“Go! Go!” Brock shouted—or that’s what Anaya thought he said, because she was still half-deaf from the blast. They all hurried on for another minute before the captain told them to hold up.
Anaya’s pulse pounded fast in her ringing ears. A single thought bounded wildly through her head.
“Which way’s the lake?” she asked, looking around. During the helicopter’s fatal spin, she’d lost all sense of direction.
“Hold on a sec,” said Dr. Weber. “Is everyone okay?”
“Fine,” she said, sinking down against a trunk.
“Where’s your mask?” Dr. Weber asked Jolie.
“The faceplate got smashed when I jumped. I dumped it.”
Behind them, Anaya saw the flickering glow of the fire, and felt sick to her stomach. Berton and Granahan. The two pilots.
She was sore all over, face and arms scratched to bits, but she didn’t see any blood on her clothes—then her gaze snagged on her right sneaker. Her clawlike toenail had jabbed right through the canvas. She clenched the toe back inside, and hid it under her other sneaker.
She peeped over at Brock, but he was busy unzipping their one surviving bag of gear. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he muttered.
“A radio would be good,” Dr. Weber said.
The captain scowled and lifted out two shattered walkie-talkies. On the ground he set out a first aid kit, a shovel, and a chain saw. Eagerly Petra snatched up the saw.
“Does it work?” she said.
“Hand it over,” Jolie barked.
Petra ignored her. She pulled the starter hard, and the blade whirled to life.
“It works!” she shouted. “That’s good news!”
“Kill it!” Brock barked, and after she obeyed, he said, “You don’t do anything until I say so!”
Anaya could tell Petra was going to say something snarky, so she cut in. “Are there any extra gas masks? Jolie’s going to need one.”
Even through the acrid smoke, she could smell the sleeping perfume. It was very strong.
“These vines pump out gas,” she told Brock. “It’ll knock you out pretty fast.”
“We can share,” Brock said, peeling off his mask and passing it to Jolie.
“They’re everywhere,” Anaya said, for the first time taking a good look at the trees around her. Each had at least one black vine welded to its trunk, sprouting berries and small flesh-eating sacs. “Which means there’ll be pit plants, too.” She nodded at the shovel. “We’re going to need that to test the ground.”
“Will anyone come for us?” Dr. Weber asked Brock.
“We didn’t send a distress call. If we’re overdue, they’ll try to send someone, but only if they can spare the equipment. And only if it’s still light.” He checked his watch. “Two oh five. We’ve got about six and a half more hours of sun. Let’s go get Riggs.”
“Thank you,” said Anaya. Her father must have heard the helicopter—that would give him hope. But he’d probably heard the crash, too. As long as he was alive to hear it—that was the important thing.
Dr. Weber looked at her, then Seth and Petra. “You sure you three are all right? No drowsiness? You’re alert?”
Seth nodded. “I’m good.”
Captain Brock pulled out a compass and checked the reading. He chopped his hand in the air. “The lake’s that way.”
He said it with such confidence, but Anaya wasn’t sure she trusted him. She didn’t believe anyone could be in control down here. Aside from the crackling of the distant fire, the forest was eerily quiet: no birds, no animals scampering in the undergrowth. But the air throbbed with a thick sense of expectation, like just before a lightning storm.
“Single file,” Brock said, leading the way, pounding the earth ahead of him with the shovel.
Anaya fell into line behind Dr. Weber. Petra and Seth were behind her, with Jolie bringing up the rear, holding the chain saw.
“ ‘Your feet won’t even touch the ground,’ ” Petra muttered into her ear. “Yeah, right.”
Up ahead, Brock stumbled, and put his hand against a tree for balance.
“You need the mask?” said Dr. Weber, offering him hers.
He took it without a word of thanks, and kept going.
Anaya felt Petra touch her shoulder. “Your dad’s going to be fine,” she said.
“Hope so,” she said gratefully.
“Remember that camping trip he took us on, when we were, maybe, seven?”
She nodded.
“I remember thinking, There’s nothing this guy can’t do. He knew how to do everything. He knew the name of every plant. And the best way to carry a canoe. My mom’s a survival freak, but I felt safer with your dad.”
Anaya smiled gratefully, then stumbled. Glancing down, she saw, almost hidden among the sandy earth and pine needles, a crisscross of black vines.
“Hey, there’s a ton of—” she began, then gasped as one of them slithered like a snake over the top of her shoe. She kicked it back.
“What?” Dr. Weber said, turning.
“The vines, they’re moving!”
Without warning, Dr. Weber went sideways, her feet whipped out from under her.
“It’s got my foot!” she cried, kicking and digging her hands into the earth, trying to slow herself down.
With terrifying speed, the black vine dragged Dr. Weber toward a hole in the ground where two fleshy lips were parting hungrily.
“Nobody move!” Brock shouted, pulling the knife from his belt. He took only a single step before staggering and falling, his own foot snared.
Gripping the chain saw, Jolie ran toward the pit plant. Seth was faster. He bolted past her and threw himself at Dr. Weber’s feet. Anaya saw Seth yank his sleeve up, and slash at the vine with his sharp quills.
It worked. Suddenly Dr. Weber was scrabbling backward, free. Seth leapt back from the rim of the pit plant.
“They’re everywhere!” Petra cried out, hopping from spot to spot to escape the curling vines.
“We’re moving!” shouted Brock, slashing through the vine around his own ankle, and standing.
Anaya ran with the others, skipping over the snaking nest underfoot. Up ahead, Brock climbed onto a large flat-topped boulder. It looked vine-free to Anaya, and she sank down with everyone else to catch her breath. Rock was good. Pit plants wouldn’t grow under rock, would they?
“Enjoying gardening?” Petra asked Brock.
“Dr. Weber?” Anaya said, patting her on the leg. Her eyes looked unfocused. Anaya glanced over at the captain. “She needs the mask back. She’s getting drowsy!”
“I’m all right,” Dr. Weber replied, her voice a little thick.
But Brock wasn’t listening. He was staring at Seth, who was hurriedly tugging down his right shirtsleeve. Anaya sucked in her breath when she saw the three feathered barbs that had ripped through the cloth, jutting out in plain view.
“What happened to your arm?” Brock asked.
“I’m fine,” Seth said, turning away.
“Whoa, whoa,” said the captain, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling his sleeve farther back.
More feathers were revealed, and Anaya saw bits of black vine stuck to some of them.
“What the heck…,” said the captain, touching the feathers, then pulling his hand back with a hiss. He glared at his bleeding finger.
“What are those?” Jolie demanded angrily, pointing at Seth. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him!” Dr. Weber said, and Anaya was startled by the indignation in her voice. She sounded like a protective mother. “It’s a congenital condition.”
“He’s got spikes,” Brock said. “Let me see your other arm.”
Before Seth could back away, Brock yanked up his left sleeve and revealed th
e careful bands of gauze and surgical tape.
“Why’re you hiding them?” Brock asked.
Dr. Weber said nothing. Her head lolled forward.
“Give her the mask!” Anaya shouted. “She’s going to pass out!”
“She’ll get the mask when she answers my questions. Colonel Pearson know about this?”
“No,” Dr. Weber said. “No need.”
“Well, I need to know,” said Brock, pulling off his mask and fitting it over Dr. Weber’s face. “Do they all have spikes?”
Anaya watched the doctor take some hungry breaths. Her gaze sharpened.
“No, but they all have unique traits. That’s why I brought them to the base.”
“Told you,” Jolie said grimly to Brock. “But everyone laughed at me.”
“Laughed at what?” Petra asked.
“I said you three were cryptogens,” Jolie said as she drew her service pistol.
“What’re you doing?” Anaya said in horror.
“Are you?” Jolie shouted. “Cryptos?”
“Of course we’re not!” said Petra indignantly.
Captain Brock reached out for Dr. Weber’s mask. “Don’t make me take this off. The truth!”
“They’re hybrids,” said Dr. Weber. “There’s cryptogenic DNA in them, but they are absolutely not cryptogens.”
“And we’re not dangerous!” Petra told Jolie.
“Seth cut Dr. Weber free back there,” Anaya said. “He saved her life!”
“Quite a secret you’ve been keeping,” Brock said. He looked at Seth, then Petra and Anaya. To Jolie he said, “Lieutenant, holster your firearm.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Captain.”
Anaya could barely breathe. Jolie’s pistol swung like a skittish compass needle—to her, to Dr. Weber, to Petra—before settling on Seth.
“Look at them,” Jolie said. “Not a scratch, not on any of them!”
“Lieutenant!” Brock barked. “That’s an order.”
A black vine dropped down between Anaya and Lieutenant Jolie, dangling about three feet off the ground. With a gasp, Anaya stumbled away. In a single motion, the vine flexed and looped itself around Jolie’s neck. Her pistol clattered to the rock as both hands flew up to claw at the vine. With a sickening creak, the vine tightened, and lifted Jolie right off the ground.
Brock ran to grab her, but she was already out of reach, hoisted into the trees. He pulled his pistol, tried to take aim, and fired some shots up into the vines. Higher, more vines curled around Jolie, almost cocooning her.
Helplessly, Anaya watched as Jolie swung, kicking, and then was still. Brock swore and lowered his gun. The gas mask clattered down through the vines and landed at Anaya’s feet.
* * *
PETRA COULDN’T TEAR her eyes away from Jolie, just dangling there. She felt like she’d been electrocuted. Her mind blared like a car alarm that wouldn’t shut up. Those vines. They were psychotic. They could bring down a helicopter. They could strangle all of them.
Her eyes darted. Her world had gone soundless. She saw Brock putting on the fallen gas mask, then snatch up her pistol and slap it into Dr. Weber’s hand, barking instructions. She saw Seth pick up the chain saw.
For a moment, she felt paralyzed—just like that day on the school field.
She forced air into her lungs and grabbed the shovel. She would not freeze this time.
“Come on!” she shouted to the others, and led the way toward the lake, banging the shovel ahead of her, blazing a safe path for everyone.
“Petra! Stop!”
It was Brock, shouting orders.
She kept going. They had to move. They couldn’t stay still or those vines would come down for all of them.
The ground was getting squishy. Smelled like rotten eggs. Was the forest getting darker? She had the strangest feeling she was hurrying toward night.
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and Brock wrenched her around and snatched the shovel from her hands.
“You stay behind me!” he said sharply.
“We can’t go any farther anyway,” she said.
“What?”
“Look.” She pointed at the solid wall of darkness, not twenty paces ahead of them.
“Black grass,” Anaya said behind her.
With the shovel, Brock tested the ground right up to the wall. Petra had never seen it so tall, or the stalks growing so close together. Hardly any light came through the gaps. Not even wide enough to slip your hand through without getting slashed to pieces by the wicked thorns.
“We must be close to the marsh,” Anaya said, pointing at the mud squelching around her sneakers.
“Stinks!” Petra said.
“Hydrogen sulfide,” said Dr. Weber, lifting her mask away from her face for a sniff.
Brock walked along the wall several paces and squinted into the distance. “It just keeps going and going,” he muttered. “It’s like a stockade.”
“Keeping us out,” Seth said.
“Not for long,” Brock said. “Chain saw.”
Seth handed it over. Petra bet she was better with the saw than Brock, but she held her tongue. He fired it up, and got to work.
These were the thickest stalks Petra had seen yet. Brock had to lean into each one before the blade bit. The first stalk fell like a skinny tree. When he’d cut down a few more, Petra got busy, clearing the stalks out of the way. Trying not to get her hands shredded.
After half an hour, Brock had only made a narrow notch into the wall, just wide enough for him to keep working. Judging by the darkness in front of him, Petra figured there was still a ways to go.
“Blade’s getting dull,” he said over his shoulder, his masked face drenched with sweat.
Not long after that, the chain saw began to cough. Petra’s heart sank. Running out of gas. A couple more minutes and the chain saw sputtered and died.
“Any more fuel?” asked Dr. Weber.
“Back in the helicopter,” Brock said, pulling out his knife.
Crouched down, he began sawing away, grunting with the effort.
“This is going to take forever,” Anaya whispered anxiously to Petra.
Seth pulled off his hoodie. He rolled back both sleeves and started unwinding the gauze.
“Seth,” said Dr. Weber quietly. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Secret’s out now anyway,” said Seth. He pulled off the last bit of tape.
Petra stared in wonder. From the outer edge of his arms, every inch or so, jutted short black quills. And growing from either side of the quills were feathery barbs. They didn’t look soft and downy like bird feathers. They had an almost metallic sheen.
“Mind if I try?” Seth said to Brock.
The captain looked back in annoyance, then stood tall in surprise.
Seth spread both arms and gave them a shake, so the barbs flared. Petra gasped: It wasn’t just that the feathers looked much fuller now, it was their color. They seemed to explode with deep greens and purples, more amazing than a peacock’s. They were so unusual, so startling, the sight raised the hair on the back of her neck. And she saw now how very sharp the edges of those barbs were.
She felt a bit afraid of Seth. Afraid of herself, too. She saw Brock tighten his grip on his knife.
“I think I can cut through it faster,” Seth told him.
Warily Brock stepped out of the notch, and Seth went in. Petra watched Seth fold his right arm close to his chest, then slash out. The tips of his feathers cut low across the black grass with a sound like a knife cleaving watermelon. Two more swipes and Seth called out, “Timber!” and turned to the side as two stalks of black grass toppled.
“Whoa,” Anaya said softly.
Using both arms now, Seth slashed down more grass. It was all Petra and
the others could do to drag the stalks out of the way fast enough, so he could keep working.
Light was starting to show through the gaps.
“Almost there,” Seth said over his shoulder.
With five more ferocious strokes, the last stalks fell forward, opening a narrow corridor in the wall.
Petra stepped through. The ground disappeared quickly into a dark marshy lake. The water smelled so bad, it had to be stagnant. As far as she could see, the lake was encircled by the same high stockade of black grass. No wonder Mr. Riggs had said he was trapped.
Overhead, a freakish canopy of vines had grown out from the trees, blotting out the sky. She spotted the hole they’d burned earlier. Afternoon sunlight shafted down through the gloomy twilight, angled straight toward a small island in the middle of the lake.
It was a startling green because there was grass.
Real grass.
It felt like so long since Petra had seen so much of it! It grew among the shrubs and rocks and the snapped stalks of black grass—which was no longer black but a blotchy, sickly yellow. Dead. That stuff really was dead!
And on the shoreline stood a man.
“Dad!” Anaya yelled, waving her arm high. “Dad!”
He was too far away to see clearly, or hear. Only a few words wafted across to them.
“…the water!”
“Where’s his boat?” Brock asked.
Petra pointed. “There.”
Out in the middle of the lake was an overturned canoe. Its green hull was low in the water, half-hidden by a cluster of water lilies. She knew Mr. Riggs was an excellent canoeist. Something terrible must’ve happened for the boat to flip.
“We need to watch out for those vines,” said Dr. Weber, her head tilted back.
“We need to get the canoe!” Anaya said, taking off her shoes.
“Whoa, hold on!” said Brock. “Why hasn’t your dad swum out to get it?”
“I don’t know,” Anaya said impatiently. “Maybe he’s injured!”
“…in the water!” Mr. Riggs was shouting.
“Anaya, stop!” Seth said. “He’s telling us something about the water!”
Bloom Page 18