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

by Craig Wesley Wall

  Reaching up, Mr. Boyd grabbed the old beer from the bar, and sucked out the remaining foam. He crushed the empty can, launched it through the air into a trash bin in dire need of being emptied, and gazed at the stunned pair on the couch.

  He opened the fresh beer with a liquid pop and hiss. “Sit back and listen, boys. I'm gonna tell you a little story. This is very important, and whether you believe me or not, this is the honest truth.”

  17

  The year was 1836, and the battle against the Seminoles in Florida was at its bloodiest.

  Titus Boyd was just eighteen when he volunteered to fight for the Army, following in the footsteps of his older brother, George. “Pride for his country” was what Titus claimed to be his reason for joining, but the folks close to Titus knew he was seeking revenge for his brother's death; the fact that his brother had succumbed to malaria didn't seem to matter to the young man.

  Under the command of General Jesup, the Army was making progress in driving the Indians west toward surrender, or into the swamps of the extreme south of the territory; however, a few small bands of rogue Seminoles had managed to escape their lines, refusing surrender, wreaking havoc on forts and settlement outposts.

  Titus, chosen for his marksmanship and superior tracking skills, had been assigned to a small unit of twenty battle-hardened soldiers to hunt down these renegade fighters. Despite being the youngest and least experienced of the band of soldiers, Titus became an integral part of the tight-knit group quick enough, his mastery with a rifle and inane sense of humor the catalysts for his fast acceptance.

  For several days the unit tracked a particularly bothersome group of Indians deep into the Florida wilderness (not far from where Lewis sat on the sofa, absorbed in the tale rolling off the tongue of his beer-swilling neighbor—the great-great-grandson of Titus Boyd), the trail of destruction left in their wake making them easy to follow. When the team caught up with the marauding force of Seminoles just as the sun peeked above the horizon, they discovered an unexpected, grisly scene: a massacre of unparalleled depravity.

  The bodies were mutilated beyond recognition. If not for the clothing and weapons, the soldiers would’ve found it difficult to identify the corpses as Indian. Torn limbs were strewn among the carnage; flies swarmed, feeding on the drying blood covering the campsite. They counted roughly ten bodies, though it was hard to tell exactly; most of the disfigured dead were half-eaten and stacked on one another like refuse. The band of Seminoles they'd been tracking numbered approximately thirty men. The whereabouts of the remaining Indians was a mystery.

  Shocked by the hideous scene before them, the soldiers milled around the massacre, pondering what could have done something so horrendous. The Florida Black Bear and the Red Wolf both prowled these woods, but were not known to attack humans, and the unit agreed it couldn't be the work of any sane men. They could think of nothing that could slaughter and devour this many well-armed warriors. They simply stared at the desecrated flesh in puzzled horror.

  With their attention diverted, and the cacophonous hum of feeding insects filling their ears, the unit was caught off guard by the Seminole ambush. The mystery of the remaining Seminoles' whereabouts had been solved.

  The expressions on the Indians' faces as they attacked the unit were like nothing Titus had seen on a human before. He’d witnessed courage, fear, anger, and even hatred etched on the countenance of many men, but never this look of hunger, malice, and lust melded into one terrifying grin of pure evil, mirrored on the features of every attacking Seminole. The eyes of their assailants were the worst part: inhuman, diseased and bloody, gleaming with delight, a hideous yellow glow emanating from their core.

  The Indians attacked without weapons, slashing hands and crushing teeth their only offense. It proved to be enough. The brutality and surprise of the onslaught dispatched half of Titus’s team in a matter of seconds—dead, in shock, or too injured to fight. The men still able to engage in combat quickly learned that bullets and blades had little effect on the rampaging savages.

  Titus, however, managed to stop one of the ravenous men with his rifle, shooting the snarling maniac in the forehead. The crazed man slumped to the ground after his brains chased the bullet through the ragged opening in his skull. With no time to reload the rifle, Titus drew his pistol and shot another attacker in the temple at close range with similar gruesome results.

  Searching for another loaded weapon, Titus snatched a nearby pistol from the ground, only to find it already discharged. He holstered his pistol, stuffed the other in his boot, grabbed his rifle, and did what instinct instructed him to do—he ran. Titus fought his way through the violent chaos of the frenzied horde, using the butt of his rifle as a club, smashing the teeth from one smiling face. Somehow he managed to battle his way through the blinding smoke of discharged weapons and mist of spraying blood. He found the path that had led them to the ambush, incurring several gashes and scrapes from ripping fingers and teeth. His face and clothes spattered with the blood of his brothers, Titus darted down the trail.

  Bleeding from his wounds, his adrenaline running low, Titus tired quickly. He stopped and turned. None of his fellow soldiers followed; none of the enemy pursued. Titus could hear screams in the distance. Screams of excruciating pain. Screams of terrifying pleasure.

  Titus Cotton Boyd had not been raised a coward. With shaking hands sticky with blood, he managed to open the breach of his rifle and load the weapon. He took a deep breath and started back toward the screams when a voice called out from behind.

  “NO!”

  Titus stopped and spun to face the voice, rifle aimed and ready to fire. A young Seminole stood twenty feet away, his hands up, a rifle hanging off one shoulder.

  “Don't go. You will die,” the Indian said. His wide, pleading eyes stood out against the dark paint on his face.

  Titus—seeing that this man was not insane like the others, and could have shot him in the back if he had wanted to—lowered his rifle. “You speak English,” was all his shocked mind could muster.

  The screams in the distance stopped, unsettling silence taking their place. Titus could see fear creep into the Indian's eyes as the chilling hush fell.

  “Come. Please,” the man urged, gesturing for Titus to follow.

  Not having much choice, alone and confused, Titus followed the stranger, struggling to keep up with the man's quick strides. His eyes never left the Indian's back as he led Titus through the thick brush, the sun brightening as it burned off the morning clouds, revealing patches of beautiful blue sky. The stunning blue was transposed against the images replaying in Titus's mind: visions of his friends being butchered.

  They traveled this way for what seemed at least a mile, when the man stopped, held up his hands again, and gestured to a small dark opening in the dense brush.

  Titus, still not trusting the stranger, mimicked the gesture and said, “After you.”

  The Indian nodded once, pried the entrance wider, and walked through the opening in a low crouch, disappearing from sight. Now Titus wished he'd gone first, the image of his head being lopped off with a tomahawk as he entered, bent over, flashed in his mind. Titus looked around him at the quiet woods, and with reluctance, followed the Seminole.

  Once inside, Titus stood. He glanced around the small covered shelter, happy to still have a head to turn. The Indian motioned for him to sit, then rearranged the vines, sealing the opening.

  They were hidden under the thick branches of a large fallen oak, covered with full, luscious vines, concealed and camouflaged from outside view. Some branches had been removed, making the hollow larger. Small bones littered the area next to a smoldering fire pit.

  “You've been here awhile?” Titus asked.

  “Yes,” was all the man offered.

  Titus looked into the Indian's dark eyes, remembering the strange glow projecting from the eyes of the attackers, and relaxed a bit; this man was obviously scared, not a threat. The man was coated with blood and grime, marring
the large blue shirt hanging from his shoulders. A red cloth wrap, torn and filthy, covered his head. Long, coal-black hair cascaded from underneath the headgear. Despite the man's soiled appearance, he seemed healthy—wiry and strong. Titus decided his best tactic was to try to be amicable.

  “I'm Titus. What's your name?” he asked, his voice calm but his hands still shaking.

  “Chitto,” the man said, drinking from a small gourd, offering it to Titus.

  “Chitto,” Titus repeated, accepting the gourd and drinking from it. Warm, but refreshing water filled his mouth. He swallowed, sighed, and handed the gourd back to Chitto. “What the hell happened back there? What was wrong with those men? Are they the ones who slaughtered the other Indians?”

  The man stared at Titus, eyes wide with fear, and something else Titus could only perceive as shame. “We set her free,” Chitto said, and a single tear rolled down his face, cleaning a path through the grime caked to his cheeks.

  Titus waited for the man to continue, but his patience was gone. “Who? Who did you set free?”

  Chitto shook his head for what seemed like forever to Titus, before offering, “Her name is lost. No one has spoken it in a thousand years. She is the witch of these woods. She is the reason no man lives here. This place is evil. She is evil.”

  Confused, thinking this lone Indian must be in shock or suffering from an early stage of the mental illness infecting his fellow warriors, Titus scanned the area for a weapon just in case he had to defend himself, his rifle too cumbersome in the tight quarters.

  “What happened to your men?” Titus asked, spying a large rock within arm's length, just large enough to do damage. “Why are they acting so … deranged?”

  Chitto's eyes were threatening to spill more tears as anger replaced the fear and sadness. “Those are not my men. My men are all dead. They belong to her now. She controls their bodies and minds. She is angry. And she is hungry.”

  Titus stood to leave, inching closer to the rock. “You're crazy too. I think I’ll be going now.”

  Chitto raised his hands, motioning for him to stop. “No. Please. I will show you. Come.”

  The Indian stood, cleared the entrance, and stepped outside. Once again, Titus followed.

  The day was bright and warm now, the sky an expanse of perfect azure. Titus stared up at the sky, the dried blood on his face pulling his flesh taut. His wounds had stopped bleeding, and the meager drink of water seemed to have returned his strength. Maybe that was more than just water, he thought, stretching his limbs, recalling tales of the Seminoles' miracle herbs and potions.

  Chitto started off down the trail.

  “Where are we going?” Titus asked, his fragile trust in this man wavering with every moment.

  “Back,” Chitto said, pointing down the trail. “I will show you so you will understand. She will have some of your men now.”

  Chitto led Titus back toward the sight of the massacre, stopping several times to listen to the woods. Titus was unsettled by the strange silence, and for the first time noticed the absence of the turkey buzzards that were always present whenever something dead was close by. It was as if the woods were emptied of all living things except them—trespassers in the land of the dead.

  Titus followed the Indian like a shadow, keeping as quiet as possible, the slightest noise deafening in the silence. The trek back seemed longer than he remembered, and Titus was just beginning to think the Seminole was lost when Chitto dropped to a crouch and slowed to a crawl. Titus did the same. That's when the sounds came to him, faint but persistent, becoming clearer with every small step: grunts, growls, moans of rapturous bliss, and the unmistakable smacking and chewing sounds that accompany a grand feast. Chitto stopped behind a thick clump of palmettos. He turned and signaled for Titus to be silent, then pointed ahead through the dense brush.

  Following the man's finger, Titus couldn't believe what he saw. Some of his company still lived.

  Bewildered, Titus watched the bloodied soldiers milling amongst the equally blood-covered Seminoles. The sworn enemies wandered about like strangers at a party. They squatted on their haunches, retrieving objects from the ground, stuffing their mouths with the finds, tearing into them, chewing and growling. A group of men Titus knew well were on their hands and knees, bent over a slaughtered soldier. At first, Titus thought the men must be praying over their lost brother, then the truth registered like a slap to the face: the men were feasting on the body, dipping their red faces into the torn carcass like a pride of lions feeding on a downed wildebeest.

  Titus spied a soldier holding a dismembered hand, gnawing on the fingers, moaning with delight. Others consumed glistening organs like children at a birthday party devouring delicious wedges of cake. Titus started to stand, to ask his brothers why they were eating the dead bodies of his friends, his powers of reasoning replaced with complete shock. Chitto grabbed Titus by the shirt, forcing him down, jarring the stunned man back to Earth.

  Unable to protest, rendered mute from the sight of the macabre feast, Titus allowed Chitto to lead him back to the safe distance of his lair. The journey passed him in blurs of greens and browns, his mind unable to focus on anything, pulled the entire way by the wrist like a lost child.

  Titus regained the use of his voice when both men were secure beneath the cover of the fallen tree.

  “Oh my God,” Titus whispered, staring at the ground, sitting with legs akimbo. He raised his head and looked at Chitto standing above him, his sworn enemy, now his only companion in the forbidden woods. “What are we going to do?”

  “You believe what I have told you?”

  Titus held the Indian's gaze for a brief moment, then slowly nodded. As if snapping from a daze, Titus forced the slow nod into a furious shake. “No. You haven't told me anything. I don't know what's happening. Or what to do.”

  “We need to find the first and kill him,” Chitto stated in a calm voice. “Then, she will return to her world.”

  “Kill who? Return to where?” Titus asked, his confusion and frustration sending his voice up an octave.

  “The first man she claimed must be killed. Then the evil will be locked away again. I was not at the ritual. I did not want to have a part in it. I do not know who was the first.”

  Titus threw his hands up. “What. The hell. Are you talking about?”

  “They released her—the evil—to kill the white man. She will posses or slaughter anyone who dares to live here. They wanted to corrupt this land the white man has stolen.”

  “Stolen?” Titus said, standing. “This land was bought.”

  “Yes,” agreed Chitto. “Bought from those that did not have the right to sell.”

  Titus took a deep breath, calming himself, and sat back down. “Right. I get it. So, your men released her, this … evil, to ruin the land. If you can't have it, no one can. That about right?”

  “That was their thinking, yes.”

  Titus shook his head and grunted an exhausted laugh before saying, “Okay. Maybe you should just start at the beginning. I want to know what I'm up against here. I want to know what could possess my men to eat one another. What is this evil, and how do we stop it?

  Chitto nodded and sat down in front of Titus.

  This is the story he told him.

  The tree is her strength. Through the years men have tried to destroy it, but nothing worked. Neither fire nor ax could harm it. Men have tried to dig the tree from the Earth; the soil is harder than granite.

  Thick vines covered the ground around the tree, growing through the stony soil from its protected roots. The tendrils extended in a wide circle surrounding the base of the trunk, adorned with beautiful, plump red berries. These tempting berries are as deadly as they are lovely; anyone unfortunate enough to eat them would die an agonizing death.

  But death is not the end.

  The body of the poisoned soul would come back to life with an insatiable hunger—the hunger for blood, the temptress that resides in the tree now living in t
he body of the resurrected.

  Once set free in her new body, she would kill. On some victims she would feed, fulfilling her desire for flesh and blood. With others she would spare their bodies, force the poison fruit of her tree down the dead throat, and that one would rise as well—hungry. She would repeat this, gathering an army of undead bloodthirsty killers that she controlled.

  She is them. They are her.

  A local tribe that came under attack from these dead soldiers prevented a further outbreak of evil, killing every last demon, sending the witch back to her tree. But once again the tree could not be destroyed. Axes shattered on its dark skin, fire was absorbed, cast back upon them, encircling them in a ring of flames. They then burned only the vines and their deadly berries, merely to find them back the following morning, healthy and succulent.

  The tribe’s medicine man implemented a spell to create a barrier around the tree, a spell often used to protect the village from outsiders—from enemies. Fear would fill the heart of anyone who entered this ring of magic, sending them the opposite direction, keeping them from the harmful berries. Next, the medicine man once again had the vines burned, salted the scorched ground, and covered the blackened ring with the white sand from his ancestors sacred burial ground. He prayed for the spirits of his people residing in this consecrated sand to keep the poisonous fruit at bay.

  For days the old medicine man visited the circle of white sand alone, chanting his incantations at the edge of the clearing, beseeching the spirits for their help. The vines did not return. The berries did not grow. It seemed his prayers had been answered.

  Or so he believed.

  The shaman enlisted the aid of an elder tribesman, a great tracker and hunter, to find the clearing and tree. This man had been to the tree before, assisting in the torching of the vines, and spreading of the sacred sand. The great hunter returned defeated, ashamed, failing the old man’s request.