The Defiant Worm - A Millennium Vertere Story

CW: Some violence

Gilbert had, just very recently in fact, stumbled across something. Something he shouldn’t have. Something big, and massive. Something so Herculean, the scope of it was perhaps immeasurable. And he believed that his life was now in great peril.

Though, he couldn’t prove this. Actually, his life seemed to be going pretty good at the moment. It was March, nineteen-thirty-five, and along with fresh snowfall that had just begun last week and hadn't let up, he and his wife of fifteen year, Leah, had just welcomed their second child, Beau, last Friday. Beau was beautiful, with the dusky brown hair of his mother and Gilbert’s sharp nose and ruddy cheeks. He had an older sister, Mia, whom he welcomed by spewing a stream of vomit on when returned home from the hospital.

Gilbert had also gotten a raise not too long ago. He had been toiling away at the New Manhattan Tribune for over a decade now, and had (not to toot his own horn) put out some the of the most hard hitting pieces of the last several years. Mostly covering war crimes, humanitarian plights and the increasingly volatile issue of superhero’s being involved in the war. Then two days ago he had the misfortune of being befallen in an accident while driving home late from work.

“You have, and I mean this, no idea how lucky you are”, the doctor had said to him as he lie in the hospital bed, Leah sobbing next to him as she held his hand.

The police had said a drunk had crashed into him, though Gilbert himself was going abnormally fast. By the time the authorities arrived, the vehicle was still there, but the driver was already gone. He didn’t remember what happened that day, or really the previous two days. Apparently in the days prior, the building had thrown him a party, putting a plaque of him on the wall, rows of other esteemed men and women in his company.

It was for a piece he did, perhaps the most detailed, or at least tolling the most research and investigation he’s ever had to exert for an article, about the increased use of automation in the workforce, and its relationship with anti-union policies. The rise of automation in labor was already a worrying trend, but come the introduction of Kelly industries to the scene, this shifted from a concerning trend to nightmarish new frontier. In a Kelly Industries warehouse in San Francisco, the workers were attempting to unionize their building. Management, as competent and suave as ever, began pushing anti-union propaganda amongst the workers. A sign, outside the break rooms reading “Union fees? It’s your money, not theirs”. Sudden rumors of possible wage increases. A hushed whisper in the bathroom concerning the possible repercussions if you were found to be engaging in pro-union activities. So on and so forth. The Art of War. As the talk of possible unionization began to dwindle, the energy syphoned out of the workers, the group of devotees also shrank. But as the pressure around the remnants hardened, so did their resolve.

His name was Garret. Garret Stevens. A new hire, he came up west from Oklahoma. From all accounts, not only a good worker, but a good guy. Not to Ralph Moore though. Ralph had been employed at the warehouse for seven years now, and was ubiquitously known around the building as one of their best employees. He was also a member of the now shrunken pro-unionist group, as well as one of their more devout believers. Garret was never outright anti-union, but he definitely felt no inclination to it. That was enough for Ralph though. At eleven-forty PM, when the last of the workers were sprinkling out, Ralph struck Garrett behind his head with a wrench, killing him. Except, when Garrett began to bleed, it wasn’t ruddy. As the white liquid spread across the concrete, and the onlookers watched with horror and awe, Ralph felt truly vindicated. A highly intelligent, humanoid automaton was placed in the building under the guise of a human being to quell talks of possible unionization.

The trial for Ralph Moore was a long and arduous affair. In his defense, Ralph had long suffered, so far as his youth, from a variety of mental illnesses , mostly prominent schizophrenia. He had been in and out of prison since his early twenties, for crimes ranging from small theft to armed robbery. The company was also using illegal measures to spy on him. Still, as the prosecution argued, Ralph had a history of violence, and had his suspicion not been correct, this would have been a tragedy. Murder founded on hunch isn't justifiable. Ralph was sentenced to fifteen years in prison, with the possibility of parole after ten.

After the office party, accounts from the attendees say Gilbert seemed subtly distraught, or distracted during the whole ordeal, as if his mind was elsewhere. As soon as it ended, he left. Two days post the party, the accident would occur. A little after he was released from the hospital, Gilbert would go to the office, seeing if he can put together any clues as to why he was in such a hurry. He asked the lead editor and close friend, Dan Marsh, if he knew anything to help fill in the blanks. Dan simply shrugged, saying Gilbert just seemed slightly stressed, as was per the usual for him. Though he added the pressure of the party might have worsened it. Gilbert thanked Dan for his help and left, still feeling unsatisfied. The nebulous paranoia continued to sprout in him.

Regardless, Leah's sister, Barbra, was having her birthday party later today, and Gilbert had to start preparing. He was getting older, and had promised Leah he would spend more time with the family and less at the office or chasing stories about the latest injustice in a log line of never ending injustices. God seemed fine with the state of the world, so why shouldn't he?

***

It was found in the artic. On a expedition led by Kelly Industries, the sky a tempest of vicious white, the air so cold it seemed to burn the skin like some strange hellfire, the scientist drilled and drilled until they found something.

The Defiant Worm. That's what they called it. They believed it was from earth, though the possibility of panspermia wasn't entirely ruled out. Further research would be required. It was ancient, though. Maybe primeval. They dubbed it the defiant worm because of its peculiar qualities. It was a parasite, through and through. That was no question. The relationship it formed with the host (they used an assortment of candidates, ranging from penguins to lizards to lemurs) was largely hostile for the host, and ultimately destructive for both . What was strange though, was the parasites seemingly innate drive to do the opposite of whatever the host desired. This was true even for cases in which the preservation of the host was at stake. In one study, a lemming, infected with the worm, was put in a room with a Artic fox. The more the lemming attempted to escape the room, the more the worm resisted. This went so far as the worm causing a nervous system attack, effectively rendering the lemming paralyzed.

If the behavior of the worm could somehow be controlled or at least influenced, the range of utilizations would be astronomical.

***

The snow was falling, but it didn't seem as cold as Upper Manhattan. The Cutchogue fields were blanketed in a white sprinkling of snow as Gilbert and his family drove down the rural road towards Barbra's farmhouse. Barbra was initially going to go to her husband's house in the Hamptons for her birthday, but was swayed from the notion when her son, Artie, was stricken down with a fever. When they arrived, parking their 1935 Ford DeLuxe Convertible Sedan in the grassy plains behind the farmhouse, a vineyard to the left, they were greeted by a slew of family and friends.

The evening went about as expected for these sort of things. Drinks, Merlot from the vineyard, dinner, main course consisting of lamb roast cooked by Barbra's husband, Gregory, and dessert after, accompanied of course by more Merlot. Gilbert, growing tired of the conversation he was pulled into by Gregory concerning the war, politely excused himself to go get more Merlot. He did, but instead of returning back to the living room, passed Artie's room upstairs. Artie, as well as the rest of the children and teens, were watching a film on the television. When Gilbert walked in, he saw New York city being overcome by waves the size of mountains.

"Uncle Gil", Artie said, coughing.

"Artie. What are you delinquents watching?", Gilbert said, sitting on the bed next to Artie.

"It's called Deluge", Artie responded, a cough following. "It's a sci-fi picture. Basically, the world is being destroyed from all these unexplained natural disasters happening at once. Even New York."

"Hm", Gilbert replied. "That sounds quite...troubling."

Artie and the rest laughed.

"Yeah. Crazy to think though, at school last week, Mr. Wright, my science teacher, was talking about magnetic fields and stuff in the earth, and I think something like this could actually happen."

"Hmm", Gilbert only replied.

Gilbert was drawn into the film, before he knew it, fifteen minutes passing. He looked at his watch.

"Well, I best be returning", Gilbert said, getting up from the bed. "Let me know how it ends."

"Of course, Uncle Gil."

Gilbert returned lackluster to the living room, the topic of conversation now shifted to inflation prices in New York. What a joy.

The evening got late, sneaking into the hour of the owl. Guest began to excuse themselves, retreating to their guest rooms for the remainder of the night. Gilbert excused himself, planting a kiss on Leah's cheek, Leah telling him she'd be joining him shortly. When in the room, Gilbert undressed and basked under the warm running water of the shower, eyes closed, his mind as always lost in thought. He mind went to the movie, thinking about how peculiar the plot was, and Artie's claims that something like that is feasible. He thought-

Like a man waking from a coma, Gilbert's eyes shot open.

He finally remembered. The piece he was writing, and the truth he had stumbled across.

Gilbert began to hyperventilate, his mind a tempest of rushing and competing thoughts. He tried to calm himself, but couldn't. He had to leave. His family...everyone in the house was in possible danger. He-

Gilbert winced, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, feeling as if a searing blade was worming through the tissue deep within his brain. It hurt so bad he let out a moan, as soon as his lips cracked open blood drops falling to the shower floor, quickly swept away by the water.

He had to go-

The pain worsened, another quick flash of blistering agony. He felt as if his head would explode. He yanked back the shower curtain, stumbling out of the shower. He walked out the bathroom, every step feeling as if his bones were now concrete. As if his body hated itself. Through grit teeth and clenched fists, he made his way to the bed, his clothes laid on it. As he stepped to it, his body jerked to the side, landing on the window ledge which was open. Gilbert inhaled a sharp breath, looking down at the green field far below. He had to get away-

Another bolt of pure cruelty stabbed at his brain, the sensation so unbearable he thought he'd pass out. Gilbert strained, his neck veins bulging as he attempted to push himself from the ledge. He opened his mouth to call for Leah, for anyone, but his jaws clenched shut, Gilbert only able to emit a muffled moan through closed lips. A cry on deaf ears, only audible to himself. He attempted one more time to inch away from the window, giving a shove with all his might, and his body jerked back and he tumbled out the window and fell to the ground.

Gilbert now laid motionless, blades of grass blowing around him as his stared blankly. He moved his lips a little, muttering something incoherent, then went dead.

***

Gilbert was driving fast. Faster than usual. His sweaty palms tried their best to stay gripped to the steering wheel as he inched the gas up from eighty miles an hour to ninety. Gilbert had, just fifteen minutes ago, stumbled across something on his boss's computer. Gilbert was finishing up in his office when he remembered Dan had asked him to send a rough draft, a retrospect of the Bloody Thursday incident from last year's Longshoremen's strike, to Gilbert as well as a few other staff members. Then, like Adam and Eve, curiosity got the best of him and he saw it. Something he shouldn't have. Something that he wished he didn't. Almost a minute after he had opened the file, the contents began to disappear, as if the document itself knew, or some strange presence behind the screen saw that it was being viewed by uninvited eyes. A clang from somewhere in the office lead Gilbert to believe he wasn't the only one burning the midnight oil, and he escaped through the window, climbing down, or more aptly, tumbling down the escape stairs, the wet concrete greeting his face with a thud underneath.

Gilbert knew he had to go. He needed to get his family first though.

In the blink of an eye, a truck bellowed from across the road, ramming straight into Gilbert's car. When he came to, head leaned on the bloody steering wheel, he heard two voices, their words muffled by the horn which blew.

"This the guy?", a man's voice said, a Midwest accent to it.

"Think so", said the other man. Boston, maybe. "Should've asked before we drove into him."

"Call just came in, didn't have time for the usual briefing.  Doesn't matter though, he would die soon anyways."

Gilbert moaned, trying to raise his head, but his neck sore and every bone in him bruised or broke. Footsteps crunched on glass nearby, then a hand gripped his skull and pried his face up.

"Sorry about this pal, gonna have to stick something nasty up your eye real quick."

A moment later, a grotesque, writhing sickly white worm was brought in front of him. Gilbert jerked, trying to free himself from the man's steel grip.

"You won't, so don't try", the Midwest man said, his grip tightening.

He brought the worm to Gilbert's face, the worm becoming erect then shooting out the man's hand and onto Gilbert's eyeball. It slithered across, moving pass the lateral commissure and disappeared. An intense burning sensation accompanied it.

"We're done here", the Midwest man said. "Though, just for extra precaution-"

He slammed Gilbert's already bloody and maimed head against the steering wheel, Gilbert going unconscious.

The men returned to the truck, the front in complete ruin. The horn continued to blare. The Midwest man opened the backdoor, taking out a black garbage bag. He tipped it over, open beer bottles clanging to the concrete.

"Put two on the floor of the front seat, makes it more believable", said the Boston man.

"Already ahead of you", the Midwest man replied, grabbing two bottles off the ground and tossing them through the shattered window.

"Should have three minutes until authorities arrive", the Midwest man said.

"More than enough time", replied the Boston man.

They turned from the scene and proceeded down the road.

***

The rows of desks and computers were endless, as was the room, which itself seemed to be a white void. The clatter of the men and women at their computers were the only thing to fill it. Each man and each woman stared at their screen blanky, footage reflecting on dead eyes like film reel.

We come across the man. He is nothing special. His hair is obsidian, he wears a black suit and brown leather watch, and in his eyes is nothing, save the footage which reflects back on them. Rows of line jerking and moving like a hospital monitor, eventually, the lines all go static. He moves the mouse up a little, closing the screen, a forum popping up. He fills it out, fingers moving fast. In the header he puts "Case #607 - Gilbert James Hoffmann - closed". He clicks on a file, a screen filled with a new set of lines appearing. He leans back, eyes attentive, and watches.