The Invasive 2: Remnants Read online

  THE INVASIVE 2

  Remnants

  Michael Hodges

  Copyright 2017 by Michael Hodges

  APEX VALLEY, ONE YEAR AFTER THE INVASION

  Bishop stopped along the High-Line Trail, the cold mountain night chilling him, the unseen wind causing the pine forest to sway. He wasn’t sure if he quite believed what he was seeing.

  There, yet again.

  A blinking red light deep in the valley.

  Bishop took a deep breath, and waited for the red light to blink again.

  It did.

  Of course it did.

  Bishop reached for his smart phone, and pressed the stopwatch app. He waited for what felt like a long time, and the red light blinked again, this time from a patch of trees ten yards beyond the initial patch.

  The creature had moved.

  Bishop pressed the start button on the app and waited as the seconds ticked away. He wiped away the cold sweat that now peppered his forehead. The red light blinked again, this time higher in a tree.

  He hit the stop button on the app.

  11 seconds between blinks.

  Or, about five and a half beats per minute.

  Bishop cringed. It had been so long since he, or anyone else had seen a blinking red tag.

  But he knew that nature found a way, even if it wasn’t an Earth-specific nature.

  Bishop wanted to run back down to Big J and tell Angela. They’d moved here and started a rafting business after the initial invasion. Slowly, his favorite forested valley had recovered from the devastation of the invasive ecosystem replacement attempt a year ago. He and Angela had remained hopeful they would never see an invasive again.

  But he knew hope sometimes had a way of ripping your heart from your chest and plucking off the arteries until all hope had drained.

  That was how Bishop felt now as the invasive’s tag blinked once more in the dark valley below.

  He wondered which of the creatures it was. A flier? Nope, too small. A frequency seal? Nope, they didn’t climb trees as far as he knew. Many of the invasives were too big to climb a smaller pine tree, so he figured it must be a bird, or perhaps one of the marsupial-like creatures. Or worse yet, a young pigra.

  Bishop hurried down the High-Line Trail, wondering if more invasives had approached Big J Meadow. He thought of Angela, framed in the orange glow of the windows, with Yutu at her feet begging for apple pie scraps.

  Bishop picked up speed.

  The red light blinked close to him.

  Too close.

  The fear that had gripped him during the invasion returned, and he found himself making decisions that he never thought he’d have to make again.

  As a whitewater rafting guide, river snags and sudden drops still got his heart pounding. But nothing like this.

  Nothing like this at all.

  As Bishop drew closer to the forested valley, the red light blinked again.

  Five beats per minute, he thought. They’d been almost at two hundred per minute a year ago, when it seemed like the world was going to end. And almost did.

  Much of the valley and the bordering national forest had been roped-off for various reasons, mostly so tourists wouldn’t injure themselves in the debris zones and falling timber zones.

  Word had gotten out that the Apex Valley was ground zero in the invasion, and had become a new Area 51 of sorts for thrill-seekers and conspiracy theorists.

  But Bishop knew there was no conspiracy, at least not yet.

  He cut a hard right along a descending game trail, and the red light blinked again in the woods, this time closer to him.

  A pummeling rush of adrenaline, the kind that can stiffen your muscles and give you a headache seized him.

  In the dark, just behind him a twig snapped.

  Bishop stopped.

  Don’t run, he thought. Be calm.

  Running triggers chase instinct, he thought. Don’t act like prey.

  Bishop counted until eleven, and the red light blinked again, just twenty feet into a patch of spruce.

  Bishop tilted his head and listened carefully.

  He heard an animal breathing.

  Fresh twigs snapped and tore.

  Bishop retreated, careful to feel out the trail with his boot heels before committing. The last thing he needed was to land on his back, the equivalent of serving himself up for dinner to whatever species of invasive this was.

  Bishop counted.

  Four.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Would it come from behind him? he wondered.

  Nine.

  Ten.

  Eleven.

  The red light blinked just to his left. He turned in time to see a brief glimpse of the thing before the red glow faded. At once, he recognized the features. How could he not? The hunched-over body, the sloth-like arms, and the rust coloring of the fur were unmistakable.

  A young pigra.

  Bishop had seen packs of these invasive’s rip apart deer fawns alive. Slowly, in the complete darkness of the overcast night, Bishop unfolded his hiking knife and gripped the handle.

  “So we meet again,” he whispered in the darkness.

  Bishop tried to predict when the creature’s tag would blink next. Had it been five seconds, or more? he thought.

  He heard breathing behind him, and turned.

  A pair of wings flapped against the pine needles, and faded into the night sky.

  Native, Bishop thought.

  He turned again, this time to the east. The red tag blinked inches from his face and blinded him, but not before he glimpsed the pigra opening its mouth as it prepared to sink its fangs into his leg.

  Bishop screamed in agony as the pigra found its mark. He slammed his knife down towards the trail, but the blade clanked off a rock, emitting a spark.

  He stood still, grimacing from the pain, but desperate to hear where and when the pigra might strike next.

  Another light flashed down-trail, but this time the light was a long yellow cone, followed by the thud of boots and the panting of a dog.

  “Hey, tough guy,” Angela said, smiling and holding out Bishop’s high-tech headlamp. “Colbrick would rip you a new one for forgetting this.”

  Yutu let out two barks, and wagged his tail.

  Bishop frowned.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Angela asked.

  “Let’s get back down-trail,” Bishop said.

  “Bishop?”

  Yutu growled at a patch of trees, then followed Bishop and Angela down-trail back to Big J.

  “Talk to me, babe,” Angela said.

  Bishop winced at the pain in his leg.

  “They’re back,” he said.

  Angela stared at him and put her hand to her mouth.

  There was nothing to say. After all, nature finds a way.

  Big J Ranch (5 BPM)

  Bishop, Angela, and Yutu descended into Big J Meadow, their headlamps creating wide arcs of light where night insects fluttered and buzzed.

  “We knew it might happen,” Angela said.

  Bishop nodded. “Yeah. There were just too many of them for there not to be any remnants.”

  Angela looked worried. “Did it have a tag?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Great,” Angela said. “How many beats per minute?”

  “Five to six,” Bishop said.

  Angela sighed. “Oh, very good.”

  “In context,” Bishop said.

  Angela nodded. “In context, right, Yutu?” She kneeled and pet the pooch on the head as his tongue lolled. “Good boy,” she said. “And I bet you smelled something bad up there, huh?”

  Yutu wagged his tail, and Angela tossed him a dog bis
cuit from her day pack.

  Big J Lodge appeared in the distance, the soft orange window squares beckoning them.

  Bishop took Angela’s hand. “Why’d you really come up?” he said.

  “Had a weird feeling,” Angela said.

  “I’ve had that too,” Bishop said. “Like I could almost feel something crawling back, like a prowling spider.”

  “We have a few options,” Angela said. “We could go back up there in better light and track it, maybe kill it.”

  “What if it’s one of the harmless ones?” Bishop asked.

  “I know,” Angela said. “It’s never easy.”

  Bishop reached down and gave Yutu a pat. He remembered all the stories he’d heard over the last several months about quadrants and government installations. And it was true that he and Angela had seen new fencing perimeters further south in the valley where the carnage had been worse. And they’d both seen black helicopters, the Apache-attack kind, and the type used for transport.

  Bishop turned to Angela. “I wonder what Colbrick would think?”

  “Oh God,” Angela said. “You know exactly what he’d think. He’d come up here with a truck full of gear, ready to blow up half the mountainside.”

  Bishop chuckled. “You have a point. But still.”

  Angela fished out her keys and opened the front door to let them in. Yutu waited patiently, and then brought up the rear.

  The comfortable high log-beam ceilings and open design welcomed them. After they’d successfully fought off the initial invasion, Bishop had quit his job and raided his 401K to purchase the place. Angela taught classes part-time online, and both of them operated their flourishing whitewater rafting business on the Apex River. They even had a couple refurbished school buses parked in a converted barn garage.

  For a year, it had been non-stop hard work, but good times. For Bishop, Chicago was nothing but a dim blur of roads and ant-like activities. The difference between living in Montana and visiting for a week or two was astonishing. The soul of Montana, and the valley got its tentacles in you very softly. And when you finally realized it, it was too late. A man couldn’t go back.

  Bishop went to the gun closet back in the third bedroom, in the hallway that used to scare the hell out of him.

  Used to.

  He checked to make sure the shotgun was loaded, then carried it back out into the great room.

  The land line rang, and Angela bent over the caller ID box. “Knew it,” she said.

  “Who is it?” Bishop asked.

  Angela handed him the phone. “A grumpy old man.”

  “I’m feeling something strange, partner,” Colbrick said on the phone. “Real strange.”

  Bishop nodded as he pressed the receiver close to his chin. “Your intuition is spot on,” he said.

  “Speak English,” Colbrick said.

  “I ran into a pigra tonight.”

  “Well, God damn,” Colbrick said. “How’d ya kill it? Shotgun? Rifle? Knife?”

  Bishop paused. “I didn’t.”

  “Jesus son, you let it get away?” Colbrick asked.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly let it,” Bishop said.

  A long, cold pause expanded across the line. Bishop swore he could feel Colbrick’s anger coming through in waves.

  “So the damn thing is still up there, messin’ up our valley?”

  “Yes.” Bishop glanced at Angela and shook his head. She crossed her arms and gave him the I-told-you-so look. She didn’t do it often, but when she did, she nailed it.

  “What are your plans the next couple days?” Colbrick asked. “I’ve been meaning to check a few things out. There’s been a hell of a lot of military and scientists on this end of the valley. Lots of gates blocking national forest roads, too.”

  “We’ve got the rafting business,” Bishop said.

  “So?” Colbrick said. “Ain’t no rafting business left if those things take the valley again. Can’t have the damn rooster before the chicken.”

  “You mean the chicken before the egg,” Bishop said.

  “Ayup,” Colbrick said. “I’m coming over. Got some maps, some gear. Let’s go find our little friend and see what all the fuss is about. Or we can wait and see if that son of a bitch humps some of its friends, and spreads in the valley again.”

  Bishop put the phone to his chest. “He’s coming over,” he said to Angela.

  “Shit,” Angela said, holding her hands in the air, palms up.

  Bishop returned the phone to his ear. “Sure, come on by, it’s been a while. You eat yet?”

  “Naw,” Colbrick said. “I suppose you all have chicken? I like to eat it off the bone.”

  “Yes, we know,” Bishop said. “We’ll have it ready. The guest room is yours for the night.”

  “Thanks, old friend,” Colbrick said. “Good to hear your city voice again.”

  Bishop sighed. “Lived here for a year, Colbrick.”

  “Aww, that’s cute,” Colbrick said. “Catch ya in an hour.”

  Bishop hung up the phone.

  “Well?” Angela said.

  “Have Adah take care of rafting operations tomorrow,” Bishop said. “We’re going to look for the pigra tomorrow morning.”

  Angela frowned and headed into the kitchen.

  “If it’s coming back, we have to stop it,” Bishop said. “Or we’ll lose more than a few days running the business.”

  “I’m well aware,” Angela said as she took out a rotisserie chicken from the refrigerator. “The problem I have, is it’s always us that has to stop it.”

  Morning, Big J Ranch (6 BPM)

  Bishop felt a warm, slobbery muscle on his face, and panicked. He bolted upright in his bed, only to realize the culprit was Yutu, and not an invasive. Angela sensed his uneasiness and rustled awake.

  Before Bishop could stand, a series of gunshots shattered what had been the serene mountain morning.

  Colbrick, Bishop thought.

  A few moments later, Bishop stood at Colbrick’s side in Big J Meadow. Colbrick had brought one of his fake target practice animals and set it up about twenty yards out. This time, the fake animal was a deer.

  Last time, Colbrick had brought a feral hog replica, despite the fact feral hogs have never been established in Montana.

  The deer target was riddled with shotgun blasts.

  “Good shooting,” Bishop said as he took a sip of his steaming coffee. “That thing must’ve been running all over the place.”

  “Smart ass,” Colbrick said as he reloaded his sawed-off shotgun. “It’s best to keep sharp, slick. Even you know that.”

  Bishop wanted to riff Colbrick back, but he knew he was right. After everything they’d been through, the importance of being a good shot could not be overstated.

  Colbrick loaded the sawed-off, then zig-zagged like a football player practicing squads. On the last zig, Colbrick flipped the sawed-off over his shoulder, and fired it upside-down. A sick THWACK rocked the fake deer, but the defenseless replica soon steadied itself.

  “Fancy footwork,” Bishop said.

  “Ayup,” Colbrick said. “It’s all in the legs. Keep ‘em steady, and you’ll hit what you’re aiming for.”

  Colbrick slapped Bishop on the back, hard.

  “I’ve been hearing all kinds of shit,” Colbrick said. “Shit that ain’t right.”

  Bishop heard rumors too, some more realistic than others. “Go on,” Bishop said.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of hiking around Elmore, on the Apex Mountain side of things,” Colbrick said as he raised one eyebrow at Bishop. “Hell of a lot of locked gates, even a few with guards.”

  “Weird,” Bishop said.

  “You bet. And there’s been all kinds of construction machinery heading back along roads where I know for a fact no cabins or houses are. So it makes no sense.”

  Bishop took another sip of his coffee, and watched as a ruffed grouse flittered in the bushes fifty yards across the meadow. “Angela and I discussed it last ni
ght. The valley turned into a sort of freakshow after everything went down. There’s bound to be fallout from that, whether tourists or conspiracy theorists…or the Feds.”

  Colbrick nodded. “There’s big money in conspiracy theories these days. Now that everyone has a damn webcam, any nutjob can broadcast his bullshit.”

  Colbrick loaded his sawed-off, and headed back to the lodge. “Truck’s ready to go,” he said. “It’s time we took a trip up the logging roads of Elmore.”

  Noon, Apex National Forest near Elmore (7 BPM)

  Colbrick’s silver SUV bounced along Forest Road 319, five miles northeast of Elmore. Every so often, as the SUV crested slopes, Bishop caught a glimpse of the distant Hoodoos. The impressive range towered over the forest here. And “forest” was a stretch. Mostly what remained was an endless array of blackened spruce and pine trees. Many of the trees lay crisscrossed upon each other, like broken bones of scavenger-picked carcasses. And in a way, the invasion had scavenged much of the valley, laying waste to every creature and plant in its path. But the real culprit, the real agent of disaster had been the U.S. military, which had bombed the hell out of everything and anything.

  Colbrick eyed Bishop in the rearview. “You get used to it,” he said.

  “So much has been lost,” Angela said. “It’s true, a mosaic of forest types can increase biodiversity, but the scale of this is so massive, it’s like a monoculture.”

  “There are more green trees up north,” Colbrick said. “But it’s still the valley, and it still deserves our respect.”

  “True,” Bishop said.

  As Colbrick’s SUV climbed a rise, a locked metal-tubular gate blocked further passage. Strangely, the gate was guarded by two uniformed men.

  “You know who which branch of the military those two are?” Bishop asked Colbrick.

  “Couldn’t say for sure,” Colbrick said. “Special Ops for sure.”

  “I don’t like this,” Angela said. “Weird vibes.”

  Colbrick parked the SUV, and the three of them approached the guards.

  “Afternoon,” Colbrick said.

  The guard on the left spit into a pile of burned timber. He was a big man, 6’3 and easily 200 pounds. Bishop was surprised to see someone almost as big as Colbrick. It wasn’t often.