Broken Olive Branches

By Stephanie Rabig, Mae Murray, Sonia Sulaiman and 34 more

This is a charity anthology; all proceeds will be donated to the Palestine Children's Relief Fund and ANERA (American Near East Refugee Aid).

Over 30 authors in the horror community donated stories to help the civilians of Palestine. Among the stories are:

-- codependent necromancers
-- a spy discovers a supernatural weapon that might turn the tide of the war
-- a Girl Scout troop camping trip goes horribly wrong when dinosaurs show up
-- a child's drawings of their family are not quite what they seem
-- a group of men fighting a forest fire are about to have a Very Bad Day
-- a man is constantly followed by a terrifying shadow figure he calls the Other
-- a young woman's new job at the mall isn't nearly as mundane as she anticipated

Discover some new favorite tales in this collection!

Cover art by Winter Holmes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Rabig
• Release date: Feb 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224056859

Stephanie Rabig

Stephanie Rabig has been a horror fan all her life (her grade-school librarian remembers her because she tried to check out Dracula while in kindergarten). Favorite subgenres include creature features; isolation horror (esp. snowbound. Thanks, John Carpenter's The Thing!); and ocean horror.  She also writes romance-- paranormal and alternate-history--with her partner-in-crime, Angie Bee (check her out on Tumblr @ zombeesknees). Author photo by ctrlaltcassie on Instagram

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Copyright 2024

All rights reserved

Poem for a Child in Palestine, copyright Mae Murray.

What the Ghouleh Said on Thursday of the Dead, copyright Sonia Sulaiman. Story previously published in October 2022 by Seize the Press.

Into Thin Air, copyright Julia LaFond.

The Hungry Mouths of Love, copyright H.V. Patterson.

Magic 8 Ball, copyright Pedro Iniguez.

Promotion, copyright Aquino Loayza.

The Brides of Drume, copyright Derek Hutchins.

In Lieu of Flowers, copyright Pixie Bruner.

In Tandem, copyright Safia Kazi.

This Land is Your Land, copyright Vicente Francisco Garcia.

Holding Space, copyright Leticia Urieta.

Mall Punk, copyright Leon Saul.

Reparations, copyright Elena Greer.

Alone, copyright Dianna Gunn.

The Mommy, the Daddy, the Brother, and the Me Outside My House, copyright Patrick Barb.

The Other, copyright Laurel Hightower.

At the House of Hardincourt, copyright Alice Scott.

The Laughter of Hungry Walls, copyright Zachary Rosenberg.

Abyssal, copyright Rick Selars.

Nature Had Other Plans, copyright Caitlin Marceau.

Our Land, Our Cave, Our Home, copyright Rachel Roth.

The Gift, copyright Caleb Butler.

Fleeting Memories, copyright Caitlin K. McIntosh.

And All that Comes to Pass, copyright Mark Peters.

I'd Better Get a Goddamn Badge for This, copyright Stephanie Rabig.

Granny Gertie the Witch, copyright Anj Baker.

Necropolis, copyright Sarah R. New.

Seagod, Maneater, copyright Zahra Linsky.

The Monster, copyright Aysha U. Farah.

The Shepherd, copyright Cheyanne Brabo.

One Man's Trash, copyright JP Relph.

Through the Hole in the Stone, copyright Briar Ripley Page.

Conductive to Dark Instincts, copyright Alex Wallace.

Tone, copyright Xavier Searle.

The Winding Oak Cabins, copyright A.L. Davidson.

This One Be the Devil's, copyright Nicole Tota.

Tower Creepers, copyright J.R. Santos.

For those who need them, trigger warnings can be found at the back of the book.

Cover art by Winter Holmes.

Editor's Note:

The only fighting I know how to do is with words. The stories I grew up with helped teach me how to react to injustice: Captain America saying No, you move, Stu and Frannie and Nick and Tom making their Stand; Tiffany Aching exclaiming that she has a duty.

In most stories, in response to everything we've seen—infants forcibly abandoned in a hospital; a father carrying what remains of his babies in pillowcases; soul of my soul—the world would act, would band together. We would cancel the apocalypse.

Instead, the most powerful people encourage it, because fancy hotels and theme parks are worth more than people's lives and generations-old olive trees.

When planning this anthology, I first emailed several other writers I knew. Given that Melissa Barrera had just been fired from the Scream franchise, I knew that publicly standing with Palestine might affect careers and livelihoods and I braced for a series of nos. Instead, I was met with overwhelming support, and several donated stories in my inbox.

Then I sent out an open call, and again braced myself for disappointment. Maybe two or three other people would answer, I thought; but hell, we could make it work.

50+ people responded. And I want to take a moment to thank them all here, whether their stories made it in or not. They all trusted me—a first-time editor—with their words because of how badly they want to help, to make a Stand of their own against a horrific genocide. People offered cover art, proofreading, Alex Woodroe from the lovely Tenebrous Press sent me a contract template to use once I started sending out acceptances. I cannot thank them enough.

I was hoping by the time this anthology became available, there would be a ceasefire. And despite the best efforts of so many wonderful authors and people behind the scenes, I don't know if this project will be of any help at all. Maybe the aid bought with the profits will rot at the border because Netanyahu won't let it in. But then again, another story: Don Quixote tilting at windmills. Better to at least try than to assume your efforts will be worth nothing and shrug off the problem.

—Stephanie Rabig

ADDENDUM:

I wrote the above and I do mean every word of it but frankly, it's also toned down. I told myself it's better to be calm and measured, catch more flies with honey, etc. and etc. but

While I was on a walk once, I saw a squirrel get hit by a car. It wasn't killed immediately; it lay in its own blood and intestines, twitching and looking around wildly as it died. Just now, I saw video from Gaza of a little boy, about the same age as my youngest son, doing the same thing on the floor of a hospital. Bleeding profusely from a head wound.

So fuck any discomfort I had about my career or people's opinions of me. This shit has to stop. The Israeli government just today added insulin pens for children to their list for items not allowed to be sent into Gaza. The cruelty is deliberate, neverending, and joyous (hell, just look at the big grins on the faces of that group of settlers as they block aid trucks from getting in).

Whoever can do something, anything to help—please do it.

Cover Artist's Note

When coming up with a cover design for this anthology, I felt very strongly that the art must be worthy of the project; the design had to properly honor not only the stories contained within, but the Palestinian people and the immense struggles they have faced.

At first, I struggled to come up with imagery that felt appropriate. Finally, I turned to Palestinian art to guide me. Truthfully, I have Palestinian artists to thank for the final design, as I would not have been able to create it without looking to their art and reading about the symbolism contained within first. I especially want to draw attention to the artist Sliman Mansour, whose art largely informed my thought process pertaining to this design.

The design features a border of barbed wire, representing the very real borders marked with barbed wire that separate Palestinians from the land occupied by Israel. Two hands reach out of the wire, out towards a better future.

One hand holds an olive branch, symbolizing peace, the Palestinian people’s connection to their land, and the olive trees themselves: olive trees which have lived for hundreds of years, many of them under the care of the same families for generations—olive trees which have been targeted and destroyed by the Israeli occupation for years because of how much they are worth to the Palestinian people.

The other hand holds a key, representing the keys to their homes the Palestinian people kept after the Nakba in 1948, keys symbolizing their hope and determination to one day return home.

During the current genocide of the Palestinian people, footage was released showing children having their names written on their wrists so that their bodies could be identified in the event that they were murdered by the Israeli occupation. I cannot fathom the trauma this act alone carries, the act of labeling oneself with the knowledge that the label itself represents the possibility of an untimely and violent death. The fact that children had to experience this is a crime in itself.

In my design, I placed the title and the editor’s name over the wrists to reference this specifically. I want people to be reminded of this whenever they see the cover. The image is burned into my mind, as I believe it should be burned into the minds of us all, especially the minds of those in power who have turned a blind eye to the violence the Palestinian people are facing even as their own constituents beg for it to be stopped.

Overall, I can only hope my design captures the strength of the Palestinian people.

I hope you enjoy the stories you are about to read, and remember the real stories of the people this anthology was created to help.

-Winter Holmes

A Poem for a Child in Palestine

by Mae Murray

Petals ground into mud,

they step on every flower they see,

but they only crush what is bright above

and never touch the roots beneath.

Stems weep into the soil.

Leaves wilt and feed the insects.

Caterpillars yawn, heavy, full,

wrap themselves in shrouds, reborn

beautiful somewhere far away.

Steadfast roots rebuild the broken,

flower stretches open,

a child's face beaming into the sun

beside the sea and

free.

What the Ghouleh Said on Thursday of the Dead

by Sonia Sulaiman

For seventy years, a Biblical age, the shadows hungered in the village. Daylight, moonlight. Growth of

weeds, and slumber of stone. The settlers smashed in the domes of the houses to keep away the living.

They forgot to ward off the dead. Thirsting, the shadows raised desiccated tongues to catch the benevolence of Baal Haddad, the only god who would remember them.

The rain that moistened the grave dirt was their only blessing.

The almonds bloomed.

Each grave defiled, the cemetery a trash heap, the den of vermin and decay, neglected—though not forgotten. Across the wadi, settlers sip lattes and muse over the view: a decadent, gothic playground, a corpse laid on the hill country of the Holy City.

To archive, to preserve, to destroy, to remake?  Every year a new developer eyes the village with greed: he sees luxury apartments rising out of the teeth of the white stone vaults.

The dead still wait; they wait for children to come with the libations and feasting that would bring them

delight and relief. To archive, to erase— Both carry a heavy curse.

Give us something to drink, O Lord! they murmur in their graves. The sound is an echo of the singing

of their own mouths when they were children calling on their God to refresh the green growing things,

and themselves. And now their only relief is in those gentle rains.

But even those rains are coming less and less. The forests are tinder-dry, land unscathed by the cleansing

of herds and flocks, the forests ignite and burn to the ground around Jerusalem. The waters are drying up,

evaporating in the heat waves and the dust.

When the day comes that the Lord doesn’t bring his rains, as he has done since before the Pharaohs came,

the number of the dead will swell with spirit, a new kind of spiritual energy will soak the land and transform it into another world entirely.

The blessed trees are uprooted, slashed and burned. In each forty-year-old tree there lives the soul of a saint. It returns, a ghost, to the realm of the dead. All is death and dying, when the communal lines are broken and all becomes so much resource to be plundered and possessed.

For now, they drink those rivulets of water showered freely from the darkening skies that stretch out their flanks over the hills and across the plain. To the living, pray. Pray that the dead are filled and satisfied. Grant them dignity and ease, if you would value these yourself.

FROM THE DARKEST OF doorways, a figure lingers—it is I. I beckon, and entice the unwary, the foolish, the curious. The sharpness of my eyes is beautiful, like that of a hawk. Something wild and impossibly old crawls beneath my skin, which seems to fit a little too tightly. Having ventured too close to the threshold, having called out who’s there?! the overly curious colonizer steps closer, and my voice fills the humming of the ruin:

They never told you to suck my breast, to call me ‘auntie’ before demanding of me a name. And they never told you to Name—to speak a blessing before beginnings and openings, to prevent us from slipping through from the hidden world beyond human sense.

On the other hand, someone surely told you not to defile a grave. And long have we warned you about the

danger of pride, especially when it is overweening and undeserved. Pride in the service of empire, of colonization.

Now, you call me monstrous. You are the one who makes the rules here, and I am playing along, playing my part. If you are the hero, someone has to be the villain. And a villain is simply a hero whose story has drawn on too long.

I am what I am: a ghouleh, a breaker of dried bone, snapper of sinew, the ravager that strips flesh from the dead to fill my need. Answerable to none, this village suits me well—this shell where memory itself dies. My kin have long gathered in the ruins of cities, age upon age. Few ventured to prey upon the living, and only when we had been disturbed, forced out of our proper places in the emptiness where there is air and darkness.

I bring with me the stillness and the silence. It is the stalking of the leopard, I assure you. In giving over the lands of the living, this place, once so full of life and energy, is now become stagnant and sweet to my tongue.

I will meet you here, in the decadent decay, for you, too, hunger. Take this place to sustain your hunger—sustain, I do not say satisfy. Devouring this village, as you would do, will only sharpen the edge of want.

It will force my hand, however, and I will have to turn my steps toward the light and stalk among you, though it brings me no pleasure. The living have an acrid, fresh taste that I dislike, but if needs must, then I will feed—but not on you.

If you had only sucked at my breast, had you called me ‘Auntie,’ I would have taken you in, my dear one. I would have forgiven you all. As it is, I owe you nothing. And I leave you nothing.

You can pray, you can beg for me to leave you alone. Shut your borrowed and stolen doors and windows

tight. Leave a light on in the night. Watch each and every step. Look over the shoulder and see a ghouleh in every school girl, dark of eye, and of wrong religion.

I am a ghouleh. I will be here long after you have died. All of your works will fade, your name unremarkable and unremembered. Your marrow will not live on in my flesh. I will leave you alone.

Utterly alone.

They say to be careful what you wish for, and that is wisdom. To be left alone by a ghouleh is not the blessing you think it is. The decaying and dying will not be cleansed without me. And without that, there can be no ease, no life worth living.

THE GHOULEH’S VOICE is carried away into echoes chasing the shadowed hollows of the village. Night has

fallen, the dark of the doorway spreading out inky and thick. The susurration of the almond trees carry the chorus of the dead: give us, give us something to drink.

Into Thin Air

by Julia LaFond

Lots of geologists take for granted that anyone who says they enjoyed field camp has already finished it. It’s easier to block out the bad parts when you’re back to civilization and can choose never to head out again. Sure, a lot of us enjoy field work, and even make a career out of

it. But we all have at least one horror story to tell each other over beers.

I wish mine wasn’t so literal.

The first day was pretty much what I expected: a long, bumpy drive to base camp. We pitched our tents, set up a campfire, and ate hot dogs and canned beans as the sun set. Dylan showed up late; he drove his own truck, accompanied by Will, Stacy, and a cooler full of beer.

We drank and chatted. Dr. Monroe played his guitar. A couple people stayed up watching the stars, but most of us went to bed, knowing we’d have to get up at dawn for the rest of the trip.

I was groggy the next morning; instant coffee isn’t the same. The rest of breakfast wasn’t much better: runny yogurt cups and sticky oatmeal. Tomorrow we wouldn’t even have the luxury of yogurt; no one would drive all the way into town just for ice.

Everyone perked up when Dr. Monroe announced the groups of 3 for this week’s

mapping exercise. I ended up with Stacy and Brendan. We barely took time to pack sandwiches before we hit the trail.

Walking woke me up more than the instant coffee could have. The cloudless sky was a shade of blue you can only see in the mountains. But what really caught my eye was what we were there for: the rocks, mostly stained orange thanks to iron oxides. But it can be easy to take

for granted the big picture when it comes to geology: weathering profiles, joints and faults, facies shifts, and even unconformities are more obvious from a distance. I did quick sketches in my field book while Stacy took pictures of some mule deer.

Some things you can only see up close and personal. We scrabbled upward, boots sinking into scree as we climbed the cliff faces. At each outcrop, we started with strike and dip, took some samples with our rock hammers, and devolved into arguments about what type of rocks we

were looking at. Brendan and I had long, heated arguments about the host formation (Stacy would only say that they looked sedimentary). Sometimes we moved on without coming to a consensus. I know for a fact he wrote down Muav Limestone for an outcrop that was clearly Redwall Limestone.

That wouldn’t have been too annoying — we had plenty of time to figure it out later. We just needed to take good notes. But it was getting hot out, and the sand fleas were out in force.

Meanwhile, Stacy took longer and longer to catch up each time we moved to a new outcrop.

Maybe we should take a break for lunch, she wheezed.

Whatever. Brendan shrugged and crossed his arms. Fine by me.

I started feeling much better once I finished my sandwich, so I tried to engage Stacy in small talk. I failed.

Brendan pointedly faced away from both of us as he ate. Once we all finished, he started walking before we could discuss which way to go. I rolled my eyes as Stacy grabbed her backpack.

Hey, mind waiting for the rest of your team? I asked once he stopped at an outcrop.

Maybe you two shouldn’t slow me down, he retorted. We’ve got a lot of map to fill in.

Whatever, dude, I grumbled. We’ve got all week. We’ll get it done.

He shrugged and raised his eyebrows, but took the strike and dip. This time Stacy went so far as to say the outcrop looked like sandstone, and even pointed out some cross-bedding. But she still wouldn’t pick a side when Brendan and I argued about which formation it was. And so

the afternoon went.

We were all tired by the time we headed back to camp. I told myself that tomorrow would be easier: we’d be less jet-lagged, and we would get faster at identification.

At dinner I looked for people to compare notes with, but we were the first to cover those outcrops. When I asked Dr. Monroe, all he’d say was that it seemed reasonable.

Meanwhile, Dylan showed off a trilobite fossil he’d found. Then came more beer and music. Some of us played poker. I barely broke even, but I couldn’t help but smirk when Brendan was out $20 by the end of the night.

I doubt his mood improved when he, like the rest of us, woke up at 2 am to Alyssa (a TA) screaming her head off. She’d found a black widow spider in her tent when she woke up to go to the bathroom. Will relocated it for her, but Brendan muttered something about wimps when he

returned to his tent.

It was another cloudless day. Brendan seemed oddly quiet, accepting my identifications at face value. He contented himself with a simple snort when I said limestone instead of shale by accident. I was surprised, but relieved.

Then he ran off while Stacy and I were confirming strike and dip.

Hey, get back here! I screamed at him.

He flipped me off as he slid down the rock wall and rounded a corner, disappearing from sight.

I snapped the compass shut and shoved it into my backpack, ready to chase him down, but Stacy burst into tears.

Don’t leave me too! she sobbed. I don’t want to get lost out here!

Hey, hey. It’s OK. I’m not ditching you. I turned back and forced myself to smile. We all have maps. No one’s getting lost.

But what if something happens? It’s not safe! And he has the radio! Stacy sat down, pressing her back against the rock wall, and shook her head. If something happens —

It won’t, I interrupted. I took a deep breath. Look, it’s probably too late to catch up with him now, so let’s get some more outcrops in. We’ll tell Dr. Monroe when we get back, and hopefully we can trade team members.

Stacy nodded, stood up, and wiped her face. We went slower than before. But she started opening up, making observations out loud to figure out which formation we were in. Once, she even respectfully disagreed with my identification. It took my mind off Brendan, and by the end,

we were getting through outcrops faster than the three of us had.

A thunderstorm forced us back to camp. Then no one was thinking about anything other than Brendan. No one had seen him, and he didn’t answer the radio. After the rain died down the TAs looked for him, but came back empty-handed.

I was nervous then, and Stacy was as well. Dr. Monroe and the TAs went off to the side for a private discussion. Everyone else thought Brendan had just lost track of time or something;

Will bet $10 that Brendan would be back within an hour (no takers). Though the campfire got a lot quieter when the coyotes started howling. No one stayed up much later.

In the morning, Dr. Monroe pulled Stacy and I aside, asking us more questions about where we’d last seen Brendan. Then he called another breakfast meeting.

The TAs and I will continue to look for Brendan, he announced. Keep mapping for now, and radio back if you see any sign of him. He glanced around. And stay in your groups! Is anyone willing to have Catalina and Stacy join them?

Jamal, Matt, and Will volunteered. We headed roughly opposite from the direction Brendan had disappeared to.

Dylan said he found the trilobite here, Matt informed us, jabbing his finger into the map. We decided to make a detour to, shall we say, fully document the fossiliferous deposit. He grinned. If you don’t mind.

I nodded.

Not at all, chimed in Stacy. She moved up beside Matt. Were you able to tell what species it was?

I smiled as the two discussed taxonomy. I never liked paleontology that much, but I was glad Stacy was enjoying herself. And I certainly wouldn’t complain if I found a trilobite, though brachiopods were more likely.

No trilobites, though Stacy scored some crinoids. Not that I could focus on fossil hunting.

I kept looking over my shoulder all day, half-expecting Brendan to pop out of nowhere. Or maybe hoping.

My heart sank when I heard worried, angry voices when we headed back for the evening.

Dylan’s truck was gone. He’d gone to get help. I didn’t understand why until Jordan tersely informed me Dr. Monroe was missing. He’d split off from the TAs to cover more ground, and now no one could reach him by radio.

For a while, all everyone else did was speculate about it. Maybe there was radio interference. Maybe it was an elaborate prank. Maybe the coyotes got them. Jordan dope slapped Matt for bringing up that possibility, but it hung in the air. By the time dinner rolled around, no

one was talking anymore. The TAs didn’t so much as remind us to work on our maps. I couldn’t take the silence. I retreated to my tent, trying to fall asleep through sheer willpower.

I woke up to a spluttering engine accompanied by shouted profanity. I hurriedly got dressed and ran out to see what was going on.

Zhang climbed out of one of the vans and slammed the door. It won’t start! he shouted. Then he indulged in what I suspected were Chinese expletives.

Stacy walked up beside me. Dylan’s not back. And it’s not just Brendan and Dr. Monroe, she explained shakily. Alyssa was gone this morning. No one saw or heard her leave. She’s just... gone. She crossed her arms and headed back to the campfire before I could

respond.

All right, everyone, circle up! shouted Aaron. Given recent events, we’re suspending field camp. My phone gets reception, so we called ahead to get some motel rooms for everyone. But since one of the vans won’t start, we’ll need to make two trips. He glanced around the circle of students. We’d like to ask for volunteers to stay behind. Otherwise, he hesitated, we’ll need to do a random selection. If you have any reason you need to be in the first group, talk to me or Zhang.

Will and Jordan volunteered immediately. Matt raised his hand a few seconds later. I only did when I saw how pale Stacy had turned.

Thank you, replied Zhang.

After a few false starts loading up the remaining two vans, they realized that at least three more people had to stay. Then they realized that since only TAs were supposed to drive the vans, we’d be unsupervised. Zhang and Aaron stepped aside for a while to argue. Zhang looked

unhappy when Aaron announced that both vans would leave as planned. Then he passed around a hat full of paper scraps.

Erica, David, and Zeke were unlucky enough to join the volunteers. The seven of us watched as everyone else piled into the vans.

Stacy shuffled up to me. I’m so sorry. She gave me a shaky hug. Please be careful.

I will. I’ll be OK.

She hurried away without looking back.

The vans pulled away. The roar of the engines softened into a dull drone before fading to nothing. We couldn’t even see the glint of the windows in the distance.

Matt stood and stretched. I’m bored. Anyone else want to keep mapping?

Are you nuts? scoffed Zeke. We have no idea what’s out there!

‘What’s out there?’ repeated Matt incredulously. This isn’t some horror movie. Brendan and Dr. Monroe wandered off by themselves. They were stupid. As long as we stick together, we’ll be fine.

Oh, really? Zeke gestured around. Why didn’t they radio in? Why haven’t we found any trace of them? What about Alyssa? Did she wander off into the field in the middle of the night? Right after the van conveniently stopped working? It doesn’t add up.

Dude, you’re being paranoid, protested Jordan. What do you think is going on? Vampires? Aliens?

All I know is something weird and freaky is going down, picking people off one by one. Like a horror movie. Do you know what happens to Black people in horror movies? Zeke jerked his finger across his neck. "That’s what happens! So I vote we all stay here, together, until

the van comes back tomorrow."

I’m with him, agreed Erica. Besides, it’s not like they’ll expect us to get any work done. She dug out a deck of cards. Poker? Rummy? Blackjack?

I like blackjack, replied Jordan. She sat down next to Erica.

Will scratched the back of his head. I wouldn’t mind going for a hike, he said slowly.

But we’d need a third. He glanced around. Anyone else? Or are you too chicken? His gaze fell on me.

Fine, I’ll go. But only if we stick together.

I regretted my choice immediately; I was too jumpy to pay attention to the geology, and not even the physical exertion eased my growing dread.

We were at our second outcrop when it happened. I forced myself to sketch some fractures while Matt sifted through fallen rocks for fossils. Then Will walked away.

Hey, where are you going? I shouted after him.

He didn’t even look my way.

Hey! Stop! I jogged forward, as did Matt.

Will passed behind a boulder, just for a second. He didn’t come out the other side. When Matt and I reached it, there was no sign of him. He was just...gone.

We grabbed our stuff and headed back to camp in silence.

David barely glanced up from the table. Where’s Will?

All we could do was shake our heads.

It was Zeke’s idea to share tents. It would be cramped, but safer. Jordan and David disagreed, insisting on staying in their own tents. Nothing we said could change their minds.

None of us were surprised when they were gone in the morning.

Matt boiled the water for the instant coffee and the oatmeal while I boiled eggs in another pot. Erica and Zeke played a listless game of Crazy Eights. After breakfast, we broke camp, packed our things, and waited.

Eventually Erica dug out her deck of cards. We distracted ourselves with poker.

More time passed. We dug the food back out, using flimsy plastic knives to smear peanut butter and jelly onto the white bread. Except Zeke, who dunked his bread like he was eating chips and dip.

Erica shook her head and stood. I’ll be right back.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where are you going? Zeke stood up and blocked her. By yourself?

The port-a-potty. She rolled her eyes. Or is that too dangerous now?

No one goes anywhere alone, insisted Zeke. Cat, will you go with her?

We wouldn’t both fit in there, I replied dryly. But I can wait outside.

Fine. Come on.

I stood guard next to the plastic structure, keenly aware that Zeke and Matt were staring. I tried not to listen too hard as Erica took care of business. Finally, I heard the squeaky hand sanitizer pump.

Then Erica gasped, and something clattered to the floor.

Erica? I knocked lightly. You OK in there?

She didn’t respond.

Erica? I repeated louder, knocking harder this time. Seriously, this isn’t funny.

I couldn’t hear anything, not even breathing. Erica! I shrieked, futilely pulling on the locked door.

Zeke and Matt ran over. It took us a while to pry the lock open. We looked inside: empty, save for the fallen bottle of hand sanitizer.

We ran back to the campsite and grabbed our bags.   It won’t hurt to meet the van on the road, right? asked Matt nervously.

Right, I replied, trying to sound calmer than I was. It’ll save some time.

Grab the food, instructed Zeke. And a tent. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. You know, just in case.

Matt and I nodded in unison.

We walked, and walked, and walked. It seemed like the rough dirt road would never end.

We stayed together the whole time. Even when we had to go to the bathroom. I was past the point of caring about modesty, and they seemed to be in a similar frame of mind.

As the sun set, we sat by the roadside and dug out canned tuna.

How long do you think it’ll take us to walk back? I asked absently.

It takes what, five or six hours to drive? With stops? replied Matt. If we don’t catch the van, at least two days. Maybe more.

Think we have enough food? I asked.

I’m more worried about water. Zeke shook his empty bottle. Dehydration, heat exhaustion, heat stroke... His voice trailed off.

Should we ration it? asked Matt.

If you want to end up like the hikers who die with water left, I retorted.

Fair. Matt nervously sipped from his canteen.

Sunlight got reflected directly into my eye. Ow! I flinched and shielded my face. What the — I looked for the source. Oh.

What is it?

I pointed to a truck on the side of the road, partly obscured by some brush and scrub. Dylan’s truck. The passenger side mirror was aimed almost right at me.

The three of us headed over cautiously. No one was around; the driver’s door was ajar.

Matt pulled it open gingerly, then clambered inside.

Does it work? asked Zeke eagerly.

Matt turned the key, which generated choking sounds. Tank’s empty, he concluded, grabbing a water bottle from the cupholder.

Of course. I sighed. Keep walking, or set up camp?

By this? Matt pointed a thumb at the truck as he climbed back out. You think you can sleep next to it?

You want to keep walking in the dark? countered Zeke.

Let’s walk a little further, I suggested. Just far enough to get out of sight.

That’s what we did.

In the morning, we continued the grueling journey back to civilization. Zeke and Matt discussed what foods they would eat first. They got sidetracked into arguing about whether meatloaf and burgers were the same thing when a loud screeching shattered the silence.

I jumped and looked around wildly. It came again; this time I spotted the source.

Relieved, I pointed at the bird circling overhead. Just a hawk.

Zeke laughed nervously. Right. Sure it’s not a vulture?

Maybe? I don’t know birds. Matt, what do you think?

No answer. Zeke’s face froze. We turned, slowly.  Matt wasn’t there. We held hands as we scanned the area. Matt was gone.

I looked down at our hands. Think that will help?

Maybe? Kind of hard to walk, though.

Rope. I released my grip, shrugged my backpack off, and dug out a coil. Like mountain climbing.

That should work.

We tied our waists together, leaving three feet of slack. Tighter than would normally be comfortable: I felt Zeke’s every move. A reassuring presence as we headed down the road.

My stomach growled, but I didn’t feel like stopping for lunch. Zeke didn’t say anything, either. We walked, and walked, and walked. We didn’t even stop when we passed an empty van. We kept walking until my legs gave out.

OK, break time, panted Zeke.

Breaks are good, I nodded as I sucked down the last of my water.

Food? Zeke dug out bread and canned tuna.

OK.

We ate slowly, our breathing returning to normal. Zeke passed me one of his water bottles.

You sure?

He nodded.

I took two quick gulps and passed it back. Thanks.

We stood back up and kept walking. My feet were more blisters than skin. But I only cared about the light dimming as, once again, the sun sank below the horizon.

Zeke took a deep breath. We should keep walking.

At night? I instinctively slowed. In the dark?

I know, but — we’re running out of water. And the van’s not coming. He tugged on the rope. Besides, neither of us is wandering off.

I exhaled slowly. OK. I shook my head. I don’t like it, but OK.

Zeke nodded and dropped the tent bag. Less weight.

The stars came out, one by one. There were so many. I hadn’t realized how much clearer the night sky was without light pollution. It was astounding.

Between the stars and our flashlights, we could still see each other. Zeke would smile, and I’d smile back. Or I’d tug on the rope, and he’d tug back. It gave me the strength to grit my teeth and keep walking, one foot in front of the other.

The city lights on the horizon broke through my exhausted haze. We stopped and stared, enraptured. We’re almost there, I whispered. Zeke, do you see? We’re almost there!

The rope went slack before I could finish turning to face him. All I saw was the empty loop of rope hit the ground.

I screamed. I struggled out of the rope, dropped everything, and ran. Faster than I thought was possible, like my feet weren’t bleeding and my chest wasn’t heaving for oxygen. I knew, I just knew, that if I stopped running, I’d vanish too.

My adrenaline petered out. My steps slowed. My vision blurred. A dull buzz grew louder and louder in my ears as my brain turned fuzzy. Until finally I collapsed.

Barely registering the headlights.

I woke up in the ER. The doctor admitted later she was surprised I’d survived. The nurses had started a betting pool: the winner made a tidy sum.

They never found them. They never found any of them. Not Brendan, Dr. Monroe, Dylan, Will, Jordan, David, Erica, Matt, Zeke, or Aaron. Just the van, the truck, and some abandoned tents.

You can believe me or not. I don’t care anymore. Just promise me one thing.

Promise you won’t leave me alone.

The Hungry Mouths of Love

H.V. Patterson

You are nine years old, and the maggots are the only creatures in the world who care if you live or die.

They’re already squirming through the sewer grate when you approach, attuned to the familiar vibration of your footsteps. Heads and jaws swivel and stubby caterpillar legs reach toward the soothing rhythm of your voice as your hand dips into your Monster High backpack

for chicken nuggets. You hate chicken nuggets, but Mom never remembers, and keeps buying them. Now, instead of becoming freezer burned and discarded, the nuggets feed fifty-seven eager mouths.

When you first found the maggots, they were as big as your thumb, and you worried that they’d drown in the wet dark of the sewer. Then you learned that they’re rat-tailed maggots, the larva of drone flies, and they prefer dank places. Their tails are actually breathing siphons

which they use when submerged in water, like scuba divers.   You tried to breathe like they did, using a straw in the bathtub, but you just choked.

They’re so big now, almost a foot long. Each one is an individual, set apart by subtle differences in coloring, by the curving shapes of their tails, by their personalities as they rub against you, affectionate as cats. Your favorite, Alpha, nuzzles your chin in greeting, nibbling away dead skin cells. His body is soft and moist, and he smells like decaying lunch meat.

Their excessive size isn’t normal. The measurements you’ve carefully jotted down in your