Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

CHAPTER 17

The sun rose over the flooded countryside. Its rays were barely able to penetrate the thick cloud cover or swirling mist. Fog swept down the mountain, entwining itself around the forest ranger station. It snaked through the few trees that remained upright, their roots clinging precariously to the soupy mud and fungus-covered rocks. The haze covered the dirt roads from the top of the mountain all the way down to the submerged ruins of Renick, and settled on the remains of Teddy Garnett’s home, where it blanketed everything still above ground—the crashed helicopter, the flattened shed, the outhouse, Carl Seaton’s truck (which had been flipped over on its side), the cracked and pitted carport, and the jumbled ruins of the house itself.

With the exception of the ever-present rain, there was no sound.

A crow, half-starved and molting, landed on a jagged length of gutter that jutted from the mud like an accusatory finger. The bird tilted its head and scanned the wreckage of the house, looking for something to eat. It squawked when it spied a shattered jar of sunflower seeds. The contents had been scattered among the jumble of crumbling masonry and splintered lumber. The bird swooped down and eagerly pecked at the wet kernels.

Now there were two sounds—the rain, and the sound of the crow’s beak as it fed.

Then, there came a third sound—a wet, slithering noise from beneath the ruins. The crow paused, struggling with internal conflict. Alarmed by the unexpected noise, it wanted to flee, but ultimately, its hunger won out. Cautiously, the bird lowered its beak—

—and the wreckage erupted. A pale, elongated shape shot out of the rubble and brushed against the bird’s feathers. The touch was fleeting and light, barely glancing across the tip of its wing, but the sudden movement startled the crow. The bird took flight, soaring for the safety of a fallen apple tree. It did not notice the white curds of fungus dripping from its feathers.

The shape stretched further into the open. Fungus rippled and flexed like muscles. It was as thick and long as a man’s arm, but it was not a man’s arm. It had five finger-like appendages on the end of its hand, but they were not fingers. The arm, hand and fingers were just shadows—ghosts of something they’d once been. Now, they were just soft.

The thing struggled and pushed, and the rubble slid out of its way. Everything it touched—each brick, stone and length of wood—sprouted more of the strange white fuzz. Finally, the figure emerged from the ruins and drew itself up to its full height, standing on two fungal legs. It stretched out its arms and turned its featureless face to the sky. Raindrops pelted the places where its eyes and nose had been. All that remained of its eyes were two shadowy smudges. Its nose was non-existent. Its mouth was a gray slash. The creature tried to speak, found that it couldn’t remember how, and croaked instead.

The crow, which had been watching from the fallen apple tree, fled in terror. The shape watched the bird fly away. Soon, the bird would be soft. The shape knew that was good. All things must turn soft. That was required. Required by…

…it couldn’t remember.

The shape couldn’t remember a lot of things. It knew that it had a name once, but it didn’t know what that name was. When the shape thought about it, random images surfaced in the fungal growth that had replaced its brain. It remembered the woman hitting it in the head with her pistol. It remembered falling. Becoming one with Behemoth. But that had been interrupted, hadn’t it?

What had interrupted that communion?

It recalled being shot several times. In the chest. The shoulder. Other places. But that had happened before it fell. It remembered the worms spilling out of the bullet holes. Their departure had saddened the shape. It liked the worms. They were its friend. It was their priest. The worms crawled inside the shape’s head and told it things. Secret things. Things about the maze in the center of the world and the being who lived there—a being who could not be named, because to do so was to invite certain destruction. The worms told the shape about Leviathan and Behemoth and the Great Deep. The shape shuddered at thoughts of the Great Deep. It wanted to go there. It wanted to plunge into those far-off depths and merge with them forever.

But first, it needed to become soft.

Soft… I want to be soft… Everything should be soft… the bird… the rocks… the trees… the ground… Garnett…

Garnett. The name sparked something in the creature’s mind. Garnett. It had been Garnett and his friends that had stopped the shape from becoming one with Behemoth. Garnett. Seaton. The young man. The girl. It couldn’t remember their names. Wasn’t sure that it had ever known their names. But it remembered their faces and it remembered Teddy Garnett, and in remembering, the shape rediscovered its name. Fungal hands curled into fists. White slime dripped from its body and pooled at its feet, mixing with the rainwater.

The shape shouted its name into the sky, and was answered by thunder.

* * *

Henry stood in the open hatch of the grain silo and watched the water rise. When the thunder boomed again, he shivered.

* * *

Drenched, Sarah raised her fist and knocked on the door again. The shuffling sound drew closer. Something fumbled with the door. She took a step backward, ready for anything. Her heart pounded.

As the door swung open, the thunder crashed a third time.