Brian Keene: The Conqueror Worms

— the things which grow out of the dust of the earth and destroy the hope of man.

When I looked out the kitchen window, all thoughts of the good book vanished from my mind. I yelled, shaking now not with fear, but with rage.

The rain’s pace had slackened somewhat and visibility had returned. The woodpile, previously stacked in an orderly fashion next to the shed, had collapsed. Split logs were scattered throughout my swampy backyard. It had taken me a full day to stack it, and I’d nearly worn myself out doing so. Now, kindling spilled out from beneath the blue plastic tarp I used to keep the wood dry. The tarp flapped in the wind, threatening to blow away. The mist swirled.

The firewood was already soaked. That didn’t bother me much. I couldn’t use the fireplace as long as it was raining anyway. I was more worried about the kerosene. I’d had two fifty-five gallon drums of the stuff also underneath the tarp, sitting on a concrete slab between the shed and the woodpile. I hadn’t been able to get them into the shed by myself, and there was nobody to help me move them. The tarp had seemed to be the next best thing. Now, one drum lay on its side in the mud, almost swallowed up by the fog, and the other one leaned at a precarious angle.

From where I stood, I couldn’t make out the cause of the destruction. I assumed it was the wind. Even if the worm was real, it couldn’t have done this. Could it? It didn’t matter. I had to get out there and fix it. Winter was coming, and without the kerosene, I might as well prepare to face my maker or swallow a bullet like the disc jockey.

I opened the hall closet, shrugged into my raincoat, and, with more difficulty than I like to admit, laced up my boots. My fingers were swollen from arthritis that morning, and it was all I could do to wrap them around the doorknob and turn it.

Before I could walk out onto the carport, a sheet of rain blew in through the open door, pelting my face with cold, fat drops. The wind lashed at me. Careful not to slip, I stepped onto the front stoop, my foot hovering above the concrete.

Then the carport moved.

As my foot froze in a half step, it happened again.

The concrete slab quivered just inches beneath my boot heel.

Then I noticed the stench, an electric mixture of ozone, rotting fish, and mud. That earthy aroma hung thick in the air, congealing underneath the carport’s roof. It was the smell of a spring morning after a rain shower. The scent of earthworms on a wet sidewalk.

The carport writhed again and then I understood. It was covered with worms, the concrete hidden beneath a writhing, coiling mass of elongated bodies. Small brown fishing worms and plump, reddish night crawlers. They came in various lengths, the largest as thick as a man’s thumb. It gave me a jolt, for sure. I imagined trying to bait a trout or a catfish line with one of those things, and shuddered. I damn near slammed the door.

The worms were everywhere. Literally. The carport was attached to the side of the house, and the concrete slab was big enough for the truck and the Taurus, plus an old red picnic table with chipped paint that had seen better years. The Taurus was out in the yard, covered by a plastic sheet and buried to the bumpers in mud, but the table and my banged up truck looked like islands, lost amidst a churning sea of wriggling bodies. They lay three inches thick in places, twisting and sliding through one another. Groping, glistening, blinded, slithering…

Worms.

It was the rain, of course. The rain had driven them topside, just like it always did during a storm. Only this time, every earthworm in a two-mile radius seemed to have discovered that my carport was the only dry spot left in all of Pocahontas County.

My breath fogged the air in front of me and my fingers were already growing cold. I stood there, half in and half out of the house. I couldn’t take my eyes off the worms. I probably would have stood there all day, gaping at the night crawlers with one foot hovering in the air, if I hadn’t heard the motor in the distance. The tortured sputter of a knocking rod announced Carl Seaton’s beat-to-shit, piss-yellow ’79 Dodge pickup long before it crested the hill and appeared at the end of the lane, emerging from a cloud of mist.

He careened up the driveway, tires squelching in the sodden ground while the windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm. The truck slid to a stop. Carl’s homely, pasty face stared out of the rain-streaked windows.

I stood there in the doorway, and my heart sang. Not only was there somebody else left, it just happened to be my best friend.

The engine didn’t so much quit as choke to death. Blue smoke belched from the rusty tailpipe, vanishing into the damp air. Carl rolled down the driver’s side window and appraised the situation, staring at my carport in disgust. His nose was a red-veined bulb, and his eyes looked bloodshot.

“Howdy, Teddy,” he shouted over the patter of the rain.

“Morning, Carl.”

“Boy, am I glad to see you! Figured you’d moved on by now. Gone to dryer parts with them National Guard boys.”

“Nope, I’m still here. They wanted me to leave, but I told them I was staying.”

“Me, too.” He nodded at the worms. “Looks like you’re fixing to do some fishing.”

“Just tending to my herd. I’m getting too old to raise cattle. Thought maybe I’d give worms a try instead.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “it’s pretty odd.”

He couldn’t take his eyes from the wriggling mass between us. “You think it has something to do with the weather?”

“Reckon so. My theory is that the rain’s forcing them topside.”

Carl had always had a gift for stating the obvious. In mid-July, when the temperature soared to ninety-nine degrees and the fields turned brown, Carl greeted customers to his combination post office and feed store with, “Boy, it sure is hot out there, ain’t it?”

Now he said, “Boy, that sure is a lot of worms.”

I cleared my throat and changed the subject to something more pressing. “Don’t suppose you’d have a dip on you now, would you, Carl? Or maybe some Mail Pouch or a cigarette or cigar?”

His big moon face turned sympathetic. “I sure don’t, Teddy. You out of Skoal?”

Like I said, Carl had a knack for summing things up.

“Yep,” I answered. “Ran out a few weeks back. Got me a craving for some nicotine. I’d kill for a dip right now.”

“I heard that. Wish I could help you out, Teddy. Been hankering for some caffeine myself. I run out of coffee a few days back.”

“Well, come on in.” I held the screen door open. “I’ve still got plenty of coffee left. It’s the freeze-dried stuff, but you’re welcome to have some.”

His face lit up at the news of hot coffee. He climbed out of the cab and splashed through the puddles towards the carport. Water dripped from his nose and chin. Then he skidded to a stop, looking at the worms.

“I ain’t wading through that god-awful mess. Hang on a second.”

He ran around to the back of the truck and opened the tailgate. Carl had a camper topper, so the bed itself was dry. He reached inside and pulled out a broom, holding it up like a triumphant deer hunter would hold his rifle.

“I reckon this’ll work.”

“Carl Seaton, the mighty worm slayer,” I quipped. “See that really long one over there, by the picnic table? Maybe you could mount it on your wall, right next to the black bear and twenty-four-point buck.”

Ignoring my ribbing, he cleared a path toward the door. The sluggish worms were scooped more than they were swept. The straw bristles speared some and squashed even more. Half worms, severed in the middle but still alive, squirmed and thrashed in his wake. By the time Carl reached my door, he was a bit paler than normal. But his face had a broad grin as he shook my hand. His palms were wet and cold.