The Conqueror Worms

cause the next one is gonna burn!”

Behemoth hissed in response.

“Don’t miss,” I coughed.

“You ever known me to miss?”

“Plenty of times.”

He snickered, and then we both laughed. It hurt me to do so, but there was no helping it.

“You’re a good man, Teddy Garnett.”

“You too, Carl Seaton. You too.”

“Bombs away!” Carl turned back to the stairs, raised the kerosene heater up to chest level, and then flung it down the stairs, just as another tremor shook the house. He lost his balance and grabbed for the door frame, but the oven mitts on his hands slipped off the wood. Carl teetered on the edge, and then, with a quick, startled yelp, he was gone.

It happened that quickly.

One moment he was there. The next he was gone, tumbling down after the kerosene heater.

He didn’t even scream.

“Carl? Carl!”

I scrambled to the edge of the stairs, ignoring the pain in my body. There was no sign of the heater. Or Carl. And Behemoth’s mouth was closed, swallowing. Its entire body quivered.

Carl was gone. My best friend in the whole world—my only friend left in the world—was gone. He hadn’t died at home in his bed, surrounded by loved ones and friends, or peacefully in his sleep, or even in a faraway veteran’s hospital. He’d died inside this creature’s stomach.

I closed my eyes.

And then the worm turned.

And screamed…

Bullets may not have hurt it, but a blazing hot kerosene heater upended down its throat sure as heck did. The blast of air that barreled out of the monster’s throat slammed into me with enough force to ruffle my wet hair, and then swept throughout the remains of the kitchen. My ears popped from the unexpected force of it. The air stank of fishy ammonia and burning flesh, and I could hear the creature’s throat sizzling. Behemoth squalled again, retching as the burning kerosene went to work deep within its bowels. The worm’s body twisted, racked with earthshaking convulsions as it retreated back down the tunnel, leaving an empty, gaping hole in its place. Chunks of concrete and dirt flowed into the vacant space.

Then the house fell silent. I could hear the clock ticking in the living room (amazingly, it had survived the shaking), and the rain pouring in through the damaged roof and pattering across the tiles and broken furniture.

I hugged myself, shivering in the cold, damp air, and wished to die.

The next sound was impossible to describe, and there’s just no way I can do it justice. A massive, concussive belch thundered up from far below. It was followed by a rushing noise as dark, dank water spouted up the tunnel and flooded into what remained of my basement. It stank—a sour, spoiled reek that turned my stomach. I gagged and turned my face away. The black liquid rushed halfway up the staircase before slowing, and when I looked back I gagged again, vomiting blood. There were things floating in that digestive stew —a half-eaten deer carcass, the hindquarters of a black bear, a car tire and license plate, soda pop bottles, building timbers, masonry and bricks, the skeletal remains of a human arm, and a plastic trash can.

And the kerosene heater.

And Carl.

Then pieces of the worm itself started to float up: shredded, blackened hunks of pale, blubbery flesh.

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