Lydia folds her hands. “We’re trying to help you, Magnolia. We selected you as our Merit Award winner, remember? We’re reviewing your father’s research. But you have to do your part too.”
“I’ve tried. But the thing is, my brother’s been working in those woods and he keeps getting sicker every day. And it’s not just him. Old Man Bell’s dogs got into the fungus too and now… they’re dead. Ophiocordyceps is dangerous.”
“That does sound worrisome.” Lydia’s eyes shift to Charles. “But what makes you think we’re the right people to offer assistance?”
I swallow and pull the photo from my pocket. “My brother gave this to me. He says you own the land and that Bell worked for you.”
The color drains from Lydia’s face. “I see.”
“I told you we should’ve handled this differently,” Charles mumbles.
Lydia places one hand on Charles’s arm. “We would have said something sooner about supporting his farming efforts, but Bell was a very private man. He wouldn’t have cared for any publicity.”
“What about Albert Eldridge? He’s in that photo too. And now he’s hanging around the woods, calling himself the new caretaker.”
Lydia sighs. “He used to work at our plant, then transferred to the woods about the time your father left our employment. He’s recently become something of a problem.”
“All the people working in the woods follow him around like he’s their master.”
“We should’ve fired him months ago,” Charles grumbles.
He’s missing the point. “What you need to do is get rid of that fungus.”
A vein in Charles’s forehead bulges. “You’re a little girl. You don’t get to tell us what to do.”
“There’s no need for all that,” Lydia says in a too-calm voice, as if we’re all just sitting around chatting about what a hot summer it’s been.
“Bell is dead. His dogs are dead. Neon mushrooms and zombified bugs are cropping up all around town. You’ve gotta quarantine those woods and send out a clean-up crew to all the infected sites. And the people, like my brother, they need your help.”
Lydia clears her throat. “Those are interesting suggestions. We’ll be sure to look into the matter.”
“That’s it?”
“We’re grateful for the information, and we’ll take care of things on our end.” Lydia folds her hands. “Our number one priority is always doing what’s best for the community.”
The Crofts aren’t jumping to their feet. They’re not calling in help. They want me to leave. “That’s not good enough.”
Charles slams his half-empty glass down on the desk. “My dear girl, it’s going to have to be good enough because—”
“Magnolia.” Lydia stands and opens a drawer. She pulls out Dad’s journal and hands it to me. “We did finish reviewing your father’s notebook. You were right. He really is a bright one. We made a mistake letting him slip through our fingers. We’re planning to call him later on this afternoon and offer him a supervisor role. Do you think he’d like that? He could start as early as next week.”
My heart gallops and I press Dad’s journal close. Dad home in a week? All of us together again. We could take a trip to Lake Williams or hike to Sweetwater Basin. Go on road trips and eat picnic dinners on a sea of wildflowers.
Lydia glances at Charles, then smiles. “We’ll get everything squared away. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
I blink, then realize what’s happening. Lydia is bribing me. And deep down, I know Dad doesn’t want the job. He wants a life of adventure. And even if he did want to come home, this isn’t the right way. The Crofts aren’t impressed with Dad or me. The job offer is to make sure I keep my mouth shut.
Lydia and Charles smile again, but this time I’m not buying it. Those aren’t nice smiles, they’re evil.
I slap on a smile of my own and shove down what I really want to say. “Have a nice day.” I turn for the door.
“One more thing before you go,” Charles says, coming around the desk toward me. “If this news were to somehow get out to, say, the sheriff, ask yourself who he’d believe, a kid from Raccoon Creek Trailer Park or the people whose tax dollars pay his salary. We’ve got every permit and license saying we’re not doing a thing wrong. It’d be an open and shut case.”
I stand in the center of the room, feeling like a helium balloon that’s had all the air sucked out of it. Charles is right. All I’ve got is a few photos and some wrinkly mushrooms. If I couldn’t even convince Gramma that the fungus was dangerous, I don’t stand a chance with the sheriff.
“It was lovely seeing you again, Magnolia,” Lydia says, her eyes frosty as the icicles growing in the back of Gramma’s freezer.
I couldn’t make the Crofts help Ezra, Dad won’t be coming home, and the fungus will keep right on spreading. I failed. With everything.
I wind down a long, dim corridor, passing a massive portrait hanging on the wall. A man in a safari hat with a monkey perched on one shoulder. These are the kind of people the Crofts are. Larger than life. Winners who get what they want. There’s a gold plate underneath the painting: FITZWILLIAM CROFT SR., AMAZON RIVER, SOUTH AMERICA, 1965.
I stick my tongue out at the safari-hat-wearing Croft. His monkey glares back at me with mocking eyes. I find my way to the front door and charge out, nearly crashing into Nate.
“Hey, Mags.” He hangs his head. “I don’t know what happened with the video. I hope I didn’t mess things up too much.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” I say as we walk beneath a pergola wrapped tight with wisteria vines. “They know about the fungus and they aren’t going to help. This might sound crazy, but I think they even had me gather samples hoping something bad might happen so that I’d just go away.”
Nate raises his brows. “You really think they’d try to take you out like that?”
“I can’t prove it, but I wouldn’t put anything past them.”
Nate pulls two green cans out of the pockets of his cargo shorts. He tosses one to me. “How’s this for sticking it to the man? I found a six-pack sitting by the front door, looking all frosty and prime for the guzzling. I kinda already drank the first four, but I saved these two for us.” Nate cracks the top of his can and takes a big swig. “Normally I wouldn’t pilfer other people’s pop, but I had a feeling those guys would turn out to be baddies.”
Nate takes another slurp. “This stuff is good. Not five-bucks-a-pop good, but still, pretty dang tasty.” He turns the can and reads the side. “With a proprietary blend of all-natural ingredients derived from the Amazon rain forest, Vitaccino eases the mind and heals the body.” A drizzle of Day-Glo green fizz hangs from his lip.
Condensation runs down the side of the can and my brain buzzes. Amazon rain forest. Day-Glo green. Old Man Bell’s woods.
“Don’t drink that!” I whack the can out of his hand. Neon drops splatter across the pavement.
“Sheesh, Mags! What was that for?”
My head whirls as all the pieces finally click together. “Vitaccino’s secret ingredient is Ophiocordyceps!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I can feel myself zombifying!” Nate cries as he fills his mouth with water from my kitchen faucet.
“No talking. Keep gargling,” I say as I click through the Vitaccino website on the desktop computer.
“I don’t wanna become one of the Spore King’s minions,” Nate blubbers through a mouthful of water.
“People have been drinking Vitaccino for years. Half the town would be infected if the stuff was too dangerous.”
Nate spits into the sink. “You just told me the secret ingredient was mutant fungus. That can’t be good.”
“I need you to stay calm and not freak out on me, okay?”
“I can’t make any promises. I already got stung by a load of zombie wasps and now this. I’m not sure who’s in control of my brain anymore.”
I shake my head and click on a video. A man in a fla
nnel shirt walks through a sunny field that looks nothing like Old Man Bell’s woods or the Vitaccino farm. He strolls past a red barn with sunflowers swaying in the breeze. “Vitaccino uses the highest quality ingredients to create the finest products on earth. With a proprietary blend of Texas blueberries, citrus fruits from the groves of Florida, and mycelia from the Amazon rain forest, Vitaccino delivers a powerful punch of nutrients.”
“Mycelia? That’s the thing that means mushrooms, right?”
I nod.
“Fantastic, even the advertising dude just confirmed I’m gonna die.”
I don’t like this either, but I can’t have Nate losing his mind in my kitchen. “Just settle down. Nobody’s dying.”
I click on another tab. It’s got a chart that lists the ingredients: guava nectar, blueberries, orange juice, lime, and mushroom stems. There’s no mention of Ophiocordyceps––that wouldn’t be good for business––but if the description is even remotely accurate then maybe we’re okay. “It’s the spores that are infectious. Vitaccino’s made with the stems. I think you might be all right.”
“You sure?”
“Lots of rich, fancy people drink the stuff by the case. I doubt the Crofts are trying to kill off their customers. So unless they all of a sudden changed the recipe, you’re safe,” I say.
“And what would make us think the recipe’s changed? It’s not like a new caretaker came along and got a bunch of zombified townspeople to scoop mushrooms for him. Oh wait… that’s exactly what happened!”
“You know, you didn’t have to drink quite so many of them.”
“What can I say? Pop is my kryptonite. And now it’s really gonna be the end of me.”
“We’re going to figure this out and find a way to stop the Crofts.”
“How? We don’t have enough proof to pin anything on them. It’d be our word against theirs. We’re doomed, Maggie.”
“Just let me think for a second.” Visions of Nate zoned out and plucking mushrooms in the woods skitter through my head. I need to focus on solutions, but this is way beyond my level of know-how. “We need help.”
“From who?”
The first person I think of is Dad. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be in an area with coverage. I grab the phone and dial. It goes straight to voice mail. “Dad it’s me. It’s about Ezra. Remember when I said he was sick? Well, I know what’s causing it. There’s a fungus growing in Old Man Bell’s woods. Anyway, I need you to answer your phone. I know you don’t want to come back here, but Shady Pines is in trouble.” I pause, shoving down a flood of hot, angry words that want to boil out. Dad should be here right now. He never should have left. “If you could just call me––”
The phone beeps telling me my time’s up, and my message is cut off. I slam the phone down. Dad was always our rock. No matter what happened, he was there with a smile or a story about some fascinating, exotic place. And I’d feel better. But now, when I need him most, he’s a thousand miles away.
“I’m feeling an urge to start zombie-walking out to the woods,” Nate moans.
I pull in a breath. One of us has to be the voice of reason here. “You’re not zombie-walking anywhere.”
“How are you gonna stop it? We don’t have medicine or helicopters or any of the high-tech gadgets the good guys need.”
Dad’s not around and the Crofts are definitely not gonna swoop in and save the day. There’s no more time for wishing things were different. We need to find a solution without them.
“Who do the good guys call for help in the zombie movies, Nate?”
He scratches his chin. “Well, it depends. Sometimes there’s a specialized zombie unit already in place… but that’s in the more futuristic ones. The CDC usually comes around in most of ’em.”
The Centers for Disease Control. Perfect. I whirl to the computer and do a search. It’s time we got the big dogs involved. They’ll come out to the woods and take care of this mess. Spray down everything remotely fungal. Close Vitaccino for good and give everybody in town pills or injections or something.
I find the number and dial. After going through a few automated options, I finally get a real person on the phone.
“Texas Center for Infectious Disease, this is John, how may I help you?” a monotone voice recites.
I look at Nate sprawled out on the couch. This is the moment things change. We’re stopping Ophiocordyceps. Today. “I need to speak to someone in the fungal division.”
There’s a long pause.
“Hello?”
“I’m here,” John responds in the same tired voice.
“Great, can you put me through to someone who handles hazardous fungi?” I pace the kitchen.
“I’m not sure I’m following. This is about a fungus?”
“That’s right.”
John sighs. “Tina works in the mycology department, but she’s on maternity leave until next month. I can transfer you to Bryan, if you want.”
“Someone is going to get hurt if you don’t do something right away. There’s a hostile fungi takeover going on in my town right now.”
“Hostile takeover?” John suddenly sounds much more alert. “Are you talking about a public health threat in progress?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Ophiocordyceps is dangerous. In fact, one man’s already dead.”
Nate meets my eye and nods enthusiastically.
“This isn’t a joke?”
“No, sir. This threat is very real.”
“I need to get your name, home address, and a call-back telephone number.”
“My name’s Magnolia Stone, but the real problem’s happening down at Old Man Bell’s place. I don’t actually know the street address, but it’s about two miles from town, past the railroad tracks where the paved road dies off.”
There’s some low voices in the background. When John speaks again his voice is urgent. “All right, miss, what’s the nature of this threat and when will it be released?”
“Some of it’s already been released. The spores just kind of shoot off into the air. It’s not all that predictable. More could come any minute,” I say, glad that John’s finally starting to take my call seriously.
There’s more murmuring. “Did someone ask you to make this call? Does the group you’re working with have any demands?”
“Demands?” I ask, standing up a little straighter.
“Is there something these people want? Something we have to give them to stop the spread of the toxin?”
“People? You mean Ophiocordyceps?”
“We need you to talk with whoever is in charge. Tell them not to make a move or there will be serious consequences.” There’s a flurry of typing and shuffling papers in the background.
That’s when I know. John doesn’t understand that I’m talking about a super-freaky jungle fungus. “Wait. There’s been a bit of a mix-up. I’m not with any group. There isn’t any group. This is about a mutated fungus.”
“But you said there was an imminent health threat?”
“There is. We’ve got a bad fungus problem here. It’s infected my big brother and maybe my best friend, too.” My voice speeds up as I try to push the words out before John calls out a SWAT team. “Sometimes Ezra’s lips glow blue and if we don’t do something, I’m afraid he might have spore clouds shoot out of his mouth soon. Plus, there’s a whole deal with the local health-drink company and their secret ingredient, but that’s another story.”
“Your brother is blue?”
“Just his lips and not all the time. But he’s got the same cough as the first man who died. And he keeps hanging out in the woods and moving around all slow and zombie-like.”
There’s another long pause. “I see what’s going on here.”
“You do?” I give Nate a thumbs-up. “How quick can you get a team out here?”
There’s more chatter followed by what almost sounds like faint laughter. “I know summer break can get a bit boring and that prank calls are a re
al funny time killer, but they waste taxpayer dollars and take us away from serious issues. We’ve got actual work to do here, kid.”
All the excitement floods out of me. John isn’t sending backup. He’s about to hang up on me. “I’m not pranking anyone. There really is a mutant fungus attacking my town.”
“You had your fun, but the jig’s up.”
“If you’d just send a team, you’d know I’m not kidding. We really need your help!”
“Have a nice day and don’t call here again until you’re at least twenty-one.” There’s a moment of silence, then the repetitive drone of a disconnected call. I stare back at the receiver.
“I guess that means the CDC is out?” Nate asks.
“I’ll think of something.” I pace the floor and consider calling the state health department. But something tells me that won’t go any better––especially if any of them remember the incident with Dad and the lab rats. Too bad the only adult who’d actually take me seriously is miles away. Probably making his own big discoveries while I’m stuck here trying to convince everybody that I’m not just some dumb kid making stuff up. The thing is if all these grown-ups would study a little bit more, they’d realize what I’m saying isn’t so crazy. Nature can be cruel. It’s filled with all sorts of everyday monsters. Vampire bats, mosquitos, and what about those wasps that lay their eggs inside caterpillars and make them explode when the larvae hatch?
The phone rings and I jump. “Maybe John changed his mind about sending help.”
Nate flops his head back on the couch.
I grab the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello, Magnolia. It’s Mac Washington. Down at The Wormery.”
“Oh, hey, Mac,” I say, and slump onto a barstool. “How’s it going?”
“Just fine and dandy. I’m calling to let you know there’s been some happenings with the slime mold and stinkhorn samples. They’ve changed.”
“Really?” I’d started to think the samples we left with Mac had turned out to be a dead end. I wonder for a split-second if some dog vomit slime mold and a stinky stalk are enough evidence to get the sheriff on board. I imagine holding up a mason jar with the stuff and trying to explain. Even in my head the sheriff looks confused. It’ll never fly.
The Mutant Mushroom Takeover Page 11
