Seeders: A Novel

by A. J. Colucci

  The hallway swayed. Monica took careful steps so as not to fall over, while trying to remember which door was her bedroom. It was definitely by the stairs, just past the landing. The candle led the way as she patted the peeling wallpaper for support.

  She could see the flicker of another candle in the stairwell. Her steps slowed as she approached, squinting in the dark.

  “Iss-belle?” She craned her neck.

  Sean was sitting on the stairs, a candle by his side. His hair was soaking wet and he looked like a corpse with snow-white skin, blue lips, and pupils full and black. He was bare-chested, with dark stains down one arm.

  Monica snorted her disgust. He was staring at her legs, smirking, and she stumbled quickly to the door across from him.

  “Freak,” she muttered and shut the door behind her.

  It was even colder in the room but Monica was too drunk to care. She dropped the candle and the flame blew out as it struck the floor. She fell into bed and was asleep before her face hit the mattress.

  Rain splashed against the windowpane. The door opened with a sharp creak and candlelight danced into the room. A pair of feet padded across the wood floor and, as lightning struck, a shadow passed by the window.

  Monica rolled onto her back to take a breath. She smiled drunkenly, feeling Luke’s hands on her breasts again, straddling her like before. She opened her eyes into tiny slits to see a figure leaning over her.

  Cutting shears came down into her throat.

  Her head snapped back with a gasping breath. Eyes wide with terror, she tried to scream but her voice was no more than a gurgle. Her hands yearned to grasp her neck, stop the pain and rush of blood from her throat, but she was paralyzed.

  Sean squirmed onto her naked chest, holding her wrists above her head. He looked down, smiling, and the other hand pulled the shears out of her neck with a sloshing sound that sprayed them both with blood.

  He snorted with pride. He’d been smart this time. Monica could feel pain, but couldn’t move or make a sound. He could take his time with her and not worry about interruptions. He watched her struggle, while his hands wrapped around the bloody handle of the cutting shears so the blades opened and closed like tiny crab claws in front of her eyes. Sean leaned close to her ear so she could feel each hot breath pass his lips.

  “Snip, snip, snip, Monica.”

  * * *

  Isabelle had barely been able to turn the kitchen door handle. After running back from the shed, she had collapsed on the cold kitchen tiles, soaked in mud and the memories of Jules’s squirming body, and then curled up in the shadows and cried.

  That was hours ago and now she was asleep, slouched in the library chair with the rifle loosely in her lap. The downpour had become the soothing hypnotic sound of light rain.

  A crack of thunder startled her awake and she jolted upright, fumbling for the gun. A burst of lightning lit up the patio, blurry from raindrops that dripped down the windows. Isabelle froze in the chair, getting her bearings. She was still alone in the library. The house was quiet and morning was not far off. She could see the darkest blue in the sky where it had been black hours ago.

  Still, it was freezing cold and dark in the room. The fire in the hearth had died and she zipped her coat to her chin, thinking about Jules in the shed. How he sprang from the dark corner like a leopard. She needed more light, more heat. She picked up the last log and threw it onto the embers and the flames sprang to life, warming her hands.

  Lightning flashed and she turned to the windows.

  A loud bang hit the glass, and Isabelle gasped. For a split second, she saw the silhouette of a giant, his face glowing white and dark eyes staring at her.

  Isabelle pointed the rifle, but the figure was gone. She stood fixed as a statue, eyes wide, ice running through her veins. Thunder rumbled and the barrel shook in her grip.

  Crrrrkkkk!

  Jules crashed through the window with a heavy fuel tank over his head like a battering ram. The sky lit up brilliant white as shattered glass sprayed across the room, sparkling like confetti. Wind swept a frosty rain into the house.

  Jules lay on the floor, a table length away from Isabelle’s feet, but she couldn’t move.

  Please be dead.

  In the firelight, she could see the broken arrow in his back. He lifted his head and stared with black eyes, face tilted and smiling. With a broken nose and shards of glass in his mottled cheeks, he looked like a monster. Isabelle kept the shaking rifle pointed at his chest as he staggered to his feet and lurched sideways. She thought he might fall over, but then she saw the fuel tank in his hands, rising over his head.

  The gun went off as the tank flew toward her with mammoth force. Isabelle sidestepped but it caught her elbow, knocking the gun from her hands and crashing into the wall.

  Jules was thrown back as the bullet hit his shoulder, and he tripped on the broken window frame, stumbling backward onto the patio.

  Isabelle dropped to her hands and knees, patting the floor for the rifle. She could hear the sound of footsteps in the upstairs hall and someone shouting for her.

  By the time Luke reached the library, Jules was gone.

  CHAPTER 35

  A DUSKY TINT OF MORNING light crept over the library furniture and walls. There was a gaping hole where a window had been and wind blew rain across the rug. Luke stared dumbstruck at his mother, standing in front of the broken glass, rifle ready and pointed at the patio.

  “What the hell happened?” Luke asked.

  Isabelle turned to him slowly, with no expression as though walking in her sleep. Mist blew through her hair.

  “Mom,” he shouted and her eyes became alert.

  She looked around the room, rubbing her bruised elbow, and said, “We should go. Now.”

  Luke went to the window that had shattered from floor to ceiling, where remnants of glass hung like icicles. He squinted at the patio.

  Isabelle hurried to the hallway and up the stairs, calling for Sean. She reached his room and found it empty, and then doubled back and opened the door to Monica’s room.

  Her fist muffled a hideous cry.

  Monica lay on the bed in her panties, eyes wide and mouth gaped in an expression of agony. Blood had formed a dark clot from the deep puncture in her throat, where tiny pink bubbles gathered and popped. A trace of light from the window showed her body, white as snow, the bed soaked in red, and everywhere, from her forehead to the tips of her toes, were hundreds of ragged cuts, bloody slices an inch in width as though she were pelted with an absurd kind of shrapnel.

  The horror hit Isabelle like a grenade. She turned on feeble knees and took a step before doubling over. Nothing came up but dry, painful heaves.

  Luke was nearly at the door, calling for Monica. Isabelle gathered all her strength to push him into the hall, wiping her mouth and slamming the door behind her. She confronted him with a loud but shaky voice.

  “Go downstairs. There’s no one in their rooms.”

  He could see the truth in her expression.

  She tried to hold Luke back, grasping his shirt, but he was frantic.

  “Please, please,” she beseeched him, but her small frame was no match for his size and he shook her off, storming the room.

  Isabelle held her ears over the cries of her son. When she stepped into the room, he was pacing the floor, pulling his hair and yelling to the ceiling. He stopped long enough to heave out a thin stream of soup and alcohol in the corner of the room.

  Luke allowed Isabelle to lead him into the hallway, where she held his convulsing body and let him cry until there was nothing left but dazed shock, and they walked down the stairs together.

  Luke broke away in a full rage. “Beecher did this! He smashed the window, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, I mean…”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “I tried. I shot him. He might be dead.”

  “Well, you were too late.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Luke.”


  * * *

  A few minutes later they were in the office. Luke sat on a chair close to the fire. His burst of anger had been fleeting and now he looked dazed, staring at the flames in dead silence. His body shook so feverishly Isabelle could barely keep the blanket wrapped around him.

  She was worried. As long as Luke was in shock, he couldn’t help search for Sean and Ginny. He would have to stay in the house until they could all leave together. The fire was dying and she tossed in loose paper and wooden bookends from the shelf. Enough to keep him warm for a while.

  “I’m going to find your brother. Don’t leave this room, do you hear? You’re not to leave. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

  Luke fell into quiet sobs and she put her arms around his neck. The urge to stay and comfort her son was strong, but the instinct to save both her children was stronger.

  “If I’m not back in half an hour, get yourself to that boat. Try the radio, channel sixteen. Keep trying it.”

  He stared blankly at the fire until he heard his mother reloading the rifle. His voice was raspy. “What if he finds you?”

  “I’ll blow his head off.” Isabelle slipped a handful of bullets into her coat pocket.

  When Luke turned from the roaring blaze, she could sense his body was returning to normal. His expression of fear and shock had faded. Instead, she saw only anger.

  “I want to be there.” He stood and the blanket fell to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”

  * * *

  It was dawn and silver mist floated over the woods. Isabelle and Luke walked in silence. Cold drizzle was still coming down, but the muddy ground had begun to harden.

  Luke was agitated, and it wasn’t just the image of Monica. There was something on his mind that wouldn’t let go. He asked Isabelle, “When did you shoot Beecher?”

  “When he came through the window. I shot him in the shoulder.”

  “So how did he get upstairs? When did he have a chance—”

  “We’re almost there,” she said, stopping his thought. “Right through these pines.”

  The campsite was empty, destroyed by the storm. Jules’s chaotic mess of belongings was scattered on the ground covered in mud, along with branches taken down by the wind. Isabelle noticed the pallets of plants were missing.

  Luke walked across the wet ground, awed by the amount of fungus. “This stuff is everywhere.” He wandered over to the collapsed tent, sidestepping pieces of scrap metal and bits of broken glass. He turned back to the woods and stared between the trees. “Where do you think they’ve gone?”

  “Maybe they’re loading the boat.” Isabelle noticed the heavy drag marks of pallets and lines of a wheelbarrow leading to the woods.

  “Oh shit!” Luke shouted, staring at something behind the tent.

  Isabelle approached the area and saw a line of corpses lying chest-down in the dirt. Their bodies were flat and deflated in the center and their flesh was well preserved, mottled blue and hard as pottery. The heads were turned sideways and Isabelle could see their taut skin pulled back in a smile over protruding yellow teeth. She threw a hand to her mouth and unconsciously did a quick scan to make sure Sean was not among them. He wasn’t, and she stepped closer.

  Luke whispered, “Jesus. Where did they come from?”

  She shook her head.

  “You think George did this?”

  “No. He could never…” She moved closer. “They look so young.”

  Each of the skulls had been partially removed, so the brain was exposed. The frontal lobes were black and each body had a thick black stripe running down the spine. The lines branched out into patterns that ran down the arms and legs like spiderwebs.

  “What are those markings?” Luke asked, bending closer.

  Isabelle shook her head. Then she scrutinized one of the bodies and stepped back. “It’s the fungus.” She pondered the webbing across the back and extremities and realized there was a familiar pattern. It was as if the fungus were following the circulatory system. “Do you see the branching? It looks to be following their veins and arteries.”

  “No,” Luke said. “It’s concentrated at the brain and spine, but scarce at the heart and lungs. I’d say it’s following the nervous system.” He squatted on his heels and scanned the row of corpses. “There’s nine of them.”

  “Maybe more under the tent. Help me pull it back.” Together they lifted the canvas, heavy with rain and mud, and dragged it away from the bodies.

  Isabelle let out a cry of shock.

  Ginny lay on the ground, dead. She was resting on her side in the fetal position. She looked small and featherlight as a child in a wet blouse and pants, her chin raised too far back as if her neck were broken. Her skull had been split. Her left hand was slightly raised, and tangled in her bloody, clenched fist was a gold chain. At the end of the chain, a diamond lay in the dirt.

  Luke turned away and felt the last bit of acid rise to his throat. He’d already seen an image of the old woman dying, but reality was far worse. “Let’s go. Please.”

  Isabelle looked at the trees with a scornful expression.

  “Silent witnesses,” she whispered. “I wonder.”

  “Can we go?”

  “Yes.” She unconsciously rubbed her hands on her jacket, wiping away the foulness of the place. “We have to get off this island now. Let’s check the house once more for Sean and grab a few supplies.”

  “What if Jules already took the boat?”

  “That would be a good thing. But I’m pretty sure he hasn’t left the island.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we’re still alive.”

  * * *

  Sean was in the library when Isabelle and Luke returned to the house. He stood conspicuously in the middle of the room, whimpering, with a guilty expression on his face. Dark blood splattered his face and naked chest. It soaked his shorts and tennis shoes.

  Isabelle was speechless.

  Luke flew into a rage, shoving his brother against the wall of books. Sean caught his balance but didn’t fight back, even as Luke shoved him again and again, and an avalanche of books fell on top of them.

  “Stop it,” Isabelle shouted and pulled Luke by the arm.

  Sean sniffed and wiped his nose.

  Luke punched him in the jaw and he fell on the floor.

  “You killed her,” Luke yelled, pointing a hard finger. “You hated her and you killed her. That’s her blood on you.” He was crying. “That’s her blood!”

  Sean fled from the room, his legs flailing spastically, and Isabelle ran to Luke.

  He pushed her away. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “No, no, he didn’t do it.”

  “Then who did!”

  Isabelle reached the breaking point. “I don’t know! Oh God, I don’t know what’s happening, Luke. I don’t know what kind of evil’s taken hold of your brother or Jules or this island, but I do know Sean’s not a killer. Something’s controlling their minds. You saw Ginny dead before it happened. I saw my father jump off the cliffs yesterday. It’s not just Sean.”

  He shook his head.

  “We’ve got to keep it together, okay?”

  “How can we?” he replied. “Nothing makes sense anymore. It’s like Beecher was right. Maybe those plants are messing with our heads.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” she said. “Perhaps it’s the plants.”

  “You believe that? They want to kill us?” His eyes closed for a moment. “Monica said the same thing.”

  “It sounds crazy, I know, but what other explanation could there be? Plants have been evolving defenses against animals for millions of years. Maybe it has something to do with that fungus; somehow they can reach into our minds. I think it’s possible that they could have turned my father’s work, his lifelong dream, into a way of destroying us.”

  “He had no right to do that! I hate him.”

  “I know how you feel. But I don’t think he meant for this to happen. He paid for
that mistake with his life.”

  “Good.” Luke wiped his face and stared at her, helpless. “So what do they want? Dr. Beecher said they had a message.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but my father left a notebook, some kind of journal. Jules said it explained the whole experiment. There were maps showing a long trip George was planning to take. I think he was going to spread the fungus all over the world. Then at some point he realized they were controlling his mind, making him do unspeakable things, so he jumped off the cliffs to stop them.”

  “Idiot. That didn’t stop them at all. He should have called the police, or told that lawyer what was going on. I mean, he must have known other people would come here. You’d think he’d leave some kind of warning.”

  Isabelle’s eyes widened. She pressed a hand to her forehead and pulled the riddle from her back pocket. It was crumpled and damp. “Maybe he was trying to warn us. Give us some way to protect ourselves from the plants on the island.” She read from the paper. “‘Open The Book to find a link. The goddess Hanus, protector of all who think.’”

  Luke scoffed, looking at the books that fell on the floor and hundreds of others on the shelves. “There’s like two thousand books in this house.”

  Isabelle didn’t answer for a moment. Her gaze was cloudy and she was nodding. “No. There was only one book to him.”

  * * *

  Isabelle picked through the ruins in the lab until she found a thick book covered in brown leather. She carried the almanac on botany to the desk and spread it open. “To my father, this really was The Book.”

  It was an alphabetic listing of species and she flipped to H. Her finger slid down the pages of old-fashioned type and ink sketches.

  “Is there a species called Hanus?” Luke asked.

  She scanned the names with her finger and paused on Helianthus annuus. She whispered, “Hanus.”

  He watched a smile creep over his mother’s face, and said, “What?”

  She tapped the page hard. “The abbreviated genus is H. annuus, otherwise known as sunflower.”

  Luke nodded slowly. “West of the woods and east of High Peak.” He brightened. “The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.”