Dead Roots (The Analyst)

by Brian Geoffrey Wood

  “And how do you do that?”

  “By destroying the host.”

  Heather didn't answer for a moment.

  “Is that Susan Bailey?”

  “Maybe. It wouldn't surprise me.”

  Heather blew out a cloud of smoke, turning a corner.

  “Do what you have to do.”

  “We intend to.”

  “It was near here,” Artie cut in, pointing down the road. “A little ways down here, there's a fork, and Tom went over the cliff.”

  “He's in Stark's Ravine,” Heather said with a nod. She turned her head up to the rearview mirror. “There's a road down there through the old Thompson farm a few minutes away. We'll have to cut through some woods, and--”

  “Shit, look out!”

  “Wh-- shit,” Heather shrieked, swerving the car to the left violently. She leaned into her horn as a pickup truck went barreling past them. There was a nasty crunch as the truck took off the driver’s side mirror. Artie flinched away from the door as the truck scraped the side of their vehicle.

  “What the fuck,” Heather screamed, slamming her fist against the steering wheel repeatedly. The horn sounded with each strike. “What the God damn fuck. God damn it. Son of a bitch. Fuck!”

  Neither of the operatives said anything. Heather continued swearing loudly to nobody in particular. She pounded her fist on the steering wheel until they came to the fork in the road. She swung the car around the corner, sending Artie bumping into the door.

  “Think I'm getting carsick,” he groaned. He let out a burp, and tossed his cigarette out the open window with a frown.

  “Fuck you,” Heather spat. “Man up.”

  Keda grimaced and patted Artie's shoulder reassuringly. Artie closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He tried to think of a calm place.

  ********

  Tom's car sat silently in the ravine. Half of it was submerged in the river and the other half propped up on the bank.

  In Tom's pocket, his phone vibrated and beeped for the third time that hour. The light from its screen was barely visible through the denim. He was not there to answer it.

  Blood dripped from his face, further staining the airbag on which his cheek rested. His eyes were open, but saw nothing.

  The phone stopped ringing. Nothing could be heard in the night but the crickets.

  8

  “Gone”

  “Getting chilly,” Artie commented, trying to break the silence. Nobody answered.

  The squad car pulled up outside of a farmhouse. Heather rolled the car to a stop next to a wooden fence.

  “Take this,” she said, drawing her revolver and handing it back to Artie. “All I got. Fight for it.”

  “I'm fine,” Keda stated plainly. Artie discarded his latest cigarette and looked over the weapon.

  “Safety's here?” Artie asked.

  “Yeah,” Heather said. “Only eight shots. Left the extra cylinders back at the station. Sorry.”

  “You think we're gonna run into trouble?”

  “Looks like we have some already,” Heather said morbidly. She rolled down Artie's window. Artie looked out and saw the front door of the farmhouse opening. Light shone from inside, casting the silhouette of what was presumably the owner.

  “You any good with one of those?”

  “Please,” Artie said with a snort. He leveled the gun out the window.

  “My property,” came a man's yell from the farmhouse. The silhouette reached behind the door frame and drew a hunting rifle. “The right to bear arms is a tenet of our constitution.”

  “Yeah, trouble,” Artie stated quietly. Heather got out of the car, using it as a shield as she yelled back.

  “Drop your weapon,” she exclaimed. “Police business. We will open fire.”

  “My property,” the man repeated. He aimed his rifle at the car.

  “Plug him,” Heather said sharply. Artie exhaled and fired. Where he was tagged exactly, Artie couldn't see, but the man dropped his rifle and stumbled to the ground.

  “Go,” Heather shouted. She swung the shotgun onto her shoulder. Artie and Keda scrambled out of the car, following her as she leapt the fence and took off running into the paddock.

  ********

  The paddock had a dirt road running through it that led downhill. After a couple minutes of running, Artie's legs were aching. He made out a line of trees. Heather signaled for them to slow down, and he sighed in relief. He sucked in deep breaths while his heart pounded.

  “The cliff Tom went off is two miles that way,” Heather said, pointing off to her left, through the trees. “We'll cut through the forest and follow the river.”

  Heather switched on her flashlight. Keda pulled a smaller one out of his pocket. It didn't offer much illumination, but it was better than nothing, Artie thought. Heather shined her light along the trees. She saw no signs of life.

  In the forest, Artie reached into his pocket and pulled out a codeine pill. He placed it in his mouth and swallowed it dry. He coughed and lapped his tongue around, trying to extinguish the stinging, bitter taste.

  Heather had slowed her jogging to a fast walk as she led them through the woods. Artie kept his ear out, but the only sound he could make out was their feet crunching against the dirt and fallen twigs. His field of vision was pitch black. All he could see was the rough outline of the trail by Heather's flashlight. Keda strode along beside him quietly.

  “You feel anything out here?” Artie asked.

  “I suspect there is definitely something,” Keda assured him. “But I cannot place it.”

  “I took an aid,” Artie added. “If there’s anything out here, I’ll pick it up before too long.”

  “Good. Keep an eye out.”

  Another few minutes passed without any talk.

  “Another mile,” Heather finally said. “How are you doing back there?”

  “A little winded,” Artie said with a chortle. “Gonna need a whole pack of smokes after—aggh.”

  Artie's face met the dirt. He felt something tighten around his ankle. He shook it, thinking he'd snagged it on a root or a vine.

  “Oh Christ, what is it?” Heather asked urgently. She turned around and rushed to his aid, kneeling down to his ankle. She shined her flashlight on his leg. His foot was caught in a loop of rope, a snare trap hanging from a nearby tree.

  “Who... who still uses these?” Artie asked.

  “Hold still,” Keda said. He knelt down and drew his pocket knife. Heather kept shining her light. Neither of them saw the figure approaching from the trees.

  “Look out!” Artie cried. He fired the revolver twice. The figure stumbled back and dropped the wood axe it had been holding in its right hand. Keda and Heather scattered. The figure, a tall, burly man wearing a wool cap and a plaid shirt, bent down to pick his axe back up. He resumed plodding towards Artie.

  Artie scrabbled to get his foot out of the rope. Heather's flashlight illuminated the lumberjack's face, or what was left of it. Artie saw nothing but a twisted lump of skin with a vertical slit down the center. Blood seeped from it gently.

  Heather's shotgun went off. The hunter's shirt was torn and showed a bloody buckshot wound, but the shot seemed to do little else. He kept stumbling forward. He was only ten feet away, now. Keda rushed to Artie's side and started sawing fervently at the rope around his ankle. Another shot sounded, slowing the lumberjack.

  “Run,” Keda said loudly, cutting through the rope and helping Artie up. Artie scrambled to his feet and took off ahead with Keda. Heather fired her shotgun twice more before following them, her boots clomping in the dirt behind Artie.

  “Just run,” Keda repeated. Artie kept sprinting. He held his arms out in front of him, pushing himself out of the way of trees when he strayed too close to the edge of the path. He ran until his chest burned. The only sounds he took notice of were the blood pounding in his ears and his feet slamming into the dirt. The shotgun had left his ears ringing.

  Artie tripped out of surp
rise when he found his foot hitting water. He landed on his hands and knees with a splash. The revolver went flying out of his hand and landed somewhere in the river.

  “Fuck,” he called out. “I dropped the gun.” He clambered around in the water until his hand met the cool metal. He pulled the gun up and cocked it, then rose to his feet and whipped around.

  “Is he still following us?” Artie called out. There was no answer. It was then that he realized there were no footsteps, either. He swallowed, and felt a twinge in his chest.

  “Hello?”

  ********

  Can you understand me?

  “Yes.”

  You will go back, and remove Akebara from here.

  “Am I... dead?”

  Can you understand me?

  “I said, yes.”

  Then you are dead.

  You will go back. Do you understand?

  “I don't.”

  You will go back. I will do this for you, this one time. Do you understand?

  “Wait, what's going on?”

  I will have my due, and you will go back. Remove Akebara. I will not help you again.

  “I don't-- why are you...”

  ********

  Artie felt the codeine taking its course. It had been several minutes since he'd seen any sign of either of his companions. He held the revolver at the ready, but the only footsteps he heard were his own.

  He'd backtracked what felt like miles with no sign of either of his companions. He couldn't figure out which of his impulses to follow. Had they gone on ahead? Had something gotten them? Were they looking for him? He didn't know where to start, so for a long while, he just stopped, and stood still.

  Suddenly, there was something.

  In the days when he was starting out, he had tried to describe them as a 'glow', but his definition had evolved since then. They weren't visible to the eyes, but he sensed them in his mind as if they were shining like campfires in the black forest. Now he knew what he was dealing with, and he felt much more at ease.

  The glowing figures, as he might've described them to the uninitiated, were looking as lost as he was. They were some thirty or forty feet apart from each other. One was Heather, and the other was Keda. Heather had her shotgun propped up and was wheeling around frantically, her mouth moving in silent yells. Keda was stationary and calm.

  Artie nodded. Keda knew what was happening, and knew to stay put. Heather was not so lucky.

  The three of them could not see, nor hear each other. Akebara had thrown a veil over their senses of sight and sound. Artie could sense his friends now, in his mind's eye, but they remained silent, and invisible. He would have to be the one to act.

  As he approached Heather, the codeine's effects deepened, and he realized they were no longer alone in the woods. What he could only describe as hands ascended up from the ground. He interpreted them as red, awful things, not glowing brightly like his friends, but emanating and ebbing such that he could sense them but not quite focus on them.

  They were everywhere. For every few trees there was now a hand rising up out of the ground, on the ends of long, shapeless stalks.

  One suddenly sprouted up just next to Artie. He startled and stepped back in a futile effort to get out of its reach. It snapped forward and grasped his shirt. He grabbed the 'wrist' and pried the thing off of him. He pointed the revolver flat against its palm and fired. The hand dropped to the ground immediately and the stalk retracted, sending the hand retreating back into the ground.

  Several were popping up near Heather. She hadn't seen them yet, and Artie knew she couldn't hear his gun going off. He approached her quickly. A hand arced forward and grabbed her by the hair. Artie saw her scream, saw her fire her gun at the air. She grabbed at the thing holding her, scratching at it with her nails. Another one snaked along the ground and gripped her ankle.

  Artie made his way through the trees as quickly as he could. By the time he reached Heather, another hand had grasped her wrist. A fourth was trying to tear the shotgun away from her. She fired silently, making it hesitate.

  Artie grabbed the one pulling at Heather's hair. He pushed the gun up underneath its wrist, making sure it wouldn't hit Heather before he fired. She could not hear the gunshot, so her ears were safe. Its grip waned, but didn't release. Spurred, he pried its fingers off one by one and then gripped one hard, still holding it by the wrist. He twisted it until he felt the bone snap.

  The hand shook and convulsed in his grip. He wrapped his fist around another one and broke that one, too. He released it. The hand shook as it hit the ground, presumably in pain. It slid along the ground, its stalk taking it back into the earth.

  Heather fell to the ground, dropping her gun. The hand on her ankle was dragging her along the forest floor. Artie rushed over and stood on it, stopping it. He knelt down and scrabbled for a strong twig.

  Artie snapped the end of the twig over his knee, feeling the tip of it with his finger. With the thing's arm wriggling underneath his foot, he pressed the sharp, broken end of the stick into its hand, pushing and pushing until he felt the skin yield. The hand convulsed and released its hold. Artie pressed it against the ground and kept pushing. The stick broke through to the other side. Artie twisted the stick until the other end broke off, tossing the hand aside with the wood lodged through it. The hand withdrew. Two down, he thought.

  ********

  Tom's neck hurt.

  ********

  More hands were appearing. Artie felt one at his side, gripping the shoulder of his leather jacket. As he tried to pry it off, he felt another one get his ankle, making him lose his balance. Another appeared to replace the one he had just dispatched, and he and Heather found themselves both being slowly dragged through the dirt.

  Artie could see that they were near the holes from which the stalks dragging them grew. Artie saw the one around his ankle receding into the ground. He jammed his foot against the opening, trying to work his foot into the hole, and felt the hand twist around in response. Heather was only a few feet away from a hole now, herself.

  Artie fired his gun into the hole, to little avail. Only two shots left, he thought in a mild panic. He felt necrotic hands tug at his clothing and arms. One flew to his face, covering his mouth and nostrils and hindering his breathing. He gripped it with his last free hand, trying to break its thumb.

  Artie felt a small jolt of motion at his back. The fingers gripping his shoulder let go. He wrenched the fingers off of his mouth and looked up. Keda, burning brightly to his mind, was standing over him, wielding his pocket knife and cutting fingers loose from Artie. It was to little avail. Artie’s leg was getting tired from resisting the tugging at his ankle, and he still had a dirty, gnarled hand trying to choke him.

  Artie sensed something else. Some fifty feet away from them, the lumberjack from before was standing at the edge of the path, motionless, watching them.

  “Keda,” Artie shouted. Keda kept on trying to remove each of the hands from Artie, and now, he was dealing with one of his own. “Keda,” he repeated. There was no answer.

  He remembered that Keda could not hear or see him. Keda would have noticed the hands dragging and clawing at something, but not even known which of them it was. Keda could, however, see the hands—and feel them.

  Artie grasped the one gripping his face, and fired his last two bullets into its wrist. Its strength waned and he was able to grab a length of it. He swung his own arm out and tapped Keda on the shoulder. Keda tried to retaliate with his knife, but missed. Artie tapped him again. Keda stopped swinging. Artie had his attention.

  “Hah,” Artie exclaimed in triumph. Still gripping the hand that had been choking him, he twisted its digits, balled its fingers and thumbs into a fist and pointed the index finger out.

  Keda hesitated, noticing Artie’s attempt to communicate. Artie thrust the dead hand towards the lumberjack, jabbing the index finger forward through the air repeatedly. Over there, over there.

  Keda pointed his fl
ashlight towards the lumberjack, and saw what Artie was trying to tell him. He nodded and got up.

  Artie listened to Keda's presence dashing through the woods. He saw him run up and expertly disarm the lumberjack, taking away his axe.

  “Get 'im,” Artie shouted, hoping some kind of encouragement would reach Keda. Keda lifted the axe up and swung in a horizontal arc. He planted a sideways wound across the lumberjack's face to match the vertical one. He pulled the axe out with some effort, and swung again, burying the blade in the shoulder.

  The lumberjack dropped to his knees and crumpled to the ground, wood axe still lodged in his neck. Artie crossed his fingers.

  His gambit paid off. The dead hands around him released their grips. He saw Heather's release her, too. The hands all at once began to recede back into the earth, disappearing into the darkness of the forest. Artie watched from the ground as the lumberjack was dragged away. He, too, vanished, his only trace the sound of his body scraping against the dirt and fallen leaves.

  Artie coughed loudly. He started taking long, slow breaths. Keda and Heather faded back into view of his eyes. Heather crawled up to all fours, and patted around in the dirt in search of her gun.

  “Artie,” she shouted. “Keda.”

  “We're here,” Keda responded. He jogged back to his companions and knelt to help Heather stand up. She shook in his arms. Artie treated himself to a smoke, illuminating his face by the flame from his lighter.

  “Give,” Heather stated simply. Artie obliged her, handing over a cigarette and lighting it for her. She took it gratefully before she hitched her shotgun back onto her shoulder.

  “You okay?” Artie asked.

  “Fuck this entire shit,” Heather said shakily. She took ginger steps past Artie. “Come on, the sooner I can get back and drink myself to death, the better.”