Seed of Evil

by Greig Beck

  Johnson Nightbird

  And finally:

  Adotte Sakima—the tree god

  He sat staring at the old Native American’s name and thought of the weird statue-like petrified structures in the museum that he had assisted in setting up. Was there a connection? he wondered.

  “Jesus!” The phone suddenly ringing in the tomb-silent room made him jump inches from his seat. “Calm down, will you?” he ordered himself and grabbed up the phone.

  “That you, Stitch?”

  Mitch grinned from ear to ear upon hearing his friend’s voice. Stitch—shortened from Stitches—was the nickname he was given when he was in the hospital and Greg had caught sight of him just after he regained consciousness—he was covered in bandages, tape, and more stitches than he could count, hence the name.

  “Sure enough, Greg, good to hear from you, buddy.” He sat back.

  “Glad I caught you, what time is it there?” Greg asked.

  Mitch checked his watch. “Now? Nine-thirty, not late.”

  “How’s Eldon treating you? Is it as good as the town images I’m looking at on my screen right now?” Greg asked.

  “It’s better.” Mitch then gave him a thumbnail overview of what the town was like, the people, and then what was going on. He finished with the retrieval of the claw, or tooth, or whatever it was, recovered from Hank Bell that he had sent him.

  “Yeah, that’s the weirdest damn thing ever,” Greg replied.

  “Was it human or animal?” Mitch asked.

  Greg exhaled. “You know, Mitch, I’m not really sure. For a start, the sample you sent seemed to have all the hallmarks of very ancient, petrified wood, and therefore should have been devoid of DNA. But it wasn’t. When I extracted out the DNA fragments, I found that it was like a mish-mash of different kinds of things—a chimera.”

  “Chimera,” Mitch repeated the word. He knew the term; in Greek mythology, a chimera was a monstrous, fire-breathing hybrid creature with the parts of more than one animal, such as lion, goat, and snake. But in modern medical terms, a chimera was a single organism made up of cells from two or more individuals. That meant it contained two sets of DNA with the entire code to make two separate organisms.

  “You mean it was a mix of two people’s DNA, like a father and son, right?” Mitch asked.

  “No, and normally about this time I’d be checking to make sure this wasn’t an elaborate prank, but now I don’t think the sample you gave me could be faked. The thing about DNA is it’s the building blocks for everything organic and every cell contains the good old familiar double helix twisted ladder. Both animal DNA and plant DNA molecules are made from the same four chemical building blocks called nucleotides.”

  “Yeah, got that.” Mitch sat forward and meshed his fingers.

  Greg went on. “But, the difference between mammalian or any animal DNA and plant DNA is how the four nucleotides in the DNA are arranged. It’s their sequence that determines which proteins will be made. The way the nucleotides are arranged, and the information they encode, decides whether the organism will produce scales or leaves, legs or stalk, skin or bark.”

  “Oka-aaay.” Mitch waited.

  “Mitch, this damn thing is a chimera of totally separate species’ DNA. It has in its scrambled code elements in the helix that are nucleotide signatures for both mammalian and plant DNA.” He scoffed. “I’m looking right at it, and I still don’t believe what I’m seeing.”

  Greg sounded like he sat forward. “Listen, Mitch, don’t quote me on this, but it looks like it’s halfway on a transition. One seems to be turning into the other—plant to animal, or animal to plant. I can’t tell which.”

  Mitch felt his stomach flip when he remembered Wainright’s notes about the Billy Allison kid he described and his metamorphosis.

  He gripped the phone harder. “Greg, this is important—the mammalian DNA, was it once human?”

  The military scientist paused for a moment. “It might have been, yeah, once.”

  Mitch sat back and shut his eyes. He bet his last dollar that thing came from the kid, Alfie. That somehow, he had been transformed or was transforming…into something else. But into what?

  Mitch felt like his brain was fried and couldn’t think straight. “Thanks, Greg, I gotta go. But as always, you’re a big help to me.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Greg shot back. “Where did it come from? This thing is a medical anomaly of outstanding importance. I need to know more.”

  Mitch nodded. “I know, I know. But not right now. I’ve got to sort this out in my head first.” He took a deep breath. “One more thing—please keep this to yourself for now, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, okay. Just let me know if you need anything else. I’m always here for you, bud,” Greg said. “Just don’t forget us here in Nebraska. Got a cold beer waiting with your name on it.”

  “Okay, and thanks, Greg…” A sudden thought came to him. “…Wait, there is something that might fill in some of the missing pieces to this puzzle. Do you still have your contacts at the CDC?”

  “Yeah, sure, a couple of good people I know very well. They’re still in there. What is it?” Greg asked.

  “That’s great. Look, I need you to find out something for me. Back in 1977, the previous doctor here reported an outbreak of something here in Eldon, and the CDC came and transferred all of the infected people to some medical facility. I can’t find any record of them ever returning. Or where they ever ended up.”

  “That’s really weird,” Greg replied. “You want me to see if I can find them?”

  “Yeah, find them, and find out what happened to them.” Mitch suddenly felt he had some forward motion. “It might help me understand what I’m dealing with now.”

  “I’m on it, buddy, leave it with me,” Greg replied.

  Mitch hung up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He blinked a moment and then his eyes slid to the notes he had written. Wainright had hypothesized that the source of the contamination was the mine. He’d check that out with the sheriff first thing tomorrow.

  He then picked up the list he had written and saw the Native American’s name again: Johnson Nightbird.

  He remembered what Greg had told him, that it looked like the mammalian DNA, Alfie’s, was transitioning into something else, something that was part plant and part human. And it looked like petrified wood.

  The last line he had on his list was an ancient word: Adotte Sakima.

  “The tree god,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 21

  “What is it, Mitch?” Sheriff Kehoe’s voice was strained with exasperation.

  Mitch drove with one hand and held the phone to his ear. He always planned to get a hands-free answering in the car but, well, it’ll never happen. “Hi, Dan, we need to check something out, right now.”

  Kehoe sighed. “Little snowed under here, Doc, is it…?”

  “Yeah, it is important,” Mitch cut in. “Ben Wainright said he believed a lot of the problems they had back in 1977 came from the mine. We need to check it out.”

  Kehoe sighed. “Now?”

  “Yes please. This could be important in understanding what happened to Hank. And Alfie.” Mitch waited. And waited.

  And then.

  “Okay, I’m not far from you. But do not go into that mine until I get there. You got that, Doc?” Kehoe warned.

  “Sure, sure,” Mitch said distractedly.

  Mitch arrived at the mine turnoff and powered up the rutted track until he got to the fencing and pulled over. He sat in the car for several minutes, and then decided to take a quick look. After all, he promised not to go into the mine, but not to just stand outside and check things out.

  He retraced his steps to get to the main shaft area and as he breached the hilltop was stopped in his tracks.

  “Holy crap.” He scoffed. “Oasis is right.”

  “Hey.”

  Mitch cringed at the stern voice. He turned slowly to see the sheriff striding up the track.r />
  “You don’t take advice easily, do you, Doc?” Kehoe shook his head. “Remember what killed the cat.”

  “Furballs?” Mitch grinned. “You said do not go into the mine, right?” He turned back to the mine and pointed as he walked slowly up to the large, green-tinged pond. “Look at this. This wasn’t here when I checked it out only a few weeks back. And there’s even more trees.”

  “Don’t get too close,” Kehoe said. He sniffed. “Smells like the ocean at low tide.”

  Mitch agreed. “Could be some methane residue that was in with the limestone, I guess. Looks fairly clear though. But that’s exactly what Ben…” He stopped, remembering what else Wainright had included in his notes. “Let’s take a look.”

  He walked closer to the pond edge and fished in his pocket for the small plastic sample jar he had brought with him. He crouched, unscrewed the lid and dipped it in, half filling it.

  Mitch held it up toward the sun and then shook it. “No obvious particular matter, except for a slight green color. But could be chemical residue, plant staining, maybe even bacterial, fungal, or even viral.” He sniffed it. “Yep, something a little unpleasant in there.” He screwed the cap on.

  Kehoe looked around. “Amazing what a little water will do. Last I saw this place a few years back, it was just a dusty, dry nothing. Now it looks like somewhere I’d like to bring the family on a picnic.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t do that right now.” Mitch stood. “I’m going to look at this under a microscope. See if there’s anything toxic hiding in it.”

  Kehoe’s radio squawked.

  “Sheriff?”

  He lifted the handset. “What is it, Anderson?”

  “Sheriff, I’m down at Harlen Bimford’s shop. Something you might want to see,” Deputy Pete Anderson replied.

  “Pete, I’m kinda busy right now. What is it?” Kehoe turned away.

  “Best if you come take a look. It’s not good,” Anderson replied.

  Kehoe sighed. “Okay, Pete, on my way.” He turned. “We done here, Doc?”

  “Yeah.” Mitch turned about. “Just might be best to get some new signs made up to keep people out of the water.”

  “Good idea, you do it. Public health order. And send the bill to the council.” Kehoe turned back to the track and headed down. He spoke over his shoulder. “And let me know if you find anything interesting in the water.”

  Mitch watched him go for a moment until he disappeared behind some of the trees further down. He turned back to the mine mouth. The sun beat down on the shimmering, cool water, and he knew it would have been irresistible to him if he was a kid. Heck, as an adult, he felt like diving in right now.

  He lifted his gaze from the water. Beyond the pond, the mine mouth where the water had obviously welled up from was as dark and ominous as ever. He stared into its mysterious blackness, and after a moment, his eyes started to play tricks and see movement and the twin dot glow of nocturnal eyes staring back at him. The hair rose on the back of his neck.

  “And that’s it for me.”

  Mitch headed back to his car.

  *****

  Kehoe pulled up out front of Bimford’s soda and drug store to see his deputy, Pete Anderson, waiting out front. The young man waved and briefly looked back over his shoulder in through the glass window before heading toward the cruiser.

  Kehoe nodded. “What is it, Pete?”

  “Wish I could describe it. But I thought best if you see yourself.” He turned and put a hand on the door.

  Kehoe followed him. “Is Harlen okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine, just a little shook up.” Anderson pushed open the shop door, making a small bell tinkle. “Harlen, it’s me again, Deputy Pete. I’ve got the sheriff here.”

  “Dan, is that you?”

  Kehoe followed the voice. “I’m here, Harlen, how you doin’?”

  “I’m okay, I guess.”

  Kehoe found the man sitting in a chair. Across his knees was a cracked shotgun, and the man’s shirt was all torn up.

  Kehoe’s brows knitted as he looked the old man over and slowly reached out a hand. “Take that for you, Harlen?”

  Bimford handed over the shotgun.

  “What happened?” Kehoe asked.

  “Aw, goddamn Buford attacked me.” He stared straight ahead. “Least I think it was him.” He looked up at the sheriff, his eyes glassy. “Had that dog eight years. He loved me. And I loved him.” His eyes welled up. “I shot him. Had to.”

  “Where is he?” Kehoe knew the man’s dog, Buford. He was one of the not very bright hounds that just wanted to bark at squirrels, lay by a fire, and beg for food. And Harlen was right, it adored him and would never have attacked him.

  “This here is what he shot.” Deputy Anderson went to a tarpaulin spread over a lump half hidden by some of the racks and drew it back.

  Kehoe stood and stared for ten seconds as he tried to make sense of the thing. The creature was basically dog-shaped, but instead of fur it looked to be covered in splinters.

  Where the head should have been was just a chunk of something that was ragged and open like a split log, and spiked teeth went from the tip all the way down the gullet that extended even down into the muscular neck.

  Around the outside of the neck and embedded into it was a dog collar just showing.

  Kehoe looked along the animal’s body—there was a fist-sized hole in the shoulder, and inside the torso he could see even the muscles and internal organs had the same fibrous, woody texture.

  He looked up. “What the hell happened to him, Harlen? How’d he get like this?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. He looked kinda strange last night before bed, but he slept all through. When I woke up, I couldn’t find him. Then this thing jumped out and attacked me.” Harlen suddenly looked hopeful. “Hey, maybe it ain’t him.”

  Kehoe carefully touched one of the sharp teeth that looked more like a long rose thorn. He remembered the attack on Hank and the shard they found stuck in the body—could this thing have done it? he wondered.

  “You say Buford was okay last night?” he asked.

  “Seemed a bit tired but he looked fine,” Harlen replied wearily.

  Kehoe nodded. The timeline didn’t match up. He got to his feet and kicked the dog’s body with the toe of his boot. It was hard, solid, and definitely dead.

  Harlen sniffed wetly. “Maybe that thing attacked Buford. And ate him.”

  Kehoe nodded but glanced back at the familiar collar. “We’ll take care of it.” He patted the man’s shoulder and thought he felt a sport of hardness under his shirt. He gently took hold of the man’s collar and carefully peeled it back. He saw Harlen had some sort of pebbly rash there.

  “You feelin’ okay, Harlen?” He let the collar go and wiped his hand on his pants.

  Harlen looked up. “I probably just shot my best dog so not really, Sheriff.”

  Kehoe nodded. “Okay, we’ll take care of this. But I want you to do something for me. I want you to go and see the new doctor in town, and today, okay?”

  The old man nodded distractedly.

  “Good man.” Kehoe turned to his deputy. “Pete, let’s get this out of here. It goes in your trunk.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Mitch sat at his desk with a strong light bent over a muscle-strainingly thick encyclopedia of North American plant pollens, spores, and seeds. He had used the high-resolution microscope camera to take images of some of the flora and fauna he found in the water sample, and there were several of them giving him trouble tracking down their description in the book.

  Unfortunately, they seemed to be the ones that might be giving the water its odd, deep green hue.

  “Could that be a seed?” he asked the quiet room as he spotted something else interesting. But it seemed far too small, and even with his top magnification, it stayed only dust-speck sized.

  He did remember from Cindy’s gardening days that some varieties of epiphytic orchids created seeds that were only 1
/300th of an inch or just 85 micrometers. Microscopic when you consider that a typical grain of salt is nearly four times bigger at around 300 micrometers.

  But this seed was even smaller than that. Mitch sighed, rubbed his eyes, and sat back. This seed, along with the spores, was beyond his encyclopedia’s capabilities. There were several good botanical universities he could send the samples off to get a definitive answer. But there was also the next best, and far faster option—ask Doctor Google.

  He uploaded the image of the spore and seed and ran a search on them. After a few seconds, it found a near-perfect match, for the spore at least. As Mitch read, his brows came together.

  “You gotta be shitting me.”

  There was an article published in the Frontiers in Plant Science where a team of scientists from the Paleontological Institute and Museum at the University of Zürich had found plant spores that pushed back everything we know about the evolution of plants.

  They had found angiosperm-like pollen fragments that dated back to the Middle Triassic, approximately 240 million years ago, that suggested flowering plants may have evolved much earlier than originally believed.

  Mitch looked from the images the scientific team had captured and back to his—the shape and structures were the same, and the only real differences were that their pollen spore was a desiccated fossil, and his was hydrated, colorful, and alive.

  He then focused on the microscopic seed—this remained a mystery. However, there was one suggestion, and the only clue was from an impression in some Devonian period slate for something similar. And that was from around 400 million years ago and came from the very first seed-bearing plants.

  “The seed of the first tree,” he whispered.

  “Doctor Taylor, Mitch…”

  Shelly’s voice from the reception area rose in pitch and Mitch emerged from his practice rooms.

  “What is it, Shell…?” Mitch frowned as Sheriff Kehoe and his deputy held a tarpaulin sheet between them with something heavy in it. “What the hell is this?”