Wormfood, page 18
Since Slim was busy reloading, I stuck my head up a little more, searching the highway. It was empty. No help there. I took another quick glance around the parking lot and found that Ray had, in fact, managed to hit something. A splintered hole about the size of an apple was now in the middle of the windshield of Fat Ernst’s Cadillac. I got pissed. “Nice shooting, Ray.”
Fat Ernst crawled over to Ray’s window. He stuck his head up and said, “You’re gonna pay for that, you stupid fuck.” He grabbed Ray’s pistol and lifted himself heavily to his feet, facing the window. Squeezing the pistol tightly in both fists, he raised it with straight arms and yelled at Slim, “Stand still, dammit!”
He fired and put a fist-sized hole in the pickup’s front fender, almost three feet from Slim, who was bringing his rifle back up and didn’t seem to know or care where Fat Ernst’s bullet had gone.
Before Slim got the rifle barrel back through the pickup’s door, Fat Ernst fired again. The bullet punched through the driver’s door and hit Slim in the stomach, slamming him back against the cab as if a horse had just kicked him in the balls. The rifle landed in the mud next to him.
Ray stuck his head up, saw Slim go down, and whispered, “Shit-fire. Damn!”
“That’s how it’s fucking done.” Fat Ernst dropped the pistol in Ray’s lap, yanked the door open, and stomped down the stairs.
Ray twisted the pistol around his lap until the barrel pointed at his chest and fiddled with the cylinder. He finally popped it out, dumped all of the shells, both empty casings and loaded cartridges, and started reloading from scratch. I thought about mentioning that he was loading a gun aimed at his head but said to hell with it. The dumbshit would have to figure it out for himself.
“Oh, shit,” Misty whispered. Her face looked drained, eyes wide and unblinking. She pushed herself away from me, found her feet, and was out the door before I could stop her. I followed her out into the rain.
Fat Ernst waddled furiously through the mud over to his fallen sign and Slim’s pickup. Misty was right behind him, splashing straight through the puddles. Behind me, Ray came slowly down the wooden steps. “Is he dead?” he called out to Fat Ernst.
Fat Ernst stopped at Slim’s feet and put his hands on his hips. “Close enough,” he called back over his shoulder. Misty and I stopped behind Fat Ernst, neither of us saying anything. Ray stood nervously off to our right. He kept checking to make sure his pistol was back in the holster.
Slim, sitting with his back to the pickup, coughed weakly and blood splattered into the mud. There was a small hole in his stomach, a few inches above the waistband of his jeans. Blood had bloomed across his white shirt, encircled the pearl buttons, seeped down across his leather belt, and run down his jeans. It hurt just looking at him. He stared at his lap, apparently unable to lift his head. “I should …” Slim mumbled under his John Deere cap. “You sonofabitch …”
“Me? Fuck you. You’re the stupid sonofabitch who tried to shoot me. You can’t just go around shooting at people.”
“… Gonna put a bullet … right in your goddamn head …” Slim’s right arm fumbled for the rifle at his side, but he couldn’t move very well and his hand just slapped at the muddy stock.
“Don’t move, you fucking moron. You’ve been gut shot.”
“Please don’t move,” Misty begged. “Please. Just hold on. I’ll go get help.”
“No.” Slim coughed. “No. Don’t. There ain’t no point …”
A jackrabbit shot across the muddy expanse of the parking lot as if its tail were on fire and disappeared into the cornfield along the parking lot, the same one Slim had driven his own Cadillac into the day of the funeral.
Slim tried to push himself up using his rifle as a crutch, but his hands kept slipping in the mud. He coughed again. “Where’d … where’d you get that meat?”
Oh, shit, I thought.
“I went … went up to the pit and counted …” Slim spat.
I heard something out in the east cornfield, a vast, rushing sound, almost like a wave. I turned to the field and saw another jackrabbit come bounding out from the tall green stalks and race past the restaurant.
Misty said, “Don’t try to talk, okay? Save your strength. We’ll get you some help.” She looked at Fat Ernst and said, “We have to get him to a hospital.”
Fat Ernst ignored her. He stared back at Slim. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he declared.
The rushing sound got closer and as I looked out across the field, toward the northeastern foothills; it looked like wind or something was tearing into the corn, making the stalks shudder and shake.
The front door slammed and Junior and Bert worked their way down the steps. Junior looked a little more awake now. He shouted over to us in a thick voice, “You fucked up! You fucked up real bad this time! We’re gonna go home and tell Ma! Then you just wait and see what happens.”
Ordinarily, the idea of a grown man threatening to go home and tell his mommy that someone had hurt him would have been funny, but since this was Junior, and he was talking about his mother, Pearl, it didn’t seem funny at all.
Nobody else was paying much attention, not with Slim lying in the mud bleeding to death. He kept talking, forcing the words out through mouthfuls of blood. “I counted ’em … there’s one missing. Goddamn you …” Misty bent down, tried to get close, to help him somehow, but Slim waved her away. “Get out of here … leave … can’t you see—I’ve got ’em inside …”
“What?”
“I can feel ’em moving … moving inside of me …” Tiny bubbles of blood appeared at the corners of Slim’s mouth. It reminded me of Heck.
A sheet of brown water surged out of the east cornfield and washedover the parking lot. It foamed and splashed around Slim’s legs and the truck’s tires. Within seconds, the cold water was four or five inches deep.
“What the hell is this?” Ray asked. “Do you … ? Shit. You think the reservoir flooded?”
Junior started his truck with a roar. He gunned the engine a few times, popped the clutch, and rammed the back of Fat Ernst’s Cadillac. The bug-spattered, rusty grille smashed into the white car almost as if it wanted to eat the smaller vehicle. The truck’s engine groaned and the tires slipped in the mud as it shoved the Cadillac forward, crumpling the front end of the car under the restaurant.
“I’m gonna kill that prick,” Fat Ernst said.
Slim slapped at the water and started to gag, deep in his throat. A terrible, wet retching sound, it twisted my stomach into knots. He kept slapping at the water, his chest hitching and shivering.
Junior reversed the truck, leaving the Cadillac dead under the window, and pulled around so he faced the highway. He popped the clutch again, flinging buckets of mud at the restaurant, splattering the walls and shattered windows. The truck bounced past us, leaving two large wakes in the muddy water as it surged onto the road and tore off down the flooded highway, heading for the mountains.
“Misty,” Slim croaked. “You go on … get the hell of out here.”
“But—,” Misty said.
Slim kept talking. “I can feel ’em … I can feel ’em moving inside …”
“Feel what?” Fat Ernst shouted over the sound of the flood.
“These—,” Slim said, and pulled the rifle across his chest so the end of the barrel was under his chin.
He closed his eyes.
And pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 27
I didn’t even hear the report as the top of Slim’s head erupted in a chunky mist of blood, bone, and brains. Most of the blood and flesh hit the ceiling of his truck, sticking there for a second, then dripping down onto the seat and the dashboard. As the rest of his head bloomed into the air like a red mushroom cloud, bits and pieces started falling back into the water around us. Misty screamed and kept screaming, her shriek rising higher and higher into the falling rain.
Something landed in my hair, but I couldn’t move. Fat Ernst turned to us and mumbled, “Fuck me.” His face and chest were dripping with blood and flecks of flesh. He blinked rapidly several times, as if some of the blood had gotten into his eyes.
Misty stopped screaming suddenly, just clapped a hand over her open mouth, eyes huge, and froze like that. Tiny droplets of blood were scattered across her white face as if someone had playfully flicked a paintbrush in her direction.
My eyes snapped back to Slim’s corpse. The top half of his head, from the eyes up, was pretty much gone; his skull resembled the top half of a chipped coffee mug, jagged around the edges. The rifle slidout of Slim’s hands and I found myself focusing on it, afraid to look at his head. A Winchester, Model 70. Slim’s shoulders slumped forward onto his knees, his chin flopped forward, and what was left of his brain, looking like the ground meat inside of a charred bratwurst, came sliding slowly out of the ruined skull, dribbling slowly onto his jeans.
Five or six thin, short, gray worms squirmed out of his head, wriggled into the cold, muddy water washing around his legs, and disappeared.
I don’t know if anyone else saw them because Ray suddenly started slapping at his face. “Ow! Oh, fuck! Fuck!” He kept slapping at his head and face. It took a second, but I could see that parts of the blood and meat on his face were squirming around.
The thing in my hair started to move. I plucked at it, and my fingers found something soft and slimy in the midst of all of the sticky blood. A worm squirmed slowly between my thumb and forefinger. I dropped it with a cry of disgust, realizing too late I had just dropped it into the rising floodwater, setting it free.
Fat Ernst started grabbing at his face and chest as well and as I kept looking around, I could see the bloody worms all over the place. Falling from the ceiling of Slim’s truck. Probing around in Slim’s brain pan. Wriggling across the front of Fat Ernst’s shirt. Hanging off of Ray’s bottom lip. And curled up on Misty’s shoulder.
I jumped toward her, brushing the worm off her white blouse. Her eyes darted from my face to her shoulder and back up to my eyes. I realized we had to get out of the water, so I grabbed her hand and started pulling her back to the restaurant. Already I could see worms, some up to six, seven inches long, skimming along the surface of the water. And the water was getting higher.
Ray squealed at Fat Ernst, “Get ’em offa me! Get ’em off!” He yanked at the worm trying to chew into his bottom lip, pulling it away from his teeth. “Get it osh! Get it osh!” The worm popped free and he flung it into the water.
Fat Ernst ignored him and started backing away from Slim’s pickup, slapping at his arms and chest. His face had this hard, set look, like he had just seen the worst the world could throw at him and he’d lived through it. “Fuck this,” he said, turning and splashing back to the restaurant.
Ray kept standing in one place, turning in circles, trying to get a glimpse of his back, spinning like a dog chasing its tail. He finally moved away from the pickup when a worm appeared in the water and started crawling up the outside of his boot, following the bloodstains, heading toward the wound where Junior had taken a bite out of his leg. Ray uttered a short shriek and punched at his leg, smashing the worm.
I held on tight to Misty and helped her as we made our way to the wooden stairs. The water was surging around our knees now, and combined with the sucking mud of the parking lot, it was getting harder and harder to keep my balance. Fat Ernst charged past us like an enraged bull and stormed up the stairs. He paused at the top to glance at his Cadillac, crumpled underneath the west window as if it had tried to crawl underneath the building. He shook his head and kicked the door open, then stomped inside.
I put Misty’s hand on the railing and gently pushed her up the steps. She didn’t say anything, and I got worried that shock might be settling in, creeping in around her brain like a comfortable, hazy fog. I hoped she was okay, because I wasn’t sure how I could get her to a hospital. Now that I was out of the floodwater, I wasn’t in any hurry to jump back into it.
At the top of the stairs, I turned back and surveyed the frothy brown ocean that used to be the parking lot. The landscape had suddenly become flat, unreal. The telephone poles and the couple of vehicles rising above the surface of the water were the only things that gave any proof there was solid ground under all that water. Ray stumbled to the bottom of the steps, fighting the floating cornstalks that were propelled by the current like ragged spears.
He looked up at me, eyes frantic. “I got any on me?” he asked hoarsely, jerking his legs out of the water. I gave him the once-over andshook my head. He didn’t seem to believe me and kept slapping at his shoulders, twitching his head. “You see that?” he asked. “I mean, did you fucking see that? Fucking worms, Jesus, man, they came right out of his fucking head.” Fresh blood trickled down Ray’s chin from the hole right under his lip. “I mean, they were fucking inside of him. Jesus.”
I nodded and stepped into the restaurant. The lights had gone out, and the gray light that spilled in through the open windows gave the whole room a dark, dead look. Fat Ernst leaned back against the bar, staring at the floor. Misty was standing by herself near the tables, looking out at her uncle’s pickup through the shattered window. Ray pushed past me and staggered over to the bar, still slapping at himself. “I got any on me?” he pleaded to Fat Ernst.
“Shut the fuck up, Ray. I gotta think here.”
“But … but … do I got any on me?”
Fat Ernst sucked at his teeth, finally looking up at Ray. “Turn around.”
Ray was more than happy to oblige. He spun around, pivoting on his boot heels, arms straight out as if he had been crucified.
Fat Ernst nodded. “Yep. There’s one by your ear there.”
Ray went nuts, clawing at both ears, crying, “Jesus, oh Jesus …”
I had watched when he turned around and knew there weren’t any worms by his ears. There might have been one somewhere else, but I could see there weren’t any on his head. At least you knew it when these things bit you; it hurt like hell, not like some mosquito or leech you didn’t notice at first. Still, it made me nervous enough that I forced myself to run a shaking hand over my own head and around the back of my neck. My hand came away smeared with bloody mud, but that was all.
I checked Misty, looking her over, but she was okay. She just stood there, face white, unblinking. I led her over to one of the booths and helped her into the seat. She clasped her shaking hands together on the table in front of her like she was praying. I sank into the seat across the table and put my head in my hands. Despite everything, I just hoped Grandma was okay. I hoped the dry creek bed hadn’t flooded and she had been calling about something else.
Ray finally calmed down, realizing that Fat Ernst was only fucking with him, and asked something we were all wondering. “What the fuck are we gonna do now?”
Fat Ernst waddled around the bar and sank onto his stool with a grunt. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose. “You got any ideas, I’d be glad to hear ’em,” he said, reaching under the bar and grabbing a bottle of tequila. He unscrewed the cap, tilted it to his lips and took one long gulp. “Sit down, Ray. Relax.”
Ray didn’t want to relax; he kept pacing up and down in front of the bar stools but eventually gave up after a few minutes. It was as if all the fight, all the energy, all of the adrenaline, had left him at the same time, like air escaping a balloon. He dropped onto a barstool in front of Fat Ernst and didn’t say anything.
In a rare gesture of generosity, Fat Ernst pushed the bottle of tequila across the bar to Ray. He took it without looking up and gulped from the bottle. I watched from the booth and hoped this was a sign that things might have changed. I should have known better.
Fat Ernst took another drink, sat up straight on his stool, and said, “Ray, go on out to your car and radio for help.”
Ray lifted his head, then slowly swiveled around on the barstool, looking at his squad car through the open window. He slowly shook his head, once, twice. “I … I can’t get there.”
I looked out the window. The squad car was at least thirty feet beyond the trunk of Fat Ernst’s Cadillac. Ray would have to wade through all that floodwater to get to his car. It looked like the water was at least two feet deep now. Too damn deep, too damn far, too many goddamn worms in the water. Ray swiveled back around to Fat Ernst and shook his head again, more decisive this time. “Nope. No fucking way. You go out there.”
Fat Ernst pulled the bottle off the bar and shook his head. “What a goddamn pussy.”
I glanced back out the window. Misty’s pickup, nearly halfway to Slim’s pickup, was too far as well. We were stuck.
Ray jumped off the bar stool, shouting, “I’m a pussy? I’m a pussy?” He gestured wildly toward the front door, his voice a taut, vibrating wire. “You’re so goddamn tough, you go on out there. Go ahead. Be my guest.”
“Settle down, Ray.” Fat Ernst looked over at me. “What about you, boy? You wanna be a man? Go get us some help?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
Misty suddenly shoved the table toward me, got up, and stalked over to the bar. For a second, I thought she was going to ask Ray for the keys to the squad car. I don’t know what I would have done then. Instead, she snatched the tequila bottle out of Fat Ernst’s surprised hand and came back over to the table.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” Fat Ernst said.
“Put it on my tab.” Misty spit on the floor and slammed the bottle in front of me. “You. Drink.”
“I don’t really drink much.”
“I don’t care. Drink. Now.”
What else could I do? I gingerly grabbed the neck of the bottle, put the rim to my lips, and tilted it up. The tequila tasted like somebody pissed in a kettle full of bathwater, heated it up, and bottled it. If anything, I think I preferred the taste of Junior and Bert’s whiskey. I managed to swallow, fought the expected rising gorge. I didn’t think Misty would be too impressed if I puked all over the table.
