Wormfood, page 16
But I didn’t mind walking home. Like I said, the rain felt good on my skin. Clean, somehow. And as I walked, I had plenty of time to think about Misty.
And those goddamn worms.
CHAPTER 22
When I got home, Grandma was asleep in her chair, her snoring softly echoing the white noise and static on-screen. I was glad. I didn’t want to have to explain all the mud and blood again. I’d been spending too much time with dead things lately. So I stripped out of my filthy clothes in the backyard and just sat on the steps for a while, letting the falling rain wash the rest of the mud away. After a while, I quietly crept inside and took another long, hot shower. Grandma was going to wonder why the gas bill was so high this month.
After the shower, I grabbed the W and X volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica that Grandpa had bought years ago. One winter he decided to work his way through all of the volumes. I carried the encyclopedia back to my room and turned to the section on WORMS.
It wasn’t much help. There wasn’t a lot of information that fit what I knew about the worms I’d seen. But what did I know about them, really? They ate meat, both alive and dead … So, let’s see, call ’em carnivores. And from what I could tell, they lived in water, both salt water and freshwater. It seemed like they burrowed into the body, eating it from the inside. But other than that, I wasn’t really sure. Whateverthey were, they sure as hell weren’t night crawlers. The only halfway useful thing I did find was something called a “Pompeii worm.” Those things lived in scalding water at the mouths of hydrothermal vents on the ocean floor and could withstand temperatures up to 176 degrees Fahrenheit. That would explain how the eggs or pieces or anything else could survive being cooked inside the hamburgers, if that’s what killed Heck.
Other than that, there wasn’t much. There weren’t any pictures of worms that came even close to the things in the meat that I’d seen. Most of the worms in the encyclopedia were segmented, while the worms I was looking for were quite smooth. The section on parasitic worms looked hopeful at first, but then I realized they were all too small. You couldn’t even see most of them with the naked eye. Then it struck me—these things lived underwater. In the pit, they squirted around in the water as if propelled by rockets.
So I replaced the W and X volume and grabbed the F volume. The FISH section was huge, so I skimmed through most of it. It wasn’t a simple trout or goddamn goldfish swimming around in Slim’s pit. It wasn’t sharks either. But then I started reading about primitive fishes and knew I was getting closer. Especially when I saw a picture of a lamprey. Lampreys are like eels, almost snakelike in their appearance. Their mouths are round, and they seem more like a leech than anything else.
The lampreys in the picture didn’t have the tendrils around the mouth. Close, but not quite. Something else was mentioned in that section, something called a hagfish, or “slime eel,” but there weren’t any pictures.
Hagfish, I thought. Something about the name sounded right.
I grabbed the H volume, flipped through a few pages, and there it was, staring at me, in full color and ugly as anything I’d even seen. Even Fat Ernst on the toilet couldn’t compare. A goddamn hagfish. The picture wasn’t exact; the worms I had seen had black spots running the length of their bodies, and it seemed like the tail was a little different, but it was awful close. Then I started reading, and wished I hadn’t.
Hagfish lived in the cold mud on the bottom of the ocean, in dense groups, up to fifteen thousand in one area. My scalp started itching, and it was all I could do not to scratch, because then I’d be scratching wildly at my whole body, chasing phantom worms all night. They would burrow into dead or dying fish and eat them from the inside. They had a large, circular mouth with a muscular tongue and two rows of strong, sharp teeth. I rubbed the circular wound on my hand. The scab was healing nicely, but it still hurt like hell.
The hagfish could reach lengths of up to three feet.
I swallowed, trying to not to picture one of those worms that big. Hagfish mostly fed off of dead whales, crawling in through the mouth, the eyes, or the anus. Ray’s voice popped up in my head, talking about Earl, “… and I ain’t talking about his goddamn mouth, neither.”
Everything fell into place, into perfect clarity, as if I had suddenly managed to focus my binoculars. Earl falls off the boat, dies, and sinks to the bottom, right there at the mouth of the Klamath River. Then these things, these hagfish, or something close, some kind of mutant aberration maybe, don’t ask me, slide into his body, chowing down on his insides, and lay their eggs, or simply go to sleep in there or whatever. A week later, his body gets pulled out of the water and shipped home. He’s in his coffin, being taken to the cemetery, when I manage to hit the hearse with the Sawyer brothers’ truck and knock the coffin into the ditch. And the baby worms get set loose in the ditch water. I figured the difference between freshwater and salt water didn’t bother them much. Look at salmon; they’re born in freshwater, swim downstream into the ocean, into the salt water, then swim back upstream into freshwater to spawn. So the worms, they headed upstream, up the ditch, maybe smelling meat from Slim’s body pit, I don’t know, but they end up in the pit and God knows where else. But they’re in the pit, that’s for goddamn sure, feasting on all those dead carcasses …
And then we had to go and pull one of the steers out for meat.
I shut the book with a snap. I’d read enough. I’d read more than I wanted to. I shook my head to clear out some of the images of those things, of hundreds, even thousands of hagfish inside of a dead whale; those things eating Earl’s guts; the colony of worms in the pit; the worms in the middle of the steer intestines; and the burning pain in Heck’s eyes as he died. I crawled into bed but I didn’t sleep much. And when I did finally drift off, I wished I hadn’t.
I blinked once, twice. I shook my head and looked around. I was sitting in the middle of a small rowboat as it floated out across endless ocean swells that melted into a dull sky. I couldn’t find any oars, so I just hung onto the bench tightly. The wood felt soft and wet, like an old sponge, and I was scared the seat would crumble into wet splinters under my fingers. Fishhooks and old fishing lines lay in a tangled heap at the bottom of the boat.
I sensed a pale sun somewhere behind me, floating just beyond the low clouds, giving the water and sky a flat, gray color. I risked turning my head to look behind me for any sign of land and the little boat tilted to one side with a sickening feeling. For one gut-wrenching moment, I felt the tiny craft lurch over and I thought I was going to fall in. So I whipped my head back, desperately trying to find the balance that had kept me safe this long. Naturally, the boat rolled over unsteadily the other way. I clutched the wooden sides and shifted slightly, and the boat’s rocking slowly subsided.
The wind died.
I felt something on my head and looked up, felt soft wetness splash my face. It was raining. The drops felt unnaturally warm, like a shower. I spread my arms, momentarily forgetting where I was, and let the rain gently wash my fear away. The water ran down my naked chest and back, cleansing and refreshing. It felt … wonderful. I opened my mouth, drinking in as much of the rain as I could. It tasted sweet, and I swallowed. But as it trickled down my throat, it left a foul aftertaste, like something had died long ago and had been soaking in the water ever since.
I closed my mouth suddenly and opened my eyes.
The raindrops were now a dark, unsettling color. I pulled my arms back in and tried to wipe off my face, my shoulders, my chest, but it was no use. I was covered in slimy, brackish water. It gave off a sick odor as well, like fish that had washed up on a cold, desolate beach and had taken a long time to decompose. The rowboat was rapidly filling up with rainwater.
And it was beginning to sink.
I spit off to the side, trying to clear my mouth of the ugly aftertaste, and breathed through clenched teeth. The gob of spit floated slowly away on water that was now flat as glass. I looked down; the discolored water was now up to my ankles. The hooks and lines floated around in it like a confused spiderweb. I pulled my bare feet quickly out and propped them in the bow of the boat.
A splash.
The floating ball of spit was gone, leaving nothing but expanding circles of ripples.
Despite the color of the rain, the ocean seemed clearer somehow, as if the lack of swells made the depths more visible. I could see speckled, constantly shifting bands of weak sunlight stabbing down into the gloom. Something dark was moving down there. It glided slowly, almost lazily, into the shafts of light, moving upward.
My heart began to beat a little faster and I felt a sudden sense of vertigo, as if I were floating above an immense sky, so I cautiously centered myself in the boat. The gut-churning vertigo made my hands shake. It felt as if I was about to fall from an immense cliff.
The rain continued, and the water in the bottom of the boat got deeper. I brought my hands together and cupped them, trying not to upset the balance while flinging water out of the boat. A crack appeared in the floorboards, growing silently until it disappeared beneath me. A tiny group of bubbles grew from within the narrow space of the crack and floated gently to the surface. They broke and fizzed quietly.
I tried to bail faster.
The dark shape got closer. It was big. Several other shapes joined the first. They swam in wide, slow circles, always creeping upward. I kept trying to hurl water from the sinking craft. One of the thing’s backs finally broke the surface, right under my hands. The skin was rotting. I could see the remains of scales, but these were peeling away, revealing spongy, infected flesh.
Another shape rolled through the water nearby. It rose up and sluggishly slid along the surface long enough for me to catch a quick glimpse of a huge, puckered mouth with many, many small teeth, then dove into the depths and vanished.
The rain came down even harder, driving the small boat deeper into the warm ocean. The horizon tilted drunkenly to the left, and I desperately tried to climb up onto the right side. For a second, this helped to balance the craft, until the entire rowboat cracked in half.
And just as I pitched headfirst into the dark, silent water, the alarm went off.
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 23
I was up and moving quickly despite my lack of sleep and the bruises that left me stiff and sore, slogging through wet fields in a straight path to Fat Ernst’s restaurant. I sure as hell didn’t want to be late, not on a morning when I was supposed to get my paycheck. But I had another reason for getting to work earlier, one that had nothing to do with getting paid. I didn’t want Fat Ernst around for what I had to do.
The wind screamed up out of the valley, driving rain into the foothills and whipping the drops past my face almost horizontally. One field to go. I just had to climb a fence, hike across a flooded pasture, then scoot down the highway a few hundred yards. I had put Grandpa’s boot on the bottom strand of barbed wire and slung my other leg over the top of the fence when I heard the sound of screeching, sliding tires behind me.
My first thought was that the Sawyer brothers had found me again, right in this precarious position with my balls suspended a few inches over angry barbed wire. I saw who really was behind me and almost wished it had been Junior and Bert.
A pickup slid to a stop next to me in a flurry of splattered mud. Slim stared out of the window with sunken eyes. His face was pale, drawn. He stared at me for a few quiet seconds, and from the expression on his face I wasn’t sure if he was going to drive away or shoot me on the spot.
Finally he spoke. “That’s private property, boy.” He sounded like he’d swallowed a fistful of dry fertilizer.
I didn’t know if I should climb off the fence or not, so I kind of froze there. “Um, just heading to work,” I said.
“Work.” He coughed and brought his ever-present handkerchief up to his mouth. He automatically checked the contents, stowed it safely back in the pocket of jeans. He swallowed, grimacing as he did so, and turned back to me. “What’s going on in that goddamn kitchen?”
“What? I don’t know …”
“I haven’t felt right since eating that cheeseburger yesterday. My guts are burnin’ up. Feel like I gotta shit, but nothin’s comin’ out.” With a quivering arm, he slid the gearshift into PARK. “So I want to know what the hell is going on. Where’d Ernst get that meat?”
I damn near slipped off the barbed wire fence but managed to grab the steel post just in time. “I, uh, don’t exactly know where he got it. Costco, maybe?”
Slim coughed again. “Bullshit.” He sniffed. “I know my meat, boy. Hell, I eat a steak, I can tell you how old the steer was, just how long ago it was killed, whether it had been frozen, what the animal had been eating, whether it was corn, or grain … Didn’t realize it at the time, not with Heck gettin’ sick and everything, but that cheeseburger wasn’t any”—he broke down in a fit of hacking coughs, gasping for breath between each cough that made his whole body shudder—“goddamn good.”
“Maybe you ought to see a doctor about that,” I said in as much of a helpful tone as I could manage.
Slim finally got his coughing under control and hawked a large brown ball of phlegm into the mud. He pulled the handkerchief backout and blew his nose forcefully. It seemed like he’d forgotten I was there. He wiped his nose and again automatically checked what he’d deposited on the stiff blue cloth.
Slim flung the handkerchief out the window and wiped his hand frantically on the front of his shirt, biting off quick gasps of air. He fumbled with the gearshift, finally pulled it down into drive, and stomped on the gas pedal. The pickup lurched forward, fishtailing out of the weeds and onto the asphalt. I ducked down as globs of sticky mud flew all around me like shrapnel. A few drops stuck in my hair, my shirt, but at least I didn’t get any in my eyes. Slim’s pickup headed into the foothills.
Then I saw the handkerchief at the edge of the weeds.
I should have left it. I should have just climbed off the damn fence and walked off into the wet pasture. But curiosity got the better of me and I climbed down and pushed through the weeds to the side of the road. The handkerchief looked harmless enough as I crouched down on my haunches next to it. Still, I didn’t want to touch it, so I found a small twig in the weeds and stuck one end under the closest corner of the handkerchief and lifted the flap.
Three tiny gray worms squirmed over each other in a slimy smear of snot and blood.
I jumped back and flung the twig away. I wanted to climb the fence and run though the flooded pasture and leave this behind. Instead, I froze. What if these goddamn worms wriggled their way into the mud here in the weeds? God knows what might happen if they made it to the pasture; it was covered in at least three, four inches of water. They could go anywhere. I gritted my teeth and brought the heel of Grandpa’s boot down on the handkerchief, grinding the worms and the snot and blood into the asphalt. When I pulled my foot back, I could see there wasn’t much left of the worms. That made me feel a little better. But then I realized Slim was still out there, still infested with more of the worms. I jumped the fence and took off on a run across the pasture, splashing my way to work. I’d be goddamned if anybody else ate that meat.
I got lucky. The place was empty. Fat Ernst was in the bathroom once again when I slipped through the front door. I crossed the floor hastily, not worrying about the mud from my boots, and went into the kitchen. Fat Ernst had already started the stove. I yanked the fridge open and there they were, waiting on the top shelf in the sickly yellow light like two malignant tumors, the white Smirnoff boxes. A crinkled sheet of aluminum foil rested within each box, covering the contents.
I didn’t want to touch the boxes with my bare hands, but I didn’t have much choice. I had to do this quick and quiet. I slipped my fingers underneath the box on the right and slid it out toward me. There was no way I was going to stick my hand in there. For all I knew, those worms could be waiting underneath the thin sheet of aluminum foil, having eaten all of the hamburger meat, and were hungry for some more. Some more fresh meat. So I didn’t hook my fingers over the side, nothing. I lifted it gently out of the fridge, set it on the stove, and grabbed the second box. I carefully put the second box on top of the first and picked them up, carrying them out in front of me like a bomb that might explode if I made any sudden movements.
To open the back door I had to prop the boxes against my chest, because there was no other way to do it in a hurry. I gritted my teeth, let the boxes slump against my T-shirt, and scrabbled at the door handle with my left hand. It opened easily and I glided outside onto the loading dock. The Dumpster lid was still wide open, and for a second I couldn’t remember if I was the one who had left it that way. Then I got to the edge of the dock and dropped the boxes inside the Dumpster as fast as I could.
Too late, I realized that Heck was still inside, slumped in about a foot of rainwater, staring up at the falling rain. His mouth was open, and his face had taken on the pale color of mushrooms that have never seen the sun. The boxes landed right on his chest, spilling raw hamburgermeat into the rainwater, and for a split second I caught a quick glint of something shiny in the hamburgers, probably the aluminum foil.
I sucked in a breath. I wanted desperately to back away and run like hell. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten where Fat Ernst had left Heck. No, scratch that. It wasn’t only Fat Ernst. It had been me as well. I had helped. I had helped Fat Ernst drag Heck into the Dumpster. I had helped Fat Ernst in lots of ways.
