A. Colucci - Seeders

The pines were getting so thick she couldn’t see around them. It was unnerving to be off the trail. What the hell was she doing following this guy? She wanted to turn back but Sean was right on her heels, clicking his tongue, making some kind of weird noise. Perhaps he was talking to the trees. The thought made her chuckle. Suddenly her two companions seemed comical.

She spoke loudly to Jules. “So, I hear you talk to the trees.”

His eyes shifted, but he didn’t answer.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said.

“They speak to the enlightened. I see little hope for you.”

“Hey, I’ve seen weird things too. So how do they do it? Is it every plant or just the ones on the island?”

Jules walked faster.

“What did George do to them? Is it the black stuff that makes you see things? This fungus or whatever? Did George grow this shit all over them? Is that how they can hear you?”

“Stop. Talking. Please,” Jules said.

They came to a clearing and stepped into the campsite where the ground was dark and supple, covered in fungi that had taken over the whole place. The tent leaned at a sharp angle. On the ground were pallets filled with every variety of plant. A wheelbarrow, farming tools, test tubes, and microscopes lay forgotten and half buried in soil that had been dumped into six-foot dunes.

Monica stared, jaw gaping. “What is this place?”

“You like it?”

She sneered and put a foot on the soft pile. She took a few steps, bouncing lightly. There was a table covered with dirt and more plants in clear, labeled bags.

“What are these things?”

“Let’s see,” Jules said and picked up a couple of specimens. “ Arctostaphylos uva-ursi, commonly known as bearberry, and this is Populus tremuloides, or aspen poplar.”

“Yeah, whatever. Why you baggin’ ’em up?”

Jules wasn’t listening. He looked under the table. “Now where is that shovel?”

Thunder rumbled and Monica hugged her arms, rubbing the sleeves for both warmth and comfort. Leaden clouds expanded overhead and the dank woods filled with the heady smell of rain. It was getting dark and Monica wanted to get back to the house before it started to pour. Even more, she wanted to get away from Jules and the presentiment of danger he evoked.

“Now that I think about it,” she said, moving to the edge of the camp. “I really got to get back to the house.”

“Shovel, shovel, who’s got the shovel?” Jules picked up an ax. “This will do.” He held it lengthwise, smacking the blunt side of the steel against his palm like a baseball bat.

He stared at Monica. She stared at the blade.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“What do you think?” He took a leisurely step closer. “Are you frightened?”

Monica felt the heat of terror rush to her face. This couldn’t be happening. He stepped closer and she doubled back. “Don’t touch me. I’ll scream.”

“And who will hear you?”

She wasn’t expecting the speed at which he moved. In a blink, Jules lunged for her. As she turned to run, he pressed the ax to her chest and pinned her arms back.

“Get off me, creep!” She tried to reach for the cutting shears, but moving her hands was futile.

Jules traced the tip of the ax along her neck. He reeked of mold.

Monica’s panicked eyes fell on Sean. “Get him off me.”

Sean giggled.

Jules spoke to him in a firm tone. “Sean, you need to go finish your work.”

The boy frowned and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, before turning and vanishing into the pines.

Jules ran the blade over Monica’s cheek. “I wonder how many of our little friends you’ve plucked from the ground. If I were to cut off your pretty little fingers one by one with this blade, would you feel remorse for those you’ve killed, or would you only think of yourself?”

Tears welled in her eyes. She was trembling and turned her face from the blade. Thunder cracked directly overhead and a raindrop fell on her cheek.

Jules licked it away with his tongue. “Maybe I’ll deflower you myself.”

“Let her go!” Luke walked out from the trees with a knife pointed at Jules.

He smiled wide at the boy, letting Monica fall to the ground, and she scrambled back. He stepped toward Luke and swung the ax over his shoulder. “It seems the knight in shining armor has arrived. I thought there might be hope for you, Luke, but now I’m not so sure.”

Lightning flashed and a light wind brought showers that pelted the trees.

“Back off!” Monica sputtered, once again on her feet. The metal shears shook in her hands, pointed at Jules. Her face was wet with tears and rain.

Jules held in laughter. “Did you tell him yet, mademoiselle? Does he know you’re nothing but a filthy little tease? A lying, frigid, semiliterate virgin who’s petrified to fuck? Go ahead and tell him he’s wasting his time.”

Luke dove at Jules, sending them both to the ground as it was splattered with fat raindrops. The two wrestled frantically with equal force; Jules with sheer strength and Luke driven by panic and fury. He held on to the knife but Jules gripped his wrist and the weapon sliced only air. As Jules reached for the ax, he let go of the boy and Luke plunged the knife into his leg.

“Run!” he shouted to Monica, and she took off into the trees.

Furious, Jules yanked the bloody knife out of his leg, pulled back his massive foot, and kicked Luke in the head.

Luke rolled onto his side, knocked out cold.

Jules got to his feet and checked the body.

Shallow breathing, a slight moan, but no movement.

His head sprang up like a hunting dog. The girl was no doubt running toward the beach, to the boat. Jules grabbed the ax and took off after her.

A SUDDEN DOWNPOUR struck the island. Horizontal rain came down in sheets that pelted the beach and a spear of lightning flashed over the inlet. The wind howled and the sea had become a rolling, churning brew of foam and waves.

Monica ran down the black sand, squinting through the veil of water. She turned for an instant to see Jules spring from the trees, swinging the ax. There was nowhere else to run but into the sea and she headed for the water’s edge.

Without hesitating, she plunged into the waves. They were becoming fierce, and her clothing and boots slowed her down. She sank into the muddy bottom and was struck by a wave. She coughed out a mouthful of salty water, wiping her eyes, and realized she was trapped. What a stupid decision she had made. There was a boat tied up at the dock and a sliver of hope brought her strength. Arms flailing, she took long strides and paddled out toward the boat, rising with the breakers.

Acadia was emblazoned across the bow. She started to scream for help, but a wave smacked her again. Then the water calmed into a lull and she kicked off her heavy boots. Jules was right behind her in the surf, wiping rain from his face, ax in hand. He swung the blade high with both hands.

Monica ducked under the surface as deep as she could and saw millions of bubbles where the blade came down by her head. She blasted to the surface and switched directions, swimming frantically toward the shore.

A hard tug on her ponytail threw her back. Jules pulled her hair until her neck was exposed to the sky.

“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, but her words were garbled.

He raised the ax high, ready to strike. But before the blade came down, he was hit with a rogue wave and thrown into Monica. His body rolled with hers, but he never let go of her hair.

They were pushed closer to shore and came up together, sputtering and trying to stand. Grasping her hair, Jules pulled Monica off her feet. Another wave struck and he hit the bottom, losing his grip. He managed to stand, slicing the ax up and down in the water, chopping the swells. As he leapt for the girl, she dove backward into the sea, with a solid kick against his arm. The ax dropped from his hands.