Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  Evan Wilde was not a sane man. He hadn’t been for quite some time. Certainly not since his last three year trip to Ryker’s up in New York. He had to admit that he’d certainly done enough to get himself there, what with the pimping and dealing that went on until he’d been nailed by an undercover cop.

  But he was a man with a purpose and his purpose was vengeance. Nobody in their right mind would have skipped out on payments to “The Wildman,” but that was just precisely what Patrick Wilson had done. Not that Evan wasn’t forgiving, he could have let the little pissant slide and waited patiently. If Wilson hadn’t given him lip when he asked where his money was.

  He knew the dork had been sampling too many of his own candies when Wilson had called him a “freaked out asshole,” and could even have forgiven that, if he hadn’t then threatened to kill Evan, if he ever saw him again. That was just pushing him too goddamn far. No More Mister Nice Guy, not this time. The real problem was that he needed to have Patrick alive if he was going to recoup his losses.

  Evan had his sources, even in a little piece of shit town like Summitville he knew just the ticket. Time to say good bye to one Tyler Wilson, little brother to a really stupid asshole, who didn’t know when to shut his dumb fuck mouth. Evan smiled thinly as he pulled up in front of the Wilson house.

  The place was huge, easily worth half a million or more in Denver. Evan marveled at how a shit head that lived in a place like this, could possibly be dumb enough to skip his payments. Probably just did it for kicks. “Well, we’ll give you some kicks asshole, hope you really like this one.”

  Four kids were coming around the corner of the house, “Like clock-work,” he thought aloud. “Every day, like fuckin’ clock-work.” His informant had told him that the little brother and his friends went swimming every day, right after school and that they called it quits at five o’clock, religiously. That left over an hour before the parents came home from wherever the hell they went daily, and gave plenty of time for a hasty get away.

  Casually, as if he’d been coming here every day for years, he got out of his Corvette. With the same practiced ease, he pulled out the sawed off shotgun and started to aim.

  9

  Mark was laughing, along with Tony and Cassie, at Tyler’s latest antics. Today he was doing his impression of Mrs. Carlson, a teacher best known for her stuttering tirades, whenever she lost her temper, which was as often as once a period. Somehow he even made his thin face imitate the bloated features on what he liked to call her potato head. He had the curl of her flabby lip down and the way her right eyebrow ticked up and down. “Will y-y-you p-p-p-p-leeeeeaaasse be qu-qu-quui-et!” he howled shrilly, flapping his arms in pantomime of the genuine article. “This iss an imp-p-p-p-oortant quiz! Half of your grade d-d-d-d-de-pendss on these d-d-d-ddaily test scores!” The sad thing to Mark was that he didn’t even have to fake the stutter; whenever Carlson got angry, her lips just refused to listen to her.

  When he saw the Corvette pull up, he was suitably impressed. Even in this town, a classic like that was enough to draw a person’s eye. A ’69 bubble back ’Vette was nothing to sneer at: drooling seemed infinitely more appropriate.

  He was even considering going over to the driver when the man got out of his muscle car and expressing his appreciation, until he saw the driver. He looked feral, with hair that was groomed meticulously and a five o’clock shadow the same black color. He was dressed very well, but still gave off an air someone who liked to mess with people for the simple sake of messing with them; his immediate impression was of an inner city boy who had moved to the west, simply to avoid looking like an inner city boy. His eyes, even at a substantial distance, threatened a person with every jerky little move. Mark was fairly certain, that if he’d been an animal, he would have been born a badger, or a wolverine.

  He bared his fangs only moments later, when Mark saw the sawed off shotgun being aimed in his general direction. Suddenly the car didn’t seem all that nice, neither did the driver.

  Mark reached over and pushed hard at Cassie, without even thinking about it. He tried to say something, anything to warn the others, but his mouth had gone dry and his tongue refused to work.

  Cassie’s sounds of protest over her rough treatment were drowned out by the report from the shotgun and Mark’s world went red as the pellets tore across his chest and arm. The pain was blinding and he was vaguely aware of crying out as he fell towards to ground.

  The sound of the first shot immediately got the attention of his friends, who stood absolutely still like birds mesmerized by a cobra. Mark was far too busy rolling on the ground, trying to put the fire in his chest and arm out to notice much of anything.

  Mister Inner-city started to aim again as Mark became aware of the motion around him; motion caused not by his friends, but by the Folk. Cassie backed frantically away from the tiny creatures, thinking at first that they were rats, as they swarmed from the bushes near the house. Tony was staring down the barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun and was completely incapable of motion. Who would have thought the barrel was so BIG from all the way over there? And Tyler was looking at Mark, fascinated by the little creatures that covered him with their own tiny forms, apparently intent on stopping the next round of shot with their own bodies.

  Evan “Wildman” Wilde, never even saw them coming. He was enjoying the look on Tony’s face too much; Tony reminded him of about a hundred kids he’d run across and he was going to enjoy wiping his handsome rich-boy face right the fuck off of his skull.

  His finger was starting to pull on the trigger when the first of the Folk made a spectacular leap and sank Its teeth into his testicles.

  Evan Wilde screamed with the raw force of a hurricane as the pain ran straight to his brain. He looked down and pulled the renovated Winchester’s trigger, simultaneously. Luck was with Tony and the Wildman’s hand lifted away from him, as he pulled; the only casualty of the blast was a rather expensive storm window and a few photos on the mantle of the fireplace in the house’s den.

  Cassie and the rest looked on as Evan Wilde danced across the yard. The Folk rode him like a bucking horse, using Their claws and teeth for purchase, as he flailed wildly. As with many people who experience severe car wrecks, the four people watched intently, their minds absorbing every minute detail, as the Folk tore the screaming man apart. They watched as he finally fell to the ground and they watched as the tiny creatures literally dismembered him. The worst however, was the mixture of the man’s screams and the hissing laughter of the creatures that worked him over; it was like the sound of a world collapsing, Evan’s world. The last they actually saw of his face, was the terrified expression of a man who couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong, who couldn’t understand why his life was leaking out of a thousand cuts, or why no one would help him.

  The creatures moved with frightening speed, tearing past the startled foursome and into the woods, before any of them could get a good long look. The sound of their laughter faded into the rustle of the wind and then was gone. The only evidence that They had been there, a rapidly cooling skeleton covered with thinly shredded pieces of raw meat. For once, even Tyler was speechless.

  10

  The wounds were painful, but minor and Tim Posten pointed out to Mark that he was remarkably lucky to be alive. “No kiddin’, I thought he’d blown my arm off. Ouch! Shit, that hurts!” The paramedic laughed lightly at that and pulled the last of the pellets free, dropping it into a small plastic bag, along with seventeen others just like it.

  “Hey, at least you can feel it. I’ve been known to do my share of hunting and I’ve seen what this stuff’ll do to a full-grown deer. Trust me, you got off very lucky.” He poured the contents of one of several bottles of fluid over Mark’s arm and Mark practically howled at the chemical fire that danced over his already aggravated nerves. “Now that I’ll let you slide on, shit’s twice as foul as alcohol in the pain department. But, it works.”

  Mark managed a smile and looked over at Tim Post
en. The man had sandy blond hair and twinkling eyes and made him think of what Santa Clause must have looked like when he was younger, belly and all. He couldn’t believe the luck of having a doctor living so close by and one that was willing to skip out on his date, a truly stunning woman at that, just to fix what was really a minor problem. Then again, it sure as hell hadn’t looked minor. Mark’s T-shirt was soaked through with blood, by the time the man had come running across the street with his bag. “Listen, thanks a lot, I mean I thought I was gonna die there.”

  Tim looked over at him and winked, “Hell of a way to impress the chicks, maybe you’ll even score huh?” Mark blushed furiously and Tim patted him on his uninjured left shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, I took this little oath, see, and it says I have to fix up macho men who step in front of loaded shot guns.” Looking over at Cassie and then back to Mark, he grinned widely and thumped Mark on the knee. “Just name the first one after me, okay?”

  He got up with that and started walking towards Sheriff Hanson and another man. Mark was sure there’d be hell to pay for this one. For reasons he couldn’t place, he felt responsible for the corpse lying under a canvas cover not far away. The man with Hanson looked over at him, a puzzled look on his face.

  11

  Rick Lewis watched as Mark Howell came towards him. Next to him, Chuck Hanson tensed, ever so slightly; obviously Chuck hadn’t yet broken himself of his natural dislike of strangers, he’d probably have reacted the same way if the boy headed their way had been six years old.

  The boy looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where from to save his life. He had cold blue eyes that seemed open and friendly, but at the same time seemed to hide dark secrets. His hair was moderately long and as dark as midnight. The most striking thing about him was the scar that ran across his right cheek and seemed to pull his face, even when relaxed, into a contemptuous sneer. It wasn’t that the scar was overly prominent, it just seemed that way on a face so devoid of lines, almost devoid of emotion. The forensic specialist was fairly certain that he’d seen his face before, if only he could remember where…

  The center of his attention looked directly at him and smiled sheepishly. “Hi, Doctor Lewis. I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Mark Howell, you took out my stitches, last year.”

  Rick forced himself not to drop his jaw, he was stunned by the changes that six months had made on Mark; he’d lost easily twenty five pounds and whatever had been left to lose, had distributed itself in the form of muscle, on a much taller boy then he remembered. About four inches taller, he was almost six feet in height now. Realizing that he was being rude, Rick finally forced his mouth to work, “Hi, yeah, of course I remember you. It’s good to see you again.”

  He shook his head, it just couldn’t be the same kid. Christ, the difference a few months could make in a pubescent. “Yeah, you’re Joe’s son. Looks like you got yourself patched up well enough. Hurt much?”

  Mark looked uncomfortable and beside him, Rick could feel Chuck’s attention switch over to the wounded teen. “Uh, not really, I guess I’m still having trouble getting used to bandages though. They make my skin feel like it’s being stretched.”

  Mark looked over to Hanson and grinned sheepishly again. “You must be Sheriff Hanson, Tim told me you might need to speak with me.” Tim, in the meantime, was looking over at the covered body with a mild interest.

  Hanson looked down from his considerable height and tipped his ever-present cowboy hat in greeting. “If that’s all right with you. I just need to hear your story on what happened over here.” He looked around, at the other three teens and their parents. No surprise, the parents were all looking at Mark with barely veiled suspicion. “We can wait,” he paused as he continued looking around, “until your folks get here, if you want to.”

  Mark shrugged and immediately winced, a few of the small pellets had gone into muscle on their way in. “That’s all right, Joe’s probably still in the city and if I know Mom, she’s still shopping for her art supplies. Ask away, I’m at your disposal.”

  Rick was having a little trouble with the way Mark talked; he didn’t seem nervous, even shaken, by his injuries, or the corpse that lay just a few feet away. Little alarms were going off in his head. He studied the boy as furtively as he could, not wanting to give anything away. There’s something wrong with him. Something very wrong.

  Chuck Hanson had pulled out a small note pad and was writing down everything Mark said in a crisp, precise short hand, that Rick doubted anyone but the Sheriff could have hoped to understand. The Sheriff asked few questions, only asking for elaborations where they were necessary. In a matter of ten or so minutes, the Sheriff said his thanks and offered a squad car, should Mark feel he needed a lift home. Mark declined and waved to his friends before walking home. It was only when the boy was heading away, that the slightest jump in his step gave his nervousness away.

  For reasons he would have been hard pressed to explain, Mark Howell made Rick uneasy. There was something not right about him. He didn’t know what it was, but he suspected that the boy might have answers to a good deal of Rick’s questions. Mark Howell was a youth who needed watching and he was certain that he would be watched, if not by him, then by the Sheriff.

  12

  Charles Emery Hanson was, by his very nature, a suspicious man. But he was also a very subtle man; a talent that he made the most of, considering his line of work. Very few people knew him well enough to be able to say that he was subtle, cunning even; Doctor Richard Lewis was one of those very few.

  He’d known Richard for a good number of years, since he’d gone off to college in Denver. When they’d first met, he had seen in Rick the potential friend that the man had later become. Richard had always been there, to help him with his mistakes and to solve the problems that Chuck just couldn’t solve, few that there were. In all that time Richard had never asked for anything in return, until now.

  “I can’t put my finger on it, Chuck, but I just keep getting the feeling that Mark Howell is involved with the crap that’s going on in this town.” They’d had this conversation before, but the use of an actual name was a new element. Richard had pointed out the strange anomalies in the case of Tanya Billingsley and had pointed out that similar strange proteins could be found in minute traces in the blood all around Pete Larson, the boy that had been so savagely torn apart, last Halloween.

  “So what the hell makes you think the Howell kid has anything to do with all of this?” Chuck looked over at him with brows lowered, a sign that he was angry or that he was thinking. The two expressions were completely interchangeable.

  “Call it a hunch, okay? I just can’t get away from the fact that he’d been seen arguing with Peter Larson the same night that Larson died. Or the fact that he was injured in a fight with Andy Phillips, the night that Phillips turned himself in for the murder of the Billingsley girl. It’s nothing solid, but I think that he’s involved

  “I looked over the bones of the guy who took a pot shot at Howell, Evan Wilde. I found traces of that protein again. Chuck, off the record, I have no idea where the hell that protein was produced. It defies all of the laws of nature.” He looked genuinely puzzled, his brows knitted in concentration, as if even now he was trying to place where he could have seen the stuff before.

  The sheriff sighed, wanting peace and quiet and getting strange stories from his friend instead. “How does it ‘defy nature?’ You never have answered that.”

  “I can identify it as a protein, that was easy enough.” He looked over at Chuck, with something akin to fear in his eyes. “But I can’t break it down any further; it doesn’t seem to have any form of DNA configuration and the damn stuff still seems to have a life of its own, after several months worth of examination. Chuck, the stuff’s still alive after almost seven months. Do you have any idea how rare that is? It hasn’t had anything to eat, it hasn’t decomposed, it hasn’t multiplied, it hasn’t even moved very much. But it’s still alive on a molecular level and
nothing has even attempted to infest it. If I can isolate what makes this stuff tick and where it comes from, I could be the most famous doctor since Pasteur.”

  And there was the crux of the “Protein Mystery.” Chuck wasn’t stupid, not by anyone’s standards and he realized that his friend wasn’t about to send the protein samples to another lab, then someone else might get the same ideas, might beat him to a discovery that could make or break him as a research specialist, which Chuck knew good and damned well was what Rick had always wanted to be. He’d only come to Summitville, because Chuck had asked him to and pointed out that he’d have a great deal of time for research in a town where most of the illnesses where never worse than Strep Throat and the vast majority of deaths were from natural causes. “So what do you think these proteins are? I mean they have to be related to something out there, don’t they?”

  Rick looked at him for several moments, long enough to make the sheriff uncomfortable. Chuck looked away and lit up a Camel’s unfiltered with his thick, yellow stained fingers. When Rick finally started to talk, he looked back at his college roommate. “Chuck, I like to think of myself as a man of Science,”—you could hear the capitol “S” in the way he said it—“I like to try to forget about ghosts and goblins and all that other shit that you hear about as a kid.” Rick looked away from his friend and Chuck registered the uneasiness in the man’s soul, as he continued, “If I didn’t know that that kind of crap was for the birds, I’d think I was actually studying a physical example of Ectoplasm.” He looked over at Chuck again and silently begged his friend to laugh in his face, to get him away from the crazy thoughts that he was having. “Ectoplasm,” he started soberly, “is the stuff that supernatural entities are supposed to build their bodies from. Entities like ghosts and goblins.”