Jack Kilborn - Endurance

“I dunno. Maybe he’s okay. Did you see the cat kill him?”

“No.”

“Then maybe he got away. He saved our lives, Kelly.”

She hoped Cam was right. And then, on a wild impulse, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

The first boy I ever kissed.

“What’s that for?” Cam asked.

“For keeping me safe.”

Then Kelly closed her eyes. She was cold, frightened, hurt, worried out of her mind for those she loved. But resting on Cam’s shoulder, his strong arm around her, Kelly somehow was able to fall asleep.

# # #

Florence Pillsbury had seen death. She’d seen it up close and personal. Messy, terrible death. Quiet, peaceful death. Death by war and disease and famine and disaster.

She didn’t fear death. Death was part of life.

Florence knew she’d had a good life. She’d seen things. Done things. Raised a terrific daughter. Lived to the fullest, and cherished every day.

Now, it had all come down to this. All of her years of work, and wisdom, and experience, were reduced to this one, penultimate moment.

I will not let any of these bastards get my family.

The first freak lurched forward, waving his arms, howling through a deformed mouth.

Florence drove her knife into his throat.

Two more came.

She slashed at their faces, their hands. Kicked one away. Stabbed the other in the heart.

Three more came.

Another jab in the throat. A punch in the face. A kick between the legs. Two more swipes of the blade.

Three more came.

Florence backed up. She bent down, took a handful of dirt, threw it in their faces. Slashed one. Punched one. Kicked one. Stabbed another that had gotten back up.

Four more came.

Florence hacked and poked and pushed, and their precious blood poured from their wounds.

You won’t get my family.

The freaks formed a half-circle around Florence, closing in. Some had weapons. Knives. Sticks. A pitchfork.

Florence advanced, hyper-focused, letting one of them stab her in the arm so she could slash his throat and take his knife. With blades in both hands, she backed them up, cutting off the fingers that reached for her, poking at them superficially, hoping their hemophelia would prove fatal.

And the bodies began to pile up. Five. Seven. Ten.

But more kept coming. A seemingly endless army of mutants. Florence was finding it harder to lift her injured arm. She chanced a look and saw the wound was bad.

Then the pitchfork hit her in the stomach.

Florence dropped both knives, grabbing the handle of the pitchfork, pulling it away from its owner. She spun it around, jabbing everything that moved. The horde backed away, staying out of range. There were still at least a dozen left.

Florence advanced again, but felt something rip in her belly. She knew what it meant.

My injury is fatal.

I’m dead.

I don’t have long left.

The old woman ground her teeth together.

But you still won’t get my family.

More freaks came in. With more weapons.

Florence limped into the fray. She kicked until she had no energy to kick anymore. She jabbed at everything that moved, jabbed as her insides burned and twisted, jabbed until her entire universe was reduced to one overpowering thought:

YOU! WILL! NOT! GET! MY! FAMILY!

And they fell. One by one they fell. Eleanor’s terrible progeny. The killers of countless innocents. Florence stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, and then she upgraded the pitchfork to a machete and chopped at the monsters until there was nothing left but a gigantic pile of lifeless, misshapen flesh.

Then, clutching her stomach, Florence collapsed onto the ground.

She was light-headed. And cold. So cold.

The first symptoms of shock.

But it’s okay. I did it.

They’re safe.

My family is safe.

Goodbye, Letti.

Goodbye, Kelly.

I love you both so very much.

“Well, lookee what we got here.”

Florence glanced up. The man who spoke was massive, wearing some sort of padded body suit. Long gray hair poked through the football helmet on his head.

“Y’all do this by yourself, old lady? Shee-it. Momma gonna be upset. Now she gonna have to start all over again.”

The man reached down and took the machete from Florence. She didn’t have the strength to fight him.

“You must be one tough ole bird. Y’all know what we do to old birds ‘round these parts? We cut off their heads ‘n cook ‘em up in a soup.”

The man cackled, raising the machete.

“What’s your name?” Florence asked. It took practically the last of her energy to speak.

“Millard Fillmore Roosevelt,” he said proudly.

“Well, Millard Fillmore Roosevelt. I have a daughter. Her name is Letti.” Florence smiled at the man. “And my Letti is going to fuck you up so bad your momma won’t recognize your dead body.”

And then Florence laughed. She laughed so deeply and heartily that she didn’t feel a thing when Millard chopped off her head.

# # #

Letti was torn between worrying about her mother, worrying about her daughter, and worrying about herself.

Mal led the way through the luggage maze, using his cell phone’s screen to illuminate the pathway. The smell started off bad, and then got worse. Letti held her nose and stepped carefully; she didn’t have shoes on.

Kelly got away. And any second now, Mom will be coming up behind us.

Irrational as it was, she kept repeating it in her head, over and over.

“Are you okay?” Deb, the one with the artificial legs, whispered to Letti.

“I’ll manage.”

“You’re Letti, right? I’m Deb. Your mother was a very brave woman.”

Letti noted Deb’s use of the past tense, but she didn’t contradict it.

“I have to find my daughter.”

“We’ll find her.”

We’ll find her any second now.

“Oh, shit.” Mal called back to them. “Ladies, we’ve got a lot of dead bodies up here. And some rats.”

Letti looked down at her bare feet.

“How many rats?” Letti asked.

She found out a moment later. They stampeded her way, covering the ground like a moving, squealing blanket. Letti tried to stay calm, but once the first one ran over her naked toes she freaked out and began to run forward. Within seconds, she caught up to Mal, who was so startled by her he dropped his phone.

The room blinked into darkness. A rat hopped onto Letti’s calf, and she flung it off, backing away, stepping on—

“Jesus!”

The pain rocketed up through Letti’s foot, making her fall onto her butt.

The rats swarmed on her.

Little feet and greasy fur and rubbery tails soon covered every inch of her body. They climbed up her shirt. They got in her hair. Letti squeezed her eyes and mouth closed and kept absolutely still, even though her every nerve told her to start screaming and slapping them off.

Don’t attack them, and they won’t bite.

It seemed like an eternity, but the rats eventually climbed off, continuing on their way. Except for the one tangled in her hair. Letti bit her lower lip and grabbed it behind the head. Then she gently pulled it free and tossed it into the darkness.

The cell phone light came back on, and Mal knelt next to her.

“Oh, shit.”

“I’ve got something in my foot,” Letti said.

He shined the phone’s screen at her legs, and Letti saw what she’d stepped on.

A skeletal hand. One of the finger bones is sticking through my arch.

“I got it,” Deb said. Without warning, she yanked the old bone free.

Letti bled like wine being poured.