Olivia put a hand on her throat, tried to massage away the ache. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Okay. We’ll do that.’
At the back of the house, the patio had sunk into the earth. A wooden pub-style bench, tilted and half-submerged, stuck out from the brown, crisped lawn. Olivia cleared away a tangle of blackened rose bushes and rotted fence panels, and Charlie scraped out a shallow trench.
‘Ashes to ashes,’ Olivia began, and could go no further.
Charlie stood with her head bowed, then raised her hand and waved. ‘Bye,’ she said.
Olivia closed her eyes. When she opened them, one of the spiny grey weeds was already snaking over the freshly turned earth. She reached for it, but Charlie grabbed her arm.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Leave it.’
‘All right,’ Olivia said, and let Charlie take her back inside. The duvet she’d brought with her had more holes than material, but she spread it on the ground anyway and lowered herself awkwardly down. The baby kicked, a fluttering pain.
‘Hello, Miranda,’ Olivia said, and her voice cracked.
Charlie’s face lightened. ‘Is it the baby?’ she said. ‘Can I feel?’
Olivia took the girl’s hand and laid it on her stomach. Miranda kicked again, and Charlie gave a start. ‘Hello, Miranda,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Will she be coming out soon?’
‘I think so,’ Olivia said.
‘That’s good,’ Charlie said, then cocked her head. ‘Isn’t it? Olivia? Isn’t it a good thing?’
Olivia closed her eyes. How was she supposed to answer that?
She’d had a plan, once. All arrangements carefully made and checked. She’d gone to classes, studied textbooks, bought everything she thought might be needed. The car always kept full of petrol, the lab’s emergency number on speed dial. Robert had promised he would get there.
And then everything had gone to hell, and she’d come up with a different kind of plan. To fight where others had given up. To beat the odds, because the kids were supposed to be all right. Because the kids were supposed to live.
Miranda kicked her again. Olivia put her head down and cried.
Charlie slipped a hand into hers. ‘What are we going to do now?’
Olivia swallowed hard, scuffed a hand over her cheek. ‘We’re going to wait,’ she said.
‘Wait? Oh, you mean, for the baby?’
‘Yes,’ Olivia lied. ‘For the baby.’
***
The sound of her name brought Olivia slowly, unhappily, out of sleep. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Go away.’
Charlie shook her shoulder. ‘Wake up. It’s time to eat. You have to eat, it’s for Miranda. You have to be eating for two, that’s what my granny used to say.’
Olivia surfaced properly, rolling onto her elbow.
‘Look, I found these,’ Charlie said. She reached into a half-melted plastic bag and pulled out what looked like a flat, rough-textured mushroom. The cap was a dark grey colour, the underside black.
‘They were growing outside. I think Leo made them. They’re really nice.’ She sank her teeth into it, the soft flesh tearing easily. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I got lots of them. These are for you.’
Olivia pushed it away. ‘I don’t want it. Go away, Charlie.’
‘No. You have to eat.’ She thrust it out again.
‘I said I don’t want it. I don’t want anything.’
‘You have to. It’s for Miranda. She’ll want it. Come on, Olivia.’ She grabbed Olivia’s hand and thrust one of the mushrooms into it. ‘Eat.’
Olivia groaned. It was warm to the touch, and slightly damp. She held it up to her nose, smelled dark earth. Not unpleasant. Her stomach rumbled.
Charlie smiled happily, and nodded. ‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘Eat it.’
Olivia pushed her away again. ‘Stop it, Charlie. Leave me alone.’
‘No.’ Charlie sat back on her heels, her face stubborn. ‘We’re going to have breakfast, and then we’re going to do chores. We have to get everything ready.’
‘Chores?’ Olivia laughed. ‘Oh, Charlie. There are no chores, not any more. That’s all over. Finished. Everything’s finished.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Charlie said. ‘Come on, we have to make a new house. For Miranda.’ She pulled at Olivia’s sleeve.
‘I can’t. I just—I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s not that hard. I can show you. Look.’
Charlie got up and grabbed one of the spiny weeds that climbed in and out of the shattered walls. She winced as the thorns dug into her palm and a drop of blood, thick and dark, slid down the weed’s grey surface. It sank in, leaving no trace. Charlie lifted her hand, pulling the weed with her. She stepped back, and kept going. The weed came too, coiling smoothly out of the broken foundations. At its base, it was thicker than Olivia’s arm.
Charlie let it go, but it didn’t drop. It kept moving, following her. She grasped another, held it up next to the first. They joined, flowing and blending together into a course, fibrous growth a foot wide, arching over Charlie’s head. She pulled her hand down and it stayed in place.
She turned to Olivia and beamed. ‘See?’
Olivia stared. ‘How did you do that?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘You just do. You have to let them bite you first, and then they’ll do what you want.’ She hauled on another weed and joined it to the first two, making a half-dome. ‘It’s going to be an igloo,’ she said. ‘We could pretend we’re explorers.’
Olivia huffed out a breath that turned into a surprised laugh. Slowly and painfully, her ears ringing, she got up.
The weed-structure looked firm. Solid. She looked at it from all angles, her eyes wide.
Charlie took up one of the smaller weeds, held it out. ‘Now you try.’
Olivia hesitated, then put out a tentative hand. The weed wrapped itself around her palm, loosely at first, then tighter. The thorns broke the skin and sank into her flesh. Blood, rich and red, flowed down her arm. She gasped and instinctively pulled her injured hand close to her chest. The weed came with it.
‘It’s okay,’ Charlie said. ‘It only hurts for a little while.’
But the pain didn’t stop. It burned, fierce and hot, through her muscles. The weed tightened its grip, the spines feeling as if they were clawing at the bone. She shrieked and tried to shake it off, but she couldn’t dislodge it.
‘Don’t,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t do that.’
The weed plumped up, and more of it came shooting out of the ground. It draped itself across her shoulders, the thorns like a rush of bee stings, then wrapped around her. Coiled lazily around her chest, her arms, her stomach. Dug in.
She beat at it, trying to yank it out, but it was stuck fast. Blood soaked through the thin, stretched material of her t-shirt, blooming into dozens of little flowers. She screamed again.
Charlie began to cry. ‘You have to let it,’ she said. ‘You have to let it, Olivia.’
A lightning burst of pain blazed through Olivia’s stomach, lighting up every nerve ending and arching her spine. Sudden, wet warmth told her what was happening. She gasped out Charlie’s name. ‘The baby’s coming,’ she said. ‘The baby’s coming now.’
‘Don’t fight it,’ Charlie said. ‘They won’t hurt you if you don’t fight.’
Pain forced Olivia to the ground. Blood continued to flow, but slower now. More sluggish. She watched it turn black, then closed her eyes and let the pain sweep her away.
***
Olivia turned over the earth in the garden with a rake improvised from a broom handle and broken glass. Satisfied, she scattered a handful of seed pods for the things she still called mushrooms, and poked them down into the warm, damp ground. A tiny shoot nuzzled her finger, nipped it gently.
A familiar cry broke the silence, and Charlie came out of the igloo with Miranda in her arms. ‘I think she’s hungry.’
Olivia took the baby and handed the seed bag to Charlie. ‘I’ll feed her, you carry on with the planting.’
&nb
sp; ‘Okay,’ Charlie said, and bent over the furrowed earth.
Olivia sat down with her back against the weed walls of their home and guided the squalling baby to her breast. Miranda hushed immediately, little teeth sharp like thorns against Olivia’s skin.
She suckled, pausing every now and then to coo happily. Olivia smiled and wiped away a drop of black milk from the baby’s chin. She laid a kiss on the top of her head and lay back, inhaling the warm, earthy scent of her skin.
About the Author
Michelle Ann King was born in East London and now lives in Essex. She writes mainly SF, dark fantasy, horror and crime fiction—probably due to a childhood spent reading Stephen King novels and watching zombie films.
Favourite works of fiction include The Stand, Cloud Atlas, Lost Boys, Galaxy Quest, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural, Preacher and Locke & Key.
She has worked as a mortgage underwriter, supermarket cashier, massage therapist, makeup artist and insurance claims handler before having the good fortune to be able to write full-time.
Feedback on any stories is always welcome. Contact Michelle:
Email
Website
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Also Available
This story is part of the Transient Tales series: short stories of science fiction, fantasy and horror, ranging from light to dark and all shades in-between.
Volume 1 features dysfunctional families—some demons, some that don’t have that excuse—monstrous assassins, pragmatic cannibals, time-travelling reality TV shows, zombies, witches, phobias made real, law-breaking love and lessons in post-apocalyptic survival.
The Fine Art of Fortune-Telling: Jane’s going to meet the love of her life. Again. And again. And again.
Precious Things: If you find something in the woods... maybe it’s best to leave it there.
Meredith Said: Zach’s preparing for his first trip through his father’s teleportation gateway. He’s supposed to be going home, but maybe that depends on the definition of the word.
Toil and Trouble: A witchy grandmother, a book of spells, a recipe for a love potion. It’s the perfect way to find a date, right?
The God of Blood and Bone: They always look at the husband first. So when Vince wants his wife dead, he’s very discerning about the choice of assassin.
What We Leave Behind: There are some things you need to survive after the breakdown of civilisation. And some you don’t.
The Author of Your Own Misfortune: Always read the small print of your insurance policy. Especially the one covering trips back in time.
Behind Glass: Tom’s sick. He’s feverish, aching and having blackouts. And he’s hungry. So very hungry.
Nameless, Unreasoning, Unjustified: Humans reach the stars, and find they’re not alone. Neither are they welcome.
A Cat May Look at a Queen: If you make the rules, you have to live by them.
What Doesn’t Kill You: Everyone knows you can’t live in the rotting devastation of the Blight. But Olivia’s going to try.
Volume 2 features a Halloween game with a chilling price, a call-centre at the end of the world, an unconventional quest for a portal to fairyland, a mother dealing with the loss—and the return—of a child, a desperate woman’s letter to her future self, a repentant scientist’s lament, an envious boy who gets more than he bargained for, and a misguided attempt to gain closure on a very dead love affair.
One Free Go: Darren and Kate threw a huge kids’ party on Halloween, but now they’re not quite sure why.
Not With a Bang: Answer the calls, read the script, enter the data. And when certain words or phrases come up, type out the alarm codes.
No Regard for Narrative Convention: Some people thought it was a great opportunity, when the dimensional portals opened up. Others, like Michael, weren’t quite so sure.
Sale or Return: In the future, money can buy you anything. Or can it?
Nor Any Drop to Drink: Lynsey might look like a little girl, but she’s got a big thirst.
You Wish: You’ve always got to be very careful about what you—or other people—wish for.
Dear Ingrid: Is it still a bad deal if the one who makes it isn’t the one who pays for it?
Babysitting: Looking after Jilly—who really, really, really wants a puppy—is an exercise in tolerance. Who’s going to crack first?
On Blackened Wings: Dionne doesn’t believe that Rachel’s built a psychic hotline to the monsters out of wires and roadkill. But that doesn’t mean she wants to try it.
No Apples for Mother: Artificial Intelligence and Old Testament religion. Not a good mix.
Gifted: What makes the new girl so special? What’s she got that Francie and Everett haven’t? They’re about to find out.
Closure: Carmel’s relationship didn’t end well. She’d like another go.
What Doesn’t Kill You
Published: February 2013
Copyright (c) Michelle Ann King 2013
Michelle Ann King has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of these works.
These stories are works of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Transient Cactus Publications (c) 2013
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