Ancient Eyes by David Niall Wilson

were more vines and that he'd stumbled into thick undergrowth and had to extract himself carefully.   He tried to lift his right leg and found that he couldn't.   The ground at his feet undulated, and he screamed.
    Serpents twined about his legs. Their eyes glittered and long, probing tongues flicked over his jeans. He struggled, but both legs were held tight. Frantic, he kicked out, tried to lift one leg, then the other, and the effort cost his balance.   Something burned his chest, and he clutched it tightly.   The medallion gleamed, and then burst into brilliant golden light.
    Abraham fell back. His legs were freed from the restraining coils, but he sensed the serpents beneath him and knew he would fall among them and be swallowed. The medallion glowed brilliantly, and as he fell he twisted, driving his arms down like twin pistons, gripping the medallion and blinded by its light. His fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden wash of anger.   He screamed as he drove his fists into the earth, pounded the medallion into the flesh of the mountain.
    The roar in his ears was the voices of the locusts and the hiss of the snakes, the shadows sliding up the mountain and the smooth, gliding serpent scales. His scream shattered it like glass. The white-noise backdrop of the dream burst into hissing crystals and brilliant sparks, exploding from the point where his fists met the mountain.
    Kneeling on the bed, the sheets wound about his ankles and knees as if they'd coiled there of their own accord, his hands buried so deeply in the mattress that the springs embedded their form in his knuckles, Abraham woke.
    He didn't move.   He stared straight into the white crumpled sheets, straight past his hands, still buried nearly to the wrists in the mattress, the stress on the taut muscles of his arms so acute that he shook from the pressure. Slowly he drew in a long, ragged breath. Just as slowly he released it, and drew in another.   He lifted his head and felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck. Something held him, biting into his flesh. He took another breath and realized it was the leather thong.
    He still held the medallion tightly in one fist, and the thong dug into his flesh, holding his neck down. He was forced into the position of a supplicant, kneeling on the bed, and with sudden clarity he knew he was alone. Katrina was not there. He released his grip on the pendant and turned. He sat on the bed, lowered his legs over the side, and pieced the room together in his mind, bit by bit, until clarity returned.
    The spot on the bed where his fists had pounded in so deep was the same spot where Katrina should be sleeping. Abraham closed his eyes and then snapped them open again. The image that filled his head was Katrina, her chest caved in by the unfettered rage of his dream, his fists, and the medallion, buried deep in her flesh. He saw a flash of her eyes, awash in terror.   He shook uncontrollably. Sweat soaked the sheets, shone off his skin in the dim light of the sunrise.
    He rose unsteadily and pulled on his jeans. He tugged a t-shirt over his head, stepped to the closet, and dragged his duffle bag down from the top shelf. He moved quickly, watching the bedroom door, listening for Katrina's voice, her footsteps, or the car door slamming. He packed very little, and very quickly.
    He took several pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, dumped his underwear and sock drawers into the bag and yanked flannel shirts from the closet. He sat long enough to drag on socks and boots and threw his sneakers into the duffle bag.   He scanned the room wildly, certain he would leave out some key item that would force him to come back and explain himself to her.   He knew he would never be able to do that and leave a second time. He took a book of poetry he'd been reading, two spiral notebooks and a handful of pens, and—at the last moment—he picked up the worn leather Bible on his dresser.   He hadn't read it in a long time, but the weight of the