The Creepers (10 page)

“He is, but, it’s hard to explain in
simple terms." Lyda regretted the word choice. It was rare that she
flaunted her medical knowledge. She kept the clinical terms to a minimum,
choosing instead, to communicate ailments and treatments in connotations that
could be simply understood by the majority of the Folks.

“I’m no plebe, little darling, you of
all people should know that,” the Pastor said, running his eyes along Lyda’s
thin body. His gaze lingered on her crotch. “I have the ear of our Lord, and
even though we’ve never touched . . . I’ve had you in every way. I understand
that overeducated brain of yours better than even you. So, tell me what the
hell’s on your mind.”

Lyda shifted uneasily at his words. They
had shared the deepest, darkest of erotic secrets together since Steven’s
death. She wasn’t proud of it, wasn’t entirely sure how it first happened, but
she had spent many nights in this room, chasing her demons away with her
fingers and the Pastor’s penetrating gaze. They had both lost their true loves
to the Creepers, and none would ever replace them. The dirty bond they now
shared kept them from being overwhelmed with grief. But she hated it when the
Pastor spoke of it. She preferred it to happen, without words before or after,
so she didn’t have to dwell on it. Pastor Craven knew it, and when he wanted
something more out of her, whether information or anything else, he’d bring it
up to disarm her. She wanted to make sure he absolutely understood what she was
going to tell him, but that required time and patience on her part . . . none
of which she had.

Lyda spoke quietly, “The Fection is
there, in his blood, and has been for some time. He was infected much earlier
in his life, and somehow his body has put the Fection in a stasis. But make no
mistake he is infected." She drank, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

Pastor Craven poured himself another
shot. “What’s this about the other boys?”

“It’s a hunch, but judging from what I
found in his blood smear, and my suspicions of where exactly these boys came
from . . . I think they all have it. But I must test them all to be sure."
Lyda flashed her teeth in a wicked smile. “If they all have it . . . well, it
would seem the Lord has answered our prayers.”

“Let’s not put the cart before the
horse, little darling, but if what you claim is true, it certainly changes
things. Before we do anything, I want to see it with my own eyes, so I may
communicate it to the Lord. And you need to test the other boys as well."
The Pastor put down his glass and returned her smile with one of his own.

“That shouldn’t be, too, hard,” Lyda
said, unbuttoning her jeans. She needed a release to clear her head.

“If they all have it . . . we will be
rid of them." He watched Lyda’s hand disappear under her cotton panties.
He stiffened.

“What about Randy and those that support
the boys?” she moaned.

“I’ll think of something.”

*
* * * *

Ryan looked pale, but the life was still
lighting his face with that healthy boyish glow. Gently removing the tape and
mouthpiece, Bobby revealed the small smile resting on his brother’s lips, as if
Ryan was dreaming of a better world, one without second death. Bobby said a
silent prayer of thanks. He knew his brother would make it. The same couldn’t
be said for him. But at least he could make his exit with a measure of
happiness. It would make his departure that much easier to live with.

“Geez, Bob-o, he looks like Tim,” Bryan
said, his voice cracking.

“Look at the bastard, arm gone, and he’s
still smiling. Probably dreaming of one of those girls from that skin mag he
stole from Cale,” Paul said from his post at the window. “Looks clear so far.”

“There goes our pitcher . . . won’t be
handy anymore in a close game. Wonder if he can swing a bat one-handed?” Peter
said, stuffing a lump of sugar into his mouth.

“Pete,” Paul warned.

“Sorry.”

“He killed the thing with one arm, so, I
think he’ll manage the bat just fine,” Bobby said. He patted Ryan’s leg, trying
his best to hold back the tears that wanted to fall. He undid the restraints
that held his brother down. It wasn’t necessary anymore. He should be the one
restrained. . . .

Ryan twitched at his touch and a low
moan escaped his lips.

Bobby jumped back.

“Bob-o, what—”

“Shh,” Bobby said, putting a finger over
his lips.

Another moan. Ryan lifted his good arm,
fingers raking the air.

Bobby and his brothers moved into a
defensive position near the door.

Ryan’s eyes opened and he fell into a fit
of laughter at the sight of his brothers. He flipped the bird saying, “You guys
should see your faces. Bunch of little girls. Wait until I get out of here.
I’ll take you all out with one arm. Why so glum, Bobby?”

“Nothing, just scared me." Bobby
put up a brave front. He was utterly shaken to the core by Ryan’s joke. Would
it be like that for him? He wondered. When he was beyond the Settlement under
the thick gray clouds, snow falling, huddled beneath a tree, limbs stiffening,
mind going, would the telltale moan part his lips? Would he stumble off into
the night in search of a life to end?

“Bobby, relax. It’s me, man, it’s me.”

Bobby moved towards Ryan with a measured
step. He wanted to tell them, wanted to give them a proper goodbye, but he knew
what their response would be. They’d want to come with him. He couldn’t risk
that. The Fection would be his burden to bear alone. He wanted to give them the
chance at a full life. With every ounce of courage he could muster Bobby hugged
Ryan and said, “You know, that hug ain’t half bad. I’m glad you made it.”

Ryan slugged him in the arm.

Bobby cherished the moment. In a few
hours he’d remember it along with the many great memories of his short life.
He’d look to those moments when the end came. In them he’d be able to find the
nerve to put a bullet in his brain. The crack of the gun would send him off to
heaven, and it would prevent him from putting another living thing through the
change. But before that could happen, he enjoyed one final laugh with his
brothers.

“You guys should go,” Ryan said. “BB
will be back soon I just know it.”

Paul checked the window for any signs
and gave the all clear. A cold blast of wind chilled the room as he opened the
door, but what Ryan said next chilled Bobby worse than anything mother nature
could produce.

“Bobby,” Ryan said, motioning his
brother to stay.

“Come on, I don’t want to clean Creeper
shit again this week,” Pete whined.

“Go, I’ll catch up,” Bobby waved them
on.

Ryan’s happy face was replaced by a
frightened countenance. He said, “I think she means to kill me, Bob-o.”

“What are you talking about, Ryan?"
Bobby watched his brother struggle to find the words for what was swirling
around in his head. Ryan’s eyes searched the ceiling for the pieces. His hand
kept going to his missing limb and his lips trembled.

“She talks to me . . . when she thinks
I’m asleep. She, Bobby, I’m scared." Ryan sniffled, his eyes wide and wet.
“She blames me, us—for everything. She says she’s going to make it hard on us.”

“They already make it hard us, Ryan. We
get in trouble, we get punished, we don’t get in trouble, we get punished.
That’s how it’s always been. For as long as I can remember. They don’t like us
. . . we are not from here." Bobby wished he had something more to offer
his brother in the way of an explanation, but that was their lot in life. They
were given shelter from the greater storm, and all they had to do was endure
countless miniature storms on a daily basis.

“Where are we from? Where do we belong?
What happened to our parents?” Ryan questioned through the sniffles.

“I don’t know." I never will, he
thought. Bobby had always envisioned himself grown up, and with his brothers at
his side, heading out to find answers about their past. The Fection now robbed
him of that dream. “It’ll be okay, Ryan. I promise.”

“You promise, promise?”

“I promise, promise,” Bobby said,
ruffling Ryan’s hair. “I better g—”

“Now what are you boys up to?"
Bobby heard the Pastor say from outside. He turned to warn Ryan but his sly brother
was one step ahead of him, feigning sleep, as if he’d been out the whole time.
Eyes closed, with one good arm he put the mouthpiece back in and Bobby
reluctantly pressed it on and loosely secured the restraints.

Bobby swallowed hard and headed for the
door. Bobby left his brother, knowing he’d never see him again.

“Well now, Bobby, too, you boys are
gluttons for punishment,” the Pastor said, herding the boys into a group in
front of the infirmary. “The Lord works in such mysterious ways wouldn’t you
say, Lyda?”

“He does,” she said adjusting her
glasses.

Pastor Craven paced in front of them
saying, “It seems that a bad case of the fever is going round. So you boys will
behave while Doctor Lyda checks you out okay?”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison. Shoulders
slumped in defeat they huddled together for warmth.

“Good. Now get inside. It won’t take a
moment. Lyda needs to check your blood. And then it’s off to sleep for you. I
will converse with the Lord tonight. Tomorrow you will work off your latest infraction.
Get inside now . . . storms coming, and it looks to be a big one." Pastor
Craven, with Lyda’s help, moved the boys inside.

Bobby listened for Peter’s snores. He
slipped quietly from the bed, checking all around the dark barracks for any
signs of light sleepers. It was a rare thing, light sleep, in the Settlement.
Work was hard, and the days long, allowing little time for idle nights. When in
the Settlement you grabbed as much sleep as you could. You never knew when
Pastor Craven would have a hankering for punishment, and it wasn’t just
Bobby and his brothers that felt the bite, the rest of the boys felt it, too,
only not as often as the outcasts.

The laces sounded like a warning siren
as he tied them. Each thud of his heart, a gunshot that would wake them all. He
grabbed his rucksack and slung his rifle. With one last look at his sleeping
brothers he headed out into the night. If he was careful he’d be able to make
it to the fence without incident. He only had to stay away from the sweeps of
the guard tower light and any foot patrols on the yard. And he hoped they
didn’t feel the need to fire up the infrared scope.

He leaned against the barracks, allowing
his racing heart to settle. The usually bright moon lay hidden by cloud cover,
and a steady snowfall pattered all around him. It was going to be a bad one. He
could smell it on the wind. Bobby dipped into the shadows and made for the
fence. He had to get away before Lyda found out about the bite.

*
* * * *

“Is that what I
think it is, little darling?” Pastor Craven asked, leaning over the microscope.
His hands trembled, a cruel smile contorting his lips.

“It is. They all
have it. Same odd cellular behavior. They are all infected." Lyda looked
at the sedated Ryan, as if he were about to rise and eat her on the spot. She
cringed.

The Pastor,
noticing her revulsion said, “So, now we have to decide what must be done. The
first snow is already falling and in a few minutes we’ll be in full whiteout
conditions. The Lord challenges us early this winter. But he also sends a
mighty gift. Long have these children caused so many of us suffering and pain,”
he looked sadly on Lyda, “and loss, such loss. But no more, little darling, no
more will they be a burden.”

“What do you
have in mind?” she asked, readying a highly potent cocktail of sedatives—enough
to send Ryan to sleep permanently—her fingers shook nervously.

Pastor Craven
looked insane under the harsh bulbs. His eyes were all fire and distance, as if
he looked on the battlefield of his past. Heavy shadows accentuated his sharp
bony features. He looked so frail, brittle enough to crumble to dust with the
slightest touch, but at the same time, a great strength emanated from him,
radiated out, as if God had anointed him with holy light. Lyda had to avert her
eyes.

“You take care
of this one,” Pastor Craven patted Ryan’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of the rest
of them. Let’s just say . . . the Lord demands another lengthy Corral cleaning.
He will deal with them like the Creepers they are. You, little darling, you
knock him out, stop his heart, so we can say we tried, and then put one in his
head.”

*
* * * *

Ryan did
everything he could not to tremble. He sensed Pastor Craven hovering over him. The
rubber mouthpiece planted an oily taste at the back of his throat. He had to
get free, get to his brothers, warn them somehow. But he was weak, he was
tired, and he was without an arm. Thankfully, Bobby had only pretended to
secure him. The restraints would be easy to escape, but getting past Lyda would
be another story entirely, though, he had to try.