CREEPERS

by Bryan Dunn

  “My God! Whatis it? What’s that?” Laura yelled.

  “Holy Jesus… I don’t know.”

  They cracked their doors, then together they dropped out of the truck, both of them on high alert.

  Sam placed his hands around his mouth. “Doc! Hello! Dr. Fletcher!”

  No one replied. The only sound was a low rasping of teeth as creeper stalks crisscrossed one another.

  “Hello…” Laura called out, straining to see if anyone was in the house.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Sam. “It’s unbelievable. The entire place is gone, covered by this…” And then it came to him. “Fletcher Creeper.”

  Holy shit.

  Then the sound of splintering wood issued up from the rear of the house. Both of them spun towards it.

  “Doc! Doc!” Sam yelled. Then he motioned to Laura, and both of them rushed toward the house.

  The landing and most of the front entrance were still free of the creeper. Sam and Laura cautiously approached and stepped onto the porch. As they passed beneath a bay window, the glass shattered and a thick creeper stalk looped out, shot up, and smashed into the overhang, burying its boney tip deep into the wooden eaves.

  Startled, Sam and Laura leapt back, both of them yelling out in fear.

  There was a clinking sound. Then a bottle tumbled out the window and smashed at their feet—an empty bottle of scotch.

  “Shit!” Sam said, hauling Laura back a little farther, both of them wide-eyed and in shock.

  “Jesus Christ,” Laura said as they backed off the porch.

  Sam stared at the shattered bottle, then whispered to himself, “Doc…”

  Laura looked at him. “What? What is it, Sam?”

  “Wait here. I’m going inside.”

  “No! Are you crazy?! That thing—”

  But Sam was already moving across the porch. He stepped up to the door, placed his hand on the handle, twisted, pulled, and—

  Fletcher’s body spilled out in a gout of ruined flesh.

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam yelled.

  Inside, the creeper heaved. Fletcher’s body lurched up, then dropped onto the landing, his limbs bent and twisted and hanging from his body at an unnatural angle.

  Sam stared in horror at what used to be his friend’s face. The skin was split and leathery and drawn drum-tight across the skull. His lips were wrinkled and shriveled, having permanently receded over the gums, leaving his face frozen in a ghoulish grin. His eyes hung from their sockets, dangling like bloody rubber balls beneath a puddle of gore.

  “God. Jesus Christ. No…” he took a step back, not believing what he was seeing.

  A loud rustling sound erupted—and, without warning, something shot directly at Sam’s face!

  The space in front of his eyes suddenly turned bright green—then a shrill squawk, squawk, squawk exploded in his ears—and Darwin slammed into Sam’s chest.

  “Darwin! Shit! Goddamn it! Son of a bitch! Goddamn son of a bitch!”

  With a beat of his wings, Darwin shot past Sam, swept beneath the porch, and landed safely inside the pickup, lighting on the steering wheel.

  Then Laura screamed, her panic filling the air. Sam wheeled towards her as a creeper stalk raced up, wrapped itself around her ankle, and jerked her off her feet.

  Laura screamed again. She watched in horror as the creeper coiled tighter and tighter around her leg, its teeth-like thorns tearing through her pants and slicing into her flesh.

  She felt the blood—hot and wet—as it spilled into her boot. “Sam!” she yelled, then tried to crab back as the creeper snaked up her leg towards her groin.

  Sam flew off the porch, and barely touching the ground, sprinted to his truck, grabbed a shovel out the back, raced up to Laura—and, with the shovel raised overhead, knifed down, slashing at the creeper stalk again and again, not stopping until he’d severed it cleanly in two.

  Twisting, writhing—and three feet shorter—the creeper stalk drew back and sucked inside the house, disappearing through the broken window.

  Laura scrambled free, kicking her foot in the air, trying to rid herself of the severed bit of creeper.

  Sam fell next to her, put his hand on her leg, and, using the handle of the shovel, pried the remaining section of creeper off her ankle and pitched it out, making sure it was well clear of them.

  “You okay?” he said, helping her sit up.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “My God,” said Sam, staring at the undulation mass that had engulfed the nursery. “Look at that thing.”

  Laura stared at the creeper, awestruck. She started to speak and then stopped—she didn’t have the words.

  Sam turned back to Laura, lifted her foot, then gingerly pulled her pants leg up and over three scarlet-red lacerations where thorns had raked her flesh.

  “The cuts aren’t deep—just superficial wounds.” He rolled her pant leg back down, covering them. “Okay, let’s get you up.”

  Laura nodded. Sam took her arm, draped it around his shoulders, then pulled her to her feet, keeping ahold of her while she tested her leg.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Come on,” Sam looped a hand around her waist. “I’ve got everything we need to clean and dress your ankle at the house.”

  They started back to the truck, Sam checking to make sure she really was okay. Then Laura suddenly stopped, turned back to the house, and stared at the body lying on the porch.

  “Was that—”

  “Yes. It’s Dr. Fletcher. He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do now.”

  “No!” Then, in a muffled voice, she said it again. “No…” It sounded like someone had squeezed all the air out of her lungs. She slumped against Sam, gripping his arm as the strength went out of her legs.

  Sam held her, lifting her up, her sobs dying into his chest. He stroked her head. Then, gently using the back of his hand, he wiped a line of tears from her cheek.

  “You two were close… who was he to you?”

  Laura sniffed, wiped her eyes. She lifted her head, looked at Sam. “We weren’t really close,” she said, blinking tears away. “We only met once. The day I was born.”

  Chapter 33

  “Blossom! Blossom, get in there!” Curley yelled, trying to herd the sow into its pen.

  Blossom tried one last end-run, but Curley darted left, blocking the way. Relenting, Blossom snorted, started into the pen, then suddenly bucked, twisted around—and shot to freedom between Curley’s legs.

  Curley’s feet were knocked apart. He was stuck in the mud. Helplessly off balance, all he could do was wave his arms and watch as he fell into the wallow. Splat.

  “Damn it, Blossom… ” Curley sat up, then yelled to the pig, “Go ahead! There’s nothing out there to eat. Nothing but sand and cactus.”

  Ignoring him, Blossom trotted past a row of palms, then went straight up a sandy bank and stopped directly in front of the creeper Curley had planted yesterday.

  Blossom sniffed the clipping, snorting up a cloud of sand. Then, using her nose, she rooted around the base, scooped it up, and gobbled it down.

  The pig swung around, looked at Curley, shook her head up and down with delight, then trotted over to the water trough, plunged her snout in, and began to sop up the water.

  Blossom continued to drink—and then she suddenly stopped, jerking her head up out of the trough.

  Something was wrong.

  Blossom plowed straight back in a freakish movement that made her look like she was on wheels, did a 360, and then began to squeal at the top of her lungs.

  The pig began to swell. It was like Blossom had suddenly been connected to an air hose. A moment after that, bumps appeared all over her back, moving in and out as if someone had crawled inside and was poking her with a stick.

  The pig kept squealing. Her body began a series of unnatural twists and turns that would’ve given Linda Blair a run for her money. Then Blossom froze. She turned her head creepily sideways—and without warning�
�exploded into a creeper vine!

  A pink mist floated above the pig as tendrils and creeper stalks sprung out in all directions, pouring out of every orifice.

  Within seconds, what used to be a three hundred pound sow was a giant, undulating creeper, its stalks decorated with chunks of bloody pork.

  Curley scrambled to his feet, horrified. “Jesus Lord,” he said in disbelief. “What in God’s name is it?”

  He moved closer, trying to see just what had just happened to his pet pig. As he leaned in for a better look, the creeper snapped out, coiling one of its stalks around his boot.

  “Shit!” Curley yelled, pitching back and spilling to the ground.

  He looked down, then watched in horror as the creeper coiled tighter and tighter, its thorns slicing into the leather upper of his boot.

  Curley boosted himself up, reached down, pulled on the laces—then, using his other foot, kicked the boot off, letting the creeper have it as he pulled his leg free.

  Curley crab-walked back, jumped up, then watched in utter amazement as the creeper crushed and shredded his work boot.

  What the hell?

  “Okay. Alright. So you want to play it like that…”

  Curley marched over to a tool shed, yanked open the door, and moments later stepped out holding a gas-powered Weed Eater with a metal chopping blade.

  He moved toward the creeper and pulled the starter cord. The engine caught and sputtered, then stopped. Two more rapid pulls. Then, on the fourth try, the engine roared to life as the creeper poured a dozen arms into the water trough—and began to drink.

  As the water flowed into the thing, the growth was freakish, spectacular, geometric. It voraciously emptied the trough, then sent tentacles out in all directions looking for more water—or whatever…

  Curley revved the engine, pinning the throttle until the Weed Eater’s two-stroke engine was screaming, and—advancing in a shroud of blue smoke—drove the blade deep into a knot of flashing creeper stalks.

  “Suck this! Suck this, you sick bastard!” Curley poured on the juice, a crazed look on his face.

  The Weed Eater tore into the thing, slicing and dicing and sending bits of creeper cartwheeling through the air.

  “Yeah!” Curley yelled with delight, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Bite this!”

  He jerked the trimmer sideways, slicing a fat stalk in two. Then wheeling right, he took out another arm just before it reached the trough. As he sliced into a third stalk, the engine bogged and began to miss. The plug fouled. And then the Weed Eater quit, plunging the compound into silence.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of green. And then the machine was ripped from his hands.

  Curley reeled back as the creeper coiled around the Weed Eater, bent the shaft, and broke it in two. Snap!

  “Son of a bitch!” Curley said, taking a step back. “What is it?”

  And then, without warning, the freshly gorged creeper sent a stalk flashing out—caught Curley around the waist, flipped him off his feet—and began dragging him towards a hundred thirsty suckers.

  “Jesus Christ!” Curley yelled, as he slid through the sand. “Help!”

  Chapter 34

  Kristin came running out of the house, looking very un-Goth-like in slippers and a pink robe. She raced to the tool shed, grabbed a machete, sprinted to Curley—and, with the machete raised over her head, yelled, “Fuck me!” as she brought it down, severing the creeper arm and freeing Curley.

  Just to be sure, she slashed down again. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. “Ugly fucking weed!”

  Curley rolled free and wobbled to his feet. He stared at Kristin, the machete slung at her side. Then in wide-eyed disbelief, he said, “You just saved my life.”

  Kristin stared at the creeper, watching its medieval-looking arms writhing on the ground. “What the fuck is that?” Kristin said.

  Then both their heads flicked towards the gate as Sam’s pickup came roaring up and pulled to a stop directly in front of them.

  “Get back!” Sam yelled, dropping out of the cab, shocked by the sight of another writhing creeper—this one next to his house! He ran to Curley and Kristin, pulling them over to the truck as Laura climbed out.

  “You guys okay?” Sam asked, seeing how shaken Curley was.

  Curley nodded. “I’m okay. But it got Blossom. Jesus... Sam.”

  “If this is a date orchard… then what the hell is that?” Kristin asked, pointing at the creeper.

  “A bad idea,” Sam said, thinking about Doc and his creeper experiment.

  The sound of rending metal filled the compound.

  All heads snapped up. They watched as the creeper crushed the trough like an empty soda can and spread across the ground like a cancer.

  “I ain’t never seen nothing like that,” said Curley, still rattled. “It’s like really bad Bermuda grass… on crack.”

  “It’s identical to the one we just saw at the Fletcher place,” Laura said, staring at the writhing green mass. “How is that possible?” Then she added, “It’s got to be some mutation. A genetic freak.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said Sam. “A genetic freak. Doc Fletcher created it. Named it the Fletcher Creeper. Claimed he’d invented the ultimate drought-tolerant plant.”

  Laura considered that. “Yep, from what I’ve heard, that sounds like dad.”

  Curley looked at Laura, his mind turning, trying to make the connection. And just as he was about to comment…

  “Look,” Kristin said, pointing at the creeper. “It’s trying to locate something.”

  They all watched as tendrils rose up from a creeper arm and began to sniff the air.

  Chapter 35

  “The date palms!” Sam yelled.

  And with that, a creeper stalk wriggled across the sand, looped onto a palm, and began to snake its way up the trunk. When it was halfway up, it stopped and plunged its tip into the palm. Then hundreds of little suckers burrowed into the trunk and began to drain the fluids out of its pulpy flesh.

  “Incredible,” Laura said. “It’s completely predatory, voracious for fluids.” She glanced down at her leg, adding, “Any kind of fluids.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed, then he thought to himself, Leave it to Doc.

  Behind them, the air filled with the chilling sound of something scratching across a metal surface. And then like a drill team, they all wheeled in unison—and saw a creeper stalk probe the water storage tank, looking for a way in.

  At the top of the tank there was a sudden clank, clank, clank. A creeper stalk had slithered up the back side and was trying to slip beneath the metal hatch on top.

  “Jesus! The water supply!” Sam leapt forward and sprinted to the tanker truck, which was parked next to the water storage tank.

  “Sam! No! Stay away from that thing!” Laura yelled.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” added Kristin, tightening her grip on the machete.

  Laura turned to Kristin, frowned, and gave her a look that said: Nice language.

  “What!” Kristin said, giving her a look right back.

  “I’m not giving up my ranch!” Sam yelled, then stopped in his tracks when a giant stalk slammed down, blocking his path.

  Sam held his breath and stood frozen as a statue. The tip of the creeper rose in the air, moving this way and that, sniffing, trying to locate him.

  “My God! Sam!” Laura yelled, thinking he was done for.

  Sam remained perfectly still and thought to himself, The only way to get to the truck is up and over that thing.

  He took a breath, measured the distance between himself and the creeper, crouched—then sprang up, vaulting cleanly over the bristling stalk, tumbled onto the sand, regained his footing, and sprinted for the truck.

  Sam skidded up to the tanker, slipped along the driver’s side, hauled open the door, climbed in, and—just as he shut the door, a creeper stalk sailed through the air and slammed into it. Thud.

  Creeper leaves tinkled acro
ss the hood like falling snow.

  Sam turned the key, then felt another creeper bang off the side of the truck and hit the ground. Jesus Christ, what is this thing?!

  He mashed down on the starter. Nothing, only the dull click-click-click of brushes unable to make contact.

  Shit!

  He raised his foot, then drove it hard onto the starter, praying it would catch this time. More clicking… and then the thing died completely.

  * * *

  “Hang on, Sam!”

  He jerked his head up—and there in the rearview mirror was Curley! Sam watched as he raced towards the tanker, hammer in hand, then disappeared beneath the truck.

  A moment later, he heard the tap, tap, tap, of the hammer striking the starter, trying to coax it back to life.

  Sam waited, eyes skyward, and then stood on the starter. The cab filled with a loud grinding sound, and a second after that, the roar of the Cummins diesel flooded the compound. Way to go, Curley!

  “Yes!” Sam revved the engine, letting the turbocharger scream.

  The passenger door was yanked open, and a dusty, grimy Curley tumbled into the cab.

  Sam raised a hand. They bumped fists. “Way to go, Curl! That was balls-up.”

  “Maybe now you’ll fix that damn thing,” Curley said. But Sam could tell he was proud as hell of himself.

  Sam dropped it into gear. The truck rumbled forward. He added power, jammed it into second, then reached down and pulled a lever.

  At the rear of the truck, twin jets of water shot out from the bottom of the tank.

  Sensing the new source of water, the creeper retracted its stalks. Then, like some ancient sea creature, it peeled its tentacles off the water storage tank, heaved up, and sent eight deadly sucker arms whistling through the air after the tanker.

  Sam slowed, looked in the mirror, and watched as the creepers raced after them. He continued another twenty yards, then stopped, letting the greedy suckers catch up and attach themselves to the rear of the truck and begin to drink.