“Katie!”
Catching my breath, I saw he was pointing off to one side.
Behind some ferns that used to be one foot tall and were now way over my head, I could see a large green bush. Bearing wild strawberries. But not like any I’d ever seen. The smallest of these were the size of my fist. Barely breathing, we walked very slowly toward it.
There were many new buds. Others were still green. Others were completely ripe. You could smell how full grown, perfect, and inviting they were. Many had been pecked by birds. We could also tell that more than a few had been picked recently.
The Documentarian. . .
From careful investigation by authorities plus statements of close family and friends who knew her habits well, the following can be deduced. In Granny Gertrude Wells’s homey, pine-paneled farm kitchen, which always smelled enticingly of vanilla and almond extract, she would likely have been humming her favorite classic, I’ll Be Seeing You. It had been “their song,” hers and the late George Wells’s. As she finished slicing up the many pounds of large strawberries she’d picked in the strangely evolved forest garden, she would have scraped the stems and remnants into her zinc garbage pail, carried it out across the screened back porch, and down the three old wooden steps toward the chicken yard.
“Here, chick, chick, chick,” she always called out with her squeaky voice. “Tammy? Garth? Shania? Got some goodies for y’all.” She would have dipped her hand into the pail and scattered the scraps on the ground. The chickens would have scurried up and eagerly begun eating the strawberry remnants.
Shelly Navarro. . .
In my classroom that Monday afternoon, I’d thankfully finished my last class and was watching the annoying tenth graders depart. A very troubled-looking Katie McLane was the last of them. I rarely reached out to any student, preferring the arm’s-length rule of teaching. But Katie was one of the few I even slightly liked, so I beckoned to her. “Katie? What’s going on with your quiz scores dropping?” Katie paused, her eyes downcast as I continued, “Your attention’s seemed off lately.”
She looked up, then her gaze drifted across the classroom, but she seemed to be looking somewhere beyond it. Finally I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it. Just take it as a warning, so when the finals come—”
“It’s Lisa.”
That got my attention, because of the changes I’d noticed first in her older sister and now many other seniors. “What about Lisa?”
“She’s . . . different.”
“Yes.” My eyebrows went up, emphatically. “She’s started doing some amazing work. A lot of her classmates, too.” I grinned. “Like they took smart pills or something.”
Katie glanced up at me. “Yeah. But it’s more than that. She’s not as, I don’t know. Nice.” Her brow knit deeply. “She’s not nice at all. She’s done some bad things.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said, straightening the assignments that the class had just turned in. “But another teacher also noticed a steep improvement in their scholastic abilities. Along with a sharper edge to many of them. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yes.” Katie looked up at me. Then hesitantly asked, “Could it be from something they ate?”
I laughed. “Well, I hardly think so.” But I saw she was dead serious. “Why? What do you mean?”
Katie gazed at me for a long moment, as though she was carefully weighing how much to reveal to me.
Katie McLane. . .
It was an hour before sunset, when the late afternoon sunlight takes on those warmest colors and casts a sorta golden glow over everything. That made the spectacular garden at the swimming hole look even more miraculous as I led Ms. Navarro to it. She was as staggered as Darren and I’d been. Her eyes darted from one large thriving plant to the next. She musta known way more than me that something really strange had taken place.
“Lisa and Charley have always come here,” I told her. “Me and Darren, too. But it never looked like this. Not a couple months ago, not ever.”
Ms. Navarro seemed enthralled. Her voice was very low. “I dare say.” She walked slowly and carefully, letting her fingers graze over the fascinating plants. “The trees and plants outside of this radius—”
“Are the same as usual. I know,” I said. “That’s why it’s so weird.”
“It seems way beyond that, Kate,” she said studying them. “It’s like these central plants have all somehow undergone a”—she inspected one very closely—“sort of hyperadaptation.”
“A what?”
“A major alteration—from their normal state into better, hardier, more prolific versions of themselves. Perhaps even creating new, stronger strains.”
“Not all of them.” I pointed out some that had withered. “See these over here? Looks like some got choked out by the others.”
She knelt, examining the bedraggled, dying plants, nodding, saying quietly, “Survival of the fittest.” She looked around and drew an awestruck breath. “Let’s see if we can find the center.”
I led her to the lushest area of growth. Beside the pond. She nodded. “Yeah. About here, huh?” She scanned around, noticed something, and dug down through the thick foliage. I watched her lift out a black, mottled, deeply pocked stone about the size of a softball.
I leaned in for a closer look. “Is that a meteorite?”
“Might well be.” Ms. Navarro hefted it in her hand. “Definitely heavy metal, probably nickel or iron.”
“One of those that came down from the comet?”
She turned it over in her hands, then she slowly looked at all the thick, rich vegetation around us. She seemed sorta lost in thought. “I’d say that’s a possible hypothesis.”
I pondered it all for a moment and whether I should say anymore. Finally I did. “There’s something else.” I guided her to where the extralarge wild strawberries were growing. There were a couple of crows and other birds pecking at the fruit. They scattered and flapped away as we got closer.
“Good God,” Ms. Navarro said, kind of excited, almost laughing. “I have never . . .”
“Be careful. I think that this is what they ate.”
“Who?”
“Lisa. Charley. The others.”
Ms. Navarro picked one of the deep red berries. “And then they were smarter?”
“Seemed like it, yeah. I mean, Lisa was suddenly breezing through her homework at like a thousand miles an hour, but . . .” I was very uncomfortable talking about it. “They were also real different, like I said. Definitely not as nice.”
“Nice?” She was sniffing the fragrance of the huge strawberry.
“Yeah. Not being fair, caring about others. Just plain meaner. The football team got really superviolent.”
She nodded, thinking. “I heard those games had gotten pretty rough.”
“They were a lot worse than rough. And both the boys—and the girls—have really hurt each other. And that bus crash may not have been an accident. It might’ve been because—”
“Well, Katie, my girl,” she interrupted, sort of shutting me down as she looked around again at the surrounding beauty of the amazing garden, and blew out a breath. “This is all pretty hard to fathom, but we’re gonna get to the bottom of it. Help me gather some samples.”
Then she picked another strawberry.
Ashton High School Security Cam Rm 042, Digital Archive File TC50786RW
Date: 09/14/20 Time: 23:09:50 (Median)
Transcript by: C. Davis
Visual Desc: The room is empty except for science teacher Shelly L. Navarro, who can be seen sitting alone at one of the black laboratory tables in the biology classroom #42. A small gooseneck lamp illuminates her work. Several reference books are open on the table as well as her laptop. She uses a binocular microscope to study what appear to be leaves and shoots of some green plant. Nearby on the table is what seems to be a black rock approximately the size of a small grapefruit. There is also a four-liter laboratory vessel co
ntaining what appears to be some type of large reddish vegetable or fruit. Navarro remains working in this position for three hours and thirty-seven minutes (3:37).
Courtesy GSP, FBI
Shelly Navarro. . .
I hadn’t felt this energized and enthusiastic about anything in years. I was puzzling over the incredible material, fascinated. Among many details I spoke into my microrecorder was: “So the overall summary would seem to be as follows. While the cellular structure is generally consistent with previously known flora, the cell walls are much more densely organized. The entire organism from root through stem to fruit seems to have become far more efficient than samples I gathered from unaffected plants a hundred yards away. All the affected plants are noticeably improved and apparently vastly advanced in photosynthetic abilities. The meteorite being in central proximity to the expansive growth suggests that some bacteriological or viral variant was brought to Earth in a fragment of the comet and has triggered this bizarre hyperadaptation of the flora—which seems a parallel to my students whose native intelligence actually appears to have been dramatically boosted after eating the . . .”
My voice trailed off to silence as I looked across the table at the strawberries. I stared at them for the longest time. Speculating.
12
HYPOTHESIS
Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .
I’d brought something to show Susan, but when she opened her condo door that September night, I was startled to see that her eyes were very bloodshot, her light makeup completely washed away because she’d been seriously crying. I felt real awkward. “Oh. I’m sorry. I shoulda called. What’s wrong?”
Her voice was choked. “Prashant. Mostly.” She was struggling to hold back tears. “He shouldn’t have died. He—”
I felt terrible. Took a step back. “Look, this . . . can absolutely wait. I’ll just—”
“No.” She caught my sleeve. I noticed a near-empty wineglass in her other hand. I’d never seen her touch a drop. We just stood there. Looking into each other’s eyes. A tear escaped down her cheek.
I spoke quietly, “You said . . . ‘mostly’?”
She nodded, her quiet voice strained. “Prashant’s death stirred up . . . other losses, too.”
I understood, whispered, “Yeah. I’ve sure had that happen.” I opened my hands a little, offering a hug if she needed one. She did lean in, and we held each other. Her cheek was against my chest. I sighed, thinking of my late wife, and said softly, “I’ve had it come onto me like a sudden storm sweeps over the prairie. Sometimes it just wells up outta nowhere, huh?” Susan looked up into my eyes, her face very close. We were kindred spirits.
I think that’s why the kiss happened. Life seeking life.
Jimmy-Joe Hartman. . .
Walkin’ up toward Poppa’s house that night, I seen Claire sittin’ there on our old wooden bench swing on the front porch. She wuz still wearin’ her nurse’s scrubs. I didn’t live there with ’em no more. Needed me some private space. Friend o’mine over on Ellsworth had a spare room I wuz usin’. Just till I made a better score and got me some cool-ass place.
The old wood porch creaked a little as Claire swung a coupla inches. That swing always been her “comfort spot” even back ’fore I wuz born. But she didn’t look so comfy that night. She wuz frownin’, lookin’ through the porch winder into the small livin’ room.
“Yo, sis,” I said. “What’s goin’ on inside there?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, James Joseph,” she said. “Take a look.”
I seen Poppa inside, still wearin’ his janitor uniform. He wuz sittin’ at our old dinner table, tappin’ away really fast at a laptop. “What the hey? When he get hisself one o’them?”
“Himself, not hisself.” Claire wuz always tryin’ t’fix up my talk. “About three weeks ago.”
I watched Poppa a minute. Saw him take off his ol’ wire-rimmed glasses and rub the back o’his neck. He was frownin’, too. Seemed to be worried, or wrestlin’ kinda, with something he was thinkin’ about, then he started tappin’ away again.
“Well. Good for him,” I said, stickin’ my hands deep into my baggy gangsta pants, so to look kinda casual. “And hey, good for me, too! I come to tell y’all I got me a coupla hot new prospects. They gonna kick over by Friday. Or next week for sure.” I seen her glance at me kinda sideways, like she knew where I wuz headed. “Think y’could lend me twenty till then, sis?”
She shaked her head. “No, but they’re lookin’ for an orderly down at the hospital.”
“Aw c’mon, Claire.” I scrunched up my face. “I tol’ ya: wipin’ up puke and dumpin’ bedpans ain’t my style.”
Claire tried to sound encouragin’. “Gotta start somewhere, James Joseph.”
I kept it smooth. “Hey, I’m gettin’ started. I tol’ you, Claire, I got these prospects that—”
“Right, right.” She heaved out a sigh. Then said more quietly, “Have you noticed anything kind of off about Pop?”
“Whatchu mean?”
“I don’t know exactly.” She glanced through the window at him. “He just seems . . . different. Like something’s eating at him. And look there. Doing his own bookkeeping? With a computer? He was never good at that stuff, now all of a sudden . . .”
I shrugged it off, had other things to worry ’bout. Like my rent. “Aw, he’s cool.” I went on in the house. “Hey, Pops! How’s my man?”
Poppa looked up at me, like he wuz tryin’ not to gimme shit about my clothes. “I’m okay, son.”
“Awright!” I gave him a friendly poke on his shoulder, noddin’ at his computer. “Finally comin’ into the twenty-first century, huh?”
“Yes,” Poppa said, keepin’ to hisself whatever wuz troublin’ him. I didn’t wanna get into none o’that anyway. So I pulled up a chair and said, confidential-like, “Listen, Poppa”—I leaned closer, my eyebrows wigglin’—“I hadda tell ya, man. I got these real hot prospects, see?”
I didn’t see Claire, but I knew sure as shit she wuz lookin’ in at us. Still worryin’ herself about Poppa. And me, too, probably. But I kept workin’ on him. I really needed that twenty.
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
Hutch and I lay spooned up, snugly between the sheets in my old four-poster. The tender, quiet encounter had surprised both of us, but at the same time had felt entirely heartfelt, natural, comforting.
His left hand was draped over my shoulder. I noticed his wedding ring was gone, and I looked inquisitively at him. He whispered wistfully, “Put it away a few days ago. Seemed like it was about time.”
I appreciated the significance and folded his arm tighter around me. I sighed, thinking of Hutch’s loss of his wife, my loss of Chris. I felt equally wistful. “I guess it was time for me, too.”
And we lay there quietly. Together.
Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .
A bit later when I walked into the living room, buttoning my shirt, I saw that Lilly, who’d been asleep when I arrived, was sitting on the edge of the couch in her long nightshirt. She was fully engaged with that old Tetris game on the TV. I heard a congratulatory beep as computer-generated fireworks burst across the screen and recognized her triumph. “My God, Lilly! Three hundred thousand points! Three hundred lines! You’re an Olympic champion!”
She registered no emotion at her accomplishment. For Lilly, it was just her flat, monotonic business as usual. It often struck me as sad. Given her sister’s intelligence and skills, Lilly might have been so similar, so engaged in life, so easily welcomed into the company of others. It was a crying shame she was hidden under the bushel basket of her special needs.
Susan entered behind me, wearing a robe, explaining, “She sometimes wakes up and plays a little. Did she max it out again?”
“Look!” I laughed with amazement. “I knew guys at Montana Med who were aces at Tetris, but I’ve never seen anybody—”
“Where’s m-my connect the dots?” Lilly asked, completely oblivious to me talking.
Lilly scanned it, nodding flatly. “Th-this is a brand-new one.”
“Yep,” I said, leaning closer, pointing out a page. “And some of ’em are very complicated.”
“Just like I like,” Lilly said, assessing them without a trace of a smile.
“I know that.” Some folks mighta been put off by her seeming lack of appreciation. But I’d come to know that this was simply Lilly’s way.
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
I stood near the TV, watching Hutch interact with my exceptional sister. Partly, my fondness for him had increased because of his empathy and caring for Lilly. He never patronized or condescended, but always spoke to her directly, as an equal. This wasn’t the first gift he’d brought her. His homegrown Montana warmth touched me.
I turned off the video game, and a newscast took its place, showing the Georgia Supreme Court as a reporter’s voice said, “. . . And that brings to five the recent, more conservative rulings by the state supreme court justices who’re taking an ever-harder line on crime.”
“Whoa,” I exclaimed, “I never thought that bunch would agree on anything.”
We paused a moment to listen as the newscaster underlined my assessment, how until last month the nine-member court had been a hotbed of conflict. But in recent weeks two of the five normally liberal judges had swung several times into lockstep with their conservative counterparts. It worried some commentators that the court had become much less balanced and that an archly conservative philosophy was becoming the predominant tone in recent decisions.
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