Brian Keene: Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

His stomach growled again. To keep his mind off it, Henry tried to think about something else. Unfortunately, his thoughts turned to his favorite foods, and how much he missed them. Chili dogs and root beer. Cornbread and beans. A giant meatball sub with pickles and tomatoes washed down with a cold ginger ale. His mother’s blueberry pie, baked with a recipe passed down from his grandmother and great-grandmother.

Sighing, he sat down again, dangling his feet over the edge. Henry scanned the water, trying to remember where the submerged buildings had been before the flood. It was disconcerting. He’d known this town like the back of his hand, but now that everything was gone, it was hard to get his bearings. His gaze turned to the steeple of the Presbyterian Church, sticking out of the water like a finger pointing skyward. Rain streamed down the white vinyl siding. The bell-tower was hidden in shadow. Henry was just about to glance away when he saw a flash of movement inside.

He sat up straight, peering intently. If it was a bird, and it flew close enough, maybe he could shoot it down and drag it into the silo. He slowly slid the rifle into the crook of his shoulder, eased off the safety, and peered through the scope. He saw it again, a flicker of motion from deep inside the open bell-tower. Too big to be a bird, but the mist prevented him from discerning any more. He adjusted the scope, silently cursing himself for knocking it loose earlier. Then he looked again, and gasped.

There was a figure inside the bell-tower. A human figure. He couldn’t make out their features, or if they were a man or a woman, but the shape was definitely humanoid. Someone was alive over there—but how? He and Moxey were barely making it, and they were inside the grain silo. How had somebody survived being exposed to the elements like that? The steeple offered no real shelter—just a roof over their head. No walls or protection from the rain and cold.

“Does it matter how they survived? Jesus, Henry, get your head out of your ass. You’re not alone.”

Moxey stirred at the sound of his voice. She meowed once, pitifully, and then went back to sleep.

Henry wondered who it could be over there. Reverend Smith, maybe? Or the church caretaker, Mr. Bare? He peered through the scope again, hoping for a better look, but the figure remained hidden. He sat the rifle down beside him and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hey,” he yelled. “Hey over there in the church! This is Henry Garrett. Are you okay?”

There was no answer. He tried again, unsuccessfully. Cursing, he picked the rifle up again and fired one shot into the air, trying to get the survivor’s attention. Moxey jumped up, startled by the blast, and fled behind a plastic five-gallon bucket of roof tar. When the ringing in his ears stopped, Henry listened for a reply, but there was none forthcoming. He looked through the scope again. They were still there. Maybe they couldn’t answer him. Maybe they were hurt, or sick. Maybe the rain and fog were muting his shouts. But even if they couldn’t holler back, wouldn’t they have heard the gunshot? Wouldn’t they have at least waved or signaled him somehow?

Something else occurred to him. If the person in the steeple had managed to stay alive so long under such poor conditions, then they probably had something that he and Moxey didn’t have.

Food.

Glancing around the silo, Henry began to formulate a plan. For the first time in weeks, his headache was gone and his stomach didn’t hurt. He had hope.

He clung to that hope like it was a lifeboat, preventing him from sinking down below the surface.

CHAPTER 11

Henry paced around inside the grain silo, trying to formulate a plan to reach the church steeple. Moxey watched him with droopy-lidded eyes, curled up on her burlap sacks and trying to stay warm. Henry’s wet boots sloshed with each step. When he coughed, it echoed around the wooden platform. He leaned against the iron handrail, stared down into the flooded depths in the silo’s center, and frowned in concentration. Even without the revelation that there was somebody else alive, they needed to get out of here. The water had risen even higher. Just a few more days and it would probably overrun the platform. Then, he and Moxey would have no choice but to leave.

He needed to reach the steeple, find out who was there and what kind of shape they were in. Then he needed to get himself, Moxey, and the mysterious stranger over to the mountainside. Granted, there were probably untold dangers there, as well, but at least they could take shelter on the last bit of dry land.

But how?

He couldn’t swim across. The water was a toxic stew—full of oil, chemicals, gasoline, dead bodies and debris, not to mention water moccasins and other critters. He didn’t have a boat. He’d seen some float by—small bass boats and rubber dinghies—but they’d been too far away to capture.

He took stock of everything they had left—five bottles of water, the rifle, half a box of bullets, a cloth to clean off the rifle’s scope, empty food wrappers, a roll of duct tape, a cigarette lighter, a damp cardboard box full of moldering newspapers and magazines, a wet roll of bailing twine, a bucket of roofing tar, the pocketknife with his initials engraved in it that his parents had bought him for his sixteenth birthday, a claw-hammer, two pitchforks, a John Deere ball cap, and a plastic bucket full of rusted nuts and bolts and miscellaneous junk. Nothing he could build a boat out of.

Henry experimented with the floorboards, prying at the heavy planks with the claw hammer, seeing if he could loosen any of them. They stayed firmly in place. The weather had yet to impact the twelve-penny nails holding them down. His attention turned to the small double-doors in the silo’s curved wall. The hinges were rusty and weak. Maybe he’d have better luck with them. Henry opened his pocketknife and went to work on the hinges, prying at the screws until they started to work their way loose. Then he yanked them out with the claw hammer and lay the doors down on the floor, one on top of the other, to increase buoyancy. Using most of the duct tape and all of the bailing twine, he lashed them together, forming a crude raft.

“God damn,” he said, grimacing as he finished. “Wish I’d thought of this before now. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Moxey meowed in agreement.

“Don’t you worry, girl. I’m gonna head over to the church and see what’s what. Maybe they’ll have some food. Hell, they’ve got to.”

Henry decided to leave the rifle behind. It was too valuable to risk dropping it in the water. He’d have to bring it along when they headed for land, but for now, he thought it better to leave the weapon in the silo where it was safe. With the remaining duct tape, he wrapped one of Moxey’s burlap bags around the tines of one of the pitchforks, fashioning a makeshift oar. He sat both pitchforks next to the open door—one to navigate with and the other for defense. Cold wind and mist blew through the opening. Henry shivered. He dragged the boat over to the door and dropped it into the water. He held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. It dipped below the surface and then popped up again, floating. He cheered. Startled, Moxey ran to the rear of the silo.

Donning the John Deere cap to keep the rain off his head, Henry slowly clambered out onto the raft and sat cross-legged. Then he grabbed the pitchforks and brought them onboard. The vessel bobbed and swayed, and water surged over the edges. Alarmed, Henry got ready to make a dive back into the silo, but the raft remained above the surface. It wasn’t very sturdy, but it would have to suffice.

“Stay here, girl! I’ll be right back.”