Horror Sci-Fi Box Set: Three Novels

by Bryan Dunn

  “But you still can.” Laura said, her voice filled with encouragement. “You’re really talented. Go for it!”

  “Right,” said Kristin. “You know how much school costs?”

  “Yes. It’s outrageous,” Laura agreed. “But there are programs, scholarships.”

  “Where?” she said, sounding completely discouraged.

  “I’d start with CalArts, see what they have to offer.”

  “Hmm. Yeah, I guess.”

  “Hey, how about a toast?” Sam raised his glass.

  Laura and Kristin lifted their glasses.

  “Here’s to new friends,” Sam said, staring at Laura. Then to Kristin, “And to hidden talents.”

  They all clinked their glasses, then sipped the excellent garnet-colored wine.

  Sam stood, went to the kitchen counter, grabbed his phone, and came back and faced the table. He selected the camera function and said, “Smile.”

  Click.

  There, he’d documented the event. The first real dinner party he’d had since moving to the ranch.

  “Now, please dig in. The chicken’s getting cold.”

  Chapter 31

  At eight-thirty, the sun had been up for a few hours, and the day was already heating up.

  Sam dropped the pickup into 4-wheel-drive and hit the gas as the Ford F-150 bucked up and onto the steep incline. Sand and gravel flew in all directions as Sam expertly worked the gas and wheel together, walking the truck up the hardscrabble slope.

  Laura gripped the door handle and looked over at Sam. She’d been stealing glances at him all morning. She couldn’t help it.

  Uh-oh.

  As the pickup reached the top of the hill and leveled, Laura took a sip of coffee and looked at Sam. Again. There was something about him. A quiet confidence. A low-key Alpha thing that she found totally sexy.

  “You’re a good cook. Last night’s dinner—and this morning, a Denver omelet.”

  They had gotten up at first light. Showered. Had a quick breakfast, and with Kristin still sound asleep on the couch, set off for the Fletcher place.

  “Thanks.” Sam looked over, smiled. He couldn’t help noticing how she was dressed. White cotton tank top, jeans, hair pulled back beneath a navy ball cap. Perfect, Sam thought, everything about her. And somehow she was here, with him, in the middle of nowhere.

  “I was sort of forced into it,” said Sam. “Learning to cook. It’s not like there’s anyone around here to do it for me.”

  “Another one of those hidden talents,” Laura said, giving him a smile.

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, who knew…”

  “Was there ever a Mrs. Rainsford?”

  “Actually, yes. Briefly. Lasted exactly one year.”

  “Oh?” Laura looked over, waiting for the details. No, wanting the details.

  “I was building spec homes in Las Vegas. That’s where we met. I was commuting out there from Los Angeles every couple of weeks. It was perfect. We were always thrilled to see each other. It was fun. So we figured that being together full-time would be really fun. She ended moving to L.A. with me. The first couple of months were great. We decided to get married. And six months after that, we discovered the bliss of seeing each other every day was, well— not so blissful.”

  “Oh…” Laura nodded, sounding sorry. “So, it was so traumatic you gave everything up—moved to the desert—and became a recluse.” She glanced at him. “Sounds lonely.”

  They drove along in silence for a minute, Sam gathering his thoughts.

  “Actually, my marriage had nothing to do with me moving here. My family—father, mother, sister—were all killed in a car accident. Happened a couple of years ago. Life stopped making sense to me. So I moved out here.”

  “Sam…” Laura reached over, touched his am. “I’m so sorry. I have a big mouth sometimes.”

  “No,” Sam shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m glad you know.”

  He looked over at her. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. This was it. He didn’t want her to leave… ever.

  Uh-oh.

  The cab fell silent again.

  Laura stared out through the windshield. “How much farther is it?”

  “Not far. Couple more miles.”

  Chapter 32

  The pickup truck was stopped by the side of the road. Sam held a piece of splintered wood in his hand, a remnant of Fletcher’s gate.

  Laura kicked a piece of the gate with her hiking boot, saw a glint of metal, bent down, and retrieved an emblem from a car. A Cadillac badge from the front grill.

  “Look.” Laura walked over, handed it to Sam. “Off a Cadillac.”

  Sam held the emblem, studied it. “Frank Desouza,” he said flatly. “Has to be.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Vegas scumbag. He’s been after Doc to sell his land so he can build a casino.”

  Laura studied Sam’s face. “But he won’t sell.”

  “No way,” Sam said, turning the Escalade badge over in his hand. “Not in a million years.”

  “You think he’s the one that smashed the gate?”

  “Has to be. Like I said, the guy’s a scumbag.”

  “You think he’s here now?” Laura asked, a little concern entering her voice.

  Sam moved to the pickup, held her door open. “Let’s go find out.”

  * * *

  Sam braked and hauled the wheel over, narrowly missing a pile of debris, and lurched to a stop in front of Fletcher’s house.

  Or what was left of it.

  Sam and Laura stared out through the windshield, not believing or even comprehending what they were seeing.

  The place had been transformed.

  Half the main residence and the nursery had been engulfed by a Fletcher Creeper! It looked like a giant, chartreuse-colored octopus had been dropped on the entire place.

  The green mass pulsed and throbbed as fleshy stalks, thick as a man’s arm, snaked out, searching for something, anything. Creepers swept through the air, deadly as patrolling Great Whites, their stalks covered with bony thorns shaped like shark’s teeth. And at the organism’s center, wispy medusa-like tendrils rose up, bristling in the morning light.

  “My God! Whatis it? What’s that?” Laura yelled.

  “Holy Jesus… I don’t know.”

  They cracked their doors, then together they dropped out of the truck, both of them on high alert.

  Sam placed his hands around his mouth. “Doc! Hello! Dr. Fletcher!”

  No one replied. The only sound was a low rasping of teeth as creeper stalks crisscrossed one another.

  “Hello…” Laura called out, straining to see if anyone was in the house.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Sam. “It’s unbelievable. The entire place is gone, covered by this…” And then it came to him. “Fletcher Creeper.”

  Holy shit.

  Then the sound of splintering wood issued up from the rear of the house. Both of them spun towards it.

  “Doc! Doc!” Sam yelled. Then he motioned to Laura, and both of them rushed toward the house.

  The landing and most of the front entrance were still free of the creeper. Sam and Laura cautiously approached and stepped onto the porch. As they passed beneath a bay window, the glass shattered and a thick creeper stalk looped out, shot up, and smashed into the overhang, burying its boney tip deep into the wooden eaves.

  Startled, Sam and Laura leapt back, both of them yelling out in fear.

  There was a clinking sound. Then a bottle tumbled out the window and smashed at their feet—an empty bottle of scotch.

  “Shit!” Sam said, hauling Laura back a little farther, both of them wide-eyed and in shock.

  “Jesus Christ,” Laura said as they backed off the porch.

  Sam stared at the shattered bottle, then whispered to himself, “Doc…”

  Laura looked at him. “What? What is it, Sam?”

  “Wait here. I’m going inside.”

  “No! Are you crazy?! That thing—�
�

  But Sam was already moving across the porch. He stepped up to the door, placed his hand on the handle, twisted, pulled, and—

  Fletcher’s body spilled out in a gout of ruined flesh.

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam yelled.

  Inside, the creeper heaved. Fletcher’s body lurched up, then dropped onto the landing, his limbs bent and twisted and hanging from his body at an unnatural angle.

  Sam stared in horror at what used to be his friend’s face. The skin was split and leathery and drawn drum-tight across the skull. His lips were wrinkled and shriveled, having permanently receded over the gums, leaving his face frozen in a ghoulish grin. His eyes hung from their sockets, dangling like bloody rubber balls beneath a puddle of gore.

  “God. Jesus Christ. No…” he took a step back, not believing what he was seeing.

  A loud rustling sound erupted—and, without warning, something shot directly at Sam’s face!

  The space in front of his eyes suddenly turned bright green—then a shrill squawk, squawk, squawk exploded in his ears—and Darwin slammed into Sam’s chest.

  “Darwin! Shit! Goddamn it! Son of a bitch! Goddamn son of a bitch!”

  With a beat of his wings, Darwin shot past Sam, swept beneath the porch, and landed safely inside the pickup, lighting on the steering wheel.

  Then Laura screamed, her panic filling the air. Sam wheeled towards her as a creeper stalk raced up, wrapped itself around her ankle, and jerked her off her feet.

  Laura screamed again. She watched in horror as the creeper coiled tighter and tighter around her leg, its teeth-like thorns tearing through her pants and slicing into her flesh.

  She felt the blood—hot and wet—as it spilled into her boot. “Sam!” she yelled, then tried to crab back as the creeper snaked up her leg towards her groin.

  Sam flew off the porch, and barely touching the ground, sprinted to his truck, grabbed a shovel out the back, raced up to Laura—and, with the shovel raised overhead, knifed down, slashing at the creeper stalk again and again, not stopping until he’d severed it cleanly in two.

  Twisting, writhing—and three feet shorter—the creeper stalk drew back and sucked inside the house, disappearing through the broken window.

  Laura scrambled free, kicking her foot in the air, trying to rid herself of the severed bit of creeper.

  Sam fell next to her, put his hand on her leg, and, using the handle of the shovel, pried the remaining section of creeper off her ankle and pitched it out, making sure it was well clear of them.

  “You okay?” he said, helping her sit up.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “My God,” said Sam, staring at the undulation mass that had engulfed the nursery. “Look at that thing.”

  Laura stared at the creeper, awestruck. She started to speak and then stopped—she didn’t have the words.

  Sam turned back to Laura, lifted her foot, then gingerly pulled her pants leg up and over three scarlet-red lacerations where thorns had raked her flesh.

  “The cuts aren’t deep—just superficial wounds.” He rolled her pant leg back down, covering them. “Okay, let’s get you up.”

  Laura nodded. Sam took her arm, draped it around his shoulders, then pulled her to her feet, keeping ahold of her while she tested her leg.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Come on,” Sam looped a hand around her waist. “I’ve got everything we need to clean and dress your ankle at the house.”

  They started back to the truck, Sam checking to make sure she really was okay. Then Laura suddenly stopped, turned back to the house, and stared at the body lying on the porch.

  “Was that—”

  “Yes. It’s Dr. Fletcher. He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do now.”

  “No!” Then, in a muffled voice, she said it again. “No…” It sounded like someone had squeezed all the air out of her lungs. She slumped against Sam, gripping his arm as the strength went out of her legs.

  Sam held her, lifting her up, her sobs dying into his chest. He stroked her head. Then, gently using the back of his hand, he wiped a line of tears from her cheek.

  “You two were close… who was he to you?”

  Laura sniffed, wiped her eyes. She lifted her head, looked at Sam. “We weren’t really close,” she said, blinking tears away. “We only met once. The day I was born.”

  Chapter 33

  “Blossom! Blossom, get in there!” Curley yelled, trying to herd the sow into its pen.

  Blossom tried one last end-run, but Curley darted left, blocking the way. Relenting, Blossom snorted, started into the pen, then suddenly bucked, twisted around—and shot to freedom between Curley’s legs.

  Curley’s feet were knocked apart. He was stuck in the mud. Helplessly off balance, all he could do was wave his arms and watch as he fell into the wallow. Splat.

  “Damn it, Blossom… ” Curley sat up, then yelled to the pig, “Go ahead! There’s nothing out there to eat. Nothing but sand and cactus.”

  Ignoring him, Blossom trotted past a row of palms, then went straight up a sandy bank and stopped directly in front of the creeper Curley had planted yesterday.

  Blossom sniffed the clipping, snorting up a cloud of sand. Then, using her nose, she rooted around the base, scooped it up, and gobbled it down.

  The pig swung around, looked at Curley, shook her head up and down with delight, then trotted over to the water trough, plunged her snout in, and began to sop up the water.

  Blossom continued to drink—and then she suddenly stopped, jerking her head up out of the trough.

  Something was wrong.

  Blossom plowed straight back in a freakish movement that made her look like she was on wheels, did a 360, and then began to squeal at the top of her lungs.

  The pig began to swell. It was like Blossom had suddenly been connected to an air hose. A moment after that, bumps appeared all over her back, moving in and out as if someone had crawled inside and was poking her with a stick.

  The pig kept squealing. Her body began a series of unnatural twists and turns that would’ve given Linda Blair a run for her money. Then Blossom froze. She turned her head creepily sideways—and without warning—exploded into a creeper vine!

  A pink mist floated above the pig as tendrils and creeper stalks sprung out in all directions, pouring out of every orifice.

  Within seconds, what used to be a three hundred pound sow was a giant, undulating creeper, its stalks decorated with chunks of bloody pork.

  Curley scrambled to his feet, horrified. “Jesus Lord,” he said in disbelief. “What in God’s name is it?”

  He moved closer, trying to see just what had just happened to his pet pig. As he leaned in for a better look, the creeper snapped out, coiling one of its stalks around his boot.

  “Shit!” Curley yelled, pitching back and spilling to the ground.

  He looked down, then watched in horror as the creeper coiled tighter and tighter, its thorns slicing into the leather upper of his boot.

  Curley boosted himself up, reached down, pulled on the laces—then, using his other foot, kicked the boot off, letting the creeper have it as he pulled his leg free.

  Curley crab-walked back, jumped up, then watched in utter amazement as the creeper crushed and shredded his work boot.

  What the hell?

  “Okay. Alright. So you want to play it like that…”

  Curley marched over to a tool shed, yanked open the door, and moments later stepped out holding a gas-powered Weed Eater with a metal chopping blade.

  He moved toward the creeper and pulled the starter cord. The engine caught and sputtered, then stopped. Two more rapid pulls. Then, on the fourth try, the engine roared to life as the creeper poured a dozen arms into the water trough—and began to drink.

  As the water flowed into the thing, the growth was freakish, spectacular, geometric. It voraciously emptied the trough, then sent tentacles out in all directions looking for more water—or whatever…

  Curley revved the
engine, pinning the throttle until the Weed Eater’s two-stroke engine was screaming, and—advancing in a shroud of blue smoke—drove the blade deep into a knot of flashing creeper stalks.

  “Suck this! Suck this, you sick bastard!” Curley poured on the juice, a crazed look on his face.

  The Weed Eater tore into the thing, slicing and dicing and sending bits of creeper cartwheeling through the air.

  “Yeah!” Curley yelled with delight, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Bite this!”

  He jerked the trimmer sideways, slicing a fat stalk in two. Then wheeling right, he took out another arm just before it reached the trough. As he sliced into a third stalk, the engine bogged and began to miss. The plug fouled. And then the Weed Eater quit, plunging the compound into silence.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of green. And then the machine was ripped from his hands.

  Curley reeled back as the creeper coiled around the Weed Eater, bent the shaft, and broke it in two. Snap!

  “Son of a bitch!” Curley said, taking a step back. “What is it?”

  And then, without warning, the freshly gorged creeper sent a stalk flashing out—caught Curley around the waist, flipped him off his feet—and began dragging him towards a hundred thirsty suckers.

  “Jesus Christ!” Curley yelled, as he slid through the sand. “Help!”

  Chapter 34

  Kristin came running out of the house, looking very un-Goth-like in slippers and a pink robe. She raced to the tool shed, grabbed a machete, sprinted to Curley—and, with the machete raised over her head, yelled, “Fuck me!” as she brought it down, severing the creeper arm and freeing Curley.

  Just to be sure, she slashed down again. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. “Ugly fucking weed!”

  Curley rolled free and wobbled to his feet. He stared at Kristin, the machete slung at her side. Then in wide-eyed disbelief, he said, “You just saved my life.”

  Kristin stared at the creeper, watching its medieval-looking arms writhing on the ground. “What the fuck is that?” Kristin said.