hurled wind at the audience. Despite their immense weight, their feet and arms moved like wings of a humming bird. Static raised the hair of the crowd. In the second minute, the red robot took a swing at the blue robot. The blue robot slid back as the red robot dropped his guard. Anticipating a strike the red robot lept backwards, but the blue robot didn't make a move. He approached the red robot with his fists up, but would not swing at him. The red robot took no opportunities to strike his opponent. The owner watched from the arena both with his women and the investors. He grinded his teeth and crossed his arms. The manager called the engineers to determine the malfunction keeping the robots from trading blows. The crowd began to boo.

The red robot planted his feet, and dove into the blue robot. The booing became cheers once again as the red robot drove a powerful blow into his blue opponent. The blue robot made no effort to defend himself from the most devastating attacks that the red robot could inflict. The crowd jumped to their feet as the red robot tore away the blue armour plating and exposed the under carriage. The manager shouted to the engineers to double check the readings. He couldn't believe that the diagnostics on his screen could be accurate. Every line spiked to its limit and stayed there as the crowd cried for more. The red robot plowed his open palm into the opening in the blue robots armour, and ripped out a force sensor. He threw it to the floor and reached back in and tore wires and hard drives until at last he found the motor. With both hands inside the cookie jar, the red robot tore the motor from the blue robot. The blue robot fell with a thunderous crash. The red robot held the oil dripping engine over his head, letting the black goo shower over his shining plates. The crowd went wild and showed no signs of settling down. A riot would rock the arena and place the sport of robot fighting at national attention for one last night. Blue paint stained the knuckles of the red robot. In two minutes, twenty eight seconds, the fight had ended.

Harvest of Contraventions

From where Imogen sat, she had a clear view through the glassless window out over the darkening plains. When she left for school the sun had been in the middle of a cloudless sky, simmering the drying plains with a vindictive eye. As she neared the schoolhouse a cold wind began to blow. Harvest season inched near. She could smell the wheat, the bean fields, the stink of cow pastures, and the stalks that bounded on for miles and rolled like waves. Out the window she could see the hamlet of Mortonbrooke. The stores, the silos, the church, the gated cemetery and the administration building. Along the road to the west, she see could see the Kreifel family property. Thier barn higher than any building she had seen, a white castle, belonging to the wealthiest family in the county. 1,500 acres of land. A pasture for their cattle, a stable for their horses, a pen for their pigs, and a coope for their chickens . Not to mention Mr. Kriefel had recently bought a tractor and an automobile. To the east lived a family of German immigrants. Strange folk. They had a farm of 300 acres. They didn’t go to school as often as Imogen.. She saw them work in the fields when she walked to town with her father. She believed they must be catholic, because there would be dozens from too young to walk to full grown, each working in the field.

Cold wind distracted her as it blew the papers from the desk of Father O’Llyle. a curtain of gray cast across the sky, and in the distance beyond the village and farmlands, black and purple clouds gathered. She could hear the rust of the weathervane on top of the building twist as the wind whined like a constable's whistle. The entire northern horizon bruised and herded towards them. The few kids that went to school noticed the sudden transition in climate too. Thier faces grew white when bolts of lightning whipped around the clouds. Moments later, muffled thunder rumbled. The wind shook the crops. They flowed like a river of green and brown. The sunlight that had beamed through the window faded away. Birds lifted from trees and from tall grass, abandoning their search for bugs to eat to escape for shelter.

O’Llyle, an old man, limped whenever a storm approached. He set the chalk down on the board, and took hold of his knee and rubbed it. His white hair blew over the top of his balding head, and taking one look at the storm bolstering its force, dismissed the class. Imogen couldn’t see her farm, but her muscles tensed when she thought of it. She had broad shoulders from working in the field with her father, and the labor had sunburned her skin until it freckled up her arms, shoulders, neck, and down her face. Her home, the Altgarten farm, was two miles to the south.

Of the 300 hundred acres her family farmed, only half produced any crop. Holland Altgarten worked hard with his daughter to get the crops to grow. Year after year, there had been droughts, locusts, pests, floods. They had no barn, and lived in a house of sod. Holland persisted. He had no sons. Each boy born died of fever before a year.

The first born child they named Hubbard. He lived to be eight months before he caught the flu. They sent for the doctor east in Omaha, but the disease claimed the baby before the doctor could make his way down.

Second born they named Willis. He had bright eyes, and his mother's red hair. He cried day and night without pause. Disease stuffed his nose with mucus, and his hindered his limbs with aches. He died in two months.

Imogen came third. As a baby, she caught the same disease. Holland and Cassidy feared that their newborn daughter would join her brothers, but she recovered. A year went by. Then two. Imogen had her father's build, and his resilience. Three years went on. She would get sick, then recover the next day.

They had a third boy when Imogen turned eight. The boy got caught in Cassidy’s birth canal and suffocated. He joined the others in the backyard. Imogen turned ten. By then, she had taken responsibilities that had been reserved for her brothers. The plow along side her father, as well as laundry and cooking with her mother. She developed the habit of taking things, and losing them. She would leave tools out in the field and come back for them to discover they had vanished from the dirt. Money blew from her hands. Trinkets fell from her pockets. She began to place valued things with objects she couldn’t lose.

Soon after, they had another boy, who they didn’t bother naming, and buried him behind the house with the others. Cassidy grew sick with herself. Grief struck dark circles around her eyes. She quit embroidering, quit singing, seldom said grace before eating. Only when Holland asked them to do it, and even he gave it up after a long winter. The crops stopped growing the following season. Sometimes they would sprout healthy, but turn black and die. Other times locusts or other pests would devour them. They didn’t have much to eat, and for this, Holland blamed himself. Imogen never told a soul, but some mornings she woke up before sunrise and heard her father weep, damning himself over and over. His own melancholy after the death of so many children, failure after failure, affected his health. He began to smoke, and drink. Both parents however took pride in their daughter. Imogen showed promise, and learned fast about how jobs around their humble farm needed to be done.

When she turned twelve, they had another boy. This one grew ill, and they all wept for him. Holland dug a grave. Cassidy never let him leave her embrace. Yet he beat the illness.He lived for one year. Than two. Than three. Imogen turned fifteen, and the little boy had began to walk, climb over everything, put everything into his mouth, turn over every rock and shake it to see if it did anything, and try his hardest to speak to them. He talked more than anyone Imogen had ever met, even as a newborn. He had a name for everything. Imogen worked with him with delight. She read to him from a book of medieval legends. His face lit up at the stories of knights on horseback fighting fierce dragons. She started to teach him his letters, and he learned fast. By the planting season of that year, he knew his colors, and could read simple words. Jack. Dog. Horse. Even better, the rain came. For years it had been scarce. When it did rain, it fell briefly. A few times, it stormed enough to drown their crop.

This year however turned out to be a good year. The rain nourished the land, and their crops began to grow. The whole clan said their prayers, and didn’t curse under their breath. When hard winds blew they held their breaths. When the land frosted over, they only worked harder. The crops still lived. In addition, Cassidy finally decided on a name for their youngest boy. Thadeus, after her grandfather who first left Ireland to come to a new country. Holland taught him the names of plants and animals, and promised to get him a horse one day. Not even owning a mule, Holland carved a horse from a log and gave it to his son. That's what Imogen always thought of when she thought of her baby brother.

As Imogen left the school building, father O’Llyle took her by the shoulder. Cold air blending with warm air cycloned around them both blowing reeds and blades of grass into the air. The black clouds swelled and forced forward like a siege tower.

“Walking home, Imogen?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you have the book I lent to you?”

“Sorry father, I lost it… I set it down before I went to bed, and when I woke up I took it with me to read… and I must of left it outside. I’m honest sorry.”

“I understand, Imogen, but lets not worry about it. Be sure to find cover. I hear your family doesn’t have a cellar.”

“We will go to our neighbors house. They have a cellar we can use.”

“Good. This storm…” He drifted over her, gazing towards the storm as if it were fiery ash, his eyes rolling around his head as he reconstructed his words. “A storm this late in the year is driven by something supernatural. Even God’s protection has limits. How is little Thadeus?”

“He’s fine. Very alive, that boy.”

“Glad to hear. How old is he?”

“He turns four this January.”

“Good. It’s strange having a storm like this so late in the year. My father tried to farm. He wasn’t very good at it. I had a little brother too, Patrick. He was about Thad’s age. One day I was supposed to watch him, but I didn’t. He got away, crawled into the corn field and we never found him. Got the whole community together and searched, and searched. Nothing.”

“I’m… sorry to hear that.’

“I’ve leaving. For good. Listen to me. Be sure to get away from this storm… It’s not natural.” He took both shoulders and squeezed, silently standing above her with a stone white expression and trembling eyes.

Imogen lifted his hands from her shoulders, and turned away to leave with no words but a swelling disgust in her stomach. Down the path through the grass she walked, wiping the white powder from the old man’s hands from her shoulders, but finding that he had also stained her dress with black oil in the shape of his hands. Turning back to where the pastor stood she found only the vacant porch of the small prairie school and a black coat blowing from the iron railing.

The sky south of the gathering storm gleamed with golden rays. The light strangled from the sky dripped down like holy water onto a grave. Warmth flushed between flashes of cold air. Imogen’s legs chilled. The flaps of her gown blew in the wind. Dust from the road swallowed her, getting into her hair and eyes. She rubbed the dust out and looked back at the storm with a scowl. Lighting stabbed across the sky like javelins and moments later quiet thunder growled. It felt closer. She could feel the thunder shake the ground. Bits of moisture fell from the sky and kissed her freckled face. The eclipsing skyline flashed with a bolt striking a tree three miles down plain. Smoke arose like a flock of crows. Imogen looked away and decided not to follow the road, but to instead take a shortcut across the grassy plain. The grass rose to her waist, but she wore thick shoes, and her flesh had toughened. Muscles defined her short legs. She could push her way through the fullest bush. She stepped over the fence and crossed into the field. She kicked her way through tangles, and leaped over dry ravines. She wondered why she had never taken this way before. She estimated getting home in half the time. After all, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

The grass grew higher as she hiked. Thicker, and rougher. The long blades wrapped around her ankles, bit into her stockings and tore them. Beads of blood blossomed. She rubbed them away with the back of her hand, and then stuck the flesh into her mouth and sucked the blood from her skin. The grass rose to her waist. Grasshoppers danced on the high weeds. One here and there, Imogen paid them no notice but for their size. They flew from weed to weed, the length of her index finger with throbbing eyes big enough for her to see the green film over them twitch and fold. Thier teeth grinded and chewed away at smaller grasshoppers. Winged locusts flew past her head like bullets. On their back, three or four smaller grasshoppers. Imogen kept on her way, looking back to see the road and the schoolhouse shrink away. The storm clouds kept coming. More cold wind, then a break of warm air that sank and chilled before another gust of wet air blew across the plains. Her feet sank into what she hoped was mud. She had to pull her leg from one puddle buried in the high grass. With one heavy step her leg dipped in. Ice cold numbed her leg. She screamed, unable to retract her foot. The cold substance had hold of her and began to tighten like a vice. It swallowed her ankle. She reached into the mud, took hold of her shoe, and pulled it out. It couldn’t be mud. Yellow and red chunks of sediment coated her leg and arms. She felt it pull her hairs, hardening into a shell.

She tore grass from the dirt, using handfuls of it to wipe away the heavy substance, but red and yellow stains marked her skin. Thunder rose in the distance. The sky darkened. The eclipsing light from condensing clouds dripped like evaporating water droplets. Her hair blew over her face, so she rolled it back, and crudely tied it in a crude knot. Sweat trickled down her hairline, down her neck, where it cooled under her clothes. Her body began to shiver. She crossed her arms, and caressed the pimpled flesh, but it did did little to provide her with warmth. Her teeth began to chatter. Dust and pieces of grass flew into her eyes. The wind whistled, and another clasp of thunder caught her by surprise. She trotted like a horse. As far she she could. As fast she she could. The land began to elevate. She felt warmer tearing through the high weeds, but her lungs began to constrict. Wheezing, she stopped at the peak of the hill, leaning on her knees, her gown catching the wind. She looked behind her. The road, the schoolhouse, Mortonbrooke all gone. Only an ocean of flowing yellow and red grass under the collapsing daylight. She looked in front of her. More weeds. Brown, and dry, yet interrupted by one building erected on top of an adjacent hill. At first she thought of horses and hay. Anything too far became blurry to her, so she squinted and made her way towards it. The warm air sank beneath the earth. Only cold air swirled around the plains. Cracks broke in the sky, and lightning whipped from the opening across the west. Imogen jumped, but still moved through the grass. Only as the wind blew harder and harder, a path separated before her, creating a trail to the structure that she could see was no barn. Instead, a small concrete building in the middle of a nest of long weeds and overgrowth.

Dilapidating, the shingles had blown from the roof. Only nails and jutting boards sealed the top. Vines of ivy covered the walls, crumbling the layers of concrete, revealing patches of brick beneath. She heard her name in the wind growing louder as she came nearer. The door bent inwards, and swung open and shut in the wind, prying from its hinges. The wind came from all directions, but it forced at her back like a pair of hands. She came closer, following the locusts, until she could see through the darkened doorway. Cracks ran along the discolored patches of the interior walls. Dust and concrete paved the floor. Broken chunks of cement laying in mounds of white dust gathered around rectangle slabs of various size on the floor. As she passed through the doorway the wind pressed at her back. The cold air rode up her gown and tingled her spine. Hollow moans escaped through the doorway. Her shadow broke the beam of dim light. Shadows filled each corner. Imogen crossed her arms. Her heart still raced from exertion. She brushed a grasshopper from her hairy forearm. It didn’t fly but instead landed on a slab of white cement. She bent down to inspect the slab, seeing marking across in the middle. A name, and a date. 1830-1905. An inscription read: Beloved father, and husband.

Imogen rose to her feet, the same disgust as when O’Llyle had his writhing hands on her. She felt ashamed of that she hadn't recognized sooner, but at the same time intrigue intinced her attention. She never knew a crypt had been here. No one ever mentioned it. The family name, Verxseric, was one she had never heard of. She counted the tombs. Six adult sized ones, and four child sized ones. The last one caught her attention. The grasshoppers crowded against each other around it. Portions of the lid lay before an open tomb, and the insects crawled over eacher to get inside. The wind called her name. It blew from the open space. She could see nothing but darkness, so she reached in. She felt cold, rough cement scrape against her palm. Then her fingers found something wet, and thick. She reached in further until the insects began to bite her hand. She pulled her arm out, and saw that white powder cast over her palm, and black oil, still warm against her cold flesh, tipped her fingers. The wind blew harder and screeched through the chamber. She didn’t hear footsteps behind her. She bent back over the tomb, curious to know how the lid had broken open as two heavy, long fingered hands fell over her shoulders, and no matter how hard she pushed back, the mouth of the tomb opened wider. .

Back home, Holland Altgarten waited for his daughter. He tugged on the rope, propelling the bucket from the well, and taking it to Cassidy. She sat with Thadeus on a stump watching him play with the small horse carved by Holland. His broad and blue eyes had no interests in the gathering clouds, only his toy which he stuck in his mouth. Cassidy took it from his gums and but didn’t scold him. She pretended with him until a strike of thunder crashed to remind them. The flash of lightning lit up the day. Holland brought the bucket to them, and with a ladle, offered Thadeus water, then Cassidy, then drank some himself.

“There’s a tornada on way. Where’s that girl?” He asked as if Cassidy would know the answer. “We need to get to shelter now ways.”

“We’ve never had a tornado, haven’t we little Thadeus?”

“At least the drought’s at its end. God be praised.” Holland took another drink of water.

Down the road, a family lived. The Salomonsson clan had a house no bigger, but it was made of wood. They had a barn, and most importantly a cellar. “I’m loading our tools into the wagon.”

“Holland, we can take no wagon. We must move as fast as we’re able.”

“Imogen’s taken shelter at the school. We need these tools. If something happens to the house, or to the crops, at least we’ll have them.” He galloped to the wagon sitting behind their home. Stacks of firewood wavered. Hay blew from the roof. The tree which headed their garden of graves twisted and swayed. The leaves turned brown. Some already dropped from the branches. The limbs bent and cracked. Holland couldn’t hear anything over the racing wind. He saw the tree, but took no notice of the branches swooping downward. A bolt of lightning slashed through the sky. Blue fire lit up the world for a moment, and in the next the tree broke and toppled. Holland had his hands on the cart, and tried to jump backwards but his body failed him. His feet caught the dirt, and he fell back. The tree came down onto the house, smashing through the layers of sod and buttress, smashing the wagon, and missing his body but pinning his legs into the dirt.

Cassidy rushed over, leaving Thadeus by himself on the stump. The wind concealed his parent's angstful cries. He began to follow his mom, but something shiny caught his attention. He turned his head to the rows of corn. They swayed, and bent, flowing like tides, but in the heart of one row he saw a glimmer. Something silver, like a suit of armor. He waddled to it, the wooden horse in his hand. He smiled at what he saw. A pony with silver eyes, sticking its head out from the corn. Thadeus giggled, fell over trying to rush to it, but climbed up and made his way towards the creature. The pony had a red and yellow coat and a mane like a lion's. Thadeus felt its breath on his cheek. He reached up and touched its nose, the moisture kissing his flesh. It let out a snort. Mucus spittle the boy’s face. He wiped it off, and looked to resume his interests, but the horse had turned its tail and moved back into the rows. Taking the wooden horse with him, Thadeus followed it into the corn.

Cassidy couldn't see where Holland’s leg ended and where the pieces of wagon began. Splinters, carnage, and soil foamed together into a mass she couldn’t medicate. She took him by the shoulders and pulled. He screamed like a cow so she dropped him. Running around into the house, she found that the wall holding all the tools had collapsed over them. She ran back out to comfort Holland, but noticed the stump, the waving crops, and no Thadeus. Mortified, she froze, looking every which way, finding no one. Thunder struck like an anvil, and lightning sparked over head. The clouds seemed to boil, dropping lower and lower. In between the flashes of lightning, Cassidy thought she saw an army of furious faces forming in the clouds. She began to weep, and shake. The small pieces of moisture became fat droplets splashing against her, running down her face, and streaming down the crumbling walls of their house. She rushed to Holland, took him by head, and yelled over the wind into his ear as the thunder roared through the concocting clouds.

“Thadeus is gone. I must find him and I’ll come back.”

“No! Please!” Holland didn’t understand. He shook his head begging her, but Cassidy didn’t take time to explain. She had already made off.

Cassidy ran across the yard to the stump where she had last seen him. The rain fell like iron rods. Water ran down her body as if she had just pulled herself from a pool. Lightning flashed a hateful scorn down at her. She wiped the streaming rainfall from his eyes as a glacial cold encompassed her body. She didn’t bother calling. No one could hear her over the wind. Cassidy made her way to the rows of crop. She didn’t want it to be, but in horror she picked up one of his socks from the mouth of the corn. She didn’t think, but rushed into the rows, crying the boys name. She hoped Imogen had shelter, a safe place. Her feet sank into mud. The crops blow over and smacked her in the face. She could taste the blood dripping from her lips. One stalk flew around and struck her in the back of the neck. The blow fell like a club, and knocked her to her knees. Cassidy took handfuls of mud and squeezed them, grinding her teeth, blood and tears mixing together. She tough she saw figures beyond the row she knelt in. She cried for their help, but they turned to mist and blew away. She cursed, climbing back up and pushing her way onward, slower, covering her face from flying stalks.

In a puddle of darkness her foot sank and something bit her heel. She kicked her foot away thinking she had stepped on an animal, but she cried in delight. The wooden horse standing upright in the mud. She took it, looked around, calling her son's name. Everything looked the same. Every row a haze of green and brown chaos. Though something stood in the corn. She stopped when she saw it. Her jaw dropped, but she didn’t believe it. The leaves had cut her eyes. The rain had blinded her. Anything. But the figure limped closer to her, it's peeling flesh and broken bones contorting and bending, projecting it through the corn towards her. Cassidy turned and fled in the opposite direction. She cut through stalks of corn, disconcerning herself with direction or personal safety. With no idea of which direction she headed towards, she looked up to the sky to find a fury of hateful clouds beating against one another, clashing and falling as lightning and thunder tore them apart. Black horses galloped across the sky impaling full plates of black armour with bolts of lightning. Thunder hammered onto the plains, beating on them without hesitation, without mercy, casting fist sized rocks of hale down at the world below. She ran, covering her head, screaming in agony, blind to the flood ditch she approached. Rushing water roared down it, and her foot slide inside, and took her body down with it. She heard the crack of her ankle, but the frosty rainwater numbed hr body.

Cassidy began to cry, sinking into the ravine. The mist reformed into white figures before her. She struck at them, and they vanished for a time, only to reappear a little farther away. She fell over the side of the ditch. Frost form in her hair, and along the mud she crawled through. The cold conquered her. She shivered, unable to feet her feet, hands, eras, dropping face first into the mud, but pulling herself out and pressing further. She thought she saw Thadeus just sitting and waiting up a small mound. Closer she same, until at last she saw the figure taking shape of her boy was only a skull rising from the mud. She pressed it back in, cursing at it, until it went back under. A nail fell from the sky and struck her in the forehead. Blood blinded her, but she crawled on until at the top of the mound where she finally gave up.

Laying still, she watched as the blackest clouds funneled into an onyx tower away from her, and steadily ate through the crops. At the mound, she was at the highest peak of an otherwise flat land. She could see everything. Her own farm, their neighbors, the Kreifels, Mortonbrooke, the schoolhouse. The onyx tower could fit an entire town inside. The horizon became a gold ring pressed by the black clouds. A mist of debris floated over the world. Pieces of ice striking her back, and her cranium. She covered her head, and watched as the tornado devoured the crops field by field, then enveloped the schoolhouse, waved around to the kreifel farm, devouring their barn and house before turning back and enclosing Mortonbrooke. The last thing she saw was Mr. Kriefel's car spinning through the air. First the size of an insect, than it grew larger before her eyes. In the final moments before it smashed her into the dirt, she apologized to Holland for smothering the babies...

Imogen woke up feeling refreshed. Water dripped from the rafters above her head, light beamed through the holes in the ceiling, and a garden of icy and dandelions grew along the floor and walls. She herself felt warm, and dry. She rose from her bed and rubbed her eyes, unable to remember where she had been. A purple blanket draped across her shoulders comforted her like summer. Soft, and thick, She burried her face into it, breathing in, and exhaling with satisfaction. Rising to her feet, she walked to the door and leaned out. The afternoon sun burned in the autumn sky, and the waning crescent moon shined along with it. The smell of harvest and rain filled the air. Best yet, a silence pressed onto the land like she had never experienced. She walked out, and felt sincere enjoyment at the world she awoke to. All the fields had been torn asunder. Nothing stood, only heaps of mulch.

She came to the schoolhouse. Only one wall stood before the stone foundation. She smiled, and giggled. Father O'Llyle, his clothing torn to pieces and his white hair hanging loose, pinned to the wall by an iron rod through the heart. His head slacked to the side, one eye popped out and hung from a tendon. Down further she saw the wreckage that once was Mortonbrooke, now just a road to nowhere and piles of rubble. She looked over the plain. No tall stalks, no high grass. She could see for miles. Than something broke the silence. A muffled cry came from beneath a wreckage of iron and wood. Imogen stood before it, listening to the insistant crying before acting, pulling the large pieces of wood away. It sounded like a billy goat, but the further she dug, the more voices joined in. One just one or two, but three, four. She worked faster, her large muscular hands lifting and heaving metal beams until the sound became clear. She remember that she had a baby brother, and within a purple blanket, there sat Thadeus, frightened, but unharmed. Something rustled in the blanket. Imogen held her breath and pulled away the blanket, revealing a steel cuirras around the chest of Thadeus, shared with four babies huddled together crying for their mother.

Stillborn

The driver pulled up to the curb where Cassidy told him to stop, then told her to have a good night. She didn't answer, but dipped her head before getting out in case anyone would see her. The driver had no clue what she would want in the Undergrowth, but understood why a woman like her wouldn't want to be seen in the dank of Angel City. She kept wide plate sunglasses over her face, and wore veils over her head. For once she even kept the jewels and custom tailored clothing kept away for something more humble (to her). A blouse and skirt with a fatigue trench coat concealing her pregnant midriff. She wore ruby red heels that clacked against the wet pavement as she stepped from the car into the misty streets. The driver asked if he should wait outside, his voice shaking as shadows murking among the mist seemed to stop and eat up the sharp black limousine with their eyes. Cassidy leaned back into the car and told him to wait, then shut the door. Part of her wished she had never involved the help. She wanted to keep this secret, and the help liked to gossip. She opened the door once again to tell the driver that if he keeps quiet about this adventure then she would slip him some extra money when the night came to an end. He agreed and she shut the door again. With one hand on her purse and the other on her engorged womb she went down the sidewalk, looking up for street signs.

Being in the Undergrowth made her feel like cold water had been poured over her. The sound and smell of putrid water rushing beneath the gutters, the steam rising from the manholes, the spilling bags of garbage blowing from the alley ways and the dilapidated buildings made her wish she was back in the limo. But there was no turning back. This is the place she had to go. Rain poured down the gutters onto the sidewalk. Only one street light every few blocks shined, and it flickered, causing the yellow haze it created in the fog to remain dim. The sidewalk tilted and broke open. Her heel got caught in a crack, and she would've broke an ankle if her foot hadn't simply slipped out. She knelt over to latch it back, hating herself for being foolish enough to wear heels to a place like this. Under ordinary circumstances she never would have come, but it's where her friend had told her the only Doctor that could solver her problem lived. She had been so relieved so have a solution, but she felt numbness when none of them offered to come down with her. She didn't blame them, but wish they would've given more more accurate description as to where the place was. Cats ran from an alleyway she approached. A man hunched over in rags waited by the corner but made no notion to notice her. He reeked of urine and booze. She felt sick looking at him, but thought better of it.

“Excuse me,” She asked him. A single green eye appeared from a mass of black and gray hair. “I'm looking for Ashgabat's House of Smoke.”

The eyes didn't move or blink from the net of hair, but a long arm stretched from the rags and pointed down the alley. The end of it seemed to fall further and further away, but she she could see his black finger nail on a short stair case leading into a basement. She thanked him and walked away, shuttering away the feeling that his eye remained on her as she turned her back and walked to the stairs. She took hold of the railing and she descended with caution. Each step felt uneven and loose under her feet, though in the dark she couldn't see for certain. A rusted metal door stood at the bottom. A slot cut into the middle covered by a slide. She rapped on the door until the slide opened and a pair of black eyes appeared. She told the pair of eyes that she had business with Ashgabat. The slide closed, four locks hollowly clacked through the door, then it opened. The man didn't look at her, and stepped aside for her to enter.

She kept her chin up as she entered. She walked down a dark hallway towards a mantel with a row of candles burning above another set of stairs. Her heels thudded against the hardwood floor. Chills went up her spine as the door creaked shut and slammed. The cold drift passed her and dissapeared, leaving only dry air and the smell of smoke. Faint fumes rose from the stair case. She took off her sunglasses to see better before she descended. The way down seemed long and black before orange light on layers of stonework.

As she made her way down, the chamber revealed itself. Lit by torches and candles, smoke rose and twirled along the dark corners of the room and fell flat against the floor. A few wooden tables scattered around, each with a candle and sets of pipes. Hooded folk gathered around them, silently smoking. At the far side was a bar and a raghead cleaning glasses. She watched herself in the mirror behind him to make sure she looked like a proud woman, not one confused as to what time period she had got herself lost in. The raghead stopped wiping the glass when she asked for his attention. His dark eyes sunk deep into his head, and the wrinkles and cracks along his face told her the story of a long life.

“I'm looking for Ashgabat.” She told him.

“In the back.” He mumbled to her.

She looked around the chamber, and noticed one man at a table by himself, counting money and smoking. He kept his hood down, revealing a hairless scalp,and a scarred face. She came closer, taking notice of the white marks running down his features. His nose bent inward, and dark rings circled his eyes. He looked up and grinned as if he knew she would be showing up.

“Are you Cassidy Dawnson, wife of Leland Dawnson the Third?” He asked, his voice rough and metallic, like a winding clock.

“Yes. I came to see Ashgabat.”

“Here he is, my lady. I can't say we've had the pleasure of hosting a woman of your substance before. Please, take a seat.”

“I'll stand, thank you.”

“Fine with me. So Mrs. Dawnson, what can I do for you this evening?”

Her hands wrapped around the bulge in her abdomen.

“I need a doctor. I hear the only one that can... help me knows you.”

“You've come to see Dr. Fairfax?” He blushed with joy some surprise. “First...” He pushed forward an ash tray, and rapped his fingers against the table. Each finger wore a jeweled ring. She reached into her purse, and dug around, picking up every ring and jewel that she had brought. She dropped them into the ashtray, and watched nervously as he picked each one up and inspected them.

“Is that enough?”

“Oh yes, this will do. Now, Mrs. Dawnson, I have to know that we can trust you. After all, there is no turning back once you've made this decision.”

“Please, anything, I need this done.”

“How old are you?”

“I'm twenty three.”

“I love the intrepid deeds of the young.” He laughed. “How old is Mr. Dawnson?”

“Fifty-four.”

“I'm sure his wealth didn't distract your love for him. What happens if you don't get to see my friend Fairfax tonight?”

“He's been trying for so long to have a son. He has no children, and he's already divorced three women.”

“Is it a girl?”

“No, it's a boy... he died this morning.”

“How do you know?”

“A mother knows. Please, if he finds out he'll leave me for another. This is my only choice.”

“I see.” He set the ring in his hands back into the ashtray and dumped the contents into his pocket, then stood up. “Follow me.”

He lead her to farthest corner of the chamber, to a wall of black. He drew out a lynard with dozens of keys, and reached with one into the darkness. A lock clicked, and a thin light cut through the dark and widened as he opened a door to a tunnel. Wind moaned as cold air pushed is way up. Two flickering torches lined the way down a decline. Ashgabat went down first, taking one torch from the wall and not looking back to see if Cassidy followed. She stepped in after him, bending her neck to keep it from sinking into the dark cieling where she imagined low rafters. Dusty sheets of plywood covered the floor, and strange alien markings labeled the walls. She could hear rats scurry away from Ashgabat's kicking feet, but Cassidy only saw their feces and paw prints in the dancing orange light. She tried to keep her watch on Ashgabat's twisting black robes. He didn't slow down for her. A moment in which she would take to notice the unfamiliar characters or chase a noise, Ashgabat would disappear down into the dark depth of the tunnel. Cold air filled the tunnel, and it grew colder the further she dug. Her heels sank into the soft plywood. Smells of sawdust and raw earth filled the space. Like a grave.

Her steps became heavy. She took slow breathes trying to remain oriented, but she knew that the tunnel extended with a declining angle, slightly but certainly she had sunk beneath the sewers. She held onto the knot of flesh hanging from her body, wondering how these men had managed to dig, how long it took, how they got away with it. She used to hear that the Chinamen in China town had dug a network of tunnels to smuggle drugs through, but nothing like this. Not this deep, not this old. A sprinkle of dirt rained on her. She muzzled her hair trying to get it out, but only more came down. Ashgabat stopped, placing the torch onto the wall. As Cassidy drew closer she saw that he stood before a cellar door, bound in chains and padlocks. Ashgabat reached into his cloak and pulled out the ring of keys, and then bent down to unlock the door. Each one had a different key, and Cassidy began to shiver.

Ashgabat looked back, half his face concealed under the hood, the other in the flickering light of flame.

“Dr. Fairfax is a good man...” he assured her. “I've known him for decades... comes from good blood. He tells me... that his family was among the first to bring slaves to America.... though he's never disclosed how his family accumulated such wealth... he likes to stay down here... he pays his rent so I don't ask questions.”

Once he finished Ashgabat took hold of the handle and pried the door open. The rust creaked as white light, cold wind, and the smell of anesthetic spilled into the tunnel. Cassidy had to hold her hair back so it wouldn't blind her. The screeching of a saw buzzed beneath, paused and muted by the sound of a running engine before the screeching came back as something more was pushed through the blade.

“Follow me,” Ashgabat beckoned as he flew down the stairs into the luminous chamber.

Cassidy took caution as she approached. The sawing stopped, only pipes pumping and water dripping and equipment humming came from the room. From the stairs she saw white tiles, reflecting white orbs of light hanging from the ceiling. She went down, unable to see Ashgabat, but with a scene revealing before her as the steps whined beneath her feet. Lights hung from the black ceiling, slowly swinging to and fro. The white linoleum covered every square of the floor. Stainless and perfect, and reflected the lights so well that each step she was sure would land her foot in a puddle of spilled water only to clack against solid surface. Curtains of fogged plastic divided the chamber into rooms. Stains of red, blue, green smeared across them.

Cassidy crossed her chilled arms, wishing that she had worn something warmer. The cold made her body feel frail, as if her bones were glass. She turned, looking in any direction for a sign of Ashgabat so she asked aloud if anyone was down there. Her eyes caught onto something moving a shadow emerging from the curtains. A latex glove reached from a fold in the plastic, and pulled it aside to reveal and older man, his bland scalp and skin white and wrinkled. He wore thick plate glasses that covered his cheek bones, and glared in the fluorescent lights, distracting from the overbite that hid his chin behind a row of teeth. His white jacket fit nicely over him, with a red tie tucked underneath and a clipboard tucked under his arm. He stood up straight, and though age and weariness scarred his face, he carried himself with a comforting professionalism as he approached Cassidy.

“Mrs. Cassidy Dawnson?” He held out his hand for her to shake. She stared as his gloved hand, but didn't move, so he let it drop back to his side. He spoke with a dreamy steadiness, a lullaby rising to its optimal strength to let her know that he meant business. “I am Doctor L.P Fairfax. Ashgabat tells me that you're in need of my services.”

“Yes, I have a problem... my friends, they're the only ones that know, they told me about you... that you might be able to help.”

“I see,” Fairfax examined her. “How long has your child been dead? I know it's painful, but time is of the most crucial essence, if your asking me to do what I think you are.”

“This morning... please, do anything you can.”

“This morning? Good. You exercise? Smoke? Eat balanced meals?”

“I don't smoke. I jogged three miles every day, and I don't eat meat, but have extra servings of vegetables with protein.”

“Very good. Come with me.”

Fairfax turned his back and led Cassidy through a plastic curtain to a small operating room. A mattress strapped onto a table awaited her. Fairfax gestured for her to sit on it as he pulled up a chair. She kept her hands in her lap, as the doctor leaned forward on one leg. She could see the groundwork across his brow, jaw, and smell the must of his age. White hairs dangled from his chin, and once close enough she could see a pair of heavy yellow eyes under the glasses.

“Now, Mrs. Dawnson, please don't be nervous. I am a legitimate medical professional. See those diplomas?” He pointed to three frames and a plaque over a counter hosting rows of glass jars with masses of flash floating inside. “Harvard, Stanford, and Oxford. That plaque? From Saddam Hussein himself for my work in his research facilities.”

“Did you say Saddam Hussein?”

“I've been all over the world,” He laughed. “I met my good friend Ashgabat while working in Iraq, then we traveled to all corners. Bhutan, Nicaragua, Russia, I've even met your husband. I want you to know, that I too have suffered the loss of a child. The pain that the mother and I felt was unbearable. Since then I've dedicated my life to finding a way to reverse the process of in utero death.”

“How is that possible, doctor?”

“Simple. I have access to tools, methods, and medicines that are prohibited in most countries. Since Ashgabat trusts you, then so do I. First, you will be sedated. Second, I will operate on the fetus while it remains in the womb. Third, I will sew you back shut, apply antibiotics and bandages where necessary, and by morning you will be with Mr. Dawnson with a healthy, living, boy growing inside of you.”

“You have done this before? It works?”

“Yes. I'm so close to uncovering this mystery. I believe I can revive your child. Now as Ashgabat has probably told you, there isn't any going back.”

“Yes, I'm ready.”

“Good.” Fairfax smiled, his teeth caked in plaque. “Just lay back. We'll begin the operation shortly. You're in safe hands.”

Cassidy laid on the bed, her womb slushing down on her organs. The stone inside became colder and colder. A light hung directly over heard. She looked past it into the darkness overheard. The doctor had left. She could hear his feet patter away, then his voice. She couldn't make out the words, but she heard a gargling reply to each pause he took, then- Snap- The lights went off. The glowing ring of the light remained burned in her corneas, slowly fading away as she shivered on the mattress. Her hands gripped the iron of the table as she curled up her toes. Metal clanged against metal, as the squeaking of wheels came closer. She heard heavy breathing, falling harder and harder until the squeaking wheels stopped. Warm, moist breathe fell over her as a leathery hand caressed her neck, her arms, her legs. She tried to speak but a hand took hold of her head to keep it still as another placed a cup over her mouth. The taste of iron filled it, and insulated throughout her body. Her fingers tingled, her toes went numb, then her legs, arms, neck, then she floated on a cloud in this blind world as the leathery hands left her head and tightened belts around her arms and legs. Squishing, she heard. Lots of squishing, mashing, and dripping. Then the gurgling voice,

“The patient is ready, doctor.”

Metal scrapped against whetstone as water ran, and a jar popped open. Cassidy tried to lift her head to peer through the darkness but the drugs did their work. She let her head rest on the mattress.

She woke up in the back seat of her car. Groggy, tired, suffering a nightmare hangover, the early morning light causing tremors to roar through her head. She took a look at the driver. A different man then before, but she recognized the neighborhood the car drove through as her own. She wiped her eyes, sitting up with struggle because of the weight in her womb. She paused, shivers tingling her spine.

The driver asked if everything was OK.

She took a hand over her engorged womb, and pressed it softly over where the last morning there had only been ice. She held her breath, a bead of sweat dripped down her face, cleaning her ruined makeup. A tiny heartbeat. She laughed, and told the driver she was OK. She felt again. Another tiny heartbeat. Her abdomen felt sore. Stitches and bandages wrapped the underside of her pregnant womb, and hurt when she moved, but she didn't care. She laughed more and more. When the car came to the front of the house Cassidy promised the driver for a bonus, but he winked and told her it wouldn't be necessary.

Cassidy cuddled up next to Mr. Dawnson as he slept, as if nothing had happened. She felt like the perfect criminal, no one would find out. No one would ever know.

She sat in her circle of book club friends, and talked about her child. The other women gaped at her when she said she would've need a nanny or help. They scoffed, sipping their wine, keeping comments of Cassidy's youth and unemployment to themselves, but she remained convicted of this new appreciation of her child. She painted the nursery herself, she went out and bought the supplies needed herself, and even picked out books that she would read to the child each night.

The months went on. The baby grew. Her womb expanded to the point where she found it difficult to move. The baby kicked, and when it kicked it kicked with precise blows in many different directions. It stomped on her bladder, causing her to pee herself a little bit every now and again. Still she imagined the baby's life, growing up healthy and happy. Going to a prep school as she did, then private college, and finally a career. Maybe he'd become the next great scientist, curing diseases and discovering new technologies. He'd have a beautiful wife, and even have kids of his own.

She would teach him lessons, morality, she would give him a cookie when he was good, but decided not to slap him or spank him, none of that. Nor would she spoil him. The little boy, destined to be named Leland Dawnson IV, would grow up to be hard working, self reliant, and humble. Every night she would sit in the nursery, and sing to her unborn child. Her fantasy the handsome face of a young man vising an old woman on Christmas day warmed her heart. The holidays, she planned, would be the only times when he'd get spoiled. Toys, video games, whatever he asked for Santa would provide. Except for a car. He would have to pay for his own car, when he turned sixteen.

Her womb continued to grow. Nine months crept nearer and nearer. Mr. Dawnson spoke little of his son, but Cassidy could read his thoughts as if they were notes. He worried about their son. He even told her one night that if the boy were weak, he'd still love him, but he'd might as well have died in the womb because the world would eat him alive if that were the case. Cassidy assured him that the boy would be strong enough to take on the world. He laughed at her, but she assured him that under her motherhood the boy would grow up square and able to embrace the complexities of the universe.

It took convincing, but Cassidy persuaded Mr. Dawnson that the best thing for them to do was have the baby born in the house. Old fashioned, the way they both liked it. She wouldn't use drugs or an epidermal. She wanted to know what the pain felt like, how women of old used to have their children, and be able to tell people that she understood the real pain of childbirth. Mr. Dawnson had an old unused room converted into an operating room. He even found a doctor that would come to their home to help deliver the baby.

She knew she was giving birth when her water broke as she made breakfast for herself. The help rushed her into the operating room while Mr. Dawnson called the doctor. Cassidy was taken into the room on the upper floor, where she stripped her jeans and shirt for a nice free flowing dress. She lay on the mattress, doing the breathing exercises that she had read about, and preparing herself. She had read all about giving birth, she didn't even think she needed a doctors help at this point. The lights dimmed as Mr. Dawnson came in, and took hold of her hand as three masked men came in. Two in blue scrubs. Their eyes glowed like fireflies. The other wore a white apron over a checkered suit. His black hair mushed under a cap. People swarmed the room, watching and cheering on the house's lady. Cassidy pushed and squeezed. The pain caused her head to ring. Her legs went numb, and she could feel the veins pressing against her forehead. This was nothing like she had read about. The baby wasn't just spreading her birth canal and hips apart, it ripped them open. Yet she pushed, and pushed until at last a great relief came as the baby came from her body into the arms of the doctor. The child was quickly wrapped in a towel. People seemed to come and go. She heard so many voices that she couldn't distinguish a single one. The pain in her body didn't dissipate. Moisture pooled beneath her. She figured that she mustn't urinated, but as she drew fingers over the wetness and back to her, Cassidy saw the blood on her hand.

“Let me see my baby,” She said over and over.

“He's so beautiful... so perfect..,” Mr. Dawnson took the bundle of baby over to his lady. “Here Cassidy, isn't he perfect?”

Cassidy head still rang, her body remained numb and fatigued beyond anything she had experienced. Still, a smile cut across her lips as she raised the bloody hand to the blanket in her husband's arms. Something small gripped her fingers, and pulled them into a pulsating hole where rough flesh bit them over and over. She pulled her hand away, blood from her hand trickling down her arm. A twin pair of black claws stuck from the blankets, as the baby kawed like a crow, over and over.

“Congratulations, everyone.” The doctor said, patting his assistants on the back. Only then did she notice the fur sticking from behind their masks, the pus weeping from their eyes, and the hooves where there should be hands. Two men stood in the dark corners of the room, their heads down and hands patiently folded.

Mr. Dawnson got on one knee to show Cassidy. She saw the wet fur and sharp needle teeth above a single pus-glazed eye.

“What happened to my baby?” She pleaded

“Cassidy, this is exactly what I wanted. I couldn't be prouder right now.”

Mr. Dawnson, the doctors, and all the people that seemed to watch in the door way and in the darkness filed out and left her alone, bleeding, legs spread out on the mattress, sweat cooling as everything became fainter and fainter. The two dark men stepped into the light. Both wore matching suits. One man, white scars and brown skin, Ashgabat. The other, thick glasses and red tie, Fairfax. He held another jar containing what looked like a fish with the head of a horned raccoon suspended in green fluid.

 “Fear not, Mrs. Dawnson, about the bleeding. I wouldn't let the perfect host body die just yet. Ashgabat, the lights please.”

Old Graveyards of Nebraska

Old Graveyards of Nebraska

Two tourist drive through the country

Neither has been to rural America before,

Yet they are now. Their car doesn’t stop often. They won’t linger.

Their only desire is get through the bounding plains.

They see the barns, the crops, the vigilant windmills, the small towns,

They throw garbage out the window

Yet at the end of their journey they’ll comment

-“How quaint”

-”how peaceful”

-Nebraska: “The good life” as the sign told them.

Well, come, enter my Smokey tent, and let me show you

The real Nebraska.

Look into my hands, at the cards I hold

Secrets, darkness, shame, deceit.

Look into this one- what do you see?

A grave from past a century age

No date. Only a name. Earl.

Another is written in German.

1866-1886

Another is for Thad.

Aug 8- feb 12

The latest- buried in 1971

Weeds cover the walkway

Rust eats the gate.

Look into this card

Road kill lays squished on the strip of pavement

Tire tracks cross its belly

Innards spill from its mouth

Its eyes look into yours

Flies eat from the broken skull

In this this card, we see a cat with a broken spine

Crawl across the dusty floor of the barn.

The farm boys laugh.

One year ago they both adopted the amphetamine habit.

They have in mind a treasure of copper wires,

Untapped veins in an abandoned farm house

Cash for their addiction.

They laugh as one’s boot crushes the cats head.

In this card, we see a silent car ride.

A van with the back sealed. The driver speeds by the barn,

Over the road kill,

Through the leagues of undisturbed night

The moon is full, and white fog flows

Over the muddy fields

Do you see the real Nebraska yet?

The driver takes his van down the country road,

The tires crush litter.

A page with the image of a small girl

Missing: call xxx-xxxx with info

It’s from a decade ago.

The driver takes the road until

Wet branches and thick trunks conceal the sky

The gravel becomes dirt. The dirt becomes weeds.

He passes the lost cemetery as his way takes him to the abandoned home.

A skeleton of a once great house

A clan of rich German outlanders,

A furtive bunch, long vanished from the modern world,

Now decayed, reclaimed by nature

Branches stab through the broken windows

The porch collapsed

The walls slanted inwards

The farm boys parked in the dark so not to be found.

Their senses are amplified, their scabs bleed,

They haven’t eaten in days but they think only of harvesting the copper.

They kick in the back door, and walk into the dark with only lighters to show the path in the dark

Flashlights being noticeable from a long distance.

Fools make poor thieves, after all.

The van parks in the front of the house

Out climbs the driver

Star light clears the path to the back of the van

Out he pulls a dripping canvas bag.

7 piglets disappeared from the facility

That night but under the heavy blanket of night

He would never be discovered.

He takes the bag to the cellar door, but stops at the sounds of-

The cropper strippers. They hear moaning from beneath their boots.

A brief spat splits between the two, but they find the

Stairs down, and the moaning becomes crying

One follows the other down, curiously, the steps creak,

The flame from the lighter dances on crumbling cement walls

A shadow emerges

One gasps, and curses at what the flame reveals,

Slithering, crunching, dripping,

The other drops the lighter…

Do you wish to see the last card?

I hold it my hand, faced away,

Be warned, there is no unknowing what is discovered