The Darkness of the Womb

by Knight, Richard

  Herbert made a fist and Alan felt it in his chest. Unlike other military fathers, Herbert could use magic to discipline his child. Alan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and his tongue wagged out. A sharp pain pushed into his jaw like a fist. He barely maintained consciousness, and only did so because Herbert made it so.

  “Five more!” Herbert shouted again, but Alan could only muster two. He couldn’t feel his arms anymore. He could only feel fire and pain.

  “Pathetic,” Herbert said. “You can quit for now, but I’m going to want ten more later.” Alan didn’t need to be told twice. He rolled over to his back and Mortimer rolled over beside him. Alan’s flabby chest rose and fell and he tried wiping the sweat from his eyes, but he couldn’t move his arms. Why did his dad have to be such a jerk all the time?

  Herbert got to his knees and put his face right in front of Alan’s.

  “And if I ever catch you two knuckleheads wrestling with Mort again, we’re going back underground, and that’s that. I don’t give a damn what your mother says. She doesn’t need to go back down.”

  He stood up, walked over to Mort, and put his hand behind the corpse’s head. The dead man sat there stupidly, his pruny face green and his eyes egg yolk yellow.

  “Do you think this is all a game?” Herbert asked. His eyes turned completely green and he waved his hand behind Mortimer’s stiff black hair. The wound healed up, good as new, and in doing so, the staggering pain in the back of Alan’s head cleared up a bit, too. “I asked you a question, boy.”

  “No…” Alan said between breaths from the floor.

  “No, what?”

  “No, sir!” Alan managed to shout. He bent his tired elbows and put his hands over his eyes. He wiped away the sweat and tears.

  “I’m tired of your crap, Alan,” Herbert said. “You need to start getting serious about your future. The Militia needs you, so stop with this wrestling garbage.”

  Herbert went up the stairs.

  When Alan was sure his father was out of earshot, he formed a fist and pounded the floor. “Asshole.”

  Mortimer sat at his side, and his dry lips mouthed a silent, “asshole”, too.

  He was tired of his father’s crap. James was right. He had to be a man and stand up for himself. As he stared at the ceiling and huffed and puffed on his back, he knew what he had to do. It wasn’t going to make his father happy, but it had to be done. Enough was enough. The Undead Militia could go to hell.