Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

CHAPTER 11

Henry paced around inside the grain silo, trying to formulate a plan to reach the church steeple. Moxey watched him with droopy-lidded eyes, curled up on her burlap sacks and trying to stay warm. Henry’s wet boots sloshed with each step. When he coughed, it echoed around the wooden platform. He leaned against the iron handrail, stared down into the flooded depths in the silo’s center, and frowned in concentration. Even without the revelation that there was somebody else alive, they needed to get out of here. The water had risen even higher. Just a few more days and it would probably overrun the platform. Then, he and Moxey would have no choice but to leave.

He needed to reach the steeple, find out who was there and what kind of shape they were in. Then he needed to get himself, Moxey, and the mysterious stranger over to the mountainside. Granted, there were probably untold dangers there, as well, but at least they could take shelter on the last bit of dry land.

But how?

He couldn’t swim across. The water was a toxic stew—full of oil, chemicals, gasoline, dead bodies and debris, not to mention water moccasins and other critters. He didn’t have a boat. He’d seen some float by—small bass boats and rubber dinghies—but they’d been too far away to capture.

He took stock of everything they had left—five bottles of water, the rifle, half a box of bullets, a cloth to clean off the rifle’s scope, empty food wrappers, a roll of duct tape, a cigarette lighter, a damp cardboard box full of moldering newspapers and magazines, a wet roll of bailing twine, a bucket of roofing tar, the pocketknife with his initials engraved in it that his parents had bought him for his sixteenth birthday, a claw-hammer, two pitchforks, a John Deere ball cap, and a plastic bucket full of rusted nuts and bolts and miscellaneous junk. Nothing he could build a boat out of.

Henry experimented with the floorboards, prying at the heavy planks with the claw hammer, seeing if he could loosen any of them. They stayed firmly in place. The weather had yet to impact the twelve-penny nails holding them down. His attention turned to the small double-doors in the silo’s curved wall. The hinges were rusty and weak. Maybe he’d have better luck with them. Henry opened his pocketknife and went to work on the hinges, prying at the screws until they started to work their way loose. Then he yanked them out with the claw hammer and lay the doors down on the floor, one on top of the other, to increase buoyancy. Using most of the duct tape and all of the bailing twine, he lashed them together, forming a crude raft.

“God damn,” he said, grimacing as he finished. “Wish I’d thought of this before now. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Moxey meowed in agreement.

“Don’t you worry, girl. I’m gonna head over to the church and see what’s what. Maybe they’ll have some food. Hell, they’ve got to.”

Henry decided to leave the rifle behind. It was too valuable to risk dropping it in the water. He’d have to bring it along when they headed for land, but for now, he thought it better to leave the weapon in the silo where it was safe. With the remaining duct tape, he wrapped one of Moxey’s burlap bags around the tines of one of the pitchforks, fashioning a makeshift oar. He sat both pitchforks next to the open door—one to navigate with and the other for defense. Cold wind and mist blew through the opening. Henry shivered. He dragged the boat over to the door and dropped it into the water. He held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. It dipped below the surface and then popped up again, floating. He cheered. Startled, Moxey ran to the rear of the silo.

Donning the John Deere cap to keep the rain off his head, Henry slowly clambered out onto the raft and sat cross-legged. Then he grabbed the pitchforks and brought them onboard. The vessel bobbed and swayed, and water surged over the edges. Alarmed, Henry got ready to make a dive back into the silo, but the raft remained above the surface. It wasn’t very sturdy, but it would have to suffice.

“Stay here, girl! I’ll be right back.”

If Moxey heard him, she gave no indication.

Henry pushed off from the side of the silo and floated out onto the open water, buoyed by the slight waves. He was drenched within minutes, from both the relentless rainfall and the small waves lapping over the edges of the craft. His stomach growled. He dipped the makeshift oar into the water and paddled, guiding the raft towards the steeple. Rain beat down on him, but Henry ignored it. He peered through the mist, his full attention focused on his destination. He hoped to spot the figure again, but if they were still there, then they were out of sight. So intent was his concentration, that he didn’t look away until he heard Moxey howling behind him.

Henry glanced over his shoulder, hoping that she wasn’t considering jumping into the water and coming after him. He was stunned by what he saw. The silo was buried beneath a billowing fogbank. He could just barely see its outline, enveloped in curling white mist.

“Holy shit…”

As he watched, the fog drifted towards him. Henry turned around and paddled faster. By the time he’d reached the church steeple, the mist had caught up to him. Shivering, he pulled alongside the bell tower and cupped his hands over his mouth.

“Hello? Anyone in there? This is Henry Garrett!”

His voice sounded odd, as if the fog were dampening it somehow. Henry rubbed his arms and legs to get his circulation moving. Then he called out again.

“Hey! I know you’re in there. I saw you. If you’re hurt, or can’t call out, don’t worry. I can help.”

He paused, waiting for a response, but none was forthcoming. Somewhere overhead, a bird shrieked. He glanced upward but couldn’t see it through the haze.

“I’m coming in,” Henry shouted. “Don’t shoot me. I just want to help.”

Dipping the pitchfork in the water, he got as close to the steeple as he could. Then, moving slowly, Henry grasped the ornate, white railing and pulled himself up into the bell tower. Too late, he wished he’d had the presence of mind to save some of the bailing twine to tie the raft off with. He had no means of anchoring it, and if the vessel drifted away on the current, he’d really be screwed. Realizing that there was nothing he could do about it now, Henry grabbed the second pitchfork that he’d brought along for defense. He really didn’t think he’d need it, but just holding it in his hands made him feel safer. More comfortable.

“Hello?”

He peered into the open-air platform beneath the bell. Mist swirled through the space, obscuring his vision. He saw a trace of the wooden door that he new opened into the staircase that led down into the church. That would all be underwater now. If there was somebody here—and he knew there was—they had to be in the center of the platform, concealed in the fog.

Licking his lips, Henry stalked forward. The boards were wet and slippery, so he moved with caution. He shifted the pitchfork in his hands, thrusting it out before him. The wind whistled behind his back. The breeze was picking up, the gust strong enough to shift the ball cap on his head.

“I’ve been holed up inside of Fred Laudermilk’s grain silo, with my cat, Moxey. I didn’t think there was anyone else left alive. But then I saw you while I was—”

The wind parted the fog for a moment, and Henry caught a glimpse of a figure lying on their back. They reached for him, arms flailing weakly. The mist swirled around them again before he could discern their features.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping forward.

“Soft,” the figure replied. It’s voice sounded like someone gargling mouthwash.

“What?”

“Must become… soft… Henry…”

Another gust of wind parted the haze once more, giving Henry a clear view of the person on the floor. His eyes widened. He tried to speak, but could only stammer. The pitchfork slipped from his hands and clattered onto the floor. Slowly, laboriously, the figure slithered toward him, wriggling like a snake.

“Soffffft…”