They hiked to a building on the far edge of the meadow, a legacy structure of some kind, probably a commercial building given the residual signage, a few plastic letters, “W” and “S”, clinging to the siding above the porch’s roof. The rickety cage of pigeons that leaned against the building’s left-hand side was obviously a modern add-on. Sarge rose from a sagging couch, his ruddy face beaming with obvious relief.
Heartening, as superiors rarely showed much concern.
“There you are! And everyone in one piece.” Sarge jogged down a short flight of steps to meet them. “Glad to see you standing.” Then he pinched his nose. “Seem like you folks could use a washroom.”
Postern laughed like a donkey. “We ain’t got plumbing, so the washroom’s out back, and I fill the tank. Don’t hold back on my account. I’d rather haul water than smell you.”
The sarge said, “You all have a good wash. Report to the porch when your done.”
Postern led them ’round back and siphoned water from a roller urn into a sun-shower and a wash basin. They soaped and rinsed their clothes and hung them to dry on a clothes line, Ramos wearing a thin baby-blue robe, the two men wrapped in towels, though Brandt’s towel was over-small, and Ramos kept side-eyeing him. Then he caught Ramos and O’Shea exchanging a raised eyebrow.
Brandt flushed and tried to wrap his towel tighter. Usually, he wouldn’t mind a raunchy look, but not now, not after being drugged and semi-seduced by a carnivorous plant.
O’Shea insisted Brandt take the first shower, saying “you saved our lives, it’s the least we can do.” And Ramos didn’t disagree though she looked put out and added, “Don’t hog the water Collins.”
As it happened, the water that fell from the wooden tub above his head was luke-warm at best, so he got wet as fast as possible then cut off the stream. He washed fast, first loosening debris from his hair, then scrubbing himself thoroughly with a bar of rough soap, the sandy particles scouring both the stink from his skin. If he recalled correctly, he’d shed every cell that’d come into contact with that foul fluid in a month or two. Good riddance. Be nice if he could scour away the memory too. In fact, forgetting might come in handy while serving on the border, if today was any measure. He’d hone the skill. After all, no need to hold on to unpleasantness, just swim forward like a shark. That’d be his new motto.
He ran the soap bar up his flank then… What was this? A lump?
Great.
Last thing he needed was cancer. But beneath his lfingers, it ran band-like, long, even, and regular, from his back, behind his armpit, then up to his shoulder. And his other side felt similar. He didn’t know much about medicine, but he knew tumors weren’t symmetrical; tumors were random, like a wood knot or gall.
No, not cancer. These were lats.
Somehow in one day, he’d sprouted amazing lats and his abs had become sculpted far beyond the abilities of his workout schedule. And his quads… Great galloping galoshes, he was turning into…into…that guy…the mythical guy. He could practically see the text’s illustration, but the bro’s name just wouldn’t shake loose.
His mouth suddenly felt dry, so he tilted his head and released a gush of water into his mouth. Think. Sure he was built, but maybe he hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe he’d spent more time in the gym than he’d thought. Or maybe something was wrong, and he was completely and totally screwed.
“Yo! Hurry it up Collins. Youse thinking about your plant mama and beating off?”
Ramos. Always the charmer. But her shouting had shaken him out of his panic. He’d figure this out. There must be some mistake.
He rinsed off the soap, wrapped the tiny towel around his privates, then finagled a second towel out of Postern. It wasn’t that clean but gave him a scrap of extra cover.
His clothes took forever to dry while he sat, feeling conspicuous and considering the advantages and disadvantages of his new physique. He’d need to eat like an autumn bear to feed these muscles, but guys would think twice before picking a fight. And women? Seemed to him that most women shied away from big, thick necked guys, possibly figuring they were violent, thick-skulled, or stuck on themselves. He’d need a strategy to beat the stereotype.
His uniform dried, but it’d shrunken from the plant juice bath or the harsh country soap. So he ripped the seams of his pants in a few places. His shirt wouldn’t button across his chest or at the wrists, but it would have to do. Fortunately, by the time he was fixed up, the light was angling low. Maybe the changes to his physique wouldn’t be so obvious.
He joined the others on the porch, his head skimming the low roof as he pushed aside a mosquito curtain. Ahead, glass windows, partially patched with boards, allowed a view into a large-ish space containing row of tables bolted to the floor and a long tall counter.
“Well done, Collins,” the sarge said.
“Yep. Heckuva a shower, if I do say so myself.”
Ramos snorted, and she jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “He means the saving us, ya douf. And look, sarge. Look how big he’s getting. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”
The sarge licked his upper lip, eyes flitting to one side, as if he was trying to come up with a positive on the situation. “How old are you Collins?”
“Twenty.”
The sarge nodded, looking satisfied. “Still a growing boy then, must be natural. Or maybe that plant juice was full of hormones.”
O’Shea opened his mouth, probably ready to ask the obvious; so why hadn’t he and Ramos grown huge too? But O’Shea must’ve caught some vibe from the sarge; the more-questions-won’t-be-appreciated vibe, a vibe that reminded a person extra questions sometimes led to a quiet disappearance. O’Shea’s mouth snapped shut. Soo found an interesting point on the floor, and Ramos’s pressed her lips into a hard line. The pigeons rustled and cooed.
Sarge slapped his knees, a punctuation mark on the conversation then added, “anyways” to entirely end the matter. “We’ve been invited to stay, but our hostess is gone.”
“Where’s Miz Esther gotten to?” asked Postern.
“Don’t rightly know,” said the sarge. “She told me she had to run an errand, and I haven’t seen her since.
A worried look crossed Postern’s face. “Hope she comes back soon. She always keeps the lights down.”
“Lights?”
“Yeah. The lights come up in the building at night, and she tamps them down before something takes notice.”
“What kind of something?” asked the sarge.
“Don’t know. She’s always been here to turn down the lights.”
“Where’s the control?”
“Inside, somewhere in the kitchen. I think.”
“Well. Guess we let ourselves in and hunt around.” The sarge gave the door handle a tug then tried a shove, but the door didn’t budge. He folded his arms. “Door’s locked. You have a key?”
Postern licked sweat from his upper lip. “No. I ain’t. I’ll check the side door.”
A few minutes he returned, looking unhappy. “Side door’s locked as well.”
“Damn. But don’t worry son. Likely she’s just told you stories so you don’t go wasting power.”
“You got panels on the roof?” asked Soo. “Cause I can—”
Postern shook his head. “The glow isn’t electrical. Least I don’t think so. It’s…I don’t know. I just hope she gets back.”
Sarge surveyed the terrain through narrowed eyes. “Me too. Let’s make ourselves comfortable and keep watch.”
Sarge, Postern, and O’Brien laid claim to the porch couch. So Brandt settled himself into a the corner, propped himself up on his bed roll, and fished a packet of Redi-meal from his pack. As he sealed his lips around that first molasses-thick spoonful and tugged it into his mouth, he realized that despite the huge luncheon, one pouch wouldn’t satisfy. In fact, he could eat ten and it wouldn’t be ad…ade…enough.
A short minute later, he’d rolled up the first pouch and was hunting for a second when the sarge announced, “Listen up people. Command didn’t anticipate an overnight stay, thinking the bayou was a straight shot from camp and unaware of the giant man-eating swamp plants. So go easy on the food, folks.”
So much for that extra Redi-Meal.
He settled in, waiting for his turn at the watch, and inventoried his aches and pains; bruises on his left side, thigh, and elbow incurred when he’d fallen from that plant. Normal pains. The headache, the muscle tremors—all the vaccine fallout had disappeared. Thank you, antibodies or whatever. Being sick was the worst; he’d take an honest bruise over sick any day.
The sun slipped behind the hillside pines, and dark shadows stretched across the yard, as if phantom fingers were gathering up the light. Dusk fell and a gentle blue light began to emanate from the building, as if it was painted with the juice of fireflies, the light Postern had yakked about. Hard to see what harm a bit of illumination could do. Brandt could see Postern gesturing, as if perturbed, but he couldn’t hear the conversation. The air vibrated with the sound of night bugs, some rhythmic and raucous like castanets on a drunken traveler, some pitched high and continuous as if a transformer were about to blow.
“Anoplophora glabripennis,” said Soo, who was sitting to his left, hunched up tight, arms wrapped around his knees. “An invasive pest species, though the larvae are edible, if you’re hungry enough.”
“You swallow an encyclopedia, Soo?” asked Ramos, to Brandt’s right. “InfoCorp’s Wonderful World of Animals or Our Beautiful Planet or something?”
Soo rested his forehead on his knees.
Dang. She never knew when to leave a guy alone.
Then Ramos was in Brandt’s face, practically spitting tacks. “What d’you mean by that look.”
He raised his hands. “What? What look?” Had he been giving her a look?
“It wasn’t a kid’s book.”
Soo’s voice, soft and sad, flushed Ramos right out of Brandt’s head.
Something really was wrong with the guy.
“What was it then?” asked Ramos, who’d dropped it a notch, but no sympathy softened her tone.
“Erstenhauser’s Compendium of Post-Anthropocene Species. May sound boring to some.” He shot Ramos a hostile stare. “But some of us have an interest in the natural world.”
“Sure,” Brandt said, “but you’ve never mentioned animals before, least not to me. And today…well…you’ve been mentioning them a lot.”
“A lot,” said Ramos. “Like they’ve taken over your brain.”
“They have,” Soo said, talking into his knees. “It’s like I have a copy of the book in my head, and the contents keep spilling out of my mouth.” He sat up, eyes puffy and red. Ramos better not say anything. “Would’ve appreciated more education, but not like vomiting.”
“Listen you stupid bastards.” Ramos’s voice was low like the hiss of a snake. “Brandt’s grown big as a garbage truck, I’m hearing every insect piss, and Soo’s turned into super-geek. Obviously, some motherfucker modified us on the sly. I’m betting the dose was in that bullshit vaccine.”
His mouth went dry. She couldn’t be right. Modification meant chips and surgery or genes spliced in at birth. Though that last gambit never worked as expected, kids getting cancer instead of enhanced. Then it struck him, the coincidence, the three of them on patrol post-vaccination. Maybe the Doc hadn’t known what they’d turn into and wanted them out of camp. No. That’s crazy, paranoid, worthy of Ramos.
“Except O’Brien and the sarge seem fine,” Brandt whispered, wondering if he’d be heard over the bugs. “So maybe…”
“So maybe Command figured they needed more than one babysitter,” Ramos whispered back.
“Hey, everyone. Incoming at two and eleven o’clock,” cried O’Brien.