Growth

by Jeff Jacobson

  Bob nodded. “Good. I mean, I appreciate the help, I surely do, but I think my wife and I need some time to ourselves now.”

  “Of course. I understand. And even after I leave, you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Anytime. Twenty-four hours a day. Like I said, you are an important part of the Allagro family, and we are here for you.” Cochran swirled the wine around his glass and smiled.

  Bob knew Cochran saw him as just some hick farmer and didn’t think he was used to a slick-talking lawyer, but enough bullshit had been shoveled his way from bankers, tractor salesman, and field owners, that he knew when someone was setting him up. He could smell the faint condescension between Cochran’s words. So he waited. He knew that the man was circling around to something, the real reason for the speech.

  It didn’t take long. Cochran put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, concern in his eyes. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, you must be awfully tired yourself. How you holding up?”

  Bob didn’t smile back. “I’m holding up just fine. Second time you’ve asked me how I’m feeling.”

  Cochran didn’t blink. “I’m not trying to pry. Just concerned. No offense, but you really don’t look well.”

  “And I already told you. I lost my son. You got a problem with that?” The rage and frustration were back, and beginning to build.

  Cochran sat back in his chair and studied Bob. “Of course not. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Help. How?”

  “Any way I can.”

  “You seem awfully preoccupied with my health.”

  “Again, just trying to help. I certainly didn’t mean to cause you any offense.”

  Bob forced a grin. “Sorry. Getting a little testy. You’re right. Must be tired.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “Guess I should call it a night.”

  Cochran smiled right back but made no move to take Bob’s hand. “Good night, then. Hope it is peaceful for you.”

  Bob let his smile die. “What’s your problem? I’m not good enough to shake your hand?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then shake my hand.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Afraid of catching something?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not?”

  Cochran sat back and studied the farmer. “Where are you going with this, Bob?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I’m not sure I like the tone of your voice.”

  “I think that you need to think very carefully about how you want to proceed.”

  “I think I’m about done with your help.”

  “You sure you want to do this? Think about your wife. Your farm. My employers are . . . quite powerful, and wield a lot of influence. I would suggest that you take this into account and don’t piss your life’s work away.”

  Bob drew his hands into fists. “How dare you . . . how dare you sit here as a guest at my dinner table and threaten my wife and my farm? You’ve already taken my son.”

  Cochran was quiet for a moment. “What exactly have you got planted out there in that two acres by the expressway, Bob?”

  So that was it. They wanted his son’s last crop. “Get out of my house.”

  “Again, you sure this is what you want, Bob? Think very carefully.”

  “Get off my property. Now.”

  Cochran drummed his fingers against the table and watched Bob for a moment. “So be it,” he said, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, threw it on the table, and stood. He left the dining room without another word.

  Bob did not move as he listened to Cochran gather his things and leave the house. He waited until he heard the rented car gather speed as it went down the driveway, then went to the foot of the stairs, listening up at the bedroom. His wife had stopped crying. The house was silent, save for the ticking grandfather clock in the front room.

  He found the right keys on the hooks next to the back door and went out in the fading light to the huge shed where he kept the combine harvesters. It was too early to harvest the crop, but he’d be damned if he let those bastards take his son’s corn.

  CHAPTER 17

  “How sure are you, Mr. Cochran?” The voice on the other end of the phone might have been discussing the weather.

  Cochran said, “Ninety percent. He’s sick. It’s not the flu. Don’t know how to diagnose it. He’s trying to hide it, but something’s going on.” He’d pulled the car over in the Korner Kafe’s parking lot and called the private number he’d been asked to memorize. They didn’t want it written down anywhere.

  The men at the other end were quiet for a while. Cochran wasn’t sure if they were discussing the situation or merely thinking. He’d worked for them long enough to know that he should remain silent until they reached a decision. Eventually, one of them spoke. “What is your recommendation?”

  “If he is indeed growing the strain, then there is no choice.”

  A new voice spoke. “Rectifying the situation on the island was one thing. Rectifying a situation like that on American soil is quite another.”

  Cochran said, “It may be our only chance to contain the situation.”

  “And if you are wrong?” The voice let the question hang for several seconds. “The consequences could be catastrophic.”

  “For the organization, yes,” Cochran agreed. “However, if nothing is done, the consequences could be catastrophic for the entire northern hemisphere.” He let them chew on that for a while.

  The first voice spoke. “It would appear then, that we cannot make an informed decision at this time.”

  Cochran saw where this was headed. “Look, I’m telling you. It’s here. I have no doubt.”

  “You claimed you had ten percent of doubt.”

  Cochran shook his head. “I’m ninety-five percent positive, okay? Hell, after seeing the man tonight, I’d say I’m ninety-nine percent absolutely sure.”

  “I, for one, would feel better if you called us back when you were one hundred percent certain.”

  Cochran bared his teeth at the phone. Then he collected himself, and said in the most even voice he could manage, “Fine. I only hope that we aren’t too late.” He hit the END button and it was all he could do not to start swearing and throw the goddamn phone out the window. He reminded himself that they probably had his car bugged, as well as tagged with a GPS tracker.

  One of these days. One of these days he was going to mail in his resignation letter from some country far, far away, and then he would quietly disappear to a beach in Mexico somewhere. When he had enough stashed away, hidden even from their eyes.

  Soon. But not yet.

  He pulled the complimentary road atlas out of the rental car’s glove box and traced Road G until it dead-ended against I-72. He pulled out into the quiet streets, still not used to how people simply vanished from the streets once the sun went down. It was like a goddamn ghost town or something.

  He followed Road G up until the pavement stopped and parked next to the NO OUTLET sign. He pulled out his penlight and unfolded the papers he’d stolen from Bob’s house. The two acres should be straight ahead. Cochran clicked off the light, made sure his handgun was secure in its holster, and got out of the car.

  He listened for a moment to the wind, then went back to the trunk. His employers had equipped him with the latest biohazard gear, just in case. Cochran slipped into a white Tyvek biohazard suit, thick rubber gloves, and thick-soled rubber boots. He fitted a riot-control gas mask over his face, tugging the straps tight, then pulled the hood over his head and started into the darkness.

  The gas mask had an open faceplate, giving him a decent field of vision, but it was too damn dark out there in the middle of nowhere. The penlight worked just fine when going through files in a dark room but didn’t illuminate much of anything in a cornfield at night when there was no moon. He stabbed the narrow needle of white light into the rows, making the shadows lurch and sway.


  Cochran could see the occasional headlights of a truck flying down the nearby expressway, and it bothered him that he couldn’t hear as well as he wanted, not with the hood snug over his ears and his dry, amplified breathing through the respirator. Still, it was better than the alternative.

  Breathing the spores.

  Cochran recognized that he was just nervous. Better to get this finished, then get the hell out. He headed deeper into the field, stopping every ten or fifteen feet to sweep the light in a slow circle, just to make sure nothing was creeping up on him. He stopped again, trying to peer over the corn. He’d lost all sense of distance. Was the car a hundred feet behind him? Two hundred? Goddamnit. After years of working for Allagro and standing around cornfields, he couldn’t believe he still wasn’t used to being alone in the endless rows. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of direction. As long as he kept the expressway to his right, he would be fine.

  He caught movement out at the end of the penlight’s beam. It was low to the ground and scuttled out of sight before he could pin it down with the light. It was too big to be one of the insects the scientists had been so worried about. A cat, maybe? Possum? He hoped it wasn’t a skunk; even though he was fully protected, and wouldn’t smell a damn thing, he still had to get out of the suit eventually, and he’d have to deal with it then.

  Cochran took a few steps forward, leaned into the row where he thought he’d seen it. Nothing but wisps of cobwebs. He pushed through two more rows, sweeping the light back and forth.

  There. A glimpse of gray fur. Possum, most likely. He almost laughed, then got angry. At the thing. At the cornfield. At himself. Maybe his employers were right and he was getting too old for the job. Scared of a goddamn possum. If he didn’t have to unzip the biohazard suit to get at his gun, he would have shot the thing.

  He followed it, pushing through another row, and stopped cold.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t a possum.

  Cochran willed himself to hold the light steady. It was almost the size of a small cat, but there was no body exactly, just six or seven legs jutting awkwardly in all directions, like some mutant crab with a tiny body and fur. The thing froze in the light. At first, he told himself it had to be some poor animal that had been hit by a truck, pulverizing the body, splitting and cracking the legs, and it had crawled into the corn to die.

  But as he got a better look, he knew damn well this wasn’t an animal that had been hit by a car. There was no head. No ears. No eyes. All the legs gave it away. They were from different animals. Some of the fur was gray, like a possum. Some of the legs were shorter, with black fur. They were glued to a kind of exposed backbone, short, maybe three inches long, riddled with ropy gray tendrils. In fact, he was now close enough to the creature that he could see more of the tendrils, some nearly as big around as his pinkie, some so tiny they were almost hairlike, wrapped around the center like some horrible biological net.

  The thing didn’t like the light. It scuttled sideways, heading for the deeper shadows. Its movements were tentative and uncoordinated, as if the legs weren’t used to working together. The fact that it was moving at all stirred a wave of revulsion deep within his stomach.

  Cochran followed, easily keeping pace since it moved so slowly, keeping his penlight trained dead on it. Again, the suit was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it protected him. But at the same time, he couldn’t make a phone call. Not only would he have to unzip the suit, he would have to take off his glove, because it would only unlock once he placed his thumbprint on the screen.

  He wanted to let the bastards upstairs know that he was one hundred fucking percent certain now, and to make them understand that the fungus was not only here, it was moving up the goddamn food chain.

  He felt for the phone under the suit, just to reassure himself it was still there, and looked down for just a second when he touched the shape. He looked back up. The tiny pool of light was empty, just dry leaves and dirt. He waved the beam around and jumped back when he saw the thing. It was crawling closer. And moving faster. “Son of a bitch!” He took another step backward.

  Something touched his left foot.

  He whipped the penlight down and cried, “Oh fuck!” as another creature tried to crawl up his leg. He dropped the light trying to shake it off and took another step back. The penlight bounced and as it flipped over, he saw two others scuttling out of the row to his right. Three more of them appeared behind the first one. Cochran stumbled forward, reaching down, but in the suit, he kicked the light before he could grab it. It spun, slashing the light through the corn. What he saw made his blood run cold.

  They were everywhere. Dozens, maybe hundreds.

  Something broke inside his mind, something ancient, and a primitive reflex took over completely. He bolted, a hysterical shriek echoing around the inside of his faceplate, and he crashed through row after row of corn, trailing leaves, corn silk, and cobwebs, as he ran deeper into the night.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 4th

  CHAPTER 18

  When Sandy turned on her phone that morning, she saw she had almost twenty-four messages. She wasn’t surprised. She checked on Kevin’s door. It was shut. She went downstairs and made coffee before bothering to listen to the messages. The first two were from Sheriff Hoyt, before he had met her in the driveway. He was smart enough not to say anything incriminating, but his voice was full of vaguely threatening promises. The next was Liz, checking to make sure Kevin was okay. Sandy closed her eyes; it hadn’t taken long at all for the news to spread about her son. The next five were from reporters. She erased them all.

  The ninth call was from Dr. Castle. “Sandy, this is Mike. I, uh, tried your home phone, didn’t work. I’ve started the external examination on the, uh, suspect.” Dr. Castle was also aware that his voice was being recorded and he didn’t want to say Jerm’s name. “I, uh, I think it would be a good idea if we spoke. Sooner rather than later. Please give me a call at the office. I’ll be here a while, and I’ve left instructions with the front desk to transfer your call to the basement.” Parker’s Mill’s morgue was located in the basement of Dr. Castle’s practice. “Please give me a call as soon as you get this message.”

  The next two voice mails were from reporters. Then Dr. Castle again. “Sandy, this is Mike. Listen, you need to call me. This, this is not something I feel comfortable taking to Sheriff Hoyt. Please call me back.”

  The next message was from Dr. Castle as well. “Sandy, this is urgent. Call me.”

  Every message, Dr. Castle’s voice got more and more strained. “What I’m finding, it’s nothing that I am prepared for. I don’t have the right equipment. This is, I simply don’t know. All I do know is that this facility is woefully inadequate. I . . . I’ve never encountered anything like this.” He started coughing. “I’m at a loss. We may need to involve the CDC.”

  Sandy swallowed. Had her son been exposed to something?

  The next message. “I don’t think it’s contagious.” He gave a sad laugh. “Hell, I don’t know. It’s . . . I called a friend, an expert in mycology, at the Argonne labs. Teaches at the University of Chicago. He wants pictures. I have no idea of the legal ramifications of all this. Please, please call me.”

  Next message. “This is . . . beyond the scope of my experience. I had to stop the necropsy. It’s . . .” His voice softened, and it was clear that he wasn’t worried about being recorded. He just needed help from a friend. “I hope to see you here tomorrow morning. I’ll be here no later than eight.” That was the last message, left around ten o’clock last night.

  Sandy checked the clock. Six a.m. After Kevin cracked and it had all come pouring out—how he had figured out the combination of the Browning gun safe and how he had stolen her key for the trigger guard and all of the preparation he had taken and how it had only worked because Sandy didn’t like to look at the gun and left it buried back in the back of the safe—she had held him until he fell asleep.

  She had climbed into her own bed and trie
d to figure out if she should meet Sheriff Hoyt at the county courthouse in the morning with Kevin or not. If she took him down there, odds were, he’d end up in juvenile detention, a place full of damaged kids who would eat him alive. If she kept him home, the DA would look at it as if she was giving her son preferential treatment, and would push for a maximum sentence.

  Either way, she was screwed.

  She poured another cup of coffee and went upstairs to look into Kevin’s room. Her son was still sound asleep, mouth open, legs sprawled, arms akimbo. Puffing Bill was curled up in a tight coil between Kevin’s legs. The dog raised his scarred head and regarded her with calm eyes. Sandy whispered, “Lay down. Go back to sleep.” She shut the door softly.

  She went downstairs, took a sip of coffee, and eventually realized that the reason she thought it had taken so long to make a decision was because, deep down, she knew that it wasn’t a choice at all. She’d known what she would do from the moment Sheriff Hoyt gave her the order. She opened her closet and looked at her uniform. Might as well go all the way.

  She pulled the uniform out of the closet and got dressed. After dialing Elliot’s parents’ number, she let the coffee put some cheer in her voice. “I am so sorry to call you so early, but I’m afraid something has come up. You know this job,” Sandy chuckled, letting that hang, hoping she wouldn’t have to resort to the commitment to community service speech.

  While Elliot’s mom dithered about and finally managed a good morning, Sandy cut right in and asked, “Could you, if it’s no trouble, would you mind looking after Kevin today?”

  Slight hesitation from Patty. “I, uh, we, uh, well, um, no, no that shouldn’t be a problem. We . . . we were going to go to the parade.” Her tone made it clear that she fully expected everyone in town to be there. Then she remembered the shooting yesterday. “Oh my gosh, do you think there will still be a parade? I mean, they wouldn’t cancel it, would they?”