The Becoming - a novella by Allan Leverone Page A

exertion and knew he was down to his last few seconds of life. He would
open his mouth reflexively to breathe and that would be the end of him. The
parasite would thrust into his mouth, sliding into his body, and he would die
or even worse he would wish he were dead, becoming just another empty-eyed
zombie just like his girlfriend and her son and he would—
    —He felt the gun.
    He wrapped his
sweaty hand around it, forcing himself to move deliberately, knowing he would
not get another chance. He swung his hand out from under the couch and took aim
at the parasitic host nearest him, the thing that used to be Julie, and almost
lost his nerve.
    Then one of the
worm-things finally managed to force its way between his lips, wriggling and
questing, and all conscious thought left him. He fired.
    Julie’s head
exploded, the left side of her face disappearing, pulverized by the 9 mm slug. Matt
was vaguely aware of a fine crimson mist coloring the air as her body fell and
he thought I can’t believe I didn’t miss and then he pivoted his wrist
and fired again. The bullet missed Tim’s head but struck the little boy square
in the chest, blowing his small body backward, opening a ragged hole in his
Spider Man pajama top.
    The worm-like creatures
were pulled off Matt’s face as their hosts fell to the floor. He registered a faraway
popping sound through the roaring in his ears, as if dozens of suckers were
being yanked off the skin of his face. Then he rolled off the couch, his feet
scrabbling for purchase as he stumbled toward the hallway, moving without any
real purpose other than to get away from the horrible parasitic organisms.
    He reached the
hallway at the far end of the living room and turned, half convinced the alien
pests would be wriggling across the floor in dogged pursuit. But they were
nowhere to be seen. Across the room the bodies of the two people who until
forty-eight hours ago had constituted his entire family lay crumpled unmoving
on the floor. Most of Julie’s head was missing and Tim’s arms and legs were splayed
out unnaturally from the force of his fall. Matt could see blood oozing
sluggishly from Tim’s chest wound. There was less blood than he would have
expected.
    He began shaking
uncontrollably, now certain he was going into shock but not caring. He leaned
against the wall and slid down to the floor. Matt knew no one in law
enforcement would believe his story, he would be arrested and charged with murder,
but knew also that once the autopsies on Julie and Tim were completed he would
be exonerated.
    It didn’t change
the fact, though, that Matt Hardiman had just gunned down the two people closer
to him than anyone else in the world. He felt feverish and sick, and before he
realized what was happening, he puked, partially digested food and stomach acid
spewing out of his mouth onto his legs and onto the floor around them.
    He welcomed the
nausea, was thankful for it. One of those wormlike things had succeeded in
forcing its way between his lips and maybe by throwing up he could rid himself
of its awful taste. He pictured the segmented bodies of the long, thin
parasites wriggling and crawling along his skin and knew he would feel their
presence forever. He could scrub his face with steel wool and it wouldn’t make
a damned bit of difference. He would feel the slimy trail of their mottled
bodies as long as he lived, and in all probability would suffer nightmares
about them every night as well. Assuming he ever slept again.
    Sweat rolled down Matt’s
face and his stomach twisted and churned and he knew he was going to be sick
again. His head hung on his chest and he closed his eyes for just a second. He
felt tired, so damned tired.
    And a ropy, slick
body slithered up his arm, moving incredibly fast, faster than Matt would have
thought possible. It flew up his arm to his neck, its goal obvious, its intent
clear. His eyes opened and his stomach emptied again and he dug his heels into
the carpet, trying to