The Assault: The Revealing, Infestation, Infiltration, The Fog Read online

  “The spirit of discovery shall make us brave and bold; And we will harken back each day to Leon’s green and gold.”

  She was quiet, safe, and happy. Let her sing.

  I rested on my haunches in the corner below the window, letting my nerves settle down and weighing the fact that Brenda and Tank’s experiment, though producing near disastrous results, did produce results. Nevermind what “it” might be, Abby the dog was reacting to something, both on the beach and here in Andi’s room. Considering that part of Abby’s past experience with “it” involved her disappearing, then being found dead and eyeless in the waves, it was safe to assume she would lash out at the same menace should she encounter it again.

  But this time . . . in Andi? The same Andi who’d held her stiffened corpse on the ocean sand, wailing and mourning over her until Tank . . . well, revived her? The thought was positively dreadful, but reasonable.

  Andi had stopped singing. I looked up. She seemed enraptured by something, and—

  Tap tap tap tap. Scratch. She was tapping on the arm of the chair again. This time, looking for meaning in anything, I paid attention. Her finger moved again, the fingernail making little scratches, four of them, followed by a single, staccato tap. Next, five scratches. Then, four more staccato taps followed by one scratch.

  Good lord. A pattern? Well, this was Andi. It would be just like her.

  I groped in my jacket pocket for a pen, had no paper, used the corner of the bed sheet.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, tap.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

  Tap tap tap tap scratch.

  I marked it down. I’d pay for the sheet if the hospital objected.

  Four scratches and a tap.

  Five scratches.

  “Andi,” I whispered, “Are you doing this, I mean, are you aware of this?”

  She only tapped again, this time, four taps and a scratch; four scratches and a tap. Five scratches.

  I wrote it on the bed sheets again. A pattern indeed!

  “Andi! Andi, is this you?”

  A golden light washed over her face. A passing vehicle? I looked out the window—

  My gasp was involuntary. I froze right there, eyes locked on the phenomenon on the other side of the glass.

  Two—I’ll use the word—orbs. Round glowing objects about the size of a soccer ball, hovering by no visible means just outside the window.

  Only my eyes moved—they, and my hands that were trembling. I blinked. I studied. I looked away and looked back again. I dared to turn my head and look at Andi—she was looking at them, still enraptured as if seeing angels. I looked again, and they were still there, hovering without a sound, wavering just a little as if stirred by a breeze. They were a metallic gold, glowing, and each had what appeared to be a camera lens glowing deep blue and—I will confess the sensation—watching us as if aware, as if they knew us.

  Four taps and a scratch. Four scratches and a tap. Five scratches. Now Andi was tapping and scratching rapidly; I would even say frantically. I followed along, reading my penned record on the bed sheets. The same, every time.

  The orbs stirred this way and that, rotating to keep their blue lenses focused on us. They could have been a pair of eyes. Maybe they were. At last, perhaps out of impatience, definitely out of curiosity, I faced them directly, defiantly.

  They rushed away like little UFOs, vanishing amid the lights of the city.

  Andi whimpered, a weak little sound.

  I dropped to my knee, eye to eye with her. “Andi. Is that you? Are you in there?”

  For a fleeting moment I saw Andi, the real Andi, in her face. She was frightened, pleading. Her chin dropped ever so slightly, rose, then dropped again.

  From somewhere inside, she was saying Yes.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The Nephew

  My mind churned and circled and processed repeatedly through the night. These orbs were popularly known as ethereal, nonmaterial globes of light, but what I saw through Andi’s window was definitely mechanical. Had someone constructed a real machine to mimic a myth? What an ideal piece of trickery that would be. Morning couldn’t come quickly enough.

  After a hurried breakfast, Brenda, Tank, and I ventured onto the beach, turned right, and headed for the home of the nearest neighbor, no more than fifty yards away.

  “You sure the nephew’s even gonna be awake this early?” Brenda asked.

  “I assure you, he will be,” I said, my nose resolutely pointed that direction. “We will see to that.”

  The “nephew” was the unnamed sluggard and drunkard Andi and I had interviewed the time we were here seeking answers to the fish and bird die-offs. His aunt Edna, the lady of the house, hadn’t seen anything strange other than the dead fish and birds, but her nephew claimed to have seen “orbs,” even to be closely scrutinized by one. At that time, I saw no need for such outlandish testimony; this morning I was chastised and awakened—and humbled, I might add, as I shared the previous night’s experience with Brenda and Tank over breakfast. We are not born omniscient, I told them, and we would be ill-advised to close our minds to new knowledge. Consequently, though I intended to accept their viewpoint only in increments as called for, the presence of these infernal contraptions and their obvious interest in Andi’s condition meant I would, with no ifs, ands, or buts, hear what this nephew had experienced.

  It was 8:30 a.m. when I knocked on the door on the beach side of the house, the same door where Aunt Edna and her nephew met with Andi and me the last time.

  Aunt Edna looked about the same, like an old but stately vessel cruising lazily through life. At the sight of Brenda and Tank she looked puzzled. When she recognized me, she started shaking. “Can I help you?”

  “Pardon, ma’am,” I said. “I take it you remember me?”

  “Where’s the red-haired girl?”

  “That’s what we came to see you about—or your nephew, if you please. Andi—the red-haired girl—is in the hospital with a strange ailment, and we thought your nephew might have some kind of information that could help her.”

  “What kind of ailment?”

  Brenda, Tank, and I looked at each other. Since this was my big idea, the question fell to me. “Some kind of . . . psychosis . . . possibly having to do with all those other things that were going on.”

  “What things?”

  “Uh . . . dead fish and birds?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, uh . . . well, your nephew described certain . . . orbs of light, an unusual phenomenon we’ve—”

  Her answer was abrupt. “We wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Well, may we talk with your nephew?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “But he does live here, does he not?”

  “I think you need to go away.”

  “Tell us where he is!”

  “I said go away!”

  Abruptly, Tank stepped in front of me and said, “Ma’am . . . uh, it’s Aunt Edna, isn’t it?” His gentler, drawling manner seemed to ease her a bit. I backed away and let Tank have the conversation.

  “My name’s Bjorn—my friends call me Tank; guess that’s ’cause I’m so big—and this here is Brenda. She’s a . . . creative artist. And this man here is, uh . . .” He looked at me as if getting permission. “James. He’s a professor. And Aunt Edna, if you don’t mind my saying, you look like something’s wrong, like you need some help. Is there something we can do?”

  She looked him up and down and asked, “How are you at breaking down doors?”

  We stood outside the nephew’s bedroom door. It was locked, just as Aunt Edna had told us.

  “I don’t pay that much attention to his coming and going,” she told us, “and anything he does, well, it doesn’t surprise me much. But when he started talking strange and acting like I wasn’t even there, I started to worry.”

  “How do you mean, talking strange?” Tank asked.

  “Oh . .
. just talking goofy things that didn’t make any sense, and talking to people who weren’t there. Talking to his flying saucers or whatever they are.”

  Bingo. Tank, Brenda, and I looked at each other.

  “And three days ago I heard him come home late at night like he usually does, and go into his room, only this time he locked the door and wouldn’t come out. I could hear him through the door, talking away, singing songs, just blabbering over and over about the same things, and I called to him but he never did answer me.” Then she added, staring at the door, “And then he got quiet, and I haven’t heard a sound out of him for two days.”

  I knew what we had to do. “Aunt Edna, did you mean what you said about breaking down the door?”

  She looked at all of us and then at the door. “I’d sure feel better knowing.”

  I nodded to Tank and advised her, “Better stand back.”

  Tank checked the door first, then decided to use his foot. It only took one violent kick.

  “Whoa!” I shouted, arms extended to block the opening before anyone could set foot inside.

  We all held back, huddling around the doorway, looking into the room. We just didn’t know what to make of it.

  The nephew wasn’t there. The room was, in a sense, as we expected, messy and cluttered. The single bed, unmade as far as we could tell, was up against the far wall. The shape of an old guitar leaned in the corner. What were probably clothes were tossed about the floor. There was a bowl-shaped object, probably a dog’s dish, on the floor and what appeared to be a dog’s leash hanging on a nail. There were posters on the walls, but posters of what, we couldn’t tell.

  What held us back, at a loss, had no ready explanation; it fit into no familiar category. Having no idea what it was, we feared it.

  The room was coated, covered, with a strange dust the color of dead leaves. The stuff lay like brown snow in soft, thick heaps on the floor, obscuring every object that lay beneath it. It lay an inch thick—in places two inches—upon every horizontal surface—the bed, the dresser, the cluttered desk. It clung like mold to the walls. It was as if the room had been bombed with a large sack of autumn brown flour.

  Bombed? Not a bad choice of word, for on further observation we could tell the material lay within a definite radius, having originated from a center like ash from a volcano.

  And at the center, which we surmised to be on the bed, was a pair of cargo shorts, the same shorts the nephew had been wearing when he last spoke with Andi and me.

  Aunt Edna began to wail, losing control to the point that, for her safety and ours, Tank gently removed her to the living room.

  Brenda pointed, and we both noted the footprints of pets in the thick dust. Some cats, we decided, plus a large dog. The animals had moved about the room in a desultory manner, but eventually made their way to the rear window, open just wide enough for them to escape.

  We closed the door and backed away.

  Aunt Edna was trembling and plainly fearful to speak of anything. She had no idea what had happened, could not explain the brown dust, had not seen anything unusual before this. Yes, the nephew had pets, two dogs and three cats, but that’s all she knew. Had she seen orbs such as her nephew described? “No!” she screamed, looking out the windows as if they might be out there.

  I borrowed a small food storage container from a cupboard, went to the bedroom, and, using a spoon, carefully took a sample of the dust, sealing the plastic lid with a snap. I closed the door.

  Aunt Edna had retreated, sealed herself away in a corner of the couch, and said nothing further except, “Please go away. Don’t ask me any more questions.”

  She needed time. With the sample in my hands, I told her, “We’re going to find out what this stuff is, and then we’ll come back to check on you. Until then, please do not go anywhere near that room.”

  After we left, I started to shake, but I just kept walking.

  CHAPTER

  7

  A Fungus

  Dr. Mathis peered through the eyepiece of his microscope, clearly fascinated. “It’s a fungus of some sort. It’s dead, and that’s why it’s turned brown. I see . . . yes, over here there’s still an edge of green, probably its color while living.”

  He let each of us take a look. Through the microscope we saw myriads of brown, roundish clumps covered with hairlike bristles. They looked formidable, as if they could cling to you like a burr and poison you like an urchin, yet they were incredibly minuscule; thousands could fit in a thimble.

  “This could explain the madness,” Mathis mused aloud. “Andi’s MRI and brain scan indicated some kind of chemical imbalance such as we see in a person under the influence of cocaine, methamphetamine, or hallucinogens. Certain fungi have the same effect. You’ve no doubt heard of the ‘magic mushrooms’ that were popular in the sixties for their psychedelic effects?”

  Why was he looking at me? “So, uh, how did this hallucinogen escape detection?”

  He peered once again through the microscope. “I suppose they could be detected if the lab folks knew what they were looking for. But the hallucinogens piggyback on top of hormones such as estrogen and testosterone where they can’t be readily detected, then smuggle their payload to the neuro-receivers.” He looked up to make sure we were still following him. “It’s just like plugging a thumb drive into your computer. Once these things are plugged in, they can trigger all manner of hallucinations. Some Native Americans used fungi they found in caves to induce altered states of consciousness as part of their religious rituals. Drugs of this kind have always been a part of the . . . what would you call it? . . . higher consciousness movement—Eastern mysticism, contacting spirit guides, ascended masters . . .”

  “Extraterrestrials?” I asked.

  “Oh, certainly.”

  With that I met the eyes of Brenda and Tank.

  “So where did this stuff come from?” Brenda asked.

  “And how did it get into the nephew’s room?” said Tank.

  “And what killed it?” I added. “That’s what we have to know.”

  Dr. Mathis held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, easy. Um, light could have killed it. The daylight coming through the window. Some fungi can only survive in the dark.”

  That struck us all. “Andi’s afraid of light!” Tank recalled, as we all did.

  “But . . . wait,” I said. “That would mean this fungus is somehow conveying its ‘fears’—I’m personifying, of course—to its host. It is transmitting its vulnerabilities, so the host avoids those things.”

  “Maybe it can think,” said Tank.

  I waved that off. Too far out for me. “Tank, your question haunts me . . . and I really do not want to go there.” Even so, I fielded the question again, wondering if anyone had arrived where I had. “How did the fungus get into the nephew’s room?”

  Brenda cursed under her breath. She’d figured it out.

  A cloud descended over Mathis’s face. He’d figured it out, too.

  Tank waited to hear the answer.

  Brenda provided it. “It was in the nephew.”

  Dare I speak it? “The nephew went into the room, but he didn’t come out.”

  Tank went for the bright side. “He could have gone out the window with the dog and cats.”

  “There were no footprints to show that.”

  Brenda wagged her head. “I don’t wanna go there, either.”

  “What?” Tank asked.

  “The nephew could still be in the room,” I said, my guts twisting as I recalled the image of those cargo shorts lying at the center of a powdery explosion. “Or . . . what is left of him.”

  Tank’s jaw sagged and his eyes widened. Now he was with us. “Well . . . m-maybe he did go out the window. He had to have gone out the window.”

  “Oh, wait a minute!” said Dr. Mathis. “As to the source of the fungus. There could be a connection—” We waited. He finally shared, “One of our field biologists encountered a virulent fungus in an aquatic preserve not far from here.
We were losing dolphins and manatees and trying to figure out why, and that fungus could be the cause.”

  “And the fish and birds, too?” Brenda asked.

  Mathis nodded. “If we can retrace the source, we might find out what we’re dealing with. I can take you there. We can look around.”

  I exchanged an affirmative look with the others. “It’s a plan.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  The Aquatic Preserve

  Having set Brenda and Tank on a different task, I rode with Mathis as he drove south along the coast, beyond the beachfront houses, hotels, and marinas, to an aquatic preserve where the encroachment of man had been held back and wildlife could at least make a go of it. It was a lovely spot where the fresh waters of the Florida interior eventually found their way to the sea and the waters mingled; where varieties of sea grass provided habitat and food for fish, crustaceans, and manatees; where long-legged cranes waded in the shallows and pelicans soared with graceful precision.

  Mathis pulled to a stop at the end of an unimproved road and opened the trunk of the car, pulling out two pairs of waders. Well! Being quite the fly fisherman, a lover of rivers, waters, and nature, I slipped into mine with ease and some eagerness. In no time, we were hip-deep in the blue water, easing our way along the edge of mangroves, bumping into sparkling, darting fish, and looking for anything peculiar—which seemed to be in short supply.

  “It seems an infestation of green fungus would be rather visible,” I said, looking about and seeing only blue water and healthy plant life.

  “Well, this is where our field man encountered it, although you’re right, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Pleasant, though. A man could spend days here just—”

  I stopped talking when Mathis raised a hand, then pointed toward the middle of the bay. Well! I’d come to look for fungus, seen only the beauty of nature, and now, here was another sight worth the drive: a dolphin, arcing through the water, spouting and shining in the sun. I’d never seen one in the wild and, frankly, I was mesmerized.