Fairy (7 page)

The smell was like freshly cut pumpkins.

The van honked repeatedly, flashing its high beams behind her, but she didn't have time for that. She slammed her foot on the accelerator and screamed as the worst contraction yet ate her alive, lit every nerve on fire.

Finally, she saw the hospital, nearly hit another car as she flew into the parking lot. She drove straight to the entrance, and with the car still idling, spilled from the driver's door. A scream tore out of her, her eyes to the night sky, the moon full and bright, and just before she lost consciousness, she could have sworn something fluttered by, hovering over her, its wings humming, watching as its child began its entrance into the world.

It was another contraction that woke her. She shrieked herself into a sitting position.

She was in a room, on a bed, her feet propped up, her knees spread. Two nurses stood on either side of her, both talking, but Cecilia couldn't understand a word they were saying.

Then a man's face appeared from between her legs. “We're almost there. Almost—”

“Ahhh…god, please, oh my god…”

The nurses held her down by her shoulders as a powerful surge swept through her. Her throat burned from the screams, but she couldn't stop them from coming. Sweat dripped from every point of her body.

“Just a little more,” the man said. “Give us a big push.”

And Cecilia did. She gripped the sides of the bed, pressed her feet into the metal stirrups and pushed with every muscle she had.

It was as if someone had thrown a tubful of water over the fire inside of her. The pain reached its peak, and then it was gone. The room grew quiet, so god-awful quiet that all Cecilia could hear was a high-pitched tone that needled through her eardrums.

And then there was crying.

The nurses released her, smiled at her, said more soft-spoken words Cecilia couldn't understand. All she could hear was Judy, her baby girl, her daughter. Crying for her mama.

The man stood, the wriggling child in his arms, covered in her mother's fluids. He had an expression on his face that Cecilia couldn't read at first, and for a moment, she feared Judy had wing nubs or was staring up at the doctor with her four eyes. But he quickly smiled, reached over and placed little Judy in Cecilia's arms.

“Congratulations, Mama. You have a perfect little baby girl.”

Judy's cries ceased the moment she was in her mother's embrace, and Cecilia's tears showered the newborn. They stared at each other, neither of them moving, neither of them making a sound. The baby's eyes blinked slowly, sleepily, and she took in her mother's face with an almost-eerie intelligence.

And then she smiled, reached up with tiny hands and gripped Cecilia's chin.

“Well, will you look at that,” the doctor said.

“Hi, baby,” Cecilia said, her tears still beading up and dripping. “It's so nice to finally meet you.”

All the pain, all the agony, was a distant memory now. It was almost as if none of it had ever happened. Now that she had her baby girl, her little Judy, nothing else in the entire world mattered.

The doctor gave mother and child another few minutes together before he cut the umbilical cord. The nurses took Judy to the other side of the room, weighed her, cleaned her up, dabbed antibiotic jelly over her eyes. Cecilia pushed the placenta out of herself, and when the doctor asked her with a smile if she wanted to see it, she declined, her attention on the nurses and her baby.

“Are you going to breast feed?” one of the nurses said.

“Yes…yes, of course.”

The doctor stepped out of the room as Judy was placed back in Cecilia's arms. She unsheathed a breast, ran the tip of her nipple over the baby's mouth, but Judy wouldn't take it. The baby just stared up at Cecilia, flashed her another smile, but showed no interest in the colostrum seeping from her mother's nipple.

“It's okay,” the nurse said. “It's common for babies to be a bit confused with what to do at first.”

Cecilia knew this, had reassured countless other mothers of the same thing, but Judy didn't even turn her head toward the milk, was too busy staring up at her mother. The baby's eyes were unwavering, piercing.

“We can try again later,” the nurse said. “I'm just going to take her to the nursery where she'll be bathed and clothed. Your daughter will be back in your arms in just a couple of hours, all right?”

Cecilia nodded, though she had to force herself to allow the nurse to take Judy. She didn't ever want to let her go, could hardly bear the thought of spending even a second away from her little miracle.

Judy's eyes never left Cecilia's as the nurse pulled her away.

And then Cecilia was alone. It wasn't until she shifted her position that she realized how wet the bed was, soaked in her sweat, cool against her warm skin.

She looked to the window, wondered if the fairy had been there, peeking in.

Thank you.

Part of her longed to see the fairy again, but that little voice reminded her of the pain, reminded her of the fairy's hideous appearance.

And, of course, there was her friend Judy's voice.

If you get this message, forget everything I told you. Don't invite it into your room.

But she did invite the fairy into her room, into her, and she would do it again. She knew that now.

I h-had to pass it on. It's part of…part of the rules.

Cecilia wondered if the fairy made that rule to make sure it remained fed. She thought back to its emaciated body, and wondered if there weren't enough people feeding it.
I'll make sure you get fed,
she thought.
Whether it's someone else, or it's me again, you'll fill your stomach.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, but it seemed far too long already. If she didn't get her baby back into her arms soon, she thought she'd lose it. Her eyes darted to the door, and from somewhere beyond it, somewhere down the hall, a scream exploded, followed by more screams rattling the walls.

Cecilia rolled out of bed, caught herself before she tumbled to the ground. She fought through the pain, through the soreness, and stumbled out of the door, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Please tell me Judy is okay. Tell me my baby is okay.

Hospital employees dashed down the hall of the maternity ward, shouting at one another. Nurses did their best to restrain what looked like new parents, telling them to remain calm, to stay in their rooms while everything was figured out.

Cecilia quickened her pace, shoved bodies out of her way, shrugged off grasping hands. Nothing would stop her from her baby. She had to get to her, had to protect Judy.

The big plateglass window was barely visible through the crowd of screaming parents and onlookers. They banged on the glass, cursed, shoved and shouted at one another, some crumbling to the floor and weeping.

Cecilia forced her way through the horde, pressed her hands against the glass and peered in.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

Each little cradle had splashes of blood, tiny fleshy remains, sharp bone fragments. Nurses and doctors dashed from cradle to cradle, frantically trying to figure out what to do, what happened.

My baby…oh please god, my baby.

And then Cecilia's eyes landed on Judy. The baby girl sat upright in her pink cradle, splattered with blood. Her big brown eyes landed on Cecilia, and she smiled, wide and red.

Cecilia smiled back, kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the glass.

She was a mother now.

About the Author

Shane McKenzie is the author of many horror novels, novellas and stories, including
Fairy
,
The Bingo Hall
, and many more to come.

He also writes comics for Zenescope Entertainment.

He wrote the script for a short film entitled
M is for Matador
, filmed by LuchaGore Productions, which was selected by DraftHouse Films to be included in the DVD
The ABCs of Death 1.5
. LuchaGore Productions will be filming a short film based on the first chapter of his novel
Muerte Con Carne
, entitled
El Gigante
. He lives in Austin, TX with his wife and daughter.

www.shanemckenzie.org

Look for these titles by Shane McKenzie

Coming Soon:

The Bingo Hall

The clock is ticking!

A Plague of Echoes

© 2014 Maynard Sims

A Department 18 Novel

In London, Department 18 Chief, Simon Crozier, is brutally stabbed and left for dead. Billionaire businessman Pieter Schroeder has laid his first card in a deadly, high-stakes game, a battle that will pit Department 18 against evils both ancient and modern.

As the secret past of Department 18 comes back to haunt the present day, the team's future—and Crozier's life—hang in the balance when they confront an enemy who is powerful, malevolent…and perhaps immortal.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A Plague of Echoes:

It was a fine summer's evening, warm and balmy, with the barest hint of a breeze ruffling the surface of the River Thames. Simon Crozier, Director in Chief of Department 18, dismissed his driver, as he regularly did, giving the man the rest of the night off. Crozier needed a walk to clear his head after a particularly fractious day, and the two-mile trek to his riverside flat seemed the perfect opportunity.

Walking along the Embankment, he gradually felt the day's tensions dropping from his shoulders; his breathing became deeper, more relaxed, and he, once again, started to notice the world around him. Under Waterloo Bridge there was a cacophony of skateboarders each trying to outdo each other's reckless stunts. The queues outside the various restaurants dotted along this stretch of the river were animated and noisy as diners waited to be seated. The book market on the paved piazza at the front of the British Film Institute was doing a lively trade with students searching out research material and tourists looking for paperbacks to fill the empty hours in their hotel rooms.

London didn't really change, Crozier thought. He'd been walking this part of the Embankment off and on for the best part of fifteen years and it offered few, if any, surprises. So when the old woman, unseasonably dressed for summer, in a long, tweed coat, approached him and stood, blocking his path, Crozier regarded her with disinterest and made to step around her. When she produced the long, wickedly sharp kitchen knife from beneath the folds of her coat and plunged it into Crozier's belly, his eyes registered nothing more than mild surprise and his mouth made a small O shape before he pitched forward onto the grey paving slabs and lay there with his life blood forming a wet, sticky pool beneath him.

“What do you mean, attacked?” Harry Bailey said. He was cradling the phone between his chin and shoulder while he mixed the ingredients for a Spanish omelet, his dinner for tonight. On the phone was Simon Crozier's PA, Trudy Banks who'd stayed late at the office with every intention of catching up on some paperwork. Her plans had been shattered by the call from the police.

Bailey was Crozier's deputy and, as such, was top of her list of people to call.

“Trudy, calm down,” Bailey said as he whisked the eggs. “And tell me slowly and rationally what happened.”

Bailey listened attentively, set the Pyrex mixing bowl down on the granite counter, and went through to the lounge.

“So what's the hospital saying?”

“He's in theatre at the moment,” Trudy said, sniffing back the tears. “I'm going down there now.”

“But did they give a prognosis?”

“I don't know, Harry. I'm getting all my information secondhand through the police. I'll know more when I get to the hospital.”

“Who else have you called?”

“No one. You're the first.”

“Okay. Leave it to me to inform everyone who matters. You get to the hospital. I'll meet you there when I'm done with the phone calls,” Bailey said and hung up. He went back to the kitchen, switched off the cooker, grabbed his coat from behind the door and left the flat.

On the way to the hospital in a taxi, Bailey made a number of phone calls to various Department 18 operatives and government ministers. The Home Secretary knew of the attack already, the police having briefed him as soon as they realized who the victim was. Simon Crozier was not exactly high profile as far as the media was concerned, but as head of the Department, his name carried a lot of weight in Whitehall and Westminster and many of the civil servants and politicians would treat the attack as an assault on one of their own. The Department 18 members he contacted were altogether more pragmatic.

“An eighty-two-year-old woman stabs Simon in broad daylight…” John McKinley said incredulously, “…and the police are treating it as just another manifestation of street crime?”

“To be fair to them, John, the investigation's barely got underway.”

“Well, they're going to need our help,” McKinley said decisively.

“We don't know that at this time,” Bailey said. “For all anyone knows, the old girl could have escaped from an institution. Once I've been to the hospital I'll go to the police to find out what they know, and if they need our help, I'll certainly offer it. In the meantime it's best that we keep an open mind.”

Robert Carter had very little to say about the stabbing. That he and Crozier rarely saw eye to eye and had a difficult working relationship was an open secret in Whitehall. Like McKinley, Carter expressed concern about the perpetrator of the attack and asked Bailey to keep him in the loop, but was no more forthcoming than that.

At the hospital Bailey found Trudy Banks waiting just outside the main doors smoking a cigarette. Her cheeks were tear-streaked and she pulled in the smoke with the zeal of the condemned. She dropped the cigarette to the ground as Bailey approached and crushed it out with the toe of her Bally slingbacks. Clutching Bailey tightly in a hug, she blew out the last of the smoke over his shoulder and said, “We should go straight in. He's just come out of surgery and they've put him in Intensive Care.”

“At least he made it through the operation,” Bailey said.

“They're describing him as critical,” Trudy said. “The knife cut through his intestines and punctured his liver. It isn't good.”

They took the lift to the ICU, but an officious nurse blocked their path when they tried to get into the room, so they stood and stared at Crozier through the glass, watching the vital signs machine monitoring his heart rate, respiration and blood pressure. The steady bleep of the machine should have been reassuring but, as they stood there, both of them found themselves holding their breaths, waiting for the machine to fall silent. A woman, wearing a white coat, with a stethoscope draped around her neck, leaned over Crozier, slender hands adjusting the feed of an intravenous drip that stood sentinel at the side of the bed. She had long, dark hair, secured with a clip at the back of her head, but the hair at the front was wayward and kept falling in front of her eyes. With small shakes of her head, which looked like gestures of despair, she flicked the strands back, away from her face.

Finishing her task, she stood upright, turned, faced the window and noticed Bailey and Trudy observing her. Flashing them a sympathetic smile, she went to the door and stepped out into the corridor to greet them.

“Doctor Maria Bridge,” she said, holding out her hand. “Are you family?”

Trudy shook her head.

“As good as,” Bailey said, producing his Department 18 ID card and letting her read it. “What are his chances?”

“I'm afraid Mr. Crozier is no more than stable. The internal damage is extensive and he lost an awful lot of blood before the paramedics arrived. We should know more by morning, when he regains consciousness.”

“So he might die,” Bailey said, and heard Trudy suck in her breath. He turned to her. “I'm only voicing what we're both thinking,” he said.

“To be so blunt about it…” Her voice trailed off as the tears started to flow again.

Bridge was nodding her head slowly. “Yes, he might. If you were family I'd sugar coat it a little, but as you work for the Department I think it's best I'm as direct as you are. Let's say the next twenty-four hours are going to be critical. I'm keeping him sedated so his body can get on with the healing process.”

“So you know about the Department,” Bailey said. It wasn't a question. When he'd shown her his ID card, there was no query in her eyes, only a guarded recognition.

“Yes, the secret department the government has to investigate abnormal, possibly paranormal, activities,” she said and then hesitated, giving a small shake of her head. “Another story, another time, perhaps.”

“Can we go in and see him?” Trudy said.

“There's little point,” Bridge said. “He's in a state of deep unconsciousness. He won't know you're here.” She took in the pleading look in Trudy's moist eyes and relented. “Five minutes. No more.”

“Thank you,” Trudy said and stepped around her into the room.

“Did you perform the operation?” Bailey said.

“Yes,” she said.

“He's in good hands then.” From what he'd seen of her so far he was impressed by Maria Bridge. She seemed capable and confident.

Smiling slightly she stared down at her palms. “I'd like to think so. Yes.”