Jill let out another cry of agony and rage, shook with pain and anger. She laid on the floor beside her bed, where the phallus had gotten her. Sweat soaked her uniform.

“Why are you doing this? We didn’t do anything to you!” the young woman shouted, enraged and in tears.

We looked into her mind, told her the truth, “We aren’t here to kill all of your people. In fact, we have come to cherish your kind. You are the most like us out of all the others in the cosmos. One day, your people and mine will know each other as fellow revelers at an eternal carnival.”

Jill let out a cry of agony as the thing that had been growing inside of her crawled its way out.

The two of them laid there for a while, the girl on her back, the grotesque child on its belly. A trail of foul, stringy slime connected them.

Sound seeped in from adjoining rooms, crunching, cries for mercy, calls for Jesus, and wet, sloppy bites.

It got up slowly. The newborn’s first steps were clumsy.

Jill pulled the butterfly knife. Her monstrous offspring knocked it out of her hand before she could even start to draw back for a thrust. The psychic link between the one that conceives and is conceived tends to be strong. He knew of the blade, he knew his mother’s nature.

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She drew a leg back. The child held up an arm defensively. She sat up, pivoted on her ass so that she faced the wall, which she kicked so hard it shook violently. The paddle moved, became unbalanced, slid off of its pegs.

The girl bolted upright, caught the paddle. Turning as she raised it, she brought the edge down on the child’s head. It let out a squeal and slumped down. We counted out eleven swings. This was the stopping point because of the fact that the paddle broke.

Now her palms were bright pink, their pain added to that of her punishment and the birth. Next to those, it meant little. The child’s skull was caved in. She jammed the remains of the broken paddle into the mess. Retrieving the knife, she ran. All her thoughts turned to her friend.

Something in a corner. There Anna lay, stone dead. Terror and agony was frozen on her face, forever locked in that moment of hell. Her spawn was tearing into one of her legs. The headmistress lay next to her. She too was frozen in her final moments. The broken chair leg was still in the holy woman’s hand, in a death grip. The black ikor that was our blood was still stuck to the improvised weapon.

A single sob, before turning and running again. The spawn did not so much as look up from their meals. Jill ignored the bloody feast. Chewing, crunching. Her shoes slapping against the tiles. Running, heart pounding, lungs in agony, she ignored it all. Down the hall, down the stairs, out the front door.

The sounds of eating disappeared. Now there was only her footfalls and labored breaths. She was across the yard and out of the front gate in less than a minute.

The psychic connection! The plan, the suburb. She knew it all! We ordered those few that were ready to pursue her.