“Okay,” Sara agreed. “And Kevin?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It has to be done. Just promise me you’ll do it quick. I don’t know what I’ll do if I wake up and you’re still hacking at my arm.”
He brought the bottle to his lips and began to chug. Whiskey dribbled down his chin.
And that was when Sarah raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The first round shattered the bottle and most of Kevin’s jaw. Fragments of glass and teeth flew through the air. The second shot hit Kevin in the left eye, knocking him backward. He toppled to the floor, his upper half hidden in the utility shed’s shadowy interior.
Sarah snapped the pistol around and placed the still smoking barrel against her head. It singed the hair around her temple. The smell of cordite was strong. Her ears rang. Trembling, she stroked the trigger.
Then she dropped the gun, collapsed to her knees in the mud, and shrieked at the sky. Above her, the thunder answered.
The rain fell harder.
CHAPTER 22
Moxey was growing restless. She squirmed in Henry’s arms, stretching her legs and pressing her claws against his chest and biceps. She hadn’t actually clawed him—at least, not yet, but she was clearly unhappy with being carried as he slogged through the mud.
“I can’t put you down, girl. You’re weak. You ain’t had nothing to eat for God knows how long. And look around us. You don’t want to walk in this shit, anyway.”
The cat squeaked feebly in response—lacking the strength to even meow properly. But she lay still again and snuggled up against him. A moment later, Henry felt her start purring. He lowered his chin against her wet fur and rested it there as they walked. The hammer dangled from the twine holding his makeshift kilt together. He’d placed it there so that he could hold onto Moxey with both hands. The handle banged against his thigh with every step.
Henry couldn’t stop shivering. The rain beat down on them relentlessly. Wisps of fog hung thick in the air. Between the two, it was hard to see more than a few feet in any direction—but Henry was glad for that, because what he saw terrified him in ways that fungus zombies and half-human sharks hadn’t.
Everything he’d known was gone, and what remained was no longer recognizable. After stumbling around for a while, he’d managed to find the winding, one-lane road that led from Renick and the valley up the mountain to Punkin’ Center. Much of the blacktop was concealed beneath a thick layer of mud, rocks and other debris. Before the rains, one side of the road had been bordered by pastures and cornfields and soybean fields. Those were gone now. The steady downpour had eroded the vegetation and the topsoil, exposing the layer of clay that ran deep beneath the ground. The clay was like quicksand. Uprooted trees and huge chunks of gray rock jutted from it in places. The rest of it looked like rust-colored soup. The few shacks and houses that had dotted this portion of the mountain were also gone.
The other side of the road had once been a steep drop straight down the forested mountainside, with only a steel guardrail to act as a buffer. When he’d been younger, Henry used to get dizzy every time he looked over the side. Now, the chasm was now flooded. Brown water rushed past far below, pushing trees, cars, dead cattle, and other flotsam in its wake. The mountainside itself had been stripped bare of trees. All of them had fallen over—their roots unable to retain a purchase in the sodden ground.
In addition to the widespread destruction, Henry noticed something odd. Threading across the landscape were a series of trenches and furrows, as if a group of large gophers had been tunneling through the mountain. The smallest mound was the size of a dog. The biggest was larger than a school bus, and had collapsed inward, filling with water. Henry didn’t know what they were or what could have made them. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to find out.
Maybe it’s those giant worms I saw in my dreams.
A week ago, he would have scoffed at this thought, but he had dreamed about the half-man, half-shark, too, and now he knew that they were real. Why couldn’t the worms be real, as well?
The white fuzz was ever-present—growing on fallen trees, rocks, and even in the mud itself. He chose his steps with care, not wanting to come into accidental contact with it. Henry wondered how fast the fungus grew, and how long it would take for it to cover the entire mountainside. Worse, what would happen once it did? Could an entire mountain turn into water, the way Mr. Burke had? How was such a thing possible?
At one point, the wind picked up for a few minutes and the fog cleared. He glanced back down into the valley. All that remained above the floodwaters were the Presbyterian Church steeple and Fred Laudermilk’s grain silo. Both structures jutted upward like the fingers of a drowning man. Henry shivered, thinking about what had happened in both. He half expected the silo to collapse into the water while he watched, but it didn’t. Then the breeze died down and the mist descended again, swallowing his view. Henry turned around and continued up the mountain. Mud squished between his toes. Rocks jabbed at his bare feet.
The road began to level out as they approached Punkin Center. Surprisingly, many of the tiny town’s buildings were still standing. Carl Seaton’s combination post office and feed store had collapsed into a sinkhole, and two of the seven houses along the road had fallen down, but the barns and other houses remained upright—albeit in bad shape. Many were missing roofs, or had collapsed walls. Two of the houses were slowly sinking into the ground. He saw evidence of the white mold growing on all of them. Most of the trees, while still upright, tilted dangerously to one side. Henry steered clear of them. Last thing he or Moxey needed was to be trapped beneath a falling tree.
Henry re-adjusted Moxey, putting her in the crook of one arm, and then cupped his hand around his mouth.
“Hello? Anybody here? Hello?”
There was no answer, save the steady drumming of the rain. He hadn’t really expected one, even as he hoped he’d hear one anyway. The National Guard had evacuated everybody in Punkin Center when they evacuated Renick and Frankford.
Except for Mr. Garnett, he thought. Teddy is still here. I saw him. All we’ve gotta do is make it to his place. Then everything will be okay.
He considered going into one of the houses that was still standing upright. Most of the people in these parts had gardens during the summer and canned their produce for use during the winter months. Surely, one of the basements or storm cellars would have food in them. At the very least, he could find some dry clothes to wear—something other than the wet burlap he was currently wearing. And a better weapon, too—something other than the claw hammer. But then he eyed the sickly pale growth covering the homes’ exteriors, and decided against exploring them further. Getting food or clothing wouldn’t do him much good if he ended up infected. He could wait until he made it to Mr. Garnett’s place.
His stomach grumbled as another jolt of pain rumbled through it. Gritting his teeth, Henry hugged Moxey tight and walked on—unaware that he was being followed.
* * *
His pursuers waited until Henry rounded the bend. Then they crept forward, following his trail. One of them had once been a deer. Another had been a red fox. Another a dog. Three of them had once been human, including Tammy Lapp, who’d gone to school with Henry. Now, they were something else. All of them were infected. The white fuzz covered them from head to toe. All had been attracted by Henry’s shouts. They’d resisted the urge to attack, choosing instead to follow him in the hopes that he was part of a larger group. If so, then that group would become soft.