by Brian Keene
THE CONQUEROR WORMS
* * *
BRIAN KEENE
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
A Living Nightmare
Out of breath and panicking, I ran around the side of the building and slid to a halt. The thing that had been underneath the shed was definitely not an oversized groundhog. It had crawled back outside, reopening the tunnel beside the woodpile. Half of it jutted from the hole, thrashing in pain. Stinking fluid sprayed from the knife wounds in its side.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was a worm. A giant earthworm, the size of a big dog—like a German Shepherd or Saint Bernard—but much longer. It undulated back and forth in the mud and grass, covering the ground with slime. Watery brown blood pulsed from the gash in its hide.
More of its length pushed out of the hole, and the creature whipped toward me like an out-of-control fire hose. The worm’s tip (what I guess must have been its head, though I couldn’t see any eyes) hung in the air in front of me, only an arm’s reach away. Then the flesh split, revealing a toothless maw. It convulsed again, and then that horrible, yawning mouth shot toward me. Shrieking, I stumbled backward to the shed door. The worm followed…
For my grandparents,
Ward and Anna Ruth Crowley,
because part of this is their story.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Excerpt
Dedication
Author’s Note
PART I: The Early Worm Gets the Bird
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
PART II: Upon us all a Little Rain Must Fall
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
PART III: The Worm Turns
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgments
Praise
Other Leisure Books by Brian Keene:
Copyright
Author’s Note
Although Renick, Lewisburg, Baltimore, White Sulphur Springs, and many of the other places mentioned in this novel are real, I have taken certain fictional liberties with them. So if you live there, don’t look for your house. The forecast calls for rain.
PART I
THE EARLY WORM GETS THE BIRD
There were giants in the earth in those days…
—Genesis
Chapter 6, Verse 4
CHAPTER ONE
It was raining on the morning that the earthworms invaded my carport. The rain was something that I’d expected. The worms were a surprise, and what came after them was pure hell, plain and simple. But the rain—that was normal. It was just another rainy day.
Day Forty-one, in fact.
My name is Teddy Garnett, and I guess I should tell you right now, before we go any further, that I’m no writer. I’m educated, sure, and a lot more than most of the good old boys in this part of West Virginia. I never made it past grade school because my father needed my brothers and me to help him with the farm. But what I didn’t learn in grade school, I picked up during my thirty-five years as a radioman in the Air Force. That’s pretty easy to do when you’ve been stationed everywhere from Guam to Germany. Seeing the world gives you knowledge—the kind of knowledge you just can’t get in a classroom. During World War Two, and in the years that followed, I saw most of the world. And I always loved to read, so between my travels and my books, I’ve learned everything I ever needed to know.
I can read and write and multiply and discuss in German, French and even a little bit of Italian, the ramifications of Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil and the poetry of Stephen Crane. Not that there’s anybody around these parts to discuss Nietzsche or Crane with—even before the rain started. If you mentioned Nietzsche in Punkin’ Center, folks would think you’d sneezed and offer you a tissue. And poetry? Shoot. Poetry was just something they’d heard tell of, but had never actually experienced for themselves. Kind of like visiting Egypt or Iraq or some other faraway land. Not that most of our residents could have found either one of those places on a map. When it came to current events, if it hadn’t happened here in our county, or maybe over in towns like Beckley or White Sulphur Springs, then it didn’t matter. Most folks in these parts didn’t know about Vietnam or Iraq until their sons and daughters got sent there to die, and even then, they couldn’t find them on a map.
I’m not trying to sound smug, but I was smarter than most folks around here, probably because I’d seen the world beyond the mountains and hollows of this great state. But I never once let it go to my head, not even after my eightieth birthday, which is when a person is allowed to sound like a wise old man. I never bragged, never belittled someone less smart than me. Some nights, after my wife died and before the rain started, I’d go down to the Ponderosa in neighboring Renick, or the American Legion over in Frankford, and beat Otis Whitt’s boy Ernie at chess (Ernie Whitt was the only other one in Punkin’ Center or Renick that could play). Or I’d explain current events to my neighbors, or write letters to the paper and try to put things into perspective for folks.
But writing books and stories? No sir. I’d always left that up to Mark Twain, Zane Grey, Jack London, and Louis L’Amour—the four greatest writers of all time.
I’m not a writer, but I can tell you it must be a tough business. I’m doing this by hand, here in the dark—cramming words into this little spiral notebook, and my arthritis is acting up something fierce. I’ve been lying here on my side, gripping this pen for the past couple of hours and now my fingers have blisters on them and my hand is twisted up like some kind of deformed claw. I don’t know if it’s the dampness in the air or just the act of writing itself that’s doing it, but it hurts. It hurts really bad.
So why waste time writing about how much it hurts me to write? Because I’ve got to get this done. Because it’s important for you to know what happened. It might save your life, should you ever find this.
I’m just glad that everything below my waist has gone numb, so I don’t have to deal with that pain anymore. I looked down there once, at my legs.
And I haven’t looked since.
I am afraid. I can feel something sharp inside me, grating and rubbing up against a soft part. There’s no pain, but there is a strange, queasy sensation. I don’t know what it is, but I certainly don’t imagine it’s anything good. My stomach has a big purple and red splotch on it, and it’s spreading.
I’m still coughing up blood. I can feel it in the back of my throat, and my mouth tastes horrible.
For what’s easily the thousandth time since the rain started, I find myself wishing that the electricity were still on. Then I could go down into the basement and write this properly, on the old word processor my grandson and his wife gave me after they bought their computer. It sat down there on a little particleboard desk I got at the Wal-Mart in Lewisburg.
But the power isn’t on, and it’s never coming back. It went off the same day the chubby weatherman on the Today Show shot himself live on national television in the middle of a forecast. One minute, he was joking around with that pretty anchorwoman with the nice smile and vacant eyes who’s always after people to get their prostate checked, and a moment later his brains were splattered all over that big map of the United States behind him. Seems like years ago, but it really hasn’t been that long. Apparently, he’d been getting death threats.
Death threats. All because of the damn weather…
He got off easy. Those poor folks at the Weather Channel never had a ch
ance. Fellow drove a box truck loaded with explosives right up to the building and blew it all up. They never did catch the people behind it, but I guess that doesn’t really matter now. Maybe there wasn’t anybody masterminding it at all. Maybe the suicide bomber was just fed up with the weather reports. Today—a one hundred percent chance of rain. Tonight, rain continues. Tomorrow? More of the same.
Even if the power was still on, I couldn’t go down into the basement. Not now. Not after what happened. The desk and the word processor and everything else in the basement are gone now. The only things in the basement are bodies, floating around in the darkness, along with the remains of that—thing. Once in a while, I hear its carcass bumping into what’s left of the stairs. I’m sure the water level is getting higher, too. Pretty soon, it will start seeping under the door, and I don’t know what I’ll do then. I can’t go outside.
Who am I kidding? I can’t even move my legs, so why worry about going outside?
There’s an old generator out on the back porch, but I don’t think it works. I haven’t used it since the blizzard back in 2001. Even if it did still work, I’d have to go down into the basement to hook it up to the power box, and then go outside to start it. And like I just told you, I can’t do either of those things.
So I’m lying here in a puddle, wishing I had electricity, but what I really want is a dip. My last can of Skoal was empty on Day Thirty. I had to lick the shreds of tobacco off the lid just to get any at all. I’ve been sweating through nicotine withdrawal ever since. A chew would set things right. Wouldn’t matter what kind at this point: Skoal, Kodiak, Copenhagen, Hawken—maybe even a cigarette or a cigar (though I never much cared for smoking) or some leaf like Mail Pouch. Just a little bit of nicotine would be finer than my wife’s blueberry pie right about now. And her blueberry pie was mighty fine. Mighty fine indeed.
Maybe you’re wondering how an old man like me, an old man who’s injured, is finding the strength and energy to write something like this down. Well let me tell you—I’m doing it to take my mind off the nicotine cravings.
I’ve lived through a lot in my eighty-odd years. I survived a rattlesnake bite when I was seven, the smallpox when I was nine, and a thirty-foot tumble out of a big oak tree when I was twelve. I made it through the Great Depression with a half-full belly. I fought in World War Two. Lied about my age and went to boot camp when I was fourteen. A few months later, I was over in Europe, right after the invasion at Normandy. After that, I got sent to the Pacific as well. I couldn’t tell you the number of bombing runs I participated in. I killed other people’s sons in the war and never thought twice about it. I made it back home, only to have Vietnam claim a son of my own in return. I always figured that was God’s way of making things equal. I’ve watched the baby boomer politicians and the ex-hippie Wall Street tycoons destroy what my generation worked so hard to build. We gave them a nice country, and they destroyed it with their greed and their lobbyists and their Internet-capable cappuccino bars and their rap music. I’ve seen my good friends get old and die. Most of them are gone now, except for Carl. One by one, they’ve succumbed to Alzheimer’s, cancer, loneliness, and just plain old age. Like a Ford or a Chevy, eventually our parts wear out, no matter how well we’re built. A few years ago, I watched Washington’s World War Two Memorial dedication ceremony on television and was shocked by how few of us are actually left. Felt like a mule had kicked me in the stomach. On top of everything else, I’ve outlived my wife, Rose. Let me tell you, that’s something no husband should ever have to go through. It may sound selfish, but I wish that I’d gone before her. Rose’s death was just about more than I could bear.
But despite these trials and tribulations, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to suffer through was sitting here listening to the constant patter of big, fat raindrops beating against the windows and the roof, hearing it non-stop, all day and all night, without a pinch of tobacco between my false teeth and my gums for comfort.
My apologies. I’m an old man, and look here what I’ve done. I’ve gone and gotten off track. I started out writing about Day Forty-one, and then I went on a tangent, ranting about my life story and the damn weather.
Of course, I reckon this is the end of my life story. And I suppose that somewhere deep down inside, I’ve known that since my trip to Renick.
Renick. That was on Day Thirty. Maybe I should start there instead.
Oh Lord, do I need some nicotine! This must be how those heroin junkies feel. I never understood how these young people could get hooked on dope, but of course, I was hooked on a drug, too. Only difference is mine was legal. I miss it. Didn’t know how bad I’d come to rely on it until it was gone.
It was that same insistent craving that woke me up on Day Thirty. My body was pleading with me, promising that if I’d just give it a dip, it would make the headaches, insomnia, toothaches (because even when you wear false teeth, you can still get phantom toothaches), sore throat, chest pains, diarrhea, night sweats, and bad dreams go away. I knew that was a lie. Those things didn’t just come with nicotine withdrawal. They came with old age, as well.
I don’t know that a nicotine fix could have done much about the nightmares, anyway. I dreamed of Rose at least once a week after she was gone. It was also that way when my boy, Doug, died in Vietnam, though it passed with the years. As terrible as it sounds, there are times now when I have to stare at his picture just to remember what he really looked like. I can’t remember how his voice sounded anymore, either. I guess that’s all a result of old age. But it didn’t matter, anyhow. Even if the nicotine could have chased the dreams away, the closest place to buy a can of chew was at the Ponderosa gas station over in Renick.
Renick is the next town after Punkin’ Center. It was a forty-five minute drive down the side of the mountain on a wet and slippery road. I’d avoided making the trip ever since the rain started. But on Day Thirty, caught in the grip of some really nasty nicotine withdrawal symptoms, I walked out into the downpour. It took me a whole minute to reach my Ford pickup truck (I haven’t driven the Taurus since Rose died), and I was soaked to the bone by the time I got inside. I dried my glasses off with a napkin from the glove compartment. Then I fumbled with my keys, crossed my fingers, said a prayer, and started it. The truck came to life, sputtering and coughing and not at all happy about the situation, but running just the same. I checked the gauge and saw that I had three quarters of a tank left. That would get me to town and back.
Most of the stones in our gravel lane had been washed away by then, leaving only mud and ruts. Even after I put the transmission into four-wheel drive, the tires churned and spun. I didn’t think I’d make it out to the main road, but eventually I did.
Sighing with relief, I started down the mountain road to Renick. I experimented with the radio, hoping to hear another voice or even some music, but there was only static. I’d wondered for several weeks what was going on, ever since the power and the phone lines went out. It had been some time since I’d heard someone else speaking, and I was lonely. I’d taken to wandering around the house and talking to myself just to ease the emptiness, and I was sick of the sound of my own voice. Even one of the talk-show nuts that seemed to have taken over the radio these days would have been welcome. Instead, the only sounds keeping me company other than the radio’s static were the rain and the windshield wipers, both beating a steady rhythm as I drove.
I knew that if Rose were still alive, she’d tell me how bullheaded I was being. A stubborn old man, doing something stupid—all because he was addicted to tobacco. But here’s the thing about that. When you get to be old, when you’re what they call elderly, you lose control of everything. Everything around you isn’t yours anymore. Your world, your body, and sometimes even your mind. That makes you stubborn about the things you can still control.
Maybe it sounds cliché, but my heart was in my throat for most of the drive. In the years before the rain, when winter came to visit and the snow piled high, Rose and I didn’t go to Reni
ck. For people our age, the winding one-lane road was treacherous even in the best conditions. But after thirty days of rain, it was a nightmare, worse than the harshest West Virginia blizzard.
One side of the mountain road used to be nothing but cornfields and pastures. The other side was a steep drop down a forested mountainside, with only a steel guardrail as a buffer. Now, the rain had flooded the fields and pastures, washing away not only the crops and grass but the topsoil as well. Streams of brown water gushed down the mountain and huge gray rocks jutted up from the mud like uncovered dinosaur bones. Uprooted trees lay scattered across the road, and I had to drive on the sides to get around them. The biggest, an old oak, completely blocked my way.
I spotted the tree as I rounded the corner. I slammed on the brakes, and the truck fishtailed, sliding towards the guardrail. Shouting, I gripped the wheel and did what Rose would have done—chastised myself for being a stubborn, stupid, bullheaded old man. The truck spun. The front bumper slammed into the tree, and the rear crumpled the guardrail. I closed my eyes, holding my breath and waiting for the truck to topple over the side. My heart pounded, and I felt a stab of pain in my chest. This was a stupid way to die, and I expected Rose would be waiting on the other side, shaking her head the way she used to when she thought I was doing something foolish. But I didn’t crash through the guardrail and roll down the mountainside. Instead, the truck stalled out on me. I opened my eyes to find myself looking back in the direction I came.
I clutched my chest, trying to get my breathing under control. My pills were back at the house. If I had a heart attack out here, nobody would be around to help me. I imagined I could hear Rose scolding me from on high.
“I know,” I said out loud. “You told me so, dear. I’m just being foolish.”
Eventually, the pains in my chest disappeared. I got out of the truck to check on the damage, praying I didn’t have a flat tire. The damage wasn’t bad; just some dents and scraped paint. If I’d been going any faster, it would have been a lot worse. I was pretty sure the truck would start again, and was actually glad it didn’t have airbags, since a deployed one would have made it impossible to drive back home. I was a realist. At my age, there was no way I’d be able to walk back up the mountain in the rain. I’d be dead before I made it two miles.