Wormwood Dawn (Episode VIII) (6 page)

“Are you sure?” Drew said, giving Gena a strange look. “What could be worse than a comet killing us off or changing us into little green men?”

“Hillary Clinton?” Cliff said. Everyone laughed.

“What!?” Eric said. “We need a woman in the White House.”

“Yeah,” Travis said. “Anyone but her. Besides, there’s no White House anymore. At least, I don’t think there is.”

“It’s all gone,” Gena said. “All of it. There were very few of us grunts left. That’s all of the services, too. Those of us that were left tried to contact each other and gather together. We had Guard, Reserves, even veterans from all branches all working together to try to put something back together again.”

“What happened” Toni asked.

“The last headquarters we had was overrun by contractors. Gephardt or something.”

“We’ve had our dealings with them,” Dan said. “We’ve killed quite a few of them.”

“And they’ve killed quite a few of us,” Gena said. “They even took over the lab where Grace worked. They tried to take her, because her team knew things that their doctors didn’t. Even the CDC had already crumbled by then.”

“Gena and her squad got me out,” Grace said. “If they hadn’t, who knows where I would be now?”

“So Gephardt is still around?” Drew asked.

Gena nodded. “As far as we know.”

She stood and took off her field jacket. Dan noticed that she was fairly heavily muscled, but still feminine. When she lifted up her shirt to show a scar above her right hip, Dan could see the outline of tightly packed abs. He grinned.

“Damn,” Cliff said. “How’d that happen?”

“I got run through by a buck knife,” she said. “It hurt like hell, but you should see the other guy.”

“It was a Gephardt guy?” Cliff asked.

“Yep,” Gena said. “But that
pendejo
messed with the wrong chola.”

That got a huge laugh, and she sat back down with a smile, picking up her whiskey glass and giving Dan a wink. He chuckled to himself, feeling better than he was before.

“A toast,” Cliff said, raising his glass. “To kicking ass and taking names.”

They all clinked their glasses. Dan noticed that even Max had a small glass of whiskey. He hadn’t been drinking much of it, though. Evidently, his own mind was occupied. Dan wondered if he was thinking the same things. He couldn’t imagine how much more crazy this would be for Max. Max was a lot smarter than Dan, so he could probably imagine even worse possibilities.

For once in his life, Dan was thankful he wasn’t a genius.

Chapter Six

Maynard saw the faint glow of the sun in the east. It was sunrise, but there would be no daylight, as usual. Though the darkness above was thinning enough for occasional glimpses of the sky, it would still be weeks before it finally cleared. For now, it was a dim amber glow in the day time, but getting brighter as the days went by.

Maynard liked the darkness, though. It was easier for him get around. It hadn’t always been that way, but for some reason he was growing more comfortable in the darkness. Maybe it was the infection. Though he kept it at bay with fresh blood, it was still there, giving him characteristics of the other mutants.

Along with the increased comfort in darkness, his skin was becoming pale. His once radiant blue eyes were fading into a dull gray, and his eyesight was getting more attuned to the darkness. It was that sensitivity to light that led him to finally turn off his lights and use lanterns instead.

Since he had done so, he had saved a lot of electricity. With the sun gone, there was no way to use his solar array. He had to rely on the power of the nearby stream to turn his generator.

It was crude and inefficient, but it worked.

As he continued watching the brightness in the distance, he was suddenly overcome with the sensation of something living nearby. Something watching him, perhaps? He turned and looked around, using his keep night vision to help him locate the nearby lifeform. All he saw were shadows and smudges of possible life energy.

Until he caught a glimpse of something shooting by him at blinding speed. He jumped in place, his senses immediately alert and his heart pounding wildly. Something had shot right by him and had disappeared again into the darkness. He could swear he heard a scream.

His eyes shifted around in search of the intruder. There was nothing, only that feeling of being watched. He felt strangely uncomfortable then. Uncomfortable and powerless. This scared him even more. There was nothing more frightening than being vulnerable.

Sarah wandered by, her head cocked and aware of something. Maynard watched her as she stumbled around, hoping maybe her own, strange senses would lead him to the presence.

The scream sounded again, and a blur of motion zoomed past him. Sarah’s head fell from her body, as if severed by a lightning quick sword. It toppled to the ground, and her body fell to its knees, pitching forward into the snow.

“What the fuck?” Maynard said, horrified.

Whatever was out here had destroyed Sarah, and did so in the blink of an eye. He didn’t want to be present when it came back again. Terrified, he ran back around to the front of his cabin, leaving Sarah’s head to rot. He slammed and locked the door behind him, looking over to the secret panel that led to Toby’s prison.

He thought of what such a creature could do to the boy. He couldn’t let that happen. He needed Toby. He needed him for his blood. Besides, there was a small part of him that liked the boy. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was just a little part of Maynard’s soul. A small part of humanity that was left in his black heart.

He didn’t like that thought.

Toby stood atop the toilet in the small bathroom. He was still too short to reach the vent above, though, which dampened his spirits. He thought for sure he could get out that way, and maybe he still could if he could reach it. Maybe Sarah could be maneuvered in the bathroom to let him stand on her shoulders, if she ever came back.

He had no desire to come in contact with her, but if that was the only way he could get out, then that’s what he would do. He had to get home, and he
would
escape. He knew it.

He stepped down off of the toilet to think. There was the small table in the other room that he could stand on. It was about the same height as the toilet. If he could somehow balance it on the lid and climb up, he might be able to reach the vent.

He smiled and raced into the other room to fetch it. It was heavy, but he lifted it anyway. Dragging it would make too much noise, and he couldn’t risk it. By the time he got it to the bathroom, he was breathless, but confident. He closed the toilet lid and lifted the table up onto to it. It looked sturdy enough to support his weight if he was careful. He had to try.

Using the wall as a wedge, he climbed up on top of the table. It was wobbly, but stayed in place. He kept his right hand against the wall for balance, and then reached up to grasp the vent cover. It came out easily, being supported only by a spring action latch. He bent down and set it on the toilet tank, and looked up into the dusty hole.

It was dark and scary, not to mention small. He could fit, but it would be a tight squeeze. The only question was if he was strong enough to pull himself up. He reached up into the hole, feeling around for an edge to grab onto. There was nothing but the trim surrounding the vent. The duct was vertical for about six inches before bending. He couldn’t reach that far, but he was determined to try the climb anyway.

He grabbed onto the trim, pulling it to test its strength. It seemed sturdy enough, and he still weighed less than one hundred pounds. It should hold him. Gripping it tightly, he slowly pulled. He strained against his own weight, gritting his teeth and growling for strength. But it was no use. He didn’t have the muscle to pull himself up. But that didn’t stop him from trying again.

He pulled with all his might, telling himself he could do it over and over again. He imagined himself doing pull ups as an adult, flexing his muscles for all the pretty to see. That gave him a little bit more strength.

But it wasn’t his strength that gave out.

The trim splintered and came loose, sending Toby back down to the table. As he landed, he lost his balance, and the table slid off of the toilet. He closed his eyes as he fell, never seeing the sink as he fell toward it, smacking his head against its edge. There was a bright flash of light that came with the impact, and a sharp burst of pain. He barely had time to cry out in pain.

He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

“Toooooooby,” he heard a fuzzy voice whisper. “Wake up, Toby.”

His eyes fluttered when he tried to open them. His head was pounding, and felt like it had been split open. That made his heart pound in terror. He lifted his hand and felt his head. There were bandages, and a cold compress of some sort.

“Toby,” the voice said again. Toby whimpered, opening his eyes.

Maynard’s face was there staring down at him. Though his voice was kind, his face was still odd and frightening, especially his eyes. They were the eyes of a madman. They were like his dad’s eyes. Cold and empty, like a monster’s.

“There we are,” Maynard said. “You took quite a tumble, didn’t you?”

Toby moaned.

“Yes, you did,” Maynard continued. “You were trying to get out through the ductwork. That was a good idea. But tell me, what were you planning on doing when you got up there?”

“I—I don’t know,” Toby stammered. “I just want to go home.”

“Ah,” Maynard said. “I see.”

“I miss my mom and my friends,” Toby said. He began sobbing. “I wanna go home.”

“There, there, Toby. Soon you can go home. Once the sky clears and the sun comes back out, I will take you home myself.”

He looked up at Maynard’s face. Though he didn’t see any malice, he couldn’t tell if Maynard was being truthful or not. His eyes seemed kinder now, but his smile was still that of a liar.

“Don’t worry,” Maynard continued. “You’ll be home soon. I promise. Until then I have a surprise for you.”

Maynard stood and moved to the side. Behind him stood a shuffler. It was male, with strangely bushy hair and a beard with a red ribbon tied around it. Its eyelids and lips were gone, giving it an almost comical—yet frightening—appearance.

“Sarah is gone now,” Maynard said. “So I thought I would find you a new friend. The best part is, you can name him whatever you want. What would you like to name him?”

Toby stared at the thing, mortified and repulsed. But he had to pretend, at least, that he liked it. Maybe then Maynard would trust him more, and let him go outside. Then he could escape. But what would he name the thing?

“George,” he blurted out. “His name is George.”

Maynard chuckled strangely. “That’s a fine name,” he said. “George it is. Say hello to George, Toby.”

“Hello, George,” Toby said.

The shuffler did nothing, much like Sarah.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took some of your blood. It was just a little… for now.”

Toby looked at his arm. There was a cotton ball taped to it at the inside of his elbow.

“Okay,” Toby said, still not sure why Maynard wanted his blood.

He laid back down on the couch, his head still pounding and throbbing. He felt dizzy and wanted to puke, but he held it in. Maybe he would puke once Maynard left.

“On the table there is a glass of water and a little white pill,” Maynard said. “If the pain gets too bad, take half the pill. It will help, and you will sleep.”

“Okay,” Toby whispered. He didn’t want to take a pill, but if it would help with the giant headache, he might consider it. He just worried that Maynard would try to poison him.

“Goodnight, my little friend,” Maynard said. “Goodnight, George.”

George moaned.

In the cellar below, where the oddities were caged, a large rat scurried across the floor. It stopped at each cage, sniffing and observing their contents. The living fungal things stared and sniffed back at it curiously, moaning and hissing when they smelled its blood.

Undaunted, the rat went cage to cage, unsatisfied with what it found in each one. It hungrily licked at every tiny object on the floor, every piece of dirt or chunk of mortar. There was nothing edible, even for a rat.

It sensed something behind the curtain that dominated the back wall, and approached slowly, sniffing the air, trying to assess the situation. It reached the bottom of the curtain and nibbled on it, finding it displeasing, and walking along its edge. It smelled something—something alive, perhaps—possibly something dangerous.

But it was hungry, and nothing could scare a hungry rat.

There was movement behind the curtain that startled the rodent. It stopped, raising up on its haunches and sniffing desperately. Its nose caught a strange scent, and it curiously walked closer to the curtain, daring to poke its head underneath.

Suddenly, the rat was snatched from the floor and disappeared behind the curtain. There was a crunching sound that echoed in the cellar as it was devoured, and a small trickle of blood dripped onto the stone floor. The rager went into a frenzy, catching the scent and attempting fruitlessly to escape and lick up the precious fluid.

But its excitement abated when a low hissing growl rumbled its cage, sending a wave of unnatural fear throughout its ravaged body. It cringed in the back corner of its cage, unsure of what it had heard, crouching silently and trembling in uncertainty.

Even with its primitive, parasite-controlled mind, the rager knew that a greater threat had been awakened.