The Becoming - a novella (9 page)

Julie—the
real
Julie,
not this horrible, shambling, blank-eyed version—wouldn’t have believed any of it
if she had been rational enough to listen to Matt. She had never believed. But he
didn’t care. She wasn’t from around here. Harrisburg was only fifty miles from
Tonopah, but it may as well have been fifty thousand. Julie hadn’t grown up
hearing the tales of disappearing miners and strange incidents occurring with
regularity in those tunnels under the earth’s surface.

Matt believed the
stories, though. He believed every last one. The evidence was right here inside
his own house. And he could
prove
something horrifying was happening,
too, if only he could get Julie and Tim to the hospital. But he also knew they
would never allow that to happen. At least not willingly.

He reached under
the couch and gripped his gun like an infant clutching a teddy bear, reassured
by its solidity and deadly potential. He had come to a decision, and felt
marginally better for it. Tomorrow he would take one more day off from work. He
would drive his girlfriend and her son to the hospital, by force if necessary.

At gunpoint if it
came to that.

At the hospital he
would demand the doctors on duty take x-rays of both of them, again at gunpoint
if necessary. The authorities would be called—of course they would, a lunatic
waving a gun around a hospital would be all over CNN within fifteen minutes of
their arrival—but that was okay, because if the X-rays revealed what he
knew
they would, Matt guessed every cop within a thirty mile radius of this tiny
little dying hick town would be needed, and even that much firepower might not
turn out to be enough.

His old life as he
had known it would disappear, but what difference did that make? It was already
long gone, anyway. Matt was going to do whatever it took to try and get his
little family back, and although he knew tomorrow would likely be one of the
worst days of his life—hell, maybe it would even be the last day of his life—he
was glad to have at least decided on a plan of action.

Before he knew
what was happening, Matt had slid into a troubled slumber.

***

It was on him.

Something was on
his face.

Matt’s eyes opened
and by the light of the TV screen flickering in the corner of the living room
he could see Julie and Tim standing next to the couch, side by side, still as gargoyles,
white as the ghosts they had become, their eyes dead and empty.

But that wasn’t
the worst of it. Those awful things he had seen two nights ago protruded from the
mouths of his two family members, tenebrous and ropy and somehow alien. The
segmented bodies pulsed and squirmed, they looked like gigantic earthworms,
only they were much too big to be earthworms, and oh God they were coming out
of Julie’s and Tim’s
mouths,
and they had clamped onto Matt’s face, one
on each side of his head, holding it steady while they pushed and pulled at his
lips, trying to force his mouth open so they could infect him, too.

Matt worked his
jaws, clamping his mouth shut, choking off the scream that tried to explode out
of him of its own accord. His panicked mind raced, threatening to shut down,
but from somewhere came the thought, the knowledge, the certainty, that if he
screamed he was dead, it was that simple.

So he forced his
mouth shut and fought for his life, clawing at the disgusting mottled earthworm-things
as they squirmed and pushed and pulled, working relentlessly to gain access to
a new host. Instead of withdrawing as they had done two nights ago when he
awoke and saw them, the things must have been emboldened by their success with
Julie and Tim, because they clamped down harder on Matt’s face. They wriggled
and squirmed, squeezing until he thought his cheekbones would shatter.

Matt kicked and
clawed, fighting desperately but getting nowhere against the unrelenting brute
force of the worm-like creatures. He was tiring rapidly, sickened by the slimy
chunks of parasite skin collecting under his fingernails.
At least there’ll
be evidence for the cops to find,
he thought to himself, and that was when
he remembered the gun.

It was under the
couch.

Inches away.

Waiting to be
used.

And Matt knew it
was his only chance.

Almost beyond
rational thought, his head filled with the screams of terror his mouth could
not open to unleash, Matt released his left hand from the creature stabbing out
of Julie’s open mouth. It immediately redoubled its efforts to wedge its way inside
Matt.

He grabbed for the
gun in a panic and slapped it away instead. It skittered a couple of inches
farther under the couch on the thick living room rug and stopped. Matt moaned
in terror and as he reached for the Glock one more time, one
last
time, the
parasite protruding from Tim seemed to get a flash of inspiration. It wriggled
over Matt’s nose, bunching its horrible body up and sliding right over his
nostrils, cutting off his air supply.

Matt pushed against
the armrest with his feet, leaning off the couch, extending his hand and feeling
for the gun as his grip on the monster began to weaken. He had been panting
from exertion and knew he was down to his last few seconds of life. He would
open his mouth reflexively to breathe and that would be the end of him. The
parasite would thrust into his mouth, sliding into his body, and he would die
or even worse he would wish he were dead, becoming just another empty-eyed
zombie just like his girlfriend and her son and he would—

—He felt the gun.

He wrapped his
sweaty hand around it, forcing himself to move deliberately, knowing he would
not get another chance. He swung his hand out from under the couch and took aim
at the parasitic host nearest him, the thing that used to be Julie, and almost
lost his nerve.

Then one of the
worm-things finally managed to force its way between his lips, wriggling and
questing, and all conscious thought left him. He fired.

Julie’s head
exploded, the left side of her face disappearing, pulverized by the 9 mm slug. Matt
was vaguely aware of a fine crimson mist coloring the air as her body fell and
he thought
I can’t believe I didn’t miss
and then he pivoted his wrist
and fired again. The bullet missed Tim’s head but struck the little boy square
in the chest, blowing his small body backward, opening a ragged hole in his
Spider Man pajama top.

The worm-like creatures
were pulled off Matt’s face as their hosts fell to the floor. He registered a faraway
popping sound through the roaring in his ears, as if dozens of suckers were
being yanked off the skin of his face. Then he rolled off the couch, his feet
scrabbling for purchase as he stumbled toward the hallway, moving without any
real purpose other than to get away from the horrible parasitic organisms.

He reached the
hallway at the far end of the living room and turned, half convinced the alien
pests would be wriggling across the floor in dogged pursuit. But they were
nowhere to be seen. Across the room the bodies of the two people who until
forty-eight hours ago had constituted his entire family lay crumpled unmoving
on the floor. Most of Julie’s head was missing and Tim’s arms and legs were splayed
out unnaturally from the force of his fall. Matt could see blood oozing
sluggishly from Tim’s chest wound. There was less blood than he would have
expected.

He began shaking
uncontrollably, now certain he was going into shock but not caring. He leaned
against the wall and slid down to the floor. Matt knew no one in law
enforcement would believe his story, he would be arrested and charged with murder,
but knew also that once the autopsies on Julie and Tim were completed he would
be exonerated.

It didn’t change
the fact, though, that Matt Hardiman had just gunned down the two people closer
to him than anyone else in the world. He felt feverish and sick, and before he
realized what was happening, he puked, partially digested food and stomach acid
spewing out of his mouth onto his legs and onto the floor around them.

He welcomed the
nausea, was thankful for it. One of those wormlike things had succeeded in
forcing its way between his lips and maybe by throwing up he could rid himself
of its awful taste. He pictured the segmented bodies of the long, thin
parasites wriggling and crawling along his skin and knew he would feel their
presence forever. He could scrub his face with steel wool and it wouldn’t make
a damned bit of difference. He would feel the slimy trail of their mottled
bodies as long as he lived, and in all probability would suffer nightmares
about them every night as well. Assuming he ever slept again.

Sweat rolled down Matt’s
face and his stomach twisted and churned and he knew he was going to be sick
again. His head hung on his chest and he closed his eyes for just a second. He
felt tired, so damned tired.

And a ropy, slick
body slithered up his arm, moving incredibly fast, faster than Matt would have
thought possible. It flew up his arm to his neck, its goal obvious, its intent
clear. His eyes opened and his stomach emptied again and he dug his heels into
the carpet, trying to push away from the parasite, instinctively trying to flee
but succeeding only in pressing his body harder into the wall.

In a flash the
thing had wriggled across his face into his open mouth, undeterred by the vomit
spraying in the other direction. Only then did Matt remember the Glock. He was still
clutching it in his left hand and he lifted the gun but there was nothing to
aim it at. The long slimy body of the creature was plastered to his own,
wriggling and moving, and it had already entered Matt’s mouth.

There was nothing
to aim at but Matt fired anyway. He became vaguely conscious of a stinging pain
in his foot as the slug blew his toes off at the same time the parasite’s head,
if it even
was
a head, found its goal and slid smoothly down Matt’s
throat.

The thing moved
quickly and the taste was nowhere near as bad as he had imagined it would be
and it kept going, wriggling and squirming, moving steadily into Matt’s mouth
and down his throat until in a matter of a few seconds it had disappeared
entirely.

And Matt knew his
problems were over.

PASKAGANKEE

By
Allan Leverone

Excerpt

Prologue

November
16, 1691

Stephen Ames shivered in the
gathering darkness, a bone-chilling cold seeping into his body as he sat
waiting for the girl’s arrival. The wind whispered and moaned through the bare
trees as the Great North Woods prepared for winter. The silence was
all-encompassing, unrelenting. He wondered if the bronzed young Abnaki woman
would come as she had promised and if she would bring the child whose existence
he had discovered just yesterday—
his
child—to meet him for the first
time.

Stephen was a
member of a small group of missionaries traveling up and down the eastern
seaboard of this strange, wild country; their mission, to convert the native
savages to Christianity and thus save their souls. It was a difficult and
dangerous life, nearly impossible at times, but also incredibly rewarding when
he was able to make a positive impact on the lives of the people he converted.

It was also a
lonely job. The dedicated band of missionaries numbered roughly a dozen; though
the exact total was constantly in flux as men joined the group or dropped out,
unable to handle the stressful life, difficult travel and unrelenting physical
danger. The last time the missionaries passed through this remote area, working
with a tribe located in a small village hard by the Penobscot River, he had met
a Native girl, roughly his own age of twenty-two, and had taken refuge in her
arms from the constant, crushing loneliness.

That was two years
ago. The missionary group spent a couple of months working with the savages and
then moved on, converting no one but making what they felt were potential
inroads with a small number of the tribe’s more influential members.
Unfortunately, the chief, an older savage with a deeply lined face and
decades-old battle scars crisscrossing his body, had been unreceptive to the
well-intentioned band of young men, eventually dropping all pretense of
civility and forcing them to move on under threat of violence.

Now the men were
back in the area, nearing the northernmost portion of their territory, and had
decided to pay another visit to the village to see if the situation with the
tribe had changed. Perhaps the old chief had died and a new warrior had taken
his place, one more receptive to the missionaries’ soul-saving message.

It was during this
visit two days ago that Stephen spotted the Native girl walking through the
village and signaled her. She had run to him, recognizing him immediately, and
in a curious combination of English, French, and the strange Abnaki native
tongue, the two had worked out a time and place to meet the following night.
She seemed nervous and anxious, glancing around furtively as if fearful of
being observed, and after getting her message across to Stephen, disappeared
quickly into the bustle of activity in the village.

At their meeting
last night, Stephen received the shock of his young life when he learned he was
the father of a now eighteen-month-old baby girl. The Native woman had become
pregnant by him and given birth long after the band of missionaries had been
forced to move on. She related to Stephen how she had nearly been sacrificed by
the tribal elders when they learned she was with child, but had been spared due
to her age and the fact that the baby’s father had left the area, never to
return. The child would be raised as a Native in the customs and traditions of
the Abnaki.