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The Invasive

Page 12

by Michael Hodges


  “Ready?” he asked.

  Angela tapped the roof with the heel of her sneaker, both of which were visible at the top of the windshield.

  Bishop inched the truck up the dirt road.

  “Go left,” Angela said, her hands gripping the roof rack as the truck lurched.

  Ahead of them lay a combination of chopped trees, animal skeletons caught in unspeakable poses, drying pools of slime and Stinson Creek, a feeder for Cooke’s Creek. Bishop thought of his father casting his fly rod and shouting with joy when one of the small cutthroat trout took the fly. He hoped the cutthroats had moved downstream.

  “More left!”

  “OK, baby. How you doing up there?”

  “Good, good. This is fun. Maybe a little like surfing.”

  “Don’t just focus on the route,” Bishop said. “Please keep an eye on the sky and woods as well.”

  “I know. I’ve been doing both.”

  Bishop steered around a living room-sized log with its roots pointed upwards. A putrefied mass of bones, hair, and flesh hung off the right side of the gangly roots. Bishop thought it might be a moose, or what used to be a moose. He found it strange and uplifting that he didn’t see any carcasses of mountain lion, wolf, or bear. Maybe they caught scent of something they didn’t like and avoided the road dams.

  “More left again!”

  Bishop followed her advice, and the truck lurched to the side.

  “Woah!”

  “Hang on!”

  He jerked the wheel to the right, avoiding a nasty hole.

  “When you clear the hole, make another hard left.”

  The back wheels slipped on the mud and slime as the truck lurched. Bishop advanced a little too fast, and he smashed the front end into an uprooted tree.

  “Shit!” Angela shouted as she tumbled down the windshield.

  Bishop’s heart thumped out of rhythm for several beats, then settled back.

  Angela recovered well before the uprooted tree and kneeled on the hood. She looked at Bishop with a mischievous grin and mock wiped her forehead while pursing her lips. Bishop watched the bottom of her sneakers on the windshield as she ascended to her guide position.

  “Close one!” she shouted.

  “Too close.”

  “OK, keep angling left. There’s more grass there, and the creek is running through it but it looks much better than the other options.”

  Bishop turned left and the truck angled down, but it held ground and progressed through the flooding water of Stinson Creek. Bishop poked his head out of the window and studied the silted water. The creek had created channels through the mud and grass and ran downhill into the woods. Below them, the trunks of aspen and spruce were flooded like mangroves. Numerous animal tracks dotted what was left of the muddy road, most of them patterns Bishop had never seen.

  Something flashed in the trees.

  “Get in the truck,” Bishop said.

  “What?”

  “Get your ass in the truck now!”

  “OK, coming.”

  As Angela’s steps thumped the roof, the flooded ferns pushed aside, and a peculiar splashing came from the shadows. Bishop reached for the shotgun, rested it on the window frame and flicked off the safety. Angela shimmied through the window and into her seat.

  The thing sprang forth from the trees.

  Bishop moved his finger from the trigger.

  Angela broke out laughing.

  The uncoordinated bird stumbled a few steps towards them, splashing across the flood water and ruffling its vibrant plumage. The bird tilted its head and gazed at them. Then it ruffled its plumage and performed a strange in-place dance by raising one leg as high as it could, then the other.

  “What is wrong with that thing?” Bishop asked.

  “Maybe it’s thinking the same about you?” Angela said.

  “I came close to shooting it,” Bishop said. He pulled the shotgun back in.

  “I’m going back up.”

  Angela clomped onto the roof and secured herself, and they watched the bird as it clumsily worked the flood, looking for who knows what.

  “Onward!” she shouted on one knee, thrusting her arm toward the south. “Onward to Elmore.”

  Bishop maneuvered through the last several miles of quasi-road and pumped his fist in the air when they reached Highway 18, well south of the original road dam. Then he parked on the first section of intact highway so Angela could get in.

  Bishop raised the binoculars and glassed to the south.

  “All clear,” he said. “Although—”

  “—yes?”

  “There appears to be a dark cloud over where Elmore would be,” Bishop said.

  “Probably just a storm,” Angela said. “This place has been in a drought. Some rain might be nice.”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  Soon, they passed the yellow Subaru with its unfortunate former passenger.

  “What happened there?” Angela asked, turning as she caught a glimpse of the half-consumed corpse.

  “Secapod,” Bishop said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I was sitting right there with you when it happened,” Bishop said, pointing to a patch of roadside fern.

  “You didn’t do anything to help?”

  “I made a choice,” he said. “I had to protect you, and the place was thick with bad things.”

  “Thank you,” she said, staring at the blurring trees and grasses. “Should we go back to the rental?”

  Bishop shook his head. “That place was crawling with them. I think Colbrick was right when he said they liked lower elevation.”

  Highway 18 curved downhill to Elmore, the forest now thicker and more verdant due to higher moisture levels. Cedars became prominent and shadows lingered, the light of day seeming to lose some of its power.

  “Ow,” Angela said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My ears hurt.”

  Angela moved her jaw side to side, trying to pop her ears.

  “From the elevation change?”

  “I think so…”

  Then Bishop’s mouth twitched and his ears started to ring.

  “That’s no elevation change,” he said as the left side of his mouth pulled upwards. His left eye soon followed.

  “No,” Angela said, shaking her head. “Please no.”

  As they turned a blind corner, a gnawing frequency seal appeared in the middle of the road, its chunky torso rippling as it bellowed. Its grabbing, scrubbing mouth contorted like a spastic hand puppet and four of its limbs clawed the air.

  “It’s hurting me,” Angela said, right before the rest of her words became garbled nonsense. A thick string of drool trickled from her lips.

  Bishop tried to yell, but nothing made sense. He focused on the road with one good eye and one good arm, aiming the truck at the frequency seal. Then Bishop’s arms dropped from the wheel as his legs flailed in the footwell. The frequencies created intense, colorful flashes in their minds, accompanied by pounding cacophonies which rhythmically triggered shifting and oozing greens, blues, and reds. The centers of the colorful flashes revealed a star-like body shimmering with the light of a thousand suns.

  Bishop heard and felt a sickening crunch.

  Slowly, his vision returned. Come on, you idiot, he thought. Come on, hit the fucking brakes. Despite the numb sensation in his foot, he found the brake pedal and stomped it.

  The harsh smell of burning rubber wafted into the truck, rising from the front bumper in intermittent clouds while the throaty V8 idled. Bishop turned to Angela. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Angela…you OK? Angela?”

  He reached for her shoulder with a numb and sweaty arm. Angela responded to his touch, her eye spasms receding. She licked her lips as if waking from a long slumber.

  “…are we alive?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It’s dead, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice uneven.

  “Yes.”

  B
ishop’s strength returned in waves, his vision thawing from icy blurriness.

  Chummy slime coated the truck hood. He looked into the woods, and his nerves pricked. He didn’t like the way this section of road felt. And to confirm his beliefs, an unidentifiable insect landed on his left arm and dug its saw-snout into his flesh, the tiny, leathery wings buzzing and slapping. Bishop went to swat the thing, and as he brought his palm down, the insect’s curiously devious eyes locked onto him. Then it sprung and latched onto the skin just under his eye, and Bishop used his left hand to pull the buzzing menace off.

  He held the helpless bug out in front of him. “Look,” he said. “I saw these by our rental. Horrible little fucks, aren’t they?”

  “What an awful thing,” Angela said.

  They stared at it, and it stared back with psychotic, bulging eyes.

  “I think they like this lower elevation,” Bishop said. “I didn’t see any at Big J.”

  He went to smash the creature with his other hand.

  “Don’t,” Angela said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something about it.”

  “Yes, there is something about it. It’s annoying and painful as hell when it saws into you.”

  “I’d just let it go,” Angela said.

  “Why?”

  The insect buzzed and sawed at the air with its snout.

  “Karma.”

  “OK, Gandhi,” Bishop said, holding the insect out the window and letting go. He rolled up the window so the insect couldn’t enter the vehicle again. It hovered near the glass, its leathery wings a blur, its mad eyes gawking.

  Angela rubbed her temples and gazed out the windshield.

  “I hate those freaking seals,” she said.

  “Well, there are now three less of them,” he said, pressing the accelerator.

  The wheels rolled over the dead frequency seal and Bishop’s stomach turned. He observed the lump of guts in the rearview mirror, and the queasiness turned into satisfaction.

  “How about that for karma?” he asked.

  “It tried to kill us,” Angela said.

  “And if it could, that insect would too,” he said.

  “We don’t know that. Maybe it just wanted a small piece.”

  “I think the frequency seals might have damaged your brain.”

  “Oh I think we’re way beyond that,” Angela said.

  *

  The shadows grew deeper between the trees and ferns, attaining an impenetrable quality. Darkened clouds blocked the sun, and the air cooled as if near a lake or river. Bishop turned on the headlights. Dense patches of fog birthed and died and birthed on the road, rising to meet the truck, separating when penetrated and then coalescing behind it.

  Angela crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be summer?” she asked.

  “You know how it can get in the mountains,” he said. “Hell, it’s snowed here in July.”

  Angela reached into the pack behind her and took a sweater.

  “I wonder what happened to everyone at Big J,” she said.

  “I think we found two of them.”

  “That couldn’t have been all. Where did they go?”

  “They probably thought the same thing you did—they wanted to know more, or as Colbrick said, they may have spooked by the burrowers.”

  The road descended and the trees grew stouter, the plants and branches glistening from fog. A family of the small mammal-like animals skittered across the road to the embankment and stared back at them with wary eyes. The pup’s fur was a mix of red and brown while the adults showed solid red. One of them was wearing a flashing device. Bishop thought it was blinking faster now. He turned to Angela and saw a soft look on her face as she watched them.

  To the west, the Apex Mountains carried more trees along the slopes. Although this end of the range was lesser in elevation than the north, the mountains were more foreboding with striking precipices and ever-present, low clouds that hid rocky peaks.

  The fog dissipated for a moment, and the small town of Elmore came into view far down in the valley.

  “I see about four lights,” Angela said, frowning.

  “They don’t have power at all,” Bishop said.

  Bishop caught the unpleasant scent of burning timber and paint. Flames licked the horizon at the southern end of town, and a black, billowing smudge rose into the sky.

  “Elmore’s on fire,” Angela said.

  “Not all of it,” Bishop said.

  As they descended into the lowest portion of Apex Valley, fog blended with smoke, the acrid smell of burning wood and chemicals intensifying. They passed a few ramshackle businesses, and Bishop slowed down to get a better look.

  “There’s Brownies,” Angela said.

  Brownies was their favorite pastry shop. They’d purchased baked goods and other items there for the last five summers. Angela had even become friends with Sue Grafferton, the incredibly nice store owner. Bishop had numerous conversations with Sue’s husband, Bill, often relating to fly fishing and nature photography. Good guy. Damn good guy.

  “Slow down a bit, honey,” Angela said, riveted to the window. “Damn it, I don’t see any sign of them. Pull over.”

  “Do you really want to risk it—?”

  “—please pull over, Bishop. What if they’re inside waiting for help?”

  “I don’t see Sue’s van,” Bishop said. “They probably left.”

  “Where would they go? Their kids are in New England.”

  “OK, OK.”

  Bishop pulled into the small gravel lot and cut the engine. The truck was down to a quarter tank.

  “Maybe we can get some fuel here,” he said.

  They exited the truck and crept to the wood-sided building. The storefront windows were wide, not high, and a squat second story with a log beam balcony shaded the walkway. Old growth cedars reached into the sky behind the shop, and the pleasant scent of baked goods and sweet grass filled their noses. An orange newspaper dispenser stood next to the door, with a July 2nd edition of the Elmore Standard.

  Bishop took notice of the headline: Streamwood residents complain of strange animal activity.

  “Look,” he said, fetching a copy and holding it up for Angela.

  “So the new arrivals trickled in, it didn’t just happen all at once. If people were reporting it on July 1st—”

  “—and Streamwood Resort is west of here, which means…”

  “….it started there, towards the mountains,” Angela said.

  Bishop set the paper on the dispenser and checked his shotgun to make sure it was loaded.

  “You got yours?” he asked.

  Angela held her .357 in the air and smiled wickedly. “I don’t leave home without it.”

  The sight of Angela smirking and holding such a dangerous weapon turned him on, and he had to wonder why in such extraordinary circumstances he felt that way. They could die at any moment, yet here he was, horny as a teenager. Get a grip on yourself, he thought. A voice from a corner of his mind uttered “you wish.” Bishop chuckled, wondering if he wasn’t going mad while Angela gleamed at him with those dangerous eyes.

  “Stop,” he said.

  “Stop what?” she said, continuing to stare.

  “That look. You know.”

  “I don’t know anything,” she said, smirking and continuing to stare at him while biting her lower lip.

  “Fuck, let’s look inside.”

  “Why you read my mind.”

  “Are you serious?”

  They peered into the windows, and although the windows contained dark, tinted elements, they could see enough. The mini-grocery store was intact. The outdated desktop computer that Sue charged one dollar an hour for internet access sat between the wall coolers. To the right was the old-fashioned glass display case that contained the baked goods. Varnished log beams supported the second story at strategic intervals, and woven rugs with animal patterns
covered portions of the hardwood floor in-between rows of snacks.

  “No one’s in there,” Angela said.

  “Good,” Bishop said, licking his lips. “Because I’m really hungry and I don’t have any cash on me.”

  They opened the white, creaky door and shuffled inside towards the glass display. The scent of baked goods owned them.

  “Sue, you here?” Angela shouted as she stepped behind the counter. “Sue, it’s Angela.” She waited for a response, but it never came.

  The wall coolers were silent.

  “No power,” Bishop said, opening a glass door and reaching his hand inside just to be sure. He closed the cooler door and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle behind the register. Nothing, not even a click or hiss.

  Angela reached into the glass display and retrieved two brownies that looked to be a touch stale. She handed one to Bishop and they devoured them, wiping chocolate from their mouths.

  “Oh my God,” Angela said as she tasted the delicious creation.

  “Best fucking brownie ever,” Bishop said.

  “You have fucking on the brain.”

  “What?”

  Angela pushed up against him, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. The danger it seemed was heightening all their senses in every possible way. There was nothing selective about it.

  Angela undid her pants and then Bishop’s. Next, she placed her palms flat on the counter and spread her legs. In a second, Bishop was inside her. He didn’t last long, for more than one reason. When it was over, they dressed quickly and business-like, then went about as if nothing had happened.

  Bishop reached into the display, seized a hunk of Sue’s famous huckleberry pie and devoured it like a wild animal.

  “Wow, manners much?” Angela laughed.

  “No one cares about manners in the apocalypse.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  The slice of pie disappeared, and Bishop reached in and took another brownie.

  “So good,” he said between lip smacking.

  “I feel bad eating these,” Angela said. “Sue worked her ass off.”

  “I don’t think Sue’s around,” he said. “And I’d feel worse about getting fucked on her counter than I would about eating her baked goods.”

 

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