Fetal Bait Apocalypse: 3 Collections in 1

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-mache 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.

And so the argument went:

“When will you accept the fact that she’s going to die?” Jenna had asked a month earlier.

“I can’t stop trying,” Luke said.

“You’re making her miserable.”

“How would you know? You’re never home.”

“I’m working. I have a job.”

“I take care of Amy,” Luke said. “That’s my job.”

“Take care of her? All you do is drag her across the country, giving her false hope time after time after time.”

“You want me to throw in the towel like you?”

“I want you to accept the fact that our daughter is going to die. And damn it, Luke, let her die here, at home, with her family and friends. Someplace familiar. Not out there. Not in the middle of nowhere. Please, Luke.”

And so the argument went.

Now here, in the tunnel, Amy looked so small in Luke’s black leather jacket. “It smells like old books in here.”

Luke pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Is it the mold? “Wrap this over your mouth and nose.”

“Geez, Dad.”

Luke stopped and listened, thinking he heard movement. He had no desire to run into anyone, especially not with his daughter here. But it was only the hollow echo of dripping water; the tunnel walls perspired with it, glistening in the weak beam of Luke’s flashlight. Bats clung like burnt lichens to the limestone.

“Can you please tell me what we’re doing here?”

Dim light ahead. Luke turned off his flashlight. Cool air chilled the sweat on his arms and neck. The tunnel stopped beneath a grate embedded in the limestone ceiling. Light spilled through the gaps between the bars.

“Dad?”

Luke wiped the sweat from his forehead. He surveyed the small area beneath the grate, finding a jagged ledge protruding from the tunnel wall. He motioned to it. “Here. Sit here.”

Amy rested her back against the hard rock. “I’m tired.”

“Close your eyes, honey. Try to sleep.” He dug a blanket from his backpack and placed it over his daughter. He sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. He looked up at the grate, took a sip of bottled water, and waited.

But wouldn’t all the endless miles, the rest stops, the gas stations, the cheap motels be worth it if they found a cure? He knew there were charlatans out there, crooks taking advantage of desperate people like him for a quick buck. He wasn’t completely naive. But maybe the doctors back home didn’t have all the answers, maybe there really were miracles out there waiting to be found. And besides, how could he live with himself if he didn’t at least try?

He’d scoured the internet, joined discussion boards, frequented chat rooms, grasping, groping for any piece of information out there, but it was like trying to build a bridge by tossing pebbles into the ocean.

One night, an email from a stranger; “Have you heard of Padre Sapo in Guanajuato?”

He didn’t even know where Guanajuato was. He looked it up on the Internet. Middle of Mexico. So far, he’d kept his search to the U.S. Couldn’t afford to globetrot. But Mexico — that was close enough, wasn’t it? And cheap?

He replied to the email, asking for more information, and received a brief message with an attached J-Peg. Padre Sapo, the caption said. Father Toad. A poor quality picture, but Luke made out a man standing on a platform of rock in a small amphitheater carved out of a mountain. An elderly woman kissed his chest, while a line of the afflicted waited their turn.

The email contained only an address and the brief message; “From his ugliness, I was cured. May he bless and heal your child.”

A burst of feedback woke Luke up. The light spilling through the grate had turned orange. He heard voices now, too, voices from the amphitheater above. He looked at Amy. She stared back at him, eyes wide, as if trying to figure out whether or not she was still dreaming. Luke ran his fingertips lightly over her cheek.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s just me.”

Recognition filled her eyes. She shivered. “How long was I out?”

He checked his watch in the dim orange light. “Little over an hour.”

Luke stood on the ledge and craned his neck trying to see past the iron bars of the grate. “Sounds like they’re getting ready.” He couldn’t see much, except for stage lights and the thin metal pole of a microphone stand.

Footsteps thudded above. Amy looked up. “Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

For a moment, Luke looked like a little boy caught playing with matches. He shrugged. “They call him Padre Sapo. Father Toad.”

“Father Toad?”

He smiled weakly. “They say his skin looks like that of a toad.”

Amy shivered. “Why are we waiting for him?”

“They say the moisture from his skin can heal anything.”

Amy stared. Shook her head. “Jesus, Dad. You’ve got to be kidding me.” She looked so tired, the shadows of the tunnel turning the dark circles beneath her eyes into a black paint.

“We’ve got to try,” Luke said. “We’ve got to try.”

When they’d first arrived in Guanajuato, they tracked down the address Luke received in the email. Amy