The Invasive Read online

  Two more bites on his back.

  “Motherfuckers,” he said, reaching behind but missing the insects. They sawed into him, leathery wings fluttering against his flesh. Bishop rolled onto his back and moved in an up and down motion, smashing the pests into the ground.

  He curled up next to Angela and held her. He grabbed her wrist and caressed it, checking her pulse in a way that would not alarm her.

  Fifty beats per minute.

  It was OK. Not good, but OK. He rested his head against the tree, his nose filling with the scent of that certain shampoo she used. He felt the slow rise and fall of her breathing, this precious being who’d sworn to spend the rest of her life with him.

  They lay in the forest, hearing unidentifiable grunts, clicks, and hisses. The enchanting forest he’d known since childhood was now a freak show beyond description. What happened? How did these creatures get here? It didn’t matter. He needed to find immediate medical treatment for Angela.

  Bishop gently placed Angela over his shoulder and rose to his feet. He was never into weight lifting, and now he wished he wouldn’t have poked fun at the overstuffed gym rats at the office health club. But he was a runner, and at least years of cardio training would help. Bishop grunted and stumbled through the forest, using the fire poker for support. He worked his way east to the only paved road in the area, Highway 18.

  He busted through bracken ferns, white spiraea, and sweet grass, sometimes hearing chortling and deep grunts. What he wished to hear were common forest sounds, but these were hopes with no realization. The forest was vacant of such welcoming and familiar noises, perhaps the most frightening thing of all—even more so than witnessing the eel yank his wife through the glass doors as if her life held no value.

  He’d gotten even with that son of a bitch, though, hadn’t he?

  In the maddening landscape, Bishop cracked a smile. He scrambled down a steep hill, careful not to smash Angela’s head against the ground as he put his feet forward. The more he perspired, the more difficult Angela became to hold.

  At last, he reached Highway 18, the dim ribbon of asphalt a spectral slice through the greenery. He prepared to step onto the embankment, and an ominous sensation pricked his skin. Bishop pulled back into the trees and placed Angela on the ground as she moaned. He turned to the road, chest heaving, mouth sucking air, eyes darting. The faint hum of a car engine drew near, and Bishop’s heart thumped. But there was something off about the approaching vehicle’s cadence. Bishop hunkered down in the bushes next to Angela. Part of his mind urged him to run onto the road while the more salient portion froze him in place. The car appeared over the ridge, and Bishop could see the hood and headlights as it descended into their little valley. His chest tightened when he noticed the yellow Subaru hatchback was not traveling at highway speed. The rear driver’s side tire shot sparks as the rim ground into the road. The elderly man driving the vehicle jerked the steering wheel and repeatedly checked the rearview mirror. The car swerved across both lanes, skittering onto the embankment and just missing the trunk of a ponderosa pine.

  His hope at the sound of the car had become caution. He was learning to trust his instincts. So far, he’d remained relatively unscathed in this changing forest.

  The car swerved closer, and Bishop noticed a hairy, branch-like object on the hatchback. The man’s face came into view, all grimace and furrowed brow, his mouth forming a half-scream. With each growing engine putter, the object dialed into focus, now appearing to be a leg with a sharp claw, maybe a hoof. The driver swerved to the right, allowing Bishop to get a better view. What he saw he did not care to see, for the back of the yellow Subaru was covered by a creature with spider-like legs—two gripping the roof rack, and two gripping under the rear bumper. The long, hairy legs led to a midsection that resembled a flounder. A bulbous eye protruded from the center of the organism, sometimes covered by a rubbery eyelid that glistened with fluid. The eye contained three silver pupils. As the creature adjusted its vice-grip on the car, muscle strain caused the eye to bulge and then relax.

  As the car passed Bishop, the creature’s roaming eye never paused. The left rear leg snaked under the car to the tire and stabbed into the shredded rubber. Between each jab of claw, a sandy croaking emanated from the beast, as if it celebrated each stab with great delight.

  Bishop let the ferns swish back into place.

  The last thing he needed was to be seen by that eye. Perhaps this creature could alert others to his presence.

  The Subaru swerved on the hill leading up the valley and crunched into a red cedar. Smoke billowed from under the hood. The passenger did not move. The spider-like creature clawed along the driver’s side of the vehicle, each hairy, moist leg groping, the eye not looking forward but backward to protect itself from ambush. Bishop ran towards the car, then stopped. He retreated back into the woods and kneeled beside the woman he loved.

  Bishop watched from behind the ferns as the foul creature smashed into the driver’s side glass, clearing any jagged spikes with a hoof-claw. The midsection of the thing lay flat against the driver’s door, the eye gazing behind it as it groped inside the car like a kid into a box of Cracker Jacks looking for the elusive prize. The creature found its prize and pulled it through the window opening. The unconscious man’s body balanced on the window frame, then flopped to the ground. One leg remained vertical, hanging on the window frame by a single, white sneaker.

  It’s almost like a crab and a spider, Bishop thought, studying it. A word shot to the tip of his tongue: Secapod.

  The secapod grunted and covered the man’s head with its fleshy midsection. Bishop turned away.

  “Bishop…” Angela said weakly.

  He leaned towards her lips.

  “I’m right here, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Bishop…what…what was that noise?” she asked.

  “Someone hit a tree,” he said.

  Bishop turned and watched the secapod grope under the car. Seconds later, it emerged in-between the car and the tree line. It clawed its way up the rough bark of a cedar and disappeared behind the sweeping branches and green needles.

  He placed the water bottle to Angela’s lips and she sipped, some of the fluid escaping out the corners of her mouth. He needed to get her medical attention, needed to find more water.

  Bishop caressed his pretty wife’s face, feeling the slight curve of her nose and brushing along her cheek. Her face had lost color. He thumbed under her wrist and checked the pulse—a normal rhythm and sixty beats per minute.

  Bishop listened, hoping for the familiar sounds of this Rocky Mountain forest—a place he’d visited for years. He based his entire year in Chicago on the couple of weeks he could take off and come west. The insurance office was an impossible place to escape, and he spent much of his time gazing out the window across the artificial chasm towards the pigeons and other birds that perched on the precipice. Once, he had seen a peregrine falcon blaze down from the sky, punching through the typical Chicago winter inversion. It had bulleted a group of pigeons, talons outstretched and wings back, avoiding the pecking beaks of the scattering birds. The flock of pigeons had dispersed, and the falcon’s talons were empty. It had roosted on a skyscraper, and Bishop had thought it was staring at him, urging him on with cries of freedom, freedom! When the bird had flown off, he thought perhaps it headed west. Or maybe it had been hearty, instead choosing to live in the land of steel towers, and for that, Bishop respected the hell out of the thing even more. He wished he was as brave. Instead, he spent all his thoughts on Montana, living for two weeks out of fifty-two.

  And then there was his father. This was the first trip to Apex Valley without him, and Bishop swore he felt his spirit in these mountains, in the vast forests and alpine meadows. It was here where they bonded, fly fishing for cutthroat trout in pristine rivers and enjoying photography.

  Bishop surveyed the woods, thumbed a dead fern in his fingers, then rolled it up into a little ball.

  A powerfu
l engine rumbled through the valley, this time exhibiting a normal cadence. Bishop emerged from their hiding place and sprinted onto the road, waving his sweaty arms. The black SUV raced down the hill, then gradually reduced speed. Bishop could not see the driver through the tinted windshield. He waved his arms frantically and then relaxed for fear of looking like a nutjob. The SUV rolled to a stop, the hefty V8 rumbling with latent power. Bishop approached the vehicle. The driver shifted into reverse and backed away.

  Bishop stopped.

  They stared each other down on the road, Bishop pointing back to tree line, his head whipping to check Angela, then the truck.

  The vehicle door cracked open, and a tall man stepped out. His grey hair was neatly combed back and he wore tinted shooting glasses. In his hand was a sawed-off shotgun, pointed to the ground.

  “You seen any of them?” the man asked.

  “Yes…my wife, they attacked her real bad—”

  “What kind?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know. Look, we’re wasting time here. My wife…she’s in trouble. Can you help us? We need to find a hospital—”

  “What kind, I said?” the man asked, re-gripping the sawed-off shotgun.

  “It looked like an eel, shocked the hell out of me.”

  “Yup. I seen them too. But they’re no match for Justine.”

  “Justine?” Bishop asked. He got the feeling this character didn’t do so well with questions.

  “You’re looking at her,” the man said, holding up the hacked shotgun.

  “Sir, can you please take us to—?”

  “Let’s go get her,” the man said, waving him on as if Bishop was dillydallying the whole time.

  Bishop felt a hundred pounds lighter. The man followed him to the tree line.

  “Sir, can you take her legs?” Bishop asked.

  “Name’s Colbrick.”

  The two men stood over Angela and shook hands, then reached down and lifted her. She moaned and fluttered her eyelids. Bishop’s heart sank.

  Soon, their footfalls pattered across the road. Colbrick’s eyes scanned the forest around them in controlled but intense movements. They laid Angela upon the road, and Bishop kneeled, holding her head off the pavement. Colbrick pulled the rear door lever, and they placed Angela inside the vehicle in-between coolers and backpacks. Bishop crawled inside and sat next to her in what was now an unofficial ambulance.

  Colbrick went to shut the door, and Bishop caught movement from the tree line eighty yards behind them. At first, he thought it might be a black bear, but its hide was much too smooth, and the facial features were alien to him.

  “Colbrick, behind you!”

  Colbrick spun around, snatched his shotgun off the road and aimed it at the charging creature.

  A sense of disbelief overcame Bishop when he understood just how far off he was, for this organism was far from any black bear.

  Colbrick slammed the hatch and hurried to the driver’s door. The creature scuttled towards them on six limbs. A thick, slug-like appendage trailed out behind it, leading to a saw-like tail of some hard material. A dull, ceaseless cry emitted from its mouth and Bishop covered his ears. Then Bishop’s left eyeball twitched and pulled itself up to the corner of his face, the left side of his mouth following suit. He tried to speak, but nonsensical words stumbled out. The creature was twenty feet behind them now, and Bishop noticed four of the limbs led to webbed feet with small claws poking out of the webbing. The two remaining limbs were high on its chest and contained multiple claws with deep curves. Its jiggling neck was similar to that of a sea lion. Upon its blubbering, brown chest were horizontal streaks of lighter brown which grew shorter in length towards its feet. How this creature could see Bishop had no idea, for it had no visible eyes. The bizarre creature’s mouth stretched wide and deep across its smooth head, suggesting a permanent smile like a dolphin. The mouth opened and closed as it called out, revealing no teeth, but rather abrasive textures meant for scrubbing and scrapping. A visible streak of slime trailed behind it and glinted in the sun. Its saw tail jerked side to side, and Bishop realized it was gaining speed.

  “Go, Colbrick! Go!” Bishop mumbled out the corner of his mouth, his left eyeball and lips twitching to the top of his head. Colbrick shifted out of park and slammed the gas. As they put distance between themselves and the creature, the twitching faded. They climbed out of the valley, and the image Bishop saw of his once favorite pocket of nature was the seal-like beast opening and closing that repulsive mouth.

  The Wind Dancer

  Angela and Bishop walked hand in hand along the lakefront, admiring the water as it contrasted with the pearl white sailboats. Seagulls soared above them, hoping for a handout from the bag of popcorn they shared.

  Bishop stared into the water. He thought of Lake Gallatin, how he and his father used to fish it when he was younger. In reality, the contrast couldn’t have been more distinct. Here, Lake Michigan was bordered by a massive metropolis of ten million people. A person could drive for hours to the west and not escape the houses and sprawl. There were a few cabins on Lake Gallatin, but it was close to a huge wilderness complex. Another difference was the zebra mussels. Lake Gallatin didn’t have those. Bishop gazed at them, sunlight creating broken light patterns across their siphons. The zebra mussels had come to Lake Michigan via the ballast water of vessels that had traveled the ocean. It was only a matter of time before they’d carpeted great swaths of lakebed. They’d become so numerous and grew so dense they sometimes clogged pipelines and water intakes. Besides pushing out other freshwater mussels, the zebra mussel was also responsible for cases of avian botulism, killing thousands of Great Lakes birds. The seagulls above them didn’t seem to mind, at least for the time being.

  “What are you thinking about?” Angela asked, reaching for a handful of popcorn.

  “The valley,” he said.

  “One of these days I’d like to go,” Angela said, flashing her eyes at him.

  Bishop couldn’t resist. He was a sucker.

  “Now that you mention it, I have some dates lined up if you’re interested.”

  Angela turned to him, surprised. “So I’m finally going to see the vaunted Apex Valley? Hold on, Bishop. Let me mark this down in my planner. This is a historic occasion.”

  “Smart ass,” Bishop said, shaking his head.

  “I try my best.”

  Bishop laughed and tossed a piece of popcorn at her. It missed, and a daring seagull swooped in behind them and plucked the morsel.

  “So are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked.

  “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

  Bishop stopped, and so did Angela. “You were one of those kids who peeked at their Christmas presents early, weren’t you?” he asked.

  Angela blushed. “Maybe—”

  “Aha,” Bishop said. “I always had a hunch. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait on this one. Well, at least for the next few minutes.”

  Lake Michigan sloshed against the concrete retainer wall. Up ahead was a series of piers with moored sailboats. The piers were fenced off from the sidewalk, and the entrance was guarded by a huge man wearing blue slacks and a sweatshirt.

  “Bishop, party of two,” he said to the guard.

  The guard checked Bishop’s driver’s license and ushered them through the fence gate.

  Bishop and Angela held hands and descended the wooden steps to the main pier. Her hand trembled in his. He looked at her, and she smiled and exhaled unevenly. Maybe she knew what was coming.

  The sailboat captain greeted them and assisted them into the boat. It was a modest vessel of forty-two feet, as much as Bishop could afford.

  “Welcome aboard the Wind Dancer!” the captain said.

  “Thank you,” Angela said, taking a seat on a bench inside the cockpit.

  On a checkered tablecloth, still fresh and steaming, was a meal of grilled corn on the cob, baked beans, and turkey burgers from Angela’s favorite restaurant, Ven
dottis.

  “Bishop, what’s going on here?” Angela asked, trying to hide her trembling hands on the other side of her lap.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re going on a little sunset sail.”

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

  Bishop met her eyes, a smirk on his face. He was loving every second of this. “Does there always have to be an occasion?” he asked.

  “You’re playing me,” she said. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Bishop grinned. “Sorry. I thought you’d enjoy a nice evening on the lake. It’s something different, right?”

  “Oh…OK, for sure. Yeah, this is great,” she said, a tinge of disappointment in her voice.

  The captain unmoored the Wind Dancer and motored into the open lake. A gust of wind finessed between the skyscrapers and tousled their hair. A few seagulls followed them out to deeper water.

  When they were a couple hundred yards out, the captain unfurled the main sail, and the Wind Dancer cut across the water, leaving the seagulls behind. Many of the buildings in the impressive steel and glass skyline began to turn on their lights, creating an uneven lightshow. As beautiful as it was, Bishop knew he’d be sucked back into the corporate world tomorrow, back up to his hi-rise office where he’d gaze out across the city like he was serving a term of self-imposed imprisonment. He shook off the negative thought and focused on the matter at hand—the one thing in Chicago that made him happy.