Worms

Tightly holding the rope that served as the dog’s collar, the man sat on the edge of the ledge and peered down at the shoreline. The mongrel had given up on its barking for a moment and sat panting next to him. Down on the shore were three thick pinkish tentacle-like things laying across the rocky beach, nearly touching the cliff face.

Moments passed, and he grunted and stood up, pulling the dog roughly towards the shack that served as his home and pushing it inside. He closed the rickety door behind it, wrapping the rope that served as the handle tight around the nail that protruded from the frame.

He walked to the nearby lean too to assess his options. The ax or the shovel, which one should he take? He opted for the shovel. He could use it as a walking stick and a lever. He’d come back for the ax if he felt the situation warranted. For that matter, he’d go back for the rifle he’d kept near his cot.

The trail to the shoreline was rough but not overly dangerous. Using the shovel as a walking stick, he could pick his way down rather quickly. As he approached the things, he was overwhelmed by the smell. It wafted up from the water in a dense cloud. He couldn’t tell if the tentacles caused the smell or if the scent was strictly from the water itself. Did it matter?

The tentacles were long and segmented, almost like worms. They were thick, a yard across, maybe more, and they extended from a few feet from the cliff face down into the water. He approached them cautiously. The one closest to him was muddy and peppered with rocks. He studied it.

The things were dead. At least the one nearest to him seemed that way. He slowly and purposefully poked it with the shovel. It was heavy but moved slightly. He jumped back, though once he withdrew the shovel. Underneath its segmented skin, something writhed and squirmed—hundreds of things.

Working up the courage, he poked it again with more force. He felt the shovel break through the skin and watched, heart thumping and eyes wide as thick wriggly pink worms poured out of the wound. The things flowed out onto the ground in a giant messy pile. The segment they were in deflated and collapsed in on itself.

He stumbled backward as the things spread across the rocky terrain. They looked like engorged worms but moved quickly like snakes. He was uninterested in studying them any further. Heart racing, he scrambled up the trail, glancing behind him as he did. The things swarmed around where he had stood, a fact that only made him move faster.

Once up the trail, he tossed the shovel back in the lean-to carelessly and grabbed the rope that hung there. He tied off one end to a pole that helped support the shack then fetched the dog. He couldn’t let the mutt roam free anymore. He couldn’t risk having the dumb animal fall sick, and he knew it would go down and mess with those long bags of worms.

He closed the doors and went into the shack to check his guns. There were two of them, a .308 he used to hunt before the world went mad and a Glock 17 he bought for home protection. He laughed at that thought as there was nothing to protect now but the guns. He still had a couple of boxes of ammo for each. There was no point in wasting it. He’d only used the rifle hunting small game or the occasional deer or antelope he’d come across. On those rare occasions, the dog and he ate like kings. He’d only use the pistol if he got desperate.

He put the rifle back and kept the pistol with him. Then, opening the door, he dragged the old lawn chair out and sat next to where the dog was tied up—at the end of the rope, straining on it barking into the abyss that held the lake.

“You’re better of if you just stick with me, you stupid shit.” The dog came over tail wagging, and sat down next to him. He petted the animal absentmindedly. Those things hadn’t been there last night. He and the dog had been down at the lake fishing the night before. But this was sudden. These things were sudden.

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He’d had a life once. Years ago, before the whole world went mad. People started killing each other in the streets, and the government got involved. Those that could flee the cities did. Others were gathered up in busses by church groups, fraternal organizations, and sometimes city councils and taken to who knows where.

It didn’t happen all at once. Some places held off for years before something snapped, and people went nuts. He’d fled with his girlfriend once his father took out a kitchen knife and started carving symbols into his sibling’s chests and backs.

They’d travel from town to town. Making do with whatever they could. At first, the folks in the country seemed to have a more grounded take on reality. Then an elderly woman stabbed his girlfriend in the throat to remove the transdimensional demon that only she could see.

He fled, stealing some food and a car that he drove until it broke down. Finding himself on a dusty trail, he gathered what he could in a backpack and walked until he found the lake. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, but it’d been several months.

The shack had surprised him. It looked ramshackle, but whoever had built it made it sturdy enough that it was easily fixed, even by somebody as unskilled as he was. The dog surprised him more. He’d been at the shack for less than a day when the poor pitiful creature timidly approached him, head down, tail between its legs. It had been a welcome relief. He immediately set to loving on the beast, sharing some of his meager rations, rubbing its belly, and scratching behind its ears. For a moment, life felt normal, and he wept.

After a few days of fixing up the shack and getting a lay of the land around the lake, he focused on surviving. There was enough wild game in the vicinity of the lake, and the lake seemed full of fish. He didn’t go hungry, though the canned veggies and fruit had run out long ago. By some divine grace or a stroke of dumb luck, he’d had the fore with all to bring the book on edible plants with him that he’d found in the trunk of the car. So he’d been getting some greens, bitter as they were. The shack also had a few weathered books and pamphlets, some on knot tying, others on making snares and traps. There were tools in a small lean-to nearby as well.

Once he settled in, he and the dog developed a routine. They’d fish in the mornings and evenings, hunt for rabbits or the occasional larger animal, and every few days, they’d scrounge for edible plants. Finally, he found he could make a stew that would last several days with tubers, berries, and what meat he hunted or fished. It tasted awful, but he and the dog didn’t starve.

The lake was about a mile wide and circular- a symmetrically round hole in the middle of rolling badlands filled with water. This bothered him, though he didn’t know why. When he’d first arrived, the water had been near the top. After a week, he noticed the water level dropping even though no streams were going into or out of the lake. Day after day, the water level dropped a little more. It took months, but now the rocky beach where the tentacles lay required a short hike to reach. When he’d first arrived, he could fish right outside the shack. There was nowhere for the water to go, and though he was no science whiz, it didn’t seem likely that the water would evaporate that quickly.

He knew one thing- he’d need to find another spot to fish. As long as those worm-filled tendrils were lying on the beach, he wouldn’t fish along that shore.

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He awoke with his neck aching, having fallen asleep sitting in the chair. The dog had wrapped itself around the chair’s legs and looked up expectantly when he came too. At least it hadn’t slipped out from the rope. He’d been asleep for most of the day, and the sun was beginning to descend below the horizon.

Walking over to the ledge, he peered down. He could smell the putrescence. The tentacle he’d slashed with the shovel had shriveled up. Thousands of pink things slithered from the large gash down into the water.

Damnit!

The lake was his water supply. He’d have to find a new place for both water and fishing.

The dog whined behind him. He untangled the miserable beast and untied it from the post. Then, holding onto the rope, he let it lead the way as he picked his way down the ledge towards the water. Reaching the bottom, he wrapped the rope around his forearm while struggling to cover a bandana over his face. The smell was overwhelming. He felt bile from his empty stomach, welling up in his throat.

The pink leeches still pooled out around the hole of the one he’d gashed open. Most wiggled away towards the water. Some had stopped, deflated, like dried desiccated penises on the rocky shore. The dog sniffed at them and barked when they twitched. He took a small stick and poked at one. It shuddered and then curled around the stick, then slowly crawled up the length. He vigorously shook the stick, then gave up and tossed it into the water. The splash set a ripple of twitches among the worms nearest to the shore causing them to move faster.

He pulled on the rope, meeting resistance from the dog. The damn creature had one of the things in its mouth, chewing happily. Sighing with disgust, he slapped the dog, then pried its mouth open while avoiding the pink horror. Soon the violence caused the poor animal to let out a yelp, dropping it.

Back at the shack, he lit a lamp, sat down on the cot, and took stock of the situation. Whatever those things were, they were rotten, smelled like the corpses of dead fish mixed with feces, and full of those with pink leech-type creatures that smelled the same. Moreover, the things had contaminated the water. He wasn’t convinced that getting the water from a different spot in the lake wouldn’t still make him sick. Maybe boiling it would make it clean enough to drink. He was sure he could even fish in other areas of the lake. It would just be a little more work. Feeling assured, he drifted off to sleep.

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There were more. Weeks had gone by, and the original three had deflated and rotted away. The putrid pink worms had crawled out of rotting flesh sacks and back into the water for days. He’d walk half a mile for fresh water and to fish. The water tasted brackish becoming nearly unpalatable, and the fish had stopped biting. On the rare occasion that he would catch one, it would come up half dead, scaleless, or with lesions across its body.

The wild game was still around, and he’d shot a few rabbits. But he’d be out of bullets eventually, and while there were a few pamphlets on snares and traps left in the shack, he couldn’t get them to work. He had a choice, cut his losses and go or try and stick it out. He kept putting off the decision until the next day. And then the next day.

One morning, five more of the creatures were on the rocky shore. The water level had dropped, and what had taken several months to fall 20 feet only took a few weeks this time. These creatures were thicker and longer. Picking his way down to them, he could see the pink worms writhing under the surface. He didn’t bother swinging the shovel at them.

Upon leaving the beach, he caught something out of the corner of his eye, a roiling in the water. He stopped and stared for a moment. The water seemed to bubble up brown and pink, tiny fat tendrils breaking the surface. He felt his heart crawl up his throat. He scrambled up the trail. At the top, he peered down at the lake, dismayed. It roiled and boiled in spots all over. His stomach knotted.

He went into the shack, pulled the dog in after him, and set up his backpack. He had a few changes of clothes, some dried rabbit meat that tasted awful but would get him by, and a canteen, which he filled with the last of the clean water. It was vile tasting, but maybe it would last a couple of days if he rationed it. Long enough for him to find another source. He packed the books and a plastic tarp as well. Unsure he’d survive long away from the lake, but at least he’d have a chance. It was almost dark. He intended to leave at first light. He dragged the dog into the shack, latched the door, and settled down. Soon he was asleep.

=========

He dreamed. He dreamed of life before everything went to shit, of high school, playing video games with his friends, sneaking out of the house at one in the morning to smoke shitty weed, and hang out at the IHOP or the gas station parking lot.

He dreamed about the riots, the gangs of masked crazies forcing postcards in peoples’ faces, soldiers locking down neighborhoods, and enforcing curfews with extreme prejudice. He dreamed of his father holding down his little sisters while he carved symbols that nobody else could see into their chests.

He dreamed of driving in the car with his girlfriend crying, fleeing on the freeway, and encountering no traffic. He dreamed of small towns with corpses hanging from traffic lights with signs around their necks. He dreamed of the little old woman stabbing his girlfriend repeatedly in the neck and fleeing in a blind panic.

Then his dream changed. He was flying, far over the rocky badlands that only seemed to have one season. He could see the abandoned car, tires flat and fenders rusting. Soon he was in the air over the lake, a perfect circle filled with water. He slowly descended until he was only a few feet over its surface. Then, peering into the inky depths, he saw something. Long slender tendrils moved slowly, deliberately, breaking the water’s surface and crawling up the rocky shore. As they did, the water level lowered, a whirlpool forming in the center, with water circling like a drain.

As the water drained, the tendrils writhed and burst to fill the space once occupied by the water with the pink worms, leeches that filled them. Writhing and boiling with putrescence, they filled the lake and began to spill over onto the ledges that surrounded it. A shiver went down his spine, the temperature dropped, and a pounding filled his ears.

=========

He awoke with a start. The door had come open, and the wind was knocking it back and forth against the frame. The light had blown out, and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was dark out, but he could make out the outline of the things in the shack. A lump rose in his throat.

The dog was gone.

Dressing quickly, he grabbed the Smith & Wesson and strode outside, yelling into the wind for the animal. He waited for a moment. Nothing. He paced back and forth near the cliff edge, the lake was a black maw, and he couldn’t see the surface. Yelling for what felt like hours but was likely only half an hour, he gave up. The only thing out there that he knew of was the lake. Hopefully, the dog would come back before morning. As soon as it was light enough to leave, he was gone.

He had nodded off, and the sun was high when he woke up. The dog was still nowhere to be seen. Eating as much of the leftover stew as he could stomach, he wandered to the ledge and peered down. Below him, the lake sat almost bereft of water. Instead, hundreds of sinuous tendrils stretched up the muddy sides towards the cliffs. Some =still twitched and writhed. Nestled among them crawled the pink worms, squirming together in a grotesque orgy. The smell overwhelmed him. He vomited down the side of the cliff.

Still no sign of the dog.

Defeat overcame him. He’d wait. The stew would hold out one more day. Maybe he could find a rabbit to kill and roast. He’d wait. He hiked for some time with no luck. Whatever game had been here a week ago was gone. It had been over a week since he got the last rabbit. It’d been over a month since he caught a fish. He had to leave—first thing in the morning.

That night he dreamed again. Not about the good times. Not about how the world went insane. Not about the dog. Just the lake. He floated over it and watched the worms writhe and roil. The smell overtook him, and he opened his mouth to vomit, but nothing came. Instead, the scent filled his throat like a thick pudding, filling his stomach. He struggled against it, but soon a warmth stretched out from his head to his toes. He tingled.

“Join us.” the whisper could have been mistaken for the wind.

“No.” was his response.

“Join us.” slightly louder this time.

“No.’

“Join us!” the words filled his head like a gale.

He woke up. Outside, the clouds hung low in the sky, dark and ominous. They slowly swirled like he’d seen hurricanes do on tv. The wind blew hard, but in the center, over the lake, there was a calm. He struggled to the ledge and peered down. Below the writhing continued, many of the large tendrils had burst, and the pink worms’ level was higher than it had been earlier.

He could taste the air.

For a moment, there was silence. Then he heard a bark. Below on the beach was the dog, looking up at him. He couldn’t tell if the animal was hurt or not. He grabbed the shovel and made his way to the shore.

When he arrived, the dog was nowhere to be found. Instead, the pink worms boiled along the edges, some coming up the beach slightly, only to be taken back into the mass. It was like watching pink mercury come to life. Only he could see every molecule vibrating.

He walked along the shoreline. The dog could have only gone into the lake. The beach was only a few hundred yards long here. The only place it could have gone was into the pink mass. He sighed. If he’d gone in there, then there was nothing he could do. He moved towards the trail back to the top of the ledge.

It was gone.

His heart sank.

The wind subsided.

He leaned against the cliff face, his heart in his throat, and watched the roiling mass ascend the beach towards him. Then, he heard a bark from above. Looking up, the dog sat at the top of the cliff.

How?

Leaning the shovel against the cliff, he started looking for handholds. He wasn’t going to be caught in that mass. The dog was there. He could do this. Slowly and picked his way up the ledge. It was far, 15 feet, but far enough that a fall could hurt him. Possibly kill him.

He grabbed a strong shrub at the top and pulled himself up. The dog sat there smiling as dogs do, tail wagging. He pulled himself up. As he did, he felt the ground sink beneath him. Hanging in the air for a moment, he rode the ledge down to the beach, hitting his head.

He was only out a moment. The dog above him peered down. Barking. He stood up and looked for the shovel. He had made it. Almost. He felt something on his foot—a mass. Looking down, the worms had made it. Gripping the shovel, pulling it free from the rock and debris, he held it with both hands, gripping it tightly. He’d go down fighting. He brought it down deliberately again and again on the worms until his arms turned to jelly.

He could feel them up to his ankles. The dog had stopped barking. They crawled up the beach and his legs. Soon they were up to his waist. He moved slowly, laboriously through them towards the cliff face. He grabbed roots and rocks and pulled against the weight of the worms. Slowly he pulled himself up, beyond them. He looked up at the dog, smiling at him with its tongue lolling to the side. A bit of drool fell from its mouth and landed on his face.

The pink worm crawled across his cheek and fell below. Then, looking up again, he saw more drop. He turned his head hurriedly. They hit his shoulders and landed in his hair. The dog still stood there panting, then it slowly dissolved, pieces of it now pink worms falling en masse towards him.

He lost his grip and fell, landing with a wet smack into the mass below. Struggling for a moment, he felt his face covered, then he relaxed. The smell filled his throat and his belly.

=========

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The couple stopped. The lake was a vast clear circle of water—a welcome sight. The shack was a ramshackle mess, but the young man looked it over before going inside. It was fixable.

There was only a tiny cot but enough bedding that a nest could be easily made on the floor. Resting on it was a backpack, dried meat, clothes, and survival books. Useful. There was a rifle in one corner, loaded.

“Whoever was here is long gone, but I think we can make it work.” He said, smiling.

The woman was kneeling petting a mongrel dog who seemed happy for the attention. “Poor thing. I wonder how long it’s been on its own?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m sure between the fish in the lake there and what game we can find, we can feed it too.”

She smiled and stood up. They set to work examining the tools in the lean-to nearby, making a note of a shovel, an ax, and a hammer with a small box of nails. The dog stood up and followed them, and where it had sat, two pink worms wreathing around each other slowly.