The Creepers Read online

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  Lyda slid into the Pastor’s private quarters like a wraith. She moved in silence. Her rugged boots creaking not one board on the familiar dusty floor. She watched the aging pontificator move about his routines.

  Pastor Craven leaned over a small table. The Good Book off to his side, and a tumbler in front of him. His hand was steady as he poured a stiff shot of whiskey. He sipped it slow, letting the burn light on his tongue and then drip down the back of his parched throat. The Lord had blessed him with the fortitude to brave what was coming, but he couldn’t do it on faith alone. Before the world fell apart he made sure to use a good bit of his reserves to secure enough Old Number 7 to last him to judgment day, and well into the afterlife.

  “You may have been quiet, Lyda, but you let the coming winter in with you, and these old bones are always aware of a storm a’brewing. Drink,” he asked, turning to her with a raised glass.

  “I shouldn’t, but I really need one. We need to talk. This is just . . .”

  “Settle down, child, settle down." Pastor Craven patted her thigh and motioned for her to join him at the table. He poured her a shot and handed it to her.

  Lyda slugged back the whiskey and held out her empty glass for a refill, which the Pastor obliged. She was about to knock back the second shot, but the Pastor’s wrinkled hand stopped her.

  “Easy now. It’s best when sipped, and when your mind is calm. Have you slept?”

  Lyda wanted to scream what she had found out loud, but like so many others, she reverted to an almost child-like state in the presence of the Pastor. His eyes humbled her, deconstructed her, and observed her dismay with an eerie unblinking quiet. “I haven’t slept . . . I’ve been tending to the boy." She hesitated to even use the word, knowing what pumped through his veins, that darkness, the source of all the evil in the world made him inhuman.

  “And? Has the greatness of God seen him through the cold night?" Pastor Craven scratched at his chin, punctuating his question with the sound of his nails on dry, sandpaper-like skin.

  Lyda wasn’t ready to reveal what she knew, not yet at least. “Let me ask you something.”

  “Oh?" Pastor Craven’s eyes became narrow, brow knitted in suspicion. He ran his skeletal finger along the rim of his glass.

  “Where exactly did the Crannen’s rescue those boys from?" Lyda sipped the strong whiskey with a cringe. As warm as it was, the stiff drink did not remove, or even subdue, the glacier in the pit the her stomach.

  “Why, they rescued them from a group of road trash who meant to eat the boys somewhere near Nevada,” he said with an air of sarcasm.

  Lyda knew that story, and it always seemed conveniently fabricated to her. And she wasn’t the only one. The Crannen’s decision to bring the boys into the flock had caused tremendous turmoil, not only within the societal structure of the Settlement, but within their own family as well. Even the twin sons did not believe their parents, and shortly after the Crannen’s return, the twins had a falling out with Ma and Pa. The ramifications of which still lingered, long after the figureheads of the Settlement had been laid to rest.

  “Spare me the myth and tell me what you really think,” Lyda said sharply.

  Pastor Craven shifted uneasily in his chair. His hip hadn’t been the same since last winter, but that wasn’t what had him afraid to answer her. Something in her small, dark eyes, shifting, dilating as she drank, spoke of a secret that she was having a hard time concealing. It almost made her seem happy.

  Pastor Craven put down his drink and folded his hands. Staring at the dull glow of the lamp he said, “Randy knows. He was with them on that trek, but that is a secret kept between the dead and the Lord for him. But what I think . . . so strange wasn’t it? The furthest west any of us had traveled in what, seven, eight winters? They weren’t even supposed to go that far to begin with. What did they find out there in that den of sin? What did they see? I think they saw much. But look at me questioning, perhaps, our greatest example of a good life, a life lived in God’s service. And I say life because they were one in their love and their thoughts, but I always questioned some of their intentions. The birth quotas, letting the children experience the old world, it never sat well with me, but they were our founding mother and father. And if it weren’t for them, and the love of God I doubt either of us would be alive today. So I always kept my reservations to myself and God.”

  Lyda did not add to his words. She waited. The alcohol beginning to loosen his lips as the Pastor displayed his trademark smile. The gesture was something he reserved for their private conversations, and it was a sign of the darker man within. They all had their demons, and man of God or not, the Pastor had more than a few. Perhaps, that shade, the hint of sin was what had attracted her to him in the winters since Steven’s passing. She could look past what the alcohol and war had done to his physical features. The Pastor wasn’t even within two decades of Ol’ Randy, and yet, he looked to be the man’s grandfather. But none of that mattered when she was in the presence of what lurked behind his eyes, a tightrope act, a brilliant display of parochial dexterity. Just by being in his presence, she hoped to attain the skills necessary to pull it off herself.

  “I believe they lied to us,” Pastor Craven said. He licked his dry lips. “The lot of them. But what’s done,” he looked into her eyes as he said, “is done. They are with the Lord now and Randy will never talk. So, my jitterbug, I implore you to tell me what kind of secret they’ve kept from us all these years.”

  “I don’t understand it completely,” Lyda stammered. “At least, not the long term ramifications of it. The boy has the Fection.”

  Pastor Craven nodded solemnly. “Long rest, far from the Creeper’s breast.”

  “Amen, but it didn’t come from that bite, in fact, I think he’s immune to it altogether . . . and I suspect the rest of them are, too.”

  “Immune,” the Pastor’s voice held the last syllable until a dry cough snatched it from the tip of his tongue. “Can’t be. You’re mistaken. There is no immunity. There is no cure. There is only life, or the eternal damnation of undeath. He is either infected, or he is not.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 9

  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 sir
en 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.