Pounding punctuates Wanda’s screams of rage: it sounds
like she’s kicking the door of the borrowed car. But before I can do anything
about it, several battered vehicles screech to a halt on the other side of the
knot of smashed cars.
My dad and a
bunch of guys I don’t recognise – all looking pretty beat up – jump out of the
vehicles. They survey the scene, and I turn back to see what’s happening.
The plants have
stopped attacking: I can feel Gran keeping them at bay with her will, but I can
also feel their hunger and aggression intensifying. Even she won’t be able to
hold them off for long.
At least now
that we have reinforcements, we have a chance of winning when they attack
again. We should be finishing them off now, but I can tell everyone is
exhausted. They’re just grateful for a chance to catch their breath.
I’d never seen a
real flamethrower before today. Now there are ten or more, and the guys with my
dad are adjusting them and getting ready to go in for the kill.
The screams and thumps
coming from the car intensify.
The plants
rustle and shuffle in place, and I know they’re getting ready to move again.
There’s no more avoiding it – Gran is going to die. I mean, she’s already kind
of gone, what with being a carnivorous plant and all, but I can still feel a
tiny spark of who she was underneath the confusion and hunger.
That’s about to
go out forever.
Because however
much I love her, I can’t choose my Gran over the entire human race – and at the
rate these things multiply and feed, that’s what it would come down to in the
end. I look up at her, and it’s impossible to tell that she was ever human.
I don’t even
know how she sees, but I can feel her attention on me anyway, and across the
wrecked cars and the blood and the flames we understand each other perfectly.
This is goodbye.
I lift the spray
nozzle of my canister and square my shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,”
I whisper, and I realise I’m saying it to all of them. If only things could be
different. If only they could walk among us peacefully. It’s the same old
problem we have everywhere: why can’t we all just get along?
For as long as
they’ve existed, plants have managed to stay put, work together, and live
harmoniously with their environment. Give them human DNA and BOOM, they’re
homicidal monsters. Too bad we can’t flame that part of our nature away like we
can flame these plants.
Just as I’m
getting ready to flip the switch and advance on the last of my brother’s
creations, I’m tackled from the side by a snarling someone. It’s Wanda…and she’s
transitioning into one of them. But she’s still human enough to speak, and as
we hit the ground she says…
“Sorry sweetie,
but if I want to save my ass I have to bring you and your brother into the
labs.”
So I was right
not to trust her. Too bad the plant infection made her strong enough to break
my makeshift restraints. She clearly doesn’t realise that her ass is already
grass – almost literally.
Jamie appears in
the periphery of my blurred vision, and Wanda leaps off me to grab him by the
arm. She’s strong all right – he can’t break her grip on his wrist, and she
drags him toward me while he struggles. She grasps my arm with her free hand
before I can even think of finding the nozzle and spraying her.
She seems
somehow like an enhanced version of the mutant plants – are they evolving
already, or has Wanda been partaking of something else at the labs?
“Come on Wanda,
you’re not totally gone yet,” Jamie says. “You’re infected but you don’t have
to do this! We can cure you, just let us…”
She snarls at
him and squeezes his wrist. His face goes dead-white as she twists, and I hear
a sickening crack. My stomach heaves, but it’s been so long since I ate there’s
nothing to throw up. Jamie stops talking, and Wanda starts dragging us toward
the car.
No one else notices
– they’re all too busy taking down the plants, which are starting to fight back
in spite of Gran’s efforts.
Wanda yanks on
Jamie’s fragile arm…and my brother faints. She starts toward the car again, but
suddenly lurches forward and stumbles into the car, letting go of Jamie and me.
The jerking motion knocks me to my knees.
I’ve been
running on adrenaline for hours, and as I lie on the ground panting I think
maybe I’d like to just be eaten and get it over with. But I look up, and I see
Gran standing over Wanda…or what’s left of her.
There are a few
Wanda pieces on the ground, and plant-Gran has blood all over her leaves. I
stare at the vibrant red on green, like the sickest Christmas ever. I heave
again, but of course nothing comes up. My mouth tastes unbelievably foul.
“Gran,” I sob,
and she shuffles toward me. I should be afraid, I should run, but I can feel
her mind, her intentions, and in spite of the gore all over her I know she
won’t hurt me. She stands over me, and a tendril of green spirals from among
the vines to brush against my cheek.
Then I hear her
calling all the plants to her, and I know what is coming next.
It’s not a word,
exactly, but as all the lumbering plant-things converge on Gran, I hear it: now.
I stumble to my
feet. All the fighting has stopped, and the humans are standing there panting,
with expressions on their faces that say they know they’ve barely-escaped
death.
A few feet from
me is a puddle of blood with bits of flesh and bone in it. In the centre of the
puddle is an abandoned flame weeder like we used on the brick walkways at
Gran’s house. Swallowing against the nausea, I grab the flame weeder, twist the
propane up as high as it will go, and turn.
“Now,” I
scream…and everyone looks confused. How exasperating. They’re supposed to be
adults.
“Burn them!” I
yell. They should be able to understand that.
“But honey,” my
mom says. “Your Gran-”
“I KNOW!” I
scream. I turn my back on my mother and start flaming the plants nearest me. I
hear them scream as their foliage curls and blackens.
The other plants
move closer to me, and finally everyone else joins in.
Within minutes
the disaster has been reduced to a pile of ash, blowing in an errant breeze.
I can finally
collapse.
*
It’s a week before any of us feels strong enough to have a funeral for Gran. We’ve spent the days since our victory rounding up all the survivors and pooling our resources of bottled water and canned food. The soil and water are poisoned by all the gallons of herbicide required to kill off the plant-things.
A few doctors
and nurses survived, and the hospital wasn’t too badly damaged: Jamie’s broken
arm is set, and in a cast, and all the other injuries were treated
successfully. Those of us who survived are lucky we won’t die of untreated
wounds and blood loss.
So far we’ve
managed to keep reporters away by crying infectious
disease. But sooner or later we’re going to have to leave. Sooner or later
we’re going to have to account for all the dead – dead whose bodies are
missing. And we just don’t know what to do about that.
Gran doesn’t
have a body to bury either – it’s all just ash. There’s ash everywhere, ash and
poison and bloodstains. Birds and fish are dying, the trees and grass are
dying, from all the poison. We have to go.
As we stand at
Gran’s funeral, I can see on everyone’s faces they think it’s over. And maybe
it’s over for them.
But not for me.
Because as I stand here with the sun shining on me, I hear them. I can hear all
of the un-mutated plants. And they’re suffering.
Whatever
happened to me when I was one of the plant-things has changed me forever.
The minister’s
wife finishes her final prayer and we all walk away from the marker we’ve
placed for Gran, even though there’s no body to bury.
When we get back
to Gran’s house, the sounds of suffering from her garden are more than I can
bear. I go to the shed and find our old flame weeder. There’s plenty of propane
in the tank to finish the garden off. Somehow it’s louder than all the other
green places, and I can’t take it any more. I’ll burn it to the ground and then
till the soil.
As I’m picking
my way through the rakes and shovels, I trip and fall full-length on the hard
floor of the shed. Gardening implements rattle and fall around me, and my hand
slides across something sharp. I feel my flesh slice open and remember the
horrible incident with the knives – Jamie and Wanda bleeding the poison out of
me.
I force myself
to breathe. I force myself to stand up. I kick my way out of the shed,
determined to finish this mission before I do anything about my hand. And
anyway, what’s a little more blood on the leaves?
I drop the flame
weeder at the edge of the garden. I want to say goodbye, since I know the
plants will understand me now. Maybe one day this new ability I have will seem
like a gift.
I touch a
rosemary bush with my bloody hand. Red smears over the foliage, and flashbacks
of Wanda’s blood all over plant-Gran make me gag a little bit.
“I’m so sorry,”
I say – just like before, and I wonder how many more times in my life I’ll have
to apologise to plants I’m getting ready to kill.
I’m reaching for
the flame weeder when I feel it. There’s a shift in the sound the rosemary
makes in my head. It’s like…relief. I turn back to look at the plant.
My blood has vanished,
as though the plant soaked it up. Or drank it.
Either I’m
hallucinating or the leaves that were starting to wither and blacken are
brightening before my eyes.
My tongue sticks
to the roof of my mouth and the hairs on the back of my neck lift. What if it’s
beginning all over again? What if Gran’s garden goes all horror-show on me?
But the good
vibes I feel coming from the rosemary reassure me. It doesn’t feel anything
like the evil plant creations, it’s not turning gold, and it’s not moving or
growing at an alarming rate.
Maybe plant
telepathy isn’t the only gift of being turned into a monster, being bled
half-to-death, and having to kill my Gran. Maybe the change in my blood can
save Gran’s garden, and the rest of our town.
And I just
happen to have a NOT-SO-EVIL GENIUS brother to help me figure it out.
I yell for Jamie.
***************
AFTERWORD. RLL.
So what next for the blog novel after I wrote chapter five? I added a comment to the chapter six contributor’s blog, when Cat Woods took up the baton. Here’s what I had to say about the creative process…
*
Thoughts on BLOGVEL. Everything and nothing is set up in chapter one. I looked for big details, small details, and lack of detail.
As the story
unfolds, detail seeps in. Minor characters may become major, or might never
appear again. Friends. Colleagues. Relatives. Also, beware assumed characters
not mentioned – the guy across the street. There’s a street? And a
curtain-twitcher, you say?
Provided J. Lea
Lopez didn’t introduce him first, I’d write about the brother. In the closing
line of chapter four, we glimpsed the mother. So I was free to work my devilish
ways.
What was the
story about? Horror? Mad science? Alien invasion? All three? None of the above?
My main concern was evil. Not depicting evil in the story. No. My own act of
evil – breaking the chain of first person narration.
I did this with
the integrity of the story at heart. It was essential that I explain the reason
for that earlier narration – a diary – while leaving other authors the option
to return there with further diary thoughts later.
Third person
narration provided the opporchancity to get into the mad scientist’s thoughts.
The challenges are the same for everyone. Write your section to a deadline.
Make sure it works on its own terms and in general terms. Add a little or add a
lot. Maintain atmosphere, no matter how much you add.
I backtracked in
time to show that Jess was running from Wanda. Wanda didn’t exist until I
decided the story needed a Wanda. If the brother came in, he required a
conversation partner. A woman who might be cruelly sacrificed once my chapter
was over. That’s the game we play, writing serially.
Michelle may
have yearned for a plant-based alien invasion in chapter one. Hard to say. I
left it vague. She has to wrap it up, after all. I painted my section of the
floor. Later authors have less blank space, forcing a degree of creativity that
generates just as fiendish a challenge as the challenge faced by earlier
contributors. We kickstart the engine. You avoid driving into the wall.
Was there a
surprise in Cat’s chapter? The addition of hyperlinks, which I didn’t expect.
Those of you looking for a bit of romance may have been thwarted by the
addition of a flirting tree. That made me think of Wanda bursting in from
nowhere, with a flamethrower. Sigourney Weaver. Get away from my man, you bitch! Ah well, perhaps not.
Everyone is
hanging in there, and no one has introduced a dinosaur – yet. It isn’t all a
dream. Cat continued with a throwaway concept of mine – contamination. All
those later contributors are squeezing ideas out of their brains, hoping the
whole thing makes sense on the day. Be yourselves. If you struggle, struggle
because you are having trouble keeping it down to 2,500 words. My initial
effort was bang-on. But I had to edit for consistency, and added roughly 100
words. Oops. Michelle didn’t sack me for that.
*
My blog posts run a minimum of 1,500 words. The challenge with this story was to stick to Michelle’s limit of 2,500. Where did the story go, after my chapter? In and out of the woods. The tale was written, for the most part, by women. And what a bloodthirsty lot those women were.
I’m not in a position to name
Vanderkarr names, or single any one Kacey out. However, the ladies had a thing
for indiscriminate slaughter.
Kacey dragged me to the community
writing stall, and I showed willing. It was another strange experiment. The
jury is still out on its usefulness to me. An evening’s writing, throwing
things together based on material by four other authors, was great fun. I guess
I should leave things at that.
