Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

“The bag looked a little too… soft… heavy and bulky for just a bottle of whiskey and some coffee mugs.”

Sarah picked up her coffee mug and wiped the mud off it. When she looked at Kevin again, he was grinning at her. It was a sad, haunted expression, and when he spoke again, his voice echoed of resignation.

“I know what you’re up to, Sarah. I know what you’re planning.”

“Kevin, I don’t—”

“You’re going to get me drunk, knock me out, and then amputate my arm. Right?”

She paused, unsure of what to say next. How did he really know what she was planning? Was Kevin merely guessing? And if he had indeed guessed her intentions, why was he reacting so calmly? If the situation had been reversed, Sarah knew that she’d be fighting and screaming.

“Give me another refill,” Kevin said. “Hell, if you’re not going to drink any, just pass me the entire bottle.”

Without a word, Sarah leaned close to the doorway and sat the whiskey bottle down in front of him. She caught a faint whiff of mildew—not from the shed, but from Kevin himself. He smelled musty and damp, like clothing that had been left in a flooded basement. After she leaned back, Kevin picked up the bottle with his fungus-covered hand and tipped it to his mouth. He drank long and deep, gasping and grimacing when he’d finished. The liquor glistened on his lips.

“God, that feels good. It’s all warm in my belly, you know? I’m kind of surprised, though.”

“About what?”

“I figured the fuzz wouldn’t like alcohol. Figured I’d pay for drinking that. It can do that—reward and punish. It wants water. The more water it gets, the quicker it can liquefy me.”

Sarah gasped. “Liquefy you?”

“Yeah.”

“But, we saw dozens of infected people back in Baltimore, and Teddy said that he’d seen a deer with it, as well. None of them liquefied.”

“How do we know? We weren’t there to see their ends, were we? Every time somebody infected rowed up alongside the Marriott, Juan, Mike, Lee and the others sent them away so that the rest of us wouldn’t get it.”

“But how do you know that’s what the fuzz is doing to you?”

Kevin shook his head. “I can’t explain it. I just know. Maybe it’s some kind of weird symbiosis. Maybe me and the fungus share a consciousness now. It certainly feels that way, at least. This shit isn’t just mold. It’s intelligent. It has thoughts of its own.”

“Maybe that’s just some sort of hallucinogenic side-effect.”

“I don’t think so. Trust me. You’re not inside my head. But the white fuzz is. All I know is that it wants to liquefy me, and it needs water to finish the job. Water helps it break my body down chemically. Food halts that effect. I tried eating a little last night, and it made me so sick, I thought I’d die right here on the floor of the shed. When I don’t do what it wants, the fuzz hurts me. It’s like little jolts of electricity in each of my nerve endings. Only thing that makes it stop is if I go stand out in the rain, or drink some water. This shit itches, too. It’s taking everything I can do right now not to scratch myself until I fucking bleed. Every time I try to scratch, the fungus releases something into my bloodstream. I don’t know what. Maybe a sedative or something, because it makes me sleepy. Anyway, bottoms up!”

He winked at her, and then took another long swig from the bottle.

“Kevin, are you Kevin right now?”

Kevin snorted, spraying whiskey from his mouth. Sarah flinched, inching away so that the droplets wouldn’t splatter on her. Then she looked him in the eye.

“What are you talking about, Sarah? I’m still me. Just a little uglier is all. Good thing Lori can’t see me now, huh?”

“Your speech has changed,” Sarah said, trying to keep her tone calm. “Your Baltimore accent is gone, and for the last few minutes, you haven’t said ‘soft’. You were saying it so much before that you sounded like a broken record.”

Kevin took another sip and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m more in control again. Maybe the alcohol makes it go dormant or something. If so, that’s bad news for my liver, because I’ll be the biggest fucking alcoholic left on the planet.”

Sarah did not laugh with him. Instead, she blinked back tears and stared at the mud between them. When Kevin noticed her silence, he followed her gaze to their feet. Both of them paused.

While they’d been talking, the white fuzz growing on Kevin’s arm had sent a pale, tendril-like root from his wrist to the floor, and then out through the open doorway. The appendage was no thicker than an electrical extension cord. The tip had burrowed into the sodden ground. Tiny feelers, as fine as Sarah’s hair, had sprouted from the root and were slowly inching their way toward her. Sarah watched them with a strange sense of calm. They reminded her of the worms. She tightened her grip on the pistol.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Kevin reached out with his free hand, grabbed the root just below his elbow, and pulled. It stretched, but held fast. Gritting his teeth, he tugged harder, ripping the tendril away. Patches of his skin and hair came with it. Kevin threw back his head and screamed. He dropped the dismembered growth into the mud. Blood poured from his wound, but Sarah noticed that it was thin.

Watery.

“Oh fuck,” Kevin wailed. “Oh fuck me running, that fucking hurts!”

Sarah stood up, clutching the pistol in one hand. “Hang on. I’ve got gauze in the bag.”

“Gauze? What good is gauze, Sarah? A fucking bandage isn’t going to do shit.”

Sarah glanced down at the tendril. The feelers had stopped moving. It lay there in the mud, lifeless—or waiting. Slowly, she took a few steps backward and relaxed her grip on the handgun. She switched the weapon to her other hand and flexed her fingers. Her hand had cramped. In the doorway, Kevin gasped and thrashed, obviously in pain.

“Did you know it was trying to do that?” she asked.

“No. Hell, no! I told you, it’s got a mind of its own.” He paused, covered his mouth and coughed. When he took his hand away, his palm and lips were crimson.

“You’re spitting up blood.”

“I don’t think the fuzz likes whiskey very much. Oh, fuck this hurts!”

Sarah’s heart broke at the pain in her friend’s voice. With one hand, she brushed rain and tears from her eyes.

“You’ve got to do it,” Kevin pleaded. “I’m gonna chug this fucking bottle, and lets hope like hell that it knocks me out. If it doesn’t, then do it anyway.”

“Kevin—”

“Promise me, Sarah.”

She stared at him.

“Promise me… soft!”

Slowly, Sarah nodded. “Okay, I promise.”

“You got a belt or something to tie me off with so I don’t bleed to death? Because that would be a real bitch if you cut off the fuzz and then I died anyway.”

She nodded again. “I brought everything—disinfectant, a tourniquet, a way to cauterize it. I read up on it in the medical book the forest rangers had up there.”

“Damn, you did think of everything. Ah, fuck—it’s like knives in my gut. And in my… soft… head. Okay. Jesus, I’m scared now. I wonder what it will be like, when I wake up?”

Sarah looked away, pretending to search the tree line for any lurking worms. She bit her lip so hard that it bled. If Kevin noticed, he gave no indication.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” he said. “Having one arm. At least I’ll still be alive, right? That’s more than you can say for ninety-eight percent of the rest of the world’s population. Okay, let’s do this before I chicken out, or before the fuzz tries to stop us.”

“Okay,” Sara agreed. “And Kevin?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”