Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy

by Carol James Marshall

  Standing up, dusting herself off, Lisa watched this boy-man with the satisfaction that he might not try to rape another woman, and triple the satisfaction that nobody of right mind would believe such a story from scum such as he.

  Noticing that she had dirt all over her legs, Lisa kicked him as hard as she could in the gut. Before walking off, she kicked him again as hard as she could. Only because she had seen so many humans do this in the movies. It probably hurt her foot more than it hurt him, but that wouldn’t stop her. She’d do it again some other day, but perhaps investing in some boots first.

  Israel

  In the alley, hidden in his own corner, Israel watched it all in the most heartbreaking amount of fear imaginable. The dread of knowing that could’ve been him, and the dread of knowing it might soon be him, was more than he could possibly handle, but handle it he did. He stayed quiet and watched as witness to both Lisa’s and the boy’s sins.

  Israel remained silent when he wanted to scream. Instead, he forced himself to take mental notes. He coaxed himself into keeping his eyes open and not running. He must study it and be prepared. Be better, be ready to be done. Be ready to help others. Walking home in the opposite direction from where he saw Lisa go, Israel could only do one thing—repeat his mantra to his heart, be better, be better, be better…

  Allison

  Lisa had been living in the apartment for at least two months now. Allison stood in Lisa’s bathroom trying to remember exactly when she had moved in. She made a mental note to look it up tomorrow. Lisa spent hours, days, maybe even weeks locked up in here, and Allison couldn’t figure out how. How could anybody spend so much time locked up with nothing. There was nothing in the place. A few clothes tossed on the floor, dresser drawers empty. One towel in the bathroom, some others tossed around the bedroom. The closet was bare, nothing in it. Not even a cobweb bothered to gather here.

  Allison started her search for answers in the bedroom, because to her that’s where people keep their most secret of stuff. The bedroom was where secrets happened. The bedroom was where ‘not for the public’ was housed. The bedroom was a place where any girl would keep something, anything. But, there was nothing. It looked like a hotel room, not someone’s home.

  Peeking behind the shower curtain, there was one bottle of shampoo and not even a bar of soap. Not a convenience store bottle of Tylenol. Not a hotel room soap bar. Not a lip balm, nail file, and not a drop of lotion. Allison knew Lisa was different, not human, possibly alien, but this was sad. This is depression maybe, Allison thought. A depressed person wouldn’t care, right? Baffled, she checked the kitchen.

  There was a small set of plates, three of each sitting in the cabinet covered in dust. The dishes looked like someone opened the box, placed them in the cabinet, and closed the cabinet door like a coffin lid, never to be bothered with again.

  The couch was where some life could be seen. There were endless fast food restaurant cups, a TV remote, pillow, and blanket. The pillow looked as if it had been slept on solidly for months, never given a chance to breathe again. The blanket crumpled and discarded shoved up into the corner of the couch looked like a beaten animal. Allison felt compelled to wash the blanket. But that would give away that someone was in the apartment besides Lisa. She had watched Lisa walk away from the apartment, and with her daughter sleeping and her mother at her home, it was Allison’s chance to break the rules. To go where she shouldn’t.

  And now, she had nothing to show for her sneaking. She broke the rules by going into a tenant’s apartment, and there was nothing to show for it. The nothing was slapping her in the face. She thought her hands should be filled with evidence of what Lisa was; she didn’t know what she’d find, but she thought there would be something—even the smallest bit of paper, pictures, a secret alien ray gun. Shit, anything to help her get one step closer to answers.

  Now, empty hands and broken rules were Allison’s grand prize. Back at her own apartment, sitting on her couch, clicking her remote, Allison closed her tired eyes while listening to the TV. She knew she’d never make it to bed. She’d find herself on the couch in the morning when her daughter poked at her, giving her that worried little kid expression of not knowing what to do about their parent.

  Allison would spend the night on her couch, in her street clothes, old mascara hanging from her eye lashes, all because it seemed like she could never get anywhere with this riddle called Lisa. At this point in the game, Allison felt an ‘A Ha’ moment should have happened. Feeling the heaviness of her eye lashes, Allison accepted the fact that tonight, she’d fold in, but still hold strong to the belief that the world owed her a two-second window of clarity—where the answers popped up and stuck their tongue out at her. She’d had the question of these women on her agenda for years now. She had Lisa in her grasp, and yet these skinny, pale bitches slipped out of her clutches constantly.

  Allowing her shoes to fall off—one hitting the floor, the other getting wedged in the couch cushions—Allison felt a fury over the lack of effort Lisa put into being elusive. She knew Lisa didn’t bother with whatever she was supposed to bother with. How is this so? Did they stick the loser, slacker alien who couldn’t be bothered enough to be truly alien in her apartment complex just to taunt her? Unbuckling her pants, Allison shoved them off and threw them across the room, grabbing at the blanket she kept draped along the back of the couch. She almost regretted that, come morning, her daughter would be picking them up and tossing them into the hamper knowing ‘mom had another one of those nights’.

  Allison got up from the couch, took her bra off from under her shirt, flung it across the room. It landed nowhere near her pants. In her shirt, no pants, she grabbed the last bit of spiced rum and coke she had and took sips of each individually from the bottles. Fuck mixing it, it would mix in her. She was after enough buzz to doze off. Back to the couch—coke bottle in one hand and rum in the other—Allison looked at her chipped toe nail polish, felt her breasts sag without a bra, and the monumental realization that she was a ridiculous bitch pounded on her chest.

  Jacob

  Jacob watched Abigail’s stomach pop and roll like boiling soup. He watched his daughter claw at the skin on Abigail’s belly, knowing that any second now the birth would happen. Jacob gripped his pocket knife tightly. His thinking was rushed. The type of last-minute panic thinking a person does when all goes wrong, when all plans get tossed on the floor. What to do with the creature that he loved, his daughter, but needed to protect the world from?

  The neighbor sat quietly taking in all she could, hoarding mental notes to piece together later. Jacob gripped his knife trying to keep his sanity in check; neither realized there was a gathering outside the tiny cabin—a gathering of Mothers. The type of Mothers that were called for this situation, were the kind of Mothers that had seen it all—the worst of the worst. The Mothers waited silently in the woods—each wanting to go in, slice Abigail up, and pull Sunny out by her feet. All quick, efficient, not wasting their time with natural birthing nonsense. Each Mother held this thought in her head while doing nothing. They knew the rules and adhered to them.

  “Wish we could just go in now…cut her out and grab her…I’d really like to be back by dinner.” Mother 52 sighed. She had worked the nursery for so many lifetimes, nothing was new, nothing was special. It all was just another one to feed and clean up after.

  “Yes, the carrots they harvested yesterday look very good, but these woods are quite nice. Very quiet, not very many critters to handle…the moon seems to twinkle through the branches.” Mother 12 had been around even longer than most. She showed interest in dinner only to be polite—food bored her a long time ago. She was more interested now in the solitude of her bedroom, a place where none could bother her with questions or glances.

  “The twinkling moon makes me wonder…does our home have moons? Do our moons twinkle…?” Both Mothers sighed, having worked together for so long they spoke in broken sentences and ‘what if’s’. Both in complete understa
nding of the other.

  Mother 52 looked over her shoulder. “Quiet now.” The other Mothers in the group were not a friendly bunch. “Better not speak in front of the miserable Marys…”

  Both mothers heard a roar. A roar so very loud that the leaves trembled just a bit. Mother 12 watched the leaves start to fall. “Any second now…”

  Abigail screamed, “She’s here…she’s here…” and spread her legs open. The neighbor watched Jacob freeze, not reacting. She put herself in front of Abigail’s legs to grab the baby. The heat that came from Abigail was like opening a grill lid in hell. The heat singed the hair off the neighbor’s arms with waves that stung eyeballs. Vision blurred and hands burned, the neighbor held her own. She stayed steady, needing to know what was going to come out of that inferno.

  Then came a gush of amniotic fluid that sprayed out of Abigail in the form of steam. Steam that hit the neighbors face, burning her so badly she screamed. She couldn’t stop screaming, which finally triggered Jacob to move. He glanced at the neighbor rolling on the floor, screaming, holding her hands to her face as if she wanted to pull her skin off. His legs shook with fear of what his daughter might do to him. The neighbor’s skin looked raw and smelled cooked. It was revolting.

  Jacob didn’t know where to go. Should he stay with Abigail, or try to catch his daughter, or go to the neighbor lady who passed out with one final scream. Jacob felt scrambled like eggs. He wanted to fly all over the room. Instead, he was stuck in the idiot position. Trying his best to get himself adjusted, willing himself to be smart, he saw her. He saw Sunny’s face, eyes locked on him.

  Sunny watched him quietly. She did nothing but blink. She looked like a baby to Jacob, but not a newborn baby. A new born wouldn’t sit at her mother’s legs, back straight, head up, licking the liquid from her lips. Pouting, Sunny raised an arm and stretched her hand out to Jacob. She was peering at him now, daring him to not respond and daring him to touch her all at once. Jacob noticed his breath, the room had started to get colder. He could see his breath. Each cloud that came from his mouth shook with the anticipation of what Sunny would do to him, and what in return, he would have to do to her. When he didn’t take Sunny’s hand, she rested it on Abigail’s leg and started to claw at it. She wasn’t asking for Jacob’s’ hand, she was demanding it.

  Jacob’s heart was breaking, with each claw mark from Sunny, Abigail did not stir. She did not move. He’d lost her. He knew it, and now he’d have to kill his daughter. He’d have to kill it. Kill her, not it, he told himself. She’s not an it. She’s a her. She’s mine. But, this… this creature he’d have to. There was no choice. Tears started to pop from his eyes and almost instantly froze to his face. This wasn’t the way he’d pictured his love. This wasn’t the way he’d pictured his loss.

  Sunny watched him, knowing the heart break her father had for her host. She smiled and pulled herself up using Abigail’s legs. He stared at Sunny. “Did you kill her before you came out? Did you kill her after?”

  Sunny smiled at her father’s questions. She tried to walk, but wasn’t strong enough yet. This made her claw at Abigail even more. It was her mother’s fault she wasn’t ready to walk yet; she had needed more blood. Sunny crawled to her father. Not for comfort, not for care, but because Jacob had the one thing she wanted more than anything—the pump-pump of his heartbeat meant he was full of that warm, gooey liquid. She wanted his body badly, not understanding her desire to rip his throat open. Sunny was an original. Her instincts a reflection of the true want of the women of The Grey—a want Superior Mother after Superior Mother had pounded down for centuries.

  Jacob watched his daughter crawl towards him; his mind racing. Get up! Get that hammer, your gun, anything! He felt foolish and ashamed for fearing an infant, but fear is what held him still, eyes glazed over, almost waiting for the inevitable from his daughter. Sunny crawled, inching her way closer, gurgling, “Father…Father…” Jacob grabbed at his pocket knife. He’d stab her in the head; that’s what he’d do…that’s what he would do! “Oh, Daddy Dear, come here…” Jacob didn’t answer. He watched Sunny make her way towards him. There was ice on her skin.

  Then, Sunny stopped, giggled, and winked at Jacob. “Dear old Pops. Isn’t that what you are?” She began to crawl towards him again. He did not answer, still wishing that he could will his body to move, knife in hand, ready for combat. Sunny had reached his feet…stopping to smile at him, showing row after row of mini shark teeth. “Father…” she purred, extending her hands out, “Hold me, Dad. Can’t you see I just lost my mother…” Tears pulled in Sunny’s eyes. Jacob stopped himself from plugging the knife into her tiny skull. He would, he would hold her. His daughter his… love. In a swoosh, a box appeared, then something that looked like a snow shovel quickly pushed Sunny into the box.

  “Goodness she is feisty…feistier than usual…” Mother 12 looked at Jacob. “Ahhh, you’re very farm-boy cute aren’t you? Sleep darling…” She put her mouth against his ear. “Sleep.”

  Mother 52 struggled with the box as Sunny thrashed about. “Goodness, this one is strong. Stronger than most. Strongest of all. We better alert Superior Mother and the other nursery Mothers. I think…” Mother 52 sat on the box as it bounced, and waved Mother 12 over to her to whisper in her ear, “I think we have an original.”

  “Well hot damn for us!” Mother 12 rolled her eyes.

  The box that held Sunny was fitted with padding on the inside, enough so the baby wouldn’t hurt herself, but enough locks on the outside to where she couldn’t escape and hurt others. This box was not new, it had been used before, but not for a century.

  Mother 12 watched the box thrash itself across the room. “Oh she’s going to be a pain in the ass.”

  Mother 52 nodded, looked around, tossed her hands up and pointed to the neighbor who lay motionless. “I think she’s dead.” Waving at the other Mothers in the room, she beckoned, “Tidy up dears.”

  Mother 12 walked over to the still body of the neighbor, putting one hand on her chest, then smirking at Mother 52. “I think your right….”

  Mother 52 kicked the bouncing box that now required three Mothers to hold it down. “Stop it! You’ll gain no respect from me acting like an ass. Stop it right now…killing your mother…shame on you! This little hooligan did that out of spite.” Mother 52 shook her head at the box, giving it a glare while the other Mothers mocked Sunny’s hissing.

  Jacob

  The next morning, Jacob woke up, not startled or frightened, just aware. He remembered everything—not like a dream or a nightmare; he just remembered. Sitting on the edge of his bed, willing himself to get up, Jacob thought about how he was smitten. At one point, he’d considered himself smitten over Abigail and his daughter. Now, that word seemed silly and childlike. Foolish man thinking foolish things.

  The women that came and took his daughter all looked exactly like Abigail. If it wasn’t for Abigail’s condition and clothing, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. He shook his head. He couldn’t remember how many he saw, but each one was the same; there was no difference between them whatsoever. Jacob wanted the picture of Abigail out of his head, but it stuck there, clawing its way around his skull.

  Every bit of information from the night before stuck to his tongue and shut his mouth. He wouldn’t tell a soul what happened; nobody would believe him anyway. Nobody would understand him. Jacob was set to feel his broken heart when he remembered his neighbor screaming on the floor. Jumping up, he ran to the living room. It was clean, spotless even. No trace of Abigail, no body of his neighbor. There was nothing left of but the smell of oranges in the air. Overly ripe oranges.

  Jacob stepped out onto his deck. He snuck a glance at the neighbor’s home. There were cars surrounding the home, people coming in, and standing around talking. He wanted to go over. He wanted to ask for her, but if in everyday life they were never friendly, how could he fake it now in her death. Maybe she wasn’t dead, maybe those ladies healed her or took her home. Eit
her way, they were never friendly. Going over there now would be odd. They’d wonder why he wanted to know. Jacob squinted and felt his stomach fall. If they don’t wonder that already.

  Going back inside, Jacob didn’t bother to look for Abigail’s things. He didn’t bother to wonder where she was. She came from those women and those women took her back. She was never his to begin with. He drew comfort in the fact that he had given away almost all his favorite things, in hopes of never getting too attached to anything. Abigail, in her frozen oddity, was one of his favorite things and still he didn’t feel a loser. He didn’t get attached. Jacob felt pride in that. They couldn’t break his heart, if he never let them in.

  Sitting on the porch steps taking in the sun, trying to be sly with his looks at the neighbor’s house, Jacob told himself that he was grateful for the experience. This would stick to him; he’d think it over until he was an old man. Trying his best to be stoic, he grabbed his car keys and was going out to find his friend, Buck. He had a pocket knife that he was getting a bit too fond of. It was time to let it go.

  Getting in his truck, hands gently cupping the wheel, Jacob saw his hand holding Abigail’s. A prick of heartache started within him, but he reminded himself that he was stoic. He was unattached. The flood in his childhood home was the last thing to give Jacob’s heartache. He wasn’t going to allow it to sneak in. He was better than that. Better than the tears that were building in his eyes, hitting his arms, and mocking him for being a foolish man. Disgusted with himself for being snotty, baby crying over Abigail—and that thing that was his daughter—Jacob felt a tiny chill on his left thumb knuckle. It reminded him that they are out there, somewhere. Most importantly, his daughter—that thing—was out there somewhere. Turning up the radio, Jacob flicked an ice crystal off his knuckle, wiped the snot from his nose, and he hoped Buck was home. This knife had to be gone today. Driving down the road, he blinked, sniffed, then yelled. He yelled, louder and louder until he reached town. He told himself that, once in town, he’d stop. He’d stop the heartache. He’d just stop it all.