The Creepers (42 page)

“Get away from me!”

The shout tore him from his mourning.
Behind him, splayed out on his back, was Pastor Craven, a dark bloody hole in
his abdomen. The Creepers were closing in around him as Bobby’s sorrow broke
his hold on them.

Bobby closed Ol’ Randy’s eyelids and whispered,
“I love you, dad." He set the man’s head down, gently, and retrieved his
rifle.

With a measure of calm he ordered the
Creepers to pick the Pastor up. Their putrescent fingers and hands obeyed.

“Don’t let ’em get me! Kill me!”

Bobby stood before the man that took
everything from him. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Have mercy!”

“Like you had on my brothers?"
Bobby drew more Creepers in around them. He put his face in the Pastor’s. “We
will always be monsters in your eyes, always were, no mercy was ever given to
us, and in turn none will be given to you.”

Bobby broke his hold on the Creepers.
They began to feed, and the Pastor screamed until his last human breath let
out.

* * * * *

Bobby stuffed kindling beneath the pyre
as Ol’ Randy’s lifeless body greeted the morning sun. His army stayed vigilant
off to the west, surrounding the safe house, but not a shot was fired.
Somewhere nearby he heard the steady clicking of plastic keys as Pathos One
recorded the grim history, diligently in his digital book of the dead.

The weight of regret far outweighed the
heaviness of his rifle. It had to be done, he told himself. Flashes of Ecky and
his brothers flickered through his mind. So much death . . . so much pain . . .
so that he could live. He lit the pyre.

The flames licked at the last of his
family, sending smoke into the pale blue sky. Bobby didn’t pray, he thought
instead, choosing to remember his father’s life, his brothers’ and Yannek’s. He
watched the fire consume Ol’ Randy’s body until nothing but ash remained, and
longer, until the winds carried them onward.

“Where to now?” Pathos One asked
solemnly.

“Away from here,” Bobby replied. He
ordered the Creepers from the Settlement. Watching their slow march he said,
“There’s a lake, not far. The Folks harvest fish from it in late summer.”

“What for?” Pathos One asked, adjusting
his shoulder bag. “We need to think about supplies.”

“For him,” Bobby said, pointing at a
one-legged Creeper just inside the fence. A black, leather-bound book clutched
in one hand, the other hanging limply at its side. In undeath Pastor Craven
dragged his broken body onto the Old Still Water Road. “He doesn’t deserve the
gift of death. He can think about what he’s done until his mind rots away,
until he becomes sediment in the dark water." Bobby directed his words
into thoughts, into images, and he sent them into the Pastor’s mind.

“What was his full name?”

“It doesn’t matter . . . he no longer
matters.”

Bobby didn’t look back as he left the Settlement
for the last time. He looked forward. He looked at his army of Creepers and
thought of the task ahead.

The rusted chain coiled like a snake
around him. Bobby could hear his prayers, much like the pleas of the Creeper
trapped in Baylor’s train, and he sent back thoughts relaying that he was the
only one that could hear him. The Pastor’s blue-gray face hissed, thick mucus
splashed the dry dirt.

Remember them, remember me, Bobby
projected, sending the faces of his broken family into what remained of the
Pastor’s Fection-riddled mind. The black water of the lake shone like the mouth
of oblivion far below. From the cliff Bobby looked out to the beautiful
mountains, his thoughts far beyond even them, a great sense of calm came over
him, rushing through his long hair on sweet wind. He kicked the Pastor over.

He watched from the Pastor’s eyes,
watched himself seem further and further away. The water sloshed over him,
murky and brown. Bubbles drifted all around like jewels in the morning light,
but the day did not last. The light began to fade, quickly growing darker,
darker still, until all was black, save for the pinpoint of the sun, now, just
as distant, if not more so, as every star in the sky. The weight of the chain
sinking the Pastor into the silt, Bobby broke his contact.

He stared down into the lake. All that
remained of the Pastor were ripples on the obsidian surface, and those too,
would soon fade, until nothing was left but deep, dark contemplation.

Baylor stared at the bloodstain. Over a
year had passed since he ended that man’s life to save the boy’s. The train
rattled along the tracks, moving forward, pressing towards the west. Much had
changed in that time. He’d seen the resistance in the east grow. Word had
spread. Thinking people from all over had begun to band together in the hills
of North Carolina. And with their efforts the train grew in size. More track,
the elusive Pacific beckoned to him.

Dotsero was not far off now.

The steady hiss of steam, gray against
green smears through the windows, did little to take his mind off of Bobby. He
had hoped, and though he wasn’t a religious man, prayed that he’d see the boy
again on the return trip, but it wasn’t in the cards. Not a single long winter
night passed that he didn’t think of Bobby. All year he felt the loss, they all
did, as they owed their lives to the boy. But none took it harder than Sophie.

“Nothing I hate more than watching men
grieve,” Jamie said from beside him. “Always unnerves me. Can’t stand seeing
men trying to figure out the proper emotional response.”

“I’m not grieving, Jamie,” Baylor
replied with a wave of his hand.

“Nonsense, Baylor, we’re all in the
dumps,” Jamie rapped her knuckle on the window, “we know what’s coming up.
There’s still hope.”

Her cheeks were dry, but from their
flushness he could tell she’d been crying. Why did he ever let the kid go? He
had to stop, knowing full well where that line of questioning would lead. You
just couldn’t go through life with baggage. You either dropped it, settled it,
or regretted it later. The kid had to go, had to settle the past’s baggage, and
that’s all there is to it, he thought.

“How’s Sophie,” he asked, quickly
changing the subject.

“I told you I didn’t want her on this
trip. She’s just months after having a baby. This is no place for her . . . or
for her child." Jamie wrung her hands nervously.

“As if any of us could’ve stopped her
from coming.”

“She gets that from you,” Jamie said,
stabbing Baylor in the chest with her finger.

“Uh-uh, woman, she gets it from you. The
boy?”

“He’s angry as a wasp that one. He’ll be
a fighter . . . like his father." Jamie blotted at her eyes with the edge
of her apron. She dropped down on the bench across from Baylor. Her arms were
ruddy from toiling in the kitchen all morning, but she reminded Baylor the
extra work was necessary. She didn’t dare have Sophie up and about, scrubbing
and cooking with the baby and all.

“Doc Collins says the kid is immune.”

“It is a miracle,” Jamie said.

“No, it’s a gift from people I’ll never
meet, that were smarter than I’ll ever be. They dared to push the envelope.
They may have saved us all." Baylor clasped his hand over Jamie’s, gave it
a pat, and then stood.

“Two decades, and finally a little
luck.”

“We need it now more than ever,” Baylor
said, nodding towards the window.

The trees gave way to the brownish blur
of the volcanic mountain that dominated Dotsero. Rows of dilapidated white
trailers cut around the mountain’s base in the distance. Baylor headed for the
crisp breeze and a better vantage point.

“He’ll be there this time,” Jamie called
after him. With a grunting effort she lifted herself up and went to her cabin.
She’d been tinkering with the CB radio the boy had used to barter for
ammunition when he first arrived. Over the last few nights she’d been getting
strange signals on it, but she’d kept silent about it. Now wasn’t the time to
reveal it to Baylor.

*
* * * *

His hair had grown long, past his chin,
and that too, was now covered in patches of brown. He stood on the track,
tapping it with the tip of his boot. Remnants of the battle were still
scattered all around, though, most of the bodies had been dragged away by
carrion feeders. However, there were still many sun-bleached bones strewn
about, and empty fatigues worn thin by the elements. A ratty looking crow
watched him from its ribcage perch. The nasty bird preened its oily feathers
while sneaking glances at Bobby, as if it was offended by his presence. The
steady chug-chug of the steam engine sent the crow screeching into the air.

The track trembled underfoot, vibrating
within and alongside his nervous emotions. So much had changed over the long
summer and winter months. He’d become different in his thinking. Pathos One
called it getting old, but Bobby wasn’t so sure. He noticed things, the finer
detail and workings in them, and he found that he now understood them on a
whole new level. The crow wasn’t just an ugly bird, but a necessary cycle, a
cog in the natural machinery of life.

But over many cold and dark nights Bobby
could think only of her. He remembered with a clarity unmatched, the subtle
scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, and her timid, yet utterly serious
voice. Every night she was with him. The thought of her kept him warm, but more
than that, the idea of the familial life she represented soothed his sadness.

Bobby finally had a place to call home.

The train rounded the bend, belching
clouds of steam from its dragon mouth, protruding sharp iron spikes, offering
him a chance at a new life. He began to wave his arms, and his companion began
to shout and holler. A little bit of the lost kid in him chipped away at his
rough exterior. For the first time in a long time he laughed.

Her hair looked amazing in the clear
light, blazing like a torch, and Baylor stood behind her like a proud parent
greeting a child on his first day of school. Something Bobby had never
experienced before.

The train’s crawl slowed further, until
it stopped at last.

“No crane this time, Bobby,” Baylor
said. His breath nearly taken away in astonishment.

“Got room for two tired and hungry
travelers?” Bobby asked with a wry smile. He added, “We can carry our own
weight.”

“We got room for you, but I don’t know
about him,” Baylor chided, nodding at Pathos One. “Didn’t really do much last
time he was aboard.”

Pathos One scoffed and slapped Baylor’s
outstretched hand.

The purple-jacketed Mad Conductor helped
his passengers aboard with a broad smile on his face. He hugged Bobby, lifting
him off the ground. Glancing at Sophie he quickly escorted Pathos One inside.

“Next stop the Pacific Ocean! All
aboard!” Baylor shouted as he and the traveling historian of the dead entered
the belly of the beast.

A cloud of steam drifted between them as
the train came to life. Bobby stared at her freckled face, looking into her
eyes had him on the verge of collapse. But the little crying bundle in her arms
had him steadying himself.

“Your son,” Sophie said in a whisper.
She held the child out.

Bobby’s hands trembled. Emotions he
didn’t even know existed rained down upon him. He reached out
ever-so-carefully, flinched, then drew the warm bundle close to his chest. The
boy had the freckled nose of his mother, but there was no mistaking the eyes.
He spent many mornings studying those same eyes in puddles and ponds. Life had
come full circle, and started to turn once more. Bobby drew Sophie close. She
kissed him gently, brushing his long hair back off his face.

After many winters Bobby finally found a
home, and a future. Suddenly the world didn’t seem so dark, but there was still
a lot of work left to do.