by Mark Souza
He heard her again. “We haven’t got much time,” she said. She latched onto his boots and pulled. He was jerked from his seated position and fell back flat onto the clapboard floor. As he was dragged, the floor pulled at his clothes. The rasp of fabric raking across coarse-grained wood filled his ears. Never had he imagined being dragged through the gates of heaven.
Ahead, a section of missing floorboards created a chasm. Moyer’s buttocks dropped into the gap and wedged. His forward momentum lurched to a stop. The angel shifted her grip up his legs locking his knees in the crooks of her arms. She lifted and groaned. He barely budged. She tried again, and quickly flagged. Why didn’t God send a stronger angel?
“Help me, Moyer,” the angel begged. “Lift your ass! Your child is not going to be born without a father.”
Moyer lifted his hips, and she pulled. His rear rose out of the hole and she slid him forward. His back raked over the two edges defining the breach, then his head dropped into the gap and he heard a hollow thud and felt a jolt of pain.
The angel slowly skidded Moyer’s body toward the open end of the terminal. Metal squealed against metal. A large shape filled the station, long and rectangular. The angel lifted his legs and hips and dragged his lower body onto a small platform.
A motor whirred. His body started in motion, sideward. His head skipped along the floor toward the end of the building, picking up speed as if the angel was trying to take flight but couldn’t get airborne. He was accelerating, his head bouncing toward an imminent collision with the terminal wall. The angel loosened her grip on his legs, grabbed his collar, and rolled back raising him up. “Help me Moyer,” she said. “Sit up!” Moyer did, unsure how this would help the angel fly. He tumbled forward and fell atop her. She moaned in pain.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” Moyer said. A cold breeze lashed his skin. Darkness gave way to the Prussian blue blanket of the night sky dusted with glittering stars. He was in motion, but getting no closer to heaven. Had he blown his chance, been too weak and clumsy to help the servant God sent for him? Yellow street lights faded into the distance. The angel panted next to him as Moyer drifted back into the soft arms of unconsciousness.
“Moyer!” she screamed. “Stay awake. Stay with me.”
She had tried so hard to save him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered before drifting into the bottomless black pit waiting to receive him.
Chapter 44
Tuesday, 9 April
Robyn called to Armal Connors in his bed, “Please, I need you to hitch up the wagon. Moyer is dying.”
Armal squinted at her, groggy and disoriented. “Leave the candle and load the wagon with pillows and blankets,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the barn in a few minutes.”
Robyn stripped the bedding from her mattress and carried the blankets and pillows down to the barn. She arranged them in a corner of the wagon while Armal dressed. She fetched a pair of horses sleeping in the pasture and led them into the barn, positioning them under the yokes and facing the big doors. Armal entered as she was removing the tack from pegs on the wall. He took the bridles and reins from her, and handed her a candle. Armal’s hands moved expertly along the leather straps and over the backs and necks of the horses. “Where is he?”
“I left him on the platform at the station. He’s too heavy for me,” she said.
“You went into the city, didn’t you?”
Robyn didn’t answer.
“That was a foolish thing to do in your condition.” He cinched the harnesses tight and gave them a tug to assure they were secure. “Do you need help getting in?”
Robyn shook her head and hopped her rump up into the bed of the wagon and clumsily rolled to her side to clear her legs. Dull, blunt pain rolled across her stomach. Robyn gritted her teeth until it passed. A wave of concern knitted Armal’s brow when he saw her face. “Are you okay?”
Robyn nodded. “Please, just hurry.”
Armal opened the barn doors and blew out the candle before mounting the wagon. Dogs howled in the distance. Robyn prayed they weren’t too late. Out in the open and unconscious, Moyer was easy pickings for anything looking for a meal.
A dark shape rested motionless on the station platform. As they neared, Robyn could tell Moyer hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. Armal jumped down from the seat and ran up the platform steps. He rolled Moyer to his back, pressed his ear to Moyer’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. Robyn spread the blankets and positioned the pillows in the bed of the buckboard unsure if they would be transporting the father of her child or a corpse.
“He’s alive,” Armal announced. He scooped his arms under Moyer’s neck and knees and lifted his limp body. Armal quickly descended the stairs and loaded Moyer into the wagon. Robyn read the fear on his face. She lay down next to her husband pressing herself along the contours of his body to warm him. She wrapped the blankets around both of them. His skin was cold as glass. Armal didn’t need urging to push the horses faster on the way back to the house.
Another wave of pain rippled through Robyn’s lower belly. A rush of heat gushed from between her legs. When she reached down and her dress was soaked, she screamed. “Something is wrong. I’m bleeding!” Armal turned in his seat and glanced back. Robyn held her hand to her face, expecting it to be stained dark with blood. It wasn’t. Yet her dread wouldn’t subside. If it wasn’t blood, what was it? Something was wrong. Then she remembered what Betsy had told her about childbirth. Her water had broken. Her child was on its way. Another pulse of pain struck, sharper and more prolonged. She groaned. Armal pushed the horses faster. The wagon jolted side to side with every bump and pothole.
Weak orange light filtered through the windows of the Connors’ house as the wagon approached. Betsy was awake. Armal had the horses at a gallop and the wagon careened through the darkness up the final hill. He turned the wagon toward the house and eased the horses to a stop beside the front porch. “Stay put,” Armal said as he lifted Moyer’s body from the wagon. “I’ll be back for you in a minute.”
Robyn eased her way to the edge of the wagon bed and slipped to the ground. She followed Armal as he carried Moyer up the stairs and into the house. Robyn got as far as the porch before she doubled over in pain and fell to her knees. She crawled to the door and used the frame to climb to her feet.
Upstairs, Armal and Betsy spoke. Robyn couldn’t hear the words, though she recognized the panic in their voices. Robyn pulled herself up the stairs leaning heavily on the banister.
In their room, Moyer lay motionless on the bed. Armal heard Robyn enter and gave her a disapproving look. “I told you to stay put. You are in no condition to be moving around.”
Robyn sat on the edge of the mattress. She peeled the gold cap from Moyer’s head and stroked his hair. It was sodden and cold, his face ashen. His eyelids hung half open, and beneath them, his eyes appeared blank and lifeless, as if the worst had already happened. “He’s dying. Please do something,” she begged.
Armal left the room. Robyn placed her head on Moyer’s bare chest. His breathing was raspy and wet, his heartbeat fast and shallow.
“We have medicine from the city. Armal’s gone for it.” Betsy’s tone was assuring, her eyes placid. It angered Robyn. How could she look at Moyer and not be terrified? How could Betsy show no more compassion for Moyer than she would for one of her goats?
Betsy’s eyes drifted down to the dark stain on the front of Robyn’s dress. “Your water has broken. How far apart are your contractions?”
The piston-like clops of Armal’s boots ascending the stairs drew Robyn’s attention away from Betsy. Armal held a syringe half filled with a translucent white liquid.
“What is that?” Robyn asked.
“It’s a broad spectrum anti-biotic,” Armal said.
“Will it cure him?”
Armal’s mouth tightened and Robyn realized there was no guarantee. “I think he has pneumonia,” Armal said. “Even if he doesn’t, this is all we have, this and prayer. He’
ll either get better or he won’t.” He jabbed the needle into the meat of Moyer’s arm and pressed the plunger down.
Robyn nestled next to her husband and spoke of plans for their new house. Brother Duffy said construction would commence at the end of the month. Wood cut in the fall had seasoned over the winter. She talked about how their child would look when it was born, how she wanted it to have his dark looks and even temperament.
She feared if she stopped, Moyer would die, and all the while dreaded her words were falling on the deaf ears of a corpse. When the dread became unbearable, she’d stop, rest an ear against his chest and pray for a heartbeat.
Betsy poked her head into the room when the next contraction wracked Robyn. Betsy took her by the arm and tried to lift her from the bed. “Your baby is coming. Come with me.”
“I’m not leaving Moyer.”
Betsy’s face grew stern. “You have to look after your baby now and trust your husband to God.” She led Robyn toward the stairs. When Robyn buckled under another contraction, Betsy changed course down the hall instead. She opened one of the bedroom doors and rousted Joshua from his sleep. “You’ll need to sleep downstairs,” she told him, “and tell your father to heat some water.”
On the third day of Moyer’s coma, they ran out of antibiotic. Moyer’s color had returned, though he had yet to regain consciousness. Armal sent men into the city with canned jam and fresh meat to barter for more medicine. When they returned, they brought news that Viktor Perko was dead. Chief Financial Officer Rance Huber had assumed the reins of Hogan-Perko for the time being.
They found no information about whether Moyer had been successful destroying the Worm, but it no longer seemed to matter. People were slowly regaining their overwritten memories. The effects weren’t permanent. And rage was building into a storm over the fact that the Worm had been inflicted on the populace and killed so many. Riots had broken out. Buildings had been burned including NNI and Digi-Soft in CapitalCity. Security Services was dispatched, but were so overwhelmed they backed away and could do nothing more than watch.
Saturday, 6 April
Moyer woke on the fourth day after being rescued from the station house. His eyes darted around the room, momentarily confused by his surroundings. Brothers Duffy and Connors hung over his bed.
“How long have I been out?”
“Four days,” Armal said. “And it was touch and go for a while.”
“Did I miss much?”
“That you have,” Armal said. “The world has changed while you were asleep. The beginning of our salvation and our troubles may have just taken root.”
Moyer scanned the faces hovering over his bed. “Where is Robyn?”
Armal Connors and Brother Duffy exchanged glances. It was Armal who spoke. “I have bad news.”
Moyer’s heart sank. He flashed to the woman, Margret, from the church, her smile — a mix of pride and joy, her eager eyes and her willingness to share. And he remembered the way he felt that first day at the Connors’ dinner table when he learned she and her baby had died.
“You were unconscious when your wife went into labor,” Armal said. “And I’m sad to say you completely missed out on the birth of your first child.”
“How is Robyn?”
Armal’s face broke into a broad grin. “Mother and child are doing fine.”
From somewhere deep within the house, a woman’s voice called out, “He’s awake.” It was Betsy Connors. Minutes later, Betsy led Robyn into the room supporting her at the elbow. Cradled in Robyn’s arms was a baby swaddled in a blanket, tawny skinned with a shock of fine black hair standing on end. Robyn eased onto the edge of the bed with a smile on her face. She settled their child in Moyer’s arms.
“It’s a boy,” she said. “I was going to name him after the Judge and Brother Nastasi, but it’s quite a mouthful. I thought I’d wait until you could help me with it.”
The baby squirmed and nestled against Moyer’s skin. An odd tingle played inside Moyer’s chest, a mix of excitement and pride.
Moyer’s father once said, if a man wanted to know who he was, all he had to do was look at where he was and what he was doing and he would know. As Moyer looked into the faces of his neighbors and friends, he knew he was part of a community. When he saw the relief and joy on Robyn’s face, he knew he was loved. And as his son settled to sleep on his chest, he knew he was a father, and that he mattered. If his parents could see him now, he knew they’d be proud.
About the Author
Mark Souza lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, two children, and mongrel beast-dog, Tater. When he’s not writing, he can be found at the golf course (swearing), or hiding in his corporate cubical like a caged badger awaiting the end of the workday.
Connect With Mark Souza Online:
My Website: http://www.marksouza.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/souzawrites
A collection of my short stories, Try 2 Stop Me, will be released in September of 2012
Robyn’s Egg Tidbits
Robyn’s Egg started as a short story. Initially it was the portion of Chapter 1 where Moyer and Robyn argue over the net bill. My wife read it and convinced me there was too much material for just a short story. She recommended I keep on writing.
George Orwell did a masterful job in his novel 1984 warning against the rise of oppressive, fascist, military governments and how the future might look if they took control. 1984 was a natural outgrowth of the time in which it was written; Nazi Germany had only recently been defeated, Benito Mussolini had been freshly cut down from the gallows, and the Soviet Union’s Joseph Stalin was loudly rattling his atomic saber.
Since then, the complexion of the world has changed greatly. The Soviet Union no longer exists. Russians now wear Levi’s, drink Coke, and attend rock concerts. The new entities vying for absolute control are corporations, and they have successfully entwined their fingers into every aspect of government, manipulating senators, congressmen, and even presidents like marionettes. It occurred to me that corporate government has become a much greater threat than fascism.
Though set in the future, I tried to keep circumstances rooted closely enough to the present that readers would be able to build a bridge between current times and the future world of Robyn and Moyer, so they might realize that it may not be that big a stretch and we are already part way there.
A news story ran while I was writing Robyn’s Egg about work conditions in some Chinese factories. Workers, usually young women, were being signed to long term contracts as indentured labor working extreme hours, performing mind numbing repetitive tasks thousands of times a day - making the same solder, or the popping the same rivet month after month. They bunked eight or more to a room within factory housing. Workers commonly became despondent enough to attempt suicide - jumping from the factory roof being the method of choice. The factories responded by installing nets between buildings to safely catch suicidal workers` before they hit the street. That part of the story was already a sad reality.
