Slithers

by Mortensen, WW

  Scottie said nothing. He was remembering.

  “I knew exactly where to look, exactly where to find her, and so did you. There hadn’t been a blood trail. But she was dead, Scottie. I got to her first, and she was dead.”

  Scottie’s eyes glistened, and Tobe realised his friend was on the verge of tears.

  “And then you pushed past me,” Tobe said quietly, “and you picked her up, before I had a chance to, and I turned away and was too upset to look and I don’t know how much time passed but then you turned… and she wasn’t dead, Scottie. She was alive.”

  “She was always alive, Tobe.”

  “That’s what I told myself,” Tobe said. “That’s what I told myself then.”

  A moment passed and there was silence between them. More bugs thumped against the window pane, and the rain swelled louder.

  “How did you do it, Scottie?”

  There was no response. Tobe waited for one, but none came, and he suspected the answer lay beyond Scottie’s grasp, too.

  He wants to understand, just like me. Scottie’s waking, too.

  Behind the lenses of his glasses, Scottie’s eyes seemed to lose focus. It looked as though he was about to drift inward.

  Wanting him to stay, not wanting to lose him, not now, Tobe abandoned his previous question and pulled him back. “That day, you won a few brownie points with Charlotte.”

  Scottie blinked. “Hey? What?”

  “Rescuing her cat like that,” Tobe said. “You had a serious crush on her.”

  Back in the moment, Scottie smiled thoughtfully. “You had a serious crush on her sister, Becky.”

  “What?” Tobe said. “She was ten years older than me, and had long since moved out of home.”

  “But you liked her.”

  Tobe shrugged. “The whole cat thing wouldn’t have won me any points. Becky wasn’t an animal lover.”

  “She liked them okay. She wasn’t used to them, is all. What she didn’t like was creepy crawlies.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. Poor girl.”

  Tobe said, “I miss those days, Scottie. When we were kids.”

  “Me too.”

  “We’ll be okay, won’t we?”

  “We’ll be okay, Tobe.”

  Tobe looked around the room. “You’re going to have one hell of a human interest piece for work on Monday.”

  “I’m thinking of taking Monday off,” Scottie said.

  They shared a chuckle. The sound echoed in the quiet of the room and died. A moment later, Scottie straightened and looked towards the hall.

  “What’s wrong?” Tobe said.

  “Rachel’s been gone too long.”

  Shit! He was right. She should have been back by now.

  Tobe stood. “Check Sarah’s room first.”

  The beams of their flashlights led the way, jolting up and down as Tobe and Scottie ran the length of the darkened hall to the first floor bedrooms. Teesh’s room, the room into which Sarah had gone for some well-needed rest, was empty. The bedsheets were messed, pulled back.

  Rachel and Sarah were nowhere to be seen.

  Tobe’s heart skipped a beat. Neither he, nor Scottie, dared call out. “Scottie, check the bathroom, and the kitchen. I’ll check upstairs.”

  They separated. Tobe backtracked. A timber staircase off the entry hall provided access to the second floor. Tobe took it two steps at a time.

  He heard the heavy sliding sound the moment he reached the top.

  The loft! Christ, how could he be so stupid? He’d forgotten there was a loft up here, in the ceiling space above the breakout area. He’d missed it earlier, when he and Rachel had searched the house.

  Something was up in the loft, moving about.

  Something heavy. Very heavy.

  As it slid, tiny motes of dust, or perhaps minute flecks of paint, dislodged in breath-like puffs from the plasterboard ceiling and fell to the floor.

  The plasterboard groaned under the weight.

  The air was thick with a coppery, mildewy scent.

  Inches above his head, a rope hung from a trap door in the ceiling. Earlier, in the dark, he’d missed it. If pulled, the loft door would spring open and drop a hinged, concertina ladder.

  He knew what else would drop through the opening should he release the door. He had no desire to do so.

  Neither Rachel nor Sarah was in the loft.

  Only the organism.

  He pictured it up there in the dark, where its many, tentacle-like hyphae slithered, searching. He wondered if the organism—separate from and yet connected with that part of itself that had infested the service station—had the ability to think, if it could remember, or if it was driven only by those two basic impulses: to feed, and to propagate.

  He sensed it had grown large up there in the dark. The plasterboard could support its weight only for so long before the hyphae would come crashing through like a tangle of giant, bloated snakes, into the house proper, where, room by room, they would slither and search.

  For now, Tobe did the searching. He hurriedly checked the master bedroom and bathroom. Finding both deserted, he ran back down the stairs.

  23

  Scottie’s body was sprawled on the kitchen floor, beside the kitchen table.

  Oh God…

  “Scottie!”

  What the hell had happened? Tobe ran to his best friend, fell to his knees. As he did, Scottie’s inert form moved. At first, it was only a single limb, his left leg, jerking out, and then his right followed, and his arms started to shake. The twitching grew more violent.

  He was having a seizure.

  He’s disconnected.

  Yes, but this time, it was different… dramatically so. Tobe kicked the kitchen chairs away, made room. Scottie had never before had a fit, never dropped to the ground like this and writhed and convulsed and shuddered.

  Scottie’s tremors prevented Tobe from cradling his friend. “Wakey-wakey!” he said, but the words sounded weak, even to him. This time, the usual remedy had no power.

  What do I do?

  Nothing, Tobe told himself. Let it happen. Give him space. He’ll be alright.

  “Scottie!” He felt helpless.

  He knows what he’s doing.

  The jerking eased, resolved to a terrible shaking, as though Scottie was desperately cold, but he couldn’t be—he was feverish and drenched in sweat. Scottie’s glasses sat askew on his face, and behind them, his closed eyes twitched and fluttered, as if he were in the grip of a disturbing dream.

  “I see you,” Scottie said.

  “Scottie… Scoop! I’m here! Can you hear me? Who do you see? What do you need me to do?”

  Scottie’s head thudded against the tile floor. Tobe whipped a dish towel from the rack, folded it twice and placed it under Scottie’s head.

  “Two… there are two… the lights… I see the lights… I see you…”

  “Wake up, Scoop!”

  Leave him, Tobe thought.

  I can’t leave him.

  “The shed… go… Sarah… Rachel…”

  The shed? The Henderson’s had a large, barn-style shed down behind the pool area. Uncle David used it for storage. It doubled as his workshop. Did Scottie mean—

  “Go Tobe! Now!”

  The strength of those words propelled Tobe to his feet and pushed him forward as though they had physical, explosive force. Suddenly Tobe was at the bi-fold doors leading to the rear patio, unaware he’d even crossed the floor, let alone exited the kitchen.

  His memory of the next few moments was sketchy. He heard a voice, his voice, calling to Scottie, telling him he’d be back for him. Before he knew it he had pushed through the doors and had launched himself into the blanket of beetles that heaved across the rear deck. He crunched through them, kicking and flailing, repulsed and yet oblivious, slipping and sliding and fighting for purchase in the stinking innards, his shoes making sucking noises as they pulled up, coated in sticky strands.

  He leapt from the deck and r
an, hunkered, into the rain, to the gate on the opposing side of the patio to the one he and Rachel had earlier passed through. Around his head, more beetles hovered and swooped, buzzing his ears. He crouched beneath the onslaught, realising that despite appearances, none of the creatures were coming directly for him. It was as though he was invisible.

  He hurled the gate open. Down the flagstone path and through the warm, oily rain he ran, moving less by sight than memory, less by memory than instinct. Halfway along the path, still amidst the cloud of insects, he turned to look back at the house, and baulked.

  From out here, looking back, the size of the swarm was more apparent. Like a throbbing beard of bees, bugs crawled all over the house, along the eaves and the roofline and across the windows, including the bi-fold doors through which he’d just exited. The house rippled as though alive. Although he had travelled no more than a handful of metres, the Henderson home now seemed a world away, no longer a place of refuge and safety.

  Exposed and vulnerable in the eye of the swarm, battered by rain, Tobe had nowhere to turn other than to the place Scottie had urged him to go, to the place where Sarah and Rachel, it seemed, would be: the shed at the end of the path.

  And when he turned his attention to it, he saw through the building’s windows, through the rain, lights shining brightly.

  24

  The barn-style shed stood next to the path. At the end of the flagstones, a side-door granted access to the structure. This door was unlocked and with a gentle push, opened inward.

  Tobe realised his mistake the moment he stepped beyond the threshold. The pain was sharp. Hot and stinging, the way he imagined the bite of a snake might feel.

  He hadn’t been bitten by a snake.

  The sting quickly subsided, no more than a lightning-bolt of pain that abruptly morphed into a numbing tingle across his lower back, around his kidneys. Warmth bloomed and spread from the spot, spreading down his buttocks and legs. For a moment he thought he had lost control of his bladder, but the coppery scent was of blood, and as he dropped to his knees, he realised he had been stabbed.

  Tobe’s vision blurred and then swam back. In the well-lit space, on the other side of the room, he glimpsed a pegboard of woodworking tools, a lumber rack laden with lengths of timber, and various shelves and drawers. Once more the world retreated, as though he viewed it through a film of water, and the next time clarity returned he saw a neatly organised workbench with a vice at one end and a lathe and a bandsaw at the other.

  Beneath the smell of his own blood, he intuited the pleasant fragrance of freshly-cut pine, but couldn’t tell if the scent was real or merely a suggestion.

  “How did you… find us?” he said to Ethan, whom he knew to be behind him.

  “How could I not?” Ethan said directly into Tobe’s ear. He was close, his breath warm. “It’s only us here, Tobe. We’re tied to each other. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, doesn’t it?” He laughed in his peculiar, cough-like way. “Hell, I bet that wound is making you all warm and fuzzy, too, hey? You dropped your guard, Tobe.”

  Tobe wanted to lie down, but instead remained on his knees. When he tried to turn to face his attacker, Ethan grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, as though ensuring he faced away.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Tobe, it was always meant to go this way. Fate, destiny… you can’t fight it.”

  Darkness pooled at the edge of Tobe’s vision, but he rallied. He had to stay awake. “What have you done with Sarah and Rachel?”

  Ethan was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was lower, his voice now at a whisper. “That little Asian bitch had it coming,” he hissed. “Some med student she turned out to be. I needed her, but she fucked everything up. So I set things right.”

  Bile rose in Tobe’s throat. His eyes teared. “What have you done, Ethan?”

  “You know, it was strange. For a while, I thought we’d gotten away. But then came the red mist, and Tory… well, I guess she breathed it in. I didn’t realise that at first. So I kept driving, but then no matter how far we went, no matter what direction, whatever random road—we ended up here, at the entrance to the driveway. What the fuck, man? That’s some weird shit. So then I just stopped driving. I stopped resisting.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I stopped, because I remembered what Ressler said. Do you remember?”

  “No, I don’t, Ethan.”

  “Try harder, Tobe.”

  “I don’t remember!”

  “Geez, don’t get all antsy. Let me help you out.” Ethan leaned closer, his breath now hotter than ever against Tobe’s ear, his voice no more than a whisper. “He said they won’t let us go until we finish it.”

  Tobe remembered. “Who are they?”

  “I saw them. I saw them, Tobe. They showed themselves.”

  “What are you talking about, Ethan? Who showed themselves?”

  “There can only be two, Tobe. Your little mate knows that… he saw the lights, too. When I stopped resisting, when I allowed them in, they showed themselves. And then I realised what I had to do, and why I was here, at the driveway.”

  Again, Tobe’s vision swam, and he wavered. Even though Ethan held him in place, he willed himself to stay upright. “Ethan, where’s Sarah? Where is Rachel?”

  “I climbed straight in through the window, you know. It’s easy to break into a house when you know what you’re doing. You dropped your guard, Tobe, but you’re not to blame. You were meant to drop your guard.”

  A sense of understanding, of resignation, swept over Tobe. It had never been about Ressler, had it?

  “It was you all along,” Tobe said. “We had unfinished business… right?”

  “Damn straight. And now, we’re done.” Ethan leaned even closer to Tobe’s ear and whispered, “I realised I had a job to do, Tobe—I had to stop you from getting back. Nothing personal, just… business.”

  A loud crack boomed inside Tobe’s head, followed by an explosion of dull pain. As his vision dissolved into starry streaks, the world tilted. Something hard hit the side of his face, and he felt sawdust beneath his cheek. He must have spun with the impact, back to the door through which he had entered, because across the floor he caught an image of boots heading into the rain, down the path towards the house.

  His last thought was of Scottie, alone and helpless in the kitchen, and then Tobe knew no more.

  25

  A tickle against the side of his face, not the side pressed against the sawdust, but the other one, facing up.

  Get up, Tobe.

  Scottie?

  Tobe opened his eyes. Stretching from the shallow pool of light thrown from the shed, the flagstone path disappeared into the gloom. Rain pounded upon it.

  Beetles crawled across it in a surging blanket.

  Tobe swatted at the bug that had crawled upon his face, pushing it from his cheek. It landed in the sawdust and scurried away.

  Scottie…

  Groaning, he forced himself to his knees. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? Hopefully no more than a few seconds.

  Stand up, Tobe.

  His head throbbed. His body tingled. He was cold. He shivered so hard his muscles ached, threatened to seize. He looked about, noticed a huge amount of blood in the sawdust. How much exactly, he preferred not to estimate. He was bleeding to death, and didn’t have much time.

  He stood.

  Get back to the house, Tobe.

  “Scottie? How—”

  At the threshold, Tobe stopped, turned.

  On the far side of the workshop, another door lay ajar. Uncle David had divided the shed into two areas; this side for his woodworking, the other, to house his truck.

  From that room he heard a noise. Shuffling.

  Sarah? Rachel?

  Hunched, staggering, he crossed the workshop, peeked through the opening.

  No truck, but another car. A two-door, white Honda coupé.

  Both doors were open.

  Uprig
ht in the passenger seat sat Tory.

  Tobe halted. Tory’s blood was splattered across the car’s interior, the windows awash with crimson.

  From multiple rends in Tory’s skin, threadlike hyphae had exploded, just as they had from Ganson and Ressler. Some of the tendrils had claimed Tory’s body in serpentine coils. Others waved in the air like seaweed in a strong current, or slithered across the floor of the garage.

  Some crawled over the car.

  This was the vehicle from the service station, the car in which Ethan and Tory had fled. Clearly, Tory had been infected.

  Red mist…

  According to Ethan, they’d encountered some kind of red mist. Tory had breathed it in.

  Ethan must have realised she was sick and before the hyphae had exploded, had come here seeking Sarah’s help. He’d brought the car inside, sheltered from the rain.

  There was nothing Sarah could have done.

  Tobe glanced about. Sarah wasn’t here. Neither was Rachel.

  Once more, Tobe ran his gaze over Tory’s bloody, torn body. A pang of empathy, of sadness, stung him, but there was nothing he could do—she was dead, and he had no time to waste. He started to turn, to head back to the house, when Tory’s eyes flicked open.

  Tobe stumbled against the door jamb. Jesus!

  Like Ganson and Ressler, Tory was still alive.

  She regarded him, unblinking. The lustre of those remarkable eyes—tonight, so often predatory—had been extinguished; they were now the blood-filled eyes not of a hunter, but of prey. Yet he could sense that she was fighting, trying to be brave, trying to give him a message, just like Ressler had.

  Trying to do the right thing.

  “Ethan… he killed her…”

  Sarah. She referred to Sarah.

  Tobe’s knees weakened at the news and unsteady, he stumbled again, nearly fell over.

  The crimson hyphae seemed to interpret this movement as a threat. As though protecting its prize, several tendrils squeezed and contracted like a python constricting its prey. As they tightened, Tory’s body jittered and Tobe thought he heard bones crack and pop. More blood jetted from her body. Tory grimaced, yet she was likely beyond real pain.