The Becoming - a novella by Allan Leverone Page B

push away from the parasite, instinctively trying to flee
but succeeding only in pressing his body harder into the wall.
    In a flash the
thing had wriggled across his face into his open mouth, undeterred by the vomit
spraying in the other direction. Only then did Matt remember the Glock. He was still
clutching it in his left hand and he lifted the gun but there was nothing to
aim it at. The long slimy body of the creature was plastered to his own,
wriggling and moving, and it had already entered Matt’s mouth.
    There was nothing
to aim at but Matt fired anyway. He became vaguely conscious of a stinging pain
in his foot as the slug blew his toes off at the same time the parasite’s head,
if it even was a head, found its goal and slid smoothly down Matt’s
throat.
    The thing moved
quickly and the taste was nowhere near as bad as he had imagined it would be
and it kept going, wriggling and squirming, moving steadily into Matt’s mouth
and down his throat until in a matter of a few seconds it had disappeared
entirely.
    And Matt knew his
problems were over.
     
    PASKAGANKEE
    By
Allan Leverone
    Excerpt
     
     
    Prologue
    November
16, 1691
     
    Stephen Ames shivered in the
gathering darkness, a bone-chilling cold seeping into his body as he sat
waiting for the girl’s arrival. The wind whispered and moaned through the bare
trees as the Great North Woods prepared for winter. The silence was
all-encompassing, unrelenting. He wondered if the bronzed young Abnaki woman
would come as she had promised and if she would bring the child whose existence
he had discovered just yesterday— his child—to meet him for the first
time.
    Stephen was a
member of a small group of missionaries traveling up and down the eastern
seaboard of this strange, wild country; their mission, to convert the native
savages to Christianity and thus save their souls. It was a difficult and
dangerous life, nearly impossible at times, but also incredibly rewarding when
he was able to make a positive impact on the lives of the people he converted.
    It was also a
lonely job. The dedicated band of missionaries numbered roughly a dozen; though
the exact total was constantly in flux as men joined the group or dropped out,
unable to handle the stressful life, difficult travel and unrelenting physical
danger. The last time the missionaries passed through this remote area, working
with a tribe located in a small village hard by the Penobscot River, he had met
a Native girl, roughly his own age of twenty-two, and had taken refuge in her
arms from the constant, crushing loneliness.
    That was two years
ago. The missionary group spent a couple of months working with the savages and
then moved on, converting no one but making what they felt were potential
inroads with a small number of the tribe’s more influential members.
Unfortunately, the chief, an older savage with a deeply lined face and
decades-old battle scars crisscrossing his body, had been unreceptive to the
well-intentioned band of young men, eventually dropping all pretense of
civility and forcing them to move on under threat of violence.
    Now the men were
back in the area, nearing the northernmost portion of their territory, and had
decided to pay another visit to the village to see if the situation with the
tribe had changed. Perhaps the old chief had died and a new warrior had taken
his place, one more receptive to the missionaries’ soul-saving message.
    It was during this
visit two days ago that Stephen spotted the Native girl walking through the
village and signaled her. She had run to him, recognizing him immediately, and
in a curious combination of English, French, and the strange Abnaki native
tongue, the two had worked out a time and place to meet the following night.
She seemed nervous and anxious, glancing around furtively as if fearful of
being observed, and after getting her message across to Stephen, disappeared
quickly into the bustle of activity in the village.
    At their meeting
last night,