The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories (10 page)

“
So?” Joel asked as he
stepped into a small patch of clearing by the water’s edge and laid
down his tackle.

“
It’s called non-point
source pollution, and the ditches around the edge of the fields are
full of it. If anything could survive in that shit, it would have
to be pretty hearty.”

“
The fish you mean? I still
don’t get it.”

“
No—not the fish, exactly.
I think all that chemical soup has bred some sort of super disease,
a virus or bacteria maybe. Something that thrived in the polluted
water. When the river flooded last spring, some of the super bug
spilled out. Something that zombified a channel cat—that’s why it
only went for the live worms. You assholes caught it and brought it
home.”

“
Zombified?” Joel tried to
laugh as he squeezed a wriggling worm onto his first hook. “That’s
nuts.”

“
I told you that it was a
little crazy. I figure the super bug killed the fish, but animated
it enough to help seek out a new host—another living thing to
infect. That ‘fish’ my brother caught on Sunday is one of nature’s
grim adaptations.”

“
Do you think, well, is
Scab okay? A germ like that couldn’t jump from a fish to a person,
right?”

“
I don’t know. If it was
hearty enough to survive in that crap, it could adapt to almost
anything.”

Joel stopped baiting his hook for a moment.
“Look, Barry. Sorry I’ve given you some much shit for being a
college boy.”

Barry shrugged. “I’m not sure I know what
the hell I’m talking about.”

Both men turned around as Allen stumbled
from the brush. Allen smiled briefly, but his grin drooped into a
frown as he glanced beyond his friends. “Hey, what the hell is
that.” He pointed with barrel of his gun.

On the muddy bank only ten feet from where
they gathered, a group of gray, flopping things crawled toward
them, using their fins as makeshift legs. Joel thought they were
too big for the bullhead that used to live in the pond; these
creatures, drained of color like the fish Scab caught a few days
prior, were the length of a man’s forearm.

Barry picked up the net and took a few steps
toward the pale, writhing lumps. “Maybe we don’t have to catch that
big one after all.”

Allen raised his gun halfway, but Joel
caught the barrel in his hand.

“
Careful there General
Custer.”

“
Looks like Gavin’s catch
contaminated the pond.” With a swift motion of the net, Barry
scooped a few of the fish-things from the mud. He reached into the
net, careful not to catch his hand on the sharp spines poking from
their pectoral fins, and lifted one out. “They’ve learned to crawl
out of the water,” Barry said, his voice tinted with awe. “This
thing isn’t breathing—it’s not alive, but...”

“
We caught some healthy
fish out of the river. How’d the whole pond go bad so fast?” Joel
asked.

Barry held the gray mass in front of his
eyes, studying it as its gaping mouth flapped open and shut—not for
breath, but trying to bite Barry’s fingers. “The pond is stagnant.
The river kept a little clean because of the running water.”

“
Watch out.” Allen stepped
back toward the path, unable to keep his eyes from the squirming
thing in Barry’s grip. Having crawled through the mud, it looked
more like a giant slug or worm, and less like a fish.

At Barry’s feet, a few more inched from the
water. He stumbled over one. “Shit…they’re everywhere.” As Barry
glanced down and tried to regain his balance, the thing he held
lunged forward, squirting out of his hand. One spine raked across
his throat before the creature flopped on the ground. Barry dropped
to his knees and immediately pressed his hand against his neck. A
crimson stain, almost black in the twilight near the pond, throbbed
from between his fingers. A thick moan squeezed from his mouth as
more of the things leapt toward him, lancing him with the spines on
their pectoral fins.

Allen ran. Joel took one step toward Barry,
but it was too late. Within moments, Barry’s body was covered with
what seemed like hundreds of the flopping aberrations. Joel’s eyes
caught more crawling from the murk at his feet. The edge of the
water boiled with them. He kicked one away, launching it into the
pond with a plop. Lifting his right foot, he ground another into
the soft mud. There were too many. Retreating slowly at first, he
remembered the afternoons in junior high when they would catch
dozens in just a few hours. He hurried after Allen, crashing
through the trees, hesitating only slightly as branches snapped and
caught him in the face.

Clearing the edge of the path, he tried to
hurdle the fence, but the top of his trailing boot caught, and he
tumbled to the ground. Pushing off with both hands, he staggered to
his knees and glanced behind him. The ground under the trees seemed
to be alive, a moving shadow, shambling toward the fence as
hundreds of undead fish struggled toward him.

Joel scrambled to his feet and rushed to the
truck. Allen was twenty yards away and still running. Without
looking inside first, Joel opened his door, and the reeking thing
that had been his friend lunged for him.

The living and undead crashed on the ground.
All trace of Gavin Hullinger’s humanity was gone. Its face, ashen
and wasted with visible, black veins beneath the translucent
surface, twisted into a snarl with bared teeth. A fishy stench of
rot and decay spilled out.

“
Allen!” Joel cried,
kicking against the ghoul. He dug his fingers into the dead grass,
pulling out little tufts as he struggled to free himself. “Allen,
you son-of-a-bitch!”

Allen skidded to a stop. Now nearly forty
yards from the truck, he looked back to see two bodies on the
ground. Scab looked to be hugging Joel around the lower legs, and
Joel fought to get away. Allen clicked the safety off on his gun.
“Too far to shoot.” Shame more than courage forced him closer; he
ran back another fifteen yards and raised the gun again.

“
Do it!” Joel
shouted.

Allen, never a good aim under the best
circumstances, cracked off a shot.

Joel howled.

Instead of hitting the undead Scab, Allen
missed his mark and peppered the meaty part of Joel’s upper thigh.
Spatters of his own blood caught Joel across the face. Wincing with
pain, he stopped struggling just long enough for the ghoul to sink
its teeth into his calf. Joel managed to work his pocketknife from
his jeans, snapped it open, and plunged it into Scab’s eye
socket.

Allen began to cry, and through his tears,
he saw the undead fish undulating toward him.

“
Oh god,” he muttered. With
a few backward steps, he turned to run, but collided into a
headstone, wrenching his ankle and toppling to the ground. The
shotgun skidded from his hands.

“
No...no...no,” he sobbed
through the pain. The gun had landed a few yards away, and Allen
began to crawl toward it. His spindly fingers dragged the rest of
his body, but the things were close. Flopping and writhing,
twisting through the brittle brown grass, they worked their way to
him. Allen’s fingertips touched the end of the shotgun’s stock, but
he already felt their sharp spines and nibbling sandpaper mouths at
his ankles. Abandoning the gun, he dragged his body upright against
a granite cross. He shook a few of the putrefied fish-things from
his feet, and began a slow, but panicked limp toward the gates of
the cemetery and away from Joel’s fading cries.

The fat, gray former-fish crawled after him,
slowly at first, but as they adapted to the land, their awkward
movement became rhythmic. They gained momentum, hundreds of tainted
and ravenous undead fish, following Allen in his terror, as he
inadvertently led them, pied-piper like, to the rest of
Springdale.

8: Bait Worms

Albert stood in his kitchen with a warm mug
of coffee, peering through the window into the driveway and the
street beyond, looking for the boys. The morning sun had burned
away a thin layer of fog, revealing a pristine, blue sky. It was a
perfect Saturday for two boys on bikes; a perfect day for
mischief.

He took a small sip of his coffee, turned to
his wife, and asked, “Where did they say they were going?”

“
I don’t remember,” Meghan
said. She tucked her light hair behind her ears and pushed away a
bowl of soggy corn flakes. “I’m not sure they told me. They’re
twelve now, Albert. Old enough.”

He set his mug on the counter and leaned
down with elbows resting on either side. “Old enough for trouble.”
He glanced to the window again. “Did they take anything with them?
Fishing poles, or a ball?”

“
Owen asked for my old
garden spade, and I think Lonnie was carrying something, too.” She
stood and stretched, flashing a sliver of her pale stomach where
her t-shirt and pajama trousers usually met. “He’s not a baby
anymore, bub.”

Later that morning, Albert squatted on his
driveway in front of his side-turned push mower, scraping the
bottom of the cutting deck with an old paint knife. As the knife
blade scraped against metal, thick clumps of grass clippings
dropped to the ground. He wore shorts and an old, ragged t-shirt
despite the early October chill. He turned at the sound of rubber
skidding to a halt behind him.

“
Hey, Dad,” Owen said,
dismounting his bike. The boy’s hair was his father’s color—brown
and thick, but his features stretched long and lean like his
mother.

Albert flicked a clump of grass from his
blade and stood. “Hey.” He rubbed his smudged hands against his
shorts. “You and Lonnie have a good time this morning?”

Owen looked down at his bike and set it
gently on the ground. “Yeah, just fine. Planning on going fishing
this afternoon, up at Potter’s Pond. After lunch.” He pushed the
spade behind him, flushing slightly as though embarrassed.

“
What’s that?”

“
Nothing. Just Mom’s old
spade. The little one, for digging in the garden.”

Albert nodded. “You guys dig some worms? For
fishing?”

Owen glanced at the house. “Yeah,” he said,
rocking from one foot to the other. “Look, I’m pretty hungry.”

“
Where’d you find the
worms?”

Owen shrugged as he started walking toward
the garage.

“
Owen, where’d you find the
worms?”

The boy stopped, his shoulders dropped, and
he turned slowly to face his father. “Just in this old garden.
Nobody uses it anymore. Really.”

Albert flinched slightly as though bitten.
“Owen, was it the old house just north of the high school, the
little white one?”

The boy dropped his head. “Yeah.”

“
You know it isn’t
safe—that house is slated for demolition.”

Owen nodded. “I know, but Nick Snyder said
the best fishing worms lived in that garden.”

Albert knelt to his son’s height. “I don’t
care what Nick Snyder said. I just want you to stay away from
there, okay?” He tried to mask the concern in his voice. The man
and his son stood in silence for a moment, the space between them
growing tense and heavy. The front door crashed open, and Meghan
stepped out, wiping her hands against a small towel.

“
Owen, Lonnie’s mom called.
Said he wasn’t feeling well, and he needed to take a rain check on
the fishing trip.” Owen slumped to the garage to replace the spade.
Meghan turned to Albert. “You okay?”

“
Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he
muttered.

During dinner on Monday night, Albert
watched his son poke the meatloaf on his plate for the fifteenth
time before saying anything. “Not hungry?”

The boy looked up, his face washed with a
white frown. He shrugged and dropped his eyes back to the plate.
His fork jabbed into the meatloaf again. “Not really.” He dropped
the fork with a clatter on his plate. “Look, can I be excused?” His
eyes swelled, rimmed with pink, prompting Albert to nod. Owen
pushed from the tabled, grabbed his plate, and carried it into the
kitchen.

Albert leaned closer to his wife. “I’m
worried about him.”

“
It’s a phase.” She grinned
before taking another bite, and her green eyes danced. “I think he
was a little upset because Lonnie is still sick.”

Albert looked at his hands and rubbed a
thumb across the opposite palm. “I wish they wouldn’t have gone to
Jantz’s place.” He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and rubbed
his temples with both hands. “I’m glad the city has decided to tear
it down.” His eyes opened Meghan’s smile. “Demolition starts next
week, and the new lot should be up before the end of the school
year.”

Meghan nodded and took another bite. They
sat in silence for a moment while she chewed. Eventually she set
her fork down and studied Albert’s face. “I know that place carries
some bad memories. Why don’t you lie down, let that headache melt
away a little?”

“
The dishes.”

“
I’ll handle the dishes. Go
lie down.”

Albert obeyed, leaving his dinner plate on
the counter next to that of his son. After staggering upstairs, he
stood at the foot of his bed in the dark room, pushed off both
shoes, and flopped onto the comforter fully clothed. His eyes
drifted shut.

He remembered that little house when its
whitewash was fresh and the old man spat at trespassers. Elroy
Jantz was a squat, shriveled man with black eyes and a quick
temper. They’d teased him before—throwing rocks at his windows,
even breaking one once. But Elroy Jantz’s garden had the best bait
worms in town, and the promise of fat, wriggling things pulled the
young Albert to that black garden with his own partner in crime, a
thick boy with blonde hair named Ralph Chapman. Their parents
warned them away from that old hermit’s place—said he was strange
and dangerous, but the boys were twelve years old and
invincible.