Wicked Seeds

by Cameron Sword

  “You didn’t need their money. You would’ve been among the most popular senate candidates ever. Everyone would’ve voted for you.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you? You have no clue.”

  “Go ahead, enlighten me.”

  “I was never on your side, silly. Prosecuting Sonanfield Reed wasn’t my idea, it was theirs.”

  And suddenly, it became crystal clear to him…

  “So they paint you as their enemy, establish you as a hero with the electorate, but install an ally instead. You’re one of them.”

  “Is that my tuxedo you’re wearing?” Colin asked, his voice interrupting from an area directly behind Nathan.

  Nathan pivoted to find Colin and his briefcase standing there right behind him, Clarke by his side. Clarke quickly revealed that he had a gun before tucking it away.

  “Is it?” Colin reiterated.

  “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “Actually, yes it does. I mean, considering why you borrowed Jenkins’ trousers.”

  “Oh yeah. That. I never thanked him.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “I’d rather not. Your shoes are three sizes too small. I’ll get blisters.”

  Clarke flashed his weapon once again. Nathan responded by reaching into his own pocket and bulging something out.

  “I have one too.”

  “Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. Even if that is a gun, you’re not going to shoot anyone.” Colin said, confident.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I’m certain. But just in case I’m mistaken…”

  Colin’s voice trailed off as he pointed out a guesthouse window, barely visible because of foliage, where Munda was holding a helpless Olive. Nathan sighed, removing his hand from his pocket, revealing nothing but his forefinger.

  “I had to try something.” Nathan shrugged.

  “Of course you did.”

  A valet hopped into the SUV Olive abandoned and quickly dove out panicked and screaming. Now, to be clear, the vast majority of the valets employed on this particular night were college students of just about every ethnic background, but this one shouted out, “Santa Maria, hay un individuo muerto adento ali!”.

  Necks craned, people who were still arriving or just milling about, asking each other for clarification. What did he just say? A few moved to investigate.

  The guesthouse, like the main house, was decorated for style and comfort. Clarke pushed Nathan up against a wall. Olive and Waltona sat on a couch, mouths duct taped, hands bound behind their backs.

  Colin and his briefcase, Clark, and Munda were spread out throughout the room.

  “Thank you all for a very entertaining evening, but I’m going to join the function now. Keep our guests comfortable until I return.” Colin said, further instructing his men, out of earshot, not to kill Nathan just yet. Beat him up badly, if required, but Colin wanted to be around to watch Nathan die. And he literally wanted his head. But as Colin turned to exit…

  “Aren’t you overlooking something real important here, shithead? Can I call you shithead?” Nathan asked.

  Olive perked up, doing a double take. Did Nathan just use an expletive?

  “Let me guess, Nathan. You’re going to tell me something like, your ransomware will soon destroy every piece of data without your time-sensitive guidance. Or your thumb drive and its contents will show up on some journalist’s desk or maybe even sent to several news websites’ inboxes if you turn up dead tomorrow morning.”

  “Nowhere near an exact match, but I think the judges might give it to you.”

  “It’s a big lake out there, Nathan. Miles across. Hundreds of feet deep. Your body will never be found. Your ransomware has been defeated. And without you around making trouble, my people will make certain no respectable journalist touches your wild conspiracy theory allegations. I’m no longer worried.”

  Roger suddenly burst in, wide-eyed.

  “The police are here. The press as well. Jenkins was found murdered in one of our vehicles.”

  Sudden change of plans. Colin found Munda and Clarke, quietly instructing them to kill Nathan, Olive and Waltona, load them into a boat and dump their bodies out in the middle of the lake. He ordered them not to return with the boat either. The boat was to be scuttled in a different location.

  “No. No more killing.” Roger insisted, having overheard.

  “Shut up.” Colin responded, actually pushing Roger. Roger pushed back. And once again, many things were about to happen very quickly and at the same time.

  Colin and Roger began shoving each other until punches were actually being thrown. Munda approached Nathan, weapon pointed at his head, not planning to shoot him… planning to pistol-whip him instead… but as he got closer, Olive unexpectedly launched herself at him, headfirst, knocking him over. Munda quickly rose to one knee, but Waltona, freshly galvanized, launched herself at him in the same fashion, knocking Munda over once again.

  While this was occurring, Clarke was attempting to screw a silencer onto his handgun, but Nathan was on the move. THUD! Nathan hit him savagely and decisively, knocking him comatose.

  And by the time Munda managed to regain his feet, Nathan had already been on the move for him as well. Munda fell awkwardly after Nathan hit him, completely out cold, his body continuing to twitch.

  Nathan turned for Colin and Roger, but they had disappeared, their skirmish spilling outside. He found Olive and untied her, leaving her to help her mother.

  By the time Nathan exited, Roger was standing out there alone, face bloodied, pointing in the direction of the lake. Colin and his briefcase were running scared. The general who no longer loved the war. Nathan nodded a thank you at Roger as he turned to see Colin leap into a boat and speed off.

  Nathan materialized on the dock moments later, hopping into a boat of his own, laying foam.

  It was rather cloudy and visibility was especially poor – and both boats were travelin’.

  Colin found a handgun tucked in the dashboard of his craft and started shooting wildly at Nathan.

  Ten shots.

  Each missing.

  And by the time Colin tossed the gun and refocused on what lay ahead, it was too late. His eyes widened as a protruding rock island came into focus. Colin cranked the wheel, sending his boat into a desperate tilt, causing the briefcase – and all that money – to slide into the water.

  Nathan’s boat was right behind him. Nathan quickly performed the mental arithmetic and decided to bail out, landing hard, disappearing under the surface of the water.

  Back at Colin’s house, Olive and her mother stood on the dock, peering into the darkness of the lake when they heard a pair of explosions, seconds apart.

  Two orange plumes filled the sky. Olive took Waltona in a tight embrace.

  Olive moped around on her mother’s farm, thoroughly depressed, carefully inspecting the wreckage that used to be her beloved geriatric baby. Cosmetically, the Gremlin was beyond repair. And then there was her mother’s barn, nearly completely destroyed, not to mention the crop duster. What a disastrous few days.

  Someone’s voice suddenly called out with a pssst sound. She spun to find Nathan toting his familiar duffel bag.

  “Holy crap, you’re alive?”

  “I like it that way. Are you hungry?”

  “I just ate.”

  “Let’s go have lunch anyway. I have something to show you.”

  Nathan and Olive sat at the same picnic table where Nathan initially approached Lidia. They were both eating something elaborate. As if they had managed to order takeout from a fancy restaurant. Nathan didn’t look too happy, however.

  “I’ll never order anything from this restaurant again.” Nathan declared.

  “You ordered steak tartare. That’s basically raw steak, what did you expect?”

  “For forty-five bucks, I expect better descriptions on the menu, kid.”

  “Okay, look. Just for the record, my name isn’t kid. It’s Olive.
Olive Beacon.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Olive Beacon.”

  “You want some of my salmon? It’s cooked.”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass. I’ll take one of your fries though.”

  “Take a few.”

  He did. And as he devoured a couple, Olive had to ask…

  “So, what did you want to show me?”

  Nathan extracted a black briefcase from his duffel bag and set it on the table.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Olive asked, astonished.

  “Payment for the crop duster, the barn… the odd dent on your car. Hopefully, there’s enough left over to fund some sort of independent movie.”

  “Are you saying this briefcase is still housing eleven million dollars?”

  “Not quite. You paid for lunch.”

  Nathan reached under the table and produced the thumb drive, which was glued there by a piece of spearmint gum all this time. He tossed it onto the briefcase.

  “Then there’s that. When you get to Hollywood, maybe you can get some computer wizard special effects guy to see if he can fix it. Water damage. Plus, I’m pretty sure I wrecked it further extracting data along the way.” Nathan said as he rose to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to quit smoking.”

  And with that, Nathan disappeared.

  Olive was hopping around, panicked, completely ablaze, her flare belt hissing red flames.

  Nathan tore off her belt, tossing it, taking her to the ground and smothering her to help extinguish her burning clothes. He found himself on top of her when it was over. Eye to eye. Except it wasn’t Nathan. It was Tom Cruise.

  “I think I just crapped my pants.”

  “Tell me about it. This could’ve gone down really bad.”

  Tom rose, regarding a pair of men laying face down, motionless. He mentally chose one of the men and began removing his trousers.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “I need a change of clothes.”

  “What? You mean you really…?”

  “Turn around. Give me some privacy.”

  Olive turned away, fighting not to chuckle.

  The frame suddenly froze to thunderous applause.

  Olive, a little older, a little sexier, donning a much more stylish hairdo, sat in a guest chair alongside a popular TV talk show host.

  “Great job.” the TV talk show host said, garnering even more applause from his live audience when he asked them to give it up even more for Olive.

  “Thank you.” Olive responded, smiling proudly.

  “Your film is breaking box office records, and you wrote, directed, and costarred. A first-timer. Unreal. How did you do it?”

  “I don’t think I slept for entire years. Check out these bags under my eyes. I’m only twenty-two.”

  “You look great. Tell me something. Cause I think everyone in town wants to know. How on Earth did you convince Tom Cruise to star in your movie for scale pay?”

  “I mailed him a nice letter asking if he wouldn’t mind helping me come up with a title for my script. I followed up by sending him one page per day until I’d sent him the entire thing, one hundred and five pages, I believe it was. When he knocked on my door on day one hundred and six wearing a custom made T-shirt that had Wicked Seeds emblazoned on it, I knew he was serious.”

  That was Olive’s cover story. In reality, she had ambushed Tom Cruise’s agent at a Hollywood function and offered him one million dollars in untraceable cryptocurrency if he agreed to get Tom to star in her project. They finally settled on one and a half million over a period of extended negotiation and it was worth every penny. Olive’s movie was now a huge hit and she was Hollywood’s newest starlet and a household name.

  “That’s incredible.” the talk show host responded.

  “Actually, Tom really appreciated the script’s message, how it brought awareness to GMOs in a fun, creative way. Young people, he thought, might finally begin to start questioning what they were eating. I’m really grateful for his help. And so is my mom, she’s in the audience. Hi, Mom.”

  A cameraman found Waltona sitting in the audience, beaming, as proud as a parent could possibly be. Unlike her cover story, everything Olive catalogued in her latest anecdote was true. And as the interview continued, the picture suddenly turned a little more grainy because it was no longer actually occurring live. Nathan was watching it on TV at an undisclosed location. Smiling. Proud of her.

  It was a much different story one year later in Olive’s psychologist’s office where she refused to sit, opting to pace back and forth instead, visibly agitated and distressed, dry-washing her hands, stealing glances out the window at a gaggle of paparazzi milling about and gathered in small groups down on the street below. They were omnipresent in her life now. Everywhere.

  And as disturbing as things were with the paparazzi, there were also the crazed fans and the hangers-on and the stalkers. If fame was a curse, this much fame was a scourge. She still loved the process of acting and creating, but not at this price. She wanted out. She wanted to disappear. Like Nathan.

  A clock chimed, indicating the session was over.

  “I’ll see you next week.” the psychologist said, which happened to be the only words he’d uttered in over forty minutes.

  Olive put on her disguise – a wig, large hat and sunglasses – which might’ve been enough to fool the tourists, but not enough to fool the people who made a living snapping photos of her. She exited, miserable.

  She wondered about Nathan on her way out, how he was, where he was, and how he managed to disappear so completely. She’d often searched for him online ever since she managed to rehabilitate his thumb drive. She even hired a private investigation firm once, but they found nothing and informed her that he either left the continent or was probably long ago dead. She didn’t believe it. It was at that moment that it suddenly dawned on her where to look. A long shot perhaps, but she decided to attempt it.

  The aircraft purchased to replace Waltona’s wrecked crop duster was a stylish beauty. New and sleek, it boasted sexy lines and was equipped with all the bells and whistles for that model year. It now sat idle in the forest clearing where Nathan landed the first time. Olive had been searching out the exact spot for a couple of hours from the air and she’d finally found it.

  She walked off in the direction in which Nathan disappeared, not exactly knowing what to look for. It’s the one thing Nathan was rather cryptic about during the campfire chat where he found himself explaining things to her, what was happening, who he was, what he was up to. He never really divulged what occurred during this particular leg of his journey, but he wept for some reason somewhere along the way, that much she was certain about.

  It crossed her mind that had she planned a little more sensibly, she would’ve set out in the morning instead of the early afternoon because the sun was about to set in a couple of hours and that didn’t leave much time. Of course, Nathan was only gone for an hour, max, so maybe she’d be just fine.

  It was no more than fifteen minutes before she happened upon the backwoodsman’s eerie, decaying cabin. Rupert, one of his ears standing at attention all of a sudden, leapt off the rickety porch in a full sprint toward her, barking and growling menacingly. She panicked, scaling a tree just in time to escape his snapping jaws.

  The backwoodsman materialized at his cabin door, shotgun in hand, cigarette dangling from his mouth, wondering what all the fuss was about. Olive called out to him, identifying herself, asking about Nathan, letting him know why she was there. When he didn’t respond, she apologized for accidentally trespassing and asked if he wouldn’t mind restraining his dog long enough for her to be on her way. The backwoodsman reentered his cabin instead, slamming the door shut. Rupert didn’t move, continuing to growl, his eyes burrowing into hers.

  By the time the morning sun threatened the eastern horizon, Rupert still hadn’t moved. Olive had called out for several hours overnight, desperate
ly pleading for help but none ever arrived. She finally fell asleep in an awkward position and was still sleeping as the backwoodsman stepped outside brandishing his shotgun. He lit a cigarette before loading a shell into his weapon.

  BOOM! The backwoodsman fired a shot into the air, startling Olive awake, causing her to lose her balance and tumble to the earth. She landed with a thud, Rupert immediately on her. Licking her face furiously. Tail wagging. He was just trying to be friendly all along.

  “I made eggs if you’re interested.” the backwoodsman announced before vanishing back into his cabin.

  Quail eggs have a larger yolk to white ratio than chicken eggs. They’re also much smaller and generally require about four eggs to equal the volume of one chicken egg. Other than that, they presumably taste pretty similar. Olive didn’t think so. She forced one sample bite from her eight boiled specimens and now fiddled with the rest as she took in the cabin interior’s décor and listened to the backwoodsman ramble on at length about the nuances of how quail eggs saved the lives of Revolutionary War soldiers during one particular battle.

  The bowels of the cabin were surprisingly spacious and tidy-clean, framed by a deluxe and very upscale wood stove. And yes, there was medical equipment neatly stowed about, but the dominating feature of the entire space was books. Hundreds, possibly thousands of them. Not strewn about haphazardly either, they were elegantly categorized and archived into built-in shelves along three of the four walls.

  “You’re not hungry?” the backwoodsman asked, interrupting his quail egg battle story.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m not a very, I’m not much of a morning eater.”

  “Nathan tells me you’re quite the famous Hollywood celebrity these days.”

  “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “He sends letters. I suppose he’s felt compelled to keep in touch ever since I saved his life. Personally, I wish he’d stop because he’s costing me money. I need to keep a P.O. Box explicitly to retrieve his missives, pick them up a couple, three times a year, whenever I go into town for supplies. Anyway, I’m glad he’s content and doing well now that he’s given up his profession to pursue a career in appealing to people’s better angels, whatever that means. He speaks highly of you, by the way, as if he were a proud family member.”