A. Colucci - Seeders

He nodded in agreement, and leaned his head against the doorframe. “I have to tell you something. A lot of things in the shed are gone. Knives and spears and stuff.”

She drew back her shoulders. “When did you notice this?”

“Today. He left a crossbow and couple other things.”

“We don’t know for sure it was Jules.”

“Who else would it be?”

“As soon as she comes out, I want you both to go to sleep. Your own rooms, locked tight. I’ll be right out here in the hall tonight.”

“You’re going to sleep in the hall?”

She lifted the rifle that was leaning by the doorway. “Don’t worry. It’s under control.”

Luke stared at the gun. “Why don’t you give it to me? I should be the one protecting you.”

“Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of handling a weapon.” Her mouth was a slit as she checked the chamber and pulled the safety so it clacked. “It’s the one useful thing your father taught me. Now go to sleep. And don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine.”

He watched her walking away. “Mom?”

She turned around.

“I don’t like being here. But, I like how you are here. I mean…” He waited to see if more words were needed, but Isabelle smiled. She knew exactly what he meant.

Jules couldn’t sleep. He lay for hours, facedown on top of a sleeping bag, but couldn’t drift off. Finally, he got up and paced the campsite, pondering his insomnia.

It couldn’t be hunger. Jules barely needed to eat more than a few bites of fish a day, although his thirst was ravenous and he drank gallons of water from the pond. His body was never in better shape. He had the strength to move a five-foot oak tree, root ball and all. It wasn’t the frigid temperatures either. Jules couldn’t feel the sensation of cold on his skin. For that matter, he could barely feel pain. The other day he sprained an ankle carrying heavy pallets down an embankment, yet the pain never registered, even when the ankle swelled an ugly green and purple.

Jules realized that it had to be Isabelle keeping him awake. Why did he keep going back to the house when all she did was complain? He had been drawn to Isabelle, the idea of them working together, being together, yet now all she brought him was misery. Her callous, offensive words made him furious.

They’re controlling your mind, Jules .

“That’s ridiculous,” he seethed, rubbing the bumps on his forehead. He was agitated and so damn nervous. He squatted in front of the fire. It was nearly out and he threw a piece of driftwood on the embers, watching the flames burst to life. The firelight illuminated his mud-covered arms. It was the first time he noticed his lack of hygiene and it troubled him. He twirled a long lock of his hair tangled with fertilizer, remembering that he’d always had an aversion to dirt, almost a phobia.

What’s happening?

He gazed at a tall spindly birch tree directly in front of him, its newly sprouted leaves flittering wildly in the breeze, waving at him like little hands. Hello. Hello . All around him, an army of gigantic trees stood in a circle, thousands upon thousands of crooked branches, all reaching out to him. Desperate arms… reaching… wanting… something.

“Stop it,” he whispered.

Dry gray vines covered the bark on one particular tree, forming faces, wild eyes and gaping mouths. Others had their eyes drawn down in anger, round mouths hollering.

“Stop it!” he seethed again.

Jules found himself wondering if Isabelle could be right—perhaps he was under some kind of spell. He scowled inwardly.

Ridiculous! Are these thoughts not my own? I’m no different. Look how I go about my normal day, deciding what to eat, when to sleep. Look how I wake up and relieve myself in the bushes. I build a fire and begin my work. These are normal routines, not the control of another mind. Certainly not.

Scenes from a Saturday matinee flickered before him. He was five years old in a London theater and Mother took him to see an old black-and-white film, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was about aliens taking over a small town, and it terrified him. As their victims fell asleep, the aliens would place a pod beside their bed. Overnight, it would replicate their DNA and by morning a perfect clone would emerge from the pod, kill the victim, and take his place in the world.

Quite suddenly, Jules started to chuckle, and before long he was roaring with laughter. But the cackling soon trailed off to a low snicker. His eye twitched and he winced. The idea was not so preposterous after all. He looked at the curves of the landscape, the way the black shroud was draped over those “things.” The specimens he unearthed. He didn’t like going near them, tried not to think about them too much. Except now he wanted to have a look, see what they were up to.

Seeders.

Already, he had detached the fungus from each of the specimens, peeled them clean, but he had quickly covered them back up so he didn’t have to look at them. Jules squatted down beside the amorphous mounds and curled back a few square yards, like he was rolling up a carpet.

He exposed all nine of them and stepped back.

This is how they know what I’m thinking. They learned, and now they know .

He stared at the nine human bodies he unearthed. They lay chest-down in the dirt, heads turned to the side, the back of their skulls partly removed. Most were still in various stages of the rooting process, their flesh preserved but hardened like clay. The cadavers were gaunt and deflated in the center, as if their organs had collapsed. The fungus was heavily rooted throughout the bodies, concentrated at the heads where it enveloped their brains. It covered the frontal lobes and needled its way into gray matter.

Probing. Learning. Planning.

Jules found himself wondering who the people were, seven young men and two women. Perhaps students of George’s. At one time useless, all-consuming humans. Now they were vital to the earth. The first Seeders.

MORNING FOG BLANKETED THE ISLAND and settled heavily over the beach. In the woods, white wisps of steam curled around trees like ghosts.

Monica opened her bloodshot eyes to a bright glow outside the window that made her squint and added pain to her already throbbing head. The moist air reminded her of being underwater, the terror of dragging Luke to the surface.

She threw open the window by the bed, breathing in the cool air that smelled like salt and clams. It was refreshing and nauseating at the same time. She collapsed in the covers, and right away thought about the reward money.

A hundred thousand dollars could change her life.

From the open window she heard the kitchen door slam. She peered outside and saw someone, probably Luke, step into the fog. Where on earth was he going? Her mind raced to recall their conversation the night before. All she remembered was that he didn’t want to tell anyone about the box. Maybe he was going to the beach to retrieve it himself. No, he would never go back in the water.

She squinted at the fog. The figure emerged from the haze momentarily and was swallowed up again. He was headed to the woods, but why? She recalled his promise the night before, how he was going to get the money and give it to her so they could go to France.

Monica threw a jacket over her sweats and stepped into her boots. She ran through the hall and down the staircase. Before realizing what a precarious thing she was doing, the moist air was upon her face, making her cheeks wet as she jogged down the foggy path, trying to catch up to Luke. She reached the entrance of the woods and called out his name, but all was silent.