Brian Keene - The Conqueror Worms

And more of Carl. His head bobbed in the soup, and I noticed a sucker mark on his cheek—just like the one Kevin had found on his friend Jimmy.

I leaned back against the wall and pushed the door shut on its crooked frame. It wouldn’t close all the way, and I hammered at it feebly, feeling weak and old and small and afraid. I heard the waters below, bubbling and churning and not stopping.

Just like the rain.

Then I closed my eyes and stopped listening.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

That was last night. Now it’s late in the afternoon again, or at least what passes for afternoon these days; that dull, gray haze. I’ve been writing all night long and straight through the morning, cramming words into this little spiral-bound notebook. My busted leg is swelled up like a balloon, and it really doesn’t even look like a leg anymore. I cut my pants open a few minutes ago and what I saw made me queasy. The skin of my thigh is shiny and greasy and stretched like a sausage casing. Like I said earlier, I can’t feel anything below my waist and that’s a blessing.

I keep saying I won’t look down there anymore, but then I do. Morbid curiosity, I guess.

At least there’s no White Fuzz growing on me yet. Of course, maybe that would be a blessing at this point. I still don’t know what it is or how it works, but perhaps it would be quicker than lying here suffering.

I’m dying. Or will be soon, if help doesn’t come. I need a miracle, but those seem to be in short supply these days.

I’m going to die at home—cold, wet, and alone. Not in my bed and surrounded by friends and family, but lying on the floor in a puddle of water. All by myself. Not how I pictured it.

But I finished this, and that’s all that matters. I’m done with my tale, my record. My story. Don’t know if it matters or not. Who’s left to find it? Still, it’s here. I’ll put it someplace safe. Somewhere dry. And maybe, just maybe, someone will find it, and read it, and know that I once lived. They’ll know of Teddy Garnett and what he saw, what he felt and thought, and what kind of man he was. That’s the only kind of immortality we have down here; we live on in the memories of those who come after. The other kind of eternal life, the kind my Rose enjoys, exists on the other side, and is unattainable for those left behind—those left alive. We can’t enjoy it until we die.

With great effort and patience, and several spells of almost blacking out from the pain, I did manage to drag myself over to the kitchen door, so that I could see outside. The carport was still covered in wriggling bodies, but Behemoth’s attack on the house had left the cement outside cracked and broken. The picnic table was knocked over and my Taurus was a crumpled hulk of steel and fiberglass.

Carl’s truck lay on its passenger side and the plump end of a canoe-sized earthworm protruded from the driver’s side window. The tail wagged up and down, like it was waving at me.

I waved back. And then I laughed. It was either that or cry.

My truck is gone, so I guess that Kevin and Sarah got away safely. All that’s left is two tire tracks full of flattened worms. While I watched, the ruts filled back in with rainwater and night crawlers.

I keep listening, hoping to hear the sound of a truck engine coming down the lane, praying for the sound of tires crunching through the wet gravel. But all I hear is the rain.

Where could they be?

According to my calculations, it would have taken Sarah and Kevin an hour to reach Bald Knob, or maybe an hour and a half, depending on the road conditions. Unless the road was completely washed out or covered with fallen trees. But if that were the case, they’d have turned around and come back, wouldn’t they?

Sure they would. Kevin and Sarah were good kids. They wouldn’t abandon us. They wouldn’t leave two old men like Carl and me here to die. Not like this. They knew I was hurt. Hurt bad. They wouldn’t just leave me here. They’d come back. When Carl and I didn’t show up by dawn, they’d have come looking for us.

Which means that something must have happened to them.

Maybe they got caught in a mudslide, or maybe they ran off the road or something. My truck’s got a pretty good four-wheel drive system, but would Kevin and Sarah have known how to operate it? They were city folk, after all. Could be they’re stranded out there somewhere and the truck’s got a busted axle.

Or maybe the worms got them. I hate to consider the possibility, but I’d be a fool not to. Are there more of them out there in the mountains, burrowing through the earth? Other than the one inside Carl’s truck, I haven’t seen any of the big worms. Could be they chased off after Kevin and Sarah. Or maybe Behemoth scared them away.

Or else the worms are up to something. Something that I haven’t yet figured out.

Maybe they’re just waiting for me to fall asleep.

The house keeps sliding downward, creaking and shuddering every few minutes. Every time it sways, I feel like Captain Ahab, clinging to the mast of my ship. But instead of a white whale, I fought a white worm.

If I have to—if the house starts to cave in completely, I can roll myself out onto what’s left of the carport. But I’ll wait until the very last moment before I do that. I don’t want to lie among those worms.

I’m scared.

I’m afraid of what they might tell me. Would they crawl into my ears and burrow through my brain, whispering their secrets to me the way they did to Earl? What would they have to say? Would they teach me of their legends? Would they tell me what lies at the center of the earth, at the heart of the labyrinth?

Would they preach to me about their earthworm gods?

The water is starting to seep out from under the basement door now, and it’s still pouring through the holes in the roof. There’s about six inches on the floor and it keeps rising. Won’t take long for the house to flood completely.

My lower half is wet, but I’m not going to look. Can’t really feel the wetness anyway, so why does it matter?

I wonder if heaven is warm and dry. I sure hope so.

I couldn’t find my crossword puzzle book, but I found Rose’s Bible amid the wreckage, and I’ve been reading it off and on, in between writing in this notebook and falling asleep and gritting my teeth from the sheer pain. I opened the Bible, seeking some comfort, and I read about the Great Flood. I read about how, after the waters had settled, God sent a dove back to Noah on the ark. The dove had an olive branch in its mouth, and that was a good sign. A sign from God, telling Noah that the rains were over and the waters were receding. Then Noah knew that he could come out onto dry land again.

That was the first Bible story I ever heard and it was always one of my favorites. I always believed it and I’d like to believe it now. But I can’t. God help me, for the first time in my eighty-plus years on this planet, I just can’t.

So I’m lying here, waiting. Waiting to see what happens next. That’s how this ends, because that’s life. Our stories, our real-life tales, seldom have a perfect ending. Things go on, even after we’re gone, and when we die, we don’t get to see what happens next.

There’s nothing left to say. This is the end of my tale.

I’m waiting for Kevin and Sarah to come back and rescue me.

Or I’m waiting to be reunited with Rose again. I’m waiting to die.

Whichever happens first.

But most of all, I’m waiting for the rain to stop and for the clouds to part and the sun to shine again.

I saw something earlier. It wasn’t a worm or a monster or a deer with white fungus growing on it.

It was a crow. First bird I’ve seen since the robin—a big, blue-black crow with beady eyes and a sharp, pointed beak, its feathers wet and slick with rain. It perched on the fallen picnic table, swooped down onto the carport, plucked up an earthworm from the cracked cement, and gobbled it down like a strand of spaghetti. Then it flew back up to the table and sat, watching me through the door and the holes in the wall.