by Bryan Dunn
The plane was covered with swarming creepers. Their thorn-encrusted stalks wove a deadly wreath that circled the wreckage.
Behind the plane, creepers had fanned out and split into two groups. Half streamed up the mountain and joined the river of creepers flowing along the ridge. The other half continued on its path towards town.
“Look at that,” Curley said, pointing to the right of the crash site. They all watched as a writhing creeper snagged the biplane’s rudder and dragged it up the face of the mountain.
Laura turned back to the biplane and studied the matrix of creeper stalks shrouding the crash site. “Sam, supposing we can actually clear a path to the plane and get to the Round-up… how are we going to get the drums back to the tow truck?”
“We’re not.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a plan,” Sam said, flashing a confident grin.
“Where have I heard that before?” Laura asked in a dubious voice.
* * *
Karl yanked on the power washer’s pull cord, and the engine hummed to life. “Okay, Tommy, give her a try.”
Tommy gripped the handle of the wand, pulled the trigger, and a wide fan of spray shot from the tip.
Karl raised a hand and made a cutting motion across his throat. “Kill it, Tommy.”
Tommy released the trigger, stopping the spray. Karl moved to the end of the wand, removed the tip, replaced it, then stepped back around Tommy and said, “Okay, try that one.”
Tommy raised the wand, pulled the trigger, and a thick stream of water shot out three hundred feet and began to drench one of the rusted-out hulks at the side of the garage.
“Yeah!” Tommy yelled, as he worked the wand back and forth.
Karl watched the stream of water, then thought to himself, That should do it. That should kick the hell out of it.
Chapter 70
Fifteen minutes later, Sam had moved the tow truck down to the crash site and backed it up to the edge of the arroyo. Below the truck, less than thirty yards away, a mass of creepers boiled across busted wings, torn bits of fuselage, and broken engine parts.
Sam and Laura stood next to the truck, Sam holding the Super Soaker and Laura wearing the backpack sprayer, both of them looking like Ghostbusters about to do battle with some hideous apparition.
Curley was positioned at the rear of the truck, waiting to play out the winch cable on Sam’s signal.
“Ready?” Sam said, glancing at Laura and Curley.
Curley indicated he was ready with a nod. Laura adjusted her rubber gloves, then gave Sam a thumbs up.
“Okay, one more time,” Sam said, then went over the plan. “Laura and I will clear the crash site and locate the belly tank. When it’s safe—Curley, you haul ass with the winch cable and cargo net. We’ll keep the creepers back while you hook up the belly tank, then everybody back to the tow truck, and we’ll haul the tank up to the truck with the winch.” After a moment, Sam said, “Any questions?”
“What about the Molotov cocktails?” Curley asked.
“When the belly tank is safely out of the arroyo, we’ll pitch them into the wash and put a wall of flames between us and the creepers.”
Sam turned to Laura. “I’ll go first, you stay on my right flank. When I give the word, we’ll hit them with everything we’ve got.”
Laura gripped the backpack’s pump handle, then nodded okay.
Moving as stealthily as possible, they picked their way down the embankment and dropped into the arroyo. Then, very slowly, they inched toward the deadly creeper arms.
They made it five, then ten, then twenty feet, when—
A whipping sound filled their ears, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw a creeper stalk shoot up and sweep directly towards them.
He pivoted, raised the Super Soaker—and as the creeper descended—blasted it with a stream of poison. At the same time, he and Laura lunged to the right.
By the time the creeper thudded to the ground, it had already started to wither and die, the tip turning an ashen color.
Just as they caught their breath, another creeper shot towards them…
Laura yelled, “Sam!” Then both of them blasted it at the same time, causing it to drop to the ground, shrivel, and curl into a ball.
“Now!” Sam shouted. He waved an arm through the air and both of them charged forward, yelling at the top of their lungs and blasting the creeper, coating the
writhing stalks with a thick sheen of weed killer.
As the Weed-B-Gone took effect, creeper stalks withered and atrophied, exposing the biplane, bit by bit. Thirty minutes later, an ashen halo of crumpled and shriveled creeper stalks surrounded the crash site.
After creating a protective wall of flames with their Molotov cocktails, the crew retrieved the plane’s belly tank and winched it out of the arroyo. Sam and Curley siphoned poison from the tank into the 55 gallon drums, while Laura stood guard at the edge of the arroyo, watching the creepers.
She noted that the poison had only affected the outer edges of the vine. The stalks had withered back thirty feet, but the rest of the organism seemed healthy and completely unaffected—not what you would expect after applying a systemic poison.
How could that be? And then she saw it. Clever plant.
She turned and waved. “Sam, you’ve got to see this.”
Sam motioned for Curley to take the drum pump, then joined Laura at the edge of the arroyo.
She pointed. “Look, only the outer part of the creeper is affected by the poison.”
“How is that possible? The stuff should go right through them.”
“Their aerial root network allows them to defeat the systemic poison. It’s an incredibly clever mechanism. What it does is, it breaks away from the closest secondary root and then reforms.”
“Jesus,” said Sam.
Both of them watched as the creepers did exactly what Laura had just described—parted from their withered ends, re-rooted, and started to grow again.
* * *
Back in town, the armored pickup sat in front of Nguyen’s Place. Metal cages were welded across the driver’s and passenger’s side windows, plus protective shielding for the “gunner” around the pressure washer’s gun.
Karl and Tommy paced anxiously back and forth on the porch, both of them checking the road every couple of seconds, hoping to see the tow truck, hoping that their friends were okay.
They stopped pacing when the diner’s door clattered open and Donnie wandered out, then went over to examine the fortified pickup truck, taking in the steel plates and power washer mounted in back.
“This is sick, yo,” Donnie said, looking at Karl and Tommy. “Totally Road Warrior.”
Karl acknowledged with a nod, then glanced at the pickup. “I have to admit, it does look badass.”
“It’s them!” Tommy pointed excitedly at the road. “They made it!” He leapt off the porch, followed by Karl, and ran to meet the tow truck.
Chapter 71
An hour later, a small convoy of vehicles lined up in street, ready to make a run at the quarter-mile-wide ribbon of creepers that lay between them and their freedom.
The modified pickup, bristling with armor and its rear-mounted gun, was positioned as lead vehicle. Three drums containing a hundred and fifty gallons of Round-up had been secured in the truck’s bed, ready to be fed into the power washer’s reservoir.
Behind the pickup was Karl’s tow truck, then Tommy’s Jeep, and lastly the deuce and a half in case they got flanked. The thinking was, the large tanker would offer them the best protection.
Across the street, standing on Nguyen’s roof, Sam, Laura, Karl, Tommy, and Curley stared out at the valley, trying to get a better look at the gauntlet they were about to face.
The others—Carla, Kristin, Maya, Donnie, and the Grogans—had already loaded up and were waiting in the vehicles.
Sam raised a pair of binoculars, panning along the ridge and down to the valley floor, following the column of creepers that flowe
d along the mountainside. Then he turned to the group. “It’s a quarter mile wide for sure, maybe wider.”
“I don’t like it, Sam,” Curley said, a tremor in his voice. “That’s too much. We won’t be able to cut through that. No way.”
“Yes, we will!” said Laura, color spiking in her cheeks as she leveled her gaze at the others. “The key will be to keep moving, no matter what happens.”
“Tell them what we saw back at the plane,” Sam said.
Laura nodded. “The Round-up won’t kill this thing, it will only slow it down. When a creeper senses it’s dying—it breaks from its secondary root, stopping the poison from spreading—then begins to reform from that point.”
“Secondary roots, my ass…” said Karl, a confused and worried look flooding across his face. “That doesn’t make sense. You saw what the poison did to the creeper that got Rufus. The thing shriveled right up and died.”
“That was a small plant,” said Laura, in a calm and controlled voice, trying not to upset the group. “It hadn’t developed an aerial root network. It was defenseless.”
“Then how are we supposed to kill it?” asked Tommy, fear rising in his voice. “How can we get past that thing?’
“If we stay together and keep moving, it will work,” Sam said, reassuringly. “Based on what we saw at the crash site, the poison will wither the creeper back about thirty feet before it starts to re-grow. That should give us enough time to pass safely through.”
“Think of our column of vehicles like a boat,” Laura added. “As the hull moves forward it displaces the water, pushing it out from the boat. The water only closes back in after the boat passes. That’s how we’ll move through the band of creepers.”
“Hmm,” murmured Karl. “I don’t know…”
“It’s not like we have a choice, Karl,” Sam said. “It will work. It has to.”
Chapter 72
Sam was in the back of the pickup truck manning the power washer’s gun as Karl guided the 4x4 across the desert beneath a welt of purple clouds. Curley was crouched next to Sam, ready to man the drum pump and keep the power washer supplied with Round-up.
Behind the 4x4 was Karl’s tow truck driven by Tommy. Then came Tommy’s Jeep with Donnie at the wheel, and bringing up the rear was the deuce and a half driven by Laura with Kristin riding shotgun, the Super Soaker slung across her lap. The lead vehicles disappeared, then suddenly popped back into view, lit by intermittent arcs of flashing light as they ran under stormy skies towards an uncertain future.
Inside the pickup, Karl spun the wheel, guiding the caravan around a lunar-sized divot, then slowed as the wall of creepers loomed before him in the windshield. The convoy continued forward another half mile, then Sam leaned over and banged on the cab’s roof, signaling for Karl to stop. They were almost there. The creepers lay directly in front of them, a hundred yards away.
Karl let off on the gas, put the truck in neutral and rolled to a stop.
Sam faced the other vehicles, cupped his hands to his mouth, and addressed the group. “Okay, we’re almost there. Stick to the plan. Give us a thirty-yard lead. We’ll advance and hit the creeper with Round-up. As soon as we’ve created a large enough opening, Karl will honk his horn. That’s your signal to join us. After that, there’s no stopping or turning back. We’ll go through that thing like a hot knife through butter. We’ll pour on the Round-up until there’s nothing in front of us except sand and cactus.”
Sam paused and let his eyes run down the line of vehicles. He raised an arm, then yelled, “Drivers… If you’re ready, signal by flashing your headlights.”
A second later headlights flicked on and began to flash.
Sam gave a thumbs up, then turned to Curley. “Fire up the power washer.”
“I’m on it,” Curley said. He straddled the little engine, hauled on the pull cord, and the power washer roared to life.
Sam waited for a moment, letting the washer pressurize, then squeezed the trigger. A thick stream of Round-up shot into the air. He released the trigger and moved the wand up and down, left and right, checking to make sure it swiveled freely.
Sam flashed another thumbs up, then leaned forward, banged on the cab and shouted, “Let’s roll, Karl!”
A second later, the pickup truck lurched forward. Sam and Curley grabbed the armored sides as the other vehicles idled, waiting for a gap to form. After a moment, they fell in behind the pickup, following its path.
Overhead, thunder boomed and lightning swarmed like a mad scientist’s experiment gone wrong. Ragged trails of dust rose from the vehicles as they sped towards the river of creepers that cut across the valley, blocking their path.
Up front, Sam and Curley readied themselves as the pickup pulled within striking distance of the undulating creeper stalks. Sam tightened his grip on the gun as Karl slowed, dropped the truck in low, and continued to advance.
Sixty yards… thirty yards…. and, when they were twenty yards out—
Two massive stalks detached themselves from the quarter-mile-wide rope of twisting, churning creepers, rose into the air—and shot directly at the pickup truck. With all three of them yelling SHIT at the top of their lungs, Karl kept his foot on the gas—and Sam opened up, blasting both creeper stalks with a thick stream of Round-up.
As the poison slammed into them and the Round-up took effect, the stalks wobbled in midair. Seconds later, they collapsed to the ground, the systemic poison withering their tips and moving up their arms like a grey-colored stain.
“Way to go, Sam!” Curley whooped as he furiously cranked the drum pump, transferring more Round-up into the power washer’s reservoir.
Karl continued thirty more feet, then slowed and inched the pickup forward until they stood directly in front of the writhing creeper river.
Sam leveled the power washer’s wand, drew in a lungful of air and, as he released it, began to blast the churning creeper stalks. With the power washer’s engine going full tilt, Sam worked the stream of Round-up back and forth, coating stalks in front of the truck in a fan-shaped pattern.
The effect was immediate, dramatic, amazing. Glistening with Round-up, creeper stalks began to melt and wither and die. If plants could talk, this one would be screaming in horror.
A few minutes later, after a gap had formed, Sam leaned out, banged on the cab, and yelled, “NOW, Karl!”
Karl acknowledged with three loud blasts of his horn, signaling the others it was time to roll. As the truck moved into the creeper river, Sam felt like he was on a road plow entering a snowdrift, with tall banks on each side.
With the sound of Karl’s horn echoing in her ears, Carla leaned across the tow truck’s cab, kissed Tommy, and whispered, “I love you, baby.”
Tommy kissed her cheek, smiled, gripped the wheel, then pressed on the accelerator and joined the pickup for the push through the creepers.
Inside the Jeep, Donnie glanced in the rearview mirror and blurted out, “Grab your dicks!” He dropped the Cherokee into drive as the Grogan twins dove onto the backseat floor next to their mother’s feet.
At the same time, in the deuce and a half, Laura stepped on the clutch, put the truck into gear, and glanced at Kristin. “Ready for this?”
Kristin tightened her grip on the Super Soaker and shot back, “Let’s get some.”
Up at the front, Sam swept the power washer back and forth in a 180 degree arc, cutting a thirty-foot-wide swath for the vehicles to pass through.
It went like clockwork—the Round-up was knocking the hell out of it. In matter of minutes, they were three quarters of the way through the band of creepers. Curley was securing the drum pump to the last 55 gallons of poison when the power washer engine began to sputter—and then completely stopped!
Sam whipped around, checked the power washer, then shouted, “Curley, what the hell?”
Karl slammed on the brakes when he heard the power washer stop. Curley jumped on the power washer’s engine, grabbed the pull cord, and yanked for all he was wo
rth.
Nothing—the engine turned over, but wouldn’t catch. And then Curley remembered…
The gas!
He’d forgotten to top off the power washer’s gas tank.
Shit!
Curley lunged to the rear of the truck, grabbed a gas can, ripped off the lid, removed the power washer’s fuel cap, then filled the tank, not caring that gas flooded down the sides and onto the toes of his boots.
“Jesus Christ, Curley,” Sam yelled. “Get that thing running!”
Curley dropped the gas can, yanked on the pull cord—and the power washer roared to life, just as a creeper stalk whipped out and smashed into the armor plating, soaking Sam and Curley with sticky sap.
A second after that, the pressure came back up and Sam banged on the cab for Karl to roll. As the pickup surged forward, Sam blasted away, beating back advancing creepers. Less than a minute later, it was over—the pickup made it through the remaining creeper stalks and into the safety of the open desert, followed by the tow truck and the Jeep.
Meanwhile, the creepers were coping exactly the way Laura had predicted. The stalks that had withered back thirty feet broke away from secondary roots and began to reform. At the rear of the column, behind the deuce and a half, creepers were already closing in.
Laura noticed the tanker had begun to slow. She added gas, but the truck continued slow and then bogged down as reformed creepers raced up and attached themselves to the vehicle.
“We’re stuck!” Laura shouted, as the tanker bounced to a stop.
“Holy shit!” Kristin yelled back, just as a creeper dropped onto the hood and attacked the windshield. She grabbed the Super Soaker, rolled down her window, thrust the gun out, and blasted the creeper. The stalk twisted up, writhed along the hood, and fell from the truck.
Using both hands, Laura wrestled the deuce and a half into six-wheel drive just as another creeper T-boned the truck, denting her door and rocking the tanker sideways.