The Creepers

by Dixon, Norman

  “See that shit, Bobby boy?” Ryan laughed roughly in his pubescent-strained voice.

  “I see it.”

  He’d never, not in a million winters, not ever, never ever, thought he would see the Tenenbaum Schoolhouse up close. The reality of it, looming in the fading light made him sick to his stomach. Bobby remembered the lesson well, and he could recall vividly the images, sounds, and smells his imagination conjured up during those long winter nights. Back during the First War, before the Creepers’ final wave broke and filled the Valley with death, the Tenenbaum Schoolhouse served as one of the original safe havens in the greater Boulder area. The basement had been converted into a field hospital, while the upper floors provided sound defensive positions. In the middle floors, several hundred brave Colorado souls prayed for an end to the madness, rally round the family. Once Denver fell, their prayers were answered, only not in the manner they had hoped.

  It was during the summer of the big rains, he remembered now from the lesson. With Denver overwhelmed, supplies were cut off, and the Tenenbaum Brave were all alone: a couple hundred rifles, a couple thousand rounds of ammunition, and a couple weeks supply of food and water. The sky was dark with fat angry clouds and the echo of thunderclaps rattled the valley. Out of the fog, the Creepers launched their attack, but launch wasn’t exactly right. They’d gathered again: a mass of hungry, mindless undead, seeking food.

  The soaked terrain was like a sea of muck and mud. Nearly passable for a human, but for the Creepers it should have been unthinkable—downright impossible. They simply did not possess the demanding motor skills necessary to traverse the slippery slopes of the valley. And at first this proved true. Bobby remembered listening to the recordings from the Tenenbaum Brave. They were laughing, laughing their asses off at the bumbling Creepers. Bobby and his classmates, too, laughed along with them. Then the laughing stopped and the gunfire started.

  From what they could gather from the tapes, the Creepers broke the wall of fog and descended upon the Schoolhouse in light numbers. But an hour into the siege they were coming by the thousands. The muddy ground no longer mattered as wave after wave of Creepers shuffled on the backs of those that came before. Bobby could see the scene clear as day in his mind’s eye. The valley floor was alive with moaning, flailing arms and legs and mouths. The Creepers kept coming like ants locked onto the scent of a picnic. They filed into the valley, absorbing the loss from terrain and gunshots alike, and they kept coming.

  The recordings dragged on for hours. Those hours, which started with laughter and the crude jokes of rough men and women, drifted into the strict orders of battle: precise shots, exploding powder, triumphant cheers. But it did not last. The last hour of the tapes always haunted Bobby. Shattering glass, splintering wood, awful screams, terrible cries, the scattered bursts of the Braves’ last stand. But worst of all were the children’s pleas. Once the Creepers dismantled the defenses, and fed on those ill-fated souls, it didn’t take them long to start in on the children’s rooms.

  The children of the Tenenbaum Brave begged for mercy, cried for their mommies and daddies. The Creepers didn’t hear them, didn’t care . . . they only sought living flesh, sustenance, and they found it in those children. They broke the room’s outer wall like the shell on a succulent Alaskan Snow Crab. There were hours of tape, of moans, and wet, crunchy sounds. Bobby knew because he and the other boys were forced to listen to every bite until the Creepers moans faded. The stunned silence of that classroom, so far removed now, but the horror of that rainy summer day lay just under their feet, and in front of their eyes. Bobby and Ryan stood on a field of dead, human and Creeper, covered with years of lush growth. The Tenenbaum Schoolhouse loomed in the sunset, a memorial, a tombstone, the final resting place of heroes in their eyes.

  “Long rest far from the Creepers breast,” Bobby spat a good one into the tall grass, a sign of deep respect.

  “Long rest far from the Creepers breast." Ryan did the same.

  “Bobby boy, you’ll never believe what I found inside. You ready?”

  It was wrong to disrespect the dead. The Folks hammered it home in one of the First War Commandments: Thou shalt not desecrate the places of the fallen. No one knew the price paid for breaking the commandment, no one dared ask.

  “But, Ryan, the—”

  “Yeah, yeah the third one . . . I know." Ryan took the binoculars from his eyes, leaving two red rings and put them back in the rucksack. “Do you believe everything the Folks tell you?”

  Bobby was afraid of what might happen, but at the same time he didn’t want to look like a wuss. “No." He kicked at the grass, carefully avoiding Ryan’s searching eyes. They both knew the Folks hated them, and their brothers, but the Settlement was home—their only home. A low moan drew his eyes further from Ryan’s look. What he thought were animals down in the fields—were not animals at all.

  They were Creepers.

  Bobby drew the revolver and cocked the hammer. His heart raced but he settled into action like a robot. Arms steady, aim true, Bobby homed in on the nearest Creeper. An old woman, well before the Fection got a hold of her. Now she was in advanced decay. Her purple evening gown, stained with scarlet blood and dirty brown mud, hung from her drooping shoulders like a drape adorning the window of an abandoned home. The gown was torn down the front, perhaps grabbed by one of her victims in a last ditch effort for survival, exposing her udder-like breasts, swollen gray nipples pointing straight to hell.

  Bobby held his breath, eased his finger down on the trigger, but before he could fire Ryan grabbed his wrist.

  “It’s okay, Bobby. Besides, she’s a good fifty, sixty yards away. If you’re even lucky enough to hit a headshot at this distance, you’d ruin all the fun.”

  Bobby lowered the gun. “I could hit her clean." His mouth went dry and everything he knew told him it was a bad idea, but the look on Ryan’s face, mischievous, fierce, and hopeful . . . the look reassured him. He put the hammer back in its resting place and slid the revolver into his waistband. The old woman fell on the rocks at the base of the bluff.

  “Come on you old hag! Come and get me laaaa-ragggh!" Ryan put his arms out like one of them. He rolled his head to the side and laughed at the Creeper, as it broke brittle bones on the cold stone trying to get at them. “Stupid Creeper.”

  “Ryan, the sun’s almost down. It’ll be dark in less than an hour, gotta head back.”

  “Patience, Bobby boy, relax. Less than an hour is plenty of time.” Ryan dug into his rucksack and removed a small black box. He held it high over his head. “See this, Bobby boy, this little gadget cost me a week’s latrine duty.”

  Ryan held the box in one hand and opened a tiny door in the middle with a flick of his finger. At the center of the box were several lights and buttons and a switch. “This, Bobby boy, is my gift to you for being a good brother.”

  “Shut up, Ryan, what is it?”

  “I’m serious, Bobby, who else would help me on the tests? Who else would listen to my crazy stories? So brother, Bobby, brother o’ mine, this is my gift to you. This little do-daddy is a Ferreck detonator. It says so on the bottom of the box." Ryan tapped the box with a fingernail and flicked the switch. The box emitted a sharp tweet followed by a low hum.

  “Ryan, what did you just do?”

  “I turned it on, jacky-jackass." Ryan licked his lips. It was one of his tell-tale signs for mischief.

  Bobby looked over the edge of the bluff. The woman still clawed at the rocks. Her efforts were drawing the other Creepers closer. There were about ten of them, and maybe more in the taller brush. Bobby didn’t like the odds. Even though they were armed and had the high vantage point, they were still very much exposed. It was careless to be out this far, this late, in such a small group.

  “They’re coming closer, Ryan." The humming of the box made him tense. “Do you even know how that thing works?”

  Ryan clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “You’re like a girl sometimes, Bobby. Yes, I
know how it works. While you were out throwing rocks over the barrier I was reading.”

  The moans were loud and clear now as the Creepers gathered at the foot of the bluff.

  “One of them is going to figure out how to get around, Ryan.”

  “Easy, Bobby boy, that’s part of the plan . . . see any stragglers?”

  Bobby searched the field but it appeared that all of the Creepers in the vicinity were gathered below them. “No, looks clear.”

  “Caught these guys feeding off deer when I first came out. The deer get caught in the mud when it rains and well, you know the rest, Bobby. Today we get some payback. We’re gonna blow up some Creepers.”

  Bobby’s unease lifted a little. It always felt good to strike back at the Creepers. Though, as long as humans existed, the Creepers numbers would never diminish no matter how many were taken out. Still, it was one of the few satisfactions left to humanity.

  “You ready?”

  Bobby shifted on his feet. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Okay, okay, move back a bit. I don’t know how big this boom is gonna be, Bobby boy. We gun’ fry us some Creeper ass, yee-haw,” Ryan said doing his best Ol’ Randy impersonation. He had a knack for capturing a voice.

  Bobby backed up, stifling a laugh.

  Ryan placed the box on the ground and knelt down in front of it. He rubbed his hands together, smiled. He had been planning this one for a long time. The explosives planted at the bottom of the bluff cost him several cracks from Pastor Craven’s hand and almost a month’s worth of latrine duty, but he deemed it all well worth it. He pressed the button on top of the remote detonator.

  “Bo—”

  The explosion sent birds scattering from the trees, and the air grew hot, a massive wall of dirt, blood and smoke shot into the sky. The ground rippled and knocked the boys flat on their backs. Chunks of Creeper twirled in the air.

  Bobby stared into the sky then covered his face as the body parts rained down.

  As the rolling echoes of the blast faded from the valley, a new sound emerged: Ryan’s laughter, gut shaking, balls out laughter, and it was infectious. Bobby couldn’t hold back. He joined in, unable to control the cackles that tickled his belly.

  Bobby’s entire body tingled with excitement. He was elated, much like countless boys throwing fireworks on hot summer nights in a world without the horrors of the First War. But Ryan’s display was ridiculous. The part of the bluff they stood on only moments ago was gone, evaporated in the blast. Bits of dirt drifted on the stiff breeze. The cloud towered over them a deep, dark orange and purple beast in the sun’s last gasps. Night was not far off. They’d be toiling in the shit trenches for sure this time . . . maybe worse.

  “Bo-Bo-Bobby! Get it off! Get it off me!" Ryan’s laughter turned to screams, terror-filled cries of pain.

  Bobby jumped up and turned. The remnants of the old woman lay on Ryan. Her purple dress was gone, blown away in the blast. All that remained was her upper half, a ragged mess of guts, skin and muscle tissue trailed behind her like slime behind a snail. Her hair smoked and parts of her scalp were still burning from the heat of the explosion. The Creeper opened its charred mouth wide and bit down on Ryan’s forearm. What few teeth the old woman had left made quick work of Ryan’s skin, slid into the muscle tissue, found bone. She pulled her head back and swallowed like a shark gulping down a seal. Ryan’s blood splattered her face, steamy and hot.

  Bobby reached for the revolver, found nothing. He panicked. The Creeper came in for another bite.

  Ryan did not cry because tears were the Devil’s work and weakness would not be tolerated. Ryan fought back with one good arm jammed under the Creeper’s jaw. The gnarled fingers knocked the hat from Ryan’s head. He growled in its face, the youthfulness gone, replaced with that of a much older adult with many winters under his belt. But his strength waned and his arm slipped.

  Bobby charged. He lowered his shoulder and crashed into the old woman. They tumbled off Ryan, the vibrant youth and the rotting meat. Bobby felt the old woman’s clammy face brush his exposed stomach, a sharp sting. Flailing wildly, he managed to force the Creeper away. The haggard face released a blood curdling moan. Drops of Ryan’s blood and thick, slimy saliva rolled down its chin. Its dark eyes stared at something Bobby could not see, could not understand. Its head rocked back.

  The report from Ryan’s rifle silenced the old woman forever. Her brains glistened in the last rays of the sun.

  Bobby looked at Ryan. The black-haired youth was propped on his injured arm but he held the carbine steady in the other. Sweat, blood and dirt streaked his face.

  Bobby’s heart raced. He checked his stomach and pulled his windbreaker down. He’d been bitten, too.

  CHAPTER 3

  The field dressing was the best Bobby could manage with their meager supplies. He hoped he’d been quick enough to cut off the blood flow with his shoelace, but he wasn’t sure.

  “It’s numb, and itchy,” Ryan said. He held up his swollen limb all blue and black for Bobby’s approval. “This’ll be a scar to flaunt,” Ryan kidded, shaking his head.

  “It’ll be okay." He spoke carefully, trying everything in his power to keep the despair from his voice.

  “No, it won’t. She bit me, Bobby. The bitch-bastard-Creeper bit me. I’m done. Done . . .” Ryan punched the ground in anger rather than giving in to grief with tears.

  The moon poked its gleaming white face in between the rolling clouds. Night had fallen. Other than the unreliable moon, the only light offered them came from a small flashlight. Beyond a few feet, darkness conquered all. Somewhere in that impenetrable blackness, the Creepers lurked. The sound of the explosion surely drew their attention.

  Bobby couldn’t answer Ryan; couldn’t face him. He was dead already. No shoelace, no matter how big, would be able to cut off the Fection on a stomach wound. The Fection would come quick. Ryan, however, had a slim chance, but miles away from the Settlement, and no adequate medical equipment, amputation would bring death quicker, much quicker. But Bobby knew it would be a cleaner, sinless death. This wasn’t the First War though, and they were far from soldiers—even with their extensive training.

  It was discovered, in the early stages of the First War, that if caught quick enough, the Fection could be stopped with amputation. No one knows the name of the first soldier to have the balls to cut off his own arm. But once the word spread, it became mandatory for every soldier to carry a machete or a blade of equal size capable of cutting through bone quickly. If they were bitten on a limb and couldn’t do it themselves, the man next to them was expected to step up and do it for them. Bobby’s balls weren’t that big . . . they didn’t even have hair on them yet.

  He remembered the stories told in the Settlement schoolhouse. The Folks talked of a place deep in the South of Texas called the Alamo, where great men fought to the last, long before the world went mad. They used that ancient battle as a comparison to the battle of Newark in the First War.

  Maps and photos of towering glass buildings filled his head. The U.S Army took full control of the city of Newark, New Jersey early in the war. The residents had long since left for the death traps of the Turnpike and Parkway to flee the flood of Creepers moving on the city. The Army lifted the bridges crossing the dirty Passaic River in an attempt to slow the thousands of walking dead converging on their position. The sludge coursing through the river was almost as foul the Creepers themselves… almost.

  The Army’s perimeter was well fortified and their supplies were well stocked. Their machine guns tore into the Creepers. The bodies of the dead fell into the river and drifted away in great numbers. But they kept coming, relentless, like a swarm of wasps drawn to the scent of a fallen drone. The currents of the polluted river kept the Creepers at bay, and those that made it across, awash in the dirty brown water, were defeated by the steel retaining walls. Some, though, made it to the banks, but they were cut down and kicked right back into the filth.

  Eventually
the Creepers caught on and adapted to the situation as more and more of their number arrived. It was rumored they were ten thousand deep and for every Creeper killed another three filled that void. They formed chains, rotting hand in rotting hand, making ropes of dead flesh, drifting in the current like bait on a fisherman’s hook. They reached the bridges and piled onto the massive steel framework. The Army reduced the bridges to slag with their artillery but the Creepers kept coming. They attached themselves to the molten steel, searing flesh, but they felt no pain. After weeks of shelling, rockets, and airstrikes from attack helicopters, the Army had exhausted their supply of propelled death. But the Creepers would not be denied.

  On the other side of the city, the Army conceded their border and pulled back as the Creepers crashed the razor wire and barriers. The siege of Newark was nearing its end. The majority of the soldiers made their last stand in the building on 1180 Raymond Street, the tallest building in the entire city. As the Creepers drove further into the city, the Army took many hits. The number of bitten soldiers was catastrophic. They used the elevators to transport the wounded to a field hospital near the roof.

  Medical helicopters transported the wounded out of the city, but as another week drifted away so, too, did the medical evacuations. They were all alone and losing ground day by day. The limbs were piled six feet high on the roofs, but even in the face of death the newly limbless fought hard, raining fire on the growing hordes from the windows.

  Shortly after losing the lower levels of the building, all radio contact with the outside went dark. New York had fallen. There would be no reinforcements. It was then, faced with the inevitability of death and worse, the soldiers resorted to insane tactics. They used the rotting limbs of the wounded to buy time. Tears in their eyes, the soldiers threw the limbs onto the streets below. In their hearts they knew it was a futile effort at best, but if it bought them just a few hours of precious life then it was worth it. The Creepers’ hunger is an endless thing, and the limbs, mere snacks to them. Like so many strongholds of humanity, Newark was laid to waste, bolstering the ranks of the army of the dead.