Dennis Gamblin First Serial Rights

309 W. Ninth St. Approx. 600 words

Portageville, MO 63873
dgamblin@sheltonbbs.com

MOTHER’S LOVE

by

Dennis Gamblin

This forest seems too dark as shadows dance and skitter with each heartbeat and blink of

the eye.

Jenna’s legs hurt. Her chest heaves, begging for more oxygen, but she does not stop to

rest. She only stops to look up at the canopy of leaves and limbs above her; one more

hour of darkness, then daylight. Maybe then she will be safe. They do not hunt during

the day. But she can hear them behind her. They always seem to be just behind her,

hunting.

The bundle in her arms -- her child -- begins to stir so she cradles him tighter. “Quiet

now,” she whispers. They can not be allowed to hear. Those bastards -- bloodthirsty

bastards who, ever since the plague started, could care less who they kill. They just kill.

The dew-soaked leaves slip from underneath Jenna’s feet as she climbs the steep hill;

her knee comes down hard on the rocks underneath. A thin trickle of blood runs down

her leg like a new born river. Slowly at first but as her heart pumps harder the blood river

branches out into smaller tributaries. With one stroke of her finger the river is gone.

Jenna looks at the red stain on her finger, the blood. The fuel for the plague. The river of

life for the living as well as for the ones who wish they were dead.
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She limps to the top of the hill, the ache in her leg does not slow her as much as the

child in her arms. Jenna stops and looks behind her. She can hear dogs barking in the

distance mingling with far away shouts, but she can not see them and they can not see

her.

The child is heavy, like dead weight. The tendons and muscles in her arms tighten

and strain to the point of wondering if she will ever be able to straighten her arms again.

If she could just put him down for a minute, two minutes. Forever. She could put him

down and run away, never look back and they would not follow her. Because they would

have the child. They want the child.

No. The caves are just ahead. If she can make the caves before daylight she will be

safe. She puts one foot in front of the other, and then the other. Make the caves. Before

daylight. Safe. They don’t hunt during daylight.

She can see the caves, just ahead, but the bastards have gained ground on her. They

are close, so close that the dogs have panicked. The dogs do not want to come closer.

But they will come. The men from the village will come closer.

The mouth of the cave is hidden but she knows where it is. Jenna has to crawl under

the bushes and the burrs, the thorns tear at her clothes, her flesh. The child in her arms

squirms and fusses. He is awake and hungry.

“In a minute,” Jenna says as she now stands in the cave. “Quiet now.”

The men lose her trail just below the cave, maybe because the dogs are fighting

against their collars and leashes or because an early morning mist has turned to sprinkles,
but they are close. She can hear them.

Mother’s Love/Gamblin/3

“Damn those dogs,” a man from the village says with a spit. “Why do they shy away

when we get so close?”

“We’ll get ‘em,” another man says. “Soon enough we’ll get ‘em.”

The men soon leave and Jenna lets out a relieved breath. But the baby starts to cry.

“Shh. It’s okay now.” Jenna, the young mother, sits with her back to the cool wall,

the baby in her lap. She takes a small knife from her pocket and slits her index finger,

she presses the cut with her thumb until the blood starts to pool.

“You must be hungry, my precious.”

She places her finger in the baby’s mouth. The baby nurses.

THE END