The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past (11 page)

“What is it?”

Keaton waved his hand, saying, “Bring
the bastard in.”

Two of Keaton’s men dragged a sobbing
man into the tent. He was emaciated and covered in blisters from the sun. His
hands were bloody from weeks of hard riding. He stunk worse than any of them.

“Madre, madre,” the man blabbered,
holding his hands out to Miss Moya.

“I sent more than one of you to the
city,” Miss Moya said in rapid Spanish. “Yet, you return alone. What happened?
What did you see?”

“She killed them. She followed us from
Colorado. She followed us after you left. The hills, she was in the hills
w-w-watching us. Killed them.” The man cried into his bloody hands.

“She didn’t kill you,” Miss Moya said
coldly. “What of the city? Was there anyone there? I will not ask you again.”

The occupants of the tent flinched at
the tone in her voice. They knew it well. All they could do was try to prepare
themselves for what was to come.

“Empty, just like you said, but for one
man. He helped her kill them. I saw, I saw.”

Miss Moya looked at Keaton and nodded.
The bearded man disappeared through the folds of fabric.

“You were instructed to see if the
rumors were true. To see if this man was still living in the city, and if so,”
Miss Moya said, leaning over the man. She pressed a finger to his lips. “If so,
you were to bring him back unharmed, yet you are here and he is not. I am not
one for failure. You were given a task, a simple task.”

The man trembled at her touch as she
tousled his hair.

Keaton came back in carrying a bucket
covered in blood and filled with rotten slop. Maggots floated on the surface
and flies buzzed overhead. He placed the bucket at Moya’s feet.

The man’s eyes went wide and he began to
pray and plead.

“Your prayers will do nothing to absolve
your failure. We are but pieces to the puzzle, and you’ve lost one of those
pieces. A piece that could change things.” Moya grabbed a handful of hair and
dragged the man over to the bucket. He tried to grab the bucket and dump it out
with his hands, but as he did, Moya let go, snatching him at the wrists and
drawing his arms back. The man’s joints strained, holding for a moment, before
Moya’s strength snapped them. The man fell to the floor screaming.

“Please, please.”

“Simple, so simple. I don’t ask much, do
I, Keaton?”

“Ma’am you ask we get things done ’bout
as far as I can tell.”

She grabbed the man’s head and held it
over the bucket. His terrified breaths sent waves over the slop. “Easy tasks.
That’s all. Go to the city and find the man and bring him back if he was there.
Do you smell that? That is what failure smells like. That is your end, or is it
the beginning of your servitude?” The man screamed as Moya pushed his face
under. Bloody bubbles popped around his ears. “Can you feel your failure
changing you? Can you feel it killing you? Right now it is mixing with your
blood. Death conquering life to be born again in your rightful place.” The man
kicked out then went limp. Moya picked his bloody head up out of the bucket and
dropped him on the floor.

“Keaton, see that he is kept at the back
of the horde. I want him around awhile. I want another round of coated bullets
in case we hit any small groups on our way to the last outpost. They can join
this one in the ranks.”

“Right away, Ma’am. You two get this
sorry son of a bitch out of here.”

Keaton’s men draped a hood over the man.
Just as they did, his low moans filled the tent. They dragged him to his fate.

“You think the kid’s father is still
alive?”

“Yes, Mr. Keaton, I do.”

Pathos I – Traveling Historian of the
Dead

April 28, 2041

Pathos I Journal Entry [7670
]

I’ve never seen one change so quickly
from normal circumstances. If you could call gunshots normal. I guess these
days they are, but that depends on your ammo situation. The bite I can
understand. I’d seen plenty in my days, and the times always varied greatly
depending on location and severity of said bite. Never, never have I seen one
die and pop into one of them so quickly. Sometimes it could take days. I remember
in the camps, early on, when the elderly passed, they were laid out
respectfully and counted lucky they’d lived so long. But then they came back,
sometimes taking days, and it was one of the reason the camps didn’t work.
Ticking time bombs.

But never this quick.

I killed a man today. A man that saved
my life. A man that looked after me though he owed me nothing. A man who died
saving the four of us. A brave man, much braver than I. A selfless man. I
killed him, but he would tell you, if it were still possible, that I did him a
favor. The smart thing, the necessary thing, but I don’t feel any better about
what had to happen. With the help of the others, I buried him beside the tracks
he loved so much.

So here I am, now a willing participant
of history, and history has left me behind. There is some kind of fucking irony
in there I can’t quite understand. On the other hand, perhaps this is where the
next stage in history begins, with the three of us and one crying baby.

I can only look to the empty tracks
behind and hope they are okay. Though I know where they are going is much
worse. What happened was but a precursor. It was not meant to happen as it did,
but that can’t be helped. All I can do is hope, and help them make it. North
Carolina is a long way off and I don’t know how to drive a train, or is it
pilot? I was a good passenger, but never meant to be the captain, never meant
to be the leader. Just a cog, a fitting piece in the grand machinery of things.
This is too much, but then I look at the child and realize what’s at stake.

Jamie assures me it’s easy and that she
can help, but I can see the cracks in her brave veneer. Sophie is barely
hanging on. If it wasn’t for Randal, I think she’d have lost it. The world has
become a cruel and twisted place. One could argue that it always has been, and
there is a validity in that statement, but being part of this first hand makes
it far worse. Another family torn apart.

Starting the fire and keeping it going
is easy. The steams hisses, the train struggles forward, and I leave that man
to time and what lurks beneath the sand. It is a shame none of them knew his
last name.

Price was all I was able to jot down in
my records.

I stoke the fire, feeling every jerk and
pop of the rough machine, and I watch the night come. Somewhere ahead lies an
uncertain future, and somewhere behind, the future fights to keep on. Many
outcomes, many diverging paths, but few of them can end well. I hope they are
okay tonight. I hope the familial bonds born from this tragedy are strong
enough to see them through the dark. All I know for certain is no harm will
come to this child if I can help it. But nothing is set in stone and each day
brings new problems. I put a little more coal on the fire and watch the
darkness cover all.

Howard held her against his chest, her
breath warm on his neck. He started the song over. With one earphone each, they
listened as they watched the sun come up. The haunting words came from another
time, but they meant everything in their current situation. There were other
songs, but they always greeted the dawn with this one, as had been their ritual
since leaving Los Angeles.

Nearly three weeks had passed. They
worked their way through the shattered landscape. The earth moved constantly and
the ocean lapped at newly formed shores. The dead wallowed, trapped by the
hunger of the microscopic invaders controlling their bodies.

“His voice is so beautiful,” Jennifer
said. “We had music too, but it was different. Not like this.”

“We have others too, but these are my
favorites. This one was my father’s favorite.” Howard thought of the morning on
the roof as he said the words. Somewhere far behind, his father rested in the
tomb of Los Angeles, a monument to another time, leaving behind only his son
and the music of the dead.

“Howard, Howard I haven’t much time.
This, this is all I have left to give you,” Doc Danielson said through the
headphones.

Howard jumped up, heart racing.

“What is going on?” Jennifer readied her
rifle, searching the night for targets.

Howard grabbed her shoulder. “Listen,”
he said, his lips trembled as he heard the ghost of his father speak. In his
haste to be rid of his shackles, he’d forgotten all about the blinking message.

“Howard, I’m sorry—” his father’s ghost
sobbed— “for everything, but I will say it for the last time. It was all for
you, for all of you that are left. It’s all we had to give, and I hope it is
enough. No one should have to bear the burden your generation does, but you
must, for the sake of what’s left. All we can do, all we have done throughout
history, is carry on, and so you must.” Doc Danielson coughed. The rattling
sound was enough to make both Jennifer and Howard grimace.

“There are others, Howard, many others.
You never let me tell you about them all, but one day you will wonder. On this
device, I’ve marked their locations to the best of my knowledge, but nothing is
set in stone. Men came from the other coast by small plane, and others came
from beyond the border to our south. By now, even the youngest of them would be
nearing their mid to late teens. Your brothers and sisters are out there,
Howard.”

Howard shook his head. “No, father,
don’t do this.” He clenched his fists, remembering the bitter end of so many of
their arguments. He could see his father’s reasoning now. He could see the
subtle nudges, the attempts to get him to leave, to propel him out of the tomb,
but he couldn’t leave his father. He couldn’t break that history.

“When I am gone, there will be nothing
left to hold you here, son. I know you don’t want to leave your old man, but I
beg that you do. Remember what I said of history. Don’t let it be a shackle.
Let it motivate but not stagnate. You are not alone, though it may seem that
way now. You are not alone. There are many like you out there.”

Howard felt Jennifer slip her arm around
his waist. She kissed his tear-stained cheeks. He did not push her away as he
had many nights prior. He welcomed her touch.

“I can’t say I’ve been the best father,
but I’d like to think I’ve done a good job, given the circumstances.” Doc
Danielson laughed. “I’d like to think we all did. Who knows? Maybe somewhere
down the line, when you and your generation have righted the ship and made
something new, you’ll make your own music. After all, we’ve been too quiet as a
species for far too long. I love you, son.”

Howard waited for what seemed like ages
for his father’s voice to return. The specter of Doc Danielson was gone,
replaced by a ghostly song of his generation.

Howard shook, trembling as the weight of
it smashed into him, but he did not fold. He’d made his peace, though that did
little to lift the shock. He flipped through the device, searching for more
files, for anything left by his father, but it was all music and nothing else.
He couldn’t even find the recording that had just played, as if it happened
only in his mind.

“Do you think we’ll have our own music
one day?”

“You heard?”

“Yes,” Jennifer said, hugging him tight.

Howard stood stone silent. He thought
about his father’s words, about the world that was left behind, and about what
might come. He kissed the top of Jennifer’s head. Already he felt a closeness
to this woman who, at one point, held a weapon on him. He could hear his father
lurking in the back of his mind, like a bum rousing a trashcan for morsels, and
his father spoke about human responses, about the science behind interactions.
Howard ignored him.

“I think yes, at some point, we’ll have
to. It’s in us always. Before all of this, and even way before that, down
through the ages, we’ve been given to sound. We tap our fingers on things,
clap, sing, and we can’t help it. It’s expression, like the fading murals of
L.A and the withered photos of old. We can’t help it. So, yeah, I think we
will, though I don’t know what it will sound like.”

“It will be beautiful and sad and about
remembrance.” Jennifer’s eyes were wet with the orange light of dawn. The hills
to the east rose like black steam crowned with fire. The stretch of broken
homes rolled on endlessly, separated by long black gashes where the earth had
grown weary of the weight upon it.

Howard handed her a dried strip of
opossum. The tangy, tough meat made his belly squirm. After surviving on the
fresh vegetables from the rooftop gardens for so long, it was not a welcome meal.
He could think only of what the nasty looking beast had been eating, and it did
not sit well with him.

The hills were alive with Creepers, a
great majority of them trapped within the collapsed homes, now their tombs,
until someone insane enough came along to remove them.

He reflected on the brutal agony of
clearing the city. The years stretched out behind him.
What for?
he
thought.
For this?
It was all preparation, he realized then. His
father’s roundabout way of showing him what needed to be done if they were to
ever move forward.

“What’s your plan?” he asked.

Her face welcomed the light. He fell
into her eyes. Her black hair was like some anti-halo capturing all the light
of her porcelain skin. Years of pent up sexual feelings overwhelmed him, but he
fought to keep them under control. He wanted her, but did she feel the same? Or
was it the desperation of their situation?

“You, Howard—” she spit out a fatty
piece of opossum— “are my plan.” Her eyes flashed, along with her wicked grin.

He knew what she wanted, or at least
suspected it, but now there it was. “Jennifer, you know what we’re heading
towards. You’ve fought against them. I’ve seen the army, glimpses yes, but I’ve
seen the enormity of it. The callous ferocity.” Howard gulped down more nasty
meat, thinking of how much he sounded like his father after years of trying to
do just the opposite.

“I know, but we can use their weapon
against them. You can use their weapon against them,” she said, slamming her
fist into her palm. “I know where we stashed some gear along the route. From
what you describe, they’re making for the last outpost on the line. They’re
going for the train, or the weapons, or both. It’s there we take them.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“You controlled that man, moved his body
with your mind. Whatever happened to you made that possible.”

“But it was one man,” Howard said,
doubting his own abilities. He’d never attempted to move them like that before.

“You cleared millions. Did you control
them as you did it?”

“Yes, but I was a distraction while the
killing blows fell. I wasn’t marching them along, and I wasn’t turning them on
anyone. The emotional strain from one in that state is more than enough to
bring me to my knees. I don’t know if I can do what you’re asking.”

“You said you could help.”

Howard bit his lip. “I did.” The vigor
he felt on the roof had long since faded and the reality of merely surviving
had sunk in.

The earth moved beneath them, a little
quake, and the wind began to howl. A series of gruff shouts echoed from the
hill across the way.

Howard dropped low.

“That was no coyote,” he whispered.

Jennifer joined him, rolling to her gear
and quickly peering through her scope.

Howard followed suit. They were tucked
into the shadow of a ruined townhome. The angry earth had split it in two
decades ago. A massive bunch of weeds turned trees grew from the middle,
shooting into the sky, stirring in the wind, as if the earth put finger to lip
and shushed them.

Voices followed the shouts in a series
of hoots and clicks. Howard searched through his scope, running it along the
ruined sprawl.

Techno cultists.

He drew a sharp breath.

“I see them,” Jennifer said. “Too many
to shoot. It’s the whole tribe. Look.” She flicked her rifle.

Howard followed her direction and saw
them. The children, the women tending to them, and the cattle. The men had long
dirty hair woven through with wire and rusted chunks of metal. The women wore
long leather gowns, their arms covered in angry scars of geometric
patterns—gears, wheels, symbols of machinery. All of them were armed. Some with
crude bows, and others with long, fire-hardened spears.

The main unit of the tribe moved along
the road in their direction. A few of the scouts fanned out across the suburban
sprawl, disappearing between the ruined homes.

“They’re coming this way.”

“I see that.”

“What do we do?” Howard wanted to run.

“We ghost, and quick.”

“What?” Howard asked, but she was
already gone.

He grabbed what was left of their camp
and tossed it into his bag. He searched about frantically for Jennifer but she
was nowhere to be seen.

“Ffft, idiot, over here.” Her pale face
leaned out from the inside of the house. “Get in here and keep quiet.”

Howard navigated the crumbled façade
with ease, moving like he did in the ruin of Los Angeles, quick feet, quick
eyes, but beneath the confidence of his movements his heart pounded in his
chest. He could hear all of their voices, the cries of babies, the shouts of
the men as they disposed of the Creepers in their path. He could see the
ferocity of their strikes through those rotten eyes . . . the darkness, cold
and complete.

He peered at them through the glazed
eyes of an old man half crushed by his home. Dirty feet passed along the road,
followed by hooves. A pair of feet broke off from the group and someone stood
over the Creeper. He could see only the dire silhouette of the corded body. The
long hair created a weathered shroud about the man’s shoulders, and then a
spear tore through the Creeper’s eye socket, finding brain.

Howard searched for another vantage
point, but the Creepers were all entombed by their homes. All their voices
begged, repeated, relived their own ends. He felt ill.

Something crashed just outside the
house.

Jennifer steadied him with a touch as
she nodded towards the front of the home. A figure moved behind the tall weeds
then stopped.

Howard could see the man cock his head.
He could see the long spear and the rusted bolts hanging from it. The cultist
listened to the wind, sniffed, stared at the house. His knotty hair, packed
full of broken technology, hung like a long cable past his waist. Howard stared
right back. He wanted to scream.