On the Lips of Children

by Mark Matthews

  Now the sky had the feel of a new dawn readying itself to emerge. S-s-Sunday… it must be Sunday morning, he thought as a shiver coursed through his beaten and bloody body. Twenty-four hours had passed since he first ran by this spot.

  “Come, let me see you,” Erin said, summoning Macon over and embracing him. His body was soaked with blood and dotted with granules of the cave. This mixed with her already-stained top as they squished together. Arms pulled at each other’s spine, and they felt their hearts close together, separated by inches but otherwise connected. Each heartbeat boomed against their chests, blood mixed back and forth, and Lyric’s hands wrapped around their legs.

  “I do. I will. I would have. All of that,” Erin said. “And yes, I love you. But first…”

  Erin put a hand just outside of Macon’s forehead, not touching, afraid to touch, and Macon prepared to wince.

  “Wait, let me see.”

  Macon paused as Erin examined him. Her eyes first squinted and then darted back and forth. Macon saw the pain on her own face from her deeply cut shoulder. Blood had drenched her side in red. “You’re bleeding bad; your cut’s worse than mine,” Macon said, trying to convince her of the lie, but all the while wanting to close his eyes and just sleep.

  “A hospital, we need one now.”

  “Is Lyric okay? What did they da-da-do?” Macon stammered. “What happened? What the fuck happened? I sh-shouldn’t have left you… shouldn’t have left…”

  “We’re okay. We’ve got to go. We can get to the road and flag for help.” They looked up at the pile of boulders that constructed the embankment to the road. Periodic cars drove by, causing flashes to pass by like search lights looking down on them and then skittering away.

  “It’s too steep to climb. Gotta be about two miles to the beach or a mile to the hotel. We can do it.” Macon talked, walked in circles, and scanned for a better way to leave. Both of their phones were somewhere in the cave. Getting them wasn’t an option. They needed to leave this place soon to feel safe.

  “Can you walk? Can you make it back?

  Macon nodded.

  “Come on, let’s get the jogging stroller.”

  Macon followed her, thinking he could walk, but when he did the trail seemed to shift and flip-flop. It reminded him of the bedspins he got when he would lay awake drunk at night. He closed his left eye, put his palm over it, and focused on walking to the stroller. Just get to the stroller, and all will be well.

  Erin looked at Macon like a concerned nurse who wondered if she should get a wheelchair and if her patient was going to faint. Macon put a hand in the air, motioning he was okay. She stood ready to catch him and directed Lyric to sit in the stroller.

  The stroller was in the same spot it was left, but covered with a trace of morning dew. Lyric plopped in the left seat with her legs kicking and an eager smile.

  Lyric’s going to be okay. She’ll be okay, Macon told himself. She’ll be home soon. Everything’s going to be okay.

  Lyric pulled the brown, faded blanket off the other seat, ready to cover her body in the slight morning chill, when she uncovered a pair of bewildered eyes looking up at her.

  “It’s the boy—the little boy.”

  Underneath the blanket, sitting in the right side of the double-seated stroller, the boy named Q had curled himself up in a fetal position. His hands covered part of his face, but his eyes peered between his fingers. He sat there, looking back at the family as if he was still hidden, as if they couldn’t see him through his ten skinny fingers. His legs were pulled so tight into his gaunt body that he had rolled himself into a position nobody would have guessed a boy his age could fit in. Bare feet were stuck under him, knees firmly in his chest. They looked down at him as if studying the ultrasound of a pregnant womb.

  “Kid, hey, kid. Hey, Q.” Macon was on one knee, left eye still closed, lungs unable to get enough air to fuel his dizzy brain, and was trying to talk to this boy face to face. The boy sat there, quiet, motionless, just a few blinks from his dotty eyes and glances from Macon to Erin, Erin to Macon, and then to Lyric, but he did not say a word.

  “What the hell? I seen this kid. I’ve seen him, Erin.” Macon whispered, “He’s crazy… as crazy as his father.”

  Erin eyed the boy and buckled Lyric into her seat, who by habit had stuck her arms straight up in the air and then rested them back on her lap once she was secured. She tucked the blanket under the side of her leg and then spread the rest out over the boy next to her.

  “We can’t just leave him. Maybe we can take him to someone who can help.”

  Macon was too beat to respond. He and Erin both pushed down on the stroller handle, lifted the front wheel, and aimed it back to where the trail began.

  #

  The double jogging stroller finally had its two passengers, like it was built for, and Erin found it easier to steer. She gazed down at Lyric with every few strides to make sure she was safe with her new passenger. If the boy made any moves, gave any indication he would touch her, Erin would act, but Lyric just sat there, cute and also balling herself up like a fetus ready to be born. Q was next to her, sitting just as Max would have been had he been born with a stronger heart.

  That’s what they would have looked like. This is how it could have been.

  What a cruel thing to let any parent live a second longer than their child. But for this moment, this time that almost wasn’t, she had two children to care for, and a husband and father to them both. Soon they would be back at the hotel.

  What will happen to Q? Erin wondered. First a call to the police, then a hospital, and eventually foster care and psychiatrists would be enlisted. Soon his sister would join him if they could just send someone to rescue her from the tunnel. We have to save her. A name like Q would never fit—maybe Quinn… the mighty Quinn.

  Erin imagined who could adopt such a special-needs, troubled child, teaching him love, to be kind, and how to live. Q could learn how to be nice. Years of nurturing could provide him with something different than he had ever known. What would he do if she hugged him now?

  The trail was empty. Nobody was using the space at this hour. Only the periodic car passing on the highway above gave any signs of life, and this meant there was nobody to ask for help. But we will make it. We’re good now, Erin thought, but her body didn’t believe this. Macon was a mess, worse than her, and making noises with each stride. “We can just rest,” Erin suggested.

  “Forward… run, fly fast,” Macon said through haggard breaths.

  “What? Macon, you need rest. Come on.”

  “No. Forward. Just move forward, and we’ll get there.”

  They moved on. It wasn’t a run and wasn’t a walk, but somewhere in between. Erin’s whole body throbbed like an exposed, raw nerve being prodded.

  I’ve been stabbed and ripped open.

  Erin felt the oozing of the wound on her shoulder. It ached, but the blood was comforting. It was a sign of life, of cleansing, and soon the sweet sting of stitches would come. A nurse or a doctor would sew her up, bandage her, clean her wounds, and check for further harm. Policemen would give interviews, offer assurances, rescue mother Lupita, save her children, and press appropriate charges. The man named Dante might still be alive. He’d live better in jail than he did in that tunnel.

  Erin would be left with a memory and a new scar. Those scars she created, all that pain she had endured—all of it had been to prepare her for this moment where she learned to look pain in the face and not be too frightened to fight back.

  Next to her, Macon was just hanging onto the stroller, his gait moving in a choppy mess. She noticed the black parts of his hand that seemed to be burnt, and one finger of his was nearly whittled to a red tip. Blood dripped from its end, no doubt leaving a trail behind them.

  “Maybe you should stay here, and I’ll bring back help,” Erin said, but Macon just grunted back and kept moving. Brain damage was what she feared since his words were slurred, his eyes unfocused, and his coordina
tion fading. His feet kept missing their stride, stumbling upon one another, and he relied on the stroller for balance.

  Somehow he had the endurance to go on. This situation brought something strong and fierce out of him. A ring. He shopped for a ring. They would sew up the missing pieces of what happened, and then they would have a family intact and be ready to heal.

  #

  Macon was dizzy. There was something he was forgetting, but what was it? Did they forget somebody? Or was someone waiting up ahead, he wasn’t sure, but he was still scared, tense, and the black haze of heavy sleep hovered over his head. Sweat, blood, or some mix of liquids dripped out of him, squished out with each footstep, and he felt his whole insides pouring onto the trail.

  Sounds of his own breathing made his ears ache. Everything rang with a higher pitch than it should. Time was caving in on him, getting squished and closing in, making it hard to breathe.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he saw them; the bodies of homeless men stuffed and sleeping in their blankets, still quiet and hidden in the dark. His family trudged forward through them, safe for now, but each step jarred his skull a little more. Boom, boom, boom. The sound resounded with each of his footsteps as they hit the ground. Every bit of pain made him move faster. It was all just a race to see if he could get to the end before the pain ripped his head off completely.

  They were approaching another underpass and dipped down the incline of the trail into a greater darkness, enveloped by the shadow of the bridge overheard. The stroller gained speed and was pulled faster, until it smashed into a barrier on the trail. There was the clang of metal, the same sound of rustling wheels, and they came to an abrupt stop. A shopping cart was in the middle of the trail.

  Didn’t I already do this? Macon thought. Did this happen already? Am I just beginning and ending my dream the same way?

  Then a few bodies appeared; one, two, then three arose. Macon watched as Erin responded and moved the shopping cart aside. She started to push the stroller forward, when the shadow of someone appeared in front of them.

  Standing akimbo with Dickie overalls, a bearded face, and staring them down, a man was blocking the trail. Macon knew this person.

  “Morning to you. It’s a good one? Yes?”

  “We need a hospital, an ambulance.”

  “Cargo, you have precious cargo. We cannot let you pass. You must give him up.”

  Macon grunted and tried to push the stroller forward, but Hank put his foot out against the front wheel and stopped it directly.

  “Our lifeblood here is how we get by, what we live on. So much is blessed upon us as long as we feed the family—feed the family.”

  Homeless men were starting to gather around, flanking Hank and showing interest. The whites of their eyes peered from dirty faces. Erin and Macon rocked the stroller back and forth, but Hank had the way forward blocked. His eyes focused on the child Q, who remained balled-up on the right seat of the stroller.

  “Take him… just take him then,” Macon blurted in blood and spit.

  “No, no…” Erin objected.

  “Forget it. Take him. Take him,” Macon repeated, “and eat him or drain him or do what you do… we want to live. He’s all yours.”

  Erin turned to him, confused, uncertain, and then angry. Macon could sense her anger; he always could. It burnt through her skin. Ever since he had etched into her with the tattoo needle, anger came seeping out of her pores through the cracks, and he felt it and knew what it smelled like.

  “As it will be.” Hank bent down. “My little boy, Q, you have strayed far. It is time to go back home to your mom and dad. But your friends, your new friends, what shall we do with them? But first, first, let’s get you out of there.”

  As Hank bent down to lift Q up, Macon put pressure on the stroller handle, angled the front wheel to Hank’s side, and pushed it forward. He gave Hank a hip-check as he moved by, which knocked the stooping man off balance, but did much less damage than Macon had hoped for.

  But it was enough, and Macon and Erin were able to clear the man, move beyond the leader, and back down the trail. Soon they were back up the incline, out from the underpass, and went down the trail toward its beginning, back where they came from, back to the life they were still planning to live.

  Shouts came forth from behind. A cacophony of movement, a hastening of action, a battalion wakened from sleep were called to battle. Macon turned to see them giving chase. The first one had raging eyes, a heavy jacket, and hands that reached out ahead of him, clawing at the air. He was slow and weak and would give up soon; Macon could tell. But a skinny man came forward who was faster, wearing clothes that were too big for him and slicing through the air with more grace. A third, a fourth, and more then followed.

  Macon turned forward and looked ahead. The trail was empty, save for the dot of one traveler far up ahead. Erin and Macon glanced at each other and felt the men’s boots stomping and threatening them from behind. Erin’s legs started to push with incredible might. Macon could feel the stroller move, and he was being pulled by it as much as pushing, relying on Erin’s legs to be the engine. Lyric curdled up tight into a ball, her face nearly hidden under the blanket, and her passenger Q did the same.

  Lying unseen on the side of the trail, cocooned homeless men who had been sleeping seemed to rise like vampires and give chase. Macon may have been imagining it, but every shadow on the side of the road seemed to be a body, rising and then running after them. At another time, he could give fight, but not now, ripped open all over, with a wife also dripping red down one side of her arm and two children to protect.

  But they were runners, and their runners’ souls had been shocked into action. The sleeping beast had been awakened. Muscles fired from unknown places, and oxygen soaked into mystical capillaries in their lungs only available during transcendental moments like these. Their arms pumped with the furor and anger of mamma and papa bear protecting their young, at the last moment fighting off danger right before death. Their pursuers fell out of stride. One by one, the sound of their misguided, plodding feet faded, drifting farther behind the family.

  Their run eventually slowed. They had nothing left to give, but they were safe; just a last quarter-mile stretch before the trail opened to the baseball diamond ahead, and then help… some kind of help.

  The sense of relief that spread through Macon’s thoughts was chased away by the sound of gears and the spin of chains behind him. He glanced to his side, and his brain flashed once again to a memory. Didn’t he see this before? Two men on bikes, one with a scarred face, as if it had been burnt. The other wearing a San Diego Padres baseball hat. Both were tracking the family, ready to catch them—in fact, about to catch them, and there was little they could do to escape.

  His tank was empty, his well of energy completely dry. He was done running. They would have to stop and fight somehow. It was time to stand their ground, but there was nothing left to fight with. They’d have to run fast or die.

  “Hold on. Hold on now, Boss. How’d you get free? Come on now, just tell us.” Padre was within ear shot.

  “Go on without me,” Macon urged Erin, but she ignored him. Up ahead they saw a figure walking toward them. The man moved in slow morning speed, while his dogs attentively sniffed the trail. Maybe this was salvation… a walker who had a cell phone, or possibly just authority.

  If we can make it to him, we could be saved.

  Bike wheels turned right next to their legs, and fingers grasped at their shoulders. Lyric looked up at her parents in fear, not afraid of the little boy next to her, but for her parents, who were supposed to protect her. Macon could hear Erin’s thoughts leaking out of her skin. My god! I can’t lose another. I just cannot lose another.

  “Just stop and talk to us,” Padre shouted. “Come on, Boss. Come now, Boss.”

  Boss, Boss… that’ s me. That’s right, I’m the boss. It’s up to me to make this right, to take charge and take care of things.

  Macon let go of the st
roller and in the same motion dove forward, rolling sideways onto the pavement, turning his body into an unexpected speed bump.

  The front wheels of both bikes hit him, one at the shoulder, and the other at his knee. The impact made one go flying end-over-end, shooting the rider over his handlebars onto the pavement.

  The other rider swerved. His front wheel oscillated, his hands grasped at the handlebars, and Macon waited to see him plummet to the ground in a metallic crash. But the tires straightened, balance was regained, and the rider continued on the trail. The man stood on his pedals, pounding away to make up the last bit of space between he and Erin.

  Macon watched as the man he had come to know as Padre leapt from his bike, tackled Erin, and wrestled her to the ground. The double-seated jogging stroller rolled harmlessly to a stop by the side of the trail with the two children inside, and Macon was smashed to the ground by the man with the scarred face who stuck a knee onto his back.

  Back down the trail, the sounds of marching boots would soon catch up.

  Chapter Twenty

  The boy next to Lyric was so tiny that his whole body bounced up and down like a little pebble every bump they hit. Why are we taking this strange little boy home?

  Lyric was hungry. She wanted to eat a Pot-Tart, to drink a juice box, and needed to be back in the hotel room. That’s where they were going, but there were people after them; she knew that. She could hear them. Mommy was pushing the jogging stroller, running scared, and it made Lyric scared too. Her gut hurt when her mommy was scared.

  Lyric squeezed her legs in as tight as she could. Her arms grasped tightly around her knees and pulled, and her fingers clutched at the brown blanket. If it flapped on the ground and got caught up in the tire, they would certainly be caught.