Descending Road - DEATH AT NIGHT by Dana W. Paxson

DEATH AT NIGHT

1551 4D

In Ezzar‘s nineteenth year, her mind had not been on collechi insurrection, but on her favorite pillow: her husband Boren‘s broad body. She had loved to nestle her deep brown-black skin on his dark-honey chest with its scent of salt and herbs. With a two-year-old and another baby over eight months inside her, she hungered every evening for the moment when she could snuggle down onto her man and float off to sleep in their Monford understreet home. In one horrifying moment, it all ended.

A crash penetrated her dream of green fields; on the second explosion, close in her ears, she started up to see the contents of Boren‘s head dimly caked against the rock wall of their bedroom, his body jerking and heaving under her.

She hurled herself off the bed, rolling onto her knees, and groped for a lamp. A third roar sounded from the doorway: a shot buzzed past her ear. Under the bed and out the far side she scrambled, grabbing for the knife Boren kept tucked under the pad. A muttered curse, and heavy feet thudded nearer; her son called, “Mama, Ma—" and a shot cut him off. She leaped to her feet.

“This is for Handarin Selvi,” a voice snarled at her, and her wrist bent in a vise grip, her knife clinking to the floor.

“Come on,” another voice urged, “The alarms triggered.”

A blow skewered her belly; a terrific kick from her unborn nearly stopped her heart. She went to her knees, two more blows slammed through her chest, and she blacked out.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	DEATH AT NIGHT 1551 4D In Ezzar‘s nineteenth year, her mind had not been on collechi insurrection, but on her favorite pillow: her husband Boren‘s broad body. She had loved to nestle her deep brown-black skin on his dark-honey chest with its scent of salt and herbs. With a two-year-old and another baby over eight months inside her, she hungered every evening for the moment when she could snuggle down onto her man and float off to sleep in their Monford understreet home. In one horrifying moment, it all ended. A crash penetrated her dream of green fields; on the second explosion, close in her ears, she started up to see the contents of Boren‘s head dimly caked against the rock wall of their bedroom, his body jerking and heaving under her. She hurled herself off the bed, rolling onto her knees, and groped for a lamp. A third roar sounded from the doorway: a shot buzzed past her ear. Under the bed and out the far side she scrambled, grabbing for the knife Boren kept tucked under the pad. A muttered curse, and heavy feet thudded nearer; her son called, “Mama, Ma—" and a shot cut him off. She leaped to her feet. “This is for Handarin Selvi,” a voice snarled at her, and her wrist bent in a vise grip, her knife clinking to the floor. “Come on,” another voice urged, “The alarms triggered.” A blow skewered her belly; a terrific kick from her unborn nearly stopped her heart. She went to her knees, two more blows slammed through her chest, and she blacked out.