Brian Keene: The Conqueror Worms

It was slow going, partly because of the weather, mostly because of my age; but I reached the edge of the forest and stepped into the trees. Under the leafy canopy, the vegetation was in better shape; the trees protected it from the constantly battering downpour. The rain beat at the treetops and dripped down on me. Wet leaves and pine needles stuck to my boots, and I went extra slow so I wouldn’t slip. It wouldn’t do to lie out here in the woods with a broken hip.

A few of the trees had been uprooted, but most still stood firm, their roots desperately clinging to the spongy ground. I noticed several of them had a strange white fungus growing on their trunks like the stuff I’d seen growing on the robin earlier. It wasn’t moss, at least not any kind I had ever seen growing on a tree. It looked more like mold, hairy and fuzzy and somehow unhealthy, sinister even.

Sinister, I thought. How can a fungus be sinister, Teddy? This nicotine withdrawal is eating away at what’s left of your mind. You’re losing it, old man. First you imagine that you saw a worm eat a bird, and now you think the moss is an evil life form bent on taking over the planet, like in a science fiction movie.

There was more of it on the forest floor, clinging to rocks, fallen logs, vines, and even the dead leaves and needles covering the ground. I was careful not to step in any of it.

Despite the havoc the weather was playing with the vegetation, I found plenty of teaberry plants growing up through the leaves on the forest floor. I knelt down to pick some, avoiding any that had that same odd fungus growing on them. As I collected the leaves, a twig snapped. City folks would have noticed that right away, but when you’ve spent as much time in the woods as I have, you don’t pay attention to every little sound the forest makes. You’ve heard it all before and know how to separate something odd and out of place from the rest of the forest’s symphony.

It wasn’t until there was a succession of snaps behind me that I turned. And stared.

My breath caught in my throat and the bottom of my stomach fell away.

A deer stood watching me from about twenty feet away; a spike buck, probably two or three years old. Water dripped from his antlers. He showed no fear or hunger, only curiosity. He looked half-starved, and his ribs showed through his wet, slick hide. But that wasn’t why I gawked at him.

The buck’s legs were covered with the same white fuzz that was on the trees. The stuff was spreading in patches along his belly and up onto his chest. It looked like it had fused with the deer’s body, eating through fur and flesh.

Stunned, I rocked slightly backward on the balls of my feet, and like a rifle shot, the deer leaped over a log and sped away, churning up leaves and twigs. As he fled, I noticed that his hind end was covered with the mold as well. Revolted, I hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the ground. Then I made sure that I didn’t have any of the fungus on my skin or clothes.

I dropped the teaberry leaves back onto the ground. Whatever the fungus was, if it could spread from plant to animal, then I could probably get it from chewing the leaves in place of tobacco. I couldn’t be sure they weren’t already infected, so I scrapped the entire idea and slowly started home.

Behind me, from somewhere inside the fog, I heard another twig break. I paid it no mind, figuring it was just the buck again. But then I heard something else that definitely wasn’t a deer. A hissing noise, like the wind whistling through a partially open car window. I wheeled around and peered into the swirling mist, but there was nothing there.

Just the wind, I thought. Just the wind, whistling through the trees.

Then the wind crashed through the underbrush, sounding like a herd of trampling elephants.

After that, I hurried back to the house. At first the noise hurtled after me, but then it failed again. The memory of what happened to the robin dogged my every step. Occasionally, I stopped and listened, trying to determine if whatever was making the noise was following me. It was hard to hear it above the drumming rainfall. Something stirred beyond my line of site, but I never saw what it was—just a brown flash. At one point, I thought I felt the ground move, but I chalked it up to my imagination.

If I only knew then what I know now…

Back inside the house, I took off my wet clothes and collapsed into my easy chair. Just walking down to the woods and back had tired me out. Used to be I walked those valleys and ridges from before dawn until sundown, hunting and fishing andjust enjoying the outdoors. But those days were gone, vanished with the sunlight.

Exhausted and lulled by the soft sound of the rain, I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the chair. I dreamed about Rose’s blueberry pie.

The rain never slowed. While I slept, the wind had increased, and I woke up to the sound of a strong gust battering the side of the house. It was like the raindrops were being shot from the barrel of a machine gun. Reminded me of the war, in a way. It sounded like a hailstorm outside. I got up, looked out the big picture window, and couldn’t see more than a foot away from the house. The rain was coming down so hard now that it was like looking through a granite wall.

The wind blew the rain away from the house for a brief moment. I stared into the downpour; then I jumped back from the window.

Movement.

Something had moved out there. Something big. Bigger than the thing I’d seen earlier. And it had been close to the house. Between the clothesline and the shed.

Cautiously, I peeked outside again. There was nothing there. I chalked it up to old man jitters. Probably just a deer or even a shadow from a cloud.

I reminded myself there couldn’t be a shadow since there wasn’t any sunlight, and then I promptly told myself to shut up. Myself agreed with me. Myself then told myself that I was just a little skittish over what I’d seen happen to the bird earlier, or what I thought I’d seen. Add to that the white fungus growing on the deer and the trees, and the fact that I still didn’t have any dip, and I was bound to be a mite jumpy.

I sat back down and returned to the crossword puzzle book.

Three letter word for peccadillo, with an “i” in the middle…Three letter word…“i”…

“Oh, the hell with it!”

Exasperated, I threw the crossword puzzle book down and picked up Rose’s Bible instead. It was worn and tattered and held together with yellowed scraps of Scotch tape. It had been her mother’s and her grand-mother’s before that. I read it each day, taking ten minutes for a devotional. Like waking up at five in the morning, it was another one of life’s habits I couldn’t change, not that I’d have dared. Even with Rose gone, I knew that if I skipped a Bible lesson, I’d feel her watching me reproachfully for the rest of the day. I had no doubt in my mind she checked up on me from her place in Heaven. I opened the Bible. Reading it was like being with her again. Rose’s handwriting filled the book, places where she’d marked passages with a highlighter and jotted notes for the Bible study group she’d led every Wednesday night at the church.

A pink construction paper bookmark proclaiming For Mr. Garnett in a child’s crayon scrawl (a gift from the Renick Presbyterian Sunday School class) marked where I left off the day before, the Book of Job, chapter fourteen, verse eleven.

I read aloud, seeking the comfort of my own voice, but it sounded frail and hollow.

“As the waters fall from the sea, and the flood decays and dries up, so man lies down and rises no more. The waters wear the stones—”

Something crashed outside, and I bolted upright in the chair, yelping in surprise. I waited for it to repeat, but there was only the sound of the rain. Eventually, I stood up, the last words of the section flashing by my eyes as I shut the Bible.