Jeff Jacobson - Growth

Despite herself, Sandy was impressed. She’d been hoping for a few sawed-off .12 gauges that held seven or eight goose rounds, not this machine gun that sprayed shotgun shells like a fire hose. She didn’t know what to say. “I’m not sure that’s legal,” she finally managed.

Everybody laughed like she’d made a hell of a joke.

Purcell said, “Of course it isn’t. Are you kidding me? Of course it isn’t legal. We have three.”

“Good,” Sandy heard herself say.

He threw the AA-12 into the back of the truck; Charlie caught it. Edgar and Axel proudly held up each of their own. “And just in case,” Purcell said, “we brought a couple of SPAS-15s. They don’t make ’em anymore, but I couldn’t resist.” Purcell brought out another shotgun that resembled a machine gun. “This one isn’t fully automatic, but it’ll fuck shit up, no question.” He racked the pump back and smiled at her. “Whether you use it as a pump shotgun or as a semiauto, either way you’re a happy camper.”

“You can drive,” Sandy said. She reached into the Suburban and pulled out the chainsaw. At this, the Fitzgimmons could hardly contain their glee. Purcell raised his hands as if he was surrendering. “Damn, Chief. I’d hate to get on your bad side.”

Sandy hopped into the passenger seat, leaving the sons to ride in the back.

Purcell went around the front of his pickup and climbed in behind the wheel. He put his hand on the keys but didn’t start the engine. “I appreciate you bringing the boys home on Saturday night and letting me deal with ’em first. That’s the only damn reason I’m here. That said, you get us into some kind of trouble in town, get our dicks in a wringer, you ain’t gonna like my bad side.”

“Okay. I’ll explain. On the way.”

Purcell drove slow and listened. He only had one question. “Them fellas that came looking for Morton’s lawyer. You think that’s all that’ll show up? Sounds to me this is not an organization that leaves loose ends.”

“I have no idea,” Sandy said. She considered it for a moment. “I tried calling the FBI and the CDC from the Johnsons’. Couldn’t make any long-distance calls. Same thing from the Korner.” She thought about the man with the flamethrower back at the Einhorns’. He’d torched his own vehicle without a second thought, so he either had another one stashed nearby or he was fully expecting to be picked up. She could have kicked herself for not checking to see if he had a cell phone.

“Something to chew on,” Purcell said. “Tell you the truth, I thought it all sounded a little far-fetched when you started talking. Now I ain’t so sure.” He indicated with a tilt of his head the quiet streets. They turned right at the only stoplight onto Main Street. It was utterly empty. When they got to the start of the parade route, they found the street lined with vacant lawn chairs, half-empty food wrappers, napkins fluttering in the breeze.

Sandy put her hand on the dash. “Hold up. Might be a good time to be cautious.” She got out and had Charlie hand gas masks to his brothers. She took two and gave one to Purcell. They pulled them on, adjusted the straps until they fit so tight it was almost painful, and took a few experimental breaths. The filters made everything dry and stale, but they could breathe.

Purcell drove around the sawhorses. They passed flatbed trucks with overturned folding chairs on the back, a 4H float, convertible sports cars, and a pickup emblazoned with giant Rotary Club banners and a mountain of candy in the back. The Shriners’ go-karts were spread out all over the street as if the men had all gotten bored at the same time and left the karts wherever they felt like it.

They got closer to the park and saw the reason for the traffic jam; the giant combine angled against a line of antique vehicles, the trailer behind it sideways, the load of ears of corns spilled across the entire street.

“I don’t know if you want to drive over that or not,” Sandy said. Her voice sounded distant and hollow behind the mask.

Purcell threw the gearshift into neutral. “Suits me.” He killed the engine, and for the first time, they all could hear how truly quiet the town had become. Sandy and Purcell got out. Purcell went to the front of the pickup and dragged the toe of his boot through the gray dust that coated the pavement.

“Y’all gonna let us in on what the hell’s happening?” Charlie asked from the pickup bed.

“Chief here says Allagro went and built themselves a corn seed with built-in pest control, some kind of super fungus,” Purcell said. “Doesn’t look like it worked out like they wanted. Now keep your mouth shut and eyes open.”

“Okay. But what are we looking for? Nothin’s here.”

“Awfully sure of yourself, ain’t you?”

Charlie rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut.

“Supposedly this fungus’ll infect you one of two ways,” Purcell continued. “Breathing the spores, which is why we’re wearing the masks, or… something else. Make sure you’re loaded. Mind you, I want those safeties on, boys.” He pulled one of the SPAS-15s out of the cab, checked the clip, and slammed it back into the shotgun. He turned to Sandy. “Well, you got us in town, armed to the teeth, and ready to rock and roll. What’s the plan?”

Sandy turned in a slow circle. “I don’t know.” The reality that everyone in town was missing was starting to sink in, ripping her apart a tiny bit at a time. The utter hopelessness she had been fighting against was creeping through her defenses like cold, skeletal fingers clutching a balloon, tighter and tighter. Eventually, it was going to pop. “I just don’t know.”

Everyone had simply vanished. She saw how people had abandoned their seats, leaving everything behind. Food, cans of soda, sparklers, little American flags, ice chests full of beer. She walked over to the curb, found an open purse. After lifting the bottom with her boot and spilling the contents into the grass, she saw credit cards, even cash. She turned back to see all four of the Fitzgimmon men watching her.

She went back and grabbed the second SPAS-15 and started up the street without saying a word. She was afraid if she started talking, started trying to explain, to work it out in her head, she would be forced to the conclusion that everyone along the parade had been overcome with the spores. Including Kevin. She couldn’t face that, not yet.

She avoided the corn and picked her way along the curb around the combine crash, stopping just long enough to get a good look at the gray, slimy mess in the cab, then continued searching for clues all the way to the temporary stage at the edge of the park. Purcell and Charlie followed at a distance, using the barrels of their shotguns to move overturned chairs and crumpled blankets.

A distant thumping made them look up. Possibly a helicopter. They couldn’t see anything but a cloudless blue sky. The sound evaporated and died in the stillness. They went back to the search.

She spotted a small gym shoe and her breathing seized up, but it was too small to fit Kevin. She didn’t want to think about the child that had been wearing it. It was too much, and she was worried if she broke down crying in front of the Fitzgimmons they might decide they’d had enough and leave.

She stopped and looked back to the combine, shielding her face mask against the late afternoon sun. She assumed it had been Bob Morton who had driven the combine through the parade and crashed into the cars. From what Cochran had said, the corn Bob Jr. had sent had mostly likely infected his father. And then Bob Sr. had gone and dragged a trailer full of death straight into town and dumped it in everybody’s laps. The spores had done their job, and then…