Slithers

by Mortensen, WW

  “Get him some water,” Sarah said to Brad, who nodded and ran to the fridge. She repeated her previous question to Ressler, “How do you feel?”

  Ressler steadied his head. “You don’t want to do this.” The words emerged like a low growl.

  Ethan stepped forward. “Why did you pull a gun on us?”

  “You don’t want him in here.”

  “Why?” Rachel said.

  A pause.

  “Why don’t we want him in here?”

  No answer.

  “We know Ganson’s sick. But why is he sick?” Rachel asked. “What happened to him?”

  Brad returned with the water, the bottle’s cap half unscrewed, but Rachel held up a hand, urged him to wait.

  Eyes still closed, Ressler said. “He breathed.”

  Rachel frowned. “Jacob… please, you’re not making sense.”

  “He slithers.”

  “I don’t understand you!”

  “He understands.”

  “Understands what?”

  A pause. “He can hear you.”

  “Who? Ganson?” Rachel said. “Ganson can hear me? Ganson understands me?”

  Another pause, longer this time, then Ressler hissed… “He’s coming.”

  Something thudded against the main window. The pane shuddered, and Tobe jumped. Behind him, someone, maybe Tory, gasped.

  “What in God’s name..?” Scottie said.

  The creature was large, nearly a foot in length. Having alighted on the window, it remained there, gripping the pane. The thing, by all appearances a large, black, beetle, zigzagged higher, its gait stuttered, its thorax dragging with a soft squeal. Spiked, armoured legs clicked rhythmically against the glass, six in total—it was clearly an insect, but of a variety unknown to Tobe. From the underside, no further detail could be determined. Gigantic size notwithstanding, the creature might well have been a regular beetle.

  Midstride, the creature halted, unsheathed two pairs of clear but veined, membranous wings. Each set, wingtip to wingtip, measured over a foot across.

  “Jesus…” Brad said, “Have you ever seen a bug—”

  —The Bug Stops Here—

  “—that big?”

  Tobe recalled the distant buzzing sound he had heard—or sensed—out on the road, the legion of fluttering wings. At the time, he’d decided it was an approaching swarm of locusts.

  Staring at the beetle as it skittered across the glass, Rachel said, “What in God’s name is it?”

  Tobe couldn’t be certain, but a thought, abstract yet inescapable, entered his mind.

  It’s the first drop of an oncoming storm.

  And then the figurative became literal, and the heavens opened up with rain.

  12

  The rain fell hard and fast, hammering the roof.

  For Mountain View—in fact, for the state’s entire south-east—heavy rains were a feature of the summer months, and tonight, the sticky heat had foretold of the storm to come. But the cloudburst’s sudden onset, its fury, startled Tobe.

  Fleeing the downpour, the second and third bugs descended on the window, joining the first. Like their predecessor, they thumped hard against the pane, causing it to shudder. Tobe observed the fourth and fifth in flight, as they emerged from the shadows and into the scant luminescence like dark birds, wings thrumming. They sought refuge on the ground scarcely two feet from Ganson. Out of the wet, they folded their wings.

  For the first time, Tobe saw the creatures from above. The beetles were, for the most part, the colour of shiny onyx, although irregular bands of vibrant orange streaked their hard, shell-like wing casings. Bright colours were a warning to predators.

  In comparison with their tubular bodies, their plated heads were small.

  Tobe saw no pincers or stingers.

  The creatures crawled about randomly, as though probing their environment.

  Tobe searched his experience, seeking an answer as to what they might be, and a memory from childhood surfaced: a huge stick insect in his backyard, mantis-like and almost entirely green in colour. At the time he’d reckoned it a foot tall, although he’d been so small then it might have seemed bigger than it really was. His dad had said it was a Goliath, and totally harmless, but the way it had stalked all jerky and slow across the grass had scared the hell out of him, and had caused the family tabby, Baxter—who had wanted nothing to do with it—to run off and hide under the car. As an adult, Tobe had seen pictures of monstrous Atlas moths with thirty centimetre wingspans, but he’d never heard of a beetle as substantial as this.

  More of the orange-striped creatures emerged from the wet, seeking the dry. Their numbers swelled to maybe a dozen, more likely two. Most were attracted not to the ground but to the window, and indeed, some of them struck the glass as though unaware of its presence. They came faster and harder. Amid the crashing thuds and above the pounding rain, the sound of legs scratching the window grew ever louder.

  Tobe retreated from the glass. Murmurs of concern rippled through the group, most laced with awe, obscenities, or a combination of both.

  “Scottie,” Rachel said. “What’s happening?”

  The bugs kept coming. More thudded into the glass, sounding collectively like a galloping heartbeat. Most fell uninjured to the ground, where they crawled—some onto Ganson.

  “Why don’t they stop?” Rachel said.

  “Lights.”

  At the sound of Ressler’s voice, Tobe spun back to the centre of the room.

  Ressler was staring at him.

  Jesus…

  The whites of Ressler’s eyes had all but disappeared. The sclera, even the iris, it seemed, had resolved to crimson. His eyes were not merely bloodshot; they had transformed, as though the blood vessels inside them had exploded. Ressler’s pupils had constricted, too, reduced to mere pinpricks of shadow centred in twin pools of blood.

  Ressler’s got bleeding on the brain, just as Sarah had feared.

  Tobe wondered if a brain haemorrhage could cause a person’s eyeballs to bleed out.

  Under Ressler’s grisly scrutiny, Tobe couldn’t help but shiver, yet he maintained eye contact.

  “Lights,” Ressler repeated.

  “The lights are hurting his eyes,” Sarah said. “The contracted pupils… he’s concussed. He’s light sensitive.”

  “That’s not what he means!” Tory said. “He’s telling us the lights are attracting the goddamned bugs! Turn them off!”

  Tobe heard this exchange, but ignored it. There was something about the way Ressler looked at him…

  He’s trying to communicate, tell me something. He’s trying to get a message through.

  “Unfinished… business,” Ressler said, “from the road.” He strained with each word, as though waging an internal battle. The effort of keeping his eyes open, of stringing sounds into words and words into coherent sentences seemed to require a tremendous force of will.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Tobe said, desperate to block all distraction, all the white noise. His concentration was focused entirely on Ressler, the line of communication now a private one between the two of them. Even as he tried, outside, more bugs slammed against the window and the fearful chatter of Tobe’s companions increased and the torrential rain fell harder—

  Ressler gritted his teeth and snarled, locked his gaze with Tobe’s. “Don’t you get it?” he growled, the veins in his neck bulging with the effort, “It’s what we’re here for, ain’t it? Unfinished business… from the road. They won’t let us go until we finish it.”

  And with that, the line closed. Ressler’s head dropped to his chest, the last of his reserves spent.

  Tobe snatched the bottle of water from Brad and stepped forward, lifted Ressler’s chin, poured him a mouthful. Most of it died at his lips, dribbled down his chin. “What are you talking about?” Tobe asked. “I don’t understand.”

  And yet he did understand.

  Unfinished business, from the road.

  It coul
d mean only one thing. The accident. Ressler referred to the accident.

  Ressler may not have been the truck driver—and why he had lied about it remained a mystery—but it didn’t matter. Ressler had been in the truck.

  Unfinished business, from the road.

  In Ressler’s opinion, they were meant to have crashed; the van and the truck, head-on. And they hadn’t.

  The convenience store plunged suddenly into darkness.

  Tobe jumped.

  “What the hell?” Rachel said. “What happened to the lights?”

  “I killed them!” Tory yelled from the back. “Those fucking bugs won’t stop hitting the window!”

  “We need to get into that office, now,” Brad said to Tobe.

  “They won’t let them go until they finish it,” Ressler said.

  What? Them? They? Only seconds ago, Ressler had said, “They won’t let us go until we finish it.”

  A finger of ice tickled Tobe’s neck, its chill touch causing the skin to contract and ripple in gooseflesh.

  Oh my god…

  Tobe came to a realisation, and as he did, the weight in his stomach, that heaviness that had coiled in his gut all evening, became so substantial he nearly doubled at the waist.

  Let him in.

  In the instant before Ganson was felled, before his skin had ruptured and his blood had sprayed in a geyser across the glass door, he had spoken a single, odd sentence: “Let him in.” Ganson had referred to himself in the third-person.

  You don’t want him in here.

  Just now, through extreme effort, Ressler had opened a line of communication, a line he had struggled to maintain and which had since closed. Ressler had wanted to deliver Tobe a message, but he’d been fighting something, and Tobe was certain he’d been trying to get that same message through—and fighting that same battle—ever since he’d roused back to consciousness.

  You don’t want him in here.

  Ressler’s repeated warning hadn’t been specifically about Ganson. He wasn’t suggesting they avoid Ganson, because that was implied. Ressler was bolstering his caution, adding to it.

  Like Ganson, Ressler had spoken in the third-person, about himself.

  You don’t want me in here.

  We have to leave…

  Ressler moaned, the sound a low growl, growing in intensity.

  He’s coming.

  Ressler’s coming.

  And with that, Ressler started to writhe.

  13

  Bound to the chair, struggling to break free, Ressler’s moan became the same cry of white-hot agony Ganson had emitted before his grisly eruption.

  Ressler’s infected.

  “We have to leave now!” Tobe shouted. He started for the door, and then stopped. Ganson still blocked the exit.

  As though reading Tobe’s thoughts and warning him against approach, Ganson lifted his head and discharged his own unearthly, ear-piercing bellow.

  What the hell?

  Tobe stood frozen, unsure. In the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah take a step towards Ressler, and turned to her. “No! He’s infected!”

  Sarah halted.

  Ressler continued to bellow; Ganson, too. There seemed to be an odd, back and forth quality about their cries.

  Call and response.

  Ganson wasn’t merely threatening Tobe.

  “Oh my God,” Rachel said. “They’re communicating!”

  Desperately, Tobe cast his gaze about. Not all corners of the convenience store were dark; shallow pools of light, pale and insubstantial, lay in scattered patches. Most of these were clustered at the rear of the store, where the display fridges, edged with fluorescents, spilled a cool, bluish-white glow, bright at the source, but limited in depth. Towards the front of the store, a soft radiance like diffused twilight penetrated the window from the LED-lined gas canopy outside. A moment ago the window had been awash with beetles, but when Tory had killed the internal fluorescents, most of the creatures had dropped away. The filtered light, weakened by distance, resembled a ghostly fog whose serpentine coils slithered amongst the shelves and display racks.

  Stony gloom swallowed the remainder of the store—everything between the window and the fridges, including the cashier’s office. Tobe’s eyes adjusted. Enough light existed to observe Ressler, sitting centrally in the darkness.

  A bang sounded against the staffroom door.

  There was a brief pause, and then another bang, followed by an ominous creaking, as though the timber frame was under duress.

  The organism.

  “It’s breaking free,” Scottie said, and as he did, the entire group fell back, away from the staffroom door.

  “We have to go!” Brad yelled.

  In that instant, Ressler’s body quaked. Jerking, writhing as though gripped by an electric current, Ressler screamed. Parallel razor-lines of red materialized on his exposed skin, resembling the gill slits of a shark. The streaks grew mainly along his forearms and his neck, also his cheeks. Judging by the crimson blooms exploding over Ressler’s clothes, wounds opened over his entire body.

  Sarah stumbled backwards into Brad, one hand over her mouth. Terror rippled through the group.

  Like the appearance of stigmata, Ressler’s cuts widened and lengthened, the skin splitting further and jetting sprays of blood. Ethan was too close; in his haste to sidestep the gush, he fell against a rack of confectionary and caused it to topple.

  Around Ressler’s neckline, the blood spurted high into the air, in a rhythm compatible with his pumping heart. Ressler’s face turned an odd, greenish-purple, the muscles in his neck like thick, corded rope, strained to the point that Tobe feared these too would burst with God knows what result.

  Someone was screaming. Rachel had her hands over her mouth and was sobbing. Brad’s face paled, and Tobe thought he was about to turn and flee in panic.

  “Get to the door!” Scottie shouted.

  The sound of Ressler’s screams, united with those of Ganson and overlayed by the din of the rain and the chaotic cries of his companions confused Tobe. He had to get to the door—he knew that, and took a step in that direction with his hands over his ears. But then Ressler’s wails heightened.

  In multiple regions of Ressler’s body, his skin burst wide in a billowing eruption.

  Blood exploded outwards, travelling several feet in all directions.

  Tobe stumbled back against the CaffMax, sending disposable cups flying.

  The blood… Oh God, did it hit me? The blood… I think it hit me!

  Madly brushing himself, Tobe patted his arms and face and chest as though he was on fire, not seeing any blood—

  Ressler’s screams died with the explosion. Ressler should have died with it, but he didn’t. He was very much alive when from out of his ruptured flesh, something started to emerge.

  Oh Christ…

  Tied to the chair, Ressler struggled, but he was bound to his fate—unable to escape, he was at the mercy of whatever fought to escape him.

  Inside Ressler—beneath his grossly torn and ruptured skin—something writhed. All over his body the flesh undulated, then parted wide. Long cords of tissue, maybe tendons or ligaments, but most likely veins, for that was what they most closely resembled, rose from his wounds, as though animated, or perhaps under the control of an unseen puppeteer and pulled from his body by invisible strings.

  But they weren’t Ressler’s veins, and they moved of their own volition.

  He slithers…

  More screams—they seemed constant now—and Tobe was aware of bodies scrambling to get back, get away. Instead of heading to the door everyone fled in blind panic to the far side of the store, away from Ressler, away from the staffroom, and in the rush and confusion Tobe slipped in a patch of blood and went down, hitting his head on a shelf and seeing stars—

  He looked across the tiled floor.

  In the diffused light, the crimson tendrils slithered from Ressler’s body like an eruption of tapeworms, thin tubular strands of
red—and there were dozens of these strands—sliding snakelike from the riven flesh. Under their own power, they slid towards the ground—

  —get up Tobe, for Christ’s sake you have to get up—

  —and across and outwards from his body, but still connected to it, and if Ressler hadn’t been bound to the chair already, he was now, for the tendrils had enmeshed him in an organic prison, swarming about him—

  The gunshot was loud, even amidst the drumming rain and the buzz of insects and the distressed cries of Tobe’s companions. At first, Tobe thought it had been a crack of thunder, directly above the station, or maybe the staffroom door being blown asunder, but he saw a simultaneous burst of light flare in the corner of his eye, over by the cashier’s office. A muzzle flash.

  Not everyone had fled in the opposite direction.

  Ethan had fired the pistol at the office door; or more specifically, it seemed, at the handle. The second shot blew the handle clear and a well-placed boot rocked the door back on its hinges.

  Tobe strained to focus. The office lay beyond all pools of light. Even this close, Ethan was a wraith, a shadow in the near-dark. But Tobe—rising groggily from the floor—tracked him easily enough, followed the source of light bobbing in his hand. Tobe had the Maglite, so the light was maybe an app on Ethan’s smartphone. The beam cut back and forth.

  Ethan was searching.

  Tobe got to his knees. Movement to his right caused him to turn. Tory had two packs—her own, which she’d hefted onto her shoulder, and Ethan’s, which she half-lifted, half-dragged in the direction of the door. She was herself a shadow, an apparition gliding fast through the pale half-light, past Ressler where unnatural things still grew and waved.

  Dazed, head swimming, Tobe was lucid enough to realise what was happening.

  The keys.

  Inside the office, the light, Ethan’s light, rested, and then jagged back to the door and died, killed by Ethan as he exited the room in silhouette.

  Ethan had gone to the office to search for the keys to the attendant’s car. He and Tory were getting out of here.

  Abandoning them.

  As though reading his mind, Tory turned mid-flight, not pausing exactly, but enough to snag Tobe’s gaze as she fled. Tonight, Tory had been enigmatic at best; she had for the most part tormented him, given him hell. But in the ghostly half-light, her face was sad, remorseful, her eyes apologetic.