Captive in Terror Orchard

by Brian Bakos

  The words "Uncle Gregory" bring some strength back to her voice. I can hear the clenched teeth.

  "Wasn't there anybody else to take you in?" I say.

  "Yes, I've got very nice aunts and uncles who wanted me, but Uncle Gregory could afford a mean lawyer. So, he won in court. Maybe he was buying off the judge, too."

  "Why would he go through all that trouble?" I say. "It doesn't sound like he cares about you much."

  "He doesn't care," Cyndy replies. "He only wants custody because he knows that others want it. He likes to take away whatever people truly desire."

  "Oh, man," I say, "that's really sick."

  "You should see their house in the city. There are rooms full of stuff he's cheated people out of. Art work, furniture, guns, you name it."

  This Ponge character sounds even worse than Albert Grech, if that's possible.

  "He's Mom's step brother," Cyndy says, "and a disgrace to their whole family. But he's smart, and he's got psychic radar in his head."

  "How's that?" I ask.

  "Well, for instance, when Aunt Sally's first husband died and left her a lot of money, he knew just when to zero in and marry her. She's a lot older than him, which must be why she was so foolish. She used to be kind of nice, but now she's as bad as he is."

  My joints creak as I shift position. "So, why did they move out here?"

  "The Grech must have something they desperately want to keep," Cyndy says, "so they popped up on Uncle Gregory's radar, somehow. He intends to steal it from them, whatever it is."

  Cyndy is gradually recovering her strength as she talks. Now she seems to be her old self again. I admire her tremendously, but it's better not to say anything because I'd probably just stick my foot in my mouth.

  She pushes a shovel into my hands. "Now, if there are no further questions, Billy, let's get to work."

  15: Digging Party

  We walk toward the orchard, lugging our shovels like two riflemen with guns on their shoulders. No, I'm the only rifleman in this outfit; Cyndy is the big commanding General.

  She didn't even asked my opinion, she just decided on her own that we'll dig things up that should better be left buried. Clearly, we're seeking whatever made those horrible noises the other night - whether I like it or not.

  But I don't owe her anything, do I? Sure she's had some tough breaks, but haven't we all? It doesn't mean I have to put myself in danger for her. Why am I letting her control me like this?

  I already know the answer. Mom told me once during one of her mellower drunks.

  "See this little finger, Billy?" she said, holding up her pinkie. "It's amazing how big a guy can get wrapped around it."

  I fumble out a cigarette and stop to light up. The wind blows so much that I have to use three matches.

  "Uh, do you really think this is such a hot idea?" I ask when I finally get the thing lit.

  "I don't know, Billy," she says. "It seemed like it in the daytime. Now I'm not at all sure."

  My blood starts to run cold at the thought of what we were getting ourselves into. Really. It's just like ice water in my veins. My hand begins to shake so much that I can hardly bring the cigarette to my lips.

  "I'm thinking this isn't a very smart move," I say.

  I expect an argument, but she says nothing. We just stand together, me puffing my cigarette and Cyndy twisting a lock of her hair. I can't bring myself to walk away from this crazy mission, but I sure don't want to continue with it, either.

  "Okay, we know there's something under the ground," I say. "But we have no idea what it is. Maybe it's really dangerous. If we let it out, anything might happen."

  Cyndy brushes up against me, and I wrap an arm around her waist. It seems the most natural thing in the world.

  "I think it's something, or someone, in horrible trouble," she says. "I'd like to help if we can."

  "Yeah," I say, "but who knows what monster might jump out of the ground if we start digging in that orchard? Maybe we should just forget the whole thing."

  There is a long, sad pause filled up with wind and the sound of crickets.

  "Alright, Billy," she finally says, "perhaps that would be best."

  She's sagging against me now, relying on my strength. But I'm not feeling very strong.

  Why am I being such a coward? Do I think I can get out of this chamber of horrors by playing it safe? I look toward the Grech house and imagine myself stuck there permanently. The thought makes me gag.

  Heck, nobody lives forever, no matter how much they might want to! I flick away the cigarette and speak with all the steel I can muster.

  "Let's do it, Cyndy."

  "Okay, whatever you think best."

  Her voice is tiny but strong, and it contains admiration. I suddenly feel about ten feet tall.

  We stride across the final yards to the orange trees, with me boldly in the lead. My hands don't shake anymore, and the shovel I carry has become a mighty weapon - a rocket launcher, or something.

  Once we are inside the grove, the breezy air gives way to a suffocating calm. The tree limbs press down on us like a coffin lid. I am terrified again, and my shovel seems about as dangerous a weapon as a burnt match stick. We crowd together and shine our pitiful little flashlights on the ground ahead. The beams jiggle with fear.

  "We have to get to the big tree," I whisper.

  Cyndy nods. The black leaves rustle overhead, as if they are straining to hear my words.

  We walk farther in, like gravediggers following some gruesome funeral procession. Our feet make little noise in the dead air. At last we come to the Czar Albert tree, to the exact spot where I'd heard the cries a few nights ago. It seems like a year has passed since then.

  All I can do is stand there like a statue; my muscles are frozen stiff. Anger throbs at me from Czar Albert. The vicious thing seems to know why we've come. I feel doomed.

  Hey, whatever happened to that big shot with the missile launcher?

  "Billy?" Cyndy nudges my arm.

  I manage to raise my shovel with both hands. I am all stiff and jerky, like I've forgotten how to move right. Then I jam the shovel into the ground as hard as I can. A horrible groan shoots up.

  Ohhhhhhh!

  My knees give out, I drop the shovel and fall over backwards. Hatred stabs down at me from the branches, pinning me like a bug on a display card.

  "Come on, Billy!" Cyndy cries.

  I scramble up on rubbery legs and grab my shovel.

  Ohhhhhhh!

  I tried ignore the cries.

  Ohhhhhhh!

  We gouge up the soil, racing each other like contestants on some demented game show. The flashlights we grip in our teeth give jittery light. I bite mine so hard that the plastic cracks and cuts my lip. My mouth fills with coppery blood taste.

  The ground begins to heave. A thick root breaks through and begins to curl around my leg. I jump straight up, nearly breaking my ankle on the way back down.

  "There's something here," Cyndy gasps.

  A burst of mud slams into us.

  "Euu, disgusting!" Cyndy brushes at her clothes.

  Naked tree roots glisten at our feet, throwing off a stench of evil bones. A horrible, brownish-green creature lays tangled up in them, squirming under our flashlight beams.

  My heart nearly quits when the thing opens its eyes. I go rigid with shock. Cyndy falls against me just as I am collapsing from the opposite direction. We brace each other up.

  "Help me!" the thing moans.

  The voice is so pitiful that it breaks through my terror.

  "Let's dig it out," I say.

  We hack the roots with our shovels. The things writhe and snap at us like poisonous snakes. I'm totally out of my mind. It's Albert Grech's face I am chopping at now.

  "Take that, you scum!" I cry.

  Finally, the roots eject their prisoner. It catapults out of the hole and flops face down between us. It begins crawling away. Cyndy moves after it.

  "Are you all
right?" she says. "Can you hear me?"

  The roots squirm and hiss; fluid drips from their wounds. A few drops splatter on my jeans and burn right through. Branding iron pain stabs my leg.

  "Cyndy, help me fill in this hole!"

  With insane speed, we pile dirt back into the hole and bash it down hard. The ground churns and bucks like a rodeo bull - then it finally goes still. We flop down on our backs. I have never been so exhausted in my life.

  The creature is gone. Cyndy swings her light around.

  "He's over there," she says.

  Somehow, I find the energy to stand up again and chase after the thing we've rescued. We grab an armpit apiece and pull it along the ground as fast as we can. It weighs very little, fortunately.

  All around us, just below the level of actual hearing, the trees wail and call out for our destruction. We lumber on, slower and slower, until we are barely moving. The trees pull hard, trying to hold us back.

  At last we break out from the orchard into the grassy night wind. I drop my side of the load and run to the garden for the wheelbarrow. When I come back, Cyndy is kneeling beside the creature trying to talk to it.

  "Let's put it in this," I say.

  "Yeah, just a second."

  Cyndy runs back to the edge of the grove. She leaps up with her shovel and knocks down a bunch of oranges. How she got up the nerve to do that, I'll never know.

  We dump the creature into the wheelbarrow and rush across the road to the shed behind the Ponge house.

  16: The Mud Doctor

  The thing covers its eyes with its hands when Cyndy flicks on the overhead.

  "Too bright!" it groans.

  Before she can turn the light away, I get a look at the creature's hands. The fingers are long and pointed, like tree roots, and they scrape together with a sound of dry branches. I feel like I've made a wrong turn somewhere and stepped into a horror movie.

  "What is this thing?" I say.

  "A man - I think," Cyndy replies.

  "Of course ... I ... man," the blob of mud in the wheelbarrow says.

  "Who are you?" I ask.

  He makes sloppy, gurgling noises.

  "Oh, he's all filled with gunk," Cyndy says. "Let's wash him up."

  "Good idea," I say, "he stinks like a rotting hippopotamus."

  Cyndy gives me hear annoyed look.

  "There's a garden hose outside," she says.

  We wheel him out and give him a good rinse. Then we clean ourselves off. I'm dying of thirst and drink about a gallon of water from the hose.

  Then we bring the guy back inside and place him on a pile of old burlap sacks. With some extra sacks, we dry him off as best we can.

  "Thank you," he says.

  He stretches himself out. His body makes popping sounds as it unfolds into an approximately human shape. With a massive sigh, he drops off to sleep.

  We move the light back on him. He looks more like a real person now, although his skin has a weird greenish look. Long scraggly hair and a beard cover much of the face.

  "He looks like a scaled down Jolly Green Giant," I say.

  Cyndy gives me another annoyed look. "If he is jolly, it's no thanks to you."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean he'd still be out there if I hadn't forced the issue," she says.

  "Well, pardon me," I say. "You act as if I buried him myself."

  Heck, I was only joking. Didn't I have a right to blow off a little steam after everything I've been through? Cyndy begins to leave.

  "Where are you going?" I say.

  "I'll be back soon. Don't worry, Billy, he won't eat you."

  Well, how do you like that? Now that the danger is over, the sweet little charmer has disappeared. The girl with the sharp elbows is back in charge.

  I study our guest more closely. He appears to be an average-sized man, though extremely thin. I don't suppose being underground does much to fatten a person up. His clothes are largely rotted away, and dozens of little twig things stuck out of his skin. Otherwise he looks great.

  Cyndy returns carrying blankets, clothes, and some glass jars of food. Ordinarily I would have pounced on the food, but I don't feel much like eating just now. One of the jars slips from her arms and thuds onto the sacks.

  "Thanks for helping me, Billy."

  "You could ask politely once in a while," I say.

  Our guest jerks awake.

  "Ah!"

  He looks frantically around with bugged-out eyes.

  "It's all right," Cyndy says. "You're safe, now."

  He settles back on his makeshift bed.

  "Maybe we should get a doctor," Cyndy said.

  "I am a doctor," our guest mumbles.

  "The police, then," Cyndy says. "We should call them."

  The mud doctor struggles up onto his elbows with horror on his green face.

  "No cops ... tell nobody!"

  He falls back onto the sacks.

  "Guess he doesn't want anybody to know that he's back in the social whirl," I say.

  "You have such a crude way of talking, Billy!" Cyndy says.

  "At least I'm not dumb enough to suggest calling the cops," I say. "Who do think controls them? Judge Gulp, that's who, and that Sheriff Fergueson crook. No telling what hornets' nest you'd stir up by talking to them."

  "Gulp ... scum," the doctor murmurs.

  "That's right," I say. "And I've got to live with Albert Grech, don't forget."

  A spidery root hand grabs my wrist.

  "You're in great danger, boy," the mud doctor says.

  The hand drops away. My arm feels numb where he touched it. The rest of me is chilled to the bone.

  "The poor man's exhausted," Cyndy says.

  I feel ready to collapse myself. I have to get out of here before I come totally unglued. I sure wouldn't want Cyndy to think I'm anything less than the supreme macho hero, would I? Besides, I've had about all I can stand of her nastiness. I head for the door.

  "I'll be back tomorrow," I say.

  "But - "

  I step outside before she can finish talking. I walk back to the Grech house, stopping at the food tank to reattach the handle. All the while, the mud doctor's final words boom in my mind like a funeral drum.

  17: Tormented Thoughts

  As I toss around in my lumpy bed, I'm not sure if I'm still sane or have gone totally wacko. Despite the muggy attic heat, I pull up the blanket to fight my chills.

  Was any of this real?

  My injuries are real enough. The burns on my leg itch like crazy, but they don't look too bad, just a few small blisters. My lip hurts but isn't bleeding anymore.

  Cyndy is real enough, too. I finally got a good look at her under the shed light. She is about the most attractive girl I've ever seen - despite her aggressive personality.

  She has reddish hair and a beautiful, intelligent face set off by a few freckles. You just know she's a top student at school. She has full lips which are either clamped together with determination or slightly open, showing her perfect teeth. And she has brown eyes that can bore right through you. She moves gracefully, her body curving in all the right places.

  And me? Not bad, if you like scarecrows. I've always been thin, but lately I've really taken on the concentration camp look. I have a nice face, though. I've even been referred to as "cute" now and then. Blue eyes, surprisingly good teeth considering all the fights I've had. Straight brown hair badly in need of a trim.

  And don't forget my elegant fashion sense. What girl could possibly resist a guy in a beat up denim jacket, a size too small, with a skull and cross bones drawn on the back?

  But what's all this about? My life is at stake here - even the mud doctor knows that. There's no time to worry about Cyndy being hot.

  A steady rain begins outside, blowing cool, moist air into my prison. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

  Part Three: The Closing Ring

  18: Security Arrangements

  I wake up early because
people are making a lot of noise outside. I slip out of bed and peer through my cracked little window to see a work crew stringing barbed wire fence. The men have staked a perimeter around the whole orchard.

  I squint at them through my binoculars. Well, isn't that interesting? Looks like Albert is getting cautious.

  I need to be more cautious, myself. Through my binoculars, I can see a groove in the lawn where we dragged the wheelbarrow across it last night. Good thing the workmen are stomping about creating their own tracks.

  Make that your last mistake! I scold myself.

  I spend the next hour watching the crew work. These are normal men, from the real world. They have wives and kids back home, and they stop at the bar after work for a drink with their buddies. I feel a powerful urge to run outside and throw myself on their mercy.

  "Take me away!" I'd cry. "I'm a prisoner here!"

  But that couldn't work. They'd think I'm a juvenile delinquent troublemaker. Heck, I look like a juvenile delinquent, don't I? Maybe their boss would feel a little sorry for me, but then Albert would slip him a white envelope stuffed with cash.

  "Here's a little bonus for you," Albert would say, "take the boys out for a party."

  Then he'd come back in and reach for his cane. No, it's better not to expect anything from anybody - least of all a bunch of strangers.

  This is laundry day, so I go directly to the basement where the ringer washing machine and rattley old dryer lurk like a couple of dinosaurs. My muddy clothes are the first things to go in.

  I remain strictly in the laundry area, avoiding the dark recesses of the basement with their piles of rotting junk. There are bottles of dark, evil-looking liquids sitting in one corner. I choose not to investigate them. Maybe that's the stuff the Grech pour in their food.

  ***

  By late afternoon, the fence is completed and the work crew is gone. I've washed the big throw rug from the back hall and take it outside to dry. This makes for a good excuse to poke around. The air outside is hot and muggy, quite a shock after the hours in the dank basement washing and ironing. Everything seems unnaturally still.

  As I wrestle the throw rug onto the clothes line, I look out toward the Ponge house. No sign of life anywhere, no car in the driveway. I shudder to think of Cyndy cooped up in there like some wraith.

  The new fence slashes its way around the orchard. Large Keep Out! signs complete the friendly appearance. A small prefab shed with its door removed stands inside the gate. Albert and Amitha Grech are surveying the new construction and talking between themselves. I casually shuffle through the grass behind them, as if I have no interest in what they might be saying.