Monsterland

by Michael Phillip Cash

  MONSTERLAND

  MICHAEL PHILLIP CASH

  © 2015 Michael Phillip Cash

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1517180678

  ISBN 13: 9781517180676

  For my monster movie companion: Eric

  Courage is being scared to death…and saddling up anyway.

  John Wayne

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  The Everglades

  The sky was a sparkling, powder blue, mosquitoes droned lazily over the tepid water, frogs croaked messages while they sunbathed on waxy lily pads. The fire he created burned bright, rabbit roasting on a spit made from hickory, the juices dripping to hiss in the flames. Seven of them lay in scattered repose, enjoying the late afternoon lull—two napped, the others tossed a stuffed fur in the form of a ball around the clearing, hooting with amusement when it rolled into the brush. They traveled in a pack, his group, his makeshift family, foraging together, hiding in plain sight. It had been that way for generations. But the glades were getting smaller, the humans invasive.

  The sun started its slow descent into the horizon, hot pink and lilac clouds rippling against the empty canvas of the sky. Their color deepened as the sky filled, the rosy hue morphing into a burnt orange as the sun hid behind the condensation. The air thickened, moisture causing the leaves to lie heavily against the branches. Here and there, fireflies lit the gloom, doing a placid ballet in the humid air. The men moved closer as the sun sank into the western treetops, the fading sky promising another clear day tomorrow in the Everglades despite the moving ceiling of clouds.

  A lone hawk cried out, disturbing the peace of the glade. Huge birds answered, flapping their wings, creating a cacophony of swamp sounds. The area became a concerto of animals responding to the disruption of their home—wild screams, squeaks, and complaints of the invasion of their territory.

  The lead male stood, his head tilted. He heard it again. It was music, the strange organization of sounds, predictable as well as dangerous. Where those rhythms originated meant only one thing—they were not alone. They all rose, tense and alert, searching the waterway. Billy pointed, his dirty hands silently parting an outcropping of trees to expose a flat-bottom boat with strangers floating slowly toward them. It was filled with people, excitedly searching the banks of the swamp, their expensive khaki bush clothes ringed with sweat. Many held huge cameras. It was obviously a film crew, invasive, nosy individuals looking for something, anything, to enhance their lives. Men’s voices drifted on the turgid air. Billy stood, sniffing, his mates following suit. He glanced at the sky, gauging the time, his eyes opening wide. It was late. The bald top of the moon peeked over the ridge in the south, the sky graying to twilight with each passing second. Night came fast and furious in the swamp, dropping a curtain of darkness, extinguishing all light except for the beacon of the full moon. That chalk-white orb floated upward, indifferent to the consequences of its innocent victims. A halo of lighter blue surrounded the globe, limning the trees silver, the cobwebs in the trees becoming chains of dripping diamonds in the coming night.

  What were the interlopers doing here? Billy thought furiously. This was their territory. The humans didn’t belong in the swamp. The moon continued its trip to the heavens, the familiar agony beginning in his chest. Billy fought the demons churning within his body, feeling the pain of metamorphosis. He curled inward, hunching his shoulders, the curse of his nature making his spine pull until his tendons and muscles tore from their human positions to transform into something wicked. A howl erupted from his throat, followed by another, and then another. Grabbing handfuls of dirt, he tried to fight the awful change, but, as the sun dipped to its fiery death, the moon took control of his life, and the unnatural force tore through his unwilling body. Reason fled; his heart raced. Falling on his hands and knees, he let loose a keening cry as his face elongated, his body changing into a canine, fangs filling his mouth. He raced in a circle in a demented dance, knowing his fellow pack members did the same thing. Slowing, he regulated his labored breathing, forcing the icy calmness he needed to keep some semblance of reason. He peered through the dense brush. Lights from the search party bobbed in the distance. The odor, the stench of humanity, filled the clearing.

  He turned, digging furiously on the ground, throwing dirt on the flames, hiding their existence. It was no good. Discovery would ruin everything. No one could live with their kind. Humans brought disease, humans brought anger, humans brought hatred. They were there; he could smell them, see their clumsy bodies invading his home. “They’ve found us,” he growled in the special language they used. “Run!” he barked as he turned to his pack, watching his friends’ naked skin transform until it was covered with the same silvered fur. They cried out in unison at the pain, howling with the injustice, and then ran in fear from the interlopers threatening their habitat.

  CHAPTER 2

  Copper Valley—the Badlands in California

  The house was little more than a bungalow, with a screen porch that doubled as a den in the summer. Carter had his feet on a ratty old ottoman, his large frame sprawled on the flowered couch he inherited from his aunt Agnes when she died. They had blended all their furniture when they married, Gracie and he. Admittedly, it wasn’t much, but with her two monsters, it didn’t pay to have new furnishings. Maybe monsters was a tad too extreme, Carter admitted. Josh was a handful, but Wyatt was a good kid. They were Gracie’s kids—Josh was fourteen, and Wyatt was turning eighteen this spring, right before graduation, which was five weeks away. They had been together for two years, meeting a year after Gracie’s divorce when she moved back to Copper Valley and into her folks’ old place. They finally tied the knot early this past September, and six months later they got word that Gracie’s ex, Jack, had died suddenly while on a job.

  Josh burst through the screen door, practically ripping it off its hinges.

  “Hey!” Carter shouted in his best highway patrol voice. “Take it easy.”

  Josh paused, breathing hard, his feet encased in the reddish mud of the high desert, his tennis shoes stained as if he just left a crime scene.

  “Your mom’s gonna kill you.” Carter looked down at his stepson’s feet. “Don’t track that stuff in here.”

  Josh threw his knapsack on the faded couch and then ripped off his shirt to wipe down the white leather of his sneakers. “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Hey, now.” Carter lowered the sound on the television, his news program forgotten. He gave the youngster an arch look. “You running in the wash again?” The wash was a gully that ran parallel to the school, and he’d been warned many times not to walk there. It was filled with snakes and other unfriendly wildlife. Nobody knew the wash as well as his stepson. He loved hiking there, despite the fact Carter had warned him not to. Gracie was too lenient, and he was in that cloudy area when it came to parenting. The boy’s father had died a few months ago, so he found his disciplining methods meeting head on with the �
��you’re not my father” comment. They were still working on his role in the kids’ lives. While they seemed to like him well enough, hit the hoops and watched football with him, they kindly rejected his offer to call him Dad, and, more often than not, he was made to feel unwelcome in their tight trio. He put that down to their closeness after the abusive relationship they’d had with their father. Jack Baldwin was a creep, a lying, low-down, crooked lawyer who liked to torment Gracie and make the kids choose sides. He pushed them away with his single-minded ambition cloaked in concern for the well-being of his family. He’d left them high and dry, with Carter’s civil servant salary and Gracie’s teaching job supporting them. He donated all of his money to some hole-in-the-wall charity…well, none of that mattered now, Carter thought. He had it under control. Still, when Jack crooked his finger, the kids ran to see him. But now he was gone, and somehow it ruined the peace of their home. Carter couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it was true.

  “Nah…um no. I—” Josh’s reply was cut off by pounding footsteps. Josh spun quickly, latching the flimsy screen door, and then burst out laughing. Wyatt slammed his fist against the chipped green paint of the door.

  “Josh!” he shouted, his eyes silvered with anger. “Josh, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Carter unfolded himself from his comfortable spot, his huge form filling the crowded room. “Did some damage, Josh?” he asked quietly.

  Josh shrugged indifferently, bolting when Carter motioned for him to leave with a slight nod.

  Carter unlatched and then caught the abused screen door as Wyatt yanked it open. “Hard day?”

  “Where is he? I’m gonna rip the little bastard apart.” Wyatt drew his breath in great gulping sobs. A crumpled piece of paper was fisted in his hand.

  “I have it on the best authority that your parents were well and truly married when Josh entered this world. Little brothers are the devil. Sit down and cool off.”

  Wyatt pushed forward, but the large, warm hand on his shoulder slowed him down. He saw Carter’s gentle brown eyes look pointedly at the sofa, his eyebrows raised in silent question. Wyatt ungraciously threw himself onto the sagging pillows, releasing a cloud of ever-present dust.

  They sat in silence, Carter relaxing back in his spot, the television droning on. Carter watched his stepson struggle to calm himself. It was plain that he was livid, filled with fury. He saw Wyatt squeeze a piece of paper in his hand into a tight ball, allowing the edges to cut into his palm. Wyatt’s foot jiggled with impatience. He had tried hard to find a common ground, but, other than basketball and the new theme park, Carter had very little to connect with Wyatt about. He tried to take him shooting in the desert, but Wyatt called it a mindless activity, and that was the end of that. Wyatt had a problem with the loudness of the guns. He would watch his stepson flinch. The noise never bothered Josh, the more rascally of the two. He knew that while Josh loved the loud report of the guns, Wyatt seemed afraid of the noise. They lived in careful respect; he knew Wyatt was heartily disappointed that he was not going away to college in the fall. They were cramped in the old house, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances. Jack left them no estate, even though Gracie was sure he had buckets of money. The lawyer said it was gone, eaten up by their costly divorce, and the balance given to charity. No way to treat a family, in Carter’s opinion. Hell, he gave up his bike to help get Wyatt his first car. It was a jalopy, but it had four wheels and a gas tank.

  Carter eyed him from his spot, deftly changing the subject. He pointed the remote to the old hospital-issued television bolted to the corner of the room. They had bought it at an auction when County General was closed last year. They were forced to travel thirty miles for medical help, until Vincent Conrad gifted the small community with a huge medical center for allowing the building of his new theme park. The new hospital was opening now, bigger and better than the one the city shut down due to budget cuts. It was creating a lot of jobs, and the theme park would be bringing in a shitload of tourists, which, in turn, infused necessary cash into the starving town. The goddamned water had been turned off six months ago. If not for Saint Vincent buying them the rights to the San Simi pipeline, they would have pretty much had to abandon their homes. Copper Valley was out of money, as were most small towns and even some of the larger cities in America. The police force, fire department, and paramedics were on the verge of being shut down, city hall right behind them. The vagrant population, jobless people who traveled from town to town looking for work, had tripled, bringing crime to the bucolic streets of the sleepy enclave. Conrad’s business plan provided both housing and employment, enabling the homeless to get off the village streets. Copper Valley had been slowly suffocating, until Vincent showed up. While there had been no outbreak of the virus in California, the entire country’s economy suffered as the world dealt with the pandemic that broke out two years ago. The virus started in East Asia, but quick thinking from the World Health Organization isolated it with containment camps. They’d had plenty of practice with the Ebola outbreaks of the last decade. Carter shivered thinking of those poor souls who caught the disease. There had been a few cases in the states, mostly doctors and aid workers who brought it home after going to help the victims. It spread, but the government was quick to create two big settlements to keep the infected away from the population, much like the leper colonies from ancient times. It killed the economy though. People were afraid to travel or accept goods from overseas. Even with all that, Carter White couldn’t believe what was happening to his home. The city council practically prostrated themselves with gratitude when Vincent picked the sleepy town as the spot for his park. The government even green-lighted the macabre idea. It was creepy, using victims of the plague as a tourist attraction, and it reminded him of that ghoulish exhibit called Bodies where they embalmed dead people’s remains in plastic so people could see how humans worked. Carter’s lips tightened. Saint Vincent seemed too good to be true. He swooped in and bargained for a fresh water supply, built the fancy medical center, repaved the gutted roads, breathing life back into the dying community. Everybody loved him, except for Carter White. He watched Wyatt’s anger drain to be replaced by interest in the show. Wyatt thought Vincent walked on water.

  “Ah…” Carter said looking back at the television set. “Your hero.” He turned the sound up. Vincent Conrad was being interviewed on the news. Wyatt loved him.

  Wyatt expertly tossed the crumpled paper into a metal trash can decorated with the Joker from Batman. It was a recent reject from his room. He didn’t want it up there anymore. He had thrown out most of the junk he’d taken with him from LA—kid’s stuff, action figures, his wolf head. He had other interests now.

  Carter nodded with appreciation. “Nothing but net.”

  Wyatt shrugged, his face downcast. “Why don’t you like Conrad? At least he’s trying to do something to help get this country out of its depression.”

  Carter studied Vincent’s face on the set without answering. He was happy to discuss anything with Wyatt. The doctor could be anywhere from fifty to eighty. His dun-colored hair was combed straight back from his high, white forehead. He had deep-set dark eyes, a long, thin nose, and a slash of a mouth. His narrow face looked right at the camera without any trace of warmth or humor. Carter considered his stepson’s serious face. Carter said, “The answer is not camouflaging the problems and making a game out of it.”

  “It’s a solution. I don’t see anything else working.”

  That was true. Carter frowned. Washington was deadlocked on whether these new species had rights and should be treated equally with other citizens. Either way, the world had changed drastically and wasn’t prepared to handle the new developments. There was trouble everywhere. The world economy was being held together with duct tape. The only thing world leaders seemed to agree on was Dr. Vincent Conrad. Vincent Conrad appeared out of nowhere with a plan, and all the governments grabbed his idea with eager hands. Carter turned back to the television.
He wasn’t in the mood to argue with Wyatt about it anymore. Wyatt was smart, had gone to the best schools in LA when his parents were together. If not for the divorce, he’d probably be headed for an Ivy League school this fall. He knew Wyatt had a hard time fitting in the dumpy, little town. It was a close-knit community that didn’t particularly welcome newcomers, but Gracie landed a teaching job here, and so they had relocated. He admired Wyatt for never complaining. The kid had made the best of it, finding friends with a fringe group, the ones that were just a little off. He wished the boy wouldn’t back off so quickly, but wasn’t quite sure how to teach him. Carter never had kids, and becoming father to two nearly grown boys wasn’t so easy for him either. It wasn’t like there was a handbook on this stuff, he thought, morosely turning his attention back to the television.

  The program was a weekly magazine show on a major network. Vincent Conrad was seated opposite Joe Myers, the main anchor of the national evening news and the host of the program. Joe Myers had a halo of white hair, with a chiseled, tan visage. His shoulders were as wide as his career. He was the captain of his ship, commanding the newsroom with the same courage and bravery as a warship. Integrity dripped from him.

  “That was some offering on Wall Street today. You made history, opening at $503 per share, and closing with the bell up $92 from there.”

  Dr. Vincent Conrad inclined his moody head. He was thin to the point of emaciation; his skin so pale, he appeared a sallow yellow. His voice reflected his Moldavian roots, the tiny country sandwiched in the Carpathian Mountains, where it was reported he descended from royalty.

  Joe Myers continued. “You came to this country with two hundred dollars in your pocket.”

  “Two hundred dollars, and a pocketful of dreams,” Vincent said with an oily smile.

  “Yet you transformed that into one of the largest fortunes in the world.”

  “I have been blessed,” Vincent said calmly with his Eastern European accent.