Jeff Jacobson - Growth

“You good?” Purcell asked.

“Fuckers!” Axel shouted.

“Okay,” Purcell said. “I think—”

“Shhh.” Edgar put a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

Purcell and Charlie turned their flashlights back down the tunnel. For a moment, all they could hear was their own rasping breathing inside the gas masks. Then, way, way down the tunnel, a splash. Something heavy. More splashing. It got louder. Then a whole cascade of wet slapping, almost like bare footsteps.

“Whoever it is, there’s more than one of ’em,” Charlie whispered.

“Maybe it’s somebody coming to help. National Guard, somebody like that,” Axel said.

“Might be more boys from Allagro,” Purcell said.

“Great,” Axel said. “Let them clean up their mess.”

Sandy shook her head. “We’re part of the mess. They’ll kill us all.”

Something emerged into the very edge of their lights, then backed away into the darkness. Whatever it was, it was down low, as if someone had been crawling along on their hands and knees.

“I wanna try something,” Purcell said. “Point your lights at the floor for a sec.”

Sandy said, “I’d rather keep an eye on whatever is down there.”

“We will. Just for a quick second. Want to see if I can draw it any closer. Let’s get a better idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

One by one, they all aimed their flashlights at the trough. Sandy was last. She stared into the blackness, straining to hear whatever was down the tunnel. She finally couldn’t take it anymore and brought her light back up. A yelp burst out of her before she could stop herself.

The Fitzgimmons whipped their lights up.

The tunnel was alive with crawling tendrils. Human limbs had been stretched out along each tendril, sprouting from each side in random arrangements, like crumbling teeth in a rotten mouth. Pale, bare legs slapped through the shallow trench, arms reached out and clutched at the wet bricks. There were too many tendrils to count. They skittered and scrabbled and clawed over each other, undulating over the mounds of inert bodies, sometimes crawling up the sides of the sewer pipe.

Axel was the first to let loose, unloading his clip in less than three seconds. Charlie and Edgar were next, unleashing a blizzard of lead. Purcell and Sandy started shooting as well. An unholy firestorm of destruction exploded down the tunnel.

The arms and legs shattered in bloodless spatters of meat and gray muck.

The shooting died down and everybody reloaded. The trough and bottom of the sloping walls were littered with empty shotgun shells. Blue gun smoke hung around them in a thick haze.

The tendrils did not stop. They sloughed off the ruined limbs, leaving them behind like a plant sheds dead leaves. Fresh, undamaged arms and legs continued to propel the tendrils forward, surging ahead in a clumsy, hungry motion.

“Go,” Purcell said. “Go!”

Nobody argued; they turned and ran. Edgar and Axel charged through the sewer, side by side, Sandy on their heels, followed by Charlie and Purcell. They sprinted through the darkness, jumping over mounds of bodies, flashlight beams bouncing off the curved walls.

Axel stepped on the kneecap of one of the bodies stretched between the mounds. The sudden weight twisted the vulnerable joint, pitching Axel sideways into the wall. He rolled into a mound, flailing and kicking. Sandy grabbed the back of his jeans and yanked him upright. Charlie crashed into her and they all stumbled.

Purcell fired a few rounds back down the tunnel behind them for the hell of it.

Edgar ran on ahead, panic fueling his flight. He looked back to make sure that everyone was following, and when he turned back around, his head smacked into low concrete. His feet kept going and he flopped flat on his back in the center of the trough. Sandy and Axel reached him and Sandy jerked his head out of the filthy water.

Blood ran from a gash in his forehead, spilling down between the two circular lenses of the mask. He was out cold, limp as an abandoned marionette. Axel and Charlie lifted him up and they turned to see what lay ahead.

The sewer grew smaller here; the larger pipe collapsed down into a pipe only four feet in diameter. Purcell pulled a road flare from Charlie’s backpack and struck the tip. Everybody flinched from the burst of sizzling light. “Might slow ’em down,” Purcell said, and tossed it into the center of the closest mound behind them.

Sandy went first. At least the mounds of bodies had tapered off and stopped, leaving the pipe clear. She could walk through the pipe fairly quickly, keeping her head down and back hunched. Charlie and Axel had to bend almost in half at the waist; they were dragging Edgar anyway, so it didn’t matter as much. The flare sent their running shadows flickering before them like black flames.

Sandy saw something coming up, some irregularity in the top of the tunnel. She got closer and saw that it was another pipe, leading up to a new manhole. She yelled, “Here!” and climbed up. She reached the cover and tried to lift it. It was too heavy. She went back down, saying, “I can’t budge it.” Charlie pushed her out of the way and clambered up. They heard him grunt and a sliver of faint light spilled down around him. He came back down and together with Axel, they lifted Edgar up the vertical conduit.

Sandy followed them and crawled out to a night sky and pavement still warm from the heat of the day. She saw that they had emerged three blocks south on Fifth Street, near the high school. The sun was only a red glimmer on the horizon. The streetlights along Main Street were on. Down here, it was all residential houses, and there were no lights. Night was gathering in the deepening shadows, spreading like ink.

Edgar moaned and tried to sit up. He rolled onto his hands and knees and began to retch.

“Shit,” Charlie said. “Don’t have any choice now.” He ripped Edgar’s mask off. Vomit spilled out it, dripping off Edgar’s nose and chin. He sucked in a ragged breath and vomited again.

Purcell jerked his legs out of the manhole and Axel helped slide the cover back into place. It settled with a loud thunk.

Edgar sat back and spat. “Dizzy,” he said.

“You’ve probably got a concussion,” Sandy said.

“Can you walk?” Purcell asked. “We gotta get back to the truck.”

Sandy helped Edgar to stand. He looked a little unsteady, but gave them a thumbs-up.

“We’ll take it slow, but we need to get moving,” Purcell said.

They started back up Fifth Street. Sandy said, “Let’s cut down Franklin. I don’t want to get any closer to that damn corn than we need to.”

Purcell was about to say something when he suddenly stopped short and aimed his shotgun at one of the cars parked along the street. He squatted, sweeping the light back and forth under the car. “Huh. Thought I heard something.”

Then they all heard it. The scraping of bare feet and hands over pavement. The sounds came from all around them, creeping through the shadows, slithering through dark yards, crawling through bushes, squirming under vehicles.

Sandy spun, and they found themselves forming a tight circle in the middle of the street, shoulder to shoulder, trying to watch everywhere at once.

They were surrounded.

Charlie had two flares left. He stuck them in his back pocket, then shrugged off his backpack and gave it to Axel. “I’m going for the truck.” He racked the bolt back on his AA-12, making sure there was a shell in the breech. “Get him,” he pointed at Edgar, standing but still swaying, “someplace where you can hole up for a bit.”

Purcell reached out and patted Charlie’s shoulder. Father and son shared a look for a moment. Charlie said, “You’re gonna hear some shooting. Don’t sweat it.” He sparked one of the flares and took off running, raising the flare over his head with his left and holding the shotgun by the pistol grip with his right.