The Creepers (Book 1)

by Norman Dixon

  “You take care of this one,” Pastor Craven patted Ryan’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of the rest of them. Let’s just say . . . the Lord demands another lengthy Corral cleaning. He will deal with them like the Creepers they are. You, little darling, you knock him out, stop his heart, so we can say we tried, and then put one in his head.”

  * * * * *

  Ryan did everything he could not to tremble. He sensed Pastor Craven hovering over him. The rubber mouthpiece planted an oily taste at the back of his throat. He had to get free, get to his brothers, warn them somehow. But he was weak, he was tired, and he was without an arm. Thankfully, Bobby had only pretended to secure him. The restraints would be easy to escape, but getting past Lyda would be another story entirely, though, he had to try.

  * * * * *

  Ecky was about to light up his last smoke before turning in. With the way the snow was beginning to fall, he didn’t know when he’d get a chance to be back outside. His bunkmates didn’t take too kindly to smoke in their midst. He rubbed his hands together, and popped the notebook-paper-wrapped cigarette into his mouth. A blur of movement drew his attention. He watched the shadow creep along the edge of farmers’ barracks. It was much too short, and it moved to quickly to be of any life threatening concern, but he wasn’t about to go trudging into a blizzard after another delinquent child.

  The last thing he needed was to have one of them causing any more trouble. He had the second generator to worry about. He didn’t need this headache, and he damn sure didn’t want to see the boys put through the wringer once more. He pocketed his cigarette and became a shadow himself.

  * * * * *

  Pastor Craven crept into the barracks. His pistol cold at the base of his spine. The Good Book firmly in his grasp. How peaceful they all looked, sleeping away the storm. How serene, but he knew the truth for some of them, he knew the tainted blood that pumped through their veins. Soon though, the boys would be right with God and free of this terrible test of a world. The Lord even saw to it by giving him a storm within which to work. Yes, praise Jesus, Pastor Craven thought, as he blew out a cloudy breath.

  With the snow a near sheet of white now, and the temperature well below freezing, the Lord did indeed give him a gracious gift. No one would question the boys’ remains when the snow lifted and they were uncovered. No one would question the Pastor’s and the Doctor’s stories. No one would question anything. The cold storm would give the corpses that pallid blue sheen and the bullets would do the rest. There wouldn’t be much of anything left to question at all.

  But as Pastor Craven roused the boys once more, he realized there were only three. He didn’t like loose ends. Having already started down the path he couldn’t stop now. His teeth nearly cracked under the pressure he exerted on them. He steadied his resolve with a kiss of the Good Book. The storm began to howl through the valley, and its biting winds stung his face as he pushed the sleepy boys out the door, and into its cold arms. They were so dazed they didn’t put up a single word of protest.

  “Alright, boys, the quicker we get to the Corral the quicker we’re outta’ this storm. Young Bobby will regret having snuck out this night . . . wait til’ I find him." Pastor Craven waved them on.

  Peter didn’t budge. The snow and wind tussled his red mane about like the flame of a torch. He dug his hands into his coat pockets and asked, “Where’s Bobby?”

  “Shit if I kno—” Bryan said before taking a hit across the back of his head. He stumbled forward, knees scraping the hard ground.

  “Boy, I’ve told you about your tongue before,” Pastor Craven said, flexing his throbbing hand. “Now don’t you worry about little Bobby. Just get moving.”

  “But we already cleaned it today,” Paul whined.

  The Pastor raised his hand again, dropping the youth into silence once more. “There is always work to be done. Now get moving, before we catch our deaths in this miserable cold. Go on now.”

  The boys were too tired to put up more of a fight, but inwardly they worried about Bobby. He hadn’t been the same since he returned from his trek with Ryan. They trudged through the storm towards their fates.

  * * * * *

  “Bobby, you make terrible sneak,” Ecky said, as he grabbed the boy by the shoulder. Over the wailing wind he shouted, “What is this rifle and pack? You want to get bitten too? Come with me." Ecky dragged him along by the pack straps.

  “No, Ecky, let me go! You don’t understand. Let me go!” Bobby cried. But the stronger man held him just off the ground, much like a mother wolf carrying a cub by the scruff. He had no chance. The world started its slow descent into the madness of what was to come. His stomach rolled, his eyes ached, it was starting. . . .

  “We’ll see what Randy has to say about this.”

  “Ecky, no . . . you don’t understand.”

  * * * * *

  Lyda did not shake as she removed the pistol from the drawer. The weight was reassuring in her small hands. She checked the chambers and snapped the drum back in place. She began to hum a light lullaby, one she planned on singing for Jake, but this boy had taken that opportunity from her. She sang it now in remembrance as she closed in on the end of a terrible chapter in her hard life. Lyda slipped the pistol in the pocket of her doctor’s whites and went to the bed.

  Straightening the blankets between the restraints she set about making a peaceful scene. She dried the boy’s brow, wiped the crust from his eyes and removed the mouthpiece. How pale and blue his young lips, she thought. They reminded her of the nightmarish images of Jake, conjured by her guilt, in the days after she left him behind the fence: blue and cold, blue and dead, discarded like trash, and left to the elements. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Hush little baby don’t say a word,” she whispered, drawing the pistol.

  “Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird,” she hissed, putting the barrel to Ryan’s forehead. No need for a heart-stopping sedative, she convinced herself, he’s one of them already. Her hand was steady, and he conscience clear. The moment of moments was finally at hand. Freedom from the terrible nightmare was just a trigger pull away. She cocked the hammer.

  “And if that mocking bird don’t sing,” she said through gritted teeth. “Momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ri—”

  The boy stared up at her. His eyes scared and bright. His little lips trembled. She wrapped her finger around the trigger, but before she could pull it the boy knocked her arm aside and bit down on the inside of her wrist. The gun fell from her grip as she stumbled back.

  Ryan wriggled out of the loose restraint and flipped unsteadily to the floor. With his one good arm he swung for the fences, catching Lyda on the chin and sending her to the floor. He bolted out the door into the heart of the storm, wound bleeding freely, cold stinging, burning his feet. He ran for the only adult he trusted. The only member of the Folks that could help him, that would believe him. He ran for Ol’Randy’s house.

  * * * * *

  “There will be no need for the crane, young Paul." Pastor Craven looked over the edge of the pit. The boys had done a good job cleaning it earlier in the day, and he doubted anyone else would tackle such a task with the vigor and exactness that the brothers did. It was a sad thought, but only for a fleeting second, as his eyes fell on their scared faces, and the orange jumpsuits. He pulled the heavy Colt from his belt and pointed it at the boys.

  “No need,” he waved the pistol as he spoke, “it’s time to get changed." He flicked it to the jumpsuits. “Now get changed.”

  “But, sir,” Bryan mumbled. His usual snarky comments were lost in the trembling foundations of a child’s fear. All of the training, all of the drills, none of it could have ever prepared him, or his brothers, for that murderous look in the Pastor’s eyes. Here was one of their own, a living breathing human, one of the few remaining survivors of their race, and he was aiming death at them.

  “I said get changed!” the Pastor screamed. His voice ragged and hoarse, his eyes predatory, yellow, bloo
dshot.

  Peter stepped forward, stood tall and said, “Pastor Craven, I want to see—” Young Peter never got to finish his sentence. He fell back against the rickety wall, a half-dollar-sized hole in his forehead, a splash of brains and blood patterning out behind him, a bloody-gray sunrise over the rumpled heap of his body. Dark eyes and freckled face, staring at the Pastor, an accusatory glance.

  Bryan fell to his knees.

  Paul screamed.

  “Now, boys,” the Pastor cocked the pistol, “get changed or you’ll be next.”

  Under the endless black stare of the barrel, Paul and Bryan stepped into the blood-stained orange jumpsuits that were much too big for them. Shaking and crying, the Pastor forced them to dump Peter’s body into the pit. To the sound of wet crunching, Pastor Craven marched the brothers to the door.

  “I’ll give you a head start,” the Pastor said.

  The boys looked at each other unable to understand the insanity that had befallen them. Like so many of the histories they learned about the outside world, theirs, too, had finally gone mad.

  “One, two, three,” the Pastor counted as the Colt’s barrel drifted from one tear-stained face to the other.

  Bryan and Paul ran into the raging storm, tripping and falling over the jumpsuits.

  As soon as they were beyond the arc of the Corral’s light the Pastor stepped out as well. Methodically, he cleared his throat, drew a deep breath, imagined himself before an unending wave of worshipers, and then he cried at the top of his lungs.

  “CREEPERS ON THE YARD! CREEPERS ON THE YARD!”

  The warning siren cut the sound of the storm in half.

  * * * * *

  Bobby sat at the small table, feeling infinitely smaller, his feet barely touching the floor, even with last summer’s stretch. His rifle, along with his rucksack, did little to block the looming faces of Ol’ Randy and Ecky. Two of the most grizzled, absolutely intimidating, First War veterans he had ever laid eyes on, glowered at him.

  He didn’t know whether to swallow or vomit.

  Ol’ Randy’s dented face displayed craggy, uneven shadows that hooded his wide, angry eyes. Ecky hung by his side like some malnourished inquisitor, all bones and sinew and the weathered skin of a lifetime smoker.

  “What’s this, son? You plannin’ on goin’ som’ere?” Ol’ Randy asked. His long gray hair ran over his shoulders, a sheet of dirty ice.

  “Yes, sir,” Bobby said reluctantly. He gulped. It was going to happen any second. He could feel it filthy and cold in his blood. His teeth ached, his temples pounded, and under the weight of those stares, those caring, reassuring stares he cracked. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he began to sob, lips quaking, drooling. “S-s-sir, I’m n-n-ot right. Something’s w-wrong I—”

  The door burst open and a battered, bloodied, and severely hypothermic Ryan staggered in. Bloody bandages trailed from his amputated arm. His bare feet were raw and red from his flight through the storm. Gusts of snow flurried around him as he stood inside the doorway gasping for breath.

  The Settlement’s warning siren shouted over the wind.

  “The hell is goin’ on, son?” Ol’ Randy asked. His scarred face twisting into a knot of worried wrinkles.

  “They mean to kill us, sir,” Ryan gasped then continued in short dry bursts, “She tried to kill me, but I’m not one of them. She thinks I am . . . something . . . to do with blood. I socked her right in the mouth, Bobb—”

  Ryan fell forward, a blossom of dark red spread across his abdomen.

  Lyda stood behind, smoking pistol in her hand. She pressed the barrel against the back of the boy’s head.

  “Lyda, no!” Ol’ Randy shouted.

  “He’s one of them, Randal, but you already knew that!" She fired.

  Ecky recoiled in horror.

  Bobby snatched the rifle off the table, chambered a round and shot the good Doctor dead. The bulled ripped through her chest and disappeared out her back and into the storm. She fell to the floor with a smile on her face.

  “Yannek,” Ol’ Randy called, but his voice could not penetrate the wall of shock surrounding the engineer. He grabbed him by the collar and shook him wildly, snapping his head back and forth. “Yannek, Yannek snap out of it!”

  Ecky stared at him, blinked, then settled into reality. He nodded. It was next to impossible for either of the men to shut down completely, even in the face of such a terrible situation, for, they had seen worse, lived through worse, and the only way it had been possible was that no matter what, they had to keep moving . . . it wasn’t them, survive or die.

  “Whole world has changed again . . . what did I do in former life to deserve this?”

  “Yannek, listen to me,” Ol’ Randy looked Ecky square in the eye and said, “Take him from here, far from here. Give him a chance. The world needs him. God willing he’ll make a difference.”

  Bobby didn’t hear a word they said. He had the rifle slung back over his shoulder along with his pack. He cradled Ryan’s bloody head in his hands and tried to cry. Something inside of him wouldn’t allow it. The only thing he felt was anger, straight and pure of the highest proof.

  “Randy, you ask this of me . . . my friend, this I cannot do. You know what is out there." Ecky shook violently. Though his mind was under control, his nerves were not.

  “Yannek, for the child’s sake.”

  Gunshots echoed from the guard tower in the distance.

  “Dear God, what have they done . . ." Ol’ Randy said. He retreated to his room amid the staggered cracks of the .50CAL, knowing that the other boys, if they were still alive, didn’t have a chance. He’d trained his men well.

  * * * * *

  Mason Cartwright was born in rural South Carolina, but he was raised on the Settlement. He prided himself on his skills with the high caliber sniper rifle, boasting to any that would hear him, that he could hit a Creeper between the eyes at a thousand yards. He, being a master of his craft, reacted with cold precision when he heard the shouting voice call, “CREEPERS ON THE YARD!" Mason cranked the warning siren first, thumbed the safety off second.

  As he took a deep breath and peered into the scope, he walked himself through the Settlement’s protocol should such a situation arise. By now, with the siren wailing, the Folks would be locked up tight, leaving clear lines of sight on all sides of the tower. Though the Creepers didn’t give off much heat, they gave off enough, somewhere inside minor motor functions were at work, or something like that . . . Mason didn’t care about all that science, he only cared about the stumbling, grayish, vaguely human figures moving in front of his thermal crosshair. He zeroed on the first, took a deep breath, and fired.

  He missed.

  He never missed.

  The Creepers were moving much faster than Creepers ought to, but the warning was clear, the weather not, lives were at stake. Mason steadied himself for another shot.

  * * * * *

  Bryan knew that Paul was dead, even though the first shot missed them by inches. One second Paul was beside him, and the next, a splash of hot gore splattered his face, and he was alone. Bryan ran to the only potential safe haven that existed on the Settlement, Ol’ Randy’s house, but to get there he had to survive.

  A hundred yards was nothing for one of his brothers, but for Bryan, the hundred yards seemed like miles. He might not be as fast, but he was smarter, and there were plenty of structures that the tower sniper would not want to put that heavy caliber bullet through.

  Bryan hugged the buildings and headed towards sanctuary.

  * * * * *

  “Ecky, take this,” Ol’ Randy handed him a battered duffel bag. “It’s my bug out pack. She’ll serve ya’well enough."

  “Randy, I just . . . I—”

  Bryan came crashing through the door. He tripped over Lyda’s body and hit the floor with a thud. His ragged breaths were coming quick and sharp. The boy didn’t even register the carnage he’d fallen into. His eyes had the distant glaze of someone who had been in
the trenches.

  “They killed Paul . . . they’ve . . .” Bryan fell silent. He looked around at the shocked room.

  “Bobby, get up." Ol’ Randy scooped him up with one massive hand and checked his pack straps with the other. “Make ’em nice and tight. I’m sorry for what has happened to you, don’t let me feel guilty as well—get out of here and get to safety. There is a life for you beyond these walls, the Lord has seen it." He looked the boys in the eyes and said, “Promise me that, on God himself, on all that is holy, you promise me you’ll do that.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boys said in unison.

  “I do what I can, Randy. Not exactly how I had evening planned, but universe is a bitch.”

  “I’ll buy you time . . . you don’t stop no matter what. You get clear and you find shelter." The big man turned away as tears filled his eyes, a cold shudder ran through him then. The cruelty of people never surprised him, but it always made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t even want to dissect the orange jumpsuit that Bryan wore. He’d save his anger for the morning and those responsible. Lyda wasn’t the only one with a grudge against the boys. Dear God, he thought, what have they let themselves become . . . they’re just children. He sucked down a breath and wiped away the tears.

  Ecky slapped a hand on Ol’ Randy’s shoulder. “Look, friend, come first thaw, you meet at Baylor’s stop, okay?”

  “If we all make it that far . . . and if Baylor’s still alive.”

  “The Mad Conductor will never die. He’s too crazy for that.”

  Ol’ Randy opened the cabinet next against the far wall. It should have contained knick-knacks, plates, junk mail, keys, anything mundane, but while at first glance the room was a very country-styled living room, a further inspection revealed the nature of the world in which it existed. Ol’ Randy removed a hand grenade and a long red flare.