by Norman Dixon
“But, sir, that’s one of our own,” Cale said, brushing the rust of the gate off the palms of his hands.
“Maybe,” the Pastor kissed the Good Book, “maybe not.”
* * * * *
Bobby let the beetle crawl across his hand, under his shirt, and up his arm. He couldn’t move, had to take care even when drawing breath. He was well within the kill zone now. The scrub brush he’d stuffed in his clothes stunk of earth, and a sourness that was somewhere between rotting fruit and stinky feet. His rifle was nothing more than another piece of the natural landscape, a swaying cluster of greenery.
He followed Jackson closely, but every so often his scope found the fence, and the top of the guard tower. At the back of his mind he began to stack his army. It was not easy to sweep for potential targets and order his undead army, but he was determined. Somewhere behind the fence the man he’d come to know as father was being held captive. Very carefully, he shifted his weight, using the breeze for cover.
Bobby began to calculate distance and wind in his head. At best he’d get one shot, a free pass on a single target, but after that he’d have to use the Creepers to melt out of the kill zone. And he had to do it all before dark. Once the infrared was put to use his heat signature would stick out, shinning bright above the very minimal signatures of the Creepers. Even in great numbers they’d show up as only outlines to his fully exposed silhouette. He’d logged enough hours from that perch with Ol’ Randy to know what to expect.
He watched Jackson, nearly at the fence now, through his scope. Gently he shifted his scope to the guard tower. He switched back to Jackson. His finger trembled.
* * * * *
Safety was behind that fence. Safety was in the company of his people. Safety was just a few feet away. But death was much closer than that.
Jackson’s throat cracked as he spoke, “he’s comin’ for you all! He’s a demon. You was right, Pastor, the boy is out there. He brings the dead. None of us is safe.”
“Be calm, Jackson, you’re safe now. Come closer, son.”
“You don’t understand, Pastor. He’s out there somewhere with an army of Creepers.”
“What happened to your hand, Jackson?” the Pastor asked, tapping his revolver against the fence.
“Aren’t you listening to what I’m sayin’ to yall? He’s out there. Told me to tell you he wants Ol’ Randy let go. He said if you do that he’ll leave us be. I think we should do it." Jackson fell against the fence in utter exhaustion. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The weeks away from home, the loss of his brother and friends, everything came crashing down on him. “Please, Pastor, let me in.”
“What happened to your hand?” the Pastor asked.
“That demon blew it off. Don’t let ’em get me, Pastor, don’t let ’em eat me. Just let the old man go. It ain’t worth our lives.”
“We don’t deal with the Devil, Jackson, you of all people should know that. Why are you alone?" The Pastor rested his revolved against the fence with a clink.
“Savages . . .” Jackson sobbed, sliding to his knees.
“Lord, guide their lost souls to Heaven!" Pastor Craven lowered himself onto his only knee and said, “Poor, poor Thomas.”
“Damn Baylor kill’t’im, Pastor, shot him dead." Rage overcame Jackson’s sadness. He jumped up, growling, fingers hooked through the rusted chain links. “For that bastard child!” he spat. Saliva, thick and frothy, dripped through his matted beard, flecked the thick rebar. He was gripped by a serious paroxysm that sent his good arm trembling, his knees buckling, and his words into an incoherent series of animal sounds.
Pastor Craven moved back with his crutch amid the gasps of the other Folks. He cocked the hammer of his revolver, aiming it at Jackson’s head. He said, “Our Father who aren’t in Heaven hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread . . ." He fired, wiping the Crannen name from the Earth, forever.
* * * * *
The first shot was his signal to move, but it was the second shot that gave him pause. Pathos One hid at the base of the jagged rise at the rear of the Settlement. Jagged rocks and concrete, barbed wire, sharp rusty metal, land made uneven by machines and weather stretched out before him, climbing several hundred feet upwards. Not sheer by any stretch, but close enough in parts. Twenty years of growth conveniently hid the rest of the potential pitfalls and injuries waiting to happen. But as far as he could tell, no eyes were on him. He had to move.
Bobby’s instructions had been exact, and so far, he’d followed them as such. As he pivoted on a piece of ferrous beam another shot rang out, and then several more. Scraping the top of his hand on the sharp tooth of a beer bottle he hissed. Intermittent shots filled the air, along with shouts.
“CREEPERS INBOUND!” a voice warned over a static laden megaphone. An inclement weather siren began to blare. The powerful whine spilled into the valley, carrying off the high mountains, weakening, and then starting again.
Pathos One imagined old World War Two bombing footage. Figures rushing for shelter in quickened time. Blurry ghost-like faces with black blotches for eyes, gray-white fire, crumbling buildings, switch to bomb bay door footage, geometric patterns, people not visible from such heights, raining death. It wasn’t exactly the most calming series of thoughts, but they kept his mind occupied as he moved higher and higher.
He was supposed to be an observer, a chronicler of events. The journalist’s excuse. But deep down he knew those were the words of cowards. Cowards who’d rather film a wounded human being than to lend a helping hand. All the while claiming that someone had to tell the story, as if it wasn’t possible to do both. He’d done enough cowardly observation throughout his life. So many times he’d looked the other way, pretended to do something else, but no more. When Bobby asked him to help. He didn’t hesitate to say yes.
He only hoped he wouldn’t fail the boy.
* * * * *
Pink mist.
The perfect shot. Bobby watched the tower for movement. None. For the moment the .50CAL was silent. He didn’t have time to register anything else. It all happened so fast. One moment he was watching the scene, and the next, the back of Jackson’s head was leaking out on to the Old Still Water Road. He responded by taking out their range, at least, for the moment. And they responded in fear, shooting randomly down the road.
Bobby didn’t panic. He stayed put. With measured breaths he began to march his army forward. Once he had their attention he’d start taking out the resistance.
The Creepers were rank, a fresh spring swarm of flies, buzzing like the track at Daytona, hung over their heads. They moaned, a collective bass tone that shook the ground, and Bobby commanded them to move the air, using their tell-tale sounds as an instrument of fear. The Folks taught him well and he wanted only to return the favor. So many nights spent cold and gripped by fear. So many beatings.
His army marched up the Old Still Water Road four abreast, where space allowed, drawing closer and closer to the kill zone. Bobby’s mind was a bank of a thousand monitors, points of light, bits of memories. The pressure behind his eyes was tremendous, thinking one thought, a protective ring, was mere child’s play compared to the micro-managing he now performed. Pressure or not, turning back was out of the question.
The moment the first wave passed through into the kill zone several monitors snapped off. Bobby ordered the troops to spread, forming V’s that broke apart, using cars and rocks for cover as they moved forward in their intimidating march. While he pressed the army closer he kept watch on the guard tower. So far no one had attempted to take up the devastating weapon. In the confusion of seeing the army, and the ensuing preparations for survival, nobody even noticed. But Bobby wasn’t sloppy. He waited.
Another monitor.
Another.
Bobby sent the Creepers’ wail higher, louder, tormenting the Folks.
The waves of Creepers flowed up the road with the flies trumpeting the way. H
e continued to spread them out, finding cover, advancing, quicker now, shaping the field of battle to his advantage. He used the oldest Creepers as fodder, and they proved masterful at absorbing the opening shots. Their smaller, skinless faces and dried, severely shrunken brains made for difficult targets. Bullets sent puffs of yellowish powder into the air but they did not fall. They marched forward . . . the most insane army in the history of the world.
CHAPTER 28
Pastor Craven limped his way to the Corral. His crutch punched muddy holes with each hop. All around him women and children screamed. Men moved into positions on the rooftops while others handed out munitions. Several groups were already firing at the approaching horde. The Folks were riled up, but they were far from panic mode.
“Bobby Carrol, you stirred the hornet’s nest,” Pastor Craven mumbled. “Mason! Mason, why isn’t that fifty firing!?” Pastor Craven screeched. He clutched a light post for balance. In one swift motion he swung his crutch into the chest of a man in blue coveralls. “You, Doherty, get up in that tower.”
“Yes, Pastor Craven,” Doherty snapped. He shouldered his rifle and hurried to the ladder. His blue coveralls stained in dark, oily blotches made him look wounded. “Pastor, Pastor!” Doherty cried from the tower.
Pastor Craven looked up at the man’s close set eyes. The fifty feet between them did nothing to hide Doherty’s squashed features and idiot gaze. The Lord has his reasons, Pastor Craven reminded himself, before shouting, “Where’s Mason?”
“He’s dead, Pastor! Somebody sh—” Doherty’s massive forehead burst into a horn of blood and brain. He plummeted from the guard tower.
Pastor Craven felt the impact of the man’s body through the ground. Anger squeezed his aging heart. “Cale!”
The young man was close by handing out bags of ammo. He snapped to the Pastor. “Yes, Pastor?”
“That demon child is watching the tower. He’s killed Mason and Doherty. Find him! Even if you have to send someone back up into that tower as bait!” Pastor Craven snapped. He didn’t wait for a response. He hobbled towards the Corral. “So it’s Randy you want . . . it’s Randy you’ll get.”
* * * * *
Pastos One was bleeding from at least a dozen places. The climb had not been easy, but he made it to the narrow lip, hugging the fence he worked his way around the back of the Settlement. He stayed within the shadow of a long low building. Bobby’s descriptions had been so exact he didn’t need to guess. He reached the repaired fence in almost as many steps as Bobby had said, but the boy hadn’t taken into account the man’s much larger shoe size.
Pastos One checked the fence. It wouldn’t be an easy fit, but if he removed his hood he should be able to make it through. Carefully, checking for movement, he slid his assault rifle under. Next he used the sleeve of his hood to tie the fence up so he could crawl freely.
Once on the other side he found the closest window and peered inside. Neat folded piles of coveralls were stacked on wooden tables along the far wall. In the dim light he could make out many tall racks that appeared to have been ransacked. Empty ammo crates jutted out at odd angles while loose bullets sparkled on the floor. The Folks had cleared it in a hurry.
The crackle of gunfire settled into a steady pace. Pathos One broke the window with the butt of his assault rifle. He crept inside and donned a pair of coveralls close enough to his size. The collar itched the back of his neck. He scratched and chased the itch around his head as he observed the Settlement in crisis mode.
The sun burned a sword-like beam through the window, silhouetting the men and women on the rooftop across the yard. They called out orders to each other. They fought for their survival, a species on the brink. Pathos One contemplated being part of their downfall as he waited for night.
* * * * *
“Pa, crops ain’t gon’ make it,” Ol’ Randy said from the bottom of the pit. Above him, painted in the light from the open door, stood the father he knew as a boy. He spoke to him as such, but knew, though he couldn’t grasp it, that this shouldn’t be possible. Breakdown. He could feel the crumbling within like watching a time lapse of the country from above as it rose and fell and finally burned to black.
He could see bones he’d never known he had poking through his gray skin. He lived in his past most of the time now, though, there were occasional interruptions by glimpses of the present. He tried not to think about where they put him. But when the bullets began to fly, when Ol’ Randy heard the intimately familiar sound of war, something in his wiring bypassed the pain, and suddenly he became very aware of the molten glass that had become his bloodstream.
“Your father I ain’t. Now g’on and get in that sling, Randal. The Lord above needs you out that pit,” Pastor Craven said from above.
“Why don’t ‘cha git down here and make me?” Ol’ Randy said smugly. “This here rotten dirt ain’t so bad,” a cough rattled his body, “once ya get used to the stink.”
“Would you rather I find Cale and end his life?” Pastor Craven threatened. His voice cracked, eyes bulging in anger, a tremor of worry bent the corner of his thin mouth.
“You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t kill me either. Nothin’ but a coward.”
“Jackson Crannen’s buzzard food . . . by my hand, by God’s design. Things have changed, and if the Lord shall demand I take that young man’s life, so as to get you into gear then, so be it. NOW PUT THE HARNESS ON!” Pastor Craven screamed. Spittle rained down into the pit.
Ol’ Randy rolled and clawed his way into the harness, palming a sharp rock in the process. He had no idea what had transpired, but it was enough to shake the Pastor. He had to be ready for anything.
* * * * *
Bobby’s eye burned. It had been hours since his second shot. He watched the battle develop, rapidly, and now he started the second stage. Half of his force continued the march directly up the road while the rest stayed behind rocks, under cover, and out of any serious lines of sight. The bank of monitors in his head resembled a billboard in Times Square in need of repair. Some had already reached the fence, and he didn’t waste their sacrifices.
The metal work was just as strong as he remembered. They wouldn’t breach on strength or number alone. But the sacrificial advances gave him a better glimpse of the proceedings. He worked through the vision of a legless Creeper. From beneath a rusted chassis he looked for a weakness to exploit.
There were none, at least, not in the physical sense. However, in the Folks’ eyes he found his critical strike point. With night approaching fast Bobby crawled with the Creeper. He viewed the world from that prone position, imagining it, the view from a rodent’s eyes. Rotting legs shielded him from fire along with clouds of kicked up dust.
Monitors continued to wink out, tolling the bell of many second deaths.
He propelled the legless Creeper along the fence, dragging sun dried entrails like smoked sausages. Some of the younger Folks, those that had no real combat experience, were on the ground level, firing their weapons without discipline, taunting, shouting epitaphs at the horde. Bobby felt the Creeper’s swell of hunger at the sight of potential meals. He felt the bullets, too, ripping through the paper-thin-skin of the Creeper’s back. Wild shots. Misplaced shots. They were too caught up in the rush of battle. Especially one boy of about nine or ten. The child-warrior was right at the fence, jamming his small caliber rifle through the gaps and firing blindly. Before the sandy-haired boy could react, Bobby thought of clamping down on that milky calf. It was so close, taunting, an offering for sacrifice.
The Creeper obeyed.
A moment later his widow was drawn shut.
Bobby quickly went to his scope and found the ashen face of the boy. He remembered him well. Ted Burland. Now let them live with the fear, he thought. Ted continued the fight, ending the advance of an old woman with half her scalp missing. No one noticed Ted pretending to be normal in that moment of paralyzing fear. With his ticking time bomb planted, Bobby settled into the cadence of rhythmic
breathing. The night would bring with it a new kind of terror.
* * * * *
Cale climbed the rungs slowly. The body of Doherty taunted him, silently, from below. Each time his hands met the rungs, he flinched. The world he knew had turned to madness. Somewhere beyond the fence, beyond the horde of Creepers, a little boy sat with his rifle, waiting for a new target. Cale reached the top and crawled past Mason’s body. The wood planks sticky with blood as he slid along.
He clutched the .50CAL but he didn’t dare stand up. With all the gunfire erupting from below he couldn’t tell if shots were flying over and around the tower. He was terrified. Part of him wanted to stand up and fight for his home, for his people, for his life, but he didn’t want to die, wasn’t ready to die, regardless of the many scenarios presented to him over the years. He wasn’t equipped to handle the strangeness of this battle. What did Jackson mean that Bobby was controlling them?
Cale shuddered. Mason’s ruined face leered at him, the ropey gray matter lapping at the blood like some shattered ruin of a dog splattered on the side of the road. He couldn’t move. True fear gripped him, primal fear, and he was powerless against it. He didn’t have the capacity to kill that which he didn’t understand. And in the months that followed the boys’ and Lyda’s murders, Cale no longer understood anything.
He began to scream.
But he couldn’t even hear his own wails over those of the Creepers.
* * * * *
Ol’ Randy lay at the edge of the pit, the filth of months caked on his ragged clothes and sore-ridden skin. But he was altogether himself, really and wholly, in complete control. He shifted his weight to his good leg and rolled up on his elbows. He held the rock close to his leg, shielding it with the baggy folds of his blue jeans.