The Squirming Read online

  Kurta saw it happen and knew, in his astonishment, that biker boy’s slug had emptied its glands into him like a syringe in its death throes, creating a surge of hormones and endorphins that caused the flukes in his brain to react in kind, emptying themselves, flooding his nervous system with a toxic elixir of opiates.

  Biker boy got off like he’d never gotten off in his life, the dopamine response in his brain kindling nuclear fission. But as he rode a rising, spiking wave of pleasure/pain, the chemical brew in his brain created a devastating allergic reaction that literally turned his gray matter to sauce and made him expand like a well-filled helium balloon…until he burst.

  Letting out a cry, The Pole clawed his way free, actually sinking into the bleeding, livid mass for a moment before he did so.

  Kurta blasted away until he was out of shot and then he spun around and…shit, the kid, the kid, they got the kid!

  West tried to roll himself up like a pillbug as they buried him alive in a sea of thrashing bodies and clawing hands.

  Kurta saw the M4 on the floor and dove for it.

  He came up shooting, blowing away three of them and blinding a fourth and then he just charged in, swinging the carbine as they came for him.

  And the next thing he knew, he was on his ass and there was nothing he could do for the kid because there was nothing he could do for himself.

  And it wasn’t just those fucking slugheads, but the parasites from the dead ones, too, looking for new vehicles to ride, new hosts to enslave. One of them, a greasy phallic mass, dun-colored and purple-veined, slithered over the glass of his bubble and some screeching voice inside him cried out in hysteria, a cock, it’s a living fucking cock, I’m going to be parasitized by a giant living cock, and then lights were spearing through the gloom and he heard gunfire, a sustained volume of gunfire.

  The sluggos began to drop away, squealing and pissing blood, writhing on the floor like maggots in carrion and a hand helped Kurta up.

  There was Mooney and Spengler.

  Fucking heroes.

  They’d come to save the day.

  Spengler got West and Kurta out of there as The Pole and Mooney opened up with their flame-throwers and set a four-alarm fire burning, a weenie roast of epic proportions.

  By the time they made it out into the street, the whole goddamn building was going up, fire licking out of the windows and a funnel of churning black smoke pouring out of the doorway.

  When they were back at the APC, all Kurta could say was, “Thanks, I won’t forget it.”

  Mooney shrugged. “Hey, that’s what we’re here for.”

  But Spengler, smiling a cocky grin, knowing he had not only nabbed himself an unborn creeper but had rescued the team leader and the boy wonder from certain parasitization—showing uncommon valor against an overwhelming opposing force—planned on holding him to that.

  13

  Six hours after Ex-3 came back in and were given their chemical showers, debriefing, and turned their creeper into the lab boys, the second-floor meeting room at the bunker was party central.

  The classic rock was cranking and the booze was flowing.

  Time to kick back, drink some beer, smoke some bud, and let the world go away. Spengler was a hero and he was having a hero’s sort of party. A bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and an ex-stripper named Daniella Creed in the other, he was regaling everyone with randy tales of hunting slugheads. Putting them down so they didn’t get back up, smashing loose slugs under his boots, and toasting them with his flamethrower. The war was winnable, he told anyone within earshot, and they were winning it day by day.

  Kurta didn’t bother commenting on that.

  He’d been running Ex-3 for fourteen months and had gone through no less than sixteen exterminators in that time. Still, though, people were always ready to join up. They didn’t get truly disillusioned until they got into the thick of things. If they lasted long enough, they learned to keep their traps shut like Kurta or became increasingly cynical like The Pole.

  But tonight? Hell, victory was at hand.

  If you didn’t believe that, all you had to do was listen to Spengler and his proclamations of a slug-free world.

  He was a first-class hero and he was living it up, milking it for everything it was worth. Major Trucks was impressed by how Mooney and he had pulled Kurta’s ass out of the flames, not to mention the creeper that Dr. Dewarvis and the other labcoat johnnies had swiftly secreted down in the lab. Dewarvis was ecstatic and that made the major happy and when he was happy, the booze came out and anyone not on duty was welcome to drink themselves silly as long as they didn’t cause any trouble.

  Those who had girlfriends were either dancing or drunkenly necking or had slipped back to their private quarters to slap skin. Those who didn’t, just stood around and fantasized about everyone else’s girlfriends, drinking away their frustrations or getting mean and pissy like The Pole. He’d already been in three fights that Kurta broke up and a fourth was in the offing because the other teams were there—Ex-1 and 2, 3 and 7, elements of 5. Ex-4 was the ready reaction team in case the shit hit the fan and perimeter security had to be beefed up, as in the case of an all-out assault by a slughead force. So they were not invited. Each team was competitive with the others, claiming a higher body count and more neighborhoods cleared. Something which was getting on The Pole’s nerves.

  “Tell us about it again, baby,” Daniella said to Spengler in her honey-sweet Alabama purr.

  Which Spengler did, of course.

  Daniella was a tall redhead with a blue ribbon set of tatas (as The Pole had pointed out more than once) who tended to attach herself to whatever man was receiving the most kudos. She was pretty, but there was something cruel and cunning in her face that some just did not like.

  It was a given that Spengler would be screwing her tonight because that’s how she worked.

  There was an attractive, perky blonde named Lisa Hilsson who was dancing with West. He was young, sweet-natured, and good-looking. She made the perfect counterpart to him. Something which made more than one man jealous. She was a nurse and a damn good one, people said. Kurta had had a brief relationship with her until one night, drunk out of his mind, he told her that the slug infestation was exactly what the human race deserved. Lisa, who had a daughter with her in the bunker, did not want to hear such things.

  Thinking back on that, Kurta laughed. Because it was always easier to laugh than cry.

  He watched the roosters strutting about and the hens shaking their tail feathers and thought, I’m seeing the end of a way of life. Another year tops and there won’t be parties like this anymore. In fact, there fucking won’t be anything. He sipped his drink, pulled off a cigarette, and listened to The Pole who was about ten feet away, getting louder by the moment.

  “That’s the thing,” he said, a certain species of contempt in his voice. “See, when the wigglers come out of their eggs, they can attach them-fucking-selves to anything. I’ve seen it. They can get in your hair, under your collar, in your shoes. They can ride on you for days before they sucker themselves to your belly.”

  “That’s why we get decontaminated,” Philly from Ex-5 informed him. “That’s why we take chemical baths.”

  “Oh really, big kahuna? How do you think those two bunkers got in-fucking-fested over at Wright-Patterson? How do you think our military fell one base at a time? How do you think we’re in a sorry, rag-fucking-tag situation like this waiting for the end?”

  The more The Pole drank, the more he began to insert fuck into any word he could.

  Philly said, “Oh, here we go. Doom and gloom. I was waiting for it.”

  “Maybe there wouldn’t be so much doom and fucking gloom if you ass-fucking-holes with Five were doing your jobs.”

  “What the hell you mean by that?”

  “I mean what I fucking say,” The Pole said. “Three pulls the shit week after week while you puppies are busy sucking each other’s dicks. It’s em-fucking-barrassing.”
r />   “Maybe you better watch your mouth,” Philly said.

  “And maybe you should suck my dick, Mr. Ex-fucking-terminator and gargle with my fucking cum—”

  Bang.

  Philly hit him. Straight jab, it put The Pole to his knees but it didn’t keep him there. He came up swinging, catching Philly with a roundhouse shot before Philly drilled him again. As The Pole came back for more, Philly made a grab for him but was brushed aside by a big dude they called Downtown. He held the combatants apart at arm’s length. He jabbed a finger at The Pole’s chest. “Maybe you better settle down.”

  “And maybe your mother should have kept her legs crossed.”

  That’s all it took.

  Downtown hit The Pole and The Pole hit Philly and Spengler dove on Downtown. Pretty soon, Three and Five were going at it. Kurta charged in, took a couple shots, kneed Downtown in the nuts and dropped Philly. “ENOUGH!” he said. “ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT OR THE FUCKING PARTY’S OVER!”

  Everyone pulled back, not wanting to piss Kurta off because he had the major’s ear. That and the fact that he was the most successful exterminator in the bunker and the others routinely tried to get on his team.

  The party resumed, but the good cheer was gone. Three and Five eyed each other warily, keeping on opposite sides of the room. Janis D, the team leader of Five, apologized to Kurta, but Kurta told her it was his man who had started it. Every time there was bullshit in the offing, you could almost be sure The Pole was involved.

  It was getting old.

  The Pole, bruised and bloodied but refusing medical aid, staggered over and bumped into Kurta. “Thanks for standing up for me, my brother,” he said.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up,” Kurta told him.

  He went and sat in the corner, nursing a beer that tasted skunky and warm, dragging off a cigarette that didn’t taste much better. Yeah, it’s all getting old, he thought, and it’s been that way for a long time now. And there ain’t no way out. And there wasn’t, not really. Even if you wanted to get away from it, strike out on your own…where would you go? There were no slug-free zones in the world that he’d ever heard of. This was it. This was all there was.

  West came over with Lisa Hilsson. She smiled at Kurta and he blew her off. He was glad, secretly, that she was with West. They made a nice couple. But for all that, he couldn’t pretend that he was happy she’d dumped him. It still hurt. So he masked it with callous indifference.

  When she went off to get a drink, West, who was pretty fucked up, said, “Sometimes I’m glad it’s like this. I just wasn’t making it the way things were before, you know? I just couldn’t find my place. I went through one job after the other. So maybe it’s better things are like this. Maybe it’s better for me.”

  Kurta didn’t respond. He blinked, sipped his beer, and dragged off his cigarette.

  West thought about what he’d just said, a crazy look in his eyes. “No, that’s bullshit. I don’t think that way at all. I don’t even know why I said it.”

  “People say things they don’t mean all the time,” Kurta told him.

  West nodded. “I guess…I guess if it has to be this way, I’m glad I’m with you. With Three. It’s the best I can hope for.”

  Kurta didn’t comment on that either because it was bullshit, only he didn’t want to ruin the kid’s drunken fantasy by telling him so. Guys on the teams got like that. They’d start drinking and things would just pour out of them. They were looking for a safe zone in their own minds where they could justify what they were doing and make themselves believe that things would be okay in the end. Soldiers probably got like that in every conflict, he supposed. Justifying things to themselves and making themselves believe that what they were doing really mattered even when they knew it didn’t.

  When West staggered off to the head, Lisa said, “Should I break the uncomfortable silence or will you?”

  Kurta smiled. It felt strange; he didn’t do it much anymore. “I’m glad you hooked up with West. He’s a good kid. You guys can be good together.”

  “I think so,” she said. Then: “There was a time when I thought we’d be good together.”

  “Then you dumped me.”

  “I dumped you because you’ve got a lot of ugliness inside you. I couldn’t live with that day after day. You’re a cynical asshole, Kurta, and we both know it.”

  He chuckled sourly. “Do what I fucking do day in and day out and that’s how it gets.” He lit another cigarette and pulled off it. “Look around you, Lisa. Tell me what you see.”

  She knew what was coming, but she refused to be baited. “I see people having a good time. I see people blowing off steam. That’s what I see.”

  “You know what I see?” he asked her.

  She sighed. “No, but you’re going to tell me.”

  “Yes, I am. I see a bunch of fools who are pretending that there’s going to be a next week or a next month or a next year. I see fucking idiots fiddling while Rome burns.”

  “Same old Kurta.”

  “Yeah, the song never changes.”

  “I better go see to West.”

  “Yeah, you better. Enjoy him. One of these days, I’ll be bagging him and he won’t be coming home.”

  She scowled at him, but didn’t bother pointing out the obvious: that inside, deep inside, he was festering.

  14

  After a couple hours of it, Kurta decided he’d had enough. He went to see the major, knowing he was expected. Major Trucks was on the third level and very few ever got to see him. Kurta found him in his office.

  “OUTSTANDING WORK TODAY!” he said with his usual volume, something he was incapable of toning down. “SPENGLER REALLY SHOWED HIS STUFF, EH? A CREEPER! THEN HIS RESCUE OF YOU AND WEST! THAT’S THE KIND OF SHIT I LIKE TO SEE!”

  “Mooney was in on it, too, sir,” Kurta pointed out.

  “OF COURSE HE WAS!”

  Major Trucks paced back and forth like a good little commander with too much on his plate. He mumbled things to himself, then he turned and looked at Kurta. “I BEEN THINKING!”

  “Have you?”

  The major ignored the sarcasm. “SPENGLER’S WORKING OUT PRETTY GOOD! WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT BUMPING HIM UP TO SECOND-IN-COMMAND OF THREE?”

  “I’d say no. He’s not up to it,” Kurta explained. “And even if he was, that would mean demoting Mooney. We can’t do that. Besides, it would mean giving him more rank than The Pole, than Skowalski, and that wouldn’t fly. Skowalski’s been at it longer.”

  “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT POLITICS! MOONEY AND SKOWALSKI WILL JUST HAVE TO LIVE WITH IT!”

  “It’s not that simple, sir. You disrupt the pecking order and I’m going to have trouble keeping the team together,” Kurta told him. “It’s hard enough now.”

  “WHAT IF I TOLD YOU I ALREADY MADE MY DECISION?”

  “Then I’d have to question it.”

  “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO QUESTION ME?” the major fumed, droplets of spit spraying into the air. “I MAKE THE FUCKING DECISIONS, NOT YOU! BESIDES, SPENGLER DESERVES THIS! DON’T FORGET THAT HIS OLD MAN WAS A HIGHLY DECORATED MARINE! HE WAS A FUCKING COLONEL IN THE CORPS FOR GODSAKE!”

  Kurta refused to budge. “I thought you didn’t give a shit about politics?”

  “WATCH YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, KURTA! I’M WARNING YOU! YOU PISS ME OFF AND I’LL GIVE THREE TO SPENGLER!”

  Kurta stood up. “Why don’t you do that…sir. Because that idiot’ll get them all killed within a single afternoon.”

  With that, he walked to the door.

  “I DIDN’T FUCKING DISMISS YOU!” Major Trucks raged.

  “Who gives a shit?” Kurta said. “What’re you gonna do? Make me go kill slugs?”

  15

  There were no secrets in the bunker and all walls have ears as it had been pointed out again and again. Soon enough, the altercation between the major and Kurta filtered back to the party and it wasn’t long before Spengler heard about it. The more he drank, the more important he felt.
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  “It’s too bad,” he said to Daniella, “but I fucking saw it coming. Kurta’s a loose cannon. There was a time when he was really something, but sadly, that time has now passed.”

  Truth was, of course, that he hated Kurta. Particularly after that thing with Stiv; Kurta just wouldn’t let him forget about that business. But now that it appeared he was rising to the top of Three like a turd surfacing in a toilet bowl, he was a big enough man to feel sorry for poor Kurta and his misguided ways.

  “What you ought to do,” Daniella suggested, “is to go see the major and lay it out for him. I bet he gives you Three before you leave.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, I know it! I can feel it.”

  She laid on the sugar and pressed her breasts up against him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that there was a place in her bed for a man like him. As he swallowed the drinks, she whispered in his ear that she’d always fantasized about getting down on her knees for him.

  That was it.

  That’s all it took (that and a lot of liquor).

  Steeling himself, Spengler went below and knocked on the major’s door.

  “SPENGLER? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING DOWN HERE?” the major inquired. “WHY AREN’T YOU ENJOYING YOUR PARTY?”

  “The party’s great, sir,” Spengler said, trying to appear confident but not overly so. “But I want to talk to you about things.”

  “WHAT THINGS?”

  “The team, sir. Three. I’m worried about it.”

  “ARE YOU?”

  Spengler nodded. “I have a lot of respect for Kurta, but, honestly, sir, he’s really been dropping the ball lately. If I hadn’t gotten him out of that mess today, sir, well, he’d no longer be with us. That’s the sad truth of the matter. I’m worried his recklessness is going to get us all killed.”