Seed of Evil

by Greig Beck

  “The first creatures who moved on their bellies could not at first see so the Great Spirit gave them eyes and then told them to stay awake for seven days and nights, but most of them could not do this.

  “However, the plants that stayed awake were able to stay green all year, and the forest grew mighty. But there was no sound of voices raised in anger, or war, or even love. There were no cities, no tribes, no kingdoms. But there was a god.

  “The great forests now covered the land from one side of the country to the other. And from that great early forest, there was one who rose up—not man or animal or fish, but something far older with an intelligence as old as time itself.

  “It watched with its eternal eyes the changing of time. It saw the animals turn from scale to fur, and then watched as they rose up on two legs. It approved, because it needed them all. This great god as old as time needed its servants.”

  “Adotte Sakima,” Greg said.

  Nightbird nodded but didn’t open his eyes. “But at first the tree god cared not about its servants. They were impure and needed to be changed. So, it did that. Changed them.

  “But the great spirit was not happy with the tree god changing what it had created. So, he banished the Adotte Sakima.”

  “Where? Where was it banished to?” Mitch asked. “In the mine?”

  “It is everywhere.” Nightbird finally opened his eyes. “These remnants of the servants that have been found are all over the country.”

  “So, there could be more than one of them?” Mitch asked.

  “Or maybe just one but some sort of giant,” Greg added. “There’s something called a honey fungus that measured two and a half miles across up in the Blue Mountains in Oregon. It’s thought to be the largest living organism on Earth. Maybe it’s like this.”

  “Maybe there was many, and maybe there is only one. But even one is too many,” Nightbird said. “The Adotte Sakima is not a benign god.”

  “Well god or not, there’s something weird in that water,” Mitch replied. “I did a search on some microscopic flora I found in the sample I took, and it linked to something very ancient. The Museum at the University of Zürich had found plant spores that dated back a quarter of a billion years—they were a perfect match.”

  “It’s that old? Impossible.” Greg shook his head.

  “That’s nothing,” Mitch replied. “There was a microscopic seed in the water sample that seemed to match with some of the first seed-bearing plants dating back to the Devonian Period—400 million years ago.”

  “Primordial,” Greg scoffed. “What’s it doing here? Now?”

  “Adotte Sakima does not live by our rules of lifespans of living or dying,” Nightbird scoffed. “Anyway, like I said, finally the great spirit had enough of this upstart god and banished it from the land.” Nightbird turned. “Banished, but not vanquished.”

  The old man lapsed into silence.

  “Whoa.” Greg nodded. “That’s some legend.”

  Nightbird snorted. “And if it was just a legend, you two wouldn’t be here, right?”

  Mitch and Greg looked at each other, knowing he was right.

  “So?” The old Native American turned to Mitch.

  “So, what happened last time? How did you stop it?” he asked. “I know that the CDC took many of the infected people away, but how did they stop more infected people turning up in the community? What did they do?”

  “They didn’t do anything, but you want me to tell you what happened?” Nightbird lifted his chin.

  “Sure, we need to know,” Greg replied. “You were the guy on the ground back then.”

  “They didn’t do anything because they didn’t have to do anything.” He chuckled. “The old Otoe in me says that Adotte Sakima was sated, and maybe had enough servants, and enough meat in his larder, to last him a while. So, the curse of the tree god was lifted.” He nodded. “That would fit with the legend.”

  “And what would the modern Otoe say, the one who fixes cars and sits on the council?” Mitch asked.

  “He’d say the mine dried up, and then so did the curse.” Nightbird turned to look at both men.

  Mitch nodded. “It all comes back to the mine.”

  “Maybe not just the mine,” Nightbird said. “That’s just its highway. Something down there—maybe it’s a tree god, and maybe it’s something else entirely. But one thing I know—wherever that water comes from is a bad place.”

  Greg exhaled. “Just great. Every pothole, every crevice, or cave is a potential contamination transmission site.”

  “It’d be a good start though,” Nightbird responded. “I told them to close the mine back in the seventies. But the powers that be decided that if there ever was demand for limestone, then a mine that was pre-dug was too valuable to destroy. Money won out.”

  Mitch nodded. “So, they just put a fence around it and hung a few warning signs.”

  Nightbird started to laugh corrosively. “Yeah, you guys love the almighty dollar. Always comes first.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mitch replied.

  “Fair?” Nightbird scoffed. “You’re talking to an old guy sitting on a reservation…on a postage stamp of land when all of it belonged to us in the past.”

  Mitch rubbed hands up through his hair and sighed. “Didn’t come here for the politics, Mr. Nightbird, I came here for help to save people’s lives. Adults and kids’ lives.”

  Nightbird nodded for a moment with his mouth turned down. “You seem like good people, so I’ll tell you a secret: the town leader erected a fence, but before they did, I performed a barrier ceremony.” He looked up into their faces. “Make no mistake, when I said this thing was a curse, I meant it. Science alone is not the answer here.”

  Mitch bobbed his head, not really believing him. He faced the old man. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  The Native American turned and saw the skepticism on Mitch’s face. “Don’t always trust your science, city boy.” He seemed to think for a moment. “And yeah, one last thing—stay the hell out of the mine if you know what’s good for you.”

  “But you just got through telling us that’s the source of all our problems.” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “What’s really down there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been deep down there and never will. But whether it’s Adotte Sakima or just a pool of bad water, I think you should stay a mile away.” Nightbird drained his beer. “Those statues of petrified people…when I was young, I asked the elders for advice about them. They told me that some of the servants of Adotte who refused to serve are immediately turned to stone. And the others are altered to be more in the image of their god.”

  Greg half-turned to his friend. “They were transforming—remember my DNA analysis?”

  “Yep.” Mitch nodded.

  “Did you cut yours open?” Nightbird asked.

  “I don’t know whether they did or not,” Greg replied.

  “The team here did an autopsy back in the day. Guess what they found inside some of those changed kids? I’ll tell you—bones, flesh, and some of it human flesh.” Nightbird shrugged. “I’m betting I know what it took to be a faithful servant of the tree god.”

  “Cannibalism.” Greg looked away.

  “A freaking nightmare.” Mitch leaned his head back against the wood.

  “But it stops when the mine pond drains? That’s what happened last time, right?” Greg asked.

  “As far as I can remember, it was about then, give or take,” Nightbird replied.

  “So, the strategy seems to be to keep people away from the mine when it has water in it. We lobby the town council to close the mine, permanently—by public health order. We get them to brick it up.” Mitch turned to Greg. “That should keep the town safe. Then, if the mine can’t flood to the surface, there’ll be no contamination.”

  “And if there are other areas where it wells up?” Nightbird raised one silver eyebrow.

  “We close them off as well. Maybe we bring in a geo
logist to advise us,” Mitch added. “I’m pretty sure they can do some sort of underground scanning to map the limestone cave network these days? We locate all the entrances and we close ‘em one at a time. We stop the infection rate in its tracks.”

  Greg nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Nightbird chuckled. “I feel I’m right back in the seventies listening to those fat cats on the council board.” He stood. “Well, you sharp-shooters don’t need me. You guys have got this under control. Just like last time.”

  “What’s the problem?” Greg asked.

  “You forgot the curse. You can seal the mine, or just wait it out. But it’ll come back. It’ll find a way.” Nightbird meshed his fingers and rested them on his stomach. “It always does.”

  “Well, would you like to make any suggestions?” Mitch forced a smile.

  “I could probably lift the curse. Maybe. But it would have to be on a consultancy basis.” Nightbird half-smiled.

  Greg grinned. “Here it comes.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite—how much consultancy?” Mitch asked.

  “Five hundred per day.” The Native American’s lined face was deadpan.

  “Can’t afford that,” Mitch said. “I’m not representing the town council, I’m just the local doctor trying to help.”

  “Make it 300, then.” Nightbird turned to him.

  “This is not a negotiation session. I just can’t afford it, full stop,” Mitch scoffed. “And I definitely can’t afford to pay you to perform some sort of spiritual cleansing ceremony, when I think it’s science that is the answer.”

  “Cleansing ceremony was extra. I was proposing a barrier ceremony.” Nightbird laughed softly. “I can tell you gentlemen aren’t ready to believe just yet. But you will be soon.” He stood and used a hand to dust his old jeans off. “So, you just keep kicking the can down the road. And pray you don’t hit a wall.”

  Mitch also got to his feet. “Thank you for talking to us.” Mitch stepped off the porch. “Good luck with everything.”

  “And all luck and goodwill to you and Eldon. You’ll need it.” Nightbird nodded once and then went into his small house.

  Greg followed Mitch off the deck. “How’s the confidence level now?”

  “On a scale of one to ten?” Mitch grinned. “About a two.”

  “Two?” Greg laughed. “I love an optimist.”

  PART 3 – RISE OF THE OLD GOD

  CHAPTER 24

  Eldon Sparkling Mineral Water Company, Eldon

  “Shut the fuck up.” Harry Reith glared at the dog.

  The small mound of perfumed hair with the pink bow on its head was going bananas and hadn’t stopped its yapping for half an hour.

  “I can’t friggen think straight—what’s the matter with you?” Harry dipped his hand into the bag of Fancy Boy treats and dropped a bright red bone-shaped biscuit onto the carpet.

  Pompom sniffed at it, then looked up at him with those tiny, black, button eyes and backed away from it. And then the yapping started again.

  Harry Reith groaned and scratched his arm. It was itchy as hell, same as his back. He rolled his sleeve up and saw the rash; it was an odd pebbly thing, more brown than angry red. Trailing his fingers over it, it felt hard to the touch, like he had spilled something on himself.

  He grimaced as a bolt of pain ran through his head, and for a moment, he thought he could hear music, or a lullaby, but coming from inside his head, not outside of it.

  As a final insult to his body, his throat also felt like it was full of dry thorns and he grabbed the open bottle of his Eldon Spring Water—Super Health Tonic. He drank it down, and it at least calmed the prickly fire in his throat.

  He winced as his stomach grumbled. Jesus, he was hungry, again, and all the time now. But lately, the snacks he had been having just didn’t seem to fill him up or were never what his stomach really wanted.

  He looked at the bag of Fancy Boy treats and leaned closer to read the small print—high protein and made from real beef extract. He dipped his hand in and drew out a biscuit in the shape of a cat. He sniffed it and then tossed it into his mouth. It was dry and tasted like old bone marrow. But still not what he really wanted.

  Harry grimaced as Pompom’s mad barking drew his head around. He stared at the dog for several minutes. As Harry stared trance-like, his mouth began to water and his stomach growled loudly as if agreeing with what he was thinking.

  He carefully dipped one hand into the bag of biscuits, grabbing several, and then got down on his knees to hold out the handful of treats.

  “Come on, Pompom. I’ve got something for you.” Harry Reith licked his lips as the dog approached.

  CHAPTER 25

  On their return, Mitch showed Greg into his practicing rooms with Shelly in close pursuit. He’d introduced her to him, and it seemed she had a new favorite almost immediately.

  Mitch went to shut the door but Shelly held onto it, sticking her head around inside.

  “Can I do anything for you? Pretty quiet out here.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Just coffee, large, and hold all appointments this morning,” Mitch replied.

  “Okay.” Her eyes went to Greg. “Sugar?”

  “It’s Greg, actually.” He grinned.

  Mitch groaned as Shelly giggled.

  Greg shook his head. “Just black.”

  Shelly crinkled her nose at him and withdrew.

  Mitch waited for the door to close and then turned to his friend. “Finished?”

  Greg waggled his eyebrows. “I’ve still got it.”

  “Okay, Romeo, suit up and come this way. I want to show you something.” Mitch led him into the second room with the single, long cadaver refrigerator. The pair put on hospital-grade smocks and gloves, as well as paper masks. He then opened the solid steel door, pulled the table out, and flipped back the sheet revealing Buford, Harlen Bimford’s hound.

  “Holy shit.” Greg’s eyes widened above his mask.

  “Was a dog once,” Mitch said. He picked up a surgical probe and indicted the wound. “You can see inside that even the organs had begun to, I don’t know, petrify.” He looked across at his friend. “Or transition, as you suggested.”

  “So, this is what happens at the macro and cellular level.” Greg leaned closer, then reached up to turn on a lamp that shone down into the ragged gunshot wound.

  He took the probe from Mitch and began to examine the organs that Mitch hadn’t yet removed during the autopsy. “It’s impossible. There is no contagion, bacteria, virus, fungus, or anything I know that would generate organic changes on this level.”

  “Or so rapidly,” Mitch replied. “It doesn’t make sense on any medical or biological level.”

  Greg looked up, his brows raised, and Mitch held up a hand. “Don’t you say it…”

  “Curse.” Greg grinned. “Maybe it is. And we should keep an open mind.”

  “No, this is not the dark ages,” Mitch chuckled. “We’ve got enough weirdness going on without leaning in to the mystical.”

  “Really?” Greg looked back down into the dog’s open chest. “Ever hear of Chief Tecumseh?”

  “Nope.” Mitch leaned closer as Greg moved aside the dog’s heart that was like a lump of teak. “But I got a feeling I’m about to.”

  “Yep, Tecumseh was a Native American leader who cursed William Henry Harrison after Harrison’s troops emerged victorious at the Battle of Tippecanoe. Ever since Harrison became president in 1840, every person elected to the office in 20-year intervals has died while serving as president.” He turned to Mitch. “Harrison died of pneumonia after just one month in office. Abraham Lincoln, elected in 1860, was assassinated, as were James A. Garfield, 1880, and William McKinley, 1900. Both Warren G. Harding, 1920, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, 1940, died of natural causes in office, while John F. Kennedy, 1960, was assassinated. But Ronald Reagan, elected in 1980 and who was the target of an assassin’s bullet in 1981, survived. Some say it was that missed event that finally broke th
e curse. And the spirit of Tecumseh was finally avenged.”

  “Well, someone has been doing their homework.” Mitch reached up to turn the light to shine it on Greg’s face.

  Greg shrugged. “I know stuff.” He pointed the light back down.

  “It’s not helping,” Mitch replied. “And please don’t mention Tutankhamun’s tomb and the death-comes-on-swift-wings curse.”

  “Damn, that was next.” Greg straightened and put the probe down. “This thing should not have been living. But you said the sheriff shot it.”

  “Not the sheriff—Harlen Bimford, the owner. It was his faithful ole hound, Buford. Somehow, it was transformed into this and attacked him, who it loved. And was very much alive.” Mitch backed up a step and took his mask off.

  “Can’t imagine how it functioned. And we have no idea how it got infected,” Greg replied.

  “I think I do. In its gut, I found trace samples of the mine’s water flora. He must have drunk some. Or maybe he swam in the water up at the mine and ingested some or it was absorbed through his skin. That’s all I can think of,” Mitch replied. “Dump your scrubs here. Got something else to show any doubting Thomas on whether this thing was alive when it was shot.”

  Greg did as asked then Mitch led the military researcher into the next room and headed to a large square covered over with a blanket.

  “I give you Willard.” Mitch pulled the blanket away and watched Greg’s face for a reaction.

  Greg stared for a moment and then his eyes flicked to Mitch. “And?”

  Mitch turned to look into the cage—it was empty, and the bars were pulled in, making a hole in one corner.

  “Is it invisible?” Greg asked.

  “No, but it’s damned gone.” He cursed again as he threw the blanket down on top of the cage. “I fed a rat I caught some of the mine water and it began to change within a few hours. It was becoming just like the dog.”

  “The faithful old dog that attacked its owner?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

  “Shelly?” Mitch called.

  She appeared, looked around, and pointed to the two coffees that had been waiting for them. Her brows came together. “It’s probably cold now. Want some more?”