Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1)

by Craig Wesley Wall

  The nose had a comfortable capacity of one; just the way Lewis liked it. He considered himself a loner, not into the team sports like the one he currently watched from his favorite post.

  Peering through the metal bars making up the exoskeleton of his ship, Lewis imagined the red clay of the baseball diamond to be the surface of Mars. The players—in their bright red and yellow uniforms, hats and batting helmets—were the Martians. With the ship's massive laser cannon, Lewis sighted a Martian in the on-deck circle swinging an aluminum bat—otherwise known as an alien death wand.

  “Die, Martian scum,” Lewis said, mimicking a laser blast and explosion followed by a rattling death scream.

  The scene before him became an ordinary baseball game once again as a sudden violent shaking of the rocket slide snapped Lewis back to reality.

  Like noxious fumes, devious laughter floated up to Lewis. His heart wiggled into his throat when he recognized the sinister laughs—the Reed twins. They had Lewis trapped like the proverbial cat up a tree.

  The twins shook the rocket harder now. Sure the structure would topple, Lewis clutched the bars and prayed his ship would hold fast to the ground.

  An unfamiliar voice shouted above the twins’ laughter. “Hey!”

  The rocket stopped swaying, but Lewis's white-knuckle grip on the bars remained.

  “What do you want?” one of the twins asked. Lewis thought it must’ve been Andy, since he seemed to speak for the pair most of the time.

  Lewis could see the source of the unknown voice now. A small kid stood on the sidewalk, waving his hand in greeting to the unseen twins below, a silly smirk stretched across his tan face. The kid made eye contact with Lewis and gave a single, quick nod. Lewis recognized him; the new kid in class. He’d started school last week. Lewis tried to remember his name, Clayton? … No … Clinton? Yeah that was it, Clinton.

  “Just wanted to see if I could buy some potato chips from you guys,” Clinton said.

  A long pause followed as the moronic duo analyzed the odd request. Lewis could picture the twins exchanging confused looks, much like the one he felt scrunched on his own face.

  “What?” Andy asked.

  “Oh, I heard some old guys talkin’, they said that your mom sells Lays on the corner,” Clinton said in an innocent tone, then added, “for cheap.”

  Lewis gasped, held the breath, shut his eyes, and waited for the sounds of murder to ensue.

  Another long pause came instead, as the idiot brothers absorbed the punch line. Then the slapping of several sneakers hitting pavement broke the silence. Lewis could see Clinton running, his face up and fists punching the air next to his ears, speeding down the sidewalk leading to the other baseball diamond; the brothers pursued, lumbering after the boy like crazed apes.

  Lewis watched the chase from the safety of his nest until all three boys disappeared around a bend, obscured by the tall pine trees. Recognizing his deliverance, he descended the ladder, his unfailing imagination evoking a calm female voice in his head, This rocket will self-destruct in T-minus twenty seconds and counting.

  Lewis reached the second level of the rocket and dove face first down the slide, belly-flopping in the cool sand at the bottom.

  Fourteen—

  Thirteen—

  Twelve—

  He scrambled to his feet, stumbling in the sand as he tried to reach the escape pod—his bike.

  He freed the escape pod from the bike rack and jumped on, pushing the sluggish pedals with all his weight.

  Seven—

  Six—

  Five—

  Lewis gained speed as his legs pumped faster, the tires buzzing on the fresh paved bike path, praying he was a safe distance from the ship.

  Two—

  One—

  Zero.

  Lewis kept his eyes forward as the rocket exploded behind him, sending flames and metal debris high into the air. He bent over his handlebars and pedaled home as fast as he could, feeling lucky to have escaped with his life.

  The following day, Lewis sat in homeroom, glancing toward the open door every time a student entered the classroom, then back to the large clock on the wall, eager for Clinton to show. The tardy bell would blare out any second, and Clinton was still absent, causing Lewis to wonder if the boy had survived the incident. He’d never heard anyone talk to the twins like that before.

  Clinton sauntered into the room, hung his backpack on the back of his chair, and plopped down in his seat just as the shrill ringing of the tardy bell reverberated throughout the halls, as if he had planned the perfectly-timed entrance.

  Not realizing he’d been holding his breath, Lewis exhaled, relieved to see the boy walking and breathing. Lewis wasn't surprised by the boy's appearance, but the rest of the class whispered and pointed, stealing glances. Clinton's right eye squinted through a bruised and swollen sunset—the classic shiner. His upper lip protruded, scabbed and puffy. A large band-aid clung like a leech to the bottom of his chin. He held his head high and focused on the teacher at the front of the classroom—nothing out of the ordinary.

  Clinton made eye contact with Lewis and flashed him a half-grin, his hand reaching up to touch his crusty lip. Embarrassed, Lewis nodded, and offered the boy a timid wave.

  After class, Lewis approached his battered savior. “Hey. Thanks for what you did yesterday. I'm Lewis.”

  Lewis held out his hand to shake. Clinton grabbed the hand and shook it like the older, cool kids shake. “Clinton. Not a prob.”

  Lewis felt the grating scabs on Clinton's knuckles and let go, pushing his hands into his jean pockets.

  “They messed you up some, huh?” Lewis murmured.

  “Nah, it's not that bad. I got some good shots in, kicked one of them in the balls and got away from 'em.” Clinton laughed, touching his lip gingerly, his laugh switching to a low moan.

  “Did you get in trouble?” Lewis asked.

  Clinton shook his head. “Told my mom I fell off my bike.”

  Lewis giggled. He’d used that same lie before on his own mother.

  “Who are those meat-heads anyways?” Clinton asked.

  “Andy and Jason, the Reed twins. They're always looking to beat me up. I can't stand those jerks.”

  “You should call them the Twins from Hell,” Clinton suggested, and the boys shared a laugh.

  From that moment on, Lewis and Clinton had been best friends.

  Little did Lewis know—sitting at the table, enjoying his supper on the first night of summer—that in less than two days, something would awaken in his woods.

  Something much worse than the annoying brothers.

  Something that made Andy and Jason Reed, the dreaded Twins from Hell, seem like a couple of harmless choirboys.

  5

  After he finished supper, Lewis helped his mother with the dishes; he dried while she washed. Lewis treasured this ceremonial chore with his mom, talking to her about the day's events—omitting the bike ramp and Justin's crash, of course—feeling closer to her during the menial task than any other time.

  Feeling something soft bump his leg, Lewis glanced down. Stretch, his sleek gray cat, stared up at him with his big green eyes. The cat stood on his hind legs, reaching up Lewis's leg as far as he could, performing his eponymous move with a soft meow.

  “Can Stretch sleep in my room tonight?” Lewis asked his mother, knowing what the answer would be if his father was home.

  “I guess so. Just don't tell your father, you know how he doesn't like him in the house.”

  Thanking his mother, Lewis trotted off to get ready for bed, the silken feline his meowing shadow.

  After reading some comics, Lewis double-checked the list of potential warriors he and Clinton were planning to recruit tomorrow. The list was just a formality since all the kids on the roster already knew about and were ready for the war scheduled to take place Wednesday afternoon. Satisfied all names were present, Lewis filed the sheet of paper with the title, THE GREAT SWAMP POTATO WAR of 1982, in
his nightstand drawer, and decided to get some sleep. Stretch loosed a shrill meow and darted out the open door when Lewis turned off the bedroom light. He figured the cat must be too excited about being inside the house to go to bed just yet.

  Before hopping into bed, Lewis flips on his Creature from the Black Lagoon nightlight, and walks across the darkened room to look out his bedroom window facing his street and the home of Old Man Boyd across the way. He stares out the window, focusing on three bushes dominating the lawn across the street, and then shuts his eyes, standing in silence for several seconds. This is a rite Lewis performs almost every night, a ceremony he secretly refers to as The Ritual of the Shrubs. Nobody, not even Clinton, knows of the bizarre nocturnal act.

  Opening his eyes, Lewis once again focuses on the three tall, skinny shrubs on the old man's front lawn, silhouetted by the bright porch light behind them. He quickly ducks down out of sight. His cheek to the cool wood panel wall, Lewis senses the sentinel bushes changing shape in the shadows, their forms morphing into something horrific, their leaves and branches swishing and snapping as they alter their benign state, their daytime façade crumbling away to show their disguised hideousness—their nocturnal identities.

  Tonight, Lewis imagines the three bushes are rotting zombies in search of human flesh. He can hear the hungry moans from the trio of undead as they search the empty street with maggot-filled eyes. He can hear the shuffling of their burial shoes across grass, asphalt, and the grass of his own front lawn as they lumber across the street en route to his open window, smelling the fresh young meat hiding there.

  With a look of mock terror, Lewis stares up at the dark square of his window, waiting for their pale, decomposing faces to come into view, pressing against the screen, their black teeth gnashing at the flimsy barrier.

  Lewis rises to face the monsters, his right hand becoming a pistol, and giggles at the sight of the three harmless shrubs standing guard on the lawn across the dark street. He calmly shoots all three bushes in the head, closing one eye for perfect aim. Smiling, Lewis dives into the safety of the bottom bunk—he had a fear of falling off the top bunk—and falls asleep in a matter of minutes.

  The following morning, Lewis had just finished his breakfast when the familiar 'shave and a haircut' knock rapped at the front door. He jumped out of his chair, ran to the door, tapped out his 'two bits' from his side, and flung it open to Clinton's smiling face. Together, the boys rode off to recruit the cannon fodder needed for their private war.

  Last year, in the fifth grade, while painting portraits of dead presidents and other historic figures, Lewis and Clinton concocted The Swamp Potato War. Like most great ideas, it fell into their laps, a gift from the ether.

  On that day, Lewis met Clinton and Justin at their house before school. He met them at their house every school day (he had to pass it anyway on his route to the only bus stop in the neighborhood). As always, the brothers were waiting for Lewis on the front porch. When he marched up that particular morning, cradling a bundle of bright wildflowers, Clinton and Justin exploded into mocking laughter.

  Clinton's falsetto voice rang out from the porch above Justin’s high-pitched giggles, “Oh Lewis, you shouldn't have.”

  Lewis shook his head. “Shut up. Where's yours?”

  “Where's my what?” Clinton asked, his smile straightening into a tight line.

  “Your plant? For the science report?”

  Clinton slapped his hands to his head. “Oh shit. I totally forgot.”

  The assignment had been to bring an indigenous plant or flower, write a short report about it, and read the report to the class.

  Now it was Lewis's turn to laugh. “You're screwed, man. Mr. Jackson is so gonna call your folks.”

  As if shaking off a giant spider, Clinton shed his backpack. He took off running, vaulting the fence to his backyard, disappearing behind his house. Rustling noises and disembodied curses filled the air, followed by a triumphant hoot of joy. He appeared on the opposite side of the house, dirt smeared across his blue t-shirt, clutching something in his fist, the grin pasted on his face again.

  “Who's screwed now?” Clinton said, holding the vines high in the air, sprinkling dirt into his blonde hair. Pale, bumpy spheres hung from the vines like giant spider egg sacs.

  Lewis recognized the creepers and their clinging lumps straight away. “Swamp potatoes? You serious? What about the report?”

  Shrugging, Clinton boasted, “No prob. I'll do it on the bus.”

  Later, in front of the class, Clinton concluded his brief report on the amazing swamp potato and its many uses, bowed to his fellow students, and turned, beaming at the teacher sitting behind the gargantuan wooden desk.

  Mr. Jackson removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, releasing a mournful sigh. He returned the thick black frames to his nose and leaned back; the spring on the old chair popped and groaned as he spun to face Clinton. “Not bad, Clinton. Not bad for a report you obviously wrote on the bus ride to school. However, what you hold in your hand, what you refer to as swamp potatoes, are actually called air potatoes.”

  Clinton's smile once again dropped from his face. “Air potatoes?”

  “Yes,” the teacher continued, pointing to the vines in Clinton's grip, a scowl of disdain warping his features. “That is the scourge of the Florida wilderness. A foreign vine introduced from overseas. Non-indigenous, in other words. It has obliterated the native plants and trees of our state’s ecosystem, invading and killing anything in its path. Every time you throw one—which, by the way, cannot be classified as a use—you are helping to spread this invasion. Please do everyone a favor, young man, and throw those in the trash on the way back to your seat.”

  Clinton dropped the potatoes into the trashcan with a resounding hollow thunk, and plopped down into his chair, huffing a sigh of failure.

  “Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” Lewis whispered from the seat next to Clinton.

  “Shut up,” Clinton hissed.

  Lewis, still giggling and badgering Clinton about the failed impromptu report, took his assigned seat for their next class, Social Studies.

  Mrs. Headley—Lewis’s favorite teacher and secret crush—scribbled on the blackboard, the chalk tapping and sliding across the dark surface with speed and grace, small flecks of white falling like snowflakes from the words, drifting down to the ancient carpet. She finished writing and underlined two words with bold strokes of chalk, turned, and spoke the words out loud, “Warfield Woods … Who here has ever heard of Warfield Woods?”

  Not a soul raised a hand. Students glanced around the room to see if anyone knew the answer. No one did.

  Mrs. Headley nodded, a look of shame on her face. “That was once the local name of the woods that surround Hopkinsville, especially the area around Poisonwood Estates where a few of you live.” Her eyes met Lewis’s as she said this, causing his cheeks to burn; he thought she easily beat out any of Charlie’s Angels in the looks department. “Now,” she continued, “everyone just refers to them simply as ‘The Woods’. But they were called Warfield Woods for good reason. Because there were actual wars fought there just a little over a century ago. Men, possibly your ancestors, killed and died in these woods, on this very soil, to have what you and your families have today.”

  Lewis paid more attention than ever before, even going as far as to take notes, something he seldom did. He clung to the teacher's every word as she taught the class about the Seminole Indians and their wars with the United States Army for the control of Florida. How they fought three wars in total, against all odds, and were never truly defeated. She explained the broken promises given to the Seminole leaders, and the eventual forced exodus of the tribes from their native homes. Lewis couldn't believe all this had happened right here in his own backyard—in his woods.

  The large clock on the wall above the teacher went unnoticed for a change, and when the dismissal bell rang out, Lewis jumped in his seat. He blinked several times, focusing on the round clock, thinking the bell
must have malfunctioned, but the hands didn't lie. Everyone remained in his or her seats, waiting for the teacher to finish. “Remember class, just because a name of a place is forgotten does not mean the events that took place there need to be forgotten as well. Dismissed.”

  “Clinton Marsh, please stay after,” Mrs. Headley announced above the murmur of students filing toward the door.

  A chorus of oohs filled the classroom as Clinton trudged his way to the teacher's desk. Lewis waited by the exit, curious as to what his friend had done this time.

  Mrs. Headley must have sensed Clinton's tension. “You're not in any trouble, Clinton. I just wondered if you were still interested in re-painting the columns.”

  Relieved, Clinton remembered her request from last week and answered quickly, “Yeah … Yes ma'am.”

  Well known for his artistic abilities, Clinton often found himself in trouble for drawing during class, but the teachers couldn't help admiring his creativity and talent. Lewis always looked forward to reading the short comics Clinton created, and marveled at how well his friend could draw.

  “Good. I'll tell your Phys Ed coach where you'll be.”

  Clinton spied Lewis by the door and had an idea. “Mrs. Headley? Can Lewis help? It'll get done a lot faster if he does.”

  She looked at Lewis and flashed him a conspiratorial smile. His burning cheeks were now upgraded to a four-alarm blaze. “Sure. I'll tell the coach.”

  The columns were in the middle of the school, in the central hub, where the hallways converged like the spokes of a wagon wheel under the large bubble of an opaque white skylight. Each square column had a life-size painting of an historical figure on each side. Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Martin Luther King Jr., and several others the boys didn't even recognize graced the uprights. There were four columns total, giving the boys sixteen different paintings to touch up. The elements and the passing of small hands had worn away the details over the years.

  The boys came up with the idea of the war while they painted.