Chapter 4a: Martha's Bakery

"Mind your folk all your days
If you don't there are ways
To make you suffer and make you pay
When the monsters come you cannot slay."

~Children's rhyme

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The sky darkened and drizzle dampened the streets as Martha looked out the little bakery's front windows. Her stomach rumbled as she watched the people in the street run, seeking shelter. This is no time to get sick, she said to herself, placing a hand over her belly and handing
Olga Roth a loaf of freshly baked bread. The store wasn't nearly as busy as she had thought it would be. Aside from Olga, the shop was bare of customers. Must be the weather.

She put two muffins into Olga's basket and thanked the elderly lady as she accepted two small coins.

Olga turned and mumbled, "Bit o'nasty weather out there, it is." Then pulled the hood over her graying hair and stepped through the door and out into the wet streets. The tiny bell over teh door tinkled as it opened. Martha watched Olga scurry across the road, wondering if she should start delivering bread to the elderly woman on her way home from the shop. Malach wouldn't like that. He enjoyed walking her home at the end of the day, when they finished cleaning the kneading table, wiping the ovens and washing the dishes.

Malach and Martha's little bakery had been open for almost three hours. Usually the day started out busy, with people purchasing something to eat on their way to work. The sweet breads were everyone's favorite in the early morning snacks category. As the lunch hour approached customers would come in wanting more wholesome breads, wheat, rye, or just plain white. After lunch business would usually slack off a bit until around clossing time. At the end of the day mothers would send their children by to pick up a loaf of bread for dinner.

Business was slow. Other than Olga there had only been three or four other customers. That just wouldn't do.

Martha's stomach growled again, making an audible gurgle. The rumbling relieved some of the pressure building behind her naval, but the embarrassing noise had already caused one customer to comment on her health, and another client seemed to be suffering from the same malady and would look up in embarrassment when the noisy growl of shifting gasses reverberated through the small shop.

Placing the back of her hand to her forehead she frowned. Her skin flet like a loaf of fresh baked bread, warm to the touch - too warm.

She turned from the counter and walked toward the swinging door that led to the back of the building, where bread rose in Malach's ovens. The room spun before her eyes and she grabbed the counter to steady herself. The walls tilted and shifted, putting a surreal twist on everything around her. Her grip tightened and she focused on the solid wood beneath her palm, the stable wood. Her eyes closed tight, and her knuckles whitened as she willed the room to stop spinning. Sweat rolled down her cheeks like tears as everything tilted once more then stabilized. Releasing the counter, she stood upright, a quiver in her legs telling her that something was still wrong. Martha would have to tell Malach she wasn't feeling well, not well at all. He wouldn't like it, but she didn't have a choice in the matter.

"Malach," she called as she pushed through the swinging door. Her legs froze as she saw him.

He leaned over the edge of the dough-covered kneading table. His eyes bulged as muscles strained to push his breakfast back up his throat. Red faced and groaning, he stared at her with scared, pleading eyes. Martha forgot about her illness as her husband fought for breath. The terrified look in his eyes driving every other thought from her mind. Malach convulsed, his head dropping to face the ground and with a terrible roar he spewed the contents of his stomach from his mouth and nose. The floor became covered in a wet soup of eggs, soggy pieces of toast and slimy stomach acids.

Martha ran the short distance to him, but she swooned and fell against the table. The room spun, reminding her of when she was a child and her brother swung her around by her arms. The dizzy spell kept her from getting her bearings and before she could prevent it, her own stomach heaved, sending her breakfast splattering wetly on Malach's back. He didn't notice. He had problems of his own.

She started to straighten, to help Malach, but her stomach wouldn't allow it. Like a punch to the gut, her stomach clenched again. More eggs, toast and bile rose to splash across the already filthy floor. She could hear Malach echoing her actions nearby.

When the spasm ended, she straightened and grabbed a rag from the counter to help clean Malach up. She felt terrible about soiling his clothes; he was so careful about looking clean for the customers. Martha managed to grab the towel before the next eruption hit. This time there was nothing left to come up and she strained against the force of her own body. Her breath wouldn't come and she feared that she would suffocate. Panic overcame her when something gave way with a painful ripping and her mouth flooded with a burning copper taste.

What splashed onto the floor wasn't eggs and toast. The syrup-thick liquid painted the floor dark red and pooled into the cracks at a snails pace.

She had just enough time to look at Malach before another spasm clenched her belly. He looked at her, hand outstretched as if pleading for help, blood covering his mouth and white apron. His terror-stricken gaze was the last thing she ever saw as she bent over and sprayed blood over Malach's shoes.

The couple collapsed to the floor, hidden from the rest of the world. The rain began to fall hard, drowning the sound of blood dripping from the kneading table.