Horror Sci-Fi Box Set: Three Novels

by Bryan Dunn

  Chapter 9

  Sam was surprised when he saw the gate closed. He let off on the gas and braked, letting the water tanker roll to a stop. Then he saw the sign, bright orange and nailed to the center of the gate. It read:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESSPASSING

  Trespassers Will be Prosecuted to the Fullest Extent of the Law

  (That means you, Frank Desouza!)

  Sam read the sign and laughed. Good for you, Doc.This Frank Desouza was also known as Frankie “Nickels” Desouza—a two-bit thug out of Vegas who favored gaudy Hawaiian shirts and had made his bones squeezing old ladies for nickels and dimes from a string of shabby bingo parlors.

  Strictly small time.

  But Frankie had a new idea. A big, bright, shiny plan that was going to change everything.

  The brass-fucking-ring, was how he thought about it.

  Frankie had just cut a deal with a local Indian tribe to build a two hundred thousand square foot casino and resort smack in the middle of the Furnace Valley Indian Reservation.

  It was the perfect set-up. The ultimate scam. And the whole thing entirely legal. Frankie wasn’t reinventing the wheel here, he was just the latest shark to exploit a government policy allowing gaming on the nation’s Indian reservations.

  Sam, on the other hand, thought of Indian casinos as the new firewater that threatened another generation of Native Americans, dollar bills being substituted for whiskey. Nothing wrong with money. Very handy stuff when you got right down to it. But there was just one small problem—you can’t buy a life, or have one given to you, for that matter.

  Not one that’s meaningful, anyway.

  Chapter 10

  There was only one thing standing between Frankie Desouza and his dream of the Furnace Valley Casino.

  Fletcher. Dr. Henry Fletcher.

  Fletcher’s land offered the only economically feasible access to the reservation. Frankie desperately needed the Fletcher place, and he was determined to get it.

  Furnace Valley was surrounded by mountains on three sides and a hundred miles of sand dunes to the south. To call it geographically isolated was like referring to Mt. Everest as tall.

  Freeway access was crucial to the proposed casino’s success—and that meant cutting a four-lane road dead through the heart of Fletcher’s land.

  Never gonna happen.

  That’s what Frankie found out after spending most of last year trying to get Fletcher to sell his land. Frankie even lowered his sights—instead of trying to buy the entire parcel, he started jockeying for an easement of a hundred acres, just enough for a road and a gas station.

  Fletcher refused, asking Frankie: “What part of no don’t you understand?” And calling him scum for trying to corrupt the local Indian tribe. The gate went up after Desouza’s last visit. Doc had had enough. He told Frankie to stay the hell off his land or there would be trouble.

  Frankie had just laughed in his face, telling Fletcher, “See you around.”

  * * *

  Sam opened the gate, pushing it as far as it would go, then suddenly froze. Something had happened.

  The truck! The engine had just quit.

  Crap!

  He propped open the gate, climbed back into the truck, and tried to start the engine.

  Nothing, not even a click.

  He tried it again. This time a weak clicking sound echoed from the starter. Sam had known the starter was on the way out. At least, he hoped it was still on the way out. He sure didn’t want to have to hike all the way back to his place. Not in this heat.

  Cell phone service in Furnace Valley was nonexistent. If you got stuck and didn’t have a CB radio, you were flat out of luck. Sam reached for the CB, then stopped, thinking he should try and fix it himself before bothering someone in town.

  He pulled a hammer from under the seat, dropped out of the tuck, slipped beneath the engine—and, applying just the right amount of English—gave the starter two sharp taps.

  He climbed back behind the wheel, looked skyward, crossed his fingers, then mashed down the starter button. The engine began to crank—and a moment later, it roared to life.

  “Stuck, my ass.”

  But he knew he was pushing it. Starters like this one, with worn brushes, could only reliably be tapped back to life a handful of times. It didn’t take long before that method stopped working—and then you were really stuck.

  Sam had a new starter on order, but his supplier was having trouble finding the right one. Which was understandable—the truck was over thirty years old.

  Hang in there baby, he thought as he dropped it into first, chugged through the gate, and bumped across a gravel wash.

  Chapter 11

  Laura stepped out of the roadside diner’s bathroom wearing a black cotton tank top and khaki shorts that flattered her long, tan legs. More accurately—it was her legs that flattered the shorts.

  She had entered the bathroom dressed in jeans and a cotton blouse. As she stepped out of the restroom and walked past the counter filled with lunchtime patrons, every head turned to follow her out the door.

  A long cool woman in a black top.

  Just as she stepped outside, a potb ellied rancher wearing a GMC cap and drinking a Coors whistled after her.

  In his dreams.

  Laura started the Honda, cut across the road, and pulled into an ancient-looking gas station. The pumps were those old-fashioned rounded kind that looked like toy spaceships from the 1950s. Mounted on a pole to the right of the pumps was the original sign with the flying horse.

  A hatchet-faced man stepped out from the service bay and walked up to Laura’s car. He was dressed in mechanic blues and wore glasses with Coke-bottle lenses that were held together by a band of clouded scotch tape.

  “Good afternoon,” Laura said with a welcoming smile.

  The mechanic bent over, resting his spiny fingers on his crooked knees, and stared in through the open window.

  “Miss.”

  “Gas, please. Fill it up.” She reached over and pawed the map off the passenger seat, then turned back to the mechanic and said, “Oh, and I could use some directions.”

  “So, what’ll it be? The good stuff or near beer?”

  “Excuse me…”

  The mechanic laughed. “Premium or regular?”

  “Regular,” Laura said, catching on. “Regular unleaded.”

  The mechanic nodded, then walked back and began filling the Honda’s tank.

  “I’m looking for the road to Furnace Valley,” Laura said, leaning out the window and pointing to the map. “But it doesn’t seem to be on here.”

  “Nope. It wouldn’t be.”

  The mechanic locked the handle on the pump so it would keep filling and moved up next to Laura. “That’s the way folks like it around here. Anon… Anonymm…”

  “Anonymous,” Laura said, helping him out.

  “Bingo,” the mechanic nodded. He reached out, took the map, then held it right up to his eyes. “Let’s see now… Yeah, it’s about fifty miles south. He lowered the map, then pointed to a section, holding his finger right above it. “Directly off this road here.”

  Laura took the map and then traced along the road with her fingertip.

  “As I remember, that turnoff is marked by a wooden sign,” the mechanic said, watching Laura follow the squiggly line.

  “Think I’ll be able to find it?” Laura looked up at him, a little concern creeping into her voice.

  “Well, it’s a bit like picking pepper out of fly shit… ah, fly dirt. Sorry, ma’am.” Then he added, “But you shouldn’t have no trouble.”

  The mechanic moved to the rear of the car, removed the hose, and returned it to the pump with a metallic clank.

  “Sounds like it might be tricky to find.”

  “Normally, I’d say you were right.” He tightened the Honda’s gas cap, wiped his hands on the front of his shirt, and then stepped up to Laura’s window. “But yesterday, about this time, a trucker wandered in here on f
oot. Said he got his rig stuck right close to that turnoff.”

  “He got stuck?”

  “Yep. Said he fell asleep. Drove clear off the road.” The mechanic shook his head and then rubbed his neck. “Just look for an eighteen-wheeler—a tanker, the man said—sitting right out in the sand. That’ll be your turn.”

  The mechanic removed his glasses and pinched the bridge, making sure the tape was still sticking. “This business you got in Furnace Valley—it really necessary?”

  “What do you mean?” she said, caught off guard by the mechanic’s question.

  “I mean a pretty girl like you, traveling all by herself, shouldn’t be taking no off-road trips.”

  “I can handle myself okay,” Laura said, on the verge of getting defensive.

  “Never said you couldn’t,” the mechanic said, slipping on his glasses, his eyes morphing into two giant blue marbles. “Only the roads out here got teeth. Make one wrong move, or lose your concentration for even a second—and you could rip the belly out of a little puddle jumper like this.”

  “It gets too bad, I’ll turn around.”

  “It’s one lane over Furnace Mountain. The only part that’s paved is the top and then down into the valley a ways, and then the county ran out of money. The rest is dirt—sand and gravel mostly.”

  “I’ll be fine, Laura said. This guy was starting to give her the creeps.

  “Won’t argue.”

  “How much for the gas?”

  “Thirty-five bucks. Can you believe that?”

  Laura pulled some bills out of her purse. A twenty, a ten, and a couple of fives. Good, she had exact change.

  As she turned to hand him the money, something about the guy’s face struck her. “You know, you look familiar. It’s like we’ve met before. No wait, I know what it is—you look like someone famous.”

  “I get that a lot,” He laughed. “Just have one of those faces. Photogenic was how one customer put it. But I ain’t no movie star or nothing. I’m just no one from nowhere. All I got is this wide spot in the road.”

  Unconvinced, Laura kept staring at him. Then she shrugged and laughed and started the engine. “Well, thanks for the help.” Laura waved, and as she pulled onto the road, the mechanic called out:

  “Good luck, missy.”

  And then it struck her. The guy was a dead ringer for Stephen King.

  Chapter 12

  Sam finished transferring twelve hundred gallons of pure artesian water to Fletcher’s pond. It had made a big difference, almost filling the reservoir to the top. He coiled the heavy hose he’d use to fill the pond—and, not wanting to stop the truck and take a chance of it not starting again—he was about to hail the main house and let Doc know he had been by with the water, when Fletcher appeared on the porch and called out to him instead.

  “Sam!” He looked flushed and excited. Darwin was perched on his shoulder, and he held a bottle of scotch in his right hand.

  “Hey, Doc!” Sam hooked a thumb at the pond. “Just finished pumping your water.” Fletcher didn’t seem to be paying attention. It was like he hadn’t heard a word. And why was he drinking? It was barely past noon.

  “Sam…” Fletcher waved for him to come to the house. “I’ve got to show you something.” Sam motioned to the truck and was about to explain how he had to leave it running and couldn’t come—but something about the tone of his voice, and the look on his face, made him realize he had no choice.

  * * *

  Darwin exploded into a series of loud squawks as Sam followed Fletcher into the lab and over to a sturdy workbench.

  “ A little early for that, isn’t Doc?” Sam said, pointing to the scotch.

  Fletcher looked affectionately at the bottle of Macallan single malt, then placed it on the bench and gave it a loving pat.

  “I’ve done it, Sam. I’ve created the perfect plant. The ultimate groundcover. The Fletcher Creeper. Never has to be watered. Can be planted anywhere.”

  “The Fletcher what?” Sam asked, looking a little confused.

  “The Fletcher Creeper. It’s a creeper vine. Just engineered. It’s an entirely new creation!”

  “Really… Well, that’s a catchy little name you’ve picked for it.”

  “I thought so,” Fletcher said, laughing and flashing a broad smile. “It’s the ultimate drought-tolerant plant.” He gave Sam a playful swat on the shoulder, then asked, “Do you know what this means for people living in dry, non-arable lands?”

  “Ivy in every pot?” Sam shot back with a straight face.

  “Life where none was possible,” Fletcher said, ignoring Sam’s flip comment. “Wastelands made fertile. Marching dunes held back. Watersheds where none existed. Rich topsoil… fooling Mother Nature herself.”

  “Marching dunes, eh? Hmm… sounds like a real hardy little plant you’ve got there.”

  “Hardy isn’t the half of it.” Fletcher motioned for Sam to follow him. “See for yourself.”

  Chapter 13

  They stood in front of a workbench looking at a small planter filled with potting soil. Fletcher picked up a graduated beaker, placed his thumb over the end of the glass pipe that was sitting inside, removed it, and held it over the planter. He lifted his thumb. Three drops fell from the tip of the siphon, moistening the soil below.

  The results were breathtaking.

  As the first drop made contact with the soil, there was an astounding transformation. The barren planter instantly turned bright green with a fuzzy layer of new growth. A few seconds after that, shoots emerged. And moments later, the entire planter was filled with six-inch blades of grass!

  Sam just stared, awestruck, not saying anything.

  And then, just as quickly as the new growth appeared, it began to wither and die.

  “Isn’t that fantastic? Isn’t that the most fantastic thing you’ve ever seen?” Fletcher’s eyes twinkled with delight as he held up the beaker of clear fluid. “Guess what this is?”

  “Rogaine?”

  “Ordinary tap water! Just three drops—and pow! Isn’t it fantastic?”

  “Yeah, really great, Doc.” Sam patted him on the back. “But I don’t think there’s going to be a huge demand for lawns that grow a foot a day and then immediately die.”

  “No, no, no—you’re missing the point, my boy.” Fletcher returned the beaker to the bench. “This was just a stepping stone. See, I rewired the biology of this ordinary fescue—sort of hotwired its genetic code.”

  Fletcher walked over to where he’d left the scotch, grabbed the bottle, poured two fingers into a glass, and held it out to Sam.

  “You want a drink?”

  “No thanks, Doc. I don’t want any of this to start making sense.”

  Fletcher shrugged, took a gulp of scotch, then pointed toward the now completely brown planter. “Anyway, as it turned out, fescue was the wrong choice. Couldn’t tolerate the hyper-growth. I began experimenting with all types of grains and grasses, and came up with nothing.”

  Fletcher took another belt of scotch, emptying the glass.

  “Then I had a breakthrough. I found a particularly resilient subtropical vine that proved the perfect choice. Nature had left its genetic backdoor wide open. Reengineering its genetic code proved a snap.”

  He grabbed the scotch, poured another slug, then held the bottle out, offering it to Sam. “18-year-old stuff. Sure you don’t want some?”

  Sam held up a hand. “No thanks, Doc, I’m good.”

  Fletcher plunked the bottle down and moved to a sink. Then he retrieved a creeper vine clipping and held it out to Sam. “Here…”

  Sam took the clipping, eyeing it with skepticism.

  “A Fletcher Creeper. Plant it out at your place. It’ll be a test.”

  “A test?”

  “Oh, just one thing—and this is important—don’t plant it near a steady source of water. It grows like a weed. Could be a real dickens to get rid of. The biology of this thing is still in its infancy. It seems to be mutating, evolv
ing on its own.”

  “You sure about this? You sure we should be messing around with it?” Sam asked, turning the vine over in his hand. “Planting it around… fooling Mother Nature?”

  “Yes. Positive. Not a problem. Don’t worry. If you think about it, we’re living in the middle of a giant sterile lab.” He swept a hand through the air. “Basically, this place is just one big hotel lobby ashtray. Besides, I was down at Nguyen’s Place. Gave clippings to everyone. The whole town is in on the fun.”

  Sam held the clipping up to his eyes, examining the stalk and scaly-looking leaves. “It’s covered with little thorns.”

  “Yes, I’m painfully aware of that,” Fletcher said, glancing down at his sore fingertips. “It’s something I plan to breed out of the vine. Fletcher Creeper 2.0 won’t have them.”

  Sam gave him a direct look, then said, “Hmm… just like my dates, huh?”

  Fletcher suddenly remembered. “Your dates! Any luck with the last batch of grafts?”

  “Full of seeds,” Sam said with a frown.

  “Well... no one’s perfect.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding,” Fletcher laughed. “Just kidding, my boy.”

  “Well, I hope so…” Sam said, caught off guard by Fletcher’s breezy tone. Doc had promised he could do it.

  “Don’t worry, son…” He reached over, giving Sam a fatherly pat on the back. “Next week I’ll have a new set of grafts ready to go. Trust me, we’ll solve this.”

  Darwin swooped over and landed on Fletcher’s shoulder, nibbling and nudging his ear. Fletcher reached up and scratched Darwin’s neck, then moved to the bench, grabbed the scotch, raised the bottle and said, “Now, how about that drink?”

  Chapter 14

  Even with both windows down, Laura felt like she was about to melt from the heat. She watched through the windshield as heat waves bent and distorted the blacktop like a funhouse mirror.