Brian Keene - The Conqueror Worms

I tried to smile back, but my mouth didn’t want to work. I felt sick inside. My stomach was a ball of lead.

Salty, who’d been hiding in the back of the crowd and standing under some ductwork to block the rain, stepped forward. “Wasn’t the Satanists that did that to Jimmy.”

“Not now, Salty,” Anna whispered.

“You’re forgetting something,” Sarah pointed out to Juan. “Louis and Christian took the last boat, and now the Satanists have that, too. So how will you get over to the Trade Center?”

Juan’s shoulders sank.

“Shit!” Mike threw his hands up in frustration. “God damn it, she’s right, Juan! What the hell do we do now? You can’t swim over there.”

“Why don’t you use those washtubs?” Salty suggested.

“What?” Juan blinked at him.

“Those plastic washtubs downstairs,” Salty said. “They float. Just strap ‘em together with rope.”

Juan glanced at Mike. “Would they hold us?”

“I think so. We haven’t exactly been eating well.” He sized up Juan, Taz, Ducky, and me. “None of you are small guys, but you’ve all lost weight. I think it would work.”

“No,” Lee said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What happens if you guys start sinking halfway there? All it would take is one big wave to flood those things. Then you’d be stranded in the water—or worse.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Juan asked.

“We build a raft, and quickly. It doesn’t have to be anything permanent. Just enough to get you guys there and back again.”

“Do we have time to build something like that?”

Lee glanced at the sky. “I think so. It’s hard to tell exactly when sunrise and sunset occur, but I’ve noticed that they don’t start their ceremonies until well after dark. We’ve got at least an hour. Maybe even an hour and a half.”

“All right,” Juan barked. “Taz, Ducky, Kevin—you guys come with me. The rest of you help Lee out and give him a hand putting the raft together. Lee, you’re in charge. Nate, you stay up here and keep an eye on the Trade Center. Holler quick if it looks like they’re starting without us.”

Nate didn’t reply.

“Nate?” Juan stepped towards him. “You hear me?”

Distracted, Nate stared out over the water.

Juan put a hand on his shoulder. “Nate? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Nate shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Just tired is all.”

Juan studied him a second longer, then took me by the arm and led Taz, Ducky, and me back inside. Taz and Ducky ran off to their room to fetch their guns. I followed Juan to his suite. It looked like a tornado had hit it. Dirty clothing and bed linens lay tossed about and food wrappers, empty beer bottles, and other debris littered the floor. There was an overflowing trash can in the corner.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, embarrassed. “Housekeeping hasn’t been by lately.”

“I think you should complain to the front desk.” I grinned, but he must have seen the fear in my eyes.

“Kevin, look—you’ll be okay. The truth is, I need you along on this. I don’t trust Taz and Ducky one hundred percent, and I need somebody to watch my back in case they try to smoke some pork along with the bad guys. I know how it is now, but I also know that back in the day, I was a cop and they were gangbangers. Old loyalties die hard and I’m still not sure where they stand. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.” I felt like puking, and the blood drained from my face.

Juan noticed it. “Seriously, man. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine.”

He pulled open the closet door and brought out a very mean-looking rifle.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“This is an M-16 assault rifle. I actually prefer the M-1 Garand. It’s a lot more reliable, especially in rapid-fire situations. But this is all I brought with me, and beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve kept it cleaned and serviced, so hopefully it won’t jam on me. These are my extra magazines. They hold the bullets.”

“I knew that. I’ve seen movies.”

“Okay then,” he chuckled and pulled out another piece of equipment. “Know what this is?”

“An elephant gun?”

He laughed. “Not quite. This beauty is an M-203 grenade-launcher. I can install it on the M-16. And these little babies here are antipersonnel ammunition for it.”

“Antipersonnel ammunition?”

“Grenades.”

“Christ, Juan. We should change your name to Rambo.”

He winked at me and then fished around in the dresser drawers.

“Do I get one, too?”

“No. But you do get this.”

He handed me a pistol. I’d held pistols before, during guard duty and when Jimmy and I found them while scavenging, but it felt different this time. It was heavy. Cold. I admired the weapon, curled my fingers around it. It felt good in my hand.

“That’s a Sig P245,” Juan told me. “It’s a .45 caliber, holds six rounds in the magazine and one in the pipe. As with all Sigs, there is no manual safety. It’s a double-action pistol, single after the first shot, with a de-cocker.”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.

“I don’t have time to give you the schematics or read you the sales brochure. What you need to know is this—the trigger is here. We’ve only got the one clip for it, so try to make your shots count. You’ve got seven. When you run out of bullets, that’s all we have. Hopefully, by then I’ll have done some damage to the Satanists and we’ll have rescued our friends and be on our way home.”

“Juan, I’ve never fired a gun before in my life.”

“It’s easy, Kevin. Just point and shoot. That’s all you have to do. Point. Shoot. Repeat as necessary.”

Before I could reply, there was a knock at the door. Juan opened it and Taz and Ducky bustled in, acting like excited little kids around the tree on Christmas morning. This was the happiest I’d seen them since they’d joined our group.

“Yo, check it out.” Ducky nudged Taz. “Kevin’s got a Sig.”

“Nice one,” Taz said in appreciation. “You know how to use it?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

Taz laughed. “You go, playa.”

Ducky flashed a smile. “I got me an MP-5.”

Juan whistled in obvious admiration. “Heckler Koch, right?”

“You know what time it is. The mini-uzi is dead, but this motherfucker here,” he lifted the gun with pride, “is alive and well. There’s no kick at all. It shoots exactly where you point it. You got to be retarded to miss with this thing.”

“Keep that in mind when we’re over at the Trade Center,” Juan said.

“See this?” Taz showed me his machine gun. “This is an AK-47—when you absolutely, positively want to eradicate every motherfucker in the fucking room. Accept no substitutes.”

“It’s big,” I said.

“Big dick, big gun.”

They both giggled uncontrollably and I caught a hint of weed wafting off of them.

“Are you guys stoned?” Juan asked.

They shrugged.

“We can still do our job if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ducky said, leaning against the dresser.

“Why?” Taz sat down on the bed, the mattress springs creaking under his weight. “You gonna arrest us, Officer?”

Juan shook his head. “No. Actually, I was going to ask if you had any more. I could use a hit right about now, and I bet Kevin could, too.”

I nodded. A nice buzz would have taken the edge off of me right about then.

Taz’s expression was one of surprise, and then regret.

“Shit, I wish we did have more. This was the last of the stash. We been saving it for a special occasion, but we figured this might be the last chance, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Juan said. “I’ve got something that I’ve been saving for a special occasion, too.”