“But it’s pretty dark out with the storm, shouldn’t you have seen flashlights, or candles, or firelight?” Robby asked.
“It’s pretty much a whiteout,” Sam said. “You couldn’t see the hand in front of your face.”
“Okay,” Robby said. “Any tire tracks? Footprints? Signs of life?”
“With that blizzard? Any sign would be wiped out in minutes,” Sam said. “Perhaps you’re getting to a point?”
“Yeah. Just one more thing: did you see any wildlife?” Robby asked.
Sam managed to keep his face neutral again—“Some deer,” he began, “maybe a couple of raccoon.” In fact, he and Paulie had nearly been stampeded by a herd of deer as the men walked to the ferry parking lot. The island had a healthy deer population, but Sam never saw so many together at once.
Robby nodded.
“Okay,” Sam said. He struck a match and lit the lantern mantle. “What’s it all mean, Mr. Holmes?”
“Too early to know for sure,” Robby said, “but it could be a local extinction.”
“Of?" Sam asked.
“Of people,” Robby said.
“Huh,” Sam said. “Why would you assume it’s just local?”
“I don’t, but I think it’s the only possibility that gives us clear direction. If it’s a global extinction, then we either have to figure out the cause—which could be impossible—or we just got lucky. Nothing to do, either way. If it’s a local extinction, then we have to try to get out of the affected area. It’s the only scenario where we could take action that might save our lives.”
“And what if it’s just a bad storm which freaked out the animals, and everyone else is just holed up?" Sam asked.
“We could go door-to-door to people who should be home. That could be risky though, if it’s a contagious thing,” Robby said. His dad considered this option. Robby had never had such a long, frank conversation with his dad before. A few years earlier, when his parents planned to refinance the house with an interest-only mortgage, Robby drummed up the nerve to talk his dad out of it. That had been a quick exchange though. He presented his information—a couple of articles and some charts showing the financial impact—and then left his dad to make the decision. It must have been hard to hear from an eleven-year-old, but his parents took his advice in the end. Now, at thirteen, Robby felt like his dad was starting to take him seriously.
“If it’s contagious, then I’ve already got it,” Sam said. “I’ve been exposed to people all day. We’ll check on the neighbors after supper, just to be sure. Then we’ll make a decision.”
“Okay,” Robby said. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Thanks, nuthin’, I haven’t done anything yet,” Sam said.
He grabbed the lantern and Robby got the extra flashlights and candles.
CHAPTER TWO
Inland - SUMMER (six months earlier)
BRAD TOOK A deep breath and tried to stay still. Intense pain washed through his lower leg. Blood weeped from a dozen little pricks around the back of his right calf. He’d walked through this patch of vines before and knew they featured nearly invisible thorns up the stalk, but he’d always possessed the sense to wear jeans before today. These vines were strange—like something you’d see in the rainforest, he thought—the slightest touch made them curl up. He’d seen moving plants before, like the Venus Flytrap, but nothing on this scale. These vines looked like they could pull down a rabbit. Brad looked around, happy he’d only taken a step or two into the patch before being ensnared.
Clipped to the back of his belt he kept a utility knife. Brad grabbed it and folded it open. The almost-new blade looked fresh and sharp. He kept his legs straight and bent at the waist, thankful he could touch his toes from countless hours of yoga, and began to slice through the root of the vine. He pinched it against the side of his sandal and severed the vine curled around his calf. Brad clenched his jaw and started to slide his right leg back. The vine, though cut off, clenched tighter around his leg.
He took one more deep breath and then leapt backwards. He landed on his ass, just past the edge of the vine patch. One of the vines at the edge twitched and flopped towards his foot. Brad shuffled back.
“Damn!” he said as the vine twisted even tighter around his calf. “What are you?”
He picked at the top of the vine, up near his knee. It looked almost like a baby fern—a fiddlehead. The thorns were barbed. As he pulled the vine away from his leg, bumps of skin rose too.
“Ow!” he said to the woods.
Brad liked to talk to himself while he worked outside. He spent a lot of time alone, and he sometimes missed the personal contact of working in an office or living with someone. When he spent time in his woods, almost a mile from his nearest neighbor, he talked out loud. He unwrapped about half the vine from his leg when he decided to pull from the other end. As soon as he let go of the tip, the vine curled around his leg again, but with a lot less strength.
“Oh, come on!” he said.
This time he used his utility knife to cut the vine in several places before he started to peel it away from his skin. He tossed the little segments back into the vine patch, except for the end with the tip. He held the segment up to the sky so he could see the sun glint off the clear thorns. With his other hand he waved at the cloud of black flies buzzing around.
“Yeah, they’ve got little hooks,” he said. “Almost looks like a thistle burr.” The vine twitched in his hand and he dropped it onto his shirt, laughing. “You scared me. So it’s not just movement you react to. Is it breath?”
He picked up the vine by the tender, curled tip and blew across one of the baby leaves. The vine twisted itself up when his warm breath hit it.
“So you go after breathing things, too? Couldn’t be the warmth, maybe the carbon dioxide in my breath? That’s the same thing that attracts these damn black flies, I think,” he said.
He held the short segment of vine away from his body as he inspected his leg. Some of the punctures were weeping lines of blood, and others were swelling up slightly. His leg looked like it had been attacked by a spiral line of very hungry mosquitoes. Brad got to his feet and headed back for the path. He maintained a rough road between the back pasture and the house, but he almost always just walked back there. It was only a couple hundred yards—not too far to carry a chainsaw and some tools.
Today he carried nothing. He was just out for a walk, not intending to do any clearing or be attacked by killer vines. The bottom half of his right leg ached and itched. Brad picked up his pace.
“Where did you come from?” he asked the segment of vine he carried. “You weren’t up there last year. And I walked right through that patch last week and I didn’t notice anything trying to grab my jeans. Did you develop more, or is it just because I had bare skin today? That’s an idea. I should bring gloves and see if one of those vines goes after a gloved hand. If you haven’t poisoned me.”
The vine wasn’t trying to curl up anymore. It flopped as he walked, limp in his fingers. Brad slowed down and breathed on the vine. It didn’t stir.
“Oh well,” he said.
His stride felt normal most of the way back to the house. By the time he reached the mowed part of the yard, his right leg hitched a little. His calf and knee felt tight. It looked a little swollen, but not enough to alarm Brad. He entered his house through the back deck.
In the kitchen, Brad dropped the little segment of vine into a plastic bag and thought better of it.
“Let’s see if you like this,” he said. He drew some water into a small glass and then poured off all but a half inch. He hooked the top of the vine over the rim of the glass and let the severed base fall into the water.