by Ward Parker
They were not afraid of her. Humans were their prey.
A yowl and hissing came from the other side of the house. There was a great commotion out in the living room with furniture and objects hitting the hardwood flooring.
Suddenly, her gray tabbies, Brenda and Bubba, came bounding into the kitchen, knocking gnomes aside like bowling pins. The two cats jumped up onto the kitchen island. They stared at her like it was her fault that her home was filled with gnomes.
The gnomes, interestingly, had lost their forward momentum. It was as if they were put off by the cats. They weren’t scared of humans, their sworn enemy. But the cats seemed to rattle them. But it wasn’t as if Missy could enlist her cats to drive out the gnomes.
But maybe something else could.
The gnomes were filling the kitchen as far as the island, leaving her precious little space. But within her last bit of territory was the pantry. And in the bottom was her robot vacuum cleaner.
The robot vacuum was slow and timid, avoiding objects in its way. But with a little magick, and her telekinetic ability to move objects with her mind, she turned the timid robot into a weapon.
A simple spell added speed and power to the motor. Her telekinesis forced it to seek obstacles rather than avoid them. She activated the spell and off it went like a tank into battle.
The rustic gnome with the ax never knew what hit him. He flew backwards into the air and landed in the throng of gnomes behind him, knocking them over.
The robot vacuum shot forward, battering its way through the gnomes. It pushed and chased the gnomes from the kitchen and then plowed them down in the living room. She directed the robot like she would use her regular, stand-up vacuum, sending it forth and back, radiating from right to left across the room. The gnomes packed her home so tightly that tipping over one gnome did the same to several around it like dominoes.
Of course, she wasn’t damaging the resin-composite objects. She was merely sending them into disarray, disrupting their collective consciousness. Rattling them a bit. Anything that weakened them created an opening she could exploit.
As she took a step forward, her leg caught, and she landed on the floor. The evil little eyes of a Santa Claus gnome looked down at her. She swept her arm and set it flying into its comrades. She quickly stood again.
She needed to ramp up her counterattack. The gnomes that filled her home were in retreat, lying on the floor, piled into corners. Some had fled into the yard. But others were back on their little feet, imperceptibly sliding toward her.
An open door showed a tinge of purple in the sky. She hoped the coming daylight would thwart the gnomes, but she wasn’t hopeful after seeing them marauding in the garden center during the day.
She yelped in pain as a hard object hit the back of her head. A gnome landed at her feet and she kicked it like a soccer ball. Of course, it hit one of her windows, damaging it further. Another one hit her shoulder.
Dozens of gnomes flew at her like gnome kamikazes. She got hit in the face and tasted blood. The gnomes continued flying at her, pummeling her. She had to keep from falling down or it would be the end of her. But another gnome hit her head, and she felt the world tipping.
Somehow, she ended up in the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. There weren’t any gnomes in here. Yet. The robot vacuum had set them back, but now they were on the attack again. She needed another weapon to put them on the defensive. If they became disorganized long enough, she could use a warding spell to drive them from her property.
She scanned the tools in her garage and her eyes lighted on the one thing she knew gnomes in yards and gardens everywhere would fear: their eternal nemesis.
The weed whacker.
“Die you evil buggers!” She screamed as she charged into the house, the weed whacker growling, its deadly cord whirling in a blur.
The first gnome lost his face and half his paint. The gnomes behind it met a similar fate. She swung the weed whacker back and forth like a scythe and worked her way through the house, whacking gnomes. Some were decapitated; others were badly gouged.
And the rest were fleeing.
They piled into the yard in a teeming mass. It was a rout. She quickly closed and locked the doors and returned to the garage. It was time for the coup de grâce.
She imagined there was fear in their eyes as she pushed the roaring lawnmower into them. She tilted it onto its rear wheels to expose the spinning blade and pushed it into the crowd.
The yard echoed with the clunking and cracking of shattered plastic and resin, big hunks shooting out to either side. She plowed a path through the field of gnomes and turned to make another pass.
Still, she was battered by flying gnomes. But she sensed the tide of battle was turning.
She made another attack through the backyard, the gnomes pressing against the fence to avoid her. Then she continued around the side, mangling gnomes with every step she took. In the front yard, there was no fence to trap them. She cut a swathe through the gnomes and noticed the numbers were quickly decreasing. She didn’t see where they went, but they were definitely fleeing.
She decided to try the warding spell again. Holding her right hand out like a traffic guard signaling someone to stop, she chanted the spell, stepping in a circle to spread the energy throughout her property. Her left hand grasped the talisman and its power surged through her.
“Begone from my land, I command you!” She said. But she didn’t shout. She didn’t want the neighbors to hear.
Maybe this spell hadn’t worked earlier against the demonic influence, but now that the influence was disrupted, the spell worked fine. In a few minutes her lawn was empty, except for chunks and pieces of gnomes scattered about like yard refuse. She needed to rake up the bigger chunks and use the blower on the smaller ones. It looked bad. Her neighbors would complain.
She walked toward the garage and stopped suddenly. A decapitated gnome head caught her eye. Did it move? With a bushy white beard, pointy red hat, and jaundiced eyes, it radiated malevolence.
It rolled over, right in front of her. Then, it began rolling like a grounder, bounced off her foot, and struck her in the jaw.
That’s going to leave a nasty bruise, she thought. People will think I’m dating an abuser. Little did they know the kind of evil guys I’ve got here.
She kicked the gnome head with all her might, and it sailed down the street, landing in front of her neighbor’s house, bouncing three times, and dropping into a recycling bin sitting by the curb. Fortunately, it was the blue bin for plastics and glass.
Missy had beaten the gnomes in this morning’s battle, but she hadn’t won the war. Not by any stretch. Her life was seriously in danger and she had to end this. The moment she had dreaded, the time to meet and confront her mother, was long overdue.
22
A Coupon for Evil
Matt was just getting out of the shower when the call came over the police scanner. Something about vandalized construction equipment. As he dressed, another radio call reported a protest. It was at the Unger Tract. Everyone still called it that instead of its new consumer-friendly developer name. Matt remembered the land was where the old werewolf lady was shot and killed. He had to check this out.
He arrived to find a TV news crew had beaten him there. Their van with the station logo and a microwave transmitter sat on the shoulder across the street. The blonde reporter spoke to a cameraman with the protest behind her.
The scene was a chaotic confrontation between a small group of agitated protesters and a much smaller number of bored-looking cops. The protesters didn't look dangerous. They looked goofy.
Frank, of Frank's Friends of Florida, was chained to the front shovel of a large yellow excavator along with two aging hippy women who had flowers in their hair. Near them were about a dozen protesters of a variety of ages waving handmade signs at the news camera. The signs said, "No more sprawl," "Save the earth," "Stop overdevelopment," and sentiments like that.
Matt wond
ered why they bothered. From what he understood, the development was a done deal. Everything was approved, sales had begun, and the forest along with everything that lived here was being destroyed and scraped away down to the dirt. The only thing that would stop it would be a plunge in the real estate market. As if to hammer this point home, another excavator was in the distance using the claw at the end of its shovel to tear limbs off trees and yank the trees out of the ground. It must have been painful for the protesters to watch.
Two older men in yellow hard hats stood next to a pickup truck sipping coffee and watching the protest with amusement. A fat man in a suit spoke on his phone nearby, gesticulating wildly. He looked like a mafia don. Matt recognized him: He was George Loopi, the developer.
Matt walked over to the two men whom he guessed were construction managers.
"Morning," Matt said.
The men nodded aloofly.
"I'm Matt Rosen with The Jellyfish Beach Journal. Did these protesters do any damage?"
"Yeah, they poured something into the gas tank of a dump truck. And now this." The manager made a dismissive gesture toward the group chained to the excavator. "We should have just run them over before the police got here."
"Has this group of protesters given you a lot of trouble?"
"Nah. Mostly they just show up and wave their stupid signs. They come to a lot of projects in this area."
"I'm going to destroy them," said a bellicose voice behind Matt. It was George Loopi.
"That Frank fellow is a fanatic," the developer said. "He's always following me."
"Everyone has their passions," Matt said.
That seemed to further annoy the man.
"He has a vendetta against me. Like he wants to put me out of business. He shows up at every single project. No, I take that back. He doesn't bother me when I demolish historic landmarks. It's only when I build on virgin land. That freaking tree hugger."
"Is he known to commit much vandalism?" Matt asked.
"Mostly petty stuff, not too costly but annoying. Insurance covers most of it."
"What about violence?" Matt asked.
"My guys didn't kick him around too hard," the construction manager said with an evil grin.
“I meant by Frank and his protesters.”
"I wish," Loopi said. "That would put him in prison and out of my hair for a long time."
Matt knew that Josie had briefly considered Frank a suspect but had changed her mind. If the man was truly a fanatic, he wouldn't behave logically. But why would he be on this property at night with a gun? Whoever killed the werewolf used a silver bullet because he or she was hunting a werewolf. That had nothing to do with development.
But maybe Frank had a crusade against werewolves. There’s no rule he couldn’t have more than one hobby.
Matt walked over to the protesters. The police wouldn’t let him get close to Frank, so Matt had to shout his questions.
“What are you hoping to accomplish here?”
“Public awareness,” Frank shouted, his giant white beard flecked with sweat. “We have to stop destroying the earth out of greed.”
“What do you say to those who claim we need to build more homes because the population of Florida is growing?”
“Higher density,” Frank shouted back. “Renovate older neighborhoods. Build multi-family housing in cities closer to jobs and shopping. Stop the mindless sprawl! Stop all the roads clogged with cars connecting all the sprawl.”
This wasn’t a guy you wanted to be stuck next to at a party, Matt thought.
“Why do you think it’s justifiable to vandalize the truck?”
“Because it belongs to a greedy company that vandalizes the earth,” Frank shouted.
“Where does it stop?” Matt asked. “How far would you go? Would you harm a person to stop the destruction of the earth?”
“I don’t have to. The earth will harm those who harm her.”
Matt didn’t like the answer. The guy wasn’t completely against harming people.
A police officer approached the protesters with bolt cutters and the TV news cameraman pushed into Matt’s way to get a good shot of the chain being cut. Soon, Frank and the two women had plastic cable ties around their wrists and were being led away to a police van.
Matt had another question for Loopi, but he decided he’d get a more honest answer if he asked one of the construction managers he had spoken to. He walked back to where they were watching the show.
“Don’t you guys have security to protect your property?”
“Yeah. These nuts rushed in when our guy was on the other side of the parcel.”
“Can the guard shoot a trespasser?”
The two managers exchanged glances. “The guards would call the police. But they can defend themselves if they’re in danger.”
Missy’s phone rang. It was Matt. He told her about the incident with the protesters at the construction site for the new community.
“That guy Frank—the environmentalist—chained himself with a few followers to an excavator,” Matt said. “The police had to cut them free to arrest them. Frank is quite a piece of work. A bit nuts, if you ask me. Maybe you and Josie should take a closer look at him, to distract her from Affird.”
“You think he’s violent?” Missy asked.
“I don’t know if he has it in him to pull the trigger himself. But I get the feeling that he’s not against the concept of people getting hurt to protect the planet.”
“Like he wouldn’t mind if someone in his group pulled the trigger?”
“Exactly. Those women arrested with him seemed brainwashed. We’re talking Charles Manson’s ‘family’ brainwashing.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“I reported on Frank’s group for a story a few years back and I didn’t see any red flags. But maybe he’s gotten more extreme. I’d look into him myself, but I’m under deadline right now.”
“Big story?”
“No.” He sounded deflated. “The city council enacted new pooper-scooper laws.”
“I’ll check it out. Thanks.”
This was the second time Missy searched the internet for Frank’s Friends of Florida. The fact was, they really weren’t very interesting. They didn’t lobby legislative bodies for pro-environmental laws or regulations. They didn’t raise money to buy endangered lands. They didn’t do any direct work to save endangered species. They mostly held meetings and organized protests. In photos on their social media pages, members looked earnest, if a little comical.
She then researched their leader, Frank Fitzwhizzle. Apparently, he had once been an orthodontist, then retired to focus on his passions: the environment and magic mushrooms. Yes, she found a mugshot of a wide-eyed Frank Fitzwhizzle booked in the county jail for trespassing and possessing hallucinogenic mushrooms. That explained a lot.
She also found a news article naming him and several others as being arrested for petty theft of lawn ornaments from several residences.
Lawn ornaments? That was odd, considering what had upended Missy’s life lately. Maybe the lawn ornaments had been plastic pink flamingos. Still, this cried out for more investigation.
In the morning, Missy drove out to the development site. Across the street, four forlorn protesters stood in the light rain with their soggy cardboard signs. Their leader wasn’t with them. He must not have bonded out of jail yet. Missy parked on the shoulder a short ways past the group and walked back to them. Across the street came a steady roar as the excavator meticulously destroyed the remaining forest and a bulldozer scraped the earth raw. Hopefully, any wildlife living on the land had escaped, though with all the surrounding developments, it wasn’t clear where the animals could go.
One protester, a middle-age woman around Missy’s age (though more weathered by her years than Missy, thank you very much), glanced over as Missy approached. She flinched a bit, as if she expected Missy to attack her.
“Hi,” Missy said. “I just wanted to show my support. It’s
horrible to see what’s happening to the land around here. It used to be nothing but farms and nature.”
“It’s a sin, it is.” the woman said. She looked like she was about to cry.
“It’s too late to stop the development, right?” Missy asked.
“Yes. We’re here to send a message, that’s all.”
“A message of what?”
“That destroying the environment is wrong.”
“I don’t think they,” Missy pointed at the men running the heavy equipment destroying the environment across the street, “really care.”
“We can’t let evil go unchallenged,” the woman said.
“Excellent point,” Missy said, making the woman smile.
The woman wore a “Friends of Florida” T-shirt, soaked now by the rain. But she also had a campaign-style button bearing the acronym “GLL” in large letters. Missy had never seen that before.
“What’s G-L-L stand for?”
“Oh, that? The Gnome Liberation League.”
A feeling of disorientation swept over Missy. She almost lost her balance.
“Did you say, ‘gnome’?”
“Yeah,” the woman giggled. “It’s just a fun little group some of us are in. We seek to liberate garden gnomes from unworthy owners and return them to the wild. To places like that,” she pointed across the street, “used to be.”
The concept sounded vaguely familiar. Missy thought she’d read about groups like that in Europe.
“I do it just for fun,” the woman said. “It’s like an intellectual joke. But some people take it seriously. Frank is very passionate about it.”
“Really? Has he ever stolen gnomes from people’s yards?”
The woman checked to make sure the others weren’t listening.
“I think so,” she said quietly.
There’s no way this can be a coincidence, Missy thought. Gnomes have never been a thing before and now they were everywhere.