Donning the John Deere cap to keep the rain off his head, Henry slowly clambered out onto the raft and sat cross-legged. Then he grabbed the pitchforks and brought them onboard. The vessel bobbed and swayed, and water surged over the edges. Alarmed, Henry got ready to make a dive back into the silo, but the raft remained above the surface. It wasn’t very sturdy, but it would have to suffice.
“Stay here, girl! I’ll be right back.”
If Moxey heard him, she gave no indication.
Henry pushed off from the side of the silo and floated out onto the open water, buoyed by the slight waves. He was drenched within minutes, from both the relentless rainfall and the small waves lapping over the edges of the craft. His stomach growled. He dipped the makeshift oar into the water and paddled, guiding the raft towards the steeple. Rain beat down on him, but Henry ignored it. He peered through the mist, his full attention focused on his destination. He hoped to spot the figure again, but if they were still there, then they were out of sight. So intent was his concentration, that he didn’t look away until he heard Moxey howling behind him.
Henry glanced over his shoulder, hoping that she wasn’t considering jumping into the water and coming after him. He was stunned by what he saw. The silo was buried beneath a billowing fogbank. He could just barely see its outline, enveloped in curling white mist.
“Holy shit…”
As he watched, the fog drifted towards him. Henry turned around and paddled faster. By the time he’d reached the church steeple, the mist had caught up to him. Shivering, he pulled alongside the bell tower and cupped his hands over his mouth.
“Hello? Anyone in there? This is Henry Garrett!”
His voice sounded odd, as if the fog were dampening it somehow. Henry rubbed his arms and legs to get his circulation moving. Then he called out again.
“Hey! I know you’re in there. I saw you. If you’re hurt, or can’t call out, don’t worry. I can help.”
He paused, waiting for a response, but none was forthcoming. Somewhere overhead, a bird shrieked. He glanced upward but couldn’t see it through the haze.
“I’m coming in,” Henry shouted. “Don’t shoot me. I just want to help.”
Dipping the pitchfork in the water, he got as close to the steeple as he could. Then, moving slowly, Henry grasped the ornate, white railing and pulled himself up into the bell tower. Too late, he wished he’d had the presence of mind to save some of the bailing twine to tie the raft off with. He had no means of anchoring it, and if the vessel drifted away on the current, he’d really be screwed. Realizing that there was nothing he could do about it now, Henry grabbed the second pitchfork that he’d brought along for defense. He really didn’t think he’d need it, but just holding it in his hands made him feel safer. More comfortable.
“Hello?”
He peered into the open-air platform beneath the bell. Mist swirled through the space, obscuring his vision. He saw a trace of the wooden door that he new opened into the staircase that led down into the church. That would all be underwater now. If there was somebody here—and he knew there was—they had to be in the center of the platform, concealed in the fog.
Licking his lips, Henry stalked forward. The boards were wet and slippery, so he moved with caution. He shifted the pitchfork in his hands, thrusting it out before him. The wind whistled behind his back. The breeze was picking up, the gust strong enough to shift the ball cap on his head.
“I’ve been holed up inside of Fred Laudermilk’s grain silo, with my cat, Moxey. I didn’t think there was anyone else left alive. But then I saw you while I was—”
The wind parted the fog for a moment, and Henry caught a glimpse of a figure lying on their back. They reached for him, arms flailing weakly. The mist swirled around them again before he could discern their features.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping forward.
“Soft,” the figure replied. It’s voice sounded like someone gargling mouthwash.
“What?”
“Must become… soft… Henry…”
Another gust of wind parted the haze once more, giving Henry a clear view of the person on the floor. His eyes widened. He tried to speak, but could only stammer. The pitchfork slipped from his hands and clattered onto the floor. Slowly, laboriously, the figure slithered toward him, wriggling like a snake.
“Soffffft…”
CHAPTER 12
Startled, Henry skittered backward until he felt the wet, wooden railing behind him. A strong gust of wind whistled through the steeple, spraying him with mist. His John Deere cap fluttered on his head, and the bell swayed slowly back and forth. Squinting, Henry wiped the rain from his eyes and stared.
The figure made a phlegmatic, rasping noise that reminded Henry of a whoopee cushion. Then it clambered to its feet and shuffled slowly towards him, arms outstretched, fingers grasping at the air.
“Henry…”
“Mr. Burke?”
The shambling form halted, rocking back and forth on the balls of its feet. Its body was almost completely covered with a white fungus similar in appearance to peach fuzz, but thicker. The thing tilted its head, staring at him with sunken, black pinprick eyes. When it spoke again, the fuzz split open, revealing a pale, toothless mouth. Its voice sounded like it was gargling.
“Hello… Henry… soft… Have you… seen…soft… Melissa and… Jaceyn… soft…”
Until that point, Henry hadn’t been sure of what he was seeing. The thing in the church steeple was barely human, let alone somebody he recognized. The growth obscured everything—clothing, facial features, anything that would have identified it—everything except for the Masonic ring on its finger. The mold had started to grow over the band, but enough of it was still visible that it caught Henry’s eye right away. He’d only known one person in Renick who wore such an item—Mr. Burke, who owned the turkey farm up near Bear Town. Henry had gone to school with his kids, Melissa and Jaceyn. He wondered where they were now, and what had happened to their mother.
Henry stared at the man, wondering what had happened to him. He’d seen this weird growth on other things—birds and fish and the occasional debris that floated by, but never to this extreme. He glanced down at Mr. Burke’s feet and saw white, root-like appendages growing out of them.
“Soft…”
“Mr. Burke… what happened to you? You’re sick.”
“Soft…”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Soft… Henry… soft…”
“I don’t know what that means! What’s soft?”
“It’s… what you… soft… must become… soft…”
Mr. Burke shuffled forward again, reaching for him. Henry slid along the railing to the left and the figure swerved towards him—but slowly. Even though the platform was slick and treacherous from all the rain, Henry was pretty sure he could outrun the infected man if he had to.
“Everything… soft… will become… soft…”
“Mr. Burke. You’re sick. There’s something wrong with you. Let me help, okay?”
“Soft… we all… go… soft…”
“I’ve got medicine back in the silo,” Henry lied. “Penicillin. Antibiotics. All kinds of stuff. Let me go back and get it, and I’ll help you out. Okay?”
“Soft…”
“Mr. Burke?”