Cuddles

by Dennis Fueyo

  Emelia clung to her gunner’s post, hat shoved under her thigh and hair puffing out to make her head look like a blond cotton swab. Tom wrapped one arm around his post and white-knuckled the railing. Lou kept his head down; a string of drool flapping away from the corner of his mouth. Sam leaned back and enjoyed the ride.

  Occasionally, Juan would peek back to Sam and wink, and Sam would nod his head in joint approval. Unlike their companions, they lived for the rush.

  “Shaquan would have loved this,” Juan yelled.

  “Abu would not,” Sam replied and laughed.

  Sam felt terrible for Abu, his poor friend forced to tolerate their zeal for adventure. The Divers inducted Abu as a hunter utilizing his intelligence. Being a talented scuba diver, Elder Buttonwood assigned him a spotter post. But the only reason Abu tolerated Sam’s fast-paced unit was the company. As Juan tolerated hunting the underwater ledges of North Carolina and Shaquan persevered through perimeter patrols dreaming of reef dives, Abu tolerated their incessant desire to blast through the surf in gale-force winds.

  Sam dearly missed Abu and Shaquan.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  A noon sun floated overhead when Sam reached Hilton Head. Stretching from the island shores inland parallel to Port Royal Sound was a barricade of vegetation four stories tall. Spikey bamboo vines and saw grass entangled pine trees as far as he could see, creating a barrier that cut off any view of the island side.

  Tom, finishing his second upchuck, wiped strands of mucus off his lips and looked up with a languid face. “That’s it, Son, that’s the border.”

  “Ok, Juan, bring us in slow,” hollered Sam.

  Tom wobbled across and pointed to the border over Sam’s shoulder. “Those vines running up the conifers with purple and white flowers, intertwined with the needled greenbrier vines, those are wisteria. We must be careful. Some varieties up north adapted to digest animal flesh.”

  “They may have come from here,” said Lou. “The Danvers traded as far south as Conway. A tribe would pay good money to have a flesh-eating wall surrounding them.”

  “The Atlantians will have the ocean route fortified and well-guarded,” said Sam rubbing his shaggy hair. “There has to be a weak point in the wall.”

  “Maybe we could go up the Broad River and cut west”—Lou swiped and read the Mud Hopper’s GPS—“plenty of wetlands leading to the Savannah River.”

  “Sammy,” Juan called, “Come here a second.”

  Sam trolleyed up the center railing followed by Emelia and Tom.

  “I can see them already. Can you?”

  Sam squinted. “Yeah, I see them.”

  Tom shrugged and said, “Are the Atlantians here?” He maneuvered his face into warm, salty spray kicked up by the Mud Hopper. “Mel, you getting a read on anyone?”

  “I don’t detect anything,” Emelia said with eyes closed. She pulled her stomper cap over her head and wiped sweat running off her brow and cheeks.

  “No, Dad, look there.” Sam ran his finger up the view as Juan killed the engine. “See those pits dug out in these fields? Look, see those tussocks? Not following a mounding pattern, they are strategic points on the raised ground around the fens. Unassuming travelers would take the higher ground to avoid drudging through them.”

  Juan gestured using a pancake-shaped hand. “They weave through the reeds to avoid the mud, and plop! Bog cheese. Look there, Dr. Mason, your vines point to pits already in use.” He pointed to trails of purple and white flowers reaching out from the green wall to disappear into the tussocks. “Flesh-eating, huh? Hijo le…”

  “Stop here, Juan,” Sam said, patting him on the shoulder. “Emelia, we better catch ourselves, maybe clean up a little bit.”

  “Oh shit, where? I got some on me?” She frantically touched around her jacket.

  “A little right there—along your right shoulder.” Sam motioned to a few streaks of brown on her chest.

  “Ick!” She stuck out her tongue and raised her hands in disgust.

  Sam handed her a towel and tossed another to Lou, wiping vomit off his pant leg.

  “Pay up, Juan”—Sam held out his hand—“three for three.”

  Juan slapped a wad of candy in Sam’s hand.

  “Hey,” Emelia said and whipped her the towel down, “what, you guys had a pool going?”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Sam replied, “Well, Juan was sure Lou could handle it.”

  “Lou!” Juan raised his hands. “What happened, bro?”

  Lou leaned over the side of the Mud Hopper and wet the towel in warm saltwater. He shooed away investigating marsh flies and vigorously scrubbed his camouflaged pants. “You drive like a maniac, Juan.” He dipped the towel, rung it dry, and rinsed perspiration off his face.

  Juan raised his chin: “Aaaah! Is that true, Sammy?”

  Sam chuckled. “No way, man, you were flawless.”

  The air was electric after two hours of brainstorming on the Mud Hopper. Tom scrutinized a GPS map displayed on a flat upward-facing monitor covered by a retractable metallic hood. “Even if we find a weak spot, there’s a lot of distance to Savannah. Two mapped wildlife refuges here…and here. Topographical is showing mostly marshland. A lot of space for traps, plenty of ambush points.”

  Sam studied the graveyard of wrecked boats rotting on the coastline. Most laid on their sides for years overtaken by grapevines and cord grass, but some were recent casualties. No jetsam or decay drifted along the sandy shores ringed in a brown hue.

  “Floodwaters will take a few days to recede from Ben,” said Lou holding his stomach.

  Sam stepped back to Lou and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “My insides are cramping up. Breakfast might be hitting me wrong.”

  Sam placed his hand on Lou’s forehead. “Or worse.” It was hot and much too clammy to be caused by the humidity boxing them in like a Finnish sauna.

  Disease was plentiful in the forgotten coastal lands. Adding runoff to populated inlets made bay water especially dangerous. His tribe kept a careful eye on algae blooms after intense storms passed, worried a favorite hunting ground would succumb to red tide die-off. Most tribes acclimated to endemic gifts of the microbial world. However, visitors not accustomed to extended stays in the network were easy pickings for enteric and pulmonary diseases.

  “Lou, you feel hot, might be running a fever.”

  “Great. As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

  “Here,” Sam handed him two small white pills, “these will help. I found these in the helicopter wreckage. Ciprofloxacin. Two rounds should keep you steady. Might be able to find some Florida arrowroot as well. Takes a few hours to prepare, but if things get worse that might be worth a try.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” Lou gulped the pills down with no water, rubbing his throat. “Doc, I’m going to sit back a little while if you don’t mind.”

  “Absolutely,” replied Tom. “I would rather spend the night plotting this out than rush into a death trap.”

  Juan left his riflescope and drew a deep exhale. “There’s no way through that barrier I can see. Vine cords are thick.”

  “Maybe we should knock?” said Emelia as she tied back what strands she could of her short hair. “They aren’t known as aggressors. We might be able to negotiate an escort to the interior.”

  “Too many variables.” Sam’s terse response quieted the group. The Port Royal Sound susurration lulled him into a trance. His temples folded in deep thought, but his blurred, tearing eyes and throbbing head tangled together forming their own barrier. The journey was wearing him down, and he needed sleep.

  Suddenly, he smelled a pungent lavender odor. Gently holding the back of Emelia’s head, he pulled her in for a soft kiss. “Sorry, my dear, did not mean to be rude. Trying to gauge my ideas?”

  “I wanted to see you do that thing again with the globular shapes,” she said and smiled.

  “Let me try.”

  Emelia’s presence inside his consciousness acted as a m
uscle relaxant, lifting Sam’s spirits and loosening every tendon above his shoulders. He closed his eyes forming a fresh set of rudimentary protein blobs and began labeling the amorphous puzzle pieces: (1) vegetative blockade, (2) tessellated field of traps, (3) closely guarded beachfront, (4) no one who interacted with the Atlantians ever returned. He added the group’s skills and assets: (a) Emelia’s mind control, (b) Lou’s animal control, (c) Dad’s speed, and (d) Juan’s prowess. (x) A Mud Hopper and (y) military-grade weapons. Then, he rotated the pieces, depressed them to form interlocking tabs, and looked for lock-and-key connectors. None adhered, repelling and flashing in agonized tones and hues. He wafted in her lavender fragrance, fighting the stinging sensation behind his eyelids. Finally, three pieces clicked together.

  “How far does the Mud Hopper’s radio reach?”

  Tom replied, “Could probably reach Fayetteville, Son.”

  “It doesn’t have to reach that far,” Emelia said, beaming. “Augusta!”

  “Augusta, Mel?” Tom rubbed his forearm, brow furled.

  “Admiral Melbourne set up a forward operating base there and established a swamp stomper depot in Sylvania. We might be able to reach him directly. If we tell him we’ve come this far, maybe he will send help to puncture the wall?”

  “Ok, Mel, that’s great,” Tom said, digesting the idea. “Sammy, is that your plan, ask for reinforcements?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  Chapter 23

  A steady, thumping sound approached Hilton Head Island. The rhythmic beat of helicopter blades stirred Tom’s memory of the movie Apocalypse Now. He loved the beginning of the film—as much as any Coppola fan buff—but his son’s plan sunk the first words uttered by Captain Willard deep in his mind like salt ground into a freshly opened gash. The image of a young, bouncing Sam Mason chasing bugs in the garden tarnished to a dull green. Though, disturbed his little boy collected this morally questionable plan, he was not against it.

  Emelia, on the other hand…

  “I don’t like this, Sam,” said Emelia in stark disapproval: arms folded, brow lowered, eyes creased, and lips pouting.

  The beating blades of the bird grew louder as it circled near Parris Island.

  “Even in the absence of better options, Mel, I would advocate against this plan.” Tom added, “But you have to admit it carries no small amount of karma.”

  She refused to make eye contact with Tom, saying, “Those people have families.”

  “Your dad is on my side, here,” Sam said, peering into the day’s last breath of light sighing deep purple shades across the sky. “You heard him on the radio. Jonathon Stone hates the Stone strain drops and agrees this gives us a fighting chance.”

  Emelia bit down on a raw, sweaty finger. “If I knew that fucking radio could reach Raleigh, I would’ve smashed it.”

  A dim red light appeared from the helicopter’s thermal imager. The bird’s silhouette followed behind it, bent forward in a rigid pose.

  “Sam, having my father agree with you is not something to brag about. We shouldn’t have called into Fort Dix. We would have been smarter to contact the admiral.”

  “The pilot is the mole”—Sam brushed her idea off his shoulder along with a few stray sand-flies—“that’s for certain. He has to be feeding the information to Clark.”

  Tom interjected, “Mel, we know not if anything will happen. Jonathon said he would order spraying along the Atlantian border, but this still might not work. He predicted this moment a long time ago, actually.”

  “I’m sure you’re enjoying this,” Emelia huffed.

  A wispy cloud puffed out large canisters attached to the helicopter’s struts.

  “Your father told me, the night I was given the green pill, that he would be there.” Tom asked, “Remember that, Lou? To paraphrase Jonathon, I will be there when your experiment backfires threatening to annihilate thousands, backed by the strength of the U.S. Navy. You may save hundreds, but I will be there to save us from you.”

  The helicopter angled along the wall of plant life and swooped in low dusting the outer edge. The Mud Hopper vibrated and loose gear rattled on the deck as it passed overhead.

  “Look at that,” Lou said, eyes wide reflecting dusk’s light. “The Stone strain. I can’t believe no one caught your family doing this, Emelia. These drops have been going on for five years? My God.”

  The helicopter rounded for one more drop, dipping in low over the tips of vine-entangled pine trees.

  “See,” Tom said and sighed. “The bird is fine. They did not take the bait.”

  Sam raised his hand, saying, “Hold on, the dusting is still in progress.”

  “Sorry, Son, it was a good idea. We have to come up with a new plan—”

  A fluorescent blue flash of light streamed out from across the natural wall striking the helicopter cabin. Radiated discharge of turquoise and yellow flashed out both sides and punctured the windshield, sending glass and particulate shooting out like a party popper. The bird struggled upward, then careened into the vegetative barrier exploding in a ball of gaseous flame. Pines snapped away engulfed in fire, leaving an enormous hole.

  Emelia turned away and slammed her fist into the railing.

  Juan yelled, “It worked! We got an opening—Lou, fire it up!”

  “Time to dance,” Sam hollered, “hang on to something!”

  The blower wailed as Juan turned over the engine and throttled forward. Lou narrowed the flaps projecting the transport into a frenzied trail towards the shore. Heads whipped back as the Mud Hopper powered across the sound and over Hilton Head’s fens. Resolute, Juan guided the craft through a pillar of burning woody material and burst out the other side sending embers flying like a bludgeoned piñata.

  Lou dusted embers off his shoulders, glanced forward and lost his Carolina tan. “Here they come!”

  A dozen fan boats drew forth from the shadows of abandoned two-story-tall beach homes firing blue plasma bolts around the Mud Hopper, rocking it sideways and igniting the mud in iridescent flame.

  One projectile struck underneath the carriage, launching the craft ten feet in the air. Turquoise heat and yellow electric discharge flared melted plaster off beach house walls and singed cyanide-treated wood up from the ground into the Mud Hopper.

  Juan swung the wheel to avoid colliding into the old structures and angled the craft between erupting fountains of glowing asphalt fragments. He swerved around old-growth trees and between vacation homes, over marshland and across ponds and estuaries. Each time the Mud Hopper gained distance, debris piles and crumbling subdivisions forced deceleration.

  Emelia chambered her SAW and took aim, but then ducked hearing Tom cry out, “Stay down, Mel, stay down!” Sticky, melted tar lobbed overhead ejected from the paved road ravaged by plasma bolts.

  A strand of gooey asphalt splashed Juan’s shoulder. Screaming in pain, chest clinging to the wheel, he continued a series of ragged turns evading hell’s fire from the Atlantians.

  Sam clawed to the railing prepared to take over if Juan’s hands slipped.

  Droplets dripping from moistened eyes, Juan maintained top speed through island streets.

  “Higher ground,” yelled Sam, pointing. “When I say now, fishtail this thing over that hummock.” He rolled down center-deck and unslung an HK21 rifle. “Dad, Emelia, when Juan swings sideways, take them out.”

  The Mud Hopper plowed up the rise with ease, distancing the Atlantian fan boats.

  “Now!”

  Juan drifted the craft left. Tom and Sam opened fire.

  Sam’s stream of bullets struck enough metal to inject caution into the leading fan boats. Tom ignited three in flames, sending them toppling through the air.

  Juan corrected into the drift, giving Emelia an opening. Sam balanced with the Mud Hopper’s course, twisting his body in the opposite direction to align with her sights, and continued a steady spray of suppressing fire while she disabled another fan boat.

  Emelia continued squeezin
g the trigger, knuckles turning from blood red to bright white, and cried out, “I can’t grab their minds, I think we’re moving too fast.”

  “We need to find a gulley,” Juan barked. “I can spread them out for another shot.”

  Sam spotted an outcropping and pointed to a dale just beyond.

  He did not get a chance to speak.

  Phosphorous green and yellow swirls erupted beneath the Mud Hopper breaching the bladder on both sides. Lou punched the blower flaps open, preventing the craft from flipping end to end as armored plating drilled into the soil. The craft spun in a vortex throwing the entire crew out in all directions.

  Sam’s body smashed against a debris mound. Eyes clenched shut, bright yellow light burned his pupils through the skin of his eyelids. Ringing in his ears blocked out the sound of approaching fan boats, but vibrating soil intensified as they neared. His shoulder throbbed nerves into waves of searing pain. Touching it sent bolts of lightning across his neck and down his spine.

  Palming his protruding humorous, Sam pushed the bone back in its socket. Bright red streaks of venation flashed in his eyes. Then darkness.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  A warm, grey hand smelling of low tide rested atop Sam Mason’s brow. It left behind a residue as the Atlantian patted his head.

  “Please relax. My name is Issakum.”

  “Sam Mason,” he said and tried to lift his hand. “I cannot move, Issakum.”

  “In time, master hunter. Be patient.”

  Condensate dripped down stone walls lit by blue orbicular flames contained in black conical pots. A black fungal mat lined each cone-shaped, illuminated pot; its small tail of mycelia dangled in the room’s draft.

  “What is that?”

  “An Atlantian torch. Humans always notice the torches first.” A row of white, glowing teeth smiled in a haze.

  “You consider yourself not human?”

  Moist hands cleaned grime away from Sam’s bare chest. “Not anymore. Some say an improvement. Others believe we fill a different niche.”

  “What do you believe?”