Les Enfants Terribles

Benway mf

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This story involves characters that belong to Marvel comics. The 
story itself belongs to me. 

This story is not intended for sensitive readers, or for parents 
with no sense of humour. I find infants to be wonderful, just for 
the record. Blame David Lynch for this one.

This story was inspired by a recent Robo-Baby story of Maggie the 
Cat's, and also by all the mothers with small children that I see in 
Greyhound stations, who look like they have not slept since the 
birth of their first child. 

Many thanks to Luba, Jaya, sevenall, and Alara for their editorial comments.
Previous things can be found on the web-page of Luba.

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She leant into the cleaning, letting what little weight she had push 
the steel wool across the grill. She was tired. When she was tired, 
she felt ill. She felt ill all the time now. This was not so bad, as 
it was better than being hungry. She had to save the food for the 
Babies.

"Lee!" yelled the night supervisor.

She stepped away from the grill and walked over to the small, 
sweating Bulgarian who watched her with concern.

"You are tired."

"No, I'm fine," she managed. She could see the clock on the wall 
behind him. It had just turned 10. 

"You fall, you get hurt, you sue, they fire me," he muttered.

"I won't fall," she said.

"Bullshit," he growled.

"My kids-"

"I let you get away with a lot here. I know that you're working at 
the one on Madison too, on the first shift."

Her heart skipped. If they knew that she was working a previous full 
shift for the competition, that would be it. Why couldn't they just 
let her work two full shifts?

"Anything," she said.

"My office," he said. He let her have a free Coke afterwards, to get 
rid of the taste.

She walked the six blocks, declining two offers for rides. She 
hadn't always refused, but when Krystle's husband had offered her a 
ride on the day that Krystle had been ill, he had given her a black 
eye afterwards instead of a drink. She had lost the extras that day, 
and that had been ugly. It was the last time the Babies had cried, 
and the thought that they might do so again pushed her leaden feet 
even faster. 

They all lived together now, in three rented rooms across from a 
factory than once employed a thousand to make tiny china figurines 
for gift shops. People who shared the general cast of her features 
but who lived elsewhere could now make such things for less. She had 
a dim memory of finding this ironic, but could barely recall when 
she had had time for such thoughts. It might have been when she had 
lived with the others in separate rooms in the School, so long 
before. The school had been different, but then Cassidy and the 
woman (what was her name?) had gone away, and the Babies had come. 
There wasn't any money any more, and so they had come to this place. 
They had had some other friends with special gifts, but those 
friends too had gone away. She still had her gifts, but they weren't 
useful for anything, not any more.

As she approached the entrance to her building, she saw that the 
lights in their apartment were still on. She mounted the stairs in 
darkness, as the hallway lights had not been repaired since the 
riots 30 years before. At the top, she hesitated as she always did. 
The overpowering smell of cinnamon flooded her senses, and she knew 
that the best thing to do would be to run as far as she could, away, 
until she collapsed with exhaustion. She half suspected that they 
let her feel this way as punishment, given what had happened to her 
own Baby. She felt her arm reach into her purse and withdraw the 
key, drawn to the lock by a force over which she had no control. She 
turned the key and opened the door.

Inside, the same scene as always. Ev and Monet were on the sofa, 
staring at the television, watching the coverage of the latest 
invasion of Iraq. They were allowed a television, a small blessing. 
Ev looked up, Monet didn't. Ev pointed to the far corner, where a 
golden glow shimmered briefly before fading. Her vision blurred, as 
she tried to remember the name of her friend, the one whose matter 
had been entirely consumed by his Baby. That had been sad, but 
Angelo had been there to take over for him.

"They're hungry," said Ev.

"They're always hungry," she said. 

She raised the bag of extras and his eyes lit up.

"Come on," she said. "Need your help."

It took Ev more than three tries to stand up, which was not good. He 
was down below a 100 pounds now, still 20 pounds heavier than her. 
Even so, he looked even smaller than she was. She might have to give 
him some more food. The Babies wouldn't like that.

In the kitchen, she unloaded the extras. Five pounds of uncooked 
hamburger for Ev's Baby. Twenty or so half-consumed meals, still in 
their foam packaging, for the rest. She emptied them into a big bowl 
and poured in the remaining soda from the half-empty drink 
containers. She mashed it together with a potato masher, then 
stopped as she started to black out and let Ev take over. Some 
ketchup and relish remained on her fingers. She licked them, 
savoring each digit as if they had been coated in ambrosia. Ev went 
to take a forkfull of the mush but she stopped him. 

"Only if there's any left."

The disappointment in his eyes was unbearable. She almost relented, 
but then she thought of what might happen if the Babies cried.

He helped her carry the bowl into the other room, where Monet and 
Angelo waited to be fed. They saw to Monet first, as always. Monet 
wasn't as small as they were. They had had to reinforce the end of 
the sofa where she sat with 2 by 4s. Monet's Baby was behind the 
sofa. Neither of them had looked behind the sofa in a very long 
time. Every so often, a furry claw would come from below the sofa 
and pick at the open sores on Monet's ankle, until she moved her 
foot. It was the only exercise Monet had. They didn't have to feed 
the Baby directly, which was a blessing. Instead, they fed Monet and 
the tendril that ran from the blackened scab on her neck and down 
behind the couch fed the Baby. The Baby was not at all selfish, 
and it fed her in return. A second tendril ran into the back of 
Monet's head, occasionally leaking a thin, green, sticky fluid. It 
throbbed occasionally, as if reflecting an erratic heartbeat. When 
it did, Monet would moan. It was almost the only sound that she 
made, now. Even so, she could still swallow, which was a blessing. 

As she spooned the mess into Monet's mouth, Ev was fumbling with the 
grease gun. It wasn't really intended for the administration of the 
thick paste, and Ev was having some trouble loading it. The hose 
from its end went into the gray mass that was Angelo and the two 
Babies, his own and the shimmering boy's. A gentle whirring came 
from below the gray sheet, and Ev began loading faster. They hadn't 
seen Angelo's head in a month, and were not at all sure that it was 
still there. She glanced over to the window, below which a huge mass 
of gray spider-like silk lay pulsating. A few wilting red spikes 
still penetrated the gray, but there were fewer than there had been 
a week before. Penny had had a Baby too.

Ev started to pump with the gun. It was hard, since he barely had 
enough strength to push. The whirring came again, and Ev looked over 
his shoulder at her frantically. Fortunately, at that moment Monet 
began to repeat, indicating in the usual manner that she had had her 
fill. She dropped the bowl and joined Ev, frantically heaving on the 
plunger until it started to slowly move.

"We need a new one," she said.

"It's the hose," he said, his voice quavering.

"We leave the hose," she said firmly. "Get a bigger pump. I'm not 
going under there."

"OK. We get a bigger pump," he said. "Where'll you get the money?"

"Go without," she said. "I'll think of something."

He shuddered and started loading the pump again. She looked at 
Monet, who lay unmoving, tears running down her cheeks. Perhaps 
Monet was remembering. She looked away, at the television. It was 
telling her that America was the Greatest Country In the World, and 
showing her commercials paid for by a company that made missiles.
It made no sense to her. Why would she ever want to buy a missile? 
She had turned to help Ev with the gun again when a sharp rapping 
came at the door. They froze.

"They're not due until next week," he whispered.

"Maybe it's not them," she breathed.

The rapping came again, louder this time. She left Ev sitting, the 
gun frozen in his hands. She opened the door. The Worker was 
standing there, briefcased, cowled and veiled. She remembered how to 
smile. She turned to Ev, who had also remembered how to smile, 
though not quite as well. He started squeezing on the grease gun 
with strength born of panic that she knew well.

"Come in," she said.

"Ms. Lee," said the Worker in its dizzying, buzzing voice.

She stepped back, trying not to wet herself. That tended to not 
leave a good impression.

"And how are the infants?" said the Worker.

"Fine, just fine," said Ev in an unusually high voice. "We're just 
finishing the night feeding."

"Then I assume that you will be leaving for your class momentarily," 
said the Worker, turning to her.

"No," she said in a tiny voice.

"And why not?"

"I'm so tired. I need to sleep."

"You need to do what you are told. There are no free lunches for you 
and your kind anymore. That course is for your benefit."

"But I only get five hours a day-"

"It has been proven that you could manage four for the duration of 
the course. It is intended to improve your chances of getting a 
better paying job, to compensate for your lack of education. I don't 
see how you can expect to be given our assistance if you are 
unwilling to pull yourself up by your bootstraps."

"But I can barely-"

"It is only for six months."

"But the winter is coming, and it's on the other side of town, and 
there's no bus-"

The Worker held up its hand. Her breath caught in her throat. In the 
total silence that followed, she could hear the whirring again. The 
Worker crossed the room to where Angelo lay, lifted his outer layer 
and looked underneath. The odour of cinnamon was overpowering. Ev 
backed towards her, not daring to look underneath. The Worker 
replaced Angelo to his former position and turned back to them.

"You will install a new hose by next Tuesday, if not sooner. I may 
visit again, before then. If it is not done, there will be 
consequences. I have no idea why people like you are allowed to take 
care of children."

She had no idea either, but dared say nothing. The Worker was 
peering behind the couch. It extended a long arm behind, making a 
stroking motion. It stiffened, then braced itself by planting its 
other hand on Monet's face. It pulled mightily. Monet moaned. The 
Worker grunted and heaved. Its hand came free with a loud pop.

"Curious," it said. "Good work."

She almost fainted. Ev held her up.

"And now, Everett's."

"In here," he said, pointing towards the bedroom.

The Worker entered first, followed by Ev. She made a brief detour to 
pick up the meat, and joined Ev just as the Worker was inspecting 
the swaddling of his infant with a steel instrument.

"They are called tensor bandages for a reason, boy."

Ev shuddered.

"But, it-"

"She," said the Worker frostily. "Your have a little girl."

Ev made some small choking noises.

"Um, we couldn't do it any tighter," she said. "She didn't like it. 
She spit up."

"That is no excuse," said the Worker. "Page 532 of the abridged 
edition. The swaddling must be as tight as possible."

"But the Baby-"

"Page 532."

She shuddered. The Worker was appeared to be peering into the Baby's 
eye. It had lifted its veil, and she prayed to all the gods that she 
could remember, that it should not turn around. It covered its face 
almost on cue, then turned back to them. Ev squeezed her hand so 
hard she was afraid it might break. 

"Not perfect, but adequate." 

She almost passed out from joy.

"The records at the Centre will be scrutinized. You will have 
registered listed there, and you will start the course on Monday."

She bowed her head and nodded an assent. 

"I will be asking about the lecture during my Tuesday visit."

"I'll do it," she managed.

"Very good. Everett: the hose, as quickly as possible. And get a new 
pump. That thing is filthy."

Ev nodded, squeezing her hand again. The Worker picked up its 
briefcase and waited for her to open the door. It always did this, 
and she wondered if it knew how to open a door by itself. When the 
door closed, Ev collapsed to the sofa. Monet at that moment let 
loose a monstrous blast of wind, and they both broke down into 
hysterical laughter that they both choked off in a moment. There was 
no sound of footsteps returning up the stairs, no gentle whirring, 
only a stifled sob from Monet.

"Come on," she said, "Let's check your dressing."

He followed her obediently to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet. 
She removed the gauze from over his left eye, and shuddered when she 
saw what remained there.

"We match."

It was true. She alone had fought back, She had found the strength 
from somewhere to drive her Baby away. She had fought, but there had 
been five others who could not and they had caught her as she was 
stamping the life out of the still-quivering fireproof tentacles 
that she had hacked from it with the rusty screwdriver that she had 
found under the sink. The Baby had lived, but had fled and there had 
been a punishment. Not as final as the punishment of Paige, but 
they had decided that she only needed one eye to work the grills. 
For that moment of freedom, it had been worth it.

"You've got to have this checked out," she said as she daubed at the 
dead tissue with antiseptic.

"It's fine," he said. "How would I explain it?"

"Page fucking 532," she said and giggled. He started giggling too. 
It was a frightening sound, but not as frightening as the 
strangulated gurgle that came from the bedroom. 

"Shit," he said. "We forgot to feed it."

"_Her_. Forgot to feed _her_, not it. Want to lose another finger?"

"No," he muttered as she covered the wound with fresh gauze.

They returned to the bedroom, where the strangulated gurgling was 
louder than before.

"The lights?" he whispered.

"No way."

She made her way into the room gingerly, flattening herself against 
the walls as she moved closer to the old dresser where the bowl of 
meat lay, waiting. The Baby gurgled, and she froze. There was a 
splat and a hiss. She could see the puddle of spit dissolving its 
way through the linoleum and into the wood beneath. She made a dash 
for the bowl, grabbed a handful of cold, damp meat, and threw it 
into its gaping mouth. The gurgling noise intensified, then cut off 
suddenly. A contented sigh filled the air. She approached it more 
carefully, then began throwing meat into it as fast as she could. It 
all disappeared into the ever expanding teardrop shaped mass on the 
bed, which twitched spasmodically with pleasure. Ev remained at the 
door, once burned, twice shy. When the bowl was empty, she placed it 
on the bed and stroked the Baby's fuzzy face. It gurgled 
contentedly. 

"Good Baby," she crooned. "Dessert? Baby wants dessert?"

She withdrew a pin from her uniform and pricked her index finger. A 
small bead of blood formed on its surface. A long black tongue 
uncoiled from the hole in its head and coiled around her arm, 
holding it with a grip of steel. Peristalyting hairs caressed her 
finger, licking it clean.

"What page is that on?" Ev said nervously.

"Page 677," she lied. Her Baby was out there somewhere, and one day 
she would need a friend.

The tongue let her go as its eye closed and it went to sleep. She 
joined Ev at the door and they both stared at the thing sleeping 
there. 

"Could be worse," she said. "You could have to change her swaddling 
tomorrow instead." 

He shuddered. The television blared news of another victorious 
missile strike in Baghdad. 

"Off?" she asked.

"Leave it," he said. "Can't face going in there again."

She filled the sink with water and stripped off her uniform. It went 
in, along with Ev's shirt. They lay in unwashed underwear on the 
floor, on a dirty sheet, resting their heads on their arms. She 
thought of giving him a hug, but then it occurred to her that there 
was some food left. She was too tired to do anything.

Her last thought before sleep took her: Tomorrow is another day.

FIN