by J. S. Bailey
“I did,” Joe said weakly. “I heard a noise, and . . . and . . . ”
“And they all sprayed weed killer at me,” Maxine said.
“I didn’t,” said Chumley. “I sprayed weed killer at Joe.”
“It went in my mouth,” Joe whined. Then, “I’ve been poisoned!”
Dalton ground his teeth together. “Someone kill that damned light so I can think straight.”
The floodlight winked out. Dalton patted his coat pockets and found a penlight inside one of them, then clicked it on and aimed at it the nearest person, who turned out to be Abdul.
“Are you all right?” Dalton asked him.
Abdul nodded and nervously rubbed at his beard. “I seem to be.”
“Good. Take Joe to the hospital so they can wash his mouth out with soap.” He turned to Maxine. “Why didn’t you answer your comm?”
The fiftyish woman frowned. Splotches of herbicide covered the front of her leather jacket, but it didn’t look like any had gotten on her face. “I didn’t know anyone was trying to call me. The battery must be dead.”
“Next time we head out on our watch,” Dalton said, “we’re all going to make sure we have a full charge in all of our equipment first. If we’d brought flamethrowers too, you’d be dead.”
Maxine bowed her head. “It won’t happen again, sir.”
Dalton stared back out toward the northern horizon, where the bag remained stuck to the bush. “Go home, all of you. My hunch was wrong. There will be no attack tonight.”
“Even me?” Maxine asked.
“Even you.”
“But you saw something out there,” said Edith, who had folded her arms. “If it wasn’t a baby Green, what was it?”
“Plastic bag. Simple mistake.”
“Dalton,” Errin said gently, “you and Carolyn wanted—”
“I don’t care what we wanted. We shouldn’t have come out here.” Dalton ground his teeth together, wishing he had more toothpicks. “Chumley, let’s go home.”
He’d taken three long strides when something off to his left caught his eye. He halted, frowning, and squinted, automatically raising his water pistol in defense.
“What is it?” Chumley asked, hovering half a meter behind him.
“Someone’s standing over there.” Dalton struggled to get a good look, but his vision still dazzled with afterimages. He might as well have been blind.
Errin stepped in closer, the top of their head just above and to the right of Dalton’s shoulder. “I don’t see anyone.”
Dalton pointed at a human-shaped pale blur. “Right there. Looks like they’re in light-colored clothes. You!” he called. “Are you part of the watch?”
There came no reply. Dalton fumbled for the penlight and aimed it at the person, who whirled away from him and faded into the shadows.
“Well, they weren’t a Green, at least,” he said, and turned back to Chumley, Errin, and the others, all of whom appeared equally baffled. “What?”
“Who wasn’t a Green?” Errin asked. “There wasn’t anyone there.”
Chapter 5
Just before fourteen o’clock midnight, Dalton and Chumley trudged through the door and reheated their unfinished patty sandwiches, which they consumed in a contemplative silence in Dalton’s kitchen.
Dalton already dreaded going into work in the morning. News traveled fast in Richport. He was probably already a laughingstock because of the bag.
But didn’t he have a right to be jumpy?
Some of the vitality had returned to Chumley’s bruised face once he’d finished his meal, but Dalton had the sense that something was still bothering the man.
“Are you all right?” Dalton asked.
Chumley’s unfocused gaze turned into a glare. “Did you really just ask me that?”
“Sorry. You looked troubled.”
“Maybe I just lost all my belongings in a fire, watched a man get murdered by plants, and got the stuffing beaten out of me.”
Well . . . maybe it had been a silly question, after all.
“I’m sorry,” Dalton said. “I imagine things must be very hard for you right now.” Darneisha would have been proud of him for that one. She’d always told him he should do more to make people comfortable.
Chumley blinked at him. “Why did anyone even settle this planet in the first place, with those things running around out there?”
Dalton leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You really didn’t read up on Molorthia Six before you came here, did you?”
“Do I look like a scholar? The spacefare was on sale. I thought, frontier planet with hardly any population? Those people could be easy marks! So off I went, and here I am.” Chumley’s cheeks flushed beneath the bruising. “So, tell me about Molorthia Six. What do I need to know?”
Dalton closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as he dredged up memories of school lessons. “The planet was first discovered two hundred years ago. Survey ships arrived fifty years later. ‘Fertile land!’ they proclaimed. ‘Perfect climate for humans!’ They were here a week, marked it safe for human habitation, then moved on to the next planet on their list.”
“And they didn’t . . . notice anything unusual?”
“According to their reports, their entire visit passed without incident.”
“Good lord,” Chumley breathed, and ran his hands through his disheveled black hair.
“The first settlers arrived a hundred years ago,” Dalton continued. “They landed about four hundred kilometers southeast of here, in one of the most fertile regions of the planet. They started chopping down trees and whatnot to make room for their settlement, and that’s when the Greens attacked.” Though Dalton had not yet been born, it still made his skin clammy just thinking about it. “They slaughtered half the colonists in one night. The survivors fled into the desert, hoping the Greens wouldn’t follow.”
“Did they?”
Dalton shook his head. “The Greens chased the humans from their land, and the settlers built their city in the desert instead.”
Chumley’s brow furrowed in contemplation. At length, he said, “Why didn’t the survey crew see any Greens?”
“We think the Greens in their vicinity got scared and were holding still to avoid notice.”
“But why did they attack the settlers?”
“The settlers thought they were trees. They tried to chop them down.”
“Good lord,” Chumley said again. “They must think we’re monsters.”
“They’re the monsters,” Dalton spat. “You saw what they can do.”
A tremendous shiver racked Chumley’s body. “I might be inclined to agree with you.”
He yawned, and Dalton had the sense it was time to draw this conversation to a close. “It’s late,” Dalton said, rising. “You and I both need some shuteye. I’ll show you where you can sleep.”
Dalton headed out of the kitchen toward the hallway, Chumley following at a distance. Dalton closed his eyes and drew in a breath when he arrived in front of the door to Kendra and Imani’s old bedroom, then gently pushed it open.
“Sorry it’s not in order right now,” he said, stepping aside so Chumley could enter. “I can clean it later.”
Then he ducked past Chumley before he could see inside the room himself, and shut himself inside his own bedroom to pass yet another lonely night with only the picture of him, Darneisha, and the girls to keep him company.
Chumley frowned after Dalton, who’d zipped out of the way as if he were fleeing a Green, then shook his head and stepped into the bedroom.
The walls were painted a sort of fuchsia pink, and a set of bunkbeds with white frames had been pushed against the right-hand wall. A matching white dresser sat near it, and after Chumley had closed the bedroom door behind him, he slid the top drawer open and frowned when he regarded a child’s st
ick-people drawing of a family standing in front of a house with a stereotypically-peaked roof. The other drawers were empty, but several boxes had been stacked in the closet, marked with cryptic words like “Imani” and “Kendra.”
Ah, Chumley thought. Of course.
He kicked off the shoes Dalton had lent to him and flopped onto the bottom bunk, fully-dressed.
What a day. What a life, really. He did not miss creditors banging down his door on Pelstring Four, demanding that he pay up or face the consequences. Yet how could he pay, when he’d spent every last dime and then some on Gran’s care and the funeral?
Shut your mind off, he ordered himself. Just shut it off and get some sleep. Pretend the killer plants were just a dream. You’ve had nightmares before. That’s practically what your whole life has been, anyway. One solid string of nightmares.
Chumley rolled toward the wall, then realized he’d left the light on. Wearily, he trudged across the room, slapped the switch, staggered back to the bed, and winced as he felt the twinges of yet more bruises he’d sustained that morning, which felt so long ago now.
And maybe it had been long ago. The days on Molorthia Six contained more hours than the ones on Pelstring Four and Earth. He was too tired to remember just how many. Felt like about a thousand.
He stared at the underside of the upper bunk which, in this darkness, was indistinguishable from the shadows.
What if the creditors or the Feds found him here?
No, they wouldn’t do that. He paid for passage in cash and used a fake passport.
But what if they found him anyway and dragged him kicking and screaming back to Pelstring Four? He couldn’t go to jail. Terrible things happened in jails—he’d heard the stories, same as anyone.
Yet terrible things happened on Molorthia Six, too. Although, if asked to choose between imprisonment and staving off carnivorous vegetation, well . . .
Which potential nightmare was worse, anyway?
Of course, if he were imprisoned, he could always . . . no, that would be a terrible idea. Prisons monitored their prisoners. If he tried that trick, everyone would see, and know.
It felt too uncomfortable lying on his back, so Chumley shifted to his right side. The pillow beneath him smelled of dust, and he sneezed, then winced again, because it used more bruised muscles.
“Gran,” he whispered into the darkness, “if you can hear me, please send me some help. I . . . I don’t think I can . . . ” Warm tears sprang into his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. “I don’t think I can survive anywhere, anymore. Not without money, that is.”
As much as he craved it, sleep seemed to be the last thing his body wanted. Maybe he was too tired to sleep. Had happened before, oddly enough, and he’d only ever found one thing capable of curing it.
Somewhat blindly, Chumley rose, feeling his way across the room to the light switch. He blinked against the abrupt glare and slipped on his borrowed shoes, then made his way out to the hallway.
He paused by the front door, his chest tightening as he remembered this was not the tranquil world of Pelstring Four, with its gentle breezes smelling of honey and flowers.
Going for a nighttime walk on Molorthia Six might be suicide.
Better take a water pistol with him, just in case.
Hoping he wasn’t being an utter fool, Chumley pocketed the glorified squirt gun he’d left on the coffee table and stepped out into the darkness, then breathed in lungsful of crisp desert air that eased some of the tension in his chest. Downward-facing streetlights placed at sporadic intervals along the road lent faint illumination to his surroundings, as did the two pale moons hovering off toward the east, so he needed no extra light to see by.
He set off in a westward direction, keeping an eye out for anything large and leafy. An imported palm tree growing near an intersection a few blocks from the sheriff’s house made his heart spring into his throat, but then he allowed himself a nervous giggle when he realized it was as likely to eat him as was a bowl of spinach.
Maybe, like lightning, the Greens would attack here only once.
Well, twice. They’d attacked a ranch, too, though he’d heard only an animal had died.
It didn’t take him long to come across the wreckage of the burned hotel, which resembled the ashy remains of a large campfire.
Could his Cube have survived the heat? It was encased in metal, after all, but fires had been known to melt steel girders when they got hot enough.
His room had been on the western side of the dwelling. Chumley stepped over charred boards that had once been the hotel’s front wall, crunched through several feet of charcoal, spotted something shiny in the glare of the nearest street lamp, and sighed when he saw it was only a twisted spoon.
He clambered over several more burnt boards jutting up into the air like a row of jagged teeth. Rubble shifted beneath his feet, and he winced at the unexpected heat rising up from beneath it all. This rubbish was still smoldering!
Swearing lightly under his breath, he retraced his steps and made it back out to the unburned street.
He would have to search for his Cube once the fire went out completely. Maybe he could check again tomorrow, if he got the chance.
Chumley’s internal compass brought him in a loop back out to the edge of town, where the sheriff’s house sat alone. He knew that sleep would remain elusive, so instead of returning indoors, he crept behind the house and sat on a patio table that would provide a view of the low-lying mountains off to the east during the day.
Even though he’d kicked the habit a few years earlier due to health concerns and his own lack of funds, he itched for a cigarette. That would get him to sleep all right. Perhaps he could negotiate for a pack of cigarettes to come with his weekly pay . . . ?
Something out in the desert moved.
Chumley sat up straighter, eyes as wide as they could go, praying the movement he’d seen had been his imagination.
Then he heard the swishing, as if something with many thin, loose sections were dragging itself over the ground.
A scream froze in Chumley’s throat as his vision focused on the source of the swishing.
Striding across the sand, from north to south, was a long line of Greens, perhaps only a hundred yards away from the sheriff’s back porch. They traveled single-file and gave Chumley no notice, but he withdrew the water pistol from his pocket anyway and held it in front of him with one trembling hand. He tried to count them, but there were too many. It looked like an entire forest had gotten tired of being rooted to the ground and formed a caravan so it could go out and see the world.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood out there, watching them. A tiny part of him wondered if he should go inside and wake the sheriff so he could sound the alarm, but he found himself unable to tear his gaze from the silent, mobile ranks.
His night-adjusted eyes allowed him to focus on individual Greens and make out details about them. Many carried large packs on their backs, and some held smaller specimens in their arms that might have been their children. Some of the Greens sprouted more leaves than the others, some less; some had four arms and some had six, and a couple even warbled faint notes like dirges.
One even pulled a wagon bearing a mound of lumpy, leaf-wrapped bundles. Its wheels made a faint creak-creak-creak as it crossed the sand.
“The plants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,” Chumley murmured, and tried not to let a crazed giggle escape into the night air.
Why weren’t this bunch attacking the city? More than a hundred must have passed him by already, and they would need food and water like the others. He’d seen with his own eyes how violent they could be—he would never forget the hotel manager’s death right in front of him for as long as he lived.
When the ranks finally dwindled into nothing and the last Greens receded into the distance, Chumley slunk back into
the house, wide-eyed, and bolted the door.
He took the water pistol to bed with him.
Chapter 6
“Sleep all right?” Dalton asked as he flipped pancakes at his stove the next morning.
“Like a baby,” Chumley said. Dalton had heard him taking a lengthy shower early on, which might prove to be a problem if that became a typical habit. Nothing worse than an empty cistern on Molorthia Six.
Well, almost nothing worse.
Dalton grabbed a stick of butter out of the refrigerator. “Heh. In my experience, that means you were up every hour wailing for milk.”
Chumley raised an eyebrow. “In your experience?”
Dalton turned so his back faced his guest. “Well. People talk.”
Amazingly, he himself had slept like a cadaver all the way through the night. He hadn’t done that since—well, since Darneisha and the girls were still around.
“But you’ve got kids, though, right? I mean, the bunkbeds.”
Dalton swiveled back to him. Chumley was tracing the grain of the wood on the table with one forefinger.
“They’re not here,” Dalton said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Custody battle, I assume.”
“Something like that.”
Chumley gave an understanding nod. “That’s too bad. Knew a bloke back on Pelstring Four who fought his ex for six whole years just to have the right to see his boys every other weekend. Nasty bit of business. He won, though, in the end. So there’s hope for you, maybe.”
“Maybe.” Dalton clenched his jaw, swallowed, and switched off the burner. “All right, Deputy. Eat your breakfast, and we’ll head over to the station.”
Carolyn was already waiting for him inside the station, sitting at the meeting room table with a box of donuts and a drink carrier full of paper coffee cups from Slim’s Café. She wore a gray skirt and blazer, and her tightened expression made it look as though she’d recently eaten something sour.
Errin sat on the opposite side of the table, giving Dalton a grimace that Carolyn didn’t see.