The Brain Eaters

Chapter 31

The wind-driven rain slashed against the windshield, leaving greasy streaks where the wipers failed to clear it away. Lou Zachry sat hunched forward in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, peering into the storm.

He almost drove past the weed-grown dirt road that angled off into the trees. The hand-lettered sign Park Place was obscured by blowing brush, and Zachry saw it only as he came abreast. He hit the brakes and skidded several yards beyond the road before he could get the car under control.

He drove carefully, avoiding the tree roots that reached up like crooked fingers from the road. Overhead, the trees thrashed in the wind.

As he rounded a sharp bend, he came suddenly upon the house. It was almost too cute, with its overhanging roof, rounded edges, gaily painted shutters, and lacy curtains. A warm light shone from inside. Pale smoke curled out into the wet night from a stone fireplace chimney. Zachry was reminded of the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel.

He brought the car to a stop on a muddy patch of grass in front of the house. From the glove compartment he took a short-barreled.38 Chiefs Special. He left the car and walked cautiously across the mud toward the front door with its little shingled portico.

In his haste Zachry had not bothered with a coat. His shoes squished with every sodden step. The oxford cloth shirt was soaked through and plastered to his skin. The short blond hair was flattened wet against his skull.

When he reached the front door, he pressed his ear to the panel, listening. The rising wind and slash of the rain outside damped any sounds that might come from within. He released the latch and pushed the door open.

Inside he crouched for a moment, tense, pistol ready. When nothing moved, he gradually relaxed.

The living room had a warm, cozy look. The furniture was mismatched, but somehow it all went together. Everything was comfortably cushioned and done in soothing earth tones. Birch logs crackled in the fireplace. A cold portable television set in the corner looked out of place in the homespun room.

Placing his feet cautiously and soundlessly, Zachry passed the kitchen, which was empty and smelled of herbs, and moved on to an open door to the lighted bedroom. From beyond it he could hear rustling sounds and a soft, feminine humming. He stepped into the doorway, gun in hand, and for a moment he just stood there watching.

The girl had milky blonde hair and a supple figure that was not concealed by the bulky sweater and faded jeans. She moved with unconscious grace as she transferred clothing from the drawers of the room’s single bureau to the double bed. Open on the bed was a hiker’s backpack that looked as though it had been well used.

Although Zachry made no sound, some instinct of the girl’s made her straighten up and turn toward him. She gasped when she saw him standing there with the gun. Her face was clear and beautifully boned. Her eyes were a shade of blue that could not be bought.

“Roanne Tesla?” he said, embarrassed at the hoarseness in his voice. He had not expected her to be so beautiful. But there was more … something in the vulnerability of her that caused a tightness in his throat.

The girl recovered quickly. The pale pink lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.

“I might have known you’d find me.”

Zachry made his voice hard. “You’d better come with me. Eddie Gault is loose, and I expect he’ll be looking for you.”

“You people didn’t kill him?”

The casual way she tossed off the question chilled the government man. He said, “No, we didn’t. Now let’s go.”

“Am I under arrest or something?”

“Not officially, but if you don’t come willingly, I’ll take you.” He stopped and looked closely at the girl. “Do I know you?”

The blue eyes narrowed. “No, but I know you. Your type. Mr. Macho. John Wayne. Win the war, salute the flag, take care of the rich, and to hell with the people. Build bigger weapons; kill more babies.”

He knew now who the girl reminded him of. Jenny, the daughter he’d lost. The words that came from Roanne’s soft pink mouth were the same Jenny had used to damn him the last time he’d tried to see her. They hurt him almost as much now.

For a moment, as the pain showed in his eyes, Roanne’s expression softened. She almost moved toward him, then caught herself.

“Let’s go.” Zachry bit the words off. “Eddie got away from us not far from here. He killed one man and badly injured another. He was not in a good mood.”

“No, I suppose he wasn’t.”

Roanne continued to fold the clothes on the bed and fit them efficiently into the backpack.

“Damn it, there isn’t time for that.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute.” She frowned at the gun, which was still in his hand. “Why don’t you put that somewhere?”

“I might need it.”

“What for, to make you feel like a real man?”

His face burned. He felt foolishly ashamed to show any weakness in front of the girl.

“Please,” she said in a gentler tone. “Guns make me very nervous.”

He laid the pistol on a low bookcase, keeping it within easy reach.

“All right?”

Roanne gave him a smile that seemed almost real. Zachry fought off memories of the laughing little girl named Jenny.

She packed the last of her things. Jeans, T-shirts, rough-woven sweaters, sneakers, a worn old panda bear. She shrugged into a red quilted jacket, hefted the backpack, and looked up at him.

“Okay, I’m — ”

Her eyes widened suddenly.

A strong gust of wind rattled the windows. Zachry sensed a movement behind him an instant too late.

It felt like a baseball bat slammed across his shoulder blades. The breath was driven from his lungs, and Zachry stumbled all the way across the room and into the wall next to the window. There he slid to the floor, numb. For the next few moments Zachry saw the scene in the bedroom as though it were happening underwater.

The figure in the door was recognizably human and probably male, but beyond that nothing was certain. The face was a mass of oozing sores. The clothes were soaked from the rain and torn in a hundred places. Irregular dark splotches on the chest and upper abdomen looked like gunshot wounds.

Roanne recovered her composure quickly. She faced the monstrous figure in the doorway without flinching.

“Hello, Eddie.”

A half growl, half moan spilled out of the ravaged mouth.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, Eddie. Not anymore.”

The bloody thing raised a hand toward her.

Roanne extended her own hand and walked forward.

Still on the floor, fighting to regain control of his limbs, Zachry found his voice. “No!”

The girl ignored him. She took another step toward the thing that had been Eddie Gault. Zachry could hear its ragged breathing, smell the stink of blood and body waste. He saw the pistol lying on the low bookcase. It might as well have been in Milwaukee.

“Get away from him!” he cried.

Too late. As Roanne came close to him, Eddie drew back the hand he had extended and put all his maniacal strength into a backhand blow that knocked her onto the bed and across it to the floor.

Eddie took a step toward the bed. Roanne unsteadily tried to rise, holding her jaw where the skin had been laid open by the blow. For the first time her eyes showed real fear.

With an effort of will, Zachry got his legs under him and, gripping the windowsill, pulled himself upright. Eddie swiveled the ghastly head so that he was looking at him. He stood maddeningly between Zachry and the gun.

With a gurgling sound in his throat, Eddie returned his attention to Roanne, who was standing against the wall, her hands up in a useless pantomime of defense.

Lou Zachry pushed off from the windowsill and lumbered toward the bloody figure advancing on Roanne. He lowered his shoulder and hit Eddie in the chest with a sodden smack. The force of his rush backed Eddie up but did not knock him off-balance.

Zachry stayed close to him. He turned his head to shout back at the girl, “Get out!” When she did not move, he shouted roughly, “Go, damn it! Move!”

Without warning, Eddie’s arms wrapped around Zachry and locked onto his body like steel clamps.

“Get out, Jenny!” The words were squeezed out of him as Eddie applied pressure.

Roanne snatched up the backpack and stepped past the struggling men to the doorway. There she lingered just for a moment and looked into the pain-filled eyes of Lou Zachry. Then she was gone.

Zachry concentrated all his strength on trying to break the punishing bear hug Eddie held him in. He could see the gun, tantalizingly close, yet not quite within reach. Eddie’s rank breath stung his nostrils. The leaking sores dripped down the front of both men.

He could not get air into his constricted lungs. His visior clouded. Zachry fancied he could feel the microscopic eggs of the brain eaters filtering in through his pores, entering his bloodstream and hatching like malignant tadpoles, then swimming, swimming to his brain, there to chew away his sanity and his life.

A rib snapped. The white-hot pain momentarily restored Zachry’s consciousness. Struggling was useless. The crazy strength of the ruined man holding him was more than any normal being could overcome.

Zachry rolled his eyes back up into his head so the whites showed. He forced his straining muscles to relax and went limp in the terrible embrace. Darkness closed in as real oblivion threatened to overtake the sham.

Another rib broke with a muffled crack. And a third. Zachry had no breath left to cry out with. Red flashes pin-wheeled through the thickening black before his eyes. Would this crazy bastard never let go?

Something soft burst inside of Lou Zachry. He felt it go with a sickening sense of doom. His abdominal cavity began to fill.

Abruptly, Eddie Gault released his hold. Zachry folded to the floor like a half-filled bag of laundry. After ten seconds that seemed an eternity, he managed to pull in a tiny breath. The broken ribs stabbed him like flaming arrows. The soft thing that had burst inside him was loose.

Eddie turned slowly one way, then the other. His leaking eyes searched the room.

Zachry bit into and through his lower lip to keep from screaming as he dragged himself six inches at a time across the bare floor toward the bookcase. Six inches. Six more. Six more. Now he almost had it.

Eddie saw him.

With mucus and blood dribbling from his mouth, Eddie stumbled toward the fallen man. Zachry made an agonized lunge for the gun. Eddie dropped to his knees and grabbed his arm just above the wrist.

While Zachry writhed in wordless agony, Eddie squeezed the arm. The radius bone snapped under the madman’s grip, then the ulna. Zachry’s hand flopped on his wrist like a dying fish.

With an effort that blinded him for a second, Zachry twisted his body around. While Eddie still squeezed the useless right arm, he lunged with his left hand for the gun. The tips of his fingers grazed the gnurled grip, his nails dug in, the pistol clattered to the hardwood floor.

With Eddie intent on mashing his shattered bones, Zachry scooped up the pistol with his left hand. He jammed the muzzle into the oozing face and pulled the trigger. The explosion was muffled by the bloated flesh. Zachry continued to pull the trigger until all five bullets carried by the Chief’s Special had blasted into the sick man’s brain.

Incredibly, it took several more seconds for Eddie’s grip to loosen. Finally, he let go and toppled sideways, slowly, as though lying down for sleep. And at last he was still.

Lou Zachry sat panting in shallow breaths, each one bringing a crunch from his shattered ribs. He tossed the empty gun at Eddie. It thumped to the floor and lay there, dead as the man. Zachry folded his one working arm across his stomach, trying to hold himself together. He felt his in-sides coming up, and there was nothing he could do about it. The bloody vomit spewed out of him, and he fell forward into blackness alongside Eddie Gault.