Marisa

1

Shortly after midnight, barefoot and clutching her coat tight at the collar, Marisa bowed her head to evade the steady rain.

She picked her way carefully across the field, trying to avoid the slight, smooth lumps huddled here, crumpled there. The dim light of the angry moon was reflected in the arc of their simple curves. A hip here. A shoulder there. She trembled as she walked, tried not to think of them as human. She tried not to think of them as children.

Gaseous bubbles rippled and broke the surface of oily puddles in the pock-marked mud. With each step her feet sank into the muck, then sluiced out, releasing the stench of death. She tried at first to hold her breath, turning her head away to gulp fresh air, but soon there was no place to turn. Then she peered straight ahead, focused grimly on where she imagined the far end of the field was, with grit that had been children, babies oozing beneath her feet.

When it was not gritty, when it was smooth, soupy mud, she felt almost fortunate. At those times she could transport herself to a happier time, her skinny little-girl legs carrying her across a sodden lawn or wading across a stream with a slushy bottom.

But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t. The soupy mud here used to be children too, their bones, their viscera, their excrement, whatever they’d just eaten before they were rounded up and brought here. The field had been here for over 80 years, since the beginning of the endless rains, and the Collective added to it daily.

Often beneath her feet was something recent, perhaps gritty soaked cloth or slick smooth flesh. Other times it was older, but horribly recognizable as rotting muscle or a jagged fragment of a snapped shinbone. There were many of those. When the excess children wouldn’t go willingly, their shins were broken with an iron bar and they were dropped from transports.

She shuddered and shoved all the thoughts aside save one: Each step I’m closer. It can’t go on forever. Just keep walking. Just keep— Oh dear god!

Under her unrelenting foot, decaying flesh had sluiced away, stripped from young bone. Oh dear god! She had ripped the muscle from the bone of a dead child. Horror rose in her throat. She clenched her jaws tightly together, arresting a scream, and forced herself not to look down. She hurried forward to step off the child. She hurried forward and— A thin, fragile bone snapped. Her eyes grew wide and she ran, screaming, her coat whipped back off her shoulders by the wind and rain, her arms flailing.

Many nights she’d been awakened by a mad scream from the darkness, a long, drawn-out scream beat into a pattern by the never-ending rain. Now she knew the source. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! She prayed to the child who was beyond all harm but whom she had harmed anyway and she prayed to the women, the mothers, lying awake in the dark back in the camp shivering at the volume and pitch of her horror. They couldn’t know what had caused that scream and they couldn’t know the reality was far worse than anything they could conjure.

The Good Guilt settled over her and brought with it the thought that The child might have been one of theirs, and the thought pulsed and throbbed and strained against the inside of her skull and she didn’t want it to fade because It really might have been one of theirs and if It might have been one of theirs and It might have been one of theirs and It might have been one of theirs maybe there was less chance it was one of her own.

The rain battered her hair, her face and breasts, plastered her homemade dress roughly to her skin. To her left, a shadow rose, fluctuated, pulsed, flung itself across her path, became just more darkness as she sped across it. Another on her left arose, another on her right, another, another, another up from the lifeless muck, all remains of children, she imagined, all riven and ripped and torn and stretched into the thin, stark darkness of death.

Through the putrid, lifeless air they paced her, strained for her, clawed at her then simpered away to nothing but a lack of light, a shadow, a vapor, a fear. She ran hard from death to terror, horror to hell, remembering, depending on remembering, The dead are dead and I am alive. I am alive. I am alive. She ran and strained to peer through the darkness, the pounding, relentless rain, the stench. The brush that marked the far edge of the field was closer. She leaned into the driving rain, running hard, striving for that imaginary line. If only I can reach—

And something encircled her waist, lifted her in mid-stride.

A meaty hand that smelled of grime and sweat clamped over her mouth as if the dead might hear her scream. It jerked her back and to the side just as a massive shadow flashed past.

A long, low, menacing growl crept through the miserable night, was cut short by a thump.

Hot breath bathed her ear. “‘Twas a wolf. Jesse got ‘im.”

She kicked at him, hard, and her feet tangled.

2

Tangled? She kicked again and connected, but— Something’s tangled, twisted... trapped. Trapped! Trapped! And she twisted too, sideways, and kicked hard again and nothing was there and she sat bolt upright in bed, her breath coming in gasps. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” She ran a hand over her forehead, making sure she was there, raking her hair away with her fingers. She remembered, looked at a broad mirror. “Jesus! Did you see that? Did you get all of that?”

A calm, disembodied voice came through a speaker in the ceiling. “We got it, Marisa. Quite a trip, eh?”

She pointed at the mirror, her arm stiff, her heart still hammering inside her chest. “Never! I will never go through that again, do we understand each other?” She flung the sheet back, stood, paced across the room. “You put me through that again, I’ll bring this damn place down around your ears! I’ll find a way!”

The disembodied voice remained calm. “Don’t threaten now, love. You’re worth far more than a dime a dozen, but we both know you aren’t a buck apiece either. Let’s not get carried away.”

She turned away and took her robe from a hook on the wall. “Well... yeah... I’m just sayin’, that was some seriously ugly action.”

The shrug came through in his voice. “It’s what they want nowadays.”

“Yeah? Well they are psycho whoever they are. Fields full of dead children? Seriously? In layers, for Christ’s sake? Jesus! Not exactly a Mayday festival is it?”

“Just a new thing, love. Probably an extension of the zombie stuff. They stay dead, but they’re children, acres and acres of them.”

“Cubed!”

He sighed. “Yes, yes, all right, cubed. Whatever you need, Marisa. Eighty years wide, eighty years long, eighty years deep, all gaseous and bubbling to the surface and stinking up the place. That satisfy you, dear?”

“You’re an asshole, you know that? But yeah, I saw the stuff about eighty years... or heard it. What’s the significance?”

A different voice came through, a younger voice, although still male. “Time since the invasion. The invasion happened just over eighty years ago, okay? One, the invaders, being a far superior race to your—to our own, don’t waste resources, and able-bodied humans and other animals are resources. So they use the able-bodied whatevers.

“Two, the aged and infirm are not resources, meaning they don’t work well enough or long enough to justify expending other resources on them—food and water, for example, or lodging and utilities—so the masters dispose of them.

“And three—”

“Seriously? You’re not about to refer to children—babies—as a resource are you? As what? Paving material?”

The younger voice continued in the same condescending tone. “Nooo, those are non-resources as well—again, meaning they don’t work well enough or long enough to justify expending other resources on them. They also divert the attention of the actual resources, the adult, able-bodied males and females. So as I was saying, three, anything that diverts the attention of the resource from its primary responsibility must necessarily be removed. And anyone with a brain would know it.

“Now those children and babies, as you call them—and I should tell you, I’ve noted that you refer to them by those archaic, emotion-laden terms—they not only divert the attention of the resource, but they serve as parasites, actually acting as an emotional, mental and physical power drain on adult males and females. A mother who’s watching after an infant won’t spend as much time in the mines, now will she? Given that the infant will never reach maturity, that’s a double waste of resources. And a father who has a child is constantly plotting how to give that child a future. And again, given that the child will never reach maturity, they have no future.”

She stared at the mirror. “Jesus Christ! What are you people talking about? Parasites? They have no future? This is just a game we’re creating here, right? A new toy for gamers?”

The younger voice assumed a tone of long-suffering patience. “You’ve made an extremely good living off this ‘toy,’ as you call it. You certainly don’t seem to mind cashing your paychecks. You might consider getting on board with the program around here.

“And yes, they’re parasites. Nothing more. As our First Glorious Emperor and his Enigmatic Surround plainly illustrated in the early 21st century, fetuses, as they used to call the bloodsucking, nutrient-leeching mini-monsters, are not even really human, remember? It’s why anyone with a uterus can have it scraped clean of what amounts to a human tick without a hint of a moral or legal quandary. It really was a very small step after that to recognize an entity as human only after it achieved puberty.” His voice took on a sardonic hint of humor. “As ironic as that sounds. Am I right or am I right?”

She screamed at the mirror, “I am an ac-tor you morons! I’m playing a role! And frankly, putting up with shit like that last scene, I’m seriously considering quitting! Either that or demanding a substantial raise! As for the rest of that idiocy, it’s so incredibly asinine I won’t even lower myself to comment.”

An unidentifiable grunt-like sound came over the speaker, interrupted by a pop as if a microphone had been turned off.

The original voice came back. “Marisa, love, you’re getting sidetracked. Our friend here didn’t mean to steer you so far off-topic. The point is, at least for you and your role, this is a game, or a ‘toy for gamers’ as you called it. I rather like that description. Anyway, remember the First Rule of our omnipotent Glorious Emperor: It Is What It Is.

“Now in our business and in your job, who or what the invaders are killing off or using or not using as resources really is not important, is it? No. What is important is simply that you understand It Is What It Is. If you thought those lumps in the field were anything other than children of various ages and in various stages of decomposition, would you, personally, with your history, be as morally outraged and frightened and angry as you are? Would you have fought the rain and the wind so stringently? Would you have run as hard or with such abandon? Of course not. And your unique, very talented expression of that moral outrage and fear and anger is exactly why you’re being paid. It’s why you were chosen to be the actor on this important project. Okay? We all right here now?”

Marisa nodded. “I guess. Look, I really need a cigarette. Can we take a few minutes? I really think I’ll be fine once I have a cigarette.”

“Sure. I’ll have a man bring them in. Please remain on the far side of the room with it so it will be vented properly.”

The door opened and a slight man slipped Marisa a cigarette that was already lighted.

She took it, nodded at him and took a long drag as he exited. The lock clicked into place.

The elder voice continued. “Back on the children for just a moment, Marisa, because it really is important that you understand and are on-board with the concept. But again, it’s only a game, okay? I know that’s important to you, so I want you to hold onto that, okay?”

She took another drag of the cigarette and nodded.

“Thing is, like our friend here said, the invaders do feel they have to remove the children because they’re both a diversion and a drain on the primary resource, but also—and I think this will make everything considerably clearer for you, so maybe it will make a little more sense—if they didn’t destroy the children they themselves would be keeping alive a threat to their own existence on this planet. See? You yourself know that history is filled with instances of children coming back to wreak vengeance for their fathers and grandfathers. And wouldn’t you agree that this whole scenario should be as realistic as possible?”

Marisa was standing with her left arm across her waist, her palm up. She was holding the cigarette between the index finger and the middle finger of her right hand, and her right elbow was supported by her left hand. She looked at the floor for a moment and shook her head lightly, then looked up, took a drag from the cigarette, and exhaled it toward the mirror. “You bastards truly are sick.”

The younger voice came back. “Labels. Sick to one is a goldmine to another. You sound a little cranky, Marisa. Perhaps you need a nap. Disrobe and move to the bed, please.”

“No! Not yet. I mean, no, please. I don’t wanna go back there yet. I didn’t mean it. I was just... you know, kind’a shocked. Like why’s it gotta be babies?” Her head snapped to the right. “Why’s— why’s it— why’s it gotta be— I... I lost so much! Why’s it gotta be—”

On the other side of the mirror, Charles Draper looked at Orfren. “Ah damnit. She’s losing it. I say we give her a quarter-dose. Maybe keep her on this side a little longer.”

The other nodded. “As you wish.”

Draper adjusted a joystick. In the room, a mosquito-size drone hovering near the overhead light canted slightly and fired a microscopic dart. It struck Marisa in the right temple.

Her head jerked again. She looked at the mirror. A slight frown crossed her face and disappeared. “Like you said, especially with my history, why’s it gotta be babies? Just so I run faster? C’mon!” She put both hands up as if to curtail their explanation. “But hey, it’s all right. I mean, it’s your story, so you should do it how you want, right?”

The younger voice came through again. “Right. That’s exactly right. Disrobe, please, and move back to the bed.”

She sneered at the mirror and mimicked him. “‘Disrobe please and move to the bed.’ Tell you what there, Thurston or Chad or whatever your Ivy-league upper-crust piece of shit name is, why don’t you come disrobe me and move me to the bed? C’mon! You afraid of a girl? Or you just afraid you won’t know what to do next?” She flipped the half-cigarette at the mirror. It hit, dropped to the floor, and disappeared in a flash of dust.

“Last chance, Marisa.”

The drone hovered near the overhead light again. It canted slightly and prepared to fire.

“Yeah, whatev—”

Marisa dropped, a second microscopic dart embedded in her right temple. This one carried a full dose.

The voice came through the speakers again. “Take her.”

Two men entered the room. One rolled Marissa onto her right side and removed her arm from the sleeve of the robe. Then the other rolled her the other direction and did the same for the left arm. The men stood, each took an arm, and dragged her up over the foot of the bed.

3

She struggled and kicked, hard.

The man tightened his grip. “Shh Missus! Hush now! It’s all right. You’re safe.”

She struggled and twisted, trying again to kick him. She strained to bite his hand, but his grip was too tight.

To get her attention, he tugged hard at her, his stubbled cheek against her neck. He whispered, “Wolves, Missus! Them big mutants! Hush now! There’s wolves!”

She froze.

Still carrying her, he backed away from the path, then turned and climbed a slight rise into a crown of brush. On the other side was a cave, the entrance of which was lit by a small fire. The clearing was guarded from the wind by heavy boulders and the surrounding brush.

Another man came through the brush on the right, dragging a wolf by its hind legs. “Big one this time, Sean. Must be forty inches around the neck.” He stopped suddenly, seemed to notice the woman for the first time. He pointed with a large stick that he carried like a club. “Whatcha got there then?” He leaned forward, peering at her, then straightened. “Is that the woman from the trail?”

“Aye, ‘tis her.”

“Reckon you might let her speak? We’re in no danger here.” He shifted his gaze to the woman. “Go on then. Who are’ya? What’re y’about?’

Sean said, “Oh, aye, aye. Only she would know that I suppose.” He loosened his grip on Marisa’s mouth a bit, then stopped. “I’m gonna let you go now, Missus, but don’t holler or yowl. You’ll have them wolves or worse down on us an’ we don’t need that. All right?”

She nodded.

He carefully set her on the ground, slowly removed his hand from her mouth, then released her waist.

She looked at the other man, who was still standing in front of her, gripping the wolf’s crossed back paws with his left hand. “You’d be Jesse then?” She blinked, for a moment wondering at her own accent.

He nodded. “Aye.”

She nodded slightly. “I’ll be thankin’ you for dullin’ that wolf. I assume that’s the one who came at me.”

“Yes’m, it was, but it might’ve been after anybody. They aren’t particular that way.”

“Well, all the same, I’m sayin’ I’m grateful.” She spun on the ball of her left foot, her right arm a flash, her finger stopping just before her captor’s nose. “And you! You so much as think of touchin’ me again I’ll rip pieces off you and use ‘em to bait those wolves!”

He backed up, his eyebrows arched. He grabbed his cap from his head and held it at his chest, as if hiding behind it. “I didn’t mean no harm, Missus! I was only—”

“No!” She wagged her finger. “Don’t say another word! Just don’t! Don’t.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I know now you meant no harm, but at that moment you were a ghost in flesh, a demon arisen to strip my bones and suck the marrow!” She stopped, took a deep breath, calmed her voice. “Well... a’course what I mean t’say is... thank you. I’m grateful t’you as well, truly. Only a word might have done as well as grabbin’ me up like luggage.”

“I— I mean... yes’m. My apologies, Missus.”

She looked at the ground for a moment, then back up at Sean. “Well, it ain’t missus, not no more. Just... I’m Marisa. I’m grateful for your help.”

“Yes’m.”

“You know where I’m comin’ from, don’t you?” She gestured with her chin. “The way back down there?”

“Yes’m. It’s the Mothers Camp, that one.”

Jesse said, “Now that’s not our business though, Missus, ever. Our only business was a woman and a wolf on the same trail at the same time and very nearly in the same space. But lookin’ back don’t help none. Fact is, in this moment you’re okay,” and he lifted the carcass a few inches, “and we got supper and a pelt.”

She nodded, glanced at the wolf. “I... well, I should be off then.”

Sean, his cap still in his hand, said, “Oh, no Missus— I mean, Marisa. You can stay here with us ‘til mornin’, I mean if you want. It ain’t safe the rest of the way to the borderlands, an’ you’ll be right as rain here... well, back when rain was clean an’ a good thing.”

She crossed her arms, her gaze locked on his.

“I mean we could see you safe to the borderlands tomorrow.” He glanced at Jesse. “Couldn’t we Jesse?”

“Aye, that we could. Very little on my schedule for tomorrow.” He laughed, enjoying his own stab at irony and his partner’s unease.

The skeptical look remained in Marisa’s eyes.

When Sean finally recognized it, his neck and face flushed red. “Oh! Oh, no Missus! We—well, we, by which I mean me an’ Jesse—we’ll be stayin’ outside on a warm night like this. I mean even if you wasn’t here we’d prob’ly be sleepin’ outside on this night.” He looked at Jesse, his eyes pleading. “Ain’t that right now, Jesse?” He looked at the woman again. “The cave is yours.” He looked at Jesse again.

Jesse laughed again. “It’s all right, Missus. Sean don’t mean no harm, an’ he prob’ly couldn’t do any if he did mean it. Ain’t got no harm in ‘im, that one don’t. You’ll be fine. You go on inside now, and get some rest. There’s a smaller room in the back on the left might suit your fancy. We’ll be right out here.”

She just looked at him.

He let the wolf carcass drop to the ground and fished in the pocket of his bulky coat. Finally he pulled out a short candle. He straightened the wick, then pulled a match from his pocket, struck it on the dry undersleeve of his coat, cupped it and lit the candle. Tentatively he reached it toward Marisa, one hand carefully guarding the flame.

Keeping her gaze on his face, she reached for it and held it gingerly at the base.

He said, “It ain’t much, I know, but it’ll last to get you into the back room.” He gestured. “Go on now... there’s a lass.”

She stepped sideways. “Thank you.” Then she turned and walked into the cave.

A small round table filled the center of the large room, and impressions in the soft floor showed where the men typically sat to eat or talk. In the back on the right was a makeshift mattress of branches covered with a remnant from a heavy plastic tarpaulin and a large old braid rug. What had been an old dresser was set against the wall next to the mattress. Where the drawers had been were makeshift shelves. The folded edges of clothing reflected the dim, flickering light of the candle.

In the back of the cave on the left was a small anteroom. What looked like a heavy pelt rug lay over an old foam mattress in the back. The air was stuffy but clean and the natural floor, to her surprise, had been swept clean of the small stones and dirt that tend to seep from the ground.

From a few pegs seated in the stone wall hung a light jacket, some heavy twill trousers and a few shirts. She spotted a carved-out niche. The top of it was slightly blackened. She dripped a bit of the melted wax off the top of the candle into the base of the niche, then set the candle in it.

She took off her coat and inspected it. Although it was still damp on the outside, the inside was almost dry. She lay on the pelt and pulled the coat snugly around her. She imagined the fur of the pelt was moving. It seemed almost to massage her calves and feet, soothing them, and soon she slipped into a fitful sleep.

Outside, Sean peeled away the upper half of his body suit and stretched in the rain. “That feels so good! I’d hate to be in that suit day-in, day-out like the humans are.”

Jesse looked at him. “You best hope she don’t come outta that cave anytime soon. You’re supposed to be one’a them humans, same as me, until Orfren says different.”

“Why are you worried? She’s in the pelt by now. It’ll calm her muscles and numb her mind and the next thing she knows she’ll be back in the camp with a different memory and an overpowering desire to escape.”

Jesse was nodding impatiently. “Yes, yes... if there ain’t no glitches.”

“There won’t be no glitches.”

4

In the discovery lab, Charles Draper looked up from his monitor. “Orfren, if I may, we need to be a bit more gentle with Marisa. Perhaps not bait her quite so much. She still believes she’s an actor and that we’re filming for a new game. If we want to continue our research without having to find another subject, we must allow her to keep that illusion.”

Orfren, standing before another bank of monitors several feet away, touched the translator on the side of his throat and moved the set of lips near the bottom of his face, the ones that most resembled human lips. “She passed me off. You—”

“Pissed.”

“What?”

“She pissed you off... not passed you off. Passed you off would be like she had you in her hand and she handed you to someone else surreptitiously to fool a third party into thinking she still had you. She pissed you off, meaning she made you borderline angry.”

“Okay, she pissed me off. Whatever. Now you’re pissing me off.”

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“You were being calm with her and she was taking advantage of you. It pissed me off so I spunked her a little.”

“Spanked her. You probably should leave the slang to me. At any rate, we need to treat her with kid gloves. Treat her gently. Not be so blunt with her.”

Orfren twisted his face into something that he thought resembled a smile. “You wish to mount her?”

“What? No! I wish to not have to find a replacement for her. I wish to let her finish the role we hired her to play. She’s the only one who’s been able to escape the camp in three directions. I’m just saying, for now we should go along, be nice to her, at least until she finds the fourth way. Then we won’t need her anymore.”

“All right. We’ll try it your way, but your concept of time has no meaning for us.” He moved his two front shoulders up in an approximation of a shrug. “The endless rains will continue over the field until we discover the fourth way, whether this Marisa woman finds it or her greatest-granddaughter finds it.”

“Great-granddaughter. Never mind... doesn’t matter. She won’t have a great-granddaughter anyway, remember? You killed her children.”

“Minutia, that. You know what I mean. Let’s just hope she finds the fourth way soon so we can be done with this chalet.”

“I think you mean charade.”

“Whatever.”

5

Asleep, Marisa shifted over onto her stomach. She watched as she stretched her feet, her legs, and frowned as she watched. Is it still a dream when you see yourself? Are there endless levels? Me watching me watching me watching me? She stretched again, tried again to feel the pelt, wanting to enjoy the sensation on her shins, but what had been the pelt was cool and smooth. The pelt is cool and smooth... the pelt is transformed. It must be a dream.

Charles pointed at the monitor. “Did you see that? Incredible! I think she remembers the pelt!” He looked at Orfren. “She shouldn’t remember the pelt, should she? She didn’t remember it the other times.”

“Who can say what a woman will remember. Let’s just watch. If we have to, we’ll terminate.”

Is it still a dream when you know it’s a dream, a fantasy, a game of escape?

“Orfren, who’s she talking to? Can’t be herself.”

Orfren’s voice was as condescending as before. “Who cares?”

Is it still a dream when you know the controllers are planting the dream, planting the setting, planting the Irish, the shadows, the snakes?

“Orfren, did you hear? She’s talking to us! She’s taunting us!”

“There’s no possible way the creature is even aware of—”

No way I’m aware of you, Our Friend?

“No way!” Orfren finally got a line of slang right.

N-no? N-no way? Is it still— still a dream when you’re forced— forced to sleep despite your wishes? Is it a dream— dream of bullies or is it a bully’s d-dream of you?

Sweat beads formed on Charles’ forehead. “Did you hear that? She knows we put her under! And she realized it while she’s under! This isn’t going to please the masters.”

“I am the masters, you idiot!” But Orfren was sweating too.

It’s all manip— nipulation. None of it’s a dream and it’s all a d-dream. The snakes are sticks and shadows. The shadows are voids, reflections. The bodies are smooth— smooth round lumps of mat— matter that resemble human tissue and that are— are human tissue. The controllers are controlled, planted, resemblance and tissue, clone and cotillion. Such fools they all are! Such fools!

Orfren said, “If she could open her eyes she might find the answer, but she will remain asleep, her eyes closed.”

If I could open my eyes I might find the an-answers, but I will remain asleep, my eyes closed. I will be standing on the po-porch of a house— our house, in a rural suburb. She giggled. Isn’t that redundant?

Suddenly she was standing on the front porch of their house in a rural suburb. Life was good. Herman had a strong job at the plant and he’d recently received a promotion to management.

Herman has a st-strong job at the plant. She started giggling. At the plant? Corn plant? Wheat plant? P-pigweed plant?

And their daughter was coming to visit.

Our daughter is coming to visit? She giggled again. Our daughter is coming to visit! Haha! Hoho! Heehee! The daughter will visit the pigweed plant! The daughter will visit the mommy dear! The daughter will visit... will visit... the daughter will visit... a t-tired, sad, strained, stretched-to-the-breaking-point, over— overwrought experiment in human psychology... inhuman psychology....

She laughed.

I laughed... it was funny... funny... inhuman psychological physiology, where every— everything is paradoxical parabola, sticks are s-snakes and shadows are voids and husbands are pig-pig-pig-pigweed and daughters visit decomposing children in depressingly re-redundant rural suburbs and p-plow through fields of horrible lumps where flesh sluices free of bone beneath unforgiving feet ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod!

“Jesus! Is she imploding? She seems fitful.”

Fitful? You want fitful? I’ll s-show you f-fitful!

“She seems to be coming out of it... and she seems to know she’s coming out of it.”

I seem to be coming out of it... out of what? And I s-seem to know I’m c-coming out of it... okay, so let’s get on with it... Marisa! Marisa! Open your eyes! Open your eyes! Marisa, open your stupid eyes!

She opened her eyes and sat up, gasping hard to catch her breath. Her palms were pressed hard against the mattress, her elbows locked. Mattress? She looked right for the rock wall, the candle, the clothes on pegs— It was all gone.

A nurse hurried in, sat on the edge of her bed, took her left hand, squeezed it gently. “Awww, another bad dream? I’m so sorry, dear.” She shook her head in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. These things happen. It’ll be better soon.”

Marisa’s eyes were wide. She leaned away, stared at the nurse. “How’d you— how’d you—” She shook her head, hard. “How’d you know? How’d you know I—”

The nurse reached across Marisa, picked up her right hand, in which Marisa was still clutching the call button. The woman smiled. “You called me.”

Marisa dropped the call button as if it were hot. “No! No, they— the controllers— the Collective—” She grabbed at the nurse’s wrist. “Gimme your pulse! Let me feel your pulse! I have to know you’re not a shadow! I have to know!”

The nurse gently pulled away, put her hands on Marisa’s shoulders and pressed her back. “Lie back now. Just rest.” She reached up to adjust the drip on the IV, then leaned over Marisa again to pull the sheet and the light blanket up over her chest. “Now dear, you have to rest. I promise, everything will be better when you’ve rested. You’ve been through a terrible trauma, losing your husband, your daughter, your baby son. It was a terrible accident.” She stroked Marisa’s forehead. Her eyes were kind.

Gentle... soft... rest....

“You’ll see. Everything’s going to be fine, Marisa. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Fine... fine.... Marisa nodded, her eyelids growing heavy. “No cave... no men... no shadows... no snakes....”

“No, Marisa... no cave, no men... no snakes, no wolves.”

Wolves? Wolves? Marisa struggled to open her eyes. She rocked her head to the side. “I... I didn’t tell you... wolves....” She sank into a dark, warm pit and her eyes closed.

The nurse realized her mistake and a shiver trembled through her exoskeleton, causing a light sheen of sweat to break out on her body suit. The Collective will not be pleased. This one came closer than any to finding all four avenues of escape. Now they would have to start over with a new mother. Her head bowed slightly, she sent a thought message to the controllers. Sorry, masters.

She listened for a moment, nodded almost imperceptibly, and increased the drip to full strength. Perhaps the next mother will be more accommodating.

*******

About the Author

Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.

Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly. He has written and published over 110 novels, 10 novellas, and over 290 short stories. He has also written 19 nonfiction books on writing, 9 of which are free to other writers. And he’s compiled and published 5 omnibus novel collections, 29 collections of short fiction, and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.

These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key “StoneThread Publishing” or “Harvey Stanbrough” into your favorite search engine.

Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for “The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack.”