Mommy Mouse (sequel to City Mouse)

Chapter 15: Cauchemar

"Henry, help me! Please!"
Henry ran, or tried to, but fell almost immediately, his feet skidding in something slippery. He looked down and nearly gagged, feeling his palms, how warm and wet they were.
Blood.
The floor was dark with it, the air sharp with the coppery smell.
Where was it coming from? And so much? Where was Mouse?
"Henry!"
He was in a corridor, tiled, like a subway, or a hospital. One fluorescent light flickered overhead, from time to time, and he could see huge splatters on the wall, like some demented Jackson Pollack had come through, swinging a huge brush.
"Henry!" Mouse's voice, desperate and in unimaginable pain, calling to him.
He braced his slick palms on the walls as best he could, leaving smears as he tried to gain his feet. Then, suddenly, he was standing in front of swinging double doors, the kind with round windows set in them. The fresh sheared copper smell was even stronger than before, and Henry knew that Mouse was on the other side of the doors.
He didn't want to look, but he had to.
He peered through the round window, afraid.
It was an operating room, but it also looked like a kitchen in a diner. Gleaming, shining metal instruments and trays of equipment were all around. Steam obscured his view, and Henry knew that he was going to have to go in, even though he didn't want to.
He pushed open the door.
Mouse was lying on a table in her favorite white nightgown, her belly huge, eyes wide and glazed with pain. Her legs were up in stirrups and people wearing scrubs and aprons were standing around her. Their faces were obscured with masks, and they were holding scalpels and forceps and cleavers.
Cleavers?
Mouse turned to Henry, reaching for him with a desperate hand.
"Help me," she gasped. "It really hurts, something's wrong, but no one will tell me anything." Mouse's eyes were large and dark, swimming with tears.
Henry reached to stroke her hair off her forehead, trying to tell her that everything would be okay, but the person holding the cleaver gestured threateningly with it in his direction, and he realized that if he spoke, he would be punished. So Henry just tried to smile reassuringly at Mouse, who was in agony in front of him.
Henry looked more closely at the "person" wielding the cleaver, and he realized that the eyes regarding him over the mask weren't human at all; they were bulbous and multi-faceted, with hundreds of tiny planes that reflected the lights of the room. They were insect eyes, with antennae waving over them where eyebrows should be, and the hands holding the cleaver were actually claws, pincers, like those of a praying mantis.
Oh dear Jesus.
Henry turned back to Mouse, trying not to let his terror show in his eyes. She was in labor, blood coming out of her with every contraction, and something was really wrong. He couldn't let her know that she was actually strapped to a table in a kitchen, being attended by gigantic bugs who were holding huge utensils to use as instruments.
"Henry? This hurts so much," Mouse whimpered. "This can't be right, it can't be right--Henry? Henry? Henry, please! Henry--Henry--

"Henry!"

He sat straight up, eyes wide open in the dark.

Mouse could feel the whole bed move as her husband trembled next to her. His skin was cold and damp with perspiration when she reached for him. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and she could smell the fear coming off him.

She switched on the lamp so she could see him, though she wasn't sure if he could see her. At the foot of the bed, Merry and Christmas lifted their ginger and tabby heads, blinking in the unexpected light.

"Henry, are you awake?" She again reached out a tentative hand.

He looked at her, blinking, finally nodding. Mouse could see beads of perspiration at his temples and all over his chest. His breathing was rapid, too, and he looked like he'd just gotten off a roller coaster, not like someone who'd been sleeping in his own bed.