Brian Keene - The Conqueror Worms

It was raining on the morning that the earthworms invaded my carport. The rain was something that Id expected. The worms were a surprise, and what came after them was pure hell, plain and simple. But the rainthat was normal. It was just another rainy day.

Day Forty-one, in fact.

My name is Teddy Garnett, and I guess I should tell you right now, before we go any further, that Im no writer. Im educated, sure, and a lot more than most of the good old boys in this part of West Virginia. I never made it past grade school because my father needed my brothers and me to help him with the farm. But what I didnt learn in grade school, I picked up during my thirty-five years as a radioman in the Air Force. Thats pretty easy to do when youve been stationed everywhere from Guam to Germany. Seeing the world gives you knowledgethe kind of knowledge you just cant get in a classroom. During World War Two, and in the years that followed, I saw most of the world. And I always loved to read, so between my travels and my books, Ive learned everything I ever needed to know.

I can read and write and multiply and discuss in German, French and even a little bit of Italian, the ramifications of Nietzsches Beyond Good and Evil and the poetry of Stephen Crane. Not that theres anybody around these parts to discuss Nietzsche or Crane witheven before the rain started. If you mentioned Nietzsche in Punkin Center, folks would think youd sneezed and offer you a tissue. And poetry? Shoot. Poetry was just something theyd heard tell of, but had never actually experienced for themselves. Kind of like visiting Egypt or Iraq or some other faraway land. Not that most of our residents could have found either one of those places on a map. When it came to current events, if it hadnt happened here in our county, or maybe over in towns like Beckley or White Sulphur Springs, then it didnt matter. Most folks in these parts didnt know about Vietnam or Iraq until their sons and daughters got sent there to die, and even then, they couldnt find them on a map.

Im not trying to sound smug, but I was smarter than most folks around here, probably because Id seen the world beyond the mountains and hollows of this great state. But I never once let it go to my head, not even after my eightieth birthday, which is when a person is allowed to sound like a wise old man. I never bragged, never belittled someone less smart than me. Some nights, after my wife died and before the rain started, Id go down to the Ponderosa in neighboring Renick, or the American Legion over in Frankford, and beat Otis Whitts boy Ernie at chess (Ernie Whitt was the only other one in Punkin Center or Renick that could play). Or Id explain current events to my neighbors, or write letters to the paper and try to put things into perspective for folks.

But writing books and stories? No sir. Id always left that up to Mark Twain, Zane Grey, Jack London, and Louis LAmourthe four greatest writers of all time.

Im not a writer, but I can tell you it must be a tough business. Im doing this by hand, here in the darkcramming words into this little spiral notebook, and my arthritis is acting up something fierce. Ive been lying here on my side, gripping this pen for the past couple of hours and now my fingers have blisters on them and my hand is twisted up like some kind of deformed claw. I dont know if its the dampness in the air or just the act of writing itself thats doing it, but it hurts. It hurts really bad.

So why waste time writing about how much it hurts me to write? Because Ive got to get this done. Because its important for you to know what happened. It might save your life, should you ever find this.

Im just glad that everything below my waist has gone numb, so I dont have to deal with that pain anymore. I looked down there once, at my legs.

And I havent looked since.

I am afraid. I can feel something sharp inside me, grating and rubbing up against a soft part. Theres no pain, but there is a strange, queasy sensation. I dont know what it is, but I certainly dont imagine its anything good. My stomach has a big purple and red splotch on it, and its spreading.

Im still coughing up blood. I can feel it in the back of my throat, and my mouth tastes horrible.

For whats easily the thousandth time since the rain started, I find myself wishing that the electricity were still on. Then I could go down into the basement and write this properly, on the old word processor my grandson and his wife gave me after they bought their computer. It sat down there on a little particleboard desk I got at the Wal-Mart in Lewisburg.

But the power isnt on, and its never coming back. It went off the same day the chubby weatherman on the Today Show shot himself live on national television in the middle of a forecast. One minute, he was joking around with that pretty anchorwoman with the nice smile and vacant eyes whos always after people to get their prostate checked, and a moment later his brains were splattered all over that big map of the United States behind him. Seems like years ago, but it really hasnt been that long. Apparently, hed been getting death threats.

Death threats. All because of the damn weather

He got off easy. Those poor folks at the Weather Channel never had a chance. Fellow drove a box truck loaded with explosives right up to the building and blew it all up. They never did catch the people behind it, but I guess that doesnt really matter now. Maybe there wasnt anybody masterminding it at all. Maybe the suicide bomber was just fed up with the weather reports. Todaya one hundred percent chance of rain. Tonight, rain continues. Tomorrow? More of the same.

Even if the power was still on, I couldnt go down into the basement. Not now. Not after what happened. The desk and the word processor and everything else in the basement are gone now. The only things in the basement are bodies, floating around in the darkness, along with the remains of thatthing. Once in a while, I hear its carcass bumping into whats left of the stairs. Im sure the water level is getting higher, too. Pretty soon, it will start seeping under the door, and I dont know what Ill do then. I cant go outside.