The Creepers (Book 1)

by Norman Dixon

  Remnants of houses skirted the mountain’s base, but the natural formations were slowly reclaiming what was rightfully theirs, with one exception: the patchwork series of railroad tracks bending around the mountain and into the distance like the belt of an earthen god.

  Bobby wanted to run right to the tracks, however, experience dictated caution. He studied the open areas for movement. He listened for anything that would alert him to danger, and he also listened within—for them. Since leaving Ecky he’d encountered only wildlife, a few birds, raccoons, and deer. But the dead, if they were out there at all, remained silent. He waited for hours, watching the empty windows of the houses, watching the road, until, at last, he was satisfied nothing would spring on him. Slowly, Bobby advanced on the tracks.

  Where were the other survivors? Where was Ol’ Randy? Had he missed the train altogether? The questions pestered him like buzzing mosquitoes, causing him to swat the stinging doubt with optimism. However, the closer he got to the ghost town the further away hope seemed to be. Just as he was about to collapse and give in he heard it. Low at first, like thunder booming in a far off storm.

  Chug-chug-pppssssshhh, a sound of slow effort, but it wasn’t the only thing he heard.

  In the back of his mind, vibrating at the base of his skull he heard the plea. It shook the teeth in his head, set his eyes trembling, as if they were being boiled in their sockets.

  St-stop . . . please . . . stop, the voice cried. Bobby dropped the CAR-15 as his hands pressed on his temples. This wasn’t a subtle warning like the last time. His head was about to burst like a sausage dropped in hot oil. He tried to hold on, to keep his brains safely within his head, but each word sent his eyes rolling back.

  Just kill me . . . I didn’t ask for this . . . Terry just wanted some water. Kill me, please. Just went to get water and then . . . The voice stopped, as if trying to remember what exactly it was talking about. Bobby gasped, thankful for the reprieve. His stomach lurched as he tried to regain focus. Picking up the CAR-15 he headed for the tracks.

  No, stop that . . . bombs ripped through the space between his ears.

  In the middle of the painful words the train’s steady movement powered on. Bobby focused on the steady progress and the hiss of steam, matching his strides with it, as he tried to block out the horrible cries. He imagined the steam sweeping over the swelling of his brain, soothing it, shrinking it.

  God why? The voice continued its pleas. Although this time Bobby administered a measure of control through concentration. The more he focused on the sounds of the engine the easier surviving the cries became, but all of that changed when he looked down the tracks . . . down the tracks to Baylor’s train.

  The train was nothing like those he’d learned about from the Folks. It did not gleam of brilliant silver like a knife cutting across the land, in fact, it didn’t gleam at all, instead, it seemed to absorb all light like the hungry, yawning void of oblivion. Baylor’s train was a thing of mismatched metals dirtied with use and age. Sharp points jutted out at weird angles like some elongated porcupine, a defensive shape that sent Bobby stumbling back. Everything about it was wrong, a metal dragon of fables, resurrected in this dark age to stalk the countryside once more, and the steam leaked like liquid fire from its sharp iron mouth.

  It roared, a high whine that sent steam ripping from the cage of its mouth, a dog’s rabid froth, and trapped in that ragged maw was the owner of the voice in Bobby’s head.

  The upper torso of a Creeper stuck out, arms waving, mouth agape, pleading for an end to the torment. But the group of rough looking men standing on the platform above it had not the capacity for mercy. They taunted the Creeper with words, and one of the men sent a stream of piss onto its rotting head.

  Bobby raised the CAR-15 over his head, waving it back and forth.

  The men continued their taunting, oblivious to him.

  Slow, slower still, the train crawled towards him, but he remained unnoticed. Even shouting did not draw their attention. Bobby fired a round into the sky.

  That got their attention. Weapons snapped up, searching for the source of the shot. The men ducked behind panels of iron on the platform for cover.

  “It’s a damn kid!” one of them shouted.

  “I don’t like it, boss.”

  “He looks dead to me.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Hoss, you ever seen them hold a weapon like that?”

  “Can you see me now? Or do I have to waste another bullet to get your full attention,” Bobby shouted.

  The train was closing slow, twenty yards away at most, but as slow as it moved, it was not stopping. The dead man continued his pleading, arms waving wildly. What was left of his lower half had been peeled away by the churning of gears. Stark white bone bounced off the wooden beams that held the rails.

  “Well, kid, if you want a ride you better start running—cause we aren’t stopping. Hoss, ready the crane." The voice shouted. Bobby could not identify its owner. All he saw were the shapes of men moving about in hurried steps, quick actions that spoke of repetition and familiarity. “We got a passenger up ahead. ALL ABOARD! LAST CALL FOR DOSTERO! ALL ABOARD!”

  Bobby looped the CAR-15 over his shoulder his palms sweaty with anticipation. He didn’t know how many men were on board, or what their intentions were. He knew only the stories of winters’ past, and the assurances Ecky laid on him. And for a moment he felt elated by the prospect of not being alone. However, he made sure to slip the Auto Stryker from its sheath and slip it up his sleeve.

  The Creeper continued its assault on his mind, but there was nothing he could do for it, at least, not yet. A long metallic arm swung out over the train’s side with a groaning screech. A rope ladder dangled from it.

  “Get ready, kid, and I hope you brought something we need . . . otherwise we’ll kick your ass right on off this train. ALL ABOARD!”

  Bobby’s heart thudding with what might be, he reached for the ladder.

  CHAPTER 18

  “He looks like he’s going to hurl,” Hoss said with a cheer. The man’s features were far too small for his flat face. Eyes set close and perched atop a crooked nose that had seen many a drunken fist, along with his small, yet big mouth told Bobby the whole story: a wiseass kid trapped in the burly body of a man, an idiot with muscles. An unkempt beard speckled with red and brown and dried bits of animal fat rounded out that disgusting face. “Where’s your ticket, kid?” Hoss said, holding out his hand.

  Bobby hated him already.

  The motion of the train had him vomiting up half-digested pieces of rancid meat. Hoss aside, Bobby’s first impression of the train was the soot covered floor and the boots of five men, and one woman. At least, he thought it was a woman.

  “Let the kid be, Hoss, fucking weirdest damn thing we’ve seen since Kentucky.”

  “Can’t be more than a day over ten or eleven,” a rough female voice added. “Suppose it’s a miracle in this day and age.”

  “Some nice guns he has. I could use a new hunting rifle. Not much for that CAR though, never really liked that action,” Hoss said greedily.

  “You think he’s that old? Shit, Jamie, probably don’t even have hair on his nuts. And one look at you, and whatever little nuts he has will go screaming for the safety of his stomach like a turtle finding the safety of his shell.”

  The men howled with laughter.

  “You weren’t the turtle last night, Baylor, if I recall rightly you said, ‘Oh, Jamie, my god . . . I love you!’ Ring a bell?”

  Help . . . help me . . . someone please. . . .

  Bobby’s head rocked heavily, as if his neck had become the thick chain of a morning star in mid-swing. Their stares burned into his back like hot blades. He breathed deep, wiped the spittle from his mouth and stood.

  “I’m fourteen,” he said, shifting nervously.

  The group of faces put every gruff veteran of the Settlement to shame. Even Ol’ Randy, though, he hated to admit that. They were the strangest group of peop
le he’d ever laid eyes on, and none stranger than the man in the odd purple coat that stood at the center of the group, pointing the barrel of a heavy caliber handgun at him.

  Bobby went to lift the CAR-15.

  “Uh-uh, kid, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re on my ship now. It wouldn’t be wise to go pointing guns at people. But if it’ll make you feel comfortable go ahead and point it at Hoss over there,” the man in the purple coat laughed.

  “Boss, what the fuck?”

  Bobby obliged, though, he kept his finger well off the trigger. It was all show. They were testing him. He had to tread carefully if he wanted answers.

  “I like this kid . . . he’s got balls.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll cut ’em off for pointing that gun at me.”

  “Hoss, can it will ya?" The man in purple coat laughed uncontrollably, a wild, mad cackle like a beast with a sick mind. Bobby expected the man’s mouth to drop open to reveal a bloody maw of fangs and froth. He didn’t have to guess. This was Baylor. The man Ecky had called the Mad Conductor.

  The purple coat was not the strangest thing, in fact, it was quite normal when compared to the rest of the package. Baylor’s skin held a smooth ebony sheen, a mixture of sweat, soot and its own rich brown hue. His big, dark eyes looked as if they were held in perpetual fright. He dabbled at his bald head with a pink kerchief that he quickly returned to his breast pocket. A well kept beard, braided to a point, accentuated a broad and powerful jaw. Just above the left pocket of his purple coat were four rabbits’ feet in garish colors: flaming pink, neon blue, fluorescent yellow, bright green. Scattered around the rest of the purple coat were pins with strange faces, drawings, and medals, but whose origins Bobby could only guess. Capping off the oddity whom people called the Mad Conductor, a pair of black and white checkered-patterned pants.

  If it wasn’t for the gun Bobby would’ve laughed at the absurdity of the man.

  “Now you’ve gone and frightened him, Baylor.”

  “Jamie, this kid is a lot of things, but he isn’t scared. Are you, kid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sir? Bwahaha!” Baylor roared. He let the gun dip momentarily but never took it off Bobby. “You see—you lousy bunch of vagrants that’s how you treat your captain. I told you I like this kid." Baylor leaned in close to Bobby and sniffed. “I smell fresh blood on you, kid.” His wide eyes seemed to block out everything.

  Bobby stared into them like a mouse staring up at a starving cat. “Ecky was right . . . you’re fucking crazy,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

  Baylor’s eyes narrowed for the briefest of seconds, as if he were about explode in anger, but instead, the dark-skinned man erupted into laughter. “Kid, for that you get one night in our star suite with Jamie,” he said, putting the gun into its holster at his waist. “Welcome aboard, kid.”

  Bobby didn’t know what to do as hands patted his back and tussled his hair. It felt strange to be accepted. Almost as strange as hearing the voices of the dead.

  Most of the men filed out of the narrow car to go about the business of the train. They went up through hatches and out doors that, to Bobby, didn’t seem to lead anywhere.

  “I still don’t like him. But you’re the boss, boss.”

  “Go see to our other passenger, Hoss.”

  Hoss gave Bobby a hard stare before clambering up through the hatch.

  “Kid, we’ll have words, me and you,” Baylor pointed, “later, but first get cleaned up. You look like shit. I really would like to know how the Jesus freaks are faring this year." Baylor swept into a bow and spun on his heel, vanishing like some sideshow pitchman, but not before saying over his shoulder, “Go easy on him, Jamie. A few good years have put the thickness back in your hips." His wild laughter followed him to the front of the train.

  “He’s a good man, an asshole, but a good man.”

  Up close she looked very much like a she. Her long blonde-gray hair poured over her shoulder in loose curls. Her hazel eyes were soft and much easier to look at than Baylor’s lunatic orbs. She wore a dirty apron that covered the massive swell of her motherly breasts, cleavage plunged down into her green sweater, a shadowy canyon. Her hands rested on her wide hips patiently. She was clearly worried and intrigued by him.

  “I just. . . ." The sheer exhaustion of his journey shattered the fragile glass of his focus. And as the pieces of his sanity crumbled to the ground the voice of the dead man roared back into it once more. He opened his mouth to scream but it died in the darkness that enveloped him.

  “Oh dear." Jamie removed the heavy gear from Bobby’s limp body. She picked him up without much effort. “Poor, child, you’re nothing but skin and bones. The roads a harsh mistress she is. But I’ll have you better in no time. Fatten you right up, and who knows, maybe even make a man out of you.”

  * * * * *

  He stood outside the fence. Numb limbs carried him around the Settlement’s perimeter. But his eyes were . . . broken, somehow, smudging everything in a liquid gray. The barracks mere dark brown bricks while the Folks were vaguely humanoid shadows, a glimpse of their true forms, perhaps. He drifted more than he walked around the fence. Watching the Folks move about their business made him angry. He wanted to peel back the steely sky to reveal the sun and burn them all away.

  The rage seemed to shock some sense into his limbs for, he could feel the contraction of his cold muscles, and with that, the sounds returned as well. At first, they were just snatches of voice caught on the wind, then they became another horror entirely.

  Behind him, lining the whole of the Still Water Road, were the rocking forms of thousands of Creepers. They came on rotten limbs, on stumps; they climbed on top of cars, some even slipped off the narrow road, tumbling in heaps far below. They surged forward until they threatened to topple the fence and flood into the Settlement.

  The Folks scattered. Children screamed for their parents. Shots rang out. But Bobby knew, watching it all unfold, that they were helpless to stop the flood . . . they would die, all of them.

  “Please, stop!” he shouted, trying to stop the press of dead bodies, but they ignored. Even though he could hear their every word, they could not hear his, and they surged forward again. The fence held for a moment then broke.

  Bobby jumped up, finding that he couldn’t move. He began to panic. Something warm and heavy pressed against his face. Opening his eyes revealed the ample bosom of Jamie.

  “There, there,” she said, patting his back and pressing him into her soft flesh with a mammoth hug.

  Bobby went rigid at her touch. What should’ve been a comforting act, to him, was something so foreign, Jamie might as well have held a knife to his throat.

  “What’s wrong with you, boy. Didn’t your mother ever hold you?” she asked, holding him at arm’s length.

  “My mother died before I was born,” he said coldly. He twisted from her grasp.

  “Whatever do you mean, child?" She dabbled at her flush cheeks with a plump hand. The heat of the room almost unbearable.

  “I mean she’s dead. Where is my pack?" Bobby looked around the cramped space that was nothing more than a very small mockery of a closet. Jamie sat on the thin bed amid the rumpled blanket. A long thin slit, that served as the only window, allowed a knife of afternoon light to darken the wrinkles on Jamie’s face. There was little else of note in the awfully hot space. His things were nowhere to be seen, and he suddenly realized he was completely naked. Embarrassed, he covered himself meekly with his hands. “Where are my things . . . where are my clothes?”

  Jamie chuckled. “Relax, child, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Your clothes were filthy, not good for your skin, causes rashes and such. So I cleaned them, thank you very much. They are drying, won’t take long in this traveling toaster oven,” she said, fanning herself with her plump hands.

  “Stop calling me child,” he demanded.

  “What should I call you then?” she pressed.

  “Bobby,” he said, tentat
ively.

  “Well then, Bobby,” she licked her lips, “I’m hungry, and I know you’ve got to be. Your bones are showing. How about I bring you your clothes and we get something to eat?" She stood with a grunting effort, pressing on her lower back to ease the strain.

  “I want all of my things,” he said, sounding very much like a spoiled brat, a tyrant of the toy box.

  “Making a lot of demands for one in such a vulnerable position." Jamie pulled her sweater aside, revealing a long gash on the top of her left breast. “Only if you promise to keep your knife where it belongs. Nearly cut my titty off,” she said with a hoarse laugh. She made no effort to avoid contact with him as she passed. Her massive breasts sent him tumbling to the bed. “Had that knife in a good place. I picked you up and got a nice little gift for the effort.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bobby said awkwardly.

  “No worries. Now I’ll be back with your things in a jiffy. It’s best to have food in your belly before you get to talking to Baylor. He has a way of not shutting up.” Jaime inclined her head and squeezed her way out of the cramped cabin.

  Bobby pulled the blanket over his naked body. He didn’t know what to make of the strange place. It certainly wasn’t what he expected. Could he trust these people? What would they want from him? So many questions and none of which he could even begin to form an answer to. The noise in his head prevented any rational thoughts.