"Mattie, baby can you hear me?" Jess whispered.
The child reacted by turning her head and biting deeply into Jess’ wrist, crunching bone and pulling muscle into her mouth.
Screams filled the room, not just from Jess but also from all of the children. Mattie sat up and bit Jess again, this time in the neck rupturing her carotid. Soon Jess had fallen backwards lying across Mattie, pinning her down. A pool of blood surrounded both of them.
Amy felt herself move as if in slow motion as she raced down the stairs to gather up the kids and herd them under the stairs. She begged them to stop crying and screaming. Suddenly, the triplets all pointed behind Amy and let out blood curdling screams. Amy turned and saw that Jess had sat up. Her head hung at an angle because of the muscle damage to her neck. Jess no longer atop her, Mattie was getting to her feet as well.
Mattie headed over to the pack-&-plays and fell into one while reaching for one of the babies. Soon there was blood sprayed across the wall and the most nightmarish chewing sound as the seven year old tore into all four of the tiny babies. As this carnage took place, Jess was slowly trying to make her way over to the stairs where Amy and the toddlers were. Amy picked up a chair and tried to fend her off, like a lion tamer only without a whip.
"Jess, please stop. You’re going to hurt someone. You don’t want to hurt anyone do you? Hon, please just get back and leave the kids alone," Amy begged her young assistant. Seeing Andy’s golf clubs in the corner she grabbed one and swung. She wasn't going to wait for an answer.
Her hit knocked Jess down. Amy raced up the stairs and pulled with all her might on the rope, praying that it would pull that damn bookcase away from the door so she could get these kids out of here. "Please God, help me!" She prayed and gave one last hard tug. She felt the rope break just a split second before she felt herself fall backwards off the stairs. She landed hard on her back, hearing a loud snap. She closed her eyes and tried to move her legs.
The kids under the stairs were rooting her on. "Come on Miss Amy, get up please." Amy tried to move her arms to push herself up and it was then that she realized that she had broken her back, high up. She could still move her head so she tried hushing the little ones.
Hearing a sound to her left, she turned her head and saw Jess getting back up. Jess moved right past her and started grabbing the kids. Amy heard the children beg for help, them not understanding that she could not help them, and then hearing them become silent one by one.
It was then that Amy knew she was in Hell. All she could do was close her eyes and not watch as they were slaughtered one by one by the young woman who used to work for her, used to care for the kids with her. All the children dead, Jess turned and looked at Amy, realizing that she was still there. She moved to Amy’s side carefully, as if she would approach a startled animal. Just as Jess’s face dipped towards Amy’s stomach, Amy saw the toddlers start to move and she knew that they would be hungry like Jess was.
The only thing that kept her from losing her mind was the fact that she could not feel anything from her shoulders down. Her body shook as Jess ate her way inside her. Then Amy saw tiny hands pulling on her, ripping her open. Surrounded, she never screamed, not once, until she saw the triplets pull out her uterus and she knew that her baby -Andy's baby- was dead.
Then she screamed until death quieted her.
Peace
Shane Hershey
Peace Defined.
By definition the word holds many delightful connotations. It has been given a defined set of parameters by the tribes, nations and people who encounter its balming embrace. Yet peace is inconsistent. It is elusive. Long sought after. Rarely attained. Redefined by each passing generation. Altered by every new circumstance.
Peace Out.
In the 1960's, peace was defined not just by an anti-war movement, but the infusion of sex, drugs and rock music. Found in the escape of reality into the coma-induced hallucinations of drug highs and gyrating rock concerts. Peace was exhibited through the long braids and stoned eyes of random hippies. Peace was seen through photographic icons of rainbow prints and daisies sticking from the ends of military rifles. Two raised fingers exhibited the betrothing of peace from one man to another. Today, bullets have replaced flowers to attempt the stability of peace. The concerts of orgiastic proportions are not in muddied fields of farmland, but in the feeding fields of the asphalt streets of Manhattan.
I was unfortunate enough to have had my flight cancelled the day the dead came. I had tried renting a car to drive my way out, but the airport staff was overwhelmed with angry passengers, and the rental car companies were vacant wastelands; emptied of their wares hours before. I resigned myself to the fact that I would be stuck in the city until help came, and decided to head to the Plaza to see if I could check in. I figured if I was going to be stuck there my boss was certainly going to pay for that expense.
The first sign of brotherly love I encountered was on the train heading back to the hotel. Two bloodied and disheveled gang bangers, pants held up by air, crowded their way into the overcrowded subway car. From my position I could barely see them through the mass. I only noticed them because of the loud rhythmic bass that emanated from their ear buds. The shorter of the two busied himself wrapping a tattered shirt around a wound in his arm. I remember thinking it was just my luck to be confined to a space with two guys who most likely had just 'peacefully' finished business with rival gang members.
At each stop, people would press in and out, and the remaining passengers jostled and reconfigured, pushing the two closer to my direction. Each minute that passed saw more blood ooze through the fabric that encased the short one's arm. Each minute saw his pallor become more ashen. Seconds before reaching my stop, the taller one started shaking his friend by the shoulders. Shock encompassed me when I realized that the short one wasn't responding. His body held up only by the press of passengers.
As the train slowed, I stood and maneuvered my way towards the doors. I wanted to get out of there as fast I could. The doors opened, and I glanced a look back as the short one's milky white eyes made their appearance. The friend in front of him moved his hand upwards to run it in relief over his cornrows. His hand moved past the open mouth of his companion. Bared teeth found flesh, and as panic set in and fleeing passengers pushed me up the stairs from the platform, I saw the two fingers used to inscribe peace ripped from their joints. The feast began.
I ran.
Nature of Peace.
Among every city in every land, peace had been ascribed its place. Grassy knolls and quiet lakes. The serenity of nature provided in the midst of urban sprawl. The chirp of birds as couples caressed their way through quiet paths. The sounds of children's laughter echoed from playgrounds of wood and metal. Fruitful trees and spring blossoms provided escape from mindless routine. Today the real estate of peaceful greens and soft breezes has been replaced with the quiet of dark shadows and bolted doors.
I never made it to the Plaza. The swarm of living that escaped the confines of the tunnels pressed northward, surrounded on all sides by melee. The military arrived and declared martial law. Safe zones were set up, and survivors fought their way to them through a minefield of blood and bodies. Gnashing hands and teeth denied them the solace of escape. Tanks crushed skulls as they rolled through city streets patrolling for survivors, fighting for an end to the combat.
Two days passed before I was fortunate enough to be rescued huddling in a second floor abandoned store off 62nd street. The sound of gun fire outside lifted my spirits, gave me hope for respite. As the thunder of the humvee rolled through, I embraced the daylight, and called out through the window, tossing whatever my hands could find to gain attention.
Hours later, I was in the Sheep's Meadow nestled in the center of Central Park. Cement road blocks created our new boundaries. Bullets blasted endlessly into the night. Survivors settled into a comatose state of existence. Fortify. Eat. Sleep. We worked mindlessly trying to nullify our fear through persisten
ce. Four days later, a breach, not peace, came when the guns fell silent. Cement tons were forced inward opening crevices for the attack. Emaciated bodies pushed through. Sheer numbers overwhelmed the defenses as eviscerated intestines emptied themselves as quickly as they were filled. The press of death pursued as lines of blood were drawn in the dirt. The siege continued. I ran.
Peace Treaty.
Centuries of treaties collecting dust among the halls of museums attest to the hundreds of accords that prescribed peace as the end of armed conflict. Paintings showcase the moment when warring nations put down their weapons and traded them for plowshares. Archeological finds tell the tale of border disputes that ended when pen was set to paper and the rules by which peace would be held were defined. These artifacts enshrine the rules set forth; the means through which Death was denied. Today, humanity defines the peace of warring factions not through pen, but through blade. A blood soaked dagger ends confrontation, not ink and papyrus.
I never knew how many escaped through the brambles with us. Our numbers diminished with every step. Sticks not guns, rocks not bullets served as ammunition for the living. An opening appeared in front of us as the Metropolitan Museum of Art came into view. The remaining handful of us pushed our way through the doors left unguarded by absent curators. The incessant pounding of our pursuers forced us further into the recesses of the empty halls adorned with representations of past civilizations. The only remains of once dominant societies.
Sanity stretched thin through the waning hours of daylight. We armed ourselves with centuries old weaponry. Daggers and spears. Blades and armor. A mocking characterization of warriors of old. As night entombed us in the museum, we huddled around an empty entrance. A lone young woman sat in a corner. A shivering puppy protected in her embrace.
The silence of the endless night was interrupted frequently by pounding and scratching every time a whine escaped from the damned dog. I stared venomously at the woman. I wasn't alone. She desperately tried to stifle the cries of the creature in her arms. Her hands clamped forcefully against its muzzle. Finally, just before dawn, permanent silence ensued as the puppy lay limp in her lap. Tears streaked her face. Sleep overcame me.
A scream interrupted my brief, fitful slumber, and I awakened as the young woman with the dog tore another strip of flesh from one of the men closest to where she'd sat. Her milky white eyes engorged as the blood dripped down her chin. Her wrists were laid open and drained. A bloody dagger sat dormant near the dead puppy. A silent tale to the story of her death. The screams continued as the rest of us stared in horror. The doors bulged. Glass and wood cracked loudly, before exploding inwards. I took one last look before my feet took flight. My eyes locked on the creature in the corner. Clarity breathed momentarily. It moved. It wasn't her dog. My stomach seized. My soul cried out.
I ran.
Inner Peace.
Millennia old religions have espoused the value of peace within. Clarity of mind, body and soul. A peace that passes all understanding. A peace founded in forgiveness. Absolution from wrong doing. It didn't matter what religion, faith or creed, each spiritual advisor provided soothing words that would salve the wounded spirit. Offer sanctuary for the weary. Give a hope of things to come. Today, inner peace is the absence of thought. The loss of self. Mindless abandon. There is no forgiveness. Trespasses are numbered. Sins lack atonement. Sanctuary comes at a terrible price.
I don't know how I ended up there; staring up at the tall spires outside St. Patrick's Cathedral. Time became meaningless. Days were counted not by hours and minutes, but blocks and buildings. My mind was frantic. My clothing was tattered and caked in feces, blood, and fluids. I couldn't scrub it away. Each noise in the city shredded against what remained of my soul. I demanded peace. Quiet. Calm. Living or undead. It didn't matter. Whoever had the audacity to interrupt my temporary sanctuaries paid. Some with their life, some with their body. Usually both. Feral physical comforts consumed me. Food, release. sleep. I was dirty. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't feel. I needed to clean it off; the blood, the filth, the stains of humanity.
I climbed the steps and pushed open the doors. The draw of this building held an appeal I was unable to focus on. I knew I'd drawn attention. That thought no longer held consequence. My days and nights were spent killing. Re-killing. Surviving, barely. None of it held distinction. Instinctually I dipped my hands in the small bowl at the entrance. I looked at my hands. I had only bloodied the water. Nothing came away refreshed. Nothing was clean.
My feet echoed through the emptiness. I passed pews filled with truly dead. Self-inflicted head wounds. Lucky bastards found salvation. I drew close to the altar. A priest came up behind me. I smashed his head in with a crucifix. I thought he said something. They don't speak. They noiselessly proclaim their blind judgment from the shadows. Had he said something? I looked at the body. It didn't matter. Words were useless. Senseless searches for absolution that would never come. I turned. The mass of pierced flesh entered before me. Pierced hands, wounded feet. Ribs shattering their sides. Mutilated flesh on their backs, their faces. The congregation presented itself. Resurrection stood before me. Judgment day had arrived. I wasn't clean. I ran.
Rest in Peace.
Shuffling off the mortal coil. Eternal rest. Kicking the bucket. Riding the pale horse. Passing away. The absence of care and concern. Worldly worries permanently suppressed. Euphemisms for the final peace. The origination of such terminology was founded in magical beliefs that to speak the word is to invite Death. Something to be feared. Something to fight against. Something to avoid. Today Heaven and Hell have been denied and emptied. A world of grim reapers invade every hiding place of man. Death mocks. Rest in peace a comical refrain. Bite the Big One remains the most honest among the long list of expressions to describe the absence of mortality.
I am in a room with cold smooth surfaces. It's small. Darkened. My shoulder hurts. I think one of the Reapers touched me. I flick my lighter. I'm not alone. Envy crowds my thoughts. I stare at the tombs. I crave their rest. I wonder if I can open one. Crawl inside. Interrupt their peace in a search for my own. Noises above me. I'm still in the cathedral. It must be the crypt. I'm so tired. I want to rest. I want to be clean. I want to forget.
I'm hungry. The darkness is stifling. It's time to leave. I see him as I exit. He isn't like them. He's faster. Movements more defined. He's a survivor. He's my savior. I near him, quietly. He turns. My teeth bare. He raises his weapon. I run.
Peace...at last.
The Only Thing That Matters
Alan MacRaffen
“Duke! Go get it, boy! Come on, Duke!” Sam cried.
Why doesn’t he understand, Duke thought. Why can’t he smell the intruder?
Sam was Duke’s best friend. Family. Duke struggled to resist the temptation to run and grab the ball. He almost turned and ran for it at the boy’s latest urging, but there was something more important to be done. Duke turned back to the fence, following the scent of the intruder. He stopped and sniffed at one of the small stones lining the edge of the garden.
The intruder had stopped here, rubbed his scent glands on the stone. Rich and musky, it reminded Duke of another dog’s scent, but much more pungent. A fox. Male. Duke considered the danger to his family and then continued along the scent trail, despite Sam’s protests. Finally he found what he was looking for. The fox had left the yard through the small gap in the fence boards here. Before it left, it had urinated, attempting to mark the territory as its own. Duke sniffed intently, taking in as much information as he could. The fox was an adult, but still somewhat young; healthy and well fed on small game and scavenged trash, without any significant injuries or disease. Duke relaxed visibly. The fox was not a threat to his family.
He took a moment to urinate over the fox’s mark, reestablishing the yard incontrovertibly as his territory. The fox would get the message—the yard and house were under Duke’s protection.
“Aww, Duke,” Sam said as he approached. “Don’
t pee near mom’s garden. She hates that.” Sam grabbed Duke’s collar in his small hand and pulled him toward the middle of the yard. Duke allowed it, his work now done, but again wondered at Sam’s inability to smell the intruder or to understand the seriousness of Duke’s work.
The boy was only seven years old—still a young pup by human standards—but he and his parents should be more aware of danger. Duke was constantly on the alert for it, and constantly alarmed by how much they seemed to miss or ignore.
Many animals frequently passed through the woods near the house. Duke knew perfectly well that most foxes and coyotes weren’t a threat to his family, but bears and strange dogs could be. Yet the humans seemed utterly unaware of their presence, even when they were just beyond the fence.
One morning a year ago, when the toaster had caught fire, Duke had spent almost ten terrifying minutes trying desperately to alert his family. He had noticed the scent of smoke while sleeping on Sam’s dirty and pleasantly stinky clothes in the boy’s bedroom upstairs. The family had been in the living room the whole time, right next to the kitchen, and still hadn’t noticed. If Duke hadn’t rushed down and yowled as if he were dying, they might never have noticed it in time to put the fire out.
Unhappy Endings Page 13
