by Brian Keene
We can’t stay here anymore. We need to move. Need to leave it all behind and start somewhere new. Somewhere safe. But I don’t know where that place is.
I don’t know how to tell Marlena that everything is different now. That everything has changed. I meant it when I said that I would die for my family, without a moment’s hesitation. It is my duty to protect them from harm. To keep them safe. I used to think I was pretty good at that, but I know better now. There are things in this world that you can’t protect your family from. Mother Nature is the fiercest predator of all, and if she comes for your loved ones, there’s not a damned thing you can do to prevent it. She’ll take them in an instant, like a bolt of lightning flashing down from a stormy sky.
Or a snake, hiding in the water and then darting forth.
The Devil is out there, and it’s just a matter of time before we see him again.
Our yard is full of May flowers. April showers brought them. But April showers bring something else, too, and the weatherman says there’s a storm coming.
STORY NOTE: This was written in 2009, and published in 2010 by Cemetery Dance Publications as a signed, limited edition hardcover book. It was also included in my now out-of-print collection A Conspiracy of One. I then made it available to a wider audience via e-book (for more on that, see the Foreword).
While Old Scratch is a fictional creation, the other giant snakes of Pennsylvania mentioned herein are indeed based on actual legends, and sightings continue into present day. Indeed, as I was proofreading the final draft of this manuscript, the local news carried a brief story about another sighting of Raystown Ray. Apparently, when it comes to snakes, we grow them big here in rural Pennsylvania. That is one of the many reasons why I always carry a handgun and a stick when walking in the woods—and since I live in the heavily-wooded river bottoms along the Susquehanna, that’s pretty much all the time.
People always wonder what a horror writer’s fears are. Most of mine are probably similar to yours. Harm coming to my loved ones. Cancer. Gravity (not heights or flying, but gravity). My number one fear, however, is snakes. As long as I can remember, simply seeing a snake has always filled me with an unreasonable, overwhelming sense of loathing, terror, and revulsion. Doesn’t matter what kind of snake, either. Even tiny little garter snakes, which logically I know are harmless, terrify me. Fellow author J.F. Gonzalez (who wrote the introduction to this collection) used to think it was hilarious to invite me over to his home, and then get his pet boa constrictor out of its cage and chase me around the house with it. He stopped seeing the humor in this when I snatched a butcher knife off his kitchen counter one day and threatened to make snake cutlets if he came any closer.
Despite this admittedly unreasonable and unwarranted fear, I never really tackled snakes in my fiction until this story (unless you count the zombie snake in The Rising). During my last marriage, I lived in a place very much like Evan’s home in the novella, and the idea for this story suggested itself to me one day after a similar flood. While standing creek-side and surveying the flood damage, I noticed that the churning, rising waters had deposited several large, ugly water snakes into the low-hanging branches of a tree overhead. I took one glance at those snakes and ran away. By the time I’d reached my laptop, this story was pretty much fully-formed in my head.
Eagle-eyed readers may catch a connection between this tale and my novel Ghoul, among other subtle links.
MIDNIGHT AT THE BODY FARM
For Susan Repasky
The dead outside the body farm’s security fence were much livelier than the ones inside the compound. They smelled just as bad, though.
“My God...” Hector Bolivar took a last sip of cold instant coffee, and watched their efforts.
Both types of dead were dangerous. The corpses on the body farm didn’t move, but they posed a danger through microbes and disease. Following established procedures and wearing the proper protective gear negated these threats, but such protocols offered little protection against the dead outside. The new dead were different. They moved. Bit. Clawed. And while they spread disease like the farm’s inhabitants, the more prevalent danger was that they’d eat you long before infection set in.
When the zombies finally tore through the razor wire and made it onto the property, Bolivar ran for the building’s exit. He jumped into a battery-powered golf cart, started the engine, and pulled away, heading towards the forest. The body farm’s massive acreage held many different kinds of landscape—forests, thickets, grassland, ponds and streams. They’d even built a faux desert near the rear of the property. But the manufactured sand dunes would offer little cover. He’d be safer among the trees.
The zombies plodded along in slow pursuit. Bolivar grinned, despite his terror. As long as he could outrun them, he’d be okay.
Before Hamelin’s Revenge—a name the media gave the disease in reference to the rats that had spawned it—eradicated all of mankind’s achievements and reduced them to meat, Bolivar had been a leading Forensic Anthropologist and head of the National Institute for Justice’s “body farm”—a secure, twenty-acre parcel of land in rural Virginia. Its purpose was to advance the study of decomposition on the human body in relation to climate, weather and exposure to the elements. One of three such locations in the country, the Virginia body farm provided every possibility for research—snow, rain, heat, and other conditions. Professionals from the Federal, State, and local levels—criminologists, medical examiners, coroners, pathologists, biological anthropologists, homicide investigators, and even the armed forces—regularly visited the site in the pursuit of science and better law enforcement. They studied how climate, insects, plants, and other factors advanced or slowed decay. The bodies were donated by families, universities, and medical research institutes.
The facility operated with a staff of twenty and usually contained at least two-hundred corpses.
Now it was just Bolivar.
And the corpse count had just doubled.
The cart’s top speed was five miles per hour, but it was still faster than his pursuers. The zombies fell far behind as Bolivar drove into the darkness.
The moon and stars were hidden behind a thick cover of clouds. The air was hot. Sticky. It felt heavy and charged. Bolivar had no doubt there would be a thunderstorm before morning. The cloying atmosphere made the stench that much worse. In his rush to leave, he’d forgotten his protective gear. He was used to the smell of decomposition, of course, but that didn’t make the reeking miasma any more pleasant. Coughing, he breathed through his mouth.
The headlights flashed off a corpse in an advanced stage of decay. It was propped up against a tree. A small red tag fluttered from a stake next to it, denoting how long it had been there, the cause of death, and other factors. The legs had turned to pudding and spread out all over the grass.
Upon reaching the woods, he turned off the cart and walked towards the edge of the forest. The space between the trees was shadowed and silent. Bolivar shivered in the heat. As he crept into the woods, his pulse beat faster. Sweat ran into his eyes and dripped from his nose.
A branch snapped to his left. Bolivar spun around, but couldn’t see anything in the darkness. He suppressed the urge to cry out. Instead, he crouched down and waited.
More branches snapped. Something rustled nearby. There was a wet, phlegm-filled snort, and then a shape emerged from the shadows.
A deer.
The body farm had wildlife, of course. That was part of the studies. He’d seen deer on the grounds before—had watched them with his colleagues from their office windows. But as it drew closer, Bolivar saw that this deer was different. It was dead. Even though he couldn’t see it very well, he could smell the rot and hear the flies buzzing around it. Hamelin’s Revenge had jumped species. First the rats, then humans, and now deer.
My God, he thought, if it manages to infect avian life forms...
The deer made an awkward lunge for him. Bolivar dodged it easily enough and scampered backward—
straight into another congealing corpse. Wetness soaked into his pants and shirt. His hands clawed through something warm with the consistency of tapioca pudding. Bolivar raised his arms to shield himself. Gore dripped from them.
The zombie attacked.
And then the only thing left on the body farm were two types of dead.
STORY NOTE: This story was written for the special lettered edition of my novel Dead Sea, and takes place in that same world. I got the idea from an old friend of mine, Susan Repasky, who teaches high school chemistry. She sent me an article about a real-life body farm, and attached
a note that said, “I bet you can do something with this.” She was right.
THE BLACK WAVE
October 26, 1944
The water was so beautiful and blue. Despite everything, the gentle rhythm of the white, foam-topped waves almost lulled him to sleep. Farther down, blue gave way to gray and green, and then black. The depths went on forever. Brady trailed his fingers through the water. The sea was surprisingly warm, but it still felt good on his sunburned skin. He closed his eyes and thought of Rachel; tried to block out all other thoughts and sounds—just the roaring waves and visions of Rachel. He opened his eyes again. The sun reflected off the ocean’s surface, shimmering like a swarm of fireflies back home in Indiana.
Then a severed head floated by and reminded Brady of where he was.
Roberts wouldn’t stop screaming. Something had ruptured inside his throat, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he kept on with it. Brady wished Roberts would just pass out.
There were eight of them in the lifeboat. Brady and Roberts, both boatswain’s mates; Selman, the radioman, badly burned from an explosion and now slipping in and out of consciousness; Wachowski, the loudmouthed signalman; Brewer, another burly boatswain’s mate, fond of getting in fights during shore leave; Chief Petty Officer Michaels, missing three fingers on his right hand and a chunk of his right ear, his face bloody and pale. There was also a wounded, unconscious man who none of them knew, dressed in the tattered remnants of civilian clothes; and the body of Senior Chief Carter. He’d passed away ten minutes after they pulled him into the boat. When they’d hoisted him aboard, burned flesh sloughed off his arms like banana peels. His left ass cheek was missing.
Their ship, the USS Brennan, a destroyer escort, had been part of a task force cruising to the Philippine island of Leyte. None of the enlisted men were sure what the mission entailed, but there were shipboard rumors that one of the vessels in the task force was carrying a new weapon that could decimate the Japanese fleet. Sadly, they’d never had the chance to find out if it was true.
When general quarters sounded, Brady was lying in his rack, staring at a picture of Rachel. They’d grown up together, gone to school together. Brady missed her, and lately, her letters had been shorter and less frequent. That bothered him. He needed to get home. Needed to make sure she still loved him. She was the reason he stayed alive. He wanted to get married. Settle down with her. Have kids. Forget this war and everything he’d seen. Spend the rest of his life lost in her eyes.
“This is not a drill, this is not a drill. General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations.”
“Shit.”
The alarm wailed again. The berthing area bustled with activity. Sailors rushed to get dressed. Brady climbed out of the rack, pulled on his boondockers, and raced up the ladder to his battle station on the 40mm gun. He pulled on his helmet and glanced around anxiously. Petty Officer Second Class Leffler was there, smoking a cigarette and scowling at the ocean. His face was lathered with shaving cream. Roberts stood next to him, rubbing the rosary he wore beneath his dungarees.
“What the hell is going on?” Brady asked.
Roberts shrugged. “I don’t know. I had mid-watch. I was sleeping when general quarters sounded.”
Leffler blew smoke from his nose. “A man can’t even shave in peace. Damn Japs...”
Brady held his breath and tried not to be scared. He scanned the empty horizon. An electronic squawk echoed across the deck and then the Captain’s voice came over the speakers. His voice was stern and calm.
“This is the Captain speaking. May I have your attention, please? A large Japanese force is approximately ten miles away and approaching our position rapidly. It’s...not good, gents. We can’t outrun them, and we’re already in reach of their guns. We’ve drawn a bad lot, men. We have no choice but to stand and fight. Prepare battle stations. Be ready. Be brave.”
There were no further warnings.
The Japanese fired their big guns before their ships were even visible. The blasts echoed across the ocean; the whistling shells sounded like freight trains passing overhead. Huge plumes of water shot into the sky and drifted back down like hissing rain.
Then the Japanese warships appeared. At first, they looked like tiny, black dots. As they drew closer, it was clear to all onboard the Brennan that the enemy armada outnumbered the small, American fleet.
The Japanese fired again. This time, the shells found their targets. Within minutes, the American ships were just scraps of twisted metal. The Brennan fared no better than her sisters. She was designed only to provide protection for the escort carriers, and not equipped for a major surface battle. The men onboard could only wait and pray—or curse. They couldn’t return fire because the Japanese were still out of range.
A loud explosion rocked the ship, sending Brady toppling to the deck. When he looked up, Leffler’s head was missing. Incredibly, the man remained standing, his hands clutching the 40mm. Blood and shaving cream dripped down his shoulders. The shaving cream had turned pink. Roberts screamed. His clothing, hands, and face were covered with bits of Leffler.
The Brennan took another direct hit and the bow lurched out of the water. It crashed back down again, showering them with saltwater. Smoke filled the air. The noise was incredible—simultaneous explosions, gunfire, shouted commands, and men screaming.
Jesus, Brady thought, I’m going to die here. Didn’t think that would actually happen. Not to me. I’ll never see Rachel again.
He smelled something cooking. Meat. Despite his fear, Brady’s mouth watered. He wondered why the cooks were frying hamburgers in the galley during battle. Did they think their shipmates would be hungry? Then a sailor stumbled out of the smoke. When Brady saw him, he retched. It wasn’t burgers cooking. It was his fellow shipmates. The man’s skin had been burned so badly that it slipped off his body as he wandered by. Brady had a horrible image of a picnic back home—Rachel pulling the skin off a piece of chicken. The man’s charred muscles and tendons still smoked. He creaked as he walked, like old leather. His mouth was open but he made no sound.
Another sailor ran past them, shrieking unintelligibly. His arms were missing and blood pumped from the holes. His eyes and tongue were blackened tissue. His teeth seemed very white in contrast.
The deck tilted and the ship groaned. Over the explosions and shouts, Brady heard the order to abandon ship.
He grabbed Roberts and shook him. “Come on. Forget about Leffler. He’s dead. We’ve got to go!”
Roberts shrugged him off and responded with another scream. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. Seizing his friend’s arm, Brady dragged him forward along the crosswalk. The Brennan rocked again, listing to port. Both men bounced against the railing and had Brady not been hanging on to him, Roberts would have plummeted over the side. He never stopped screaming. The stench of cooked meat grew stronger, but many of the screams had stopped.
After reaching the main deck, they made their way to the starboard side and joined the other sailors lining up for the life rafts. Brady helped Roberts jump onboard a raft, followed by Wachowski and Brewer, who’d carried the injured Selman. The civilian who none of them knew clambered into the raft next, followed by Chief Petty Officer Michaels.
“Nobody else on this side,” Wachowski said, staring at the empty deck.
Despite his injuries, Chief Michaels retained
command, and ordered them to cast off. They plucked Senior Chief Carter out of the water and then paddled away from the sinking ship. Carter moaned and asked for someone named Lisa. The others urged him to rest, and continued rowing.
Oil fires covered the ocean’s surface, adding to the smoke and confusion. A whirlpool churned around the wreckage, sucking in some of their more unfortunate shipmates. Brady saw two rafts and a dozen men get pulled beneath the waves. Soon, the Brennan slipped beneath the waters as well. All that remained was a slowly-spreading oil slick, black as midnight.
There goes all I had, Brady thought. My letters from home, my photographs, my clothes, my books, and my Dad’s gold pocket watch that his Dad gave to him. All my money. Rachel’s picture... Everything—my whole world.
Now, nearly a half hour later, they rode the waves and watched debris and corpses float by. Carter had died with Lisa’s name on his lips. Brady wondered if Carter was the lucky one. All of them felt miserable, even those who were uninjured. Already the hot sun blistered their exposed skin, and dried salt caked their lips and the corners of their eyes. The wind scraped them like sandpaper.
And Roberts was still screaming.
“How long can he keep that up, you think?” Wachowski asked the others. “Hell, Selman’s all burned up and the Chief’s got his fingers and ear blown off, and they ain’t making as much noise.”
“Leave him alone,” Brady warned. “He saw...”
Brady trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. He shuddered. Little fragments of Leffler’s exploded head had dried on Roberts’s dungarees.
