Maria knows she’s terribly outnumbered, and there’s a mad dog loose, but she decides then and there to die before she lets them take her back to her cell. She reaches for the dropped cattle prod.
Most of the monsters ignore Eleanor, but a few form a circle around her. Maria swings the prod, keeping them at bay, turning this way and that way so none can sneak up behind her. With her free hand she unbuckles the ball gag, lets it fall to the floor. She’s light-headed, and the nausea is starting to take hold. Normally, after an ordeal in the Room, she sleeps for a long time. Maria fights the feeling, keeping on the balls of her feet, determined to stay alert.
Someone grabs at her, and she sticks him with the cattle prod. The burst of light and the accompanying sizzle and scream give her strength. She whirls around, stabbing the prod into a creature’s bloated face. Then an avalanche of sour flesh rams into her, forcing her to the floor, pinning her under its weight. She twists the prod around, zaps whoever is on top of her. There’s a cry, but she’s still trapped. There are too many freaks on top of her. She can’t move.
She can’t even breathe.
Maria grunts, pushing with all of her strength. She’s not going to smother. Not now. Not this close to escape. But the fetid, shifting mass of flesh atop her is too heavy to move. Her hair is yanked. A filthy, malformed baby’s arm with seven fingers tugs at the corner of her mouth as her face is pressed into the dirt floor.
She tries to suck in some air, but the weight is too much.
I’m sorry, Felix. I tried.
And then, miraculously, the mass shifts. One monster rolls off, screaming. Then another. Maria pushes herself onto her side, gasping for oxygen. She watches as the dog—the beautiful, terrifying dog—tears into another freak, pulling him off of her.
They’re all scrambling for the door now, dragging their wounded, of which there are many. The dog is on top of the last freak, one with a blockish, Frankenstein head and hands that look like pincers. It’s tearing at the monster’s throat. Maria looks at the door, trades a hateful glance with Eleanor as she abandons her child and closes it shut.
Maria sits up, clutching the prod in both hands. The dog bites the freak until it stops moving, until a good portion of its neck is hanging limp from the dog’s jaws.
The dog shakes its head, releasing its prize. Then it looks at Maria and snarls.
“Good boy,” Maria manages to say. Her voice is raspy. She can’t remember the last time she’s spoken.
The dog hunkers down, the hair on its back standing up. It growls, low and deep, its lips raised and bearing teeth.
“Sit,” Maria orders.
The dog stalks forward. It’s not looking at Maria. It’s looking at the cattle prod.
Maria sets it down. “Sit!” she says again.
Incredibly, the dog sits. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth.
“Good dog! Come.”
The dog bounds forward, and Maria almost screams when it pounces on her.
But it’s a happy pounce, tail wagging. The dog’s bloody tongue is warm on Maria’s cheek. She grabs its muzzle and hugs it tight. The feeling is so good, so pure, she can’t stop the tears from coming.
“Good dog. Can you shake?”
The dog offers its paw. Maria shakes it gladly.
“What’s your name, boy?” She fumbles for his collar while he licks her. “JD. I swear to God, JD, if we get out of this, I’m buying you steak every day for the rest of your life.”
JD approves of this, wagging his tail even more.
Maria stands up. She knows Eleanor and her boys will be back, with weapons. Maybe even guns.
She goes to the door, tries the knob. Locked.
Maria slams her shoulder into it. The door is solid. It won’t budge.
I can’t give up. Not now. Not when I’m this close.
But as Maria looks around the room, she has no clue how they can escape.
# # #
Letti Pillsbury stood in the doorway of the Ulysses S. Grant room, looking at her mother crouch on the floor.
“Do you normally check under the bed every place you sleep?” Letti asked.
“Hmm? No, of course not.” Florence stood up, smoothing some imaginary wrinkles from her pants. She looked perturbed, which wasn’t something Letti could ever recall seeing.
“Okay, then. You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”
The older woman seemed confused, and for a moment Letti questioned her mother’s health. After all, her health was the reason she was moving in with her and Kelly.
“I want you to understand, Letti.”
“Understand what, Florence?” Letti crossed her arms, determined not to make it easy for her.
“Why I didn’t come to your husband’s funeral.”
“I know why you didn’t come, Florence. You were off in Bosnia or Ethiopia or one of your other causes.”
“I was in Mumbai. Doing volunteer work, Letti, during the floods. We were saving lives. Peter, bless your husband’s heart, was already dead. There wasn’t anything I could do for him.”
She doesn’t get it. Maybe she never will.
“Peter didn’t need you, Florence. I did.”
Florence raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying your grief is more important than building a dam that saved three hundred lives?”
Letti refused to let her eyes tear up. “I was devastated. I needed my mother.”
“I raised you so you wouldn’t need me.”
“You’re impossible,” Letti turned to leave. She felt Florence’s hand on her shoulder.
“What do you want me to say, Letti? That I made the wrong choice? You’re strong. Always were. Peter’s death was a terrible tragedy, but I knew you could handle it. Mumbai needed me more.”
This is a waste of time. She’ll die before she apologizes.
But she’s right. I am strong. And I will not cry.
Letti spun around, feeling the scowl take over her face. “If Mumbai is so goddamn important, why didn’t you go running there when you were diagnosed with cancer?”
Florence flinched. Letti immediately felt bad for saying it, but she was on a roll.
“You didn’t, though. You came to me, Florence. Me and Kelly. I thought it was because you wanted to mend fences. To get to know your granddaughter. But money is the real reason, isn’t it? You gave away all of yours, helping strangers. Now you need a place to die, and my house is a free hospice.”
Florence kept her face calm, but Letti saw something behind it crack. “Oh... Letti... is that what you think?”
Letti bit her lower lip. She felt the tears coming, but refused to blink. “We needed you, Florence. Kelly and I. And you weren’t there. But now you need us, and here we are. Maybe Mumbai built a big stature to Saint Florence for saving their village. But I never wanted to be raised by a saint. I wanted a Mom.”
“And I wasn’t a mother to you.” Florence said it as a statement.
“Mothers nurture.” Letti said. She felt the tear roll down her cheek. “Mothers support. Mothers show up at the goddamn funeral when their daughters lose their husbands.”
Florence said nothing. She just stood there, stoic as ever.
I might as well be talking to a statue.
