Sometimes first impressions were spot-on.
“That’s just where I was going when those things came out of the corn,” he continued.
“Corn creeps.”
“Corn creeps? Really? That’s what they’re called?”
“It’s what I call them.”
“It’s a good name for them,” Eric decided.
The man’s eyes narrowed. He regarded him for a moment longer, the rifle barrel still pressed to Eric’s face. Then he abruptly turned away and placed the weapon gently on the seat of a chair that was standing next to the door. “So you’re that sorry bastard.”
Eric rose warily to his feet, still half-expecting to have his head blown off his shoulders. “I’m sorry, but exactly what sorry bastard am I?”
“The sorry bastard that’s going to die screaming in the festering asshole of the almighty cathedral.”
Poetic and frightening. Nice. “Maybe you’re thinking of somebody else?” hoped Eric.
The man let out a snort of a laugh. “Sorry to break the news to you.”
“Probably not as sorry as I am.”
The man was tall and lanky, with lean, muscular arms and an impressive mane of unkempt blond hair. “Probably not. What’s your name? Actually, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. No reason to know a dead man’s name.”
“Eric.”
“Or you could just fucking tell me anyway.”
“I don’t intend to be a dead man.”
“Don’t matter what your intentions are. We all die.”
“Then I don’t intend to die today.”
“If you say so.” He turned away and slid open a small window built into the door. The feature appeared to have been added somewhat recently, and without much care for aesthetics. It was little more than a short length of two-by-four held in place by several metal brackets. Eric noticed that it was mounted at the perfect height for the man to aim the barrel of his monster-busting rifle through. While peering out into the unnatural gloom, he said, “I’m Father Billy.”
This caught Eric off guard. “You’re a priest?”
Father Billy looked back over his shoulder at him. “No.”
“Oh.”
Looking back out through the homemade peephole, the man who called himself Father Billy but was not a priest did not explain why he called himself “Father” when he was not a priest, but instead said, “You sure stirred up a shit storm out there. I’m amazed you made it all the way here. They ain’t the fastest-moving fuckers, but they’ve got damn long strides. Those long-ass legs of theirs.”
He certainly had far more colorful language than any “father” he’d ever known. Even his actual father had never strung together the kind of imaginative description that Father Billy used next. Not even when he hit his thumb with a hammer. And that was always good for encouraging creativity in vulgarity.
Deciding not to discuss the ethics of using such language inside a church, even a church in an advanced state of disrepair and possessing eerie, blood-red windows, he said, “So they’re still out there, I take it?”
“At least twenty of them, not including the three I put down.”
Twenty… “What are they doing?”
“Eating their dead.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, the fact that these things were cannibalizing their fallen pack-mates or that that this man could speak such a reply without a hint of disgust in his voice.
“Yeah. Nasty bastards. They’re extremely opportunistic. They won’t expend any energy to hunt if there’s something easier to eat. Even if it’s one of their own. It’s actually a good thing. Because if you can kill just one of them—or even just cripple it— the rest will forget about you and turn on it. Of course, if you’re stupid enough to go wandering around the fields without a gun, you’re pretty well fucked.”
Ignoring the insult that was quite obviously aimed at him, Eric stood up and looked around. The interior of the church was a mess. All the pews had been shoved against the walls like a barricade and a rough campsite had been assembled in the middle of the room. A pile of blankets lay surrounded by glowing lanterns, coolers, an assortment of propane tanks and jugs of water. And lots of trash.
“Do you live here?”
“I do.”
“With those things right outside?”
“They’re not always here,” Father Billy explained. “And they never come out at night. It’s always been safe to go out after sunset. Well… Mostly.”
Eric looked up at the windows. It wasn’t the light that was blood red, but the window panes. He wondered whose decision it was to do that and what it was, precisely, that they were thinking. From this side they did not glow at all. There was not enough light reaching down through the dense trees. “How can you tell when the sun’s set?”
“You can tell.”
He’d have to take Father Billy’s word on that, he supposed.
He felt an odd, crawling sensation on his arm and looked down at himself, expecting to find a bug on him. Instead, he saw several large thorns protruding from his skin. Fat drops of blood were slowly making their way down through the hair on his arm, toward his wrist. He’d forgotten about those. He picked them up running through some brush. At the time, he’d been far more concerned with escaping the things pursuing him than with a few insignificant thorns. One by one, he began to pluck them out, marveling a little at how big they were and how much blood they let out.
“I don’t know why they don’t come out at night,” Father Billy went on. “It’s strange. You’d think it’d suit them.”
“Where do they go at night?”
“Don’t know that, either.”
“Why do you stay here? Why not just leave one night?”
Father Billy shrugged. “I like it here. It’s private. Usually.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Stumbled across this church a few years ago. Seemed wrong to just leave it empty to rot. Didn’t figure God would like that very much. So I decided to keep it company. It felt right. Even the corn creeps couldn’t make me leave. After a while, I even took to calling myself Father. Just because I thought this church deserved a Father, even a shitty one.”
Eric supposed he could find no real fault in that logic. There was, after all, something about the thought of a church abandoned and left to rot. That was powerfully symbolic. He could see how a certain kind of person might be compelled to stay.
“They’re fascinating in a way,” Father Billy said, still staring through his homemade peephole. “Come look.”
He stepped out of the way and Eric took his place. Immediately, he saw the swarm of creatures that had fallen over their dead companions. Now that he was right next to the door, he could hear them, too. They snarled and grunted as they fought for every scrap. And even that did not entirely cover up the awful sounds of them slurping and tearing at their morbid meal.
“See the one that’s different?”
Eric scanned the dozen or more creatures that were moving around the yard and quickly found the one he was talking about. Unlike the others, it was hunched over, its long arms dangling toward the ground. It was much fatter, with a huge, drooping belly and a much broader chest. It looked considerably clumsier than the others, and much slower.
“That’s a male.”
“No kidding?”
“Only the females hunt. The males are too slow and stupid. They don’t care about much more than eating and fucking.”
Even as Eric watched the creature, he noticed that it seemed to be following one of the females around, as if waiting for a chance to pounce.
“It may take him hours, but eventually he’ll ambush one of them and have his way with her. Makes her mad as hell. You should hear the noise.”