A. Colucci - Seeders

Jules jolted back, realizing what he uncovered. His filthy hands were shaking so hard he had to hold them still. He kept digging, exposing much more and then stopped.

This is how George did it.

One word came to mind. Seeders.

The two questions were answered together as one. It took several minutes to calm down. Jules quickly walked back to the tent and picked up the green journal that didn’t make sense for so long. He gazed at the things he unearthed, then back to the journal. Now when he read it, the words formed perfect sentences as if he’d cracked the code. He understood everything; indeed he might have written the book himself.

Isabelle became increasingly worried about Jules after he moved out of the house. Rarely did she ever see him, and when she did it was at a distance, either pushing a wheelbarrow of supplies into the woods or digging up ryegrass.

Only once she found him in the house, raiding the fridge, stuffing frozen chicken in his mouth, ripping the raw meat with his teeth like an animal. He didn’t see Isabelle watching from the doorway, as he stood there in his filthy coat, pants, and muddy boots.

When he left, she dragged a bench in front of the door.

“No one leaves the house,” she told the others.

Not that Luke wanted to leave. After his experience in the woods, he was glad to have an excuse to stay indoors. He and Monica did their best to occupy themselves with board games and they were constantly sneaking off to make out, although none of the encounters lasted long. As soon as things heated up, Isabelle would appear as if on cue.

She had to keep an eye on Sean too, which was nearly impossible. He wanted to leave the house so badly he threw fits and Isabelle needed Luke to help restrain him. A few times, Sean escaped unnoticed but always returned a few hours later, muddy but calm, and always humming the same tune that was quickly growing on Isabelle’s nerves. Frustration consumed her and twice she attempted to lock him in his room, but somehow he always got out.

Ginny was glad to have everyone trapped in the house, devoting at least some part of the day to looking for her treasure. She insisted that Isabelle search the laboratory, so when they were quite sure Jules was gone for good, she started investigating the lab, checking cabinets and closets for any kind of note or jewelry box. Ginny kept her company, all the while doing a jigsaw puzzle of kittens in a basket.

“Shouldn’t you help me look?” Isabelle asked.

“I’ve done enough searching. It hardly seems right to have a woman my age doing all the heavy lifting.”

Isabelle noticed the trash can was overflowing with balls of crumpled paper, bits of fresh bread. She flattened a few wrinkled pages on the desk and found they were filled with rambling sentences that made no sense. She wondered if Jules had been coming back to the house when they were asleep. The thought gave her a chill.

That night she was filled with worry and stayed awake after everyone had gone to bed. She kept her door open, listening for sounds in the hallway. It was getting late and she was never going to get to sleep, so she went downstairs, straight to the lab. With an ear pressed against the door, she heard footsteps on the other side. The urge to flee the hallway to her room fought hard against the curiosity of knowing what he was up to. She listened again, heard the swoosh of pages flipping back and forth and the soft scribble of a pen. There was heavy breathing and then something tipped over and the sound of pencils dropping.

Isabelle cracked the door open an inch.

Jules was squatting on the floor in the dark room, positioned beneath the window in a direct beam of moonlight. His face was just a shadow, but in his disheveled appearance he looked every bit the homeless man he’d become. He was writing in a notebook, making squeaking sounds with his throat and clicks with his tongue. Every so often he snorted or chuckled. Isabelle shut her eyes, knowing he was getting worse with each passing day.

She silently crept back to the front hallway, to the closet where Bonacelli had put her father’s rifle. It was on the bottom shelf with a box of ammunition. She loaded the magazine with two bullets and then tiptoed upstairs. There was a chair at the top of the landing with a good view of the staircase. She sat down and got comfortable, rifle over her knee, knowing that anyone who looked threatening wouldn’t make it to the second step without being shot in the head.

She blinked hard, hoping to stay wake, and silently thanked Colin for teaching her how to shoot. If only Wednesday would hurry.

Early the next morning, Isabelle walked sleepily into the lab and found Jules tied to a chair. She almost cried out when she saw his face, the metamorphosis was so dramatic. He looked as though he’d been marooned on the island for years, in tattered foul-smelling clothes and his shaggy hair in knots. His face was a mosaic of dirt, beard, and purple bumps.

He was half asleep, looking up at her with heavy lids. Plastic zip ties secured his ankles and left wrist to the chair. His right hand was tied with a rope that stretched down to his feet and around the desk leg where it lay on the floor. He must have pulled it taut with his mouth.

Isabelle was stunned.

His eyes followed her across the room.

“Jules, did you do this?”

He nodded.

“What’s happened to you?”

His voice was low and raspy. “… Hurts .”

She went around to the back of the chair to see that the hand wrapped with rope was blue and she tried to figure out the best way to loosen the knot without actually setting him free.

“ Please, ” he whispered and licked his dry lips.

She had never seen someone look so helpless and weak. She stooped down to untie his hand, but then paused, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Just one hand wouldn’t hurt, she thought and quickly unraveled the rope.

“Thank you,” he wheezed and pressed his pained hand to his chest.

She couldn’t stand to see him in agony. It would be inhuman to keep him restrained like this for days. She found a pair of scissors to cut the zip ties.

Jules slumped in the chair, holding his head in his hands.

“What can I do? Tell me how to help you.”

“They want…” He struggled to speak but the words didn’t come. He reached for a pencil but his hands were shaking, so Isabelle pushed it toward him with writing paper. He scribbled fast, before he could stop himself.

Isabelle looked down at a shaky drawing of the earth with arrows pointing down and some illegible writing above, but before she could take in the drawing and its meaning, Jules scribbled over it, as if he’d changed his mind, or perhaps his hand had a mind of its own.

“I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

He wrote the words, Go home .

“We can’t leave the island without a boat.”

His pencil scribbled, Kumbaya.

“The song?”

It seemed like writing was getting harder and the pencil shook as if he were fighting against his own fingers. He strained to scribble the words, Try it.

“Try what?”

Jules smacked his head and bolted from the chair, half stumbling around the room shouting, “Try it, you’ll like it! Try it, you’ll like it!”

Isabelle stepped back in fright.

He was gaining his strength back, but was still disoriented and dropped to one knee, grasping a table for support.

“Jules, listen to me. You’re sick, something is making you sick.”

Slowly he rose with a scowl, pointing a finger. “That’s what they told Mother. You want to put me away?” He started swaying back and forth like a gorilla.