The Conqueror Worms Page 26

  Kevin caught them with one hand. “What now?”

  “I want you to go start my truck. I don’t know if Earl messed with it or not, but we need to find out. Take Sarah with you.”

  “But what about you guys?” Kevin asked.

  “Don’t you worry about us,” Carl said. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  “We’ve got to help you out of here, Teddy,” Sarah argued. “And Carl—you’ve probably got a concussion. Your head is really bleeding.”

  “I’m fine. Just a scratch.” He sat the heater down.

  “It’s not a scratch,” she said. “And neither one of you is fine!”

  “You just go with Kevin,” I shouted back. “See if my truck starts. If it does, then get out of here. Go to the end of my lane, hang a right, and just keep on going till you run out of road. When that happens, you’ll be at Bald Knob, where the big forest ranger tower is. You can’t miss it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kevin spoke up, startled. “That doesn’t make sense at all. We sure as hell aren’t leaving you guys behind!”

  “You’re not,” I said. “Once we’ve taken care of ol’ Behemoth, we’ll follow along behind you in Carl’s truck. We’ll all meet up at Bald Knob.”

  Kevin frowned. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Listen. Carl and me—we’re old. Even if we make it through this, we don’t have much time left in this world.” I glanced down at my leg, and then back up to them. “Somebody needs to kill this thing, or try to at least. There’s no sense in sacrificing all of us, if things don’t go well. Now I’m tired of arguing. There’s no time.”

  Sarah touched my shoulder. “But—”

  “Go,” I said, and then broke into another coughing fit.

  “Don’t worry,” Carl said, and picked up the heater again. “We’ll be along soon as we kill it.”

  “Is that going to work?” Kevin asked, skeptically.

  Carl nodded. “I reckon so. At the very least, it’ll give him a nasty case of indigestion.”

  “What if there are more of those creatures outside?” Sarah asked. “How will we get past them?”

  “We’ll just have to take that chance,” Kevin said, jangling the keys.

  “Now go,” I told them. “Please?”

  Kevin tugged on her arm. Below us, Behemoth roared. I could hear the tentacle things sliding on the stairs, inching higher. The house began to shake again.

  Sarah turned back to Carl and I. “You promise you’ll meet us at Bald Knob?”

  I nodded. “We promise.”

  “If we’re able,” Carl added.

  They stumbled out the kitchen door, pausing to wade through the pile of worms on the carport. Sarah gave us one last backward glance and then they were gone.

  I looked up at Carl. “You really think that heater will hurt it?”

  “It’s worth a try. Bullets sure ain’t doing much.”

  “Well, then nail that thing and drag me the hell out of here.”

  He nodded grimly and stepped up to the edge of the stairway. “Take a deep breath, you big ugly bastard, cause the next one is gonna burn!”

  Behemoth hissed in response.

  “Don’t miss,” I coughed.

  “You ever known me to miss?”

  “Plenty of times.”

  He snickered, and then we both laughed. It hurt me to do so, but there was no helping it.

  “You’re a good man, Teddy Garnett.”

  “You too, Carl Seaton. You too.”

  “Bombs away!” Carl turned back to the stairs, raised the kerosene heater up to chest level, and then flung it down the stairs, just as another tremor shook the house. He lost his balance and grabbed for the door frame, but the oven mitts on his hands slipped off the wood. Carl teetered on the edge, and then, with a quick, startled yelp, he was gone.

  It happened that quickly.

  One moment he was there. The next he was gone, tumbling down after the kerosene heater.

  He didn’t even scream.

  “Carl? Carl!”

  I scrambled to the edge of the stairs, ignoring the pain in my body. There was no sign of the heater. Or Carl. And Behemoth’s mouth was closed, swallowing. Its entire body quivered.

  Carl was gone. My best friend in the whole world—my only friend left in the world—was gone. He hadn’t died at home in his bed, surrounded by loved ones and friends, or peacefully in his sleep, or even in a faraway veteran’s hospital. He’d died inside this creature’s stomach.

  I closed my eyes.

  And then the worm turned.

  And screamed…

  Bullets may not have hurt it, but a blazing hot kerosene heater upended down its throat sure as heck did. The blast of air that barreled out of the monster’s throat slammed into me with enough force to ruffle my wet hair, and then swept throughout the remains of the kitchen. My ears popped from the unexpected force of it. The air stank of fishy ammonia and burning flesh, and I could hear the creature’s throat sizzling. Behemoth squalled again, retching as the burning kerosene went to work deep within its bowels. The worm’s body twisted, racked with earthshaking convulsions as it retreated back down the tunnel, leaving an empty, gaping hole in its place. Chunks of concrete and dirt flowed into the vacant space.

  Then the house fell silent. I could hear the clock ticking in the living room (amazingly, it had survived the shaking), and the rain pouring in through the damaged roof and pattering across the tiles and broken furniture.

  I hugged myself, shivering in the cold, damp air, and wished to die.

  The next sound was impossible to describe, and there’s just no way I can do it justice. A massive, concussive belch thundered up from far below. It was followed by a rushing noise as dark, dank water spouted up the tunnel and flooded into what remained of my basement. It stank—a sour, spoiled reek that turned my stomach. I gagged and turned my face away. The black liquid rushed halfway up the staircase before slowing, and when I looked back I gagged again, vomiting blood. There were things floating in that digestive stew—a half-eaten deer carcass, the hindquarters of a black bear, a car tire and license plate, soda pop bottles, building timbers, masonry and bricks, the skeletal remains of a human arm, and a plastic trash can.

  And the kerosene heater.

  And Carl.

  Then pieces of the worm itself started to float up: shredded, blackened hunks of pale, blubbery flesh.

  And more of Carl. His head bobbed in the soup, and I noticed a sucker mark on his cheek—just like the one Kevin had found on his friend Jimmy.

  I leaned back against the wall and pushed the door shut on its crooked frame. It wouldn’t close all the way, and I hammered at it feebly, feeling weak and old and small and afraid. I heard the waters below, bubbling and churning and not stopping.

  Just like the rain.

  Then I closed my eyes and stopped listening.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  That was last night. Now it’s late in the afternoon again, or at least what passes for afternoon these days; that dull, gray haze. I’ve been writing all night long and straight through the morning, cramming words into this little spiral-bound notebook. My busted leg is swelled up like a balloon, and it really doesn’t even look like a leg anymore. I cut my pants open a few minutes ago and what I saw made me queasy. The skin of my thigh is shiny and greasy and stretched like a sausage casing. Like I said earlier, I can’t feel anything below my waist and that’s a blessing.

  I keep saying I won’t look down there anymore, but then I do. Morbid curiosity, I guess.

  At least there’s no White Fuzz growing on me yet. Of course, maybe that would be a blessing at this point. I still don’t know what it is or how it works, but perhaps it would be quicker than lying here suffering.

  I’m dying. Or will be soon, if help doesn’t come. I need a miracle, but those seem to be in short supply these days.

  I’m going to die at home—cold, wet, and alone. Not in my bed and surrounded by friends and family, but lying on the f
loor in a puddle of water. All by myself. Not how I pictured it.

  But I finished this, and that’s all that matters. I’m done with my tale, my record. My story. Don’t know if it matters or not. Who’s left to find it? Still, it’s here. I’ll put it someplace safe. Somewhere dry. And maybe, just maybe, someone will find it, and read it, and know that I once lived. They’ll know of Teddy Garnett and what he saw, what he felt and thought, and what kind of man he was. That’s the only kind of immortality we have down here; we live on in the memories of those who come after. The other kind of eternal life, the kind my Rose enjoys, exists on the other side, and is unattainable for those left behind—those left alive. We can’t enjoy it until we die.

  With great effort and patience, and several spells of almost blacking out from the pain, I did manage to drag myself over to the kitchen door, so that I could see outside. The carport was still covered in wriggling bodies, but Behemoth’s attack on the house had left the cement outside cracked and broken. The picnic table was knocked over and my Taurus was a crumpled hulk of steel and fiberglass.

  Carl’s truck lay on its passenger side and the plump end of a canoe-sized earthworm protruded from the driver’s side window. The tail wagged up and down, like it was waving at me.

  I waved back. And then I laughed. It was either that or cry.

  My truck is gone, so I guess that Kevin and Sarah got away safely. All that’s left is two tire tracks full of flattened worms. While I watched, the ruts filled back in with rainwater and night crawlers.

  I keep listening, hoping to hear the sound of a truck engine coming down the lane, praying for the sound of tires crunching through the wet gravel. But all I hear is the rain.

  Where could they be?

  According to my calculations, it would have taken Sarah and Kevin an hour to reach Bald Knob, or maybe an hour and a half, depending on the road conditions. Unless the road was completely washed out or covered with fallen trees. But if that were the case, they’d have turned around and come back, wouldn’t they?

  Sure they would. Kevin and Sarah were good kids. They wouldn’t abandon us. They wouldn’t leave two old men like Carl and me here to die. Not like this. They knew I was hurt. Hurt bad. They wouldn’t just leave me here. They’d come back. When Carl and I didn’t show up by dawn, they’d have come looking for us.

  Which means that something must have happened to them.

  Maybe they got caught in a mudslide, or maybe they ran off the road or something. My truck’s got a pretty good four-wheel drive system, but would Kevin and Sarah have known how to operate it? They were city folk, after all. Could be they’re stranded out there somewhere and the truck’s got a busted axle.

  Or maybe the worms got them. I hate to consider the possibility, but I’d be a fool not to. Are there more of them out there in the mountains, burrowing through the earth? Other than the one inside Carl’s truck, I haven’t seen any of the big worms. Could be they chased off after Kevin and Sarah. Or maybe Behemoth scared them away.

  Or else the worms are up to something. Something that I haven’t yet figured out.

  Maybe they’re just waiting for me to fall asleep.

  The house keeps sliding downward, creaking and shuddering every few minutes. Every time it sways, I feel like Captain Ahab, clinging to the mast of my ship. But instead of a white whale, I fought a white worm.

  If I have to—if the house starts to cave in completely, I can roll myself out onto what’s left of the carport. But I’ll wait until the very last moment before I do that. I don’t want to lie among those worms.

  I’m scared.

  I’m afraid of what they might tell me. Would they crawl into my ears and burrow through my brain, whispering their secrets to me the way they did to Earl? What would they have to say? Would they teach me of their legends? Would they tell me what lies at the center of the earth, at the heart of the labyrinth?

  Would they preach to me about their earthworm gods?

  The water is starting to seep out from under the basement door now, and it’s still pouring through the holes in the roof. There’s about six inches on the floor and it keeps rising. Won’t take long for the house to flood completely.

  My lower half is wet, but I’m not going to look. Can’t really feel the wetness anyway, so why does it matter?

  I wonder if heaven is warm and dry. I sure hope so.

  I couldn’t find my crossword puzzle book, but I found Rose’s Bible amid the wreckage, and I’ve been reading it off and on, in between writing in this notebook and falling asleep and gritting my teeth from the sheer pain. I opened the Bible, seeking some comfort, and I read about the Great Flood. I read about how, after the waters had settled, God sent a dove back to Noah on the ark. The dove had an olive branch in its mouth, and that was a good sign. A sign from God, telling Noah that the rains were over and the waters were receding. Then Noah knew that he could come out onto dry land again.

  That was the first Bible story I ever heard and it was always one of my favorites. I always believed it and I’d like to believe it now. But I can’t. God help me, for the first time in my eighty-plus years on this planet, I just can’t.

  So I’m lying here, waiting. Waiting to see what happens next. That’s how this ends, because that’s life. Our stories, our real-life tales, seldom have a perfect ending. Things go on, even after we’re gone, and when we die, we don’t get to see what happens next.

  There’s nothing left to say. This is the end of my tale.

  I’m waiting for Kevin and Sarah to come back and rescue me.

  Or I’m waiting to be reunited with Rose again. I’m waiting to die.

  Whichever happens first.

  But most of all, I’m waiting for the rain to stop and for the clouds to part and the sun to shine again.

  I saw something earlier. It wasn’t a worm or a monster or a deer with white fungus growing on it.

  It was a crow. First bird I’ve seen since the robin—a big, blue-black crow with beady eyes and a sharp, pointed beak, its feathers wet and slick with rain. It perched on the fallen picnic table, swooped down onto the carport, plucked up an earthworm from the cracked cement, and gobbled it down like a strand of spaghetti. Then it flew back up to the table and sat, watching me through the door and the holes in the wall.

  It just now flew away. Its black wings sliced through the rain and a long worm dangled from its beak.

  The rain didn’t slow it down.

  The Ancient Mariner saw an albatross and Noah saw a dove. Those were their signs. They were good signs. They brought luck and fortune—and dry land.

  Me? I saw a crow eating a worm.

  I wonder if that’s a sign, and if so, what kind?

  I need a dip. Some nicotine would make this easier…

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Cassandra and Sam for weathering the storms and bringing sunshine on a cloudy day; Shane Ryan Staley and Don D’Auria for giving me shelter from the rain; the Cabal for up-to-the-minute weather reports; Tim Lebbon for backyard bourbon under the stars on a clear, cloudless night; Tracy, Mom, and Dad for The Rime of the Ancient Mariner during dinner; Mark Lancaster, Matt Warner, John Urbancik, and Tod Clark for providing rain gear; and to you, my readers, for waiting at the end of the rainbow.

  High Praise for Brian Keene!

  CITY OF THE DEAD

  “In the carnival funhouse of horror fiction, Brian Keene runs the rollercoaster! The novel is a neverending chase down a long funneling tunnel…stretching the reader’s nerves banjo tight and then gleefully plucking each nerve with an offkey razorblade…There aren’t stars enough in the rating system to hang over this one-two punch.”

  —Cemetery Dance

  “Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking. Keene manages to build characters that jump off the page and bite into you.”

  —Horror Web

  “[City of the Dead] will force even the most sluggish readers to become speed demons in the quest to reach the resolution. The pacing is relentless, t
he action fast and furious.”

  —Horror Reader

  “Keene reminds us that horror fiction can deal with fear, not just indulge it.”

  —Ramsey Campbell

  “Keene has revitalized the horror genre.”

  —The Suffolk Journal

  “A headlong, unflinching rush.”

  —F. Paul Wilson, Author of The Keep

  More Praise for Brian Keene!

  THE RISING

  “[Brian Keene’s] first novel, The Rising, is a postapocalyptic narrative that revels in its blunt and visceral descriptions of the undead.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “[The Rising is] the most brilliant and scariest book ever written. Brian Keene is the next Stephen King.”

  —The Horror Review

  “The Rising is more terrifying than anything currently on the shelf or screen.”

  —Rue Morgue

  “The Rising is chockfull of gore and violence…an apocalyptic epic.”

  —Fangoria

  “Hoping for a good night’s sleep? Stay away from The Rising. It’ll keep you awake, then fill your dreams with lurching, hungry corpses wanting to eat you.”

  —Richard Laymon, author of After Midnight

  “Quite simply, the first great horror novel of the new millennium!”

  —Dark Fluidity

  “With Keene at the wheel, horror will never be the same.”

  —Hellnotes

  “Stephen King meets Brian Lumley. Keene will keep you turning the pages to the very end.”

  —Terror Tales

  Other Leisure Books by Brian Keene:

  CITY OF THE DEAD

  THE RISING

  Copyright

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  May 2006