Jeff Jacobson: Wormfood

Accolades for Jeff Jacobson’s Wormfood

“Poignant and thoughtful yet violent and gritty, Wormfood is a triumph of a first novel. Think Joe R Lansdale meets Harper Lee in a roadside diner that serves human flesh. Part coming-of-age story, part cautionary tale, part redneck thriller, Wormfood is much more than a horror novel but just as disturbing. Jeff Jacobson is a writer to watch out for and I’m looking forward to reading his work for years to come.

“ Wormfood is not just a great horror novel, but a great novel, period. Exciting, fast-paced, entertaining, and with that extra touch of heart that lifts it from the realm of pulp into high art …”

—Trent Haaga, screenwriter of Deadgirl

“Jacobson’s evocative prose goes down like Southern Comfort in Wormfood , a terrifying mixture of The Petrified Forest and the very best nature-runs-amok drive-in flicks. A first-rate horror thriller with memorable characters and an action-packed climax that will leave you dreading rainstorms forever.”

—Gregory Lamberson, author of Personal Demons and Johnny Gruesome

“This is a claustrophobic encounter of the weird kind …”

—Mort Castle, editor of On Writing Horror

DEDICATION

For Deb

Published 2010 by Medallion Press, Inc.

The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

Copyright © 2010 by Jeff Jacobson

Cover design by James Tampa

Edited by Helen A Rosburg

Slightly different versions of Chapters 14 and 15 originally appeared in F Magazine #5 , and earlier drafts of Chapters 20 and 21 originally appeared in Hair Trigger #24 .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-160542101-8

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A lot of fine folks helped out and showed me such unbelievable kindness that a mere thanks doesn’t seem to be enough. But this is the least I can do. Your willingness to go above and beyond the call of duty for this goofy writer is appreciated more than you will ever know. So many, many thanks to:

My family—Saw and Mad, Mom and Dad and Clay.

The wonderful writers and teachers and mentors and students and friends in the Columbia College Chicago Fiction Department—including my teachers Don De Grazia, Anne Hemenway, Gary Johnson, Eric May, Devon Polderman, and especially John Schultz, who gave invaluable advice and encouragement.

The fantastic team at Medallion Press, especially Adam Mock, Paul Ohlson, Lorie Popp, Helen Rosburg, Emily Steele, and Jim Tampa.

Some of the people I’m honored to call my friends—Gus and Jen Alagna, Christian Behr, Jay Bonansinga, Mort Castle, David Chirchirillo, Craig Christie, Jen and House Domonkos, Tom Egizio—Webmaster extraordinaire, Mark Ferguson of Hard Boiled Records, Trent Haaga, Heather Jack, Dave Janczak, Brian Kustek, Gregory Lam-berson, Jack Mazzenga, and Lou and Sandy Phillips, and so many others.

The musicians who helped fuel the writing of this novel—AC/DC, Johnny Cash, The Cramps, Deadbolt, Motorhead, Murder by Death, The Ramones, the Reverend Horton Heat, Southern Culture on the Skids, and The Ventures.

And finally, my wife, Deb, who gave me unwavering support and patience. I love you, little one.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

FRIDAY

CHAPTER 1

Grandma woke me up with her .10 gauge, shooting at the ground squirrels again. I think that was the morning it all started, when the worms got loose and the Sawyer brothers stole the dead steer and Fat Ernst had us break into Earl’s coffin and I tasted Misty Johnson’s sweat and that witch crawled out of the darkness under her lawn mower and a whole hell of a lot of blood got spilled.

Yeah. It started with Grandma and her Browning.

Those squirrels pissed her off like you wouldn’t believe, burrowing into the rich black soil and eating her vegetables. She grew nearly everything we ate in her garden out there behind the trailer, from tomatoes that swelled up like water balloons about to burst to red onions the size of softballs to ears of corn so sweet they tasted like they were half sugar cane.

So when the squirrels snuck in and tried to eat the results of her hard work, Grandma went to war. And she didn’t take prisoners.

The shotgun blast faded into the soft whispering of rain striking the roof. I rolled over in bed and checked the alarm clock. It was dead, dark, and silent on the floor next to my narrow mattress. At first I thought one of the storms had knocked out the power again, then realized that Grandma had unplugged the clock. I guessed our talk last night about me working for Fat Ernst hadn’t gone over as well as I had hoped.

My watch read 7:32.

The Sawyer brothers would be showing up any minute now.

Grandma hated them even worse than the ground squirrels.

The shotgun ripped another hole in the morning air. Grandma didn’t believe in traps or poisons; they took all the satisfaction, all the fun out of the job. Instead, she loaded her own shells, using number 9 steel shot, so we didn’t have to worry about lead poisoning. She didn’t even have to get rid of the little corpses. The Browning .10 gauge blasted them into instant fertilizer.

I stumbled into the bathroom, pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt as I went. No time for a shower. I stuck my toothbrush in my mouth, took a deep breath and flexed my chest and both arms in a classic bodybuilder pose. In the mirror, nothing much happened. A scrawny sixteen-year-old with a bad haircut grimaced back at me. It looked like I’d been in an accident and couldn’t move very well.

My name is Arch Stanton. Me and Grandma lived in a single-width trailer dumped at the end of a long dirt driveway out in the hills. Grandpa died nearly five years ago, heart attack. Mom and Dad had been dead for over twelve years. They were coming back from a weekend in Reno when Dad apparently took one of the mountain turns a little wide and hit a minivan filled with a family of six. Head-on collision; killed everybody but the family’s youngest child. When they performed the autopsy, they found that Dad’s blood had an alcohol level of .09 percent. Just enough to be legally drunk in California. All of the insurance money, everything, went to the child who survived.