Brian Keene - Deluge - The Conqueror Worms II

“You weren’t kidding,” she said after a lull in the conversation. “You really were hungry. I don’t think I’ve seen anybody eat like that since before the rain started.”

Henry leaned back from the table and grinned. His ears turned red. “Sorry. I don’t know how long it’s been. We had water, but the food was all gone.”

“Well, I’d recommend that you take it easy for a while. You don’t want to overdo it.”

“Are you worried we’ll run out of food?”

Sarah shrugged. “Not so much that. It’s just, if you haven’t eaten in that long, your stomach has probably shrunken. You’ll mess your system up if you gorge right away.”

“I reckon you’re right.” He glanced down at the table, regret clearly showing on his face. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Everybody I knew is gone. Without Moxey or my family or friends, what’s the point of going on? Maybe I’d be better off eating myself to death.”

Sarah sighed. “Know what I was doing before you showed up?”

Henry shook his head.

“I was contemplating suicide. You’re not the only person that lost someone today, kid. I’m sorry about your cat. I really am. But I lost somebody, too.”

“I saw a body outside,” Henry said. “Lying in that utility shed at the base of the tower. The door was open. Was that your friend?”

Sarah nodded.

“What happened to him?”

“He… he was infected with the same stuff that infected Earl and the others.”

“Looked like he’d been shot in the head. Who killed him?”

“I did.”

“Oh…”

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments. Then Henry cleared his throat.

“If it makes you feel any better, when I ran by him, it looked like he was starting to melt.”

“Melt?”

“Yeah. He was turning liquid.”

“That’s what the fuzz seems to do,” Sarah agreed. “We need to find out more about it. There’s a guy on the radio, broadcasting from Boston. He’s got one hell of a strong signal. He was talking about the fuzz earlier. Maybe we’ll listen later. See if we can learn anything that might help us.”

“No offense, but maybe we shouldn’t stick around here. Like I said, Earl and the others are probably following me.”

“Where else are we going to go? I’m open to suggestions. You probably know the area better than me. Is there another safe spot?”

Henry frowned. “No. Not above water, at least.”

Sarah stood up and walked to the window. Clasping her hands behind her back, she stared out into the deluge.

“Pretty soon, Henry, this place isn’t going to be above water, either.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted. The words tasted bitter in her mouth. “I don’t know. We should get this place secure, of course. If Earl does show up, there’s no sense in making things easy for him. We can barricade the door. Maybe booby-trap the stairs outside.”

“And then? What do we do after that?”

“I guess we just wait to see what happens next. We don’t really seem to have any other choices—except for suicide. You really want to kill yourself?”

Henry paused before answering. When he responded to her question, his voice was barely a whisper.

“No, I don’t reckon I’m ready to yet.”

“Neither am I. Not yet. Not until it’s the only option we have left.”

“That might be sooner than you think.”

Sarah didn’t reply. She stood, staring out the window and listening to the rain beat against the glass. Each drop was like a falling hammer.

PART TWO - DEEP WATERS

CHAPTER 28

Before Gail could react, the school of fish had stripped most of the skin from Hansen’s face. He swatted at them with both hands, as if they were bees, rather than flying fish, and a moment later, his fingers had been reduced to raw, bloody stumps of bone and cartilage.

Gail screamed, stumbling backward across the boat’s slippery deck. Attracted by her cry, Hansen turned in her direction. His eyes were gone, and when he opened his lipless mouth to plead for help, the fish took his tongue in quick, savage bites. Then they started in on his gums. They hovered around his head, mercifully obscuring it from sight again. The sound of their wings was audible over the waves and the steady drumming of the rain and even the shrieks of the other people on deck, all of whom, like Gail, were trying to flee, rather than helping the dying man.

Like we’ve got anywhere to flee to, Gail thought, running for the hatch. We’re surrounded by water. Where would we go if we could escape?

She reached the hatch and slid to a halt. Morgan stood in the opening, watching as the fish went to work on Hansen’s torso. His expression was one of dreadful fascination. Gail didn’t know the man well—they’d found him clinging to some debris in the waters over Cleveland—but she was willing to bet Morgan had been the type to slow down on the highway and gawk at car wrecks.

“Morgan, move.”

If he heard her, he gave no indication. His eyes remained fixed on Hansen’s demise. He licked his lips slowly.

Hansen’s blood pooled on the deck, mixing with the rainwater.

“Morgan!” Gail placed her palm against his chest and pushed. His flannel shirt was wet. He didn’t budge.

McCann and Riffle ran up behind her, panting for breath.

“Jesus Christ, Morgan,” McCann shouted, “get the fuck out of the way!”

Blinking, Morgan turned to him. “W-what? Oh… yeah.”

He stepped aside slowly. Gail, McCann and Riffle shoved past him. The two men clambered down the ladder, heading below, while Gail positioned herself at the hatch, shouting at the others on deck to hurry. They needed no encouragement. With a speed that belied imagination, Hansen’s corpse had been reduced to nothing more than bones and some scraps of wet clothing, and now the flying fish were darting after new prey. Raindrops rolled off their silver scales. One by one, Lynn, Caterina, Paris and Mylon ran toward the open hatch, hands held uselessly over their heads in a futile effort to protect themselves.

Mylon slipped on the wet deck and almost went down. The fish darted toward him, but he scrambled to his feet and limped on. As he flung himself through the opening, Gail shoved the door, slamming the hatch closed. Only then was she aware that Morgan was standing beside her. He finally seemed to come out of his trance, at least long enough to push the lever on the inside of the door. The tumblers clanked into place, sealing them inside.

Gail leaned against the bulkhead and began to tremble. Her hands and feet felt jittery. Her stomach turned.

Booted footsteps pounded up the ladder. Novak appeared, a lit cigar chomped securely between his teeth. In his hands was the makeshift flamethrower he’d fashioned from two propane bottles and assorted spare parts. McCann was right behind him, his face ashen.

“What are we fighting today?” Novak asked. “Not those fucking shark men again, I hope?”

“No.” Gail shook her head. “This is something new. They’re like sliver piranha, but with wings.”

Novak nodded, seeming to take this in stride. “Everybody make it?”

“All accounted for except Hansen.”

“Any chance he’s still alive?”

She swallowed. “I doubt it. If he is, then we have to…”

Novak raised the flamethrower and nodded at the hatch. “Open it up, and shut it as soon as I’m outside.”

“But you—”

“Just do it, Gail.”

His tone wasn’t stern or argumentative, nor did he act as if he was giving an order. If anything, Novak just sounded tired.

Gail did as he asked. Novak stepped forward as the tumblers clanked again, and said, “Get the fuck out of the way, Morgan.”