Oh where’s my baby where’s my baby I can’t live without her . . .
Gemini returned to the bedroom and rubbed against her ankles, purring. Margaret remembered how the monsters had ears and tails just like a cat’s. Like Gemini’s. She resisted the urge to kick her pet.
Instead, she followed it to the kitchen and pulled the bag of food out of the cabinet. Rather than bend over to fill the bowl, she simply dropped the bag on the floor and knocked it over. Brown pebbles of food spilled across the linoleum. Gemini commenced munching away. Occasionally, the cat shook its head as if tearing flesh.
Her own hunger was more demanding than ever, but all she had the heart to do was open a bottle of water and sip.
I have to find Daniella. No time for food.
Putting down the bottle, she went to the living room, stumbling a little in her dizziness. She rummaged through her antique desk for her address book. The pain clamping her neck made her grunt.
Instead of the address book, she found the note she’d written, seemingly a lifetime ago, to consult the ethical rules for prescribing hormone replacement therapy for herself. Below that, starred as a priority, was a second note that made her sob: “Look up rules for writing Daniella prescriptions, e.g., birth control.”
Oh, God. She looked at her daughter’s yearbook photo in the hallway. I’m going to lose her, aren’t I?
No, stop it. Get a hold of yourself. You’ll do whatever the hell necessary to get her back.
She finally found the address book under a stack of unpaid bills. Luckily, the cordless phone was within reach. She took both of them and laid herself down flat on the floor. Then she waited for her neck and back to stop screaming.
There weren’t many people she could call for help. Her parents were dead, and she had no siblings. Henry’s relatives had strangely dropped out of touch after his death.
Daniella was all I had—all I have, I mean.
She tried to reach the church women whom she used to be close to when Henry was still alive. But either she only reached their answering machines or discovered the numbers were out of service. She supposed six years had that effect. She even left messages for the neighbors, those whose numbers still worked. She’d recorded them when she first moved here and they all introduced themselves, but that was before Daniella was born. She’d hardly spoken to them since, too wrapped up in work. She was afraid to call the cops.
Later, after she forced herself to eat an overripe banana and a couple mouthfuls of peanuts, Margaret took the cordless phone to Daniella’s bedroom and went through the girl’s address book. She sat on Daniella’s bed and tried not to cry as she dialed the numbers she found.
I don’t even know if these people are current friends or old classmates or what. God, how little I know about her. What kind of a mother am I?
“Hello? This is Margaret Connolly, Daniella’s mother. I’m calling because your number was in my daughter’s address book. If you’ve seen her, would you please call me right away? My number is . . .”
And so on through each tabbed letter.
Finally, unable to avoid it any longer, she looked up Eric Gensler’s number. Her still-hoarse voice was almost gone. Maybe she should wait and call tomorrow.
No, stop avoiding it.
She took a deep breath and dialed. Hopefully, she would just get another answering machine.
“Hello?” a male voice answered.
“Is . . . is Eric there?”
“This is Eric.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Eric, this is—this is Daniella’s mother.”
When the boy didn’t respond, she continued, “Look, I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m sorry. But Daniella’s missing. I’m trying to find her.”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“She was at . . .” She trailed off as she started crying. She couldn’t help it, and she felt like a damn fool for crying on the phone to some teenaged boy. “The monsters. They—”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you,” Eric said. “Just please leave us alone.”
He hung up.
Margaret lay down on Daniella’s bed and sobbed.
The next thing she knew, it was almost midnight, and she was still on Daniella’s bed. She’d fallen asleep. She painfully hobbled to a standing position. Her neck and back were as inflexible as concrete. She returned to her bedroom to watch the news.
They were showing a commercial for toilet bowl cleaner, for godsakes. What use did anyone have for that at a time like this?
Daniella, Daniella, Daniella . . . Where are you? Oh, my baby. . . .
Another siren screamed past on Lee Highway. Margaret blinked and looked away from the TV, her trance broken.
Oh God, I’m going crazy.
Retrieving her purse, she rummaged through her wallet until she found Detective Randall’s business card. Then she reached for the phone.
✽ ✽ ✽
Daniella wouldn’t have voluntarily woken up—would’ve been content to remain in the black fog that had enveloped her for who knew how long—except she was so freakin’ hungry. Her eyes flew open, and she saw water-stained ceiling tiles. She was lying on her back in a large room. Someone whimpered nearby.
The place smelled like poop—smelled awful, like the inside of an overused port-a-pottie on the Fourth of July. She raised her hand to cover her mouth and nose.
Except her arm wouldn’t move.
She tried again, realizing her fingers were numb, and this time her neck popped like she was cracking her knuckles. Oh God no it was all coming back how the monster broke her neck and she blacked out and where was she oh Mommy where are you help me . . .
Daniella screamed as loudly as she could. The effort sent pain shooting down her spine to the tips of her toes. Sensation momentarily returned to her body, like an ocean surf washing over her.
“Hello?” a tremulous voice called. A young woman’s. “Is someone there?”
“Hey, hello?” Daniella answered. She tried to turn her head—felt something move at her side which might have been her arm—and managed to rotate her head a few degrees toward the sound. Her perspective changed, now showing a pair of school desks, one overturned, one upright. A naked, pale woman lay on the floor behind them. The woman’s hip bone jutted against her skin. Knobby, thin legs—but the woman’s stomach was a great bulb of taut flesh. Couldn’t see her face.
“Help me,” Daniella said.
“Who are you?” came the answer—and Daniella realized it wasn’t from the woman she was staring at. The speaker was somewhere behind her.
“I’m D-Daniella.”
There was a pause, a sob, and then, “It’s Jan. I was in your room.”
Jan Lee. She remembered her now—the other patient she’d shared the peanut butter crackers with. She felt a wave of guilt.
We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gone out with Eric.
“Have you seen Greg?” Jan said.
She sounded so weak and afraid. Daniella tried again to move her arms but failed. But something was moving. Her head rocked where her temple rested on the dirty tile floor. This time, the motion sent needles of pain through her neck. Best not do that again.
I’m paralyzed. What have they done to me?
The naked pregnant woman still hadn’t moved, and Daniella wondered if she was dead. She started to cry again.
No, I’m not totally paralyzed. I can move my arm. I can get help.
She struggled to control her panic. This was just a game, that’s all—like playing Freeze Ray with the Irving twins back in elementary school. You’ve been frozen, and you’re not allowed to move anything but your right arm. You have to drag yourself to the magic tree to unfreeze. Just a game.
She cleared her throat. Her voice broke as she asked, “Can you move?”
Jan’s reply was unintelligible.
“Jan?”
God, was she choking? “Jan? Jan!”
If she could just see her. But she only see the naked w
oman, obscured from the chest up by the desk blocking Daniella’s view. The sight of that swollen belly reminded her of the thing growing inside her own stomach. She shut her eyes.
Jan’s reply came at last: “It broke my neck. I’m paralyzed. Oh Jesus, it broke my neck! Help me!”
Tears sprang into her eyes, but Daniella surprised herself when she said, “Just hold on. I can get help. It’ll be okay.” The small condolence allowed her to keep it together. I’m not totally paralyzed like her. . . . But that just made her feel guilty again.
I caused all this by going out with Eric. Why didn’t I respect my curfew? The monster wouldn’t have raped me. Mom must be so worried. She’ll be looking for me—can’t forget that. There is a way out of here.
“Greg’s dead, isn’t he?” came the weak voice. “Oh no, no no. Oh God, help me. . . .”
“Just—just stay calm,” Daniella said, although it came out more as a scream. Jan had to stay calm. Had to, because she was older.
I’m freaking out. But I have to keep it together. That’s what Mom would do.
But the monsters would come back. She remembered the sight of the slavering face hovering over her, the rough hands on her neck as it twisted. It was going to kill her.
As she had all of these thoughts, a wildfire of hunger seemed to be consuming her stomach. She wanted to touch her bloating belly and confirm it was still there and that it wasn’t some smoldering hole.
She struggled to move her right arm. Everything’s frozen but your right arm. Use it to drag yourself to the magic tree. . . .
Sensation came and went as her head rocked on her unhinged neck. Something unkinked, and awareness of her body returned for one blessed moment—the stinging bites on her shoulder, the bloated fullness of her stomach, the soreness of her breasts—and then it was gone. Trying to move was probably the last thing she should be doing. She might permanently paralyze herself.
But I don’t have any choice.
Jan Lee was sobbing again. “Oh Greg, oh God I was going to marry you. . . .”
“Hang on!” Daniella said.
She concentrated on moving her arm. She had no idea where the exit was to this place, but she’d find it. She had to. Her cheek touched something cold and wet and foul-smelling, and she realized it was urine, perhaps her own.
The naked pregnant woman’s leg moved, bending at the knee and then straightening. She moaned.
“Hello?” Daniella said. “Can you hear me? Can you move?”
The woman moaned again—and then screamed.
“It’ll be okay!” Daniella said. “It’s all right!”
But the woman went on screaming—long, terrified howls, as if she were being murdered or raped. The leg bent and relaxed, bent and relaxed.
“Please, try to stay calm.”
Daniella was afraid the monsters would hear the screaming and come back. Even Jan Lee called to the woman, telling her it would be all right.
Still the woman screamed. Screamed until her voice went ragged and weak. Daniella wished she could see her face, but she was restricted to seeing the naked lower body. The leg continued to bend and relax.
After several minutes of this, Daniella realized the swelling in the woman’s stomach had reduced.
The screaming finally stopped. The bending leg followed soon after, halting in a raised position.
That’s when the bent leg fell slowly to the side, exposing what appeared to be a giant, bloody blister. Daniella stared, dumbfounded, until the blister moved and she realized it was a baby’s head.
It looked right at her, eyes wide open to expose shiny black pupils without whites. It looked astonished, and for a moment Daniella wanted to coo at it, to tell it that it was the cutest little thing (yes you are, aren’t you adorable), despite the predicament she was in.
Then the infant rummaged until it lifted its own umbilical cord into view. Daniella screamed as it bit through the cord to free itself.
When the baby finally wailed, it was unlike any newborn cry she had heard before. It was an animal’s cry—an inhuman snarl made high-pitched by the tiny throat, a cry of hunger and determination. The baby scrabbled against the mother’s pale stomach and pulled itself up her body. Daniella wanted to tell the woman to move—get away from that thing, it’s not human—but her mouth wouldn’t work. She could only scream in growing horror as the baby climbed out of sight, leaving bloody streaks on the mother’s unmoving flesh. She realized she was seeing what lay in store for herself.
Although she couldn’t see what was happening, she heard tearing sounds and smacking lips. The baby’s blood-covered legs still remained in view. A stub of a tail poked from its back above the cleft of its buttocks. Daniella didn’t want to see even this much, but she was powerless to turn her head away. The baby’s legs spasmed in pleasure as it ate its first meal.
She shut her eyes and cried as she waited for the sounds to stop.
✽ ✽ ✽
The constant murmur of voices gradually grew louder and resolved into words Margaret could understand:
“Both the Maryland and Virginia governor’s offices have declared states of emergency as they seek to cope with the rash of wild animal or ‘bigfoot’ attacks that have paralyzed the Washington region since Saturday night. The District of Columbia declared a state of emergency Sunday night while . . .”
She opened her eyes and was instantly awake. She lay on her bed fully clothed. The cordless phone rested on her stomach from when she’d left Detective Randall a voicemail. That was the last thing she remembered. Sunlight filled the room, so she glanced at the alarm clock on her bureau and saw that it was already ten o’clock. Damn.
“Although no evacuation orders have been issued, heavy traffic continues on all major arteries as residents anxious to flee the dangers try to leave. Monday morning rush hour is out of town instead of into town. . . .”
In vain, Margaret scanned the footage of unmoving vehicles for some sign of her daughter. The act of lifting her head hurt her neck and back.
God, did they do a number on me.
She forced herself to get up and shamble to the bathroom. With every step, it felt like blood was spurting out of the claw-puncture wounds in her thigh.
When she returned a few minutes later with the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, the TV commentators were complaining—or reporting, as they called it—that the Dow Jones industrial average had plunged in its first hour as traders reacted to the news. And although the crisis had no effect on oil production like Hurricane Katrina did in 2005, the price of gas had still risen over thirty cents per gallon during the past day.
Sitting on her bed, Margaret swabbed her thigh with a hydrogen peroxide-soaked cotton ball. Tears of pain rose into her eyes as she bent her sore neck to see what she was doing. As she worked, half listening to the TV say authorities were having trouble drawing the creatures out into the open, she wondered how she was going to find her daughter. Finally, she concluded there was only one thing she hadn’t tried.
She was afraid to call the police, afraid they would arrest her for running away from Detective Baker. But she knew she didn’t have much choice at this point. She picked up the phone and dialed 911.
The line was busy.
Good. Relief washed over her. She didn’t want to redial—but she knew she was being selfish. So she tried again. And again. And again. And—
“911 operator. What’s your emergency?”
She took a deep breath. Tears rose into her eyes. “My . . . my daughter, Daniella. She was taken from Fairfax Hospital on Saturday.”
“Are you calling to report a missing person?” The male dispatcher spoke like a busy man with more important calls to get to.
“Yes! Yes. She’s missing.”
“What’s your name?”
“Daniella—I mean, Margaret. My daughter’s Daniella.”
“Last name?”
She felt like she was talking to Detective Baker again. Impatient, she forced herself to calm down and ans
wer his questions.
After what seemed like hours but was probably only a minute, the dispatcher said they already had a record of Daniella’s disappearance. They were diligently (he actually used that word, “diligently”) searching for her along with the other kidnapped girls. Margaret mentioned Randall’s name, and the man said he would leave a message for her to call back with an update.
The line chirped, so Margaret said, “Excuse me, that’s my call waiting. I have to go.”
It felt good to end the conversation with him. “Hello? Daniella?”
“No, this is Karen Lindsay. You called yesterday?”
Margaret had to think a moment. She’d called so many people. Karen Lindsay lived next door with a husband and two children. Margaret met her on one July Fourth as they stood outside watching neighborhood kids light Roman candles in the street. She hadn’t spoken to her since.
“I was wondering if you’ve seen my daughter. She’s missing.”
“No, I’m sorry. Have you called the police?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we’re leaving town this morning. Everyone is. You may want to leave too, Margaret. It’s not safe.”
“I can’t. Not without Daniella.”
“I hope you have a bomb shelter or something in your basement.”
“No.”
A pause. “Well, if you’re not going, would you do us a favor and pick up our mail while we’re gone?”
✽ ✽ ✽
Noon.
Margaret sat at her kitchen table, gazing at a cup of tea that had gone cold. She’d changed into comfortable clothes but hadn’t done much else except take more ibuprofen. Wasn’t hungry. Gemini the cat was nowhere to be found.
She listened to the TV talk to itself in the bedroom. It said the animal attacks showed no signs of abating despite the efforts of law enforcement to hunt them down. The National Guard was deploying throughout the region. A FEMA spokesman divulged that the FBI had analyzed dozens of attacks from the past twenty-four hours and determined the creatures almost always bit their victims before raping them. Many, many victims, most of them older, weren’t being raped at all, lending credence to the “taste-testing” theory that the creatures were searching for fertile women. Mandatory evacuation orders had not been ruled out. The president of the United States was expected to make a statement.
Blood Born Page 21
