Deluge: The Conqueror Worms II

CHAPTER 12

Startled, Henry skittered backward until he felt the wet, wooden railing behind him. A strong gust of wind whistled through the steeple, spraying him with mist. His John Deere cap fluttered on his head, and the bell swayed slowly back and forth. Squinting, Henry wiped the rain from his eyes and stared.

The figure made a phlegmatic, rasping noise that reminded Henry of a whoopee cushion. Then it clambered to its feet and shuffled slowly towards him, arms outstretched, fingers grasping at the air.

“Henry…”

“Mr. Burke?”

The shambling form halted, rocking back and forth on the balls of its feet. Its body was almost completely covered with a white fungus similar in appearance to peach fuzz, but thicker. The thing tilted its head, staring at him with sunken, black pinprick eyes. When it spoke again, the fuzz split open, revealing a pale, toothless mouth. Its voice sounded like it was gargling.

“Hello… Henry… soft… Have you… seen…soft… Melissa and… Jaceyn… soft…”

Until that point, Henry hadn’t been sure of what he was seeing. The thing in the church steeple was barely human, let alone somebody he recognized. The growth obscured everything—clothing, facial features, anything that would have identified it—everything except for the Masonic ring on its finger. The mold had started to grow over the band, but enough of it was still visible that it caught Henry’s eye right away. He’d only known one person in Renick who wore such an item—Mr. Burke, who owned the turkey farm up near Bear Town. Henry had gone to school with his kids, Melissa and Jaceyn. He wondered where they were now, and what had happened to their mother.

Henry stared at the man, wondering what had happened to him. He’d seen this weird growth on other things—birds and fish and the occasional debris that floated by, but never to this extreme. He glanced down at Mr. Burke’s feet and saw white, root-like appendages growing out of them.

“Soft…”

“Mr. Burke… what happened to you? You’re sick.”

“Soft…”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Soft… Henry… soft…”

“I don’t know what that means! What’s soft?”

“It’s… what you… soft… must become… soft…”

Mr. Burke shuffled forward again, reaching for him. Henry slid along the railing to the left and the figure swerved towards him—but slowly. Even though the platform was slick and treacherous from all the rain, Henry was pretty sure he could outrun the infected man if he had to.

“Everything… soft… will become… soft…”

“Mr. Burke. You’re sick. There’s something wrong with you. Let me help, okay?”

“Soft… we all… go… soft…”

“I’ve got medicine back in the silo,” Henry lied. “Penicillin. Antibiotics. All kinds of stuff. Let me go back and get it, and I’ll help you out. Okay?”

“Soft…”

“Mr. Burke?”

“SOFFFFFFFT…”

He slid closer and Henry darted to the side and then ran behind him, heedless of the wet boards beneath his feet. Mr. Burke stopped and pivoted. Henry ducked down, grabbed the pitchfork and stood back up. He thrust the tines out in front of him and gritted his teeth.

“Stay back! I don’t want to hurt you, Mr. Burke, but I will if I have to. You’re infected with something. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want it.”

Mr. Burke struck at him with one flailing arm. Particles of the disgusting growth flicked from his fingertips and splattered on the floor at Henry’s feet. Thunder boomed. Grimacing, Henry jabbed the pitchfork at his opponent.

“Get back…”

“Soft…”

Reluctant to kill his classmates’ father, no matter how diseased the man was, Henry turned the tines and tried striking Mr. Burke on the side of the head. The effect was instantaneous and unexpected. The white figure’s head burst open like an overripe melon, turning to grey, sludgy water. The stench was cloying and damp. Musky. Henry’s stomach roiled.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

The headless corpse remained standing. The arms still moved, but they had dropped to its sides now. Water jetted from the stump of its neck and ran down its shoulders and chest. As Henry watched, gaping, the rest of the corpse began to deteriorate. The shoulders melted. The arms fell off and exploded on the platform like water balloons. Henry jumped backward, mindful of not getting any of the foul liquid on him. The chest and abdomen liquefied. Then, with nothing left to anchor them, the legs toppled over and burst. Within seconds, all that was left of Mr. Burke was a wet puddle. Then the rain washed even that away.

Retching, Henry let the pitchfork slip from his numb fingers. Then he ran to the railing and leaned out over it. The John Deere cap slipped from his head and fluttered away on the wind, before falling into the water. Henry watched it go and gagged again. For a moment, he was actually glad that he was starving, and that there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. His throat burned. His stomach cramped. His arms and legs trembled.

He remained there for a long time. When the nausea had passed, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then surveyed the steeple platform. It was empty. He paused, considering the wooden door that opened into a stairway leading down into the church, but decided against it. The building’s interior would be flooded by now, and if Mr. Burke had touched that doorknob, then he wanted nothing to do with it. He was relieved to see that the raft was still within reach. The wind and current had kept it bumping against the steeple, rather than floating away.

Retrieving the pitchfork, Henry ran for the raft. There was no food here. No help. The only thingthe church had to offer him and Moxey was a death far worse than the one they already faced. Starving to death was certainly more preferable than what had happened to Mr. Burke.

He turned into water, Henry thought as he clambered back aboard the raft. That’s what that white stuff does. It grows on things and turns them into water. What else is it growing on? Is it growing on the silo? Is it down there beneath the waves, turning our shelter into liquid?

Frowning, he tossed the pitchfork over the side. It had touched Mr. Burke so he no longer considered it safe. He’d have to get rid of his boots and clothes when he got back to the silo, as well. Anything that had touched that platform had to now be considered contaminated.

“What the hell am I gonna wear?”

Then he took a long look around him, surveying the mist and the waves and the endless falling rain. His stomach growled again, reminding Henry that being naked was the least of his problems.