The Creepers (Book 1)

by Norman Dixon

  The second he had his things back he planned to change that, then and only then, would he take Jamie up on the meal. Bobby sat on the edge of the bed and waited. For the first time he noticed his feet no longer dangled above the floor. It really had been a long strange winter.

  Jamie handed over the bag with a grunt. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you had a body in there.”

  A pang of guilt and worry sent a shiver through him. Had she seen the journal? Did she read it?

  “Don’t worry.” Jamie wrung her storied hands. Too many tales gave birth to those wrinkles she displayed so proudly. “Your secret is safe with me. I don’t quite understand it, but at the same time . . . I know it wasn’t right of me, but if—if that is true—do you know how special you are?” Her smile broadened. Her eyes were wet.

  Bobby pulled his pack close and didn’t say anything. Would these traveling train people want him dead next?

  “Forget what I said, Bobby. It was a rude thing to do, but when I got to cleaning, it just fell out and well—curiosity got the better of me is all." She looked away from his accusing eyes. There was a measure of power in them that she didn’t quite understand, and the words in that journal only added to her unease about the boy. But it wasn’t a fear in the sense that he was a danger to her, it was a fear of what he had to endure during his short life.

  “I’m not one of them. . . .”

  Jamie put out her hand but pulled it back as Bobby flinched. “I-I didn’t say that." She paused and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “How about we have that meal and forget about what’s in that book?”

  Bobby wished it was that easy for him, but he couldn’t fault this woman, not yet at least. He could hear Ecky in his head, ‘Trust no one, Bobby. We are creatures born of lies.’ But he had no choice and he was out of options. If he needed to bail . . . he supposed jumping wouldn’t be too hard, after all, the train moved at a snail’s pace.

  “Okay, but first I want to go up top." Bobby took his neatly cleaned and folded clothes from the top of the pack.

  “Why would you want to do such a thing?”

  “I want to see the Creeper stuck outside.”

  “I told them to get rid of that thing the second we hit it. But the fellas need a good laugh every now and again, need to blow off steam . . . so I suppose there’s no harm in it. But why you would want to look at it . . .” Jamie closed the door over and said, “I’ll be waiting out here for you.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said, as he pulled the fresh smelling clothes to his face. They were soft and warm, and they carried a sweet scent he’d never experienced before. Bobby quickly slipped into them. Dressed and fresh, he laid the CAR-15 across his lap for inspection.

  Everything seemed okay. They hadn’t removed the bullets in either the CAR or the Remington. These train people kept their word so far, but Bobby wondered how long that would last. With the CAR-15 bouncing on his back he stepped out of the cabin and into the train proper.

  “You sure you want to see that . . . that thing?” Jamie asked again.

  “I’m sure, and I need some air." Bobby nodded for her to lead the way.

  The train lurched along, clanging metal, belching steam, a laboring mechanical animal. He still wasn’t used to the motion, such a strange sensation for him, but he managed to at least keep his stomach under control, though, there really wasn’t much in it to part with. He couldn’t even think about eating until he silenced the cries. They’d slowed somewhat, but they had not stopped. His head ached beyond measure.

  Jamie lead him through the narrow hall. The train car was filled with cabins on both sides. Most were dark, or covered by privacy curtains, offering not a glimpse of who, or what resided inside. Except the last. Electric lights burned bright to reveal a man sitting in front of a small notebook computer. Had he not seen several of the Folks using such devices he would’ve thought it some kind of magic. The man wore a battered gray cloak and a dark black hood with matching gloves. Shrouded in secrecy the man’s face was a black mask. The man studied Bobby for a moment and then returned to the lighted screen.

  “Strange one he is,” Jamie said as she opened the sliding door at the end of the car. If the gritty racket bothered her ears she showed no signs. “Mind the gap." She picked up her apron and stepped daintily across the swaying platforms.

  “Who is he?”

  “Passenger like yourself. Weird, too, doesn’t talk much. He’s heading to the coast. Paid his fare in spices." Jamie helped Bobby across, clutching the railing she said, “You sure you don’t want to go eat first?" She gestured towards the door behind her.

  “I am sure.”

  She sighed over the clatter of the track. “Very well then, up you go.”

  In the shadows between the cars Bobby almost missed the black iron ladder. He hesitated.

  “What? I can’t be going first. Wouldn’t be proper of a lady wearing a dress. Up you go, but be careful. Hold on tight and wait for me when you get to the top.”

  The train swayed, leaning hard to the left as it took a curve. Bobby held on even though his hands were weak and he felt shaky all over. Crisp spring wind erased the burning heat from his cheeks and tickled coolly on his brow as he climbed. The freshness of the air seemed to transport his nervousness far away.

  “Not bad for a newbie. Just don’t let go,” Jamie called from below.

  Bobby giggled as he knelt on the roof of the train car. The breeze rippling his wild hair, filling his nostrils with earth and pine and a hint of fresh dew. The mists of morning still clung to the rolling green in the weak, early light. Far to the east the sun remained hidden behind a range, an explosion of orange rising up to meet the stark blue. Bobby was so transfixed he almost forgot about why he’d come up to begin with. Riding on top of the car was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, watching the land roll by clean and untainted in slow motion.

  He couldn’t get the voice out of his head, though.

  “Still a might too cold for me,” Jamie huffed.

  “Cold,” Bobby said with a smile. “This is amazing.”

  “Not as amazing as my meatballs. Hurry up ahead and get a look at the thing. Don’t fall off. One look, and then we eat." She hadn’t even known the boy for more than a few hours and already the pangs were getting the better of her. Each of his unsteady steps sent a thud against her breast.

  The forests on either side of the tracks were the personification of the voice in his head, pressing in on him, squeezing. He wobbled his way along the slick metallic roof to the platform overlooking the spiny dragon’s head. Steam and thick smoke rolled over him, stung his eyes.

  I can still hear you, Bobby thought with dismay. What was going on with him? What kind of gift had his mother passed on in death? What kind of curse?

  Please stop . . . please. . . .

  “You’ve had your look at the thing. Let’s go now,” Jamie shouted over the train’s pounding.

  Bobby readied the CAR-15.

  “What are you doing?” Jamie shouted.

  Bobby could see the top of the Creeper’s head through a break in the steam. He stared at the greasy scalp, as if he meant to drive his thoughts right through it, like the bullet he was about to fire. I’m sorry . . . Bobby thought, pulling the trigger.

  Who’s there—

  Bobby heard the words along with the crack of his shot, an instant of revelation and death that Time would not allow him back. His heart began to pound. Jamie was screaming something at him. The Creeper had heard him, of that much he was certain, but he was so quick to pull the trigger, so quick to soothe the pressure he . . . he didn’t even care about his actions. Had the winter removed every ounce of his humanity?

  “Fucking kid!”

  Bobby turned towards the voice. He only got about halfway before a calloused fist crashed against his temple. He saw blue sky twist overhead and then he fell fast into a cloud of acrid smoke.

  Somewhere far
away Jamie screamed again.

  CHAPTER 19

  After, what felt like weeks of eating and chatting Ol’ Randy finally got young Cale to allow him a meal with real utensils. First they were plastic, brittle from the cold and age, and he made a show of breaking them in his massive hands. His patience had paid off. The weight of the silverware was reassuring, and the gamey venison added a bit of strength to his weakened frame. He only hoped he’d be able to stay lucid long enough to see his plan through.

  The sickness marched across his insides like a conquering army, scorching his mind, his muscles, and leaving nothing but horrible pain behind. Either time was running out, or it already had, slipping through the haze of far off stares and mindlessness. Ol’ Randy wasn’t sure of exactly how much time had passed. He knew only that Jackson and Thomas had yet to return, and he had to retain some hope even in the face of the Lord’s call.

  Each day he prayed for just a little more time. He could deal with the pain . . . he just needed more time. He had to make sure that Bobby was okay.

  “This is good. Jake cook this?” Ol’ Randy asked as he chewed.

  “Yes, sir. Said he made it special for you." Cale leaned against the open cell.

  “Should I spit it out?”

  “Folks still care about you.”

  “They should’ve cared about those boys." Ol’ Randy slid the knife up his sleeve as Cale turned away to cough. He had prayed endlessly for what he was about to do. And again he reminded himself that the young man would heal if he chose to put up a fight at all. Ol’ Randy would be as gentle as his clumsy hands would allow.

  He put the fork to his mouth, waited for Cale to do his nervous look at the floor reaction, then dropped it with a clatter. Ol’ Randy let the plate slip and began to feign a coughing fit. All twitching limbs he rolled onto his stomach and palmed the knife.

  “Sir . . . sir—are you?" Cale did not hesitate. He practically ran to his imprisoned mentor. He checked for a pulse, and slowly eased Ol’ Randy onto his side, moving his head back to clear an airway. Everything seemed okay. The old man’s breathing was even and cool; his heartbeat strong and steady. There was nothing out of the ordinary except for the knife jabbing his throat.

  “Sorry, kiddo, but it has to be like this. I have to make sure that boy is safe.” Ol’ Randy maneuvered Cale against the wall at the tip of the knife, an ordinary affair when it came to the matters of knives, but in Ol’ Randy’s hands a formidable weapon.

  “You’ll never make it in time,” Cale gasped, “over a week already. They either made contact, or are about to." Cale adjusted his feet ever-so-slightly.

  “Don’t do that.” Ol’ Randy pressed the knife deeper, drawing blood. “I taught you that move. Are the patrol rotations the same.”

  Cale stonewalled his teacher. He believed Ol’ Randy was right in the matters of the boys, but no matter how many hours he spent mulling it over Cale could not disobey the Pastor, nor the rest of the Folks. This was his home. He had no intention of ever leaving it.

  “ARE THEY THE SAME!” Ol’ Randy commanded. His sounded voice wrong like ancient stonework grinding the bones of a non-believer.

  “Ye-yes, sir." Cale gulped. “They haven’t ch-changed.”

  Ol’ Randy looked to the tiny window. The sky was all but dark—there’d be only a handful of lights on across the yard. Since Yannek’s departure the second generator took a dive and they were trying to conserve power. It was the best shot Ol’ Randy had.

  “You are a good kid, Cale." He took the knife away slowly. “Probably too good for your own good, I reckon. Ain’t your fault, though. I blame ’em for a lot, but I can’t blame you.” Ol’ Randy considered bolting for the door, but he knew that if he left Cale unharmed the kid would take more than a mental beating. He flipped the knife in the air and slammed an open palm to Cale’s nose.

  The kid took the shot like a man, stumbling slightly, but retaining his wits. The second shot fixed that, dropping him to the cold floor in a heap. Ol’ Randy dragged his body to the cot and tucked him in.

  His stomach in knots, hands shaking, Ol’ Randy locked the cell and crept upstairs quiet as a cat.

  The yard was steeped in shadow. Only a few low lights wobbled in the growing dark. He could hear the screech of the kids as they were being herded towards the barracks on the opposite end of the Settlement, and a strong wind carried with it the creaking of swaying branches.

  Ol’ Randy took a moment to breathe in clean air. In the damp earthiness of the cell he had forgotten just how sweet the Colorado breeze was. He didn’t linger. Moving along the exterior wall of the bank he peered around the corner towards the guard tower. With a little bit of light lingering on the horizon they wouldn’t be using thermals just yet. Like clockwork the figure standing guard, most likely Jimbo Thorton, moved around the platform, and finally down the tower’s ladder.

  Ol’ Randy’s large frame was unmistakable, a thing of tall tales shared over bottles of hard liquor that everybody in the Settlement knew in great detail. He needed to avoid contact but he couldn’t act suspicious. Hands tucked into his pockets he slouched over, trying to appear smaller was an awkward thing for a man that carried himself with perfect posture—it actually hurt him to bend low. He shortened his strides and followed the pathway towards the smokehouse.

  A hundred yards wasn’t an incredibly long distance, and had it been the right season he would have been able to use the cornstalks for cover, but it might as well have been miles. He tucked his head down like some invalid forced to live in an attic crawlspace all of his days. Each step brought him closer to the smokehouse, and the alley behind it.

  The kids used the alley as a way to sneak beyond the fence. The closeness of the smokehouse to the fence provided ample cover, and even though the fence was repaired year after year, they continued to exploit it. Being on the cliff side the breach wasn’t really a threat from the Creepers or the living, it was too small to be an effective means of entry. Ol’ Randy hoped his lean winter would see him through.

  “Hey!” someone called, freezing him in his tracks. His heart pounded like a smithy’s hammer on hot steel—clang-stutter-stutter-clang-stutter-stutter. Easy old man, he reminded himself. However, even as the voice was joined by another, and they drifted in the opposite direction, another more dreadful sensation emerged.

  The pain in his side.

  Holding the ache with his hand only seemed to help if he applied great pressure, both with his hand and clenching his abdominal muscles. The effort quickly had him out of breath as he reached the dark smokehouse. It would be another several weeks before the men were out hunting to fill the coffers with venison, elk, and bison. For that he was thankful.

  Ol’ Randy made his way around the long, low building to the alley. The sun had finally given up its hold on the day and night slipped across, as if it slit that golden throat with a stygian blade. He allowed his eyes to adjust. Flecks of color danced like fireflies that exploded in bright bursts with each stabbing pain. He had to focus though, he had to keep his head on straight. More from memory than sight, he counted the paces along the fence. One . . . two . . . three, he counted, testing the ground as if it were about to crumble away and toss him into nothingness. When he stopped, gripping the fence to stabilize himself, the pain ripped through him stronger, dropping him to his knees. It took every ounce of his strength to keep from screaming out. He kept telling himself that he’d weathered worse over his many years, but when he tried to recall such memorable pain he found examples that paled in comparison. Lord, please hear me now. I gotta’ see that boy through to safety. Give me that chance . . . I beg you O’Lord. Ol’ Randy crossed himself.

  His fingers scrabbled in the dank earth for the lowest rung of chain link. He didn’t have long, if in fact, he had any time at all. With the onset of night thermals would be on, and searching. While those eyes wouldn’t see him along the alley the second he moved beyond the fence he’d stick out like a sore thumb, and there was no jumping away
from danger on this side. He’d have to skirt the cliff a good three hundred yards. Never a gambling man, he picked a hell of time to roll the dice.

  He went prone, much to his body’s protest, and lifted the fence. At first his shoulders caught, as did his hair in the rusty links, but he pressed on, making himself smaller, pushing harder. When he got halfway through a familiar voice crushed every bit of hope that existed within him.

  “Crawling on your stomach like a beast, a snake, Randal, you shame yourself and the Lord above,” Pastor Craven said from somewhere behind him, somewhere close.

  Ol’ Randy tried to squeeze out, tried to turn around. All he managed to do was get himself stuck. He kicked out blindly, found only air, and then righteous pain ripped through his leg. Light fell over him, flickering, wavering orange light. He smelled smoke . . . he was burning.

  The Pastor laughed at him. “It seems fitting that I take what you so cruelly took from me. Uh-uh don’t you fret now. I won’t take more than ya’ took from me. A bit off the top perhaps,” he laughed again, “no, I jest. Just at the knee. Quit your squirming you evil bastard . . . you’re not on fire. It’s a torch . . . times are hard since you saw to the disappearance of our engineer. Now let me see about lifting this here hammer . . . what did you call it . . . ah, yes, Tilda. Well it’s time for me to put this ol’girl to the test.”

  Ol’ Randy’s rage tore him free of the fence. As he pulled through Tilda crashed down on the back of his knee, crushing the bone to jelly. Webs of purple mixed with red pulsed before his eyes. He tasted the dirt, but he grappled to remain conscious with the tenacity of a cornered animal. Shaking, dry heaving, panting, he pulled himself forward.

  “Oh she’s a bute, Randal, let’s give her another go." The Pastor spit on his hands, rubbing them together and then picked Tilda up once more. He swung.

  Even Ol’ Randy pumped full of adrenaline could not remain aware under the weight of that pain. The front and back of his knee were as flat as a tube of toothpaste. He finally had a pain to compare to his exploding insides. He tumbled down into the deepest dark where things existed that he could not fathom, and when they opened their jaws hot and rank, they laughed at him with the Pastor’s cackle.