Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

That night, Gibson and Julia slept on a small hill thick with pine trees, the fallen needles soft beneath their bodies. Occasionally, they saw flashes of lights in the distance, where the Hubal attacked more people gathered dangerously, plotting against them, perhaps, but more likely seeking simple companionship.

They walked slowly most of the next day, taking frequent breaks so that Julia could rest. At one point, Gibson caught a crippled rabbit, a small dirty stump were a forepaw had been, and roasted it on a coat hanger spit over hot coals. He boiled enough water for the rest of that day, letting it cool before they continued on. They arrived at Julia’s farm, the place she’d grown up, shortly before sunset.

There was nothing left, save for misshapen hunks of metal that had once been tractors and pick-ups, and the jagged cement bases of a silo, house and barn.

Julia stepped carefully through the area. “There’s nothing here,” she said. “Nothing.”

Gibson put his arm around her as she cried. When she was done, she looked up at him. “Something’s happening,” she said, beads of sweat springing to her forehead. “Something’s going on with the baby.” She wrapped her arms around her abdomen. “Jesus, it hurts.”

Gibson looked around for something — anything — that might help. “Get up,” he said, helping her to her feet. “We need to get out of this ash. Where’s the cave you mentioned?”

She lifted her hand weakly and pointed to the rough limestone surface of a nearby bluff. Dusk threw long shadows across it. They took a few steps and Julia gasped, clutching her stomach. “Oh, geez.”

“Just a little further,” he said. He looked toward the rocky surface of the bluff, trying to figure out which of the shadows hid the cave’s entrance. Something flickered within. Gibson froze. “Wait.”

Julia looked up as a woman emerged from the rock, carrying a torch in one hand, a stone in the other.

“Stay away,” the woman said.

“She needs a place to lie down,” Gibson said. “She’s giving birth.”

The woman squinted, raising her torch. “Oh, my.” She dropped the stone. “Beth! Get out here. Someone’s about to have a baby right here in front of me.”

Julie fell to her knees. The woman rushed toward her, shoving the end of the torch into the dirt. “Beth!”

She was older — fiftyish, Gibson thought. A younger woman appeared next to her, eyeing Gibson with fear.

The older one smiled as she carefully slid down Julia’s too-large pants. “What’s your name?”

“Julia,” she gasped.

“I’m Nancy. This here’s my daughter, Beth. I’ve delivered before, so don’t you worry.” She nodded at Gibson, eyes remaining on Julia. “He ain’t a shiner, is he?”

Gibson stepped forward into the torchlight. “Gibson,” he said. “Named after the guitar.”

“Guitar?” Nancy said.

Julia said, “He’s okay.”

Nancy asked, “You the father?”

“No,” Gibson said.

“Well, give us some privacy, then.”

“Can’t I help?”

“Help by getting out of my light.”

While Nancy gave Beth instructions, Gibson backed away. Above, clouds darted back and forth across the moon. A black mass of them edged closer, obliterating the stars, sparks of light dancing within. Gibson rocked back and forth on his heels, watching. He felt Beth staring at him.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she asked, slowly standing.

Nancy looked up at her daughter. “Get down here. I need you.”

“He’s one of them,” Beth said, pointing at Gibson. “He’s a shiner. Look at the sky!”

“No,” Gibson said, stepping back.

“Beth, I need you. The baby’s coming.”

Julia screamed. Beth squatted next to her head, wiping the sweat away with her shirtsleeve.

“That’s right,” Nancy said. “Push, honey. Push .”

“It hurts,” Julia cried.

“Scream, then. Get it out,” Nancy said. Then, “Push!” Then, “Here she comes!”

“A girl?” Julia panted.

“A beautiful girl,” Nancy said.

Something sparked and flashed above.

Gibson took a step closer to the women.

“Stay away!” Beth shouted.

Gibson realized the baby wasn’t crying.

Static played with the ends of his hair.

“Is the baby okay?” he asked.

“Is she?” Julia asked.

Beth’s attention turned to the baby in Nancy’s arm. Nancy rubbed the baby’s skin with her thumb.

Gibson stepped closer.

“Let me see my baby,” Julia said, her face flush, hair soaked with sweat.

“She needs attending to, first,” Nancy said.

Gibson looked down at the baby. A beautiful girl.

But she was gulping at the air, fighting to inhale.

Nancy and Beth tended frantically to the child, Beth wiping away amniotic fluid and blood, Nancy swiping a finger into the child’s mouth.

“What’s happening?” Julia asked.

Gibson kneeled next to Julia’s head, caressing her cheek. “Shhh. She’s in good hands.”

Then Nancy said, “Oh, dear God.”

Beth screamed.

Julia struggled to push herself up on her elbows, tried to look between her upraised knees. “Jesus, what’s happening ?”

Gibson heard a cry. The baby .

“Run!” Nancy said. “Run, Beth!”

The baby cried again.

“Let me see her!” Julia demanded.

Nancy shook as she slowly rose with the baby. The torchlight flickered off the woman’s face.

And another light, as well.

She bent over and carefully placed the baby in Julia’s arms. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered. Then she rose. “I’m sorry.” She turned and jogged toward the face of the bluff and disappeared within the dark folds.

Again, the baby cried. As the glow intensified within her and seeped from her widening mouth toward the waiting clouds, Gibson said, “She has your eyes.”

Julia nodded, sobbing, holding her child tightly. “Stay with me,” she said.

Gibson stayed and stroked Julia’s forehead, even as the light within the baby intensified and shot skyward. Even as the clouds above answered with a light of their own, and the world around them turned explosively from night to blinding day.

He carried Amy into the narrow, rough-hewn tunnel. Graffiti marred the entrance; epithets spray-painted crudely in Spanish. A trail of crushed beer cans, empty tequila and rum bottles, disappeared into the darkness. They passed an abandoned fire-pit. A quilt of yellow fur, bone and gristle rippled with maggots. His shoes splashed through ankle-deep water.

Amy felt like papier-mâché in his arms. She’d grown so thin. So pale. The soft fuzz of new hair was reddish-blond now, instead of the caramel luster it used to be.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Dad?”

“Sssshhh. Yes, hon?”

“Where are we?”

Luke’s chest hurt, his back and shoulders. “Mexico.”

“I know, but where?”

For such a slight thing, she’d grown so heavy in his arms. But he feared that the stagnant water at his feet wasn’t clean. Full of parasites, or something worse that might wreak havoc on her already ravaged immune system.

“A tunnel,” he said. “Outside Guanajuato.” He stopped. He had to set her down. “Reach around in my backpack and pull out the plastic bags. They should be near the top. Put them over your shoes.”

“Why?”

“To keep your feet dry. I can’t carry you anymore.”

“You’re not wearing any.”

“Please. Just do as I say.”

“I want to go home.”

“I do, too.”

She pulled the bags from his pack and slipped them over her shoes, then slid from his arms into the stagnant, murky water at their feet.