The Shadow Over Lone Oak (Evils of this World Book 1)

by C. J. Sears

  His vision dwindled. All became an abyss.

  * * *

  Finch saw Kruger’s limp body on the ground and swore. He had no time to think about what that meant, but at least the car was there. He stopped to roll the body over, didn’t bother to feel for a pulse. The bleeding hole in the coroner’s head put that thought out to pasture.

  “He’s dead,” said Finch, so numb to the words at this point it might as well have become his mantra.

  He opened the passenger’s side door as the sheriff jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine thundered. Finch thanked God that at least the car still worked as Donahue unlocked the parking brake.

  Suddenly she let go of the wheel and clutched at her ears as if reeling from pain. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, not sure what had happened. He leaned over the gearshift to take control of the car, saw that there was no need. The infected had stopped in their tracks, weapons held at their sides.

  For the second time, Finch heard the cock of a loaded gun and lost all hope as he felt the muzzle dig into the back of his neck.

  * * *

  He’d been waiting for this moment for over twenty-six years. This was the moment when he could stand above the last living relative of the man that had sentenced his family to prison and cast his judgment on her. In this moment, Rhinehold could take away her last chance to live a happy, fulfilling life, could destroy her mentally, physically, and spiritually.

  “She’s not going to help you,” he told Finch. “By now, you have to realize why my song affects her. She is infected.”

  It was an unexpected but pleasant bonus. It was still in the early stages, but it was there, gestating by the second. He’d noticed at the police station her response to his song. He rejoiced in this revelation, would take immense satisfaction in using her as a tool in the final minutes of the Purge. But first, there was the matter of one Llewyn Finch.

  When Finch had asked for the interview, Rhinehold thought his whole world might come crumbling down. But the fool had asked the wrong questions. He’d recognized the words from the book−he’d written them, after all, though how they ended up in that particular tome he wasn’t sure. Even though his absurd deduction wasn’t far off the mark, Finch had bought the lie and let him go.

  Rhinehold hadn’t counted on Black screwing up, for him to hire the wrong men for the bootlegging job, and for him to get caught and die. He should never have let the detective tag along, but the man was in too deep, too close to the truth. So he tricked him, infected him, forced him to start up the operation that would let his plans flourish. He had other help, of course, like the doctors in the hospital, but Black was the glue that held it all together. And a mistake. It bothered him that he never would find out what had let Black do so much sabotage to his plans. Whatever had stopped the parasite from having total control, it was left out of the police reports.

  None of that mattered now. He had the outsider, his witness to the cleansing of the filth that Lone Oak always was. Sure, the siren was busted, would do him no good, but with the coroner’s death and what he’d found on his body, Rhinehold had a new plan. He had a better, more permanent solution to the problem that had plagued him for almost his entire life.

  “You know,” Finch said, “at one point I truly did think you were a man of God. A bit off-kilter, sure, but your faith seemed real.”

  In the innermost nadir of the spectral cavity that was Rhinehold’s soul, something stirred. He ignored it.

  “Mr. Finch,” he said, the magnum almost weightless in his hands, “you will now bear witness to the destruction of a nightmare that has existed long before you or I or Miss Donahue were born. I have called your people, told them your command. In less than an hour, we will all be dead.”

  “So you’re the harbinger of death, then, not a man of God.”

  “By association, so are you.” That shut the insolent federal agent right up.

  Rhinehold smiled, gladdened by his own words. “Before that, let’s take a moment to let the Truth sink in. My truth. You remember what I wrote? The people of Lone Oak deserve this.” The conviction in his voice intensified as he spoke. “They let the politics and money dictate this town. They turned a blind eye to the corruption of a house that persecuted my family. None of them seemed to care about my bootlegging operation taking hold of its poor and stupid. The parasites? They are not the evils of this world, merely a cruel reflection of their sins. But evil cannot win. And so there must be a Purge. The dead will Rise anew, stripped of their lying flesh and exposing the truth within. You will hear the cries of a thousand unclean souls as this forest burns. You will feel the earth shake with the wrath of scorching damnation. You−”

  A sharp pain embedded in his spine. Blood, slick and dark red, spilled from his mouth. His arm trembled; he could feel the magnum slithering like coconut oil out of his hand. Then there was relief, a kind of euphoria, as the pain left. For some reason, he couldn’t turn around, but that was okay.

  Then the pain returned, and he realized it was an axe, striking him again and again. He crumpled against Finch’s back, the magnum landing on the ground with a soft thud. This was wrong, couldn’t be happening, not now, not so close. He had to sing, had to tell the others to attack…

  But he gurgled only blood and knew no more.

  * * *

  She was sick and tired of his voice. In her ears. In her head. When she swung the axe for the final time and the music stopped, all Donahue wanted to do was crawl into a hole and close her eyes. Finch seemed shaken but otherwise unharmed. It struck her that the two of them must have been a sight, covered in several days’ worth of bruises and dirt, wearing tattered clothes and looking like they had run the marathon twice.

  Perhaps it was that thought that compelled her to do it. With the threat of impending death, everything else meant absolutely dick. She threw the axe on the ground and kissed him. It was quick, a blink-and-you-missed-it sort of deal, but it felt like a long time coming.

  When they parted, Finch was the first to sober up. “Willow,” he said, “we should get in the car now. I’m not saying there’s a nuke coming, but we should, uh, move like there is.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that if we don’t leave right this second, there won’t even be pieces of us left to put in the world’s tiniest coffin. My bosses are thorough when it comes to dealing with events like this.”

  Donahue had heard what Rhinehold said, as much as she wanted to forget it, but she hadn’t thought the situation was that extreme. Finch’s confirmation changed that. She shut the door for him, then bounded around the car and got back in the driver’s seat.

  Through the windshield, she could see the remaining infected. They hadn’t moved a muscle, immobilized by the death of their master. Their weapons hung flaccidly at their sides, all of their hatred whisked away and light as a feather blowing in the wind. The parasites cried out for their father as their hosts did nothing to lessen their pain. She didn’t know what all of that meant, but it had to be good.

  Trees swayed in the breeze. The sheriff opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t form the words.

  “What is it?”

  She took a moment to answer. “Evil is a whisper in the wind.”

  “What?”

  Donahue shrugged her shoulders. “It’s an old saying we had here. My dad told me. I didn’t know what it meant. Until now.”

  She drove with her cuffed hand, the chain clinking against the wheel. Dirt gave way to pavement, rough riding transforming into smooth sailing. Pine trees and claustrophobic darkness became open fields and welcoming sunlight. With her window rolled down, she once again smelled cow pies and mown grass, dampening the scent of death that had become a raging sea threatening to drag her down to the bottom.

  Along a rusted barbed wire fence, perched on an aging t-post, a crow cawed in salute to the two survivors. Donahue rested her free hand on top of Finch’s and didn’t let go after they sped
through the crossroads, not when they passed the sign that read “Welcome to Lone Oak” and not when she heard the planes soar overhead.

  Not when the bombs fell and they left the burning town behind.

  THE BOX

  Demi Conroy stepped with purpose through the electronic doors into the main lobby of the Fairvale Research Center for Biological Anomalies. Her brown hair was tied into a ponytail that left a dash of bangs cast over her forehead. Steel blue eyes pierced through contact lenses, penetrating the fragile egos of her colleagues as she barked at them to return to their respective cases.

  The men, who had been chatting up the receptionist at the front desk, lowered their heads, nodded, and hurried to the elevators. Conroy smirked, pleased with herself.

  Now decidedly less crowded, the lobby stood ready to receive her. Steel columns supported a glass info-graph behind the receptionist. Printed above in thick black letters were the words “Discovery is in the Details.” The founder of the institution, a professor of microbiology by the name of George Lambert, had coined the phrase himself. Not her choice of motto; she preferred to think that discovery was made in the process.

  Ideological differences aside, Conroy respected what her mentor established. The strides she’d taken in his absence to further the progression of their research were rooted in his beliefs. Science had been cultured to clarify what man didn’t know rather than expand on what he did. Her approach was more measured, perhaps too reserved compared to his gung-ho investigative style. When she wanted something done, it was done her way and with precision. She had no patience for the theoretical gun-jumping common in the field.

  Cathy greeted her at the desk. “Director Conroy, glad that you’re here. We’ve just got a specimen in from Lone Oak.” She retrieved a small container wrapped in brown paper from behind the counter. “The box was addressed to you, so I’ve kept it away from prying hands.”

  The news wasn’t unexpected. “Must be from Greg. He mentioned that he had a surprise for me.” She grasped the box. It was practically weightless. “Let Simon and Hartfield know that I’ll be in the Phase 4 labs today.”

  Conroy left without saying goodbye. Greg said that the matter was urgent and she was keen to see what had gotten a man accustomed to dealing with the unknown so riled up. For Greg Pritchard, head of the university lab at Daleport, to be preoccupied with something so outside of his comfort zone, she suspected that the specimen would be more than worth her inquiry.

  The elevator ascended to the Phase 4 labs, taking her breath with it. She braced herself against the back wall, fingers clutched onto the metal support bar. That sudden upheaval followed by the steady climb seven floors up made Conroy feel like her lungs would propel out of her throat. She closed her eyes and listened to the steady tick as she passed each floor. When the motion stopped and the doors opened, she exhaled and walked through the threshold.

  She was met with silence as she sauntered through the hall. None of the other researchers appeared to be on duty in spite of her insistence that a contingent of at least three remain during the overnight shift. Phase 4 was where both her office and the most deadly and dangerous of biological weapons were kept. The specimens on this level ranged from pathogens as lethal as anthrax to microbial organisms capable of self-replicating at an alarming rate. Conroy scribbled a mental note to remind her employees of the dangers inherent in unguarded research.

  Her office was at the far end beside the automated decontamination chamber and initial examination room. A key card reader was adjacent to the door. She slid her pass into the slot and waited three seconds before retrieving it. There was a soft beep as the light above the door turned green. With a whir, the door slid aside and allowed her through.

  The office was no larger than a child’s bedroom. Tinted Plexiglas windows provided the only view of the outside world. The room had no discernable smell and the air was a moderate sixty-two degrees. No personal effects adorned the wall other than her doctorate from the University of Berkeley. The papers on her desk were organized both alphabetically and by importance. Conroy set the box containing Greg’s mystery specimen beside her monitor as the door slid closed.

  Leaning down, she unraveled the paper. The container was a black rectangular box that she knew had to be concealing whatever had been sent. Delicate hands pried open the top half of the box, revealing the contents inside.

  She held a magnifying glass and peered at the find. A glass vial housed an organism about two inches in length and ten centimeters in diameter. The creature was a charcoal-color, almost black, with worm-like segmentation. Its legs ended in sharp points. Whip-like tendrils resembling the fluid limbs of a jellyfish sprouted around the equilateral triangle which formed its mouth. The specimen was rigid and unmoving; it appeared to be dead.

  She was unconvinced. Procuring a larger tank from the cabinet behind her, she carried it along with the vial into the decontamination chamber. Conroy contemplated using her clearance to bypass the automation, but she respected the necessities of a healthy and safe research environment. Besides, even if she could be certain that she hadn’t brought anything untoward into the chamber, the vial had made an overnight voyage in the back of a postal truck. She expected that they didn’t follow similar protocols of contaminant safety.

  After the process finished, she marched into the IER and laid the tank and the vial on the table. Easing the lid of the tank open, she dumped the specimen inside. The reaction she anticipated was instantaneous. The creature sidled up the side of the tank, intent on escape. She closed the lid and latched it shut as the thing angrily tapped on the glass with its legs.

  A distinctive hissing noise emanated from behind the glass, reminiscent of the rattle of a frilled lizard. Conroy grabbed her cell phone out of her lab coat. Astounded by the spunk and ingenuity of this little nightmare, she dialed Greg, eager to know what his initial findings had been. His groggy voice answered the phone. She checked her watch, realized that it was still too early in the morning to get him at his best.

  The desire to learn what she could before pursuing her examination of the subject burned away any misgivings. “Greg, this is Demi Conroy. I’ve got the specimen you’ve sent me. It’s remarkable.”

  “Should’ve known you wouldn’t let an old man sleep,” he grumbled. “What do you want to know?”

  Smiling, she asked, “Who sent you this? It’s remarkable.”

  She heard him cough on the other end of the line. “A colleague of mine working as a coroner in Lone Oak mailed it to me.”

  The rumblings she’d heard about the goings-on there were grim. If the rumor mill was right, there had been some kind of serial killer on the loose. That was before the town and several miles of surrounding forest went up in flames, torched by B-1B Lancers carrying napalm. The government claimed there was a lethal pathogen that couldn’t be extinguished and that everyone there had already died. She didn’t believe that.

  There was a pause as Greg cleared his throat. “Demi, this thing was feeding on spinal fluid.”

  “So it is a parasite? Incredible.” She’d predicted as much based on its deception. “It tried to play possum, but I knew that you wouldn’t have sent me defunct materials if you thought it was urgent.”

  Conroy glanced back at the tank. The hissing had ceased, but the parasite paced inside its new quarters with a kind of malignant zest. It stopped in the back corner of the tank. She frowned at its freakish immobility. Then she remembered that in that corner of the lid was a six centimeter hole where a thin tube could be inserted. They used the opening to pump chemicals into the container. Wide enough for the parasite for the parasite to slip through.

  She raced to the tank, dropping the phone. It clattered to the ground as she reached the container. She could hear Greg’s anxious shouts of confusion. Conroy watched the creature scramble up the side. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something to cover the hole with. All of the equipment was tied down. The parasite leapt for the opening, its tendril
s flailing.

  She upended the tank, caused the creature to miss its mark. The lid didn’t budge. Turning the container upside down, she masked the hole with the top of the table. The creature resumed its hissing, its peculiar mouth gaping, tentacles aimed in her direction like a spider baring its fangs.

  Greg breathed a sigh of relief when Conroy picked up the phone. “What happened? It sounded like you took off in a panic. That thing attack you? I told you it’s a nasty critter.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, smoothing the wrinkles out of her coat. “It tried to exploit a weakness in its container, but I’ve taken care of the problem.” She needed to find something more suitable in the near future. Hartfield and Simon could help with that. “This parasite is tenacious, Greg. It shows signs of intelligence and aggression above its instincts. Do you know anything else about our little friend?”

  “I’m afraid not. You’re the best in the field, Demi. If anyone can figure out just what this thing is, it’s you. Now, I’d like to get another hour of shuteye if you don’t mind.” He hung up the phone.

  Conroy looked at the tank again. Still hissing. Still pissed. This creature was determined to hold a grudge, not normal behavior in macro-parasites. She pushed the red button on her recorder. “Ticks will seek a host to draw blood from and gorge until ready to change skin or drop off, but they don’t display anything resembling an emotional outburst when denied sustenance. Intestinal worms, likewise, don’t exhibit any sort of emotive capacity to feel anger. This creature is something new, something that doesn’t fit our current taxonomy.”

  The parasite followed her as she circled the table examining it. “Specimen’s forelimbs resemble eukaryotic flagella. Curiously, this suggests that its legs are primarily meant for motion outside of the host’s body. Based on information received, I believe that the tendrils are used to propel the parasite through the mucus lining of the stomach. From there, it carves its way into the host’s spinal cord, wherein it feeds on the cerebrospinal fluid. Given that CSF is vital for immunological protection of the brain, I am perplexed as to how the host persists during the life cycle of the organism.”