We hefted Earl inside.
I noticed that strange smell again; wet, earthy—like codfish oil. I wondered if the whole world was beginning to smell like that. Grunting with effort, I let go of Earl’s legs and his boots thudded on the floor.
My breathing came in short, winded gasps. I wanted a dip. My body cried out for one. That old television slogan, from the commercial with Charlie Daniels, ran through my mind. Just a pinch between the cheek and gum…
There was a roll of duct tape on the workbench. I tossed it to Carl, and he began binding Earl’s wrists behind his back. I grabbed some bailing twine and went to work on his feet.
“Boy,” Carl whispered, “I sure do hope he don’t wake up yet.”
“He’s not going to. You must have really knocked him a good one.”
Carl tore off a length of gray duct tape. “I reckon so. Been wanting to for the better part of two decades. He had it coming ever since that time he shot at my dog when she was running rabbits out behind his place. I should have kicked his butt back then and saved us all some trouble.”
Earl’s chest rose and fell. His breathing was quiet and shallow.
“We’ll want to be careful not to jab that piece of bone sticking out of Salty’s leg,” I said as I unknotted the bundle of bailing twine. “We’ll pad the splint with some of those shop rags over there.”
Carl nodded and finished binding Earl’s wrists.
That was when the floor moved. It wasn’t sudden. There was no explosion or jolt. But the wooden planks we were kneeling on slowly began to rise, almost unnoticeably at first. Three inches. Then six. Then back down. Then up again, like the floor was breathing. We froze. There was no sound, save the creaking wood and our own terrified heartbeats, throbbing in our ears.
Carl stared at me with wide eyes, and I stared back at him, probably looking the same.
Then there was a wet sort of rustling; a rubbery sound, like what crinkling paper might sound like under water. I reckon rubbery doesn’t go with crinkly, but I don’t know how to describe it any better than that. Maybe it shouldn’t be described. Maybe it shouldn’t be at all. Like I said earlier, I’m not a writer. All I know is I’d never heard a sound like that in my entire life and it was the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever experienced. Combined with the rolling motion of the floor, which had begun to resemble the deck of a ship at sea, and that same fishy smell that had come creeping back, I suddenly grew nauseous.
It must have shown on my face, because Carl’s expression changed from alarm to concern. I opened my mouth to speak, and then I threw up my breakfast all over Earl’s chest and stomach. Gagging, Carl turned away.
The floor continued to move. Somewhere in the corner, the planks began to snap. Carl shouted something, but the dizziness had my ears ringing, and I couldn’t understand him.
Nausea is never pleasant, and let me tell you, it doesn’t get any easier after you pass eighty. I couldn’t do anything except lie there, hands clutching the pitching and groaning boards, while my own body betrayed me. That fishy stench was overpowering now, and I think I must have passed out for a brief second.
The next thing I knew, Carl was screaming. I looked up and stared into a nightmare. Then I started screaming, too.
Carl had grabbed my twelve-inch lock-blade hunting knife from the workbench, and he was on the floor, stabbing the knife down again and again between the cracks in the planks. Something jerked beneath the boards as the blade disappeared through the cracks again. I only saw it for a second, but what I saw made me lose control of my bladder.
It looked like a quivering lump of grayish-white jelly, buried beneath the floorboards. The blade sank into the rubbery mass like it was margarine. Brownish ichor spilled from the wound, gushing up from between the cracks in the floor. The boards heaved again, splintering, and then were still.
The thing hadn’t made a sound the entire time, not even when Carl stabbed it.
He turned to me. His face was pale and covered with sweat. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Teddy!”
“What was that thing?” I stammered, still weak from my dizzy spell.
“I don’t know. Oh Lord, I don’t know. Let’s just go! Please? Let’s just lock Earl inside the shed and leave.”
I stumbled to my feet and grabbed the rags and the duct tape. Carl kept the knife. We left Earl lying on the floor and dashed back out into the yard. The wind rocked the shed door back and forth, and I fumbled to shut it. Then I realized we’d forgotten the wheelbarrow to haul Salty in.
Carl disappeared around the corner.
“Wait for me,” I called out. “Carl!”
Then he screamed again.
Out of breath and panicking, I ran around the side of the building and slid to a halt. The thing that had been underneath the shed was definitely not an oversized groundhog. It had crawled back outside, reopening the tunnel beside the woodpile. Half of it jutted from the hole, thrashing in pain. Stinking fluid sprayed from the knife wounds in its side.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was a worm. A giant earthworm, the size of a big dog, like a German shepherd or a Saint Bernard, but much longer. It undulated back and forth in the mud and grass, covering the ground with slime. Watery, brown blood pulsed from the gash in its hide.
More of its length pushed out of the hole and the creature whipped towards me like an out of control fire hose. The worm’s tip (what I guess must have been its head, though I couldn’t see any eyes) hung in the air in front of me, only an arm’s reach away. Then the flesh split, revealing a toothless maw. It convulsed again, and then that horrible, yawning mouth shot towards me. Shrieking, I stumbled backward to the shed door. The worm followed.
Now, as it chased after me, the worm finally made a sound. It wasn’t a cry or a scream or a roar or even a grunt. In fact, as far as I could tell, it wasn’t composed from vocal chords at all.
A high-pitched blast of air rushed from its gaping mouth, a vibrating noise that sounded like—well, to be honest, it sounded like somebody pretending to fart. You know that sound you make when you put your mouth against your arm and blow? That’s the same noise the creature was making. We used to call that a raspberry.
But it wasn’t funny. It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard. And it sounded angry.
The worm heaved its bulk forward and emerged all the way from the hole. I jumped back inside the shed, slipped in the worm’s blood, and fell. My teeth clacked together on my tongue, and pain shot up my spine. The worm crawled after me, dripping slime and more of that brown blood in its wake. Outside, I heard Carl shouting for help. I crab-walked backwards, scuttling along the wooden planks. Dozens of splinters punctured my hands and my fingers slipped through a pool of my own warm vomit.
The monster snuffled doglike along the floor, as if smelling me out, but I didn’t see any kind of nose or other organs—just that slathering mouth. Maybe it could sense my movements—my vibrations. It occurred to me that while I may have been the smartest man in Punkin’ Center, I sure didn’t know much about worms other than that birds and fish liked to eat them and that your dog might contract them if you didn’t take care of him.
I backed myself into the corner, directly across from Earl, who was still sprawled unconscious on the floor while the world ended around him. More of my vomit was drying on his clothes.