“It’s not my fault,” Martin whispered to himself as he shoveled another scoop of the wet earth out of the grave.
Waist deep in the pit, he glanced over as an unfelt breeze ruffled the rolled tarp stretched out on the ground beside him.
It didn’t seem possible that it had come to this. A week ago, they were celebrating. Six children was a lot for some families, but he’d been one of six himself, and they’d always talked about wanting a whole houseful of little Lopezes.
That same night he’d felt the baby kick, although it should have been far too early. By the end of the weekend, her abdomen had swollen out like a balloon, and the frantic, almost violent, movements inside her drum-tight belly were starting to scare them both.
That’s when he started remembering the warnings.
“Seven! It was supposed to be seven!” No generation in his family had produced more than six children since long before they’d left Argentina. Six, yes. Six was fine. But never seven.
Martin ran one shaking, muddy hand through his hair, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve.
Something had gone wrong. Maybe the curse had changed. Maybe the Lobison had gotten tired of waiting for seven. A voice nagged from the back of his mind. “Or maybe you shoulda kept your pecker in your pocket in your younger days. Maybe there’s a little Lopez bastard out there that upped your numbers, you randy son of a bitch…”
It didn’t matter now. What was done was done. “It’s not my fault.”
He looked over at the outline of Lia’s swollen body wrapped in the silver tarp. She’d never even woken up. A pillow across the face, and then they were here.
The tarp moved again. This time he was sure there wasn’t enough wind to stir it. Was it possible he’d not finished the job?
He scrambled out onto the bank, suddenly ironically concerned for his wife’s welfare, but when he pulled back the edge of the tarp, he knew it was far too late for her.
The inside of the plastic was coated with red-black blood, and her belly was a gaping cavern of raw meat. Incongruous amongst the carnage crouched a naked form, child sized and covered in gore.
The infant looked up, reaching toward him with a taloned hand that still clenched a gobbet of flesh.
The child shuddered, and shaggy fur began to sprout through the creature’s blood-splattered skin.
There was a low growl and the flash of fangs as mouth became muzzle.
Martin backpedaled as the Lobison launched itself at it’s father’s throat.
(Lobison was written by Jess Hartley and published on pages 96-97 of Skinchangers. Copyright - White Wolf Games, printed with permission.)
