Brian Keene: The Conqueror Worms

Even if the power was still on, I couldn’t go down into the basement. Not now. Not after what happened. The desk and the word processor and everything else in the basement are gone now. The only things in the basement are bodies, floating around in the darkness, along with the remains of that— thing. Once in a while, I hear its carcass bumping into what’s left of the stairs. I’m sure the water level is getting higher, too. Pretty soon, it will start seeping under the door, and I don’t know what I’ll do then. I can’t go outside.

Who am I kidding? I can’t even move my legs, so why worry about going outside?

There’s an old generator out on the back porch, but I don’t think it works. I haven’t used it since the blizzard back in 2001. Even if it did still work, I’d have to go down into the basement to hook it up to the power box, and then go outside to start it. And like I just told you, I can’t do either of those things.

So I’m lying here in a puddle, wishing I had electricity, but what I really want is a dip. My last can of Skoal was empty on Day Thirty. I had to lick the shreds of tobacco off the lid just to get any at all. I’ve been sweating through nicotine withdrawal ever since. A chew would set things right. Wouldn’t matter what kind at this point: Skoal, Kodiak, Copenhagen, Hawken—maybe even a cigarette or a cigar (though I never much cared for smoking) or some leaf like Mail Pouch. Just a little bit of nicotine would be finer than my wife’s blueberry pie right about now. And her blueberry pie was mighty fine. Mighty fine indeed.

Maybe you’re wondering how an old man like me, an old man who’s injured, is finding the strength and energy to write something like this down. Well let me tell you—I’m doing it to take my mind off the nicotine cravings.

I’ve lived through a lot in my eighty-odd years. I survived a rattlesnake bite when I was seven, the smallpox when I was nine, and a thirty-foot tumble out of a big oak tree when I was twelve. I made it through the Great Depression with a half-full belly. I fought in World War Two. Lied about my age and went to boot camp when I was fourteen. A few months later, I was over in Europe, right after the invasion at Normandy. After that, I got sent to the Pacific as well. I couldn’t tell you the number of bombing runs I participated in. I killed other people’s sons in the war and never thought twice about it. I made it back home, only to have Vietnam claim a son of my own in return. I always figured that was God’s way of making things equal. I’ve watched the baby boomer politicians and the ex-hippie Wall Street tycoons destroy what my generation worked so hard to build. We gave them a nice country, and they destroyed it with their greed and their lobbyists and their Internet-capable cappuccino bars and their rap music. I’ve seen my good friends get old and die. Most of them are gone now, except for Carl. One by one, they’ve succumbed to Alzheimer’s, cancer, loneliness, and just plain old age. Like a Ford or a Chevy, eventually our parts wear out, no matter how well we’re built. A few years ago, I watched Washington’s World War Two Memorial dedication ceremony on television and was shocked by how few of us are actually left. Felt like a mule had kicked me in the stomach. On top of everything else, I’ve outlived my wife, Rose. Let me tell you, that’s something no husband should ever have to go through. It may sound selfish, but I wish that I’d gone before her. Rose’s death was just about more than I could bear.

But despite these trials and tribulations, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to suffer through was sitting here listening to the constant patter of big, fat raindrops beating against the windows and the roof, hearing it non-stop, all day and all night, without a pinch of tobacco between my false teeth and my gums for comfort.

My apologies. I’m an old man, and look here what I’ve done. I’ve gone and gotten off track. I started out writing about Day Forty-one, and then I went on a tangent, ranting about my life story and the damn weather.

Of course, I reckon this is the end of my life story. And I suppose that somewhere deep down inside, I’ve known that since my trip to Renick.

Renick. That was on Day Thirty. Maybe I should start there instead.

Oh Lord, do I need some nicotine! This must be how those heroin junkies feel. I never understood how these young people could get hooked on dope, but of course, I was hooked on a drug, too. Only difference is mine was legal. I miss it. Didn’t know how bad I’d come to rely on it until it was gone.

It was that same insistent craving that woke me up on Day Thirty. My body was pleading with me, promising that if I’d just give it a dip, it would make the headaches, insomnia, toothaches (because even when you wear false teeth, you can still get phantom toothaches), sore throat, chest pains, diarrhea, night sweats, and bad dreams go away. I knew that was a lie. Those things didn’t just come with nicotine withdrawal. They came with old age, as well.

I don’t know that a nicotine fix could have done much about the nightmares, anyway. I dreamed of Rose at least once a week after she was gone. It was also that way when my boy, Doug, died in Vietnam, though it passed with the years. As terrible as it sounds, there are times now when I have to stare at his picture just to remember what he really looked like. I can’t remember how his voice sounded anymore, either. I guess that’s all a result of old age. But it didn’t matter, anyhow. Even if the nicotine could have chased the dreams away, the closest place to buy a can of chew was at the Ponderosa gas station over in Renick.

Renick is the next town after Punkin’ Center. It was a forty-five minute drive down the side of the mountain on a wet and slippery road. I’d avoided making the trip ever since the rain started. But on Day Thirty, caught in the grip of some really nasty nicotine withdrawal symptoms, I walked out into the downpour. It took me a whole minute to reach my Ford pickup truck (I haven’t driven the Taurus since Rose died), and I was soaked to the bone by the time I got inside. I dried my glasses off with a napkin from the glove compartment. Then I fumbled with my keys, crossed my fingers, said a prayer, and started it. The truck came to life, sputtering and coughing and not at all happy about the situation, but running just the same. I checked the gauge and saw that I had three quarters of a tank left. That would get me to town and back.

Most of the stones in our gravel lane had been washed away by then, leaving only mud and ruts. Even after I put the transmission into four-wheel drive, the tires churned and spun. I didn’t think I’d make it out to the main road, but eventually I did.

Sighing with relief, I started down the mountain road to Renick. I experimented with the radio, hoping to hear another voice or even some music, but there was only static. I’d wondered for several weeks what was going on, ever since the power and the phone lines went out. It had been some time since I’d heard someone else speaking, and I was lonely. I’d taken to wandering around the house and talking to myself just to ease the emptiness, and I was sick of the sound of my own voice. Even one of the talk-show nuts that seemed to have taken over the radio these days would have been welcome. Instead, the only sounds keeping me company other than the radio’s static were the rain and the windshield wipers, both beating a steady rhythm as I drove.

I knew that if Rose were still alive, she’d tell me how bullheaded I was being. A stubborn old man, doing something stupid—all because he was addicted to tobacco. But here’s the thing about that. When you get to be old, when you’re what they call elderly, you lose control of everything. Everything around you isn’t yours anymore. Your world, your body, and sometimes even your mind. That makes you stubborn about the things you can still control.