Wormwood Dawn (Episode VIII) (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Blood ran from the mutant’s head as Maynard sawed open its skull. The bone was hard; much harder than a human’s, and was a bit more difficult to open. Straining against the rock-hard plate, he gritted his teeth and put more pressure on the bone saw. In the confines of his quiet cellar, among the caged creatures, his grunts echoed loudly.

“Damn thing,” he cursed, giving up and setting the saw down next to the head.

He folded his arms across his chest and stared down at the alien body. It was what Toby had called a stalker; a mutated human that had taken on the characteristics of a predator. He had decided to find out more about them, hoping to find a cure for himself. So far, he had learned nothing; only that the blood of those who were immune—like Toby—could slow down the process and buy him more time.

Though the prospect of becoming some higher form of life intrigued him, there was no guarantee it would happen to him. He could very well become one of these mindless dipshits that crawled around on four legs.

He didn’t want that.

What he wanted was to transform into the ultimate lifeform that stood attached to the wall behind him. It was sentient and powerful; a greater form of life created from the raw materials of a psychotic mind.
That
was his goal, and his dream. With characteristics like the overlord, he could effectively live forever and rule the world.

What was left of it, at least.

The only thing he had wondered was how the creature behind him had been killed. Seeing as it was practically immortal, and had strong regenerative abilities, there was no reason it would have died. So what was it? Had someone figured out some sort of secret to killing the unkillable?

Was it even dead?

Frustrated, he picked up his saw again and, with new determination, ground through the hard bone. After a few minutes of exhausting efforts, he finally penetrated it, making a small, dark incision into the skull. He set down the saw, taking up a flashlight and peering into the wound.

He could see brain material, which was surprising. The fungal humans had no brain left; only the primitive parts. This creature, however, seemed to have a fully working brain. He just needed to get a closer look.

He picked up the small pry bar from the steel tray beside him and inserted it into the tiny gap. He then held the head with one hand, and twisted the bar with the other. There was a cracking sound—very faint—but the skull did not budge. He worried about damaging the brain if he put too much effort into it. That would be no good.

He relaxed for a moment, taking the time to come up with a better plan. As he stood there staring, the faint sound of movement behind him caught his attention. He turned quickly, searching the floor for any scurrying rats. They got in frequently, which wasn’t surprising—it was cold out, and the rats always sought warmth.

But he saw nothing. Perhaps it was Johnny, or maybe Julian. He would have to remember to kill them, as Toby suggested. There was no reason to keep them alive; they were dangerous and useless. There was nothing more he could learn from them.

He shrugged, turning back to his specimen. He thought about how he could open the skull without damaging the brain. A normal human skull had sutures, which could be used to split the plates apart. But this creature had no sutures. Somewhere along the mutation process, the plates had all fused into a single bone. That was unusual, to be sure, and a great burden to him. But with physical characteristics like that, the creature would be tougher; not so easily wounded.

The perfect predator, but mindless and primitive. A simple killing machine, nothing more.

“Tell me your secrets,” he whispered. “Tell me what you’re made of.”

He heard the sound behind him again. He spun around. Johnny was stirring; crouched in the corner but sniffing around, as if there was something to eat.

“What’s wrong Johnny?” he asked out loud.

He looked over to Julian’s cage. The creature was also sniffing, but less eager and somewhat indifferent. Julian was even more mindless than Johnny. Though both were blind, Julian was also incapable of hearing much. The fungal plates that grew over its face were thick and tough, effectively blocking off any stimuli. Only the two small openings of its nose were capable of sensing anything. That, and its heightened tactile sense. He knew Julian could feel vibrations in the air and in the ground.

So what had awakened him?

Shaking his head, Maynard looked around more. There were no rats anywhere; none that he could see. There was nothing out of place. There were no other creatures here. He was alone with Johnny and Julian, and his dead things.

“You’re losing your mind, Maynard,” he chuckled.

He briefly thought of the screaming thing he had encountered outside. Could it have gotten in? If so, how? He was sure that if it were here, it would attack, or at least scream. That’s what it did.

“Screamer,” he said. “That’s a good name. Screamer it is.”

He thought about how the creature appeared out of nowhere, and then went back to nowhere… in the blink of an eye. What kind of mutant was that? Was it even a mutant? He laughed at the question. Of course it wasn’t a mutant. It had to be something supernatural.

It
had
to be.

Not that Maynard believed in the supernatural, but maybe there was something to it. Ever since the outbreak, he had sensed other things around. Dark things that watched him. Shadows hiding in the shadows. He had always thought they were some manifestation of his guilt, or fear of himself.

He
did
fear himself. He was a monster, he knew. A horrible, horrible monster. He had a boy imprisoned in his cabin, watched over by a horrid thing that used to be a man. That was a terrible thing to do. The boy was probably terrified and confused. But then, if he hadn’t found Toby, he would have frozen to death, or worse.

He had saved Toby. Toby owed him his blood.

“Stop it,” he whispered. “Thoughts kill plans. Thoughts kill plans.”

Fuck it,
he thought, jabbing the pry bar into the skull. He twisted it hard, hearing the bone splinter enough to open the gap somewhat. He took his other hand and stuck his fingers in it, grasping the edge. He pulled with all his might, and with a sickening, cracking splat, the head came open. He rested his hands on the table to catch his breath, chuckling as his breath came in hoarse whispers. The brain that was now exposed was exactly what he expected.

A completely primitive brain with no higher functions.

There were no temporal lobes, frontal lobes to speak of, or anything that would indicate that this was a sentient or intelligent creature. Its brain was nothing more than that of a reptilian predator. It was only half the size of a human brain, as well.

“Oh, you poor, poor thing,” he whispered, laughing. “All this and no brains.”

He backed away, dancing around in a circle as he sang;

“
I could while away the hours, conferrin’ with the flowers, consultin’ with the rain. And my head I’d be a’scratchin’ while my thoughts were busy hatchin’…”

He stopped in a pose gesturing for the creature to finish. It didn’t.

“
If I only had a brain…”

Maynard burst out in laughter, dancing around in circles as he swayed about the room. He banged on Johnny’s cage, laughing out loud. Johnny bashed his head against the glass, baring his teeth and growling in hunger.

“You worthless piece of shit,” Maynard said, his face frozen in a rictus grin. “You need to see the wizard.”

He turned and bashed Julian’s cage. Julian seemed indifferent, merely raising his head and growling lightly. Maybe he wasn’t hungry.

“And
you!
” he said to the curtain at the back wall. “If I only had
your
brain.”

He paused, clasping his hands before him as he stared at the glossy red curtain. He had the urge to rip it off of the wall and sing a song to the beast; the overlord.

“Overlord?” he said, tapping his lips with his finger. “That’s a silly name. From now on I shall call you
The Demon
.” He said the name with a venomous tone, and danced away laughing again.

“Stop!”
he shouted, tensing his muscles and freezing in place.

His mind became a blur; flashing pictures of monsters and serial killers and Hitler and Vlad the Impaler and Mexican cartel beheadings and—

He burst out laughing, letting the cackling go on until his breath was strained. He fell to his knees, clapping his hands over his face. He felt sad for some reason. No, it was something else. It was just the urge to bawl like a child.

So he did.

There on the stone floor, Maynard cried like baby. He had no idea why, he just did. The sadness was painful, very painful. It couldn’t be held in any longer.

“You sick, sick, sick, siiiiiiiiiiiick… fuck.”

Glass exploded behind him. He laughed when he heard it, knowing that Johnny had broken it. He casually stood, going to his table and fetching the bone saw. He turned around to see Johnny crouching there, sniffing and licking his lips. He was hungry. Very hungry.

“Heeeeeeere’s
Johnny!”
Maynard said.

Johnny charged with his claws out and his teeth bared. Maynard raised the bone saw, pointing it downward like a dagger. As soon as Johnny reached him, he jabbed it right into the creature’s head. Johnny jerked upright, pulling the saw from Maynard’s hand, and fell backward onto the floor. A pool of black slime grew around his head as it gushed from the wound. Maynard just stared at it, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

“When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah.”

He pictured his own father lying there on the floor with the same pool of blood around his head. The blood that came from a wound Maynard had made with his hatchet. He had split his father’s head as if it were nothing, and laughed afterward.

Just like now.

Except Johnny had only tried to eat him. Johnny had never abused him, had never done nasty things to him. He was just a mindless monster, not a cold and calculating sociopath. Nothing like… Maynard.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” he whispered with remorse. “You shouldn’t have tried to eat me. I wouldn’t taste good anyway.”

Somehow, he thought, Johnny probably didn’t care.

Toby watched the shadows dance along the wall, brought to life by the flames of the fireplace. It was dying down, and he knew he would have to throw on a few logs to keep it going. Fortunately, George had brought in an armful earlier, before going to his place in the corner.

He stared at the strange creature, marveling at its bizarre nature. He tried to imagine what George looked like when he was alive. Judging by his beard and shaggy hair, he was probably kind of like Travis or Eric; just a groovy, far out dude who smoked funny-smelling cigarettes and drank expensive beer from a bottle.

“Do you like beer, George?” he asked.

George stared off into space, swaying back and forth as usual.

“Do you smoke funny cigarettes?”

Again, nothing.

Toby rolled over onto his side, watching the flames. Outside, he could hear a fierce storm brewing. The wind was rough, and the nearby trees cracked and creaked under their own weight. Surely, one of them would fall—or at least drop a branch.

That was okay. More firewood for George to gather.

Toby got up then, walking over to the wood pile. He selected a few nice pieces and threw them on the fire and sat down at the hearth. The fire was warm and comforting. It reminded him of sitting around the campfire with his mom and the others. The thought brought a tear to his eye, and a tightness to his throat.

He missed them all.

“Maynard,” he said out loud, hoping the strange man would hear him.

There was no answer. Maynard must be asleep. He turned to look at George. George was looking at him. Toby’s heart jumped, and he shuddered for a split second. Why was George looking at him?

“Go to sleep, George,” he said. “Stop looking at me.”

George’s eyes were dull and lifeless, like an animal’s. But Toby knew he was alive. He was just not a normal person anymore. But why was he looking at Toby in such a strange way? It was disconcerting. Weird.

“Stop,” Toby said again, scooting farther away from him and closer to the fire.

George’s head jerked for a moment. A strange moan came from his lips, and he lowered his head. A glob of brownish slobber dripped from his mouth and onto the floor. There was a slight popping sound, then another. George began growling lightly, stopping to sniff the air like a dog looking for a treat.

“George,” Toby said timidly. “What’s going on?”

George’s head jerked up quickly. His eyes were red, and were dripping tainted blood. He snarled, crouching over and sniffing with more intensity. What was happening? Toby stood, terrified, backing away toward the wall. George’s head jerked in his direction, and the half-eaten nose wrinkled and twitched as he sniffed around. George’s left foot took a step forward, and a high-pitched growl came from his twisted mouth.