CENSUS_What Lurks Beneath

by Marshall Cobb

  He’d promised himself he’d put in a few hours on the huisache issue, and he’d then need to get cleaned up to make his client lunch meeting in Austin, and then get back home in time for dinner. It was Friday, so he’d be expected at the table and then on the couch at home for a movie of Adam’s choosing. Marilyn and Adam would then go to bed and he’d cozy up with his laptop to respond to all the client queries that had piled up in his inbox. If he was fortunate he’d get to bed around 1:00 a.m. and get a few hours sleep before Adam attacked him between 5:00 and 5:30 Saturday morning—Adam slept like the dead on a weekday but always rose early on the weekend.

  He walked stiffly over to the kitchen, assembled the coffee-maker, and stood in front of it while he used his phone to go through the email inbox, deleting wherever possible. He pined for the time when his enterprise was smaller, and he’d had an employee that could actually handle the

  details. In that span Dave could forward half of more of the emails sent to him and not worry about whether or not they’d be handled. That em- ployee had gotten pregnant, then married, and then moved to Colorado because of her new spouse’s job. Since her departure he’d had a series of full-time and part-time employees who attempted to replicate her work- load, but none had even come close, and most quit, or were encouraged to do so by Dave, within the first six months. He was, he’d been told, hard to work for, which is why he now had what amounted to a glo- rified receptionist who answered the phone, kept up with the mail and performed rudimentary tasks at an office in Houston that Dave rarely visited.

  He sighed as his finger hovered over the command to forward a message and contemplated whether or not the theoretical time he’d save in of- floading this request would be fully offset by the number of complaints he’d receive from his assistant, as well as the fact that he’d have to check every aspect of the output. He left the email in his inbox and poured a pitcher of water into the coffee-maker.

  As he came back to his laptop, something on the kitchen table caught his eye. It was the SD card he’d pulled from the closest camera last night. He’d planned on tackling a couple more of the cameras but lost steam on that project when he realized that the batteries in this one were dead. He now remembered that he’d left the card out as a reminder to buy D-size batteries in his rounds, but he might as well download the photos on the card while he was standing around.

  With recognition that he was violating his own rule about mixing per- sonal issues with his work laptop—and also reminding himself that he needed to pick up the defunct laptop and take it to Mark—he inserted the card, named the batch, and watched as the thumbnails began to zoom by. The laptop’s fan kicked on from the effort, but that noise was then overridden by something even louder. Something that sounded a lot like large raindrops hitting the metal roof of his house.

  The battering from above continued to pick up, which probably spelled the end of his huisache removal plans this morning. He walked over to the kitchen window and spread the blinds with his hand to see how much rain he’d be dealing with. He pushed in to stare out and did indeed see dark shapes whizzing by, but they looked quite a bit bigger than rain drops. Was that hail?

  As if on cue, the intensity of the impacts on the roof further increased and it sounded like something was striking the large window on the north side of the house as well. Dave turned, put the phone down on the counter and hustled back over to the living room. The noise from the roof impacts reached a crescendo as he watched, and felt, repeated strikes on the window. There was indeed rain mixed in with whatever was hitting the house, and the swirling water created by the accompanying wind made it almost impossible to see outside. He pushed his nose against the glass, trying to make out what was happening in the still-dark sky, then winced, and retreated from the continuing impacts that made it seem like the glass would soon shatter.

  He backed up and grabbed his keys, thinking he might need to move his truck under a nearby tree to shelter it from hail, slipped on his boots, and opened the front door. He struggled to absorb what he saw through the misty light put out by the motion detector floodlight as the wind whipped by his face and his body was peppered by hits from something he couldn’t make out. He used his left hand to protect his face and squinted in the misty air as he looked down and tried to see what was falling on him.

  He took a shot directly in his left ear and cringed, then did an elaborate, squeamish dance as he realized that whatever hit his ear was still in it, and moving. His resolve failed and he backed into the house, clutching at his ear. As he slammed the door closed he succeeded in pinching theobject in his ear between his fingers and pulled. He now stared at a

  partially crushed grasshopper, its limbs moving feebly in an attempt to escape.

  Dave stared at the writhing grasshopper while the rain and impacts con- tinued around him. After a few moments he adjusted the blinds of the nearby window and, with the benefit of the light triggered by the porch’s motion detector, he saw that the porch was littered with the corpses of grasshoppers. Piles of their bodies were dimly visible in a line that tracked the edge of the tin roof, and as he watched, more grasshoppers continued to fall from the roof, adding additional mass to the quivering, soggy piles.

  He stared again at the now still grasshopper clenched between his fingers and tried, unsuccessfully, to make sense of a freak storm that carried with it a biblical plague quantity of grasshoppers. He opened the front door a couple of inches and tossed the grasshopper into the vortex outside, quickly shutting the door before anything else could fly in. He picked at his left ear, still feeling like something was moving within it. Was there a grasshopper leg still in there trying to kick itself out?

  He felt dizzy, sick, as he backed away from the door. His walk turned into a full-out run as he raced to the bathroom and got to his knees in front of the commode just in time for a flood of red-tinged vomit that poured out of his mouth, staining the previously clear water. He heaved again and again, trying when he could, to flush the toilet and get the sickly smelling, thick fluid away from him.

  His head and his entire body ached as he eventually slumped back against the bathroom wall, the commode now centered between his outstretched legs. A thin stream of gooey, reddish vomit clung to the top of the white bowl, and he watched as it slowly tracked its way down the outside of the bowl and to the floor.

  Red? Why was it red? He tried to think back through his eclectic diet the day before, when he drove halfway across the state, and back for a

  meeting, and couldn’t come up with anything past the spicy peanuts and diet Coke he’d had on the way back from the meeting. The peanuts had been a little orange from the spicy coating—could that have done it? He hadn’t eaten anything else yesterday, in his attempt to make good time, and his general lack of caring regarding regular meals. He’d only had water once he’d made it to the farm, as he didn’t need any more caffeine in his system.

  He watched the reddish vomit slowly form a small pool at the base of the commode where it met the tile floor. Was that blood? Did he have an ulcer? He looked at the fluid again. Yeah, that could easily be blood. He’d always known deep down that he pushed himself too hard. Some- thing was eventually going to give. Was that where he was? Was his body failing him?

  He woke up some time later, the small pool of vomit now dried at the base of the toilet in front of him. His back ached from sitting awkwardly against the wall on the tile floor. He reached automatically for his phone, which was nowhere to be found, and then slowly got to his feet, gripping the front of the toilet bowl for added leverage.

  Looking down into the bowl he saw the sides and part of the top were also pinkish in color. He moved over to look at himself in the mirror and saw a haggard, middle-aged man with a fresh crop of gray hair, and more lines around his eyes and his mouth than he remembered. His right cheek also bore the stain of the vomit, likely when he’d used the back of his right hand—also stained—to clear away the puke. He turned on the water and grabbed the bar of soap
, vigorously washing his hands and his face.

  When finished, he again looked at himself in the mirror, and the im- provement, if any, was nominal. It was the same tired face looking back at him, this time just wet. Wet? The rain! How long had he been sleep- ing?

  He sped into the kitchen and picked up his phone from where it rested on the counter. 10:30? He’d been out for five hours? His eyes darted around the room, taking in the general disorder of the place that he’d planned on addressing before he left.

  He had a lunch meeting in Austin at 12:30. He still needed to clean himself up. There was no way he’d make it, but he’d only be a few minutes late if he drove like hell, and then he could come back by the farm, to clean up on his way home. Yes, he’d miss dinner at the house but that was life and he’d take his lashing when it came.

  Ten minutes later Dave, now freshly showered and back in his work attire of slacks and a dress shirt, gave himself a pat-down, making sure he had his wallet, keys and phone. Check. He flicked off the kitchen and living room lights and stepped out into the steamy, sunny world. Sweat immediately began to form as he fumbled with the keys, his still very wobbly body betraying his efforts.

  Hearing the satisfying click of the deadbolt slamming home, he raced over to his truck and fired it up. As he put it in reverse and automatically turned back to ensure that he wasn’t going to run over anything a strange thought occurred to him. Where were the grasshoppers?

  He turned back to face the house, putting the shifter back in park, and leaned forward to look at the concrete porch, as well as the grassy area leading up to it, that only hours before had been piled deep with the bod- ies of grasshoppers that had struck the roof and windows. He squinted and turned the windshield wipers on, lifting up in his seat to better see over the hood.

  The porch, and the grass, were soaked from the rain, but otherwise free of debris. He sat back down into his seat, his mind spinning. He got out of the truck and walked the few paces to stare down at the wet, but otherwise unremarkable grass. He kneeled down and used his right hand to brush at the layer of grass, as if that would uncover a pile of

  grasshoppers. The grass revealed nothing more than another layer of grass below it.

  With his truck rumbling as it continued to idle behind him, he now used his hand to steady himself as another wave of nausea rose in his throat. He fought it back down, gathered himself, and then stood once again, using the back of his hand to wipe some residual spit from the corner of his mouth.

  He might have stood that way for another hour but the buzz of his cell phone brought him back. Still looking absently around, he fished the phone out of his pocket, and eventually stared at the screen. It was the client he was going to be late to see in Austin, texting him to let him know that they weren’t going to be able to move back lunch and were disappointed that he’d have to join them in progress.

  Dave shook his head to clear it, which triggered yet another headache, and slowly trudged back to his truck. All the good feelings that the farm had created within him during his time with Adam were gone.

  His awkward client lunch meeting was just that—awkward. The fact that he’d never been late to anything involving this client in the ten-plus years he’d worked with them seemed to work against him, as he had to field multiple observations about how busy he now appeared to be, and how difficult it now was to schedule a meeting with him. It didn’t help that the client was correct, and that his stomach rose into his throat every time he tried to put food in his mouth.

  That event was now thankfully, over, and he stood in the kitchen of the farm house looking at the mess he’d left behind this morning. It was a good thing that it had been a full pot of coffee he’d left going, as the coffee maker apparently lacked an automatic shut-off, and an inch of black, burned coffee sat in the bottom of the pot. He unplugged the coffee maker and dumped the viscous contents of the pot into the sink, opening up the hot water tap behind it to compel it down.

  While this was going on he pulled up the login screen on his work laptop, which had sat plugged in and open on the counter during his absence, and typed in his password. He reached over to shut off the water, and continued to watch the laptop’s screen, which showed a large number of oversized thumbnails. That’s right—he’d been downloading the pictures from the SD card when the rain had started. And the grasshoppers. What was he going to do about the grasshoppers that either had never existed or had somehow disappeared during his earlier battle with the toilet and narcolepsy. He reached up to check again on his left ear, but found no further trace of insects dwelling within it.

  He turned the page in his head on the entire matter—there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it at the moment besides obsess over it— and absently hit the forward arrow on the laptop a few times to advance the pictures. He needed to wrap things up here and get home so he could be late for his second meal today, but he also now had a sinking feeling whenever

  reviewing the contents of the SD cards, and he’d feel better if he got to the end without seeing anything.

  Fortunately, the pictures were a lot of the usual, tame fare. Waving grass, deer with all components still attached, what looked like a small pack of coyotes, and a number of shots of himself and his family from their week- end outing a couple of weeks ago. Dave smiled as he quickly forwarded through the shots, which often featured a joyous Sampson, all set in the background of tall grass that formed the viewing area and range of the camera.

  As he blew through the family shots something odd stood out. Beyond the particular family member, or members, captured in a particular shot was a dark, blurry shape buried within the tall grass behind them. Dave tracked forward and then backward through the shots and used his finger as he went to mark the dark shape. The dark shape moved in tandem

  with the person captured in the shot, but out of their immediate view, particularly Adam, who continuously made faces at the camera as he passed.

  He went back to the earlier shots with grass and deer and saw no dark shape. The same was true for the shots posted after his family visit. He went back to the series involving his family, trying to come up with a logical explanation, already rubbing hard at his right temple. It wasn’t a shadow, as the angle vs. the sun was completely wrong. It wasn’t an animal, or Sampson would have barked, wouldn’t he?

  Dave turned to look at the messy living room and the pasture outside, then back to the blackened sink next to him, some of the coffee sludge still clinging to the drain. Without turning it off, he closed his laptop and began cleaning up around him. Today didn’t appear to be a day he’d be coming across any answers, and none of this was going to be made any better by completely missing dinner and disappointing his family.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Transplant

  Three weeks later, in the grip of the oppressive August heat, the giant curved metal leaves of the massive, hydraulically powered tree trans- planter slowly opened under the control of Jerry, the self-proclaimed “tree guy.” The digging element was directed via a series of levers mounted in the back of the large vehicle. Jerry, a forty-something jack-of-many trades, pushed up on the lever he gripped in his gloved hand and movement ceased.

  He used the back side of the glove to wipe perspiration from his fore- head and called over to Dave, Marilyn and Adam as they stood off a respectable distance to the side away from the business end of the dig- ger. “You’re going to love this!”

  Dave looked again at the open leaves of the digger perched just above the ground. The opening was akin to the mouth of the sand worms he’d loved in the movie Dune—and to a lesser degree to the lesser movie, Tremors. Adam had seen neither movie, for many reasons, but was equally spell- bound by the power harnessed in the giant rig. Marilyn used her iPad to snap off shots of the proceedings, also impressed and eager to see the final result—a transplanted group of live oaks that would, hopefully, grow and spread such that they’d eventually have some privacy

  between the house and the road. Jerry crie
d out again, “Here we go!”

  He engaged another lever and the metal leaves descended until their tips were beneath the soil. Jerry then moved yet another lever, and the hy- draulics began to compel each of the leaves farther and farther down into the ground. The hard ground, as expected, resisted this effort, and soon the air was filled with the sounds of the curved leaves being slammed again and again into the surface.

  Jerry had promised that this was the most successful approach as the bul- let shaped hole that would soon be produced would hold roughly 10,000 pounds of earth as well as the young tree that grew within it. Transplant- ing a tree in this fashion meant that a large amount of its roots would make the journey, as would the earth already embracing them.

  “Cool!”

  Adam’s encouragement inspired Jerry to pour it on and he revved the motor and pulled on yet another lever that upped the force of the impact. The leaves continued to push downwards, compelled by the hydraulic motors held in place by the rigid truck, which was in turn supported by metal legs that Jerry had lowered down behind each wheel to ensure that the platform wouldn’t tip or sway during the digging process.

  The noise level increased and Marilyn cautiously took a large step back- ward, pulling a resisting Adam along with her. Dave held his ground, mesmerized while also silently congratulating himself that they’d actually remembered to leave Sampson inside the farm house, and had avoided any jail-breaks on that front. Jerry continued to chew on the large wad of gum he’d shoved in his mouth, nodding to himself in acknowledgement of the progress his machine was making.