by Bryan Hall
Leon glanced to the other tall mounds of vine. They all resembled one another in shape and size, though he could see no flashes of light coming from them.
Leon set the coffee pot beside the fire and walked to the edge of the kudzu, surveying the ocean of giant green leaves. The plant’s sudden conquest of the field still made him nervous, but the unease was taking a backseat to his curiosity.
The most logical explanation was that somebody was hauling their junk cars to his field and leaving them for the elements.
It didn’t make sense for some local rednecks to decide that his field was a great spot for a goddamn junkyard, as far out from civilization as it was. But then again a lot of what the locals did didn’t make sense to him. Most of them still treated the forests as if they belonged to everyone, and for the most part Leon didn’t mind that attitude. The land was beautiful and unspoiled; if a camper pitched a tent in the field when Leon wasn’t using it, if a farmer wanted to cut the grass for hay, if a hunter wanted to try and bag a deer or turkey on his property, no big deal.
But leaving a bunch of rust buckets for him to deal with was a little much; the mere thought of it set Leon’s blood to boiling.
He had to investigate. As much as he hated to wade through the sea of kudzu, as nervous as the ferocity of the plant’s growth made him, he owned this land and he had to know what was being done to it when he wasn’t here.
And even if the mounds didn’t cover vehicles, he still felt he needed to know just what they were. Something metallic was beneath the vine; something that hadn’t been there during the family’s last camping trip.
His morning coffee temporarily forgotten, Leon stepped into the kudzu and headed towards the closest heap of kudzu.
Walking was difficult; the thick tangles of vine caught on his feet, wrapping around his ankles with each step. It took several minutes to cover the couple of hundred feet to the mound, a trip that would have normally taken a fourth of the time.
Leon reached the large heap of kudzu and studied it, unable to see beyond the emerald leaves aside from a small area near his knee that was more sparse than the rest; there he could make out a sliver of something metallic, and was sure that had been the source of the glimmer that had drawn him out into the field. Finally he thrust his hands into the mass, gripped fistfuls of the vine, and spread them apart, peering into the cavity he’d made. His assumption had proven to be true. The plant had completely devoured it, and although he could only see a few feet of the vehicle there was no mistaking the cherry red paint or the chrome bumper below. Someone had dumped a vehicle here--three of them according to the pair of similar mounds--but something about it wasn’t right.
The small area that Leon could see looked new. Too new to be a junk car. The red was vibrant and the chrome was still polished to a sheen, as if the kudzu had preserved a pristine vehicle within its green cocoon.
Leon wrestled with the kudzu, ripping it from the metal until he’d revealed the back half of a Ford pickup. It was new—definitely not something someone would just abandon for no reason. The bed of the truck held a five gallon gasoline jug, a pitchfork, and a few crushed beer cans. The license plate was still attached to the truck, not yet expired. Beside it a bumper sticker asked the question “If it’s called tourist season…why can’t we shoot ‘em?” At the sight of the sticker, Leon chuckled to himself. It was a common sentiment amongst the locals here, he knew. He was pretty sure he’d even seen the sticker before, on…
A chill swept over him as Leon realized that he recognized the truck.
He’d seen the sticker before, alright; on this very vehicle. It belonged to Bud Bowers, the man who, along with his son and brother in law, cut hay from this field twice a year. Leon had only met Bud twice, but he remembered the cherry-red truck and the anti-tourist sticker proudly displayed on the chrome bumper.
Leon glanced again to the other mounds of kudzu. A sick feeling trolled its way through his gut as he realized that if he investigated them, he would most likely find a farm tractor and another truck buried beneath the kudzu.
Fear gripped him like a vise, his head swimming as he fought off what he was sure was an oncoming panic attack. He knew he’d made a mistake, not listening to his gut instincts yesterday. As soon as he’d seen the kudzu he’d felt that something was wrong, now he knew he‘d been right. Between the plant and the abandoned truck, Leon knew that somewhere beneath this sea of tangled vine and deep green leaves were the bodies of Bud Bowers and his extended family members, overtaken by some unknown force…likely the same force that had birthed forth this ungodly plant. Now, like a damn fool, Leon had doomed his own family to the same fate as Bud.
Leon shook off the thoughts, focusing on his breathing and trying to calm himself. It seemed to take an eternity before he was able to ignore the terror that was assaulting him and concentrate on what to do. He could be wrong. He was letting fear get the better of him.
“We have to go.” He said to himself, barely able to hear the words over the pounding heartbeat drumming through his head.
He ran, or at least tried to. A half-dozen steps from the truck and the kudzu tangled around his ankles again and he slammed face first into the thick vine, cussing himself and the hellish plant
Pulling himself to his feet, Leon saw movement in the kudzu, a hundred or so feet to his right and halfway between him and the campsite. The green vines rustled slightly and then heaved upwards and back down, as if the plant were taking a deep, asthmatic breath.
Leon froze, his eyes staring at the kudzu. Nothing moved.
Roscoe? Leon said a silent prayer that it was the dog as he began to make his way back to the camp, trying to hurry but knowing that another attempt at running would result in a second fall into the kudzu. As he approached it, he scanned the campsite for any sign of the mutt. His mind had been sidetracked this morning, and he had completely forgotten about Roscoe. Normally the dog would be trotting around at his heels as he made coffee and breakfast, begging for a strip of bacon or a belly scratch. This morning he was nowhere to be seen.
As he waded back towards the camp, Leon whistled sharply and watched for the dog to come crashing from the kudzu.
Other than Leon, nothing moved.
Leon clucked his tongue rapidly and whistled again, but Roscoe was nowhere to be seen. Odds were he was off chasing a squirrel or rabbit; he may not have even returned from his pursuit of whatever he’d been after last night, for all Leon knew.
But even if that were true, it left an even bigger question. What the hell was underneath the kudzu that would make it move like that?
Groundhogs, raccoons, even Roscoe wasn’t large enough to make an entire section of the plant swell and recede the way it just had.
A deer, maybe? A black bear? Or something worse? Something that had killed Bud Bowers and his family and left their vehicles to be swallowed up by the kudzu?
Leon gave up on trying to call the dog and concentrated on getting out of the overgrown section of the field.
The sound of rustling vine sounded out again, forcing a glance back to the spot he’d just seen the movement. The kudzu heaved upwards again, but instead of receding it lurched forwards. Leon couldn’t see what was beneath the plant; the movement of the green leaves was his only clue as to where the thing was, the kudzu rising and falling like a mole trail as the thing barreled after him. .
He let out a short, terrified yelp and tried to pick up his pace. The thing was quicker, obviously unimpeded by the kudzu’s tangles.
Panic overtook him and he broke into a run, though it was cut short after only eight steps as he tripped again, pitching headlong into the plant.
As he pushed himself to his knees, a low rumbling sound came from the rustling kudzu and the vine gave way, splitting in half as large chunks of earth flew upwards as the creature charged out of the earth.
Leon froze, rooted to the ground, shocked at what he was seeing. He tried to run, but he couldn’t will his body into action. All he cou
ld do was stare.
A black, legless, thing slithered up from the kudzu, glistening in the sunlight. It looked almost exactly like a garden slug, only the size of a car. There were no eyes that Leon could see, only two small bumps on the top of the thing’s head. Beneath the bumps a toothless, gaping maw opened and closed like a fish’s mouth.
Something in the body of the thing moved, pressing outward from it. Leon recognized the slender snout of his missing dog, still alive and trying to push his way out of the hellish monstrosity's gelatinous body.
The thing was upon in him in an instant, working its mouth in silence as Leon disappeared into its belly, too horrified to even manage a scream.
***
Missy woke her mother with a gentle shake, whispering “Mom” as she did.
Gail opened her eyes and smiled at her daughter, angelic in the glow of the light coming through the camper windows. The sun was high, judging from the brightness and heat. Leon had let her sleep in, as usual.
“Hey baby,” Gail whispered back at Missy. “Good morning.”
“I’m hungry, Mom.”
Gail nodded. “Okay. Where’s Daddy?”
“Haven’t seen him. I looked out the windows, but you guys said not to go outside unless one of you could watch me.”
Such a good child, Gail thought. Most kids would have been out of the camper in a flash, yelling for their parents or just playing by themselves, throwing rocks in the creek or poking sticks into the fire. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Let’s go find him, then.” Gail said as she crossed the camper and slipped on her shoes. “Maybe he’s already got breakfast ready for you.”
Missy smiled up at her mom.
Gail returned the smile and opened the door and the two of them stepped out into the warm summer sun, ready for whatever the day held in store for them.
THE SWIM
It hadn't rained in almost three months and as far as Tim could remember, there hadn't been a cool breeze for at least that long. The last day of rain had been April fourth. He remembered the exact date because it had been his thirteenth birthday. The heat was like thick syrup that clung to everything. Even now, hidden from the sun as he and his brother rode their bikes through the shade of the tall pines on Cedar Plank Road, sweat poured in streams from his forehead.
"Where are we goin‘?" Jeff asked.
Tim shrugged. "I dunno."
Their parents were fighting again. It was a weekly ritual; the adults would get into an argument that would escalate into a screaming match, then Tim would be chartered to take his younger brother and go entertain themselves for a few hours.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, each swimming in their own thoughts.
Finally Jeff offered a suggestion. "We could go to the creek."
"Creek's almost dried up ‘cause of the drought, Jeff. It was barely deep enough to swim in anyways. Now it ain't more'n knee deep."
Jeff pursed his lips together in disappointment. "It'd be fun just to sit in it, I reckon."
Tim pressed the brakes on his bike quickly, the bike tire sliding through the gravel and sending up a little trail of dust that hung in the muggy air like a grimy curtain. He sat perched upon the bike, looking off the side of the road.
In the distance, a hundred yards away, was a small white farmhouse. A long driveway led from it, connecting with the road a few hundred feet from Tim and Jeff. A large field surrounded by forest stretched between them and the farmhouse, in the middle of it was a large pond fed by a small stream trickling out of the woods. The water glistened in the sun, reflecting the few cotton candy clouds clinging to the sky above.
The boys stared at the pond, hypnotized by its allure.
"Look," whispered Jeff. "It's Mr. Young."
A small, lithe man with a thick beard was making his way around from behind the house carrying a plastic gasoline jug in each hand. The boys watched as he made his way to a pickup truck in the driveway and tossed the jugs into the back of it, climbing into the cab and cranking up the vehicle.
Tim seldom saw Thomas Young. His dad went fishing with the man from time to time and Tim would see him around town on occasion, but considering that they lived only a mile from one another Thomas Young may as well have been a hermit.
The pond was a bigger mystery than its owner. On the one or two occasions that he had been in Mr. Young's company Tim remembered him telling his dad about the fish in he had stocked the pond with.
"They're damned huge, Jimmy. Must be the feed I'm givin' ‘em. Grass carp and bass. Long as your arm, I shit you not."
Mr. Young's voice was like a throat cancer survivor's, so deep and scratchy that even the mere recollection of it sent a shiver up Tim's spine.
"He's leaving." As Tim spoke the words a smile tickled the corners of his mouth.
"So?"
"So he's heading to the station for gas. That's a fifteen minute ride from here."
Jeff frowned, brow creasing with the dawning realization of what his older brother was thinking. "No way."
Tim shot an annoyed glance his brother. "That gives us thirty minutes, Jeff. Screw wading around in ankle deep creek water. We can swim . . . get outta the heat for a minute and really swim."
Jeff watched as Mr. Young's truck crept down the long driveway, shaking his head. "You know what they say about the pond, Tim. You know what Daddy says and what the kids at school say."
There were a lot of tales about Mr. Young, Tim had to give his brother at least that much. He lived alone in one of only five houses on the road, was hardly ever seen by any of the youngsters in town, and had a downright creepy voice. Those three things added together were beyond enough to give birth to rumors of devil worship, cannibalism, and more. And his pond, being only one of four in the entire county, had birthed forth its own legends.
It was fifty feet deep, swarming with snakes.
The fish in it were abnormally large and would happily eat your limbs from your body.
Mr. Young would immediately shoot and kill anyone fishing or swimming in it.
Tim ran all these rumors through his mind as he watched the old man's truck disappear into a thick curtain of dust as it moved down the road. He'd never heard of anyone actually getting eaten by monster fish or bitten by a snake while swimming in the pond-but then again he'd never heard of anyone brave enough to try their luck at sneaking into the pond.
"They're full of crap," Tim said flatly, nodding his head to remind himself that he was now too old for silly monster fish stories.
"But what about Daddy? He said stay away from it."
Dadhad told them that.
"I reckon Dad said that ‘cause he thinks we'll drown. I know how to swim. Besides, it can't be that deep," Tim said as he slung his leg over his bike and pushed it towards the side of the road. He let it fall onto the side of the road and slipped his t-shirt over his head, tossing it onto the bicycle as he kicked off his shoes.
Jeff shifted his weight to his other leg nervously, glancing down the road. The pickup truck was out of sight now, but the sound of the engine was still audible over the birds and cicadas.
"You coming?" Tim asked as he unbuttoned his jeans.
Jeff shook his head.
Tim sighed. "Well will you at least keep a watch for me?"
Silence as Jeff's eyes darted from the pond to his brother and back again. "After you do it can we go the creek?"
"Yeah. We can. Will you watch out for me?"
"I guess so," Jeff said.
"It's not a big deal," Tim said reassuringly, sensing his brother's unease. "Just keep an eye out for Mr. Young and anybody else. If you hear or see anybody just whistle at me or something." He had stripped down to his underwear, and was starting down the hill towards the pond. "I'm only gonna jump in for a second, swim across and back."
Jeff frowned. "Just hurry, okay?"
Tim half-jogged, half-leaped down the steep hill, landing in the field below with the surefootedness that only ca
ts and young boys are blessed with. He turned and grinned up at Jeff and gave him a thumbs up. "I will. Don't worry."
The tall grass whipped at his legs as he dashed across the field towards the pond, and he reached the water's edge quickly. He had planned on diving straight into the water, but thought better of it as he neared the pond and instead slowed himself and walked the last few steps before stopping at the edge. His eyes danced around the surface of the pond, trying to no avail to spot any of the snakes or fish of local legend.
Beneath the sky's reflection you could see the muddy bottom of the pond out for fifteen or twenty feet, before the water grew too deep to see through to the bottom. There were a few frogs and small minnows, some of the bugs that his Dad called water skippers, but otherwise Tim could see no life. Just to his left was the feed stream, although thanks to the drought it was now reduced to a small trickle of water; the pond itself was a foot lower than usual, judging from the exposed edges that had once been hidden by the water, now dry and baking in the sun.
After a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he could still see Jeff on the roadside Tim waded out into the water. Thanks to the June sun it wasn't as cool as he had hoped, but was still a welcome reprieve from the hellish heat he'd been enduring for months. The mud and algae crept between his toes and licked his ankles, feeling both foreign and wonderful. A moment later he was deep enough to lean forward and swim out into the water.
The water washed over his shoulders as he slowly swam across the water using a breaststroke so as not to splash or make much noise, enjoying the calm serenity that a solitary swim can bring. For a few moments he was alone in the world, wrapped in the cooling waters like a fetus still in the womb. Here and there he would glimpse a frog or large dragonfly in the corner of his eye, darting away from him as he invaded their world.
Near the center of the pond he felt something touch his foot. It was colder than the water, slimy and smooth. Tim's breath caught in his throat for a moment, but he didn't slow or speed up his pace.
