Free Strange Seed by Stephen Mark Rainey

completely—started chipping away at what he knew ?   An hour?   A day?   Or would they wait until his final minutes or seconds?
    He stood and half-stumbled, half-walked to the door.   It was partway open: Paul had knocked hard on it.   He unhooked the strand of leather that served as a lock and pulled the door open.
    Beyond the rise, near the grove of honey locusts—where, he remembered, he’d found Paul—there was reassurance and comfort, as much as any human could offer, at least.   And he desperately needed it.

     

Chapter Ten

    “Relax,” Paul coaxed.   He thought of placing his hand comfortingly on the child’s shoulder, but wondered how comforting his touch could actually be if it caused such a violent reaction in the child?
    He turned his head and looked at Rachel.   She was standing, her face coldly expressionless, at the other end of the couch.   “Get a blanket, would you, darling,” he said.
    Rachel hesitated a second then nodded slightly to indicate the child.   “See if you can get him to lie down, Paul.   That position he’s in…it’s grotesque.”
    “Grotesque?”
    “Yes.   It’s unnatural.”
    “Painful is probably a better word.”   He put his hands on the child’s arms.   “Come on now, young man”—gently, as if talking to a child several years younger—“why don’t you lie down…”   He realized that his touch had sparked no reaction: it was a good sign, he thought.   “Lie down here.”   He found the child responding with acceptance to the very soft pressure of his hands.   “That’s right.”   He looked at Rachel again.   “Are you going to get that blanket?”   She started for the bedroom.   “Turn that lamp on, too,” Paul added, and nodded at a wrought iron, floor-standing lamp, minus shade, to the right of the couch, near the bedroom doorway.   “I can hardly see a thing.”   He paused.   “And don’t be so glum.”
    He succeeded in coaxing the child onto his side, though not out of his fetal position.   “That’s good.   Now straighten your legs, okay?”   He rolled the child onto his back and put pressure on his knees.   “Loosen up…there, that’s right.”   The child allowed Paul to straighten his legs so he was sitting up, but with his head just above his knees, and his tightly clenched fists at his ears.   “Loosen up!” Paul said again.   “No one wants to hurt you, for Christ’s sake!”   He put his hands on the child’s shoulders and eased him back.
    Rachel appeared from the bedroom.   “Here’s the blanket,” she said, her words measured and stiffly casual.   She laid the blanket at the child’s feet, then switched on the floor-standing lamp.   Nothing.   “Bulb must be dead.   Shit!” she muttered.
    “Or the damned generator,” Paul said.   He nodded toward the kitchen.   “Get one of those kerosene lamps from the closet in there, okay.”
    Rachel went into the kitchen.
    The child was in a prone position, fists still clenched to his ears.   Paul grasped his wrists and gently pulled forward until the child’s arms were straight.   “There”—benevolent smile—“that’s better, isn’t it?”
    Suddenly, the child’s body, and Paul’s hands—still on the child’s wrists—assumed an anemic yellow cast.   Paul turned his head sharply: Rachel was just behind him, lantern in hand.   “Paul sighed.   “You scared the crap out of me, Rachel,” he said, and grinned self-consciously.
    “Here’s the lamp,” she said, and attempted to hand it to him.
    “No, no,” he said.   “Bring that table over and put the lamp on it.”   He nodded at a small, dark wood table between the back windows.
    Rachel took several slow steps to her left, the small rough circle of lamplight moving up the child’s body as she moved.
    She stopped abruptly.   “Paul!”
    He looked where she was looking, then at her again.   “What’s the problem?”
    “Can’t you see, Paul?   Isn’t it