Wormwood Dawn (Episode III) (9 page)

As the storm raged outside, they spent the night relaxing and building a nice buzz, eventually dragging their sleeping bags near the fire. Dan made sure to keep it going, throwing on a log every ten minutes or so. With the lights off, and the flickering glow of the flames, they all settled into a deep sleep.

Dan awoke just before dawn. It was still dark outside, but the fog that had settled glowed silvery in the moonlight. He sat up and crawled to the window, looking out into the gloom. He felt the chill of dread come over him, and quickly went to the fireplace to stoke the coals and add some more wood.

He went back into the living room and lit a cigarette, coughing a little as the morning’s first puff blitzkrieged his lungs. Other than smoking, there was really no reason to get up yet. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty; but then he wasn’t really tired anymore either. Maybe a couple of Vicodin would help him decide.

Before he went back into the kitchen to navigate the maze of bodies on the floor, he picked up one of crazy dude’s notebooks. Maybe he could read one for a while and fall back asleep while the pills took action.

He popped two Vicodin and settled back in his sleeping bag, opening the notebook and skimming through the pages until he found a loose bunch of paper that was obviously typed on a computer and printed out.

Lucy got sick today. Finally. I was hoping the bitch would succumb to the virus—or whatever it is. I could never bring myself to kill her; not because I love her or anything, but because killing your own wife is always a bad idea unless you’re done with it all.

She puked when she got up, and started convulsing a little. I watched her curiously as she begged me for help. I did nothing, of course. I wanted to see what it would do to her. I was surprised it had happened, especially considering most people were affected immediately. I’m not entirely sure how she stayed healthy for a whole two days while the rest of the world pretty much found out their fates almost right away.

After the puking, she went pale and cold, almost like she was dead. But, I could still feel her heartbeat and just the slightest hint of breathing. There was a strange, yellow mucus-like substance that ran from her nose, though. I thought that was strange. Even her eyes began to show some pink coloring, as if fluid was building up around them or inside them. Her forehead was roasting. I took her temperature and it was well over fever-level.

It was almost like some kind of encephalitis or something similar. There was fluid buildup, for sure. She would lay there and mumble incoherently, as if her brain was damaged and unable to process speech.

After a day or so, her skin began to darken in certain areas. It was like a black fungus that was slowly eating away her flesh. I used a conchrobium solution on the dark spots, and they lightened for a few hours. But then, they would darken again as the mold overpowered the solution.

The next day, I decided to take her into the basement. I wanted to keep her alive as long as I could to study the effects of the mold/virus symbiont. I chained her to the wall as she slept, and kept her warm and comfortable. It was only after another day that she awoke, and I discovered that she was no longer the woman I remembered. The woman I hated. She was some kind of stark raving lunatic.

Her eyes had become totally red, and her gums had receded to the point of exposing her teeth in a gruesome way. Her lips had partially dissolved, and she exuded some kind of foul odor. The strangest thing was that she was hungry. Very hungry.

I fed her meat that I had stored in my deep freeze in the basement. It was the only place in the house that still had power, thanks to my ingenious windmill contraption. I was able to generate a few thousand watts; enough to power the lights and the freezer, plus a few torture devices like my reciprocating saw and drill.

After feeding her a few steaks, I decided I wanted to keep those for myself, so I gave her meat from my stash. I had plenty of victims down there to cut up for her nourishment. Some of them were still alive, and some of them were dead. I tried both. She seemed to prefer the meat cut from the living people, but would eat the rotten flesh if she was hungry enough.

This went on for days. Though a little affronted at first, I began to grow accustomed to her nature, and could even use the desk behind her to study my photos. I would talk to her as I worked, and she would mumble back. It almost seemed like she remembered who I was, despite the zombie-like creature she had become.

Eventually, like my other victims, I decided to have my way with her. It was explosive. She struggled and growled as I pounded her from behind, making it all that much better. I probably mounted her six times that first day. The best part was how the other females I had strapped to the racks would watch and cry out in disgust. It was beautiful.

I always made sure to bathe afterwards using the mold killer. I didn’t want my dick to fall off, after all. But lately, I’ve had some strange stirrings in my body. There’s been no pain to speak of, only cramps that I could tolerate, and some weird crawling sensations in my gut and on my skin.

I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s fairly obvious that I am infected in some way. Lucy seems to know, too, as she coos and purrs when I am around, as if she recognizes me as one of her own. I find the whole thing fascinating, and look forward to seeing what happens. I just hope that the infection doesn’t affect my thinking. But then again, I’m already the perfect organism. I doubt that anything could ever change that.

I’m thinking, however, that the time has finally come to get rid of the neighbors. Most of them have died already, or killed themselves. Dan and Drew have been scouring the neighborhood, looking for drugs and booze, no doubt. Even Shirley was paid a visit. She has committed a major offense by letting them in her house. I was impressed by her aggression against the MIB as I call them. A small part of me was even impressed by Dan and Drew. They helped to wipe out the little squad of losers in less than ten minutes.

Very impressive.

However, Shirley needs to die. I’ve wanted to collect her skin for some experiments anyway. It’s a bit wrinkled, but if I can straighten it out, it would make a nice coat. I’ll go do that soon. But first, I need to get rid of my brother. He’s another drunken loser that showed up when the infection started. He’s been a pain in my ass; eating all of my food, sleeping in my bed, and taking all sorts of pills. I think he’s even been jerking off in my shower. Fucking prick.

I think I’ll slit his throat while he’s sleeping.

Dan’s heart jumped when he read the last sentence. He sat up quickly, his breath coming in gasps. He looked around at his friends, hoping that he hadn’t woken any of them up. They still snored away, and Dan lay back down, feeling like puking, but holding it down as his mind raced.

So, he
had
simply pissed on another victim; the killer’s own brother. The guy himself was still alive, or at least
was
alive recently. The prospects were grim. Dan and Drew were still in danger, possibly. There was no way of knowing if the guy was still alive or not. But with the sighting of the stranger by the trees, it was clear that he was out there.

But why the infected didn’t attack him… that wasn’t so clear.

Maybe there was something in what he said. The infected avoided attacking the more powerful types. If this guy was a killer, then Jake’s theory about Stalkers was correct. But that didn’t make sense. The horse had become a Stalker. Horses weren’t killers. Maybe the key factor wasn’t aggression, as it pertained to violence, but maybe just aggression related to metabolism or strength. Horses had high metabolisms, and were very high-strung.

That had to be it. Right?

Dan sighed, finally feeling the effects of the Vicodin. He knew if he hadn’t taken them, he would be panicking by now. Anybody would. Instead, he calmly lifted the notebook again and continued reading.

I can feel myself changing on the inside. My gut is twirling like a centrifuge. I know something is going on in there. My appearance is also very strange. My skin is becoming pale and hard. My eyes seem to be sinking in, and my teeth hurt like hell. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I like it.

It feels powerful.

Things are looking up, but I feel tired. Think I’ll go downstairs and curl up in the storeroom.

“Oh shit,” Dan whispered. “The storeroom.”

Jake yawned beside him, rolling over to his back and rubbing his eyes. Dan looked outside. The sun was beginning to rise, giving the fog a pale glow. All Dan could see was the grayish, bare skeletons of the trees. It was deathly and almost frightening.

“Have you been up all night?” Jake asked.

Dan shook his head, turning away from the scene outside. “No,” he said. “I just woke up a little while ago. Been reading these notebooks.”

“You’re gonna drive yourself batty reading that shit. I would burn ‘em. Except for the drawings, of course.”

“Yeah,” Dan said. “That reminds me. We should tear those pages out and put them in the Compendium.”

“Good idea,” Jake replied, standing up and heading for the couch.

“Where are you going?” Dan asked.

“I’m gonna put together the flamethrower,” Jake said.

“Need some help?”

“Nah. Get some more sleep or something. I like to work alone when I do that shit.”

Dan nodded, settling back down to enjoy his buzz. “Cool,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just relax. I need it.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, grinning. “You’re lookin’ kind of grizzled.”

As Jake closed the door, Dan put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts went wild, and he pictured crazy dude in his murder room banging his zombie wife. He imagined how the man would look now if he was infected, and why he didn’t just go bat-shit crazy like everyone else. Granted, he was quite obviously there to begin with; maybe that was it. Even a pathogen that made people go mad and eat their brains would likely not have much of an impact on such a scrambled mind… right?

And the thought of having come so close to finding his “napping” form in the storeroom gave him chills. Dan had looked there and saw nothing. Little did he know that his own doom was mere inches away, slumbering in some weird and disgusting manner? Did crazy dude form a cocoon? Was he changing into something else?

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Drew asked in a falsetto voice.

Dan turned, rolling over on his side. “Shit is crazy as hell with that serial killer,” he said.

Drew rolled his eyes. “He’s dead, man,” Drew said. “We burned his house down. Let it go.”

“We did,” Dan agreed, “but the guy in the bed was his brother. He’s still out there somewhere, watching us.”

“His brother?” Drew asked, raising his head.

Dan handed him the notebook, pointing out the last paragraph of the long entry. Drew held it up over him as he read, his eyes widening and narrowing as he went over the narrative.

“Holy fuck,” he said. “He fucked a zombie?”

“Keep reading.”

Drew read for a minute longer, then pursed his lips and laid the notebook down beside him. He stared into space, his mind obviously as troubled as Dan’s own.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Dan asked, repeating Drew’s earlier sarcastic question.

Drew shook his head. “I took a psychology course in college,” he said. “One of my favorite discussions was about sociopaths; about how they have this genetic ability to turn off certain areas of their brains.”

“Yeah?”

“A lot of them are normal everyday people that you would never guess are like that,” Drew continued. “But they make good business men, lawyers; anything that requires that kind of indifference. The rare ones who can’t handle that type of ability are the ones who become the serial killers and school shooters and all that. Maybe the infection does different things to sociopaths, since their brains are wired differently.”

“Did you notice how he said that his wife almost seemed to remember him?”

“Yeah,” Drew said. “Just like the zombie lovers in the yuppie’s house.”

“So, if this guy got infected, then he might retain
all
of his memories, since his brain was wired differently?”

Drew nodded, silent.

“Y’all could be wrong, tho’.” Vincent said, apparently having been listening. “We ain’t doctors, or scientists; just a bunch of mutha fuckas tryin’ to live out the day. But then again, you could be right.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Drew nodded his head in an exaggerated speed. “Thanks, Vincent,” he said. “That was helpful.”

Vincent snickered and sat up. “Look, man, all we can do is survive. There ain’t no reason to go worryin’ about this mutha fucka. If he wants to do some psycho shit and come lookin’ for y’all, then we cap his ass. There’s four of us, and one of him. Dude obviously got no balls, dawg. He killed a helpless old lady and shit. No real man goes after an old lady.”

“She wasn’t exactly helpless,” Dan said. “She was one tough bitch, with an attitude to match. She had eyes like a hawk, and could shoot like a Marine sniper. I don’t know how he even managed to get into her house. She would have shot him before he got within a hundred yards.”

“Hmm,” Vincent said. “I don’t know, man. You see how fast those Shamblers can run, and how far that horse jumped across the gap. The ones who change like that look like they get better at certain things. Maybe this dude just blends in better, or is quieter. Something’.”