Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  Chuck wanted desperately to laugh, but his friend’s face and the bodies he’d recently seen and the haunted look in Andy Phillip’s face, as he made his terrified confession, took all of the humor out of the situation.

  Unlike his friend the good doctor, Charles Emery Hanson had a healthy respect for those things that existed in darker corners of Man’s history. He’d seen them before, when he was just a child himself; the night that his Grandfather had come to say good-bye to him, four minutes before the phone call came and told his parents that his mother’s father had died in his sleep. Died in the southern California home where he’d retired, several hundred miles away from Summitville, where Chuck was living at the time.

  Chuck Hanson shivered and looked at his friend. They stared without words for a long time; neither could find the right words anyway. They were too involved in their individual thoughts.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1

  Tyler was having a great deal of trouble accepting what was happening in his world, or put another way, The World According To Ty, was seriously fucked up. Things like what had happened that afternoon, simply did not occur in Ty’s World. He ran over the sequence of events again, paying attention to all of the little details that he had not consciously noted before.

  Mark, Cassie and Tony had all come over to go swimming, as they did at least four times a week. Okay so far, no major problems, except maybe that Cassie was starting to look as often at Tony as she did at Mark and even that wasn’t really a danger yet; nothing that would immediately surface and cause friction in their little group. Once again, Tyler’s acid wit and beguiling charm had awed all around him and Tony had become a good deal less defensive when it came to his remarks, so he didn’t lose teeth or hair as often as he used to.

  So, that part of the day had gone properly and even school before that had been relatively tame. It was the shot gun that had started the world on its little spin into the Twilight Zone; shit like that just didn’t happen in Summitville and certainly not to Tyler Wilson. The worse thing about that, was that he’d seen the psycho before, in Denver, when his brother had taken him Christmas shopping. Patrick seemed to think Mister Twelve Gauge was an okay guy and he’d even seemed okay, when Patrick had introduced him.

  So why was he taking up hunting and using Mark Howell as the catch of the day? Or, Maybe he’d been aiming at Cassie, or at Tyler.

  Tyler flopped over on the bed and turned face to face with the Halloween photograph that they had all posed for, along with that writer friend of Mark’s, Sanderson. Ty looked closely at the photo, seeing the differences that had occurred in Mark since the shot had been taken; puberty was certainly being generous with his friend. My, my, how well Mark had filled out in such a short time. But, back to the problem at hand.

  Even the gun toting fruit loop wasn’t that hard to swallow, shit like that happened all over this great country every day and in towns even smaller than this one. No, the really freaked out stuff started when he pulled the trigger. Tyler had seen the motion of Patrick’s friend and even turned that way before the trigger was pulled. He would have called out to Cassie, but he didn’t even have time to register what he’d seen, before Mark went into motion.

  He’d befriended Mark on his first day in the town, even went and helped the Howell’s move in, just so he could get to know the new kid and warn him about the legendary Asshole Patrol—the mostly deceased Asshole Patrol, mustn’t forget about that little aspect of the picture—before he had the displeasure of meeting them for himself. He had, truth be told, known him longer than anyone in town, excluding his parents. He’d learned all of Mark’s characteristic motions and attitudes within three weeks; knowing how people worked was one of those special gifts that Ty had and tried not to abuse, though he often failed in the latter. Mark was nice and quiet and clumsy. He was not overly perceptive, forceful, or blindingly fast on his feet, facts is facts, folks. But, when he moved, when he turned and knocked Cassie to the ground, he started into motion at the same time that the trigger on the shot gun was pulled; he stepped forward, knocked Cassie a good ten feet and was mostly turned towards the trigger man, before the blast of pellets hit. The look on his face, just before the fiery shot hit him was a look that Tyler would never forget. He’d thought Mark looked fearsome when Pete had racked him in the balls, but nothing like he had today. His face had seemed supernaturally mobile, the way his lips contorted, the way his eyes had almost seemed to flare with a light of their own, sent the chills through Tyler’s heart.

  And then the buck shot had slammed into Mark’s arm and chest and the fearsome visage had magically transformed into his friends face, contorted by white hot needles of pain and he had fallen to the ground. And before Tyler could do anything at all, before he could make his brain and body work as one, those little things had come from everywhere. They shot out from under bushes, from up in the trees, even from the freaking sewer drain on the curb and made the movements of Mark Howell, look like a man swimming through tar.

  Tony had been staring with great interest down the barrel of the illegal weapon, when the creatures made their move. Cassie was looking at the little things and at Mark, who had so rudely pushed her down to the ground, with confusion and terror; Tyler was fairly certain he heard her whisper “Rats, their just rats,” but he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain. Tyler hadn’t been so lucky, his quiet way of assessing everything, every iota of information, was as much a curse as a blessing. He’d seen the little monsters all too well, thank you very fucking much.

  His biggest problem, was that he was absolutely certain, that monsters had to be much larger than two or three inches in height. They always where in the movies, by God, they should be in real life, if they had to show up. He couldn’t stifle the panicky little giggle that erupted from his throat, as he remembered the tiny beasts. If they hadn’t had such incredible ferocity, he could almost picture them being marketed as action figures for ten-year-olds, or as the newest item in the industry of home pets. Dammit, monsters should at least be tall enough to look frightening.

  He remembered the creatures literally blanketing Mark and had been about to try to save his friend, when the creatures looked up at him. Not all of them, just three or four, but the looks on their faces had convinced him that size really wasn’t important when it came to monsters. That look had stunned him into immobility, that look had told him that he was already in a good deal of trouble and it would only get worse if he moved towards his friend. He got smart, he stayed right the hell where he was.

  And having decided that he really didn’t want to stare at the deadly little faces, he opted to remember the gunslinger; oh my, but wasn’t THAT a mistake. He’d gotten more than an eyeful of the creatures crawling all over Patrick’s schizoid friend, he’d gotten a free look into the gates of hell. The sad thing, he mused, was that he couldn’t even use that old “it’s only fake blood and latex” trick, this time. Nosiree, not when it ain’t on a screen, not when you can see it with your own two myopic eyes, not when you can feel the little spritz of blood hit your hand; that took all the little mind guards down. And the screams; nothing in all of Hollywood’s studios sounded quite like the real thing, buddy. Nope. Not a Goddamn thing.

  He lit one of Patrick’s cigarettes, the machine rolled ones, not the hand rolled ones and sucked the blue smoke into his lungs, stifling the urge to choke and spasm as it ticked the back of his throat. As always happened on the rare occasions that he snagged a stogie from his brother, his head went light and the room tilted ever so slightly. He allowed himself a few moments of non-thought, as he finished the cigarette.

  He looked at the Halloween snapshot again and wondered just what the hell was happening to his friend. He wondered if he really knew Mark Howell at all; the thought scared him. He was used to reading people like books.

  For now, he’d keep watching and then, maybe, he’d go look at some of those books at Sanderson’s store. The special books, the ones that cost a small fortune.
The ones that were supposed to be about real monsters in the real world. Maybe he’d find what he was looking for and maybe he’d understand the world again, the way he was supposed to.

  He stared intently at the shot of the people he had come to treasure, in their fantasy get ups and focused on Jenny, in her tight skimpy little Devil’s suit. That was just fine, she was a stunning woman and well worth looking at and fantasizing about. Better the Devil you know.

  2

  P.J. Sanderson was rather surprised when he saw Tyler Wilson walk into the store, but at least it was a pleasant surprise. Not like hearing about Mark’s getting shot. The most surprising thing about the visit, was that Tyler was nervous, fidgety, something that no one had ever been able to accuse the young man of. Pretending that nothing was wrong with the boy, P.J. smiled at him and waved quickly, before saving the last four pages that he had typed, in the word processor’s memory. “Tyler, my good man, how are you on this fine day?”

  Tyler started guiltily and looked up at the author, where he sat at his writing station, which rested on a small island set about ten feet above the rest of the store and centered in the main room. “Hi, P.J., I was wondering if you could help me find something.”

  P.J. hid the frown of concern that threatened to pop up on his face, wondering if maybe the shooting incident earlier in the week had affected Tyler more than it seemed to have his nephew and his young friends. “Certainly, sir, your wish is my command. What are you looking for?”

  “I, uh, I’m not certain,” the boy started, pushing his thick glasses back into place. “Uh, Tony said you actually have some books you collected for your writing.” The boy looked down at his feet, uncertain how to proceed and P.J. started to truly worry; nothing ever made Tyler Wilson nervous, just as nothing ever stopped the sun from rising. “Books on real magic, that you use for research.”

  “Yes, that’s very true. But, they’re not for sale, Tyler, they’re part of my own personal collection.” The eyes behind the thick lenses hit him with an intensity that was completely unexpected. Whatever was wrong, it was apparently something that had shaken Tyler to the core of his being. P.J. practically ran down the stairs and gently forced the boy up to his little work alcove. After pouring them both a cup of strong coffee, he nudged the youth’s head up, until their eyes met.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind, Tyler.” The expression on Tyler’s face registered shock at the thought that his guard was so obviously down. P.J. looked him directly in the eye, until he felt that the young man realized he could trust him and then continued. “I won’t tell a soul what’s wrong, if that’s what you want, but please, trust me. You should know me well enough through Mark, to know that I never break a trust.”

  Tyler looked him dead in the eye for almost a full minute before finally saying anything and it was the look on his face, more than the words that he said, that chilled the author. “I think that there might be real monsters in the town and I think that they might be doing something to Mark.” If he hadn’t looked so very serious, P.J. might have laughed. Somehow, it just didn’t seem very funny; he’d known Tyler for years and although it was true they had never been as close as he was to Mark, he knew the boy well enough to know that it wasn’t the least bit amusing to him. That made the author curb the laughter and set aside his own beliefs about the reality that he lived in. Tyler didn’t pull stupid jokes like that. He just wasn’t a good enough actor.

  P.J. listened earnestly to Tyler’s suspicions, realizing soon enough the gravity of the situation. After they had finished their coffee, the author turned the sign at the front of his aged home and store to “closed” and the two set about looking through all of the ancient tomes and reference books. They had their work ahead of them, the collection of books was well over two hundred volumes and most of them were in either archaic English, or foreign languages that were equally out of use.

  3

  Tony tossed fitfully on the huge waterbed in his room, sleep refusing to come to him. After almost two hours in the dark, he finally gave up and struggled into a sitting position.

  The day’s events had just been too fucking weird. How the hell was he expected to sleep? Fortunately, tomorrow was a Saturday and he wouldn’t have to deal with school. With a grunt, he stepped away from the bed and toward the door of his room. Hopefully, he thought, a little work out will make me feel better.

  The Nautilus set-up was on par with any you could find at a fitness center and Tony made full use of it whenever he was too tense too sleep. Also, when he wanted to work out his problems in peace.

  And oh, the problems were there in abundance. For starters, his master plan had backfired: he found both Tyler and Mark to be, if slightly nerdy, very nice people, with opinions and personalities that he had trouble disagreeing with; dammit, why couldn’t they have just stayed goof balls? He also found that he was really starting to care about Cassie and her happiness, in ways that he had never expected; no misunderstanding, he still wanted to “Jump her Bones,” as his father so quaintly put it, but he also wanted to be with her because she was an interesting and caring person.

  He set the weights to two hundred pounds and started doing bench presses, already better than he had been doing only a month ago at one-sixty, but his goal was to reach three hundred pounds by the end of the year. He set his mind on automatic and started to think about his problems again.

  The shooting had scared the hell out of him and filled his bladder to near over-flowing. The blurred flurry of rats afterward had nearly sent him screaming for the woods. He wondered if he would have handled being shot as well as Mark had and suspected that he wouldn’t have. The thought bothered him, but there it was; no getting away from it. What if Mark Howell was a better person than he was; what chance would he possibly have with Cassie, if that were the case? “Shit.”

  He moved to the Life Cycle, setting it for maximum difficulty and started on his thirty-minute ride, his legs already protesting the tortures ahead of them. Slowly he filled with a burning anger and the anger fueled his legs with all of the energy they could ever need. He held the anger closely, reveling in the raw power he felt from it. It was a good feeling.

  By the time he had finished the Life Cycle and started on his pull-ups, the anger had bloomed into a full blown fury. He stepped away from the pull-up bar and slid his sinewy hands into the light gloves he always wore when he was preparing for the heavy bag. The bag took the pounding of its life for the next twenty minutes, until his sister, Lisa, came into the room.

  Elizabeth Antoinette Scarrabelli, Paternal twin to Tony, was wearing a skimpy teddy, rather than a full night gown and he suspected, reveling in the knowledge that such garments on his sisters made him uncomfortable. He did his best not to stare as he continued pounding the canvas bag towards oblivion. After she had watched him for some five minutes, he could take it no longer and turned to face her. “What can I do for you?” The sarcasm was heavy in his voice, he considered this room his private domain and intensely disliked the interruption. Tony had never believed any of that crap about twins being linked, closer to each other than to others, he could barely tolerate the interruption of his domain and had no hesitation to let her know it. No love was lost between the two of them.

  Lisa smiled dazzlingly and stated, “The question, bro,’ is what can I do for you?”

  Tony frowned, looking at his sister. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” she answered. “You want Mark Howell away from your would be love and you can’t think of a thing to do about it.” She paused dramatically and flicked her dark hair away from her eyes as she stared at him.

  Tony hated the way she did that, it made him realize just how attractive she was and the thoughts he sometimes had about her sickened him. He snorted impatiently, “What the fuck are you getting at, Lisa?”

  She pouted fetchingly and he clenched his jaws tightly in response. “I was just thinking, that maybe we could help each other.”

  Her
e it came, the bartering; what would she want this time, his car? “You like Cassie and I’m getting rather fond of the way your good friend Mark looks. So, maybe we could work out a plan that would get us what we both want.” Tony had to admit, that his interest was definitely perked. “Well, what do you say, big brother, can we work together?”

  Tony thought about that: if things worked out properly, no one had to get hurt, at least not very badly. He slipped the gloves off of his hands and set his heavily sweating body next to her scantily clad one; it was her turn to stir uncomfortably, flirtation was a game that two could play. “Tell me your plans, I’m all ears.”

  After over an hour of talking out details, the two went their separate ways, each to a separate room and each with thoughts of how soon they could alleviate the uncomfortable stirrings in their private parts.

  4

  Cassie couldn’t sleep. She was too worried about Mark. All she could think about was looking over from where he’d pushed her, fully prepared to yell at him and seeing his body twitch as blood exploded from his arm. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from feeling guilty; if he hadn’t stepped up and pushed her, he wouldn’t be hurt, lying at home with orders to avoid strenuous activities that involved the use of his arms. Activities like swimming and others that she tried not to acknowledge; just as with her male counterpart, she was starting to give serious though to consummating their relationship. For seven months now they had been dating and the recent bouts of heavy petting were starting to affect her reasoning.

  Swimming at Tyler’s had become something of a torture, watching his muscular form—and Tony’s, at least be honest enough to admit it—sail off of the diving board and just seeing him move with that graceful stride of his, were almost as bad as the damn petting.