Authors: Norman Dixon
The little bastard had a plan, waiting
just beyond the effective range of fire, somewhere out there, well-hidden in
the brush, the kid watched his every step. Jackson walked slow, cursing his
parent's names between each breath. After all, it was they who brought the
destruction of his little world about. His own flesh and blood . . . one of the
enemy. Trying times. Desperate times. People were capable of anything. A
fifteen year old boy lay hidden in the brush with a powerful rifle ready to fire.
Halfway up the road, walking extra slow,
admiring the dead with weeds growing from the holes in their skulls, how he
wanted to be one with them. A silent observer. A witness. He wanted no part in what
was to come, but he couldn’t bring himself to run, to invite that shot he’d
never get to hear. So he walked. Shoulders slumped, he walked on up the Old
Still Water Road the silhouette of a coward.
Life is disagreement. There’s no way
around it. You believe this and they believe that. Different ingredients in the
soup bring about different results, different flavors, but in the end it all
goes bad, souring on the tongue. Jackson knew bitter regret. If he ever got the
chance he’d ask his parents, why?
Why did you bring them to our world?
But their answer would never let him
forgive them.
It was too late for forgiveness. The
Devil had him dead to rights.
People were beginning to stir along the
fence. He could just make out the pale blots of their faces, the glints of
their weapons. He needed to run to them. To warn them. To seek shelter and
medicine for his throbbing hand. But he couldn’t run—mus’nt run now,
son—walking, walking slow as can be, a death march. He felt like the
overwhelmed hero captured by pirates. He was being forced to walk the plank,
and no matter how tough he thought himself, no matter how much he’d seen, been
through and survived, he was helpless as a little boy.
He shivered. The boy’s rifle watching
him every step from somewhere behind him.
*
* * * *
Pastor Craven rubbed his eyes and looked
again. In the breadth of that moment he thanked the Lord and cried internally.
He had to look again. He had to be sure. Yep, there was no doubt about it, none
at all, Jackson Crannen had finally come home.
But where were the others and what was
wrong with Jackson?
The man’s face didn’t look right to him.
There were signs. Signs that had been drilled into his head. Signs he knew all
too well: an open wound, pale blue lips, bloodshot eyes, yellowing skin, slow
motor skills. There were signs. The Fection had not yet taken him, but, well,
there were signs.
Pastor Craven crossed himself several
times and ordered the worried Folks to keep the gate closed. He couldn’t risk
his flock. Wouldn’t risk his flock. He found the cuticle of his left thumb,
taking care to lean on his cane and good leg, he bit it off, welcoming the
sting.
“But, sir, that’s one of our own,” Cale
said, brushing the rust of the gate off the palms of his hands.
“Maybe,” the Pastor kissed the Good
Book, “maybe not.”
*
* * * *
Bobby let the beetle crawl across his
hand, under his shirt, and up his arm. He couldn’t move, had to take care even
when drawing breath. He was well within the kill zone now. The scrub brush he’d
stuffed in his clothes stunk of earth, and a sourness that was somewhere
between rotting fruit and stinky feet. His rifle was nothing more than another
piece of the natural landscape, a swaying cluster of greenery.
He followed Jackson closely, but every
so often his scope found the fence, and the top of the guard tower. At the back
of his mind he began to stack his army. It was not easy to sweep for potential
targets and order his undead army, but he was determined. Somewhere behind the
fence the man he’d come to know as father was being held captive. Very
carefully, he shifted his weight, using the breeze for cover.
Bobby began to calculate distance and
wind in his head. At best he’d get one shot, a free pass on a single target,
but after that he’d have to use the Creepers to melt out of the kill zone. And
he had to do it all before dark. Once the infrared was put to use his heat
signature would stick out, shinning bright above the very minimal signatures of
the Creepers. Even in great numbers they’d show up as only outlines to his
fully exposed silhouette. He’d logged enough hours from that perch with Ol’
Randy to know what to expect.
He watched Jackson, nearly at the fence
now, through his scope. Gently he shifted his scope to the guard tower. He
switched back to Jackson. His finger trembled.
*
* * * *
Safety was behind that fence. Safety was
in the company of his people. Safety was just a few feet away. But death was
much closer than that.
Jackson’s throat cracked as he spoke,
“he’s comin’ for you all! He’s a demon. You was right, Pastor, the boy is out
there. He brings the dead. None of us is safe.”
“Be calm, Jackson, you’re safe now. Come
closer, son.”
“You don’t understand, Pastor. He’s out
there somewhere with an army of Creepers.”
“What happened to your hand, Jackson?”
the Pastor asked, tapping his revolver against the fence.
“Aren’t you listening to what I’m sayin’
to yall? He’s out there. Told me to tell you he wants Ol’ Randy let go. He said
if you do that he’ll leave us be. I think we should do it." Jackson fell
against the fence in utter exhaustion. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The weeks
away from home, the loss of his brother and friends, everything came crashing
down on him. “Please, Pastor, let me in.”
“What happened to your hand?” the Pastor
asked.
“That demon blew it off. Don’t let ’em
get me, Pastor, don’t let ’em eat me. Just let the old man go. It ain’t worth
our lives.”
“We don’t deal with the Devil, Jackson,
you of all people should know that. Why are you alone?" The Pastor rested
his revolved against the fence with a clink.
“Savages . . .” Jackson sobbed, sliding
to his knees.
“Lord, guide their lost souls to
Heaven!" Pastor Craven lowered himself onto his only knee and said, “Poor,
poor Thomas.”
“Damn Baylor kill’t’im, Pastor, shot him
dead." Rage overcame Jackson’s sadness. He jumped up, growling, fingers
hooked through the rusted chain links. “For that bastard child!” he spat.
Saliva, thick and frothy, dripped through his matted beard, flecked the thick
rebar. He was gripped by a serious paroxysm that sent his good arm trembling,
his knees buckling, and his words into an incoherent series of animal sounds.
Pastor Craven moved back with his crutch
amid the gasps of the other Folks. He cocked the hammer of his revolver, aiming
it at Jackson’s head. He said, “Our Father who aren’t in Heaven hallowed be thy
name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us
this day our daily bread . . ." He fired, wiping the Crannen name from the
Earth, forever.
*
* * * *
The first shot was his signal to move,
but it was the second shot that gave him pause. Pathos One hid at the base of
the jagged rise at the rear of the Settlement. Jagged rocks and concrete, barbed
wire, sharp rusty metal, land made uneven by machines and weather stretched out
before him, climbing several hundred feet upwards. Not sheer by any stretch,
but close enough in parts. Twenty years of growth conveniently hid the rest of
the potential pitfalls and injuries waiting to happen. But as far as he could
tell, no eyes were on him. He had to move.
Bobby’s instructions had been exact, and
so far, he’d followed them as such. As he pivoted on a piece of ferrous beam
another shot rang out, and then several more. Scraping the top of his hand on
the sharp tooth of a beer bottle he hissed. Intermittent shots filled the air,
along with shouts.
“CREEPERS INBOUND!” a voice warned over
a static laden megaphone. An inclement weather siren began to blare. The
powerful whine spilled into the valley, carrying off the high mountains,
weakening, and then starting again.
Pathos One imagined old World War Two
bombing footage. Figures rushing for shelter in quickened time. Blurry
ghost-like faces with black blotches for eyes, gray-white fire, crumbling
buildings, switch to bomb bay door footage, geometric patterns, people not
visible from such heights, raining death. It wasn’t exactly the most calming
series of thoughts, but they kept his mind occupied as he moved higher and
higher.
He was supposed to be an observer, a
chronicler of events. The journalist’s excuse. But deep down he knew those were
the words of cowards. Cowards who’d rather film a wounded human being than to
lend a helping hand. All the while claiming that someone had to tell the story,
as if it wasn’t possible to do both. He’d done enough cowardly observation
throughout his life. So many times he’d looked the other way, pretended to do
something else, but no more. When Bobby asked him to help. He didn’t hesitate
to say yes.
He only hoped he wouldn’t fail the boy.
*
* * * *
Pink mist.
The perfect shot. Bobby watched the
tower for movement. None. For the moment the .50CAL was silent. He didn’t have time
to register anything else. It all happened so fast. One moment he was watching
the scene, and the next, the back of Jackson’s head was leaking out on to the
Old Still Water Road. He responded by taking out their range, at least, for the
moment. And they responded in fear, shooting randomly down the road.
Bobby didn’t panic. He stayed put. With
measured breaths he began to march his army forward. Once he had their
attention he’d start taking out the resistance.
The Creepers were rank, a fresh spring swarm
of flies, buzzing like the track at Daytona, hung over their heads. They
moaned, a collective bass tone that shook the ground, and Bobby commanded them
to move the air, using their tell-tale sounds as an instrument of fear. The
Folks taught him well and he wanted only to return the favor. So many nights
spent cold and gripped by fear. So many beatings.
His army marched up the Old Still Water
Road four abreast, where space allowed, drawing closer and closer to the kill
zone. Bobby’s mind was a bank of a thousand monitors, points of light, bits of
memories. The pressure behind his eyes was tremendous, thinking one thought, a
protective ring, was mere child’s play compared to the micro-managing he now
performed. Pressure or not, turning back was out of the question.
The moment the first wave passed through
into the kill zone several monitors snapped off. Bobby ordered the troops to
spread, forming V’s that broke apart, using cars and rocks for cover as they
moved forward in their intimidating march. While he pressed the army closer he
kept watch on the guard tower. So far no one had attempted to take up the
devastating weapon. In the confusion of seeing the army, and the ensuing
preparations for survival, nobody even noticed. But Bobby wasn’t sloppy. He waited.
Another monitor.
Another.
Bobby sent the Creepers’ wail higher,
louder, tormenting the Folks.
The waves of Creepers flowed up the road
with the flies trumpeting the way. He continued to spread them out, finding
cover, advancing, quicker now, shaping the field of battle to his advantage. He
used the oldest Creepers as fodder, and they proved masterful at absorbing the
opening shots. Their smaller, skinless faces and dried, severely shrunken
brains made for difficult targets. Bullets sent puffs of yellowish powder into
the air but they did not fall. They marched forward . . . the most insane army
in the history of the world.
Pastor Craven limped his way to the
Corral. His crutch punched muddy holes with each hop. All around him women and
children screamed. Men moved into positions on the rooftops while others handed
out munitions. Several groups were already firing at the approaching horde. The
Folks were riled up, but they were far from panic mode.
“Bobby Carrol, you stirred the hornet’s
nest,” Pastor Craven mumbled. “Mason! Mason, why isn’t that fifty firing!?”
Pastor Craven screeched. He clutched a light post for balance. In one swift
motion he swung his crutch into the chest of a man in blue coveralls. “You,
Doherty, get up in that tower.”
“Yes, Pastor Craven,” Doherty snapped.
He shouldered his rifle and hurried to the ladder. His blue coveralls stained
in dark, oily blotches made him look wounded. “Pastor, Pastor!” Doherty cried
from the tower.
Pastor Craven looked up at the man’s
close set eyes. The fifty feet between them did nothing to hide Doherty’s
squashed features and idiot gaze. The Lord has his reasons, Pastor Craven
reminded himself, before shouting, “Where’s Mason?”
“He’s dead, Pastor! Somebody sh—”
Doherty’s massive forehead burst into a horn of blood and brain. He plummeted
from the guard tower.
Pastor Craven felt the impact of the
man’s body through the ground. Anger squeezed his aging heart. “Cale!”