Slithers

by Mortensen, WW

  Maybe not, yet Tobe couldn’t shake the feeling there was something out here, things in the night, things in the trees, things beyond the trees, things that were unseen, yet seeing. Because at the very least, there were eyes—of that he was certain.

  Uncomfortably, the hairs on Tobe’s neck prickled, his skin crawling with gooseflesh. Something was watching them.

  “Scottie, this isn’t right,” he whispered. “Something’s wrong, desperately wrong.”

  “I know,” Scottie answered in a voice even lower than Tobe’s. “But I don’t want to scare the others. They’ve probably worked it out themselves, but there’s no need to highlight it. Let’s keep quiet, keep moving. We need to get off the road.”

  Now hyper-alert, Tobe detected a new sound, a buzz, like a legion of fluttering wings, and in his assessment those wings were membranous, not feathered—not the wingbeat of birds, or, for that matter, the membranous wings of bats, for there was no whump or whoosh of air that a bat or bird would make. These were insects, lots of them.

  The insects had returned.

  No, not quite. These were swarming insects.

  He conjured an image of a great cloud of locusts. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that into his mind’s eye popped another image, that of the rig’s bumper sticker.

  The Bug Stops Here.

  In the distance, thunder growled. Above them, dark clouds, pregnant with rain, amassed.

  “There’s a storm on the way,” Sarah said. “We should move faster.”

  They did, as fast as they could manage.

  4

  Tobe lifted the pace, drawing his breath in ragged heaves. While accustomed to summer heat, the night had grown unbearably hot and sticky, and sweat clung to him. The mild breeze only stirred a suffocating wall of humidity.

  They broke free of the forest—at least, in part. On the western side of Day Dawn, the plantation was unchanged, the pines looming as before, but on the eastern side, the rows of conifers had disappeared, giving way to a huge swath of open land. The fields were sparsely vegetated with waist-high grass and low, scrubby brush. Tobe knew that along this stretch of Day Dawn, there were no private residences. He wasn’t concerned, because up ahead, like a distant, shimmering mirage, the lights of the service station gleamed.

  Tobe nearly broke into a jog, but glancing back at Sarah—who was already pushing herself—he fought against it.

  He cast his eyes along their route. Nothing followed them.

  A sealed service road bisected Day Dawn, providing access to the station. Across it, dry leaves skittered, dancing in the warm breeze Tobe’s group had encountered in the forest. Here, it was stronger. Like rodents, the leaves scattered and dispersed with faint scuttling sounds. The fetid smell Tobe had detected earlier was sharper now; like the leaves, carried by the breeze.

  Immature palm trees lit by ground-level halogens lined the service lane. The pooled light was wondrous. Rushing through it, approaching the station, Tobe counted six pumps under the cheerful red gas canopy, which itself was brightened on the underside by rows of LED lights. Nowhere could he see a winged-horse or clamshell logo, and decided the station was an independent. Indeed, large, starkly illuminated white lettering on the side of the main building announced ‘Thienes’ Pump and Go’ and ‘Convenience Store’. The store—which seemed fairly new and freshly painted in red and blue—had prominent, clean windows. To the right of this building was an automated car wash, and situated between this and the convenience store, bathed in soft lamplight, was a grassed, outdoor seating area. Tobe imagined that on a bright sunny day, customers might enjoy a coffee or a cold drink here before hitting the road again. Tonight, however, the seats were empty. On the opposing side of the main building was a darkened auto workshop.

  The seven of them dispersed among the pumps. Like the outdoor seating area, the space beneath the canopy was vacant; there were no cars in front of the store, no customers fuelling up. Even so, a robust smell of petrol fumes filled Tobe’s nostrils.

  In the darkness between the store and the workshop, parked in what may have been a staff bay, Tobe noted the outline of a single vehicle, maybe a small Honda.

  He moved to the main building. Stepping between a locked cage of propane tanks for hire and an ice freezer, he peered through the glass wall. The internal fluorescents were on, but the attendant was nowhere to be seen. The place seemed open for business, but the station was deserted.

  Rachel spun on the spot. “Hello? Anybody here?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Brad said. “The joint’s a ghost town.”

  The turn of phrase inspired little confidence. Again, Tobe checked his phone for service. He found none. “Let’s see if there’s a landline inside,” he said, and moved to the entrance, where above the glass door, a faulty fluorescent tube buzzed and flickered.

  Tacked to the door was a piece of paper. On it, written neatly by hand in blue biro, were the words, “Back in five”.

  “Let’s wait inside,” Sarah said. “I need to rest my ankle.”

  Tobe pushed the door. It swung inward, and a bell jingled. Tobe jumped at the jarring sound. He entered and the rest of the group filed in after him.

  “Hello? We need help!” Sarah called.

  The service counter was unmanned.

  No reply floated from anywhere else.

  The air-conditioning hummed quietly. The cool air tingled Tobe’s skin, and he broke out in gooseflesh. At least they had escaped the heat.

  “Hello?” Sarah called again, just to be certain.

  The place was deserted.

  The group fanned out. Tobe scanned the store. Heavily-laden shelves held the usual conveniences—snack food, magazines and toiletries. Positioned towards the rear and adjacent to a pair of slushed ice machines was a CaffMax coffee station. Along the rear wall, fridges with glass doors were stocked high with the usual beverages: cartons of milk, bottled water, energy drinks. A low-lying fridge held ice-cream. In another fridge, sandwiches. The place was redolent of hot dogs. It was clean and well-presented.

  “There might be a public phone somewhere,” Rachel said. “Brad, have a look. I’ll see if I can access the cashier’s office.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?” Tobe said. “He’s probably just on a bathroom break.”

  “The attendant?” Rachel said. “Who says it’s a he?” She moved to the office. The service counter—topped with two registers—sat behind a sturdy security screen. The glass ran the length of the counter, sitting about six inches above it and rising all the way to the ceiling. The area was entirely enclosed, forming a rudimentary office.

  Rachel tried the handle to a sturdy red door that led inside. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked. Peering through the security glass, she said, “I can’t see a phone, but I’m sure there’s one in there, under the counter.” She turned to Tobe. “Speaking of the bathroom, I’m busting.”

  “Me too,” Sarah said, still hobbling. “We’ll check it out, see if anyone’s in there.” Abandoning the counter and the promise of a phone, they headed to the rear of the store, where a single door to the right of the ATM provided access to both rest rooms. The girls disappeared through the door.

  A fridge opened, and Tobe turned to see both Ethan and Tory avail themselves of liquor, soft drinks and chocolate bars. Tory caught him looking, and hesitated. Tobe said nothing, and looked away as Brad sidled in beside them and lifted from the fridge a six-pack of craft beer with unfamiliar branding.

  Cracking a can and swilling from it, Brad, too, caught Tobe’s disapproving look. “Don’t worry, Officer Killjoy, I’ll pay for them.”

  “Did you find a phone?” Tobe said.

  “No,” Brad answered. His face wrinkled, and he glanced at the can of beer. “Must be off—tastes like shit.”

  “Perhaps you should ask for a refund,” Tobe said.

  Brad glanced down at the can, shrugged, and took another mouthful. Through it he managed to say, “Where do you think he is? The attendant
, I mean?”

  “Who the hell knows,” Tobe said. He turned to Scottie and added, “Tonight, I feel I don’t know anything.”

  Patting Tobe on the shoulder, Scottie nodded at the CaffMax. “I’ll make you an espresso—double shot.”

  “You read my mind.”

  “And I’ll make it, Irish, too.”

  “And again! You have a gift, Scoop,” Tobe said. They bumped fists.

  While Scottie cranked up the coffee machine and with the rest of the group otherwise occupied, Tobe decided to explore. Brad’s search had likely been half-hearted at best. Maybe he could find a phone. Poking his head into an alcove on the opposing side of the ATM, he saw a white door marked ‘Staff Only’. He rapped on it. There came no reply. He pushed it open.

  The lights in the room beyond were off. Tobe ran his hand up the wall, searching for the switch.

  Something shifted in the dark.

  Startled, Tobe recoiled against the door jamb, let out a muted cry. He stumbled, reached for support, and his fingers found the switch.

  The staffroom was sparsely-furnished, dominated by a small table and two chairs. In one corner was a fridge. On top of a narrow, tiled bench along the rear wall was a microwave oven, and at the opposite end of that bench, a sink.

  Otherwise, the room was empty.

  Heart racing, Tobe scanned the room. Crouching, he looked under the table. No threat lurked there.

  Perhaps he’d imagined movement, imagined a presence.

  His gaze was drawn to the wall at the left of the table, where a barred and uncovered window about two feet wide by three feet high was set just below shoulder height.

  It was half-open.

  Tobe was certain the shifting, sliding sound he’d detected had come from that direction. Had something been in here and, startled by his presence, escaped through the window and into the night? If so, it must have been small, no bigger than a rodent; the window slid vertically and had been pushed up to create, at most, a half-foot gap.

  Below the sill, a red smudge tarnished the plasterboard wall. The stain, for that was what it seemed to be, stretched down the wall for a length of perhaps two to three feet, as though it dripped from the window to the ground.

  Not blood. Something else.

  Tobe approached the window. What had initially looked like a simple—and yet horrifying—blemish was revealed now as something far more substantial.

  What the…?

  The ‘stain’ was pressed against the wall, but it wasn’t flat; it had texture and depth, comprised of a central, vein-like tube as thick as his thumb, with narrower, spindly tubes branching off it and spreading in all directions like strands of crimson spaghetti. Off these threads split even finer capillaries, and so on, like the spidery network on the underside of a leaf. The impression of a web of veins and capillaries was strong, enriched by the network’s blood-red colour. Equally strong was the comparison to a leaf, because Tobe suspected he was staring at an exotic plant.

  Taking two more paces, Tobe skirted the table so that he stood barely three feet from the window.

  Clinging to the wall, the plant—if that was what it was—was leafless; there was only the red tangle of worm-like threads, scattering outwards. The thick, central vein, glossy and smooth and yet slightly splotched and mottled, had entered the room from outside.

  Entered? He supposed that was accurate—the thing had definitely come in through the window, past the bars, up over the sill, and down the wall, evidently sprouting smaller strands as it went. He wondered how long it had taken to spread, to grow.

  When he’d hit the lights, he’d been looking in the direction of the window, because that was where he had sensed movement.

  Plants don’t move like that, and this one isn’t moving now.

  He stood in silence, wondering, transfixed by the organism. He settled on that word, because it was clearly a living thing, indeed most likely a plant, but not like anything he’d seen before.

  Scottie will know what it is.

  Not only was Scottie the local rag’s science writer, he was an aspiring author. This thing looked like it was straight out of one of his sci-fi thrillers, the ones he was always furiously writing late at night in a dim corner of the house they’d rented with mates after graduating from school—

  A sudden shuffling behind him caused Tobe to jump.

  “Fuck me!” Brad said from the doorway. “Hey, you guys, get a load of this!”

  From outside the door, footsteps scrambled and the staffroom filled with a jostle of bodies.

  “Oh my God,” Rachel said. “What the hell is that?”

  “I think it’s some kind of plant,” Tobe said. He took out his phone and snapped a picture.

  Squeezing in beside him, Scottie squinted at the organism. “This is interesting,” he murmured with predictable—and professional—curiosity. “Not a plant. I think it could be mold.”

  “There’s a fungus amungus,” Brad said, with a faint laugh.

  Ethan shook his head. “Mold is black or green—and fuzzy. This looks like a tangle of veins.”

  “Mold can be all sorts of colours,” Scottie said without looking up, “and grows in various shapes and sizes.”

  Tory crinkled her forehead. “Are you guys serious? Big fucking deal! You’re getting all excited about a frigging plant?”

  “It’s a fungus. They’re different,” Brad said.

  Tory rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

  Scottie leaned closer, his face barely two feet away.

  “Don’t touch it!” Tobe said, and as he did, the sound of a drawer opening caused him to spin around.

  At the kitchen bench, Tory rummaged through the cutlery drawer and pulled a paring knife from the tray. “If you’re so frigging interested, let’s poke it with this,” she said, grinning. “See what it’s made of.”

  She brandished the knife and took a step towards the window.

  “Tory, no! Not a good idea,” Tobe said.

  Tory halted. She caught him staring at the long blade. Again, she offered him that odd, widening smile of hers. Her pink-streaked fringe hung in her eyes.

  Stepping back, still smiling, she placed the knife on the counter. Ethan chuckled.

  Deliberately avoiding Tory’s gaze, Tobe turned back to Scottie. It was apparent now that Scottie had no intention of touching the organism, either, but had simply been straining for a closer look.

  Sarah said, “It smells mildewy in here. If it’s mold, it could be the result of rising damp. Maybe there’s a water leak in the walls.”

  “It climbed in from outside,” Tobe said. “Like a creeper vine.”

  “It’s not a plant,” Brad said. “It’s a fungus.”

  “Regardless,” Tobe said, “it entered through the window.”

  “Looks that way,” Ethan said. “Let’s go outside, check it out.”

  “Or slam the window and forget about it,” Brad said.

  Scottie stood, stepped back. “Best we keep clear of it,” he said, agreeing with Brad. He put a hand to his nose. “Try not to breathe too deeply. Mold can be toxic. This may be hazardous.”

  Of that, Tobe had grown certain. He stepped away from the organism, fighting an urge to turn and run. Whatever this thing was, he had the distinct feeling it was not to be messed with.

  He opened his mouth to tell them about the movement he’d heard, the presence he’d felt before hitting the lights, when outside the room, the bell above the entry door tinkled.

  5

  Someone had entered the convenience store. A male voice drifted from the entry. “Hello?”

  Shit. The attendant had returned from his break or wherever he’d been these last several minutes. He’d be pissed to find a bunch of kids snooping around his staffroom. “Everyone out,” Tobe urged, his voice low. He exited last and killed the lights.

  Back in the store, a man stood in the open entryway. Tall, and of slender build, he wore muddied jeans and boots and a John Deere trucker
’s cap—not a station employee uniform.

  The man smiled.

  “Dude, you work here?” Brad said. Beer in hand, he paused by the ice cream freezer, flanked by Sarah and Rachel.

  Still smirking, the man shook his head. Without moving from the doorway, he raised his hands to his mouth, cupped them and lit a cigarette.

  “Hey, this is a service station,” Rachel said. She raised an eyebrow.

  The man ignored her. “You them kids from the van?” he said with a jut of his chin. He stepped inside, and the door eased shut behind him. He didn’t seem much older than them—in his mid-thirties at most. He spoke with a slow, casual drawl. There was a hint of an accent—American, or maybe Canadian.

  “Why? Who are you?” Tory said. She stood with Ethan near the door to the cashier’s office. Her back was to Tobe, but her tone was the same as it had been when she’d berated him in the van. He imagined her eyes glistening with that same predatory lustre.

  “Name’s Jacob. Jacob Ressler. That’s my rig back there.” Ressler sniffled. He had a cold. “Cell don’t work, radio’s dead, too, so I headed down here to use the phone. I’m glad you’re all okay. Man, some ride, huh?” He smiled at them again, blew a line of blue-grey smoke.

  “You nearly killed us,” Tobe said.

  “And I feel terrible about that, I really do,” Ressler said. “My load shifted on me, caught me by surprise. As I said, I’m glad you’re okay. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

  Ressler’s smile remained fixed, a charismatic grin both cheeky and rebellious—the kind of smile some girls fell for. That Ressler was handsome, too, meant he was probably a hit with the ladies.

  “Where were you?” Rachel said. “We were looking for you.”

  Again, Ressler sniffled, snuffed a laugh. “I thought you’d driven off, left me for dead. I headed down here straight away. Beat you here, I guess. I was out back just now, looking around.”

  “I’m surprised we didn’t cross paths,” Rachel said. “Out on the road, I mean.”

  “Me too,” Ressler said. He exhaled, and smoke stained the air in front of his face.