by Brian Bakos
"Brazil, of course," Rackenfauz says. "I'm going to open a new research station there. I'll do only the best type of work - discover new vaccines, things like that. No more mumbo-jumbo orange trees, believe me."
So, this really is the Road to Brazil! A bolt of pure joy hits me. If the Professor's arm wasn't weighing down my shoulders, I'd leap high into the air.
"Thanks, Professor," I say. "That sounds great!"
"I could use a bright young man like you for an assistant," Rackenfauz says. "I'll teach you everything I know. 'The Land of the Future' is what they call Brazil. Maybe your future is there too, Billy."
"Could I go to the beach?" I say.
"Sure," Rackenfauz says, "there're miles of beaches down by Rio. And the girls! I wish I was your age again, Billy. Well, maybe a bit older than that."
Cyndy stiffens. "What's the big hurry?"
"I've got no time to waste," Rackenfauz says. "If you'd been buried alive like me, you'd understand."
"Billy could come down any time, though, couldn't he?" she asks.
"Absolutely," Rackenfauz says.
"It's settled, then," Cyndy says.
She lets go of the Professor and steps close to me, her body making just the slightest contact. She tangles our fingers together.
"I've got two sets of wonderful aunts and uncles, Billy," she says. "I'm certain one of them would be happy to take you in, once I tell them how you helped me."
She gives my hand a little squeeze, and the whole rest of the world vanishes.
"Wouldn't it be great to have a stable family life," she says, "after everything you've been through? Later on you could go to Brazil, if you want."
"It's up to you, Billy," the Professor says. "You are welcome any time."
Two fantastic offers, all on the same Victory Day! My insides absolutely glow. It's at least a mile to the little gas station with the pay phone where I can call Morton, and I feel like I can float all the way there.
But then a car stops behind us and honks. A head full of curly blond hair pokes out the window.
"Hey, kid, where're you off to?"
"Morton!"
"At your service," Morton says.
I run up to the big sedan.
"I've been cruising around looking for you," Morton says. "Hey, what happened to your face, did a rhinoceros tap dance on it?"
"Yeah." I touch the lump on my head. "Pretty, aren't I? I'm not hurt too bad, though."
Morton lowers his voice. "Nice girl, Billy. She must be the 'important matter' you mentioned."
I smile.
"I love the old dude's make up job," Morton says. "It's very ... green. Can't say much for his taste in clothes, though."
I motion for the others to join us.
"Morton, I'd like you to meet some very special friends."
We all climb into the big sedan and drive far away.
Epilog
Sheriff Fergueson didn't want the disappearances to cause him any problems. He'd covered up plenty of his own dishonest actions over the years, and he hoped to avoid any investigations. So, he released some details to the press about the crooked dealings of Judge Franklin Gulp. In that way he became a public hero and assured his reelection as county sheriff.
Everybody assumed that Judge Gulp and the Grech had fled to avoid the law. "Fugitives from justice," the news reports called them. Before long, the whole matter was forgotten.
And the Ponge? They hadn't told anybody about their mission to steal the Grech's secrets. They had only rented their house from one of Judge Gulp's pals, and he sure didn't want to be involved. So he developed instant amnesia about his strange, vanished tenants. Their car and other possessions were quietly scrapped.
When the Ponge were declared legally "Disappeared," the people inheriting their money sure didn't want to ask any inconvenient questions, either.
"Let sleeping dogs lie," was the general attitude.
Only the sleeping dogs did not remain still. Some years later, a wealthy businessman bought the Grech property as a country estate. He knocked down the old house and built a fine mansion in its place. The withered, overgrown orchard was an ideal location for the swimming pool and tennis courts. As the construction equipment tore through the grove, ripping out the trees, the creatures trapped underground stirred awake ....
THE END
Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.
Next Book in the Series
Here is an excerpt from book 2 in the Terror Orchard series. If it sounds interesting to you, I hope you will read the complete book. Please click here to purchase.
THE BULB PEOPLE
Coming to Your Town Next
1. Nightmare Grove
Icy dread gripped James Thromp's heart as he emerged from his pickup truck. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight jabbed through the clouds like death rays. Muggy heat strangled the air. He reached a trembling hand into his pocket for the little whiskey bottle, but stopped himself.
Somebody - or something - might be watching him.
He climbed aboard the big, yellow earth moving machine. A coffin lid of stillness pressed down as he settled into the cab and shut the door. The bones in his neck cracked as he twisted his head around, scanning the area. Behind him stood a half completed mansion with skeleton timbers poking the sky. Ahead lay a dead orchard, its trees bent like tormented ghosts.
A big man was approaching. Low sun glare turned him into a dark figure fringed with a halo of light. Thromp fumbled for the wrench hidden under the seat.
"Hello, Jim," the dark figure called.
It was only Steve Cozzaglio, the construction supervisor.
"Oh ... hi, Steve." Thromp tried to sound calm. "How're things going?"
Cozzaglio stepped from the shimmering heat and leaned against the cab. His face was tight and his eyes carried a hard, disapproving look.
"Not too bad, Jim," Cozzaglio said. "I didn't think you'd make it today."
"Something came up," Mr. Thromp said. "I'm running a bit late."
He should have said, "I'm running a bit drunk," which was the real reason he hadn't arrived earlier.
"Well, you've got the whole place to yourself now," Cozzaglio said. "We're just packing up."
"Uh huh," Thromp said.
"Can't say as I envy you, working here alone," Cozzaglio said.
Mr. Thromp mopped his bald head with a handkerchief.
"It don't bother me none," he lied.
The last of the building crew was leaving the mansion. As they neared their cars, they walked faster until they were almost running.
"So long, Jim." Cozzaglio hurried off.
The whole area was deserted now, and the stifling cab suddenly felt cold as a tomb.
"Drat this place," Thromp said. "What am I doing here?"
He already knew the answer. Some rich guy was building his country estate here, and Thromp had been hired for the wrecking crew. First, he'd helped demolish the original house. Now he was to tear out the old orchard to make room for the tennis courts and pool. Sure, he was grateful for the job - but something about this place was frightening.
Especially those big trees.
An awful presence seemed to be focused on them, like the stench of a rotting elephant corpse. Fear tingled up his spine.
"I oughtta go home!"
But he quickly decided against it, he was already too far behind schedule. And what was waiting for him at home - Leota? Thromp suppressed a shudder.
Mr. Warwick, the big boss, was planning to build a subdivision near town, and Thromp wanted to work on that project, too. He had to prove himself as a reliable employee, and he'd been making a botch of it lately.
So, with a final nervous glance around, he settled into the cab like a man trying to make himself comfortable on an electr
ic chair. He fired up the engine - Brooooom! Brooooom! - and belched along with the roaring diesel.
Power vibrated through him, making him feel like part of the great machine. He fished the bottle from his pocket and brought it to his lips. Whiskey scorched down his throat.
"Ahhh, that's better!"
The little bottle soothed him, taking his mind off his troubles - Mrs. Thromp, for instance. The thought of her made him take another swig. Then he lurched the earth mover toward the grove. The machine's big tires gouged the earth, and smoke vomited from its stack. Thromp lowered the scoop and took aim at a tree. The blade cut into the trunk and knocked the tree down with a loud crack.
"Yeeeee Ha!" Thromp howled.
He took aim at a second tree.
Crack! It went down hard.
The trees were so dried and rotted that they tumbled like bowling pins! Another one fell with a tremendous snap as if some giant had broken the grand daddy of all pencils.
"Take that!"
Thromp forgot his earlier fear. In his god-like machine, fortified with whiskey, he seemed to be King of the Universe. Diesel fumes wafted around him like magic incense. He invaded the heart of the orchard now, driving toward a particularly large and menacing tree. It glowered at him like a wooden troll - it almost seemed to have a face!
"Naw ... it can't be."
Thromp blinked and ran a hand over his eyes. If his judgment had been less clouded with booze, he might have paused. But his blood was up now. He hunkered down like a Kamikaze pilot and aimed for the great brute of a tree.
He struck it with a violent jolt that flung him against the steering wheel and then back into the seat. Pain exploded through his alcohol numbness. The tree groaned backwards, partially uprooted.
"Why you lousy - !"
Anger pushed aside Thromp's pain. He wrenched the gears and backed up.
Beep! Beep! sounded the caution signal, but no human being was there to hear.
He stopped and shifted into forward. His machine growled, a massive beast preparing to charge. Dead ahead, the tree leaned crazily. A tangle of broken roots poked into the air, beckoning him. Thromp ground forward, positioning the blade under the roots and gunning the engine hard. A horrible cracking-sucking noise filled the air as the tree collapsed.
"Got ya!" Thromp bellowed, half mad with rage and triumph.
A hole gaped by the fallen tree. A rotten stench belched up from it nearly gagging Thromp. Then, the machine began sinking into the abyss.
"Hey!"
Thromp wrestled the gears into reverse and tried to back out. More ground crumbled. Panic slammed his chest like a jackhammer. He battled to keep the big machine from flipping over. Tires flung globs of muck. The diesel roared like a wounded mastodon, drowning out Thromp's shrieks.
The tires bit into more solid ground at last. With a final desperate effort, the machine pulled out of its grave and hurtled backwards, crashing into another tree. Thromp bounced around the cab like a rag doll. The engine died, leaving him stunned and battered in the eerie silence.
He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. "You sure screwed this one up, Jim."
Was the back of the machine banged up where it had crashed into the tree? Had the engine been overstressed by so much abuse - would it even start again? Thromp prepared to leave the cab and check for damage. Then ...
Something emerged from the gaping hole in front of him. It was long, flat, and greenish brown. Like a thick piece of kelp. He'd once seen such thick, slimy stuff on TV. Scuba divers were maneuvering through it out in California somewhere. But this wasn't California.
"It's the booze." Thromp licked his sandpaper lips. "I'm seeing things again!"
Another green, ropy tendril flopped out of the pit with a thud. Mr. Thromp sat frozen, eyes bulging and hands clamped on the steering wheel. The two snaky things vibrated, then they began feeling about, testing the ground.
A pointy head, sporting wiry hair, poked up from the hole. Then a huge pair of eyes emerged, yellow and bloodshot. They scanned the area with hatred. More than that ... with an evil so pure that it froze James Thromp's blood.
Thromp opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. Flinging open the cab door, he jumped to the muddy ground and fell flat. He got up and started to run, fell again. A horrid rustling followed him, snaking along the ground. He dared not look back. Mud sucked at his boots, slowing his flight.
Somehow he made it out of the orchard and lumbered across the open field toward his truck. It seemed impossibly far away. The more he struggled, the slower he moved, like in a nightmare. Gurgling, rasping noises pursued him - coming ever closer.
Then he was at the truck, and his scream finally erupted. "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
Thromp leaped through the open window. His head banged against the steering wheel, but he scarcely noticed the pain. Thank heaven, the key was still in the ignition! Thromp nearly snapped it off in his terrible haste. The blessed engine roared into life.
Something was snaking in the open window on the passenger side; he dared not look at it. He wrenched the truck into gear and stomped the gas.
Then he was roaring off toward Bridgestock. Screaming all the way.
2: The Psychotic Ice Cream Man
I hate this rotten town! And practically everybody in it, too. I kick a stone hard. It clatters down the sidewalk angry and alone, just like me.
I'm in an outstandingly foul mood. More than that, I am sick of being in a foul mood. I've been in one ever since we moved here. Me, Ryan Keppen, the kid everybody used to say was so upbeat and sociable. The boy who had lots of friends and interests, who the girls were beginning to notice.
Now I'm trapped in Bridgestock - the only town of any size in this whole lousy county - also known as the "Kidney Bean Capital" of the state. Well, this place sure gives me a pain in the kidney. My four and a half months here have been the worst time of my life.
Hang on, Ryan, I tell myself, there must be a way out of here, and you'll find it somehow.
I have to hold onto that thought, otherwise I'll go nuts.
The idiot tune of an ice cream truck - The Arkansas Traveler - drifts down the street toward me. My mouth waters while my stomach tightens at the same moment. To buy anything, I'll have to deal with Mr. Johnson, the man in the truck, and that is a grim thought. Too grim for me to handle just now.
I turn back toward the house and start walking, but a friendly voice stops me.
"Hey, Ryan! What's up?"
My day instantly brightens. I turn around.
"Spider!" I cry. "How's it going?"
Spider, Mark Cozzaglio, stops his bike on the sidewalk. He is about the tallest boy in the 7th grade, and very thin. This great skinniness must be why people call him "Spider." He doesn't seem to mind, though.
"Just fine," Spider says. "Thought I'd limber up on my bike before class."
"Class?"
"Yeah, jujitsu," Spider says. "Monday nights as usual - most Saturdays, too."
"Oh, right," I say.
Spider and his high school brother, Carl, studied Brazilian jujitsu before they came to Bridgestock. Now that Carl has wheels, they get out every chance they can to their old haunts back in the suburbs where the martial arts school is.
"Did you talk to your mom?" Spider asks. "Will she let you come for a trial lesson?"
"Well, she didn't say no, exactly," I say. "Maybe she'll let me go next week."
"Sure, just let me know," Spider says. "We've got a nice group - me, Carl, and another high school guy, Billy Conner. He's real good, like an assistant instructor almost."
"Yeah?" I say.
"Billy's usually there whenever we go," Spider says. "He'll teach you a lot, if you come out with us."
Actually, I haven't talked to Mom at all. She'd probably let me go, as she is always saying I should be more involved in sports. Also, I doubt that Bob, my stepdad, would mind if I go on the two hour drive to the suburbs. That would get me out of his way, all right.
"We learned this really neat arm lock," Spider says. "Want me to show you?"
"Some other time, maybe," I say.
"Sure thing."
The ice cream music is drawing closer. I can see the big white truck several doors down with its cheery, yet somehow ominous, graphics of outsized frozen products. A smiling clown face on the side of the truck is probably intended to cheer you up, but it looks downright creepy, like something from a Stephen King movie.
"How about an ice cream, Spider?" I say.
"Naw, I'm broke."
"That's okay, I'll cover it."
I have plenty of spending money, as Mom has really gotten open-handed since we've moved to Bridgestock. She's trying to smooth the road for her guilt trip, I suspect. Besides, I enjoy being generous with my friends, and Spider is my only friend in Bridgestock.
"Okay, Ryan, thanks!" Spider says.
I hold up my hand. The ice cream truck passes us, then pulls over one house down. It sits lurking at the curb like some jungle beast, music wailing and engine rumbling. A mean, twisted face, covered with beard stubble, pokes itself out the window.
"What d'ya want?" the man snaps.
As always, the sight of Mr. Johnson scars the heck out of me. I'm glad that Spider is around.
"Well?" Mr. Johnson says.
Spider rolls on his bike toward the truck. I walk behind.
"I'll have the Daisy Cutter pop," Spider says, "the one with the strawberry goo center."
Mr. Johnson turns a yellowish, twitching eyeball my direction. "What about you?"
I take a step back. This guy is really weird. Sure, I've seen adults who are rude to kids, but those people are simply jerks. This guy is way beyond that.
"I'll have the same," I say.
Mr. Johnson flings open a freezer and thrusts his arms into its depths. Icy mist bathes his face; he looks like a demon surrounded by hellfire smoke. All the while the idiot tune plays through the truck's loudspeaker. No wonder the guy looks demented, listening to that music all day could warp anybody.
Mr. Johnson gives over our Daisy Cutter pops, and I fumble out the money. I have the exact amount, thankfully, as the thought of handling change from Mr. Johnson scares me somehow. He snatches the money and returns to the driver's seat. Then he is gone, off to frighten people on another block.
