Dead Roots (The Analyst) (19 page)

“Power's out,” he stated. “Either the generator's off or someone hasn't paid the power bill.”

“One's as likely as the other,” Artie responded. “Nothing out of the ordinary yet, you're good. Keep searching.”

Tom threw the sheets off the bed. Some faint yellow stains were prominent on the sheets. Finding nothing else of note, he searched through the dresser next to the bed.

“Ah fuck. Artie, you see this?”

“Yeah, give me a closer look.”

Tom leaned his chest over the drawer. A half-empty bottle of high-dosage Xanax; a spoon; an empty zip-lock bag with some white residue; a syringe.

“I'm gonna check on something, hang on.”

Tom stood up and crossed to the other side of the room, where there was a large double-door closet. He slid it open, and found the clothing racks empty, like Susan Bailey's had been. He knelt down to confirm a suspicion.

“Fuck, Artie, look. Can you see?”

“Nah, it's too dark.”

“Mildew. Black mildew...”

Tom reached down and touched the blackened carpet. It was still very damp.

“But it's wet.”

“The drugs,” Artie said, affirming Tom's suspicions. “If we're dealing with something here, it's become Objective at least twice.”

“This one's been here recently.”

“Yeah, very recently,” Artie responded. Tom heard another sniffing sound on the line. Tom stood up and shut the curtain. With one hand holding the flashlight, the other went to his pistol. He removed the safety and held it level.

“Gonna check the rest of the place. Keep me straight.”

The foul smell assaulted Tom's nose again as he stubbed his cigarette out against the carpet with his foot. He opened the bedroom door and stepped through it. The smell became stronger.

“Ugh. I'm in the kitchen... thank fuck you can't smell this.”

“Bodies in the fridge. Jeffrey Dahmer,” Artie said in a throaty voice. “He's going to fuck you in the asshole and grind you into his coffee, Thomas. You're dead meat, Thomas.”

“Fucking shut up, let me think.”

Tom found himself in the kitchen, or at least what passed for a kitchen. White tile, stained with what he presumed was spilt beer and some red splotches of ketchup. Dishes piling up in the sink. The smell overpowered him. Tom approached the sink and nudged the dishes with the tip of his flashlight. They clattered about, revealing that several had mold, but there was no water in the sink and he didn't see anything that would produce such a foul odor.

It was then that Tom noticed the fridge door was slightly ajar.

“Oh God, I'm afraid to look,” he said quietly, reaching out and pulling the door open with his fingertips. He had to put his gun away so he could plug his nose.

“
Fuck,
” he exclaimed. Artie could be heard chortling to himself over the earpiece. Tom knelt down and shined his flashlight in. There were plates piled up in the fridge, each of them teeming with squirming maggots. Several fully-grown flies buzzed past him out of the suddenly-opened door. He also spotted a rotting jug of milk and a small jar of some unidentifiable, now-black goo.

“Christ, how do these people live?”

“This is good, though. Think about it,” Artie said calmly. “Look at the plates again, they're all paper. Disposable. They'd have just thrown them out-- unless nobody's been home. The fridge has been open and the power's been cut.”

“So whoever lives here hasn't been here all week,” Tom said, nodding his head.

“Bingo.”

 Tom looked down at the ground. He saw a can of beer lying on its side with a puddle of spilt booze pooled around it. The can had been almost full.

“Oh shit, Artie. Someone got abducted while they went to the fridge.”

“Huh?”

“Look at this,” Tom urged. He angled the camera so Artie could see the can. “Fridge door open, dropped beer... Somebody was grabbing a can from the fridge and then they just... vanished. You think the other trailers are like this?”

“Go find out,” Artie said.

Tom made his way back to the bedroom and climbed out of the window. As his feet hit the dirt ground of the lot his ear perked towards a sound in the distance.

“Uhh. Did you hear that?”

“Nah, what was it?”

“Shh, hang on.”

Tom craned his head out, reaching for his pistol. It was muffled, and sounded like a voice. He wondered if some people were coming home from town.

“Just some townies coming back, I think...”

“See if they know anything.”

Tom made his way back towards his car. By then, the sound had stopped. He shined his light down the road, looking both ways and finding nothing.

“Nah. God damn, I know I heard something.”

Tom trained his ear out again. He heard the sound, and it was a little louder. He picked it out coming from the direction of the trailers.

“There it is.”

Artie to his credit, didn't say anything. Tom walked towards the trailers, shouting a greeting.

“Hello?”

He heard it clearer this time. It was a yell, a person's yell, coming from the edge of the woods. Tom started off past the trailers, pointing his flashlight towards the trees.

“Say that again? I can't hear you.”

“...p me,” came the voice. It was male.

“Help you?”

“Help me,” the voice repeated. Tom began to jog.

“I'm coming,” he yelled back. “I'm a federal agent. Are you okay?”

“I'm stuck,” the voice rang out. Tom shined his flashlight left and right. He located the source of the voice. A shirtless man with long hair that obscured his face knelt over his foot, next to one of the trees. He was tugging at his ankle, trying to pull it free from some kind of hole.

“I'm coming,” Tom repeated. Nothing life-threatening, at least. He put his pistol away.

“My foot got stuck,” the man said as Tom approached. “Stuck in this hole.”

“Are you hurt? Did you sprain it?”

“It hurts,” the man said in a wavering voice. “Think I done cut it. I can't get it out.”

“Just calm down, it's nothing to worry about,” Tom said in a level voice. He looked around, pointing his flashlight in all directions. Nothing around but the field, the trees, and the empty trailers. The man was still frantically tugging at his ankle. Tom noticed the man’s other foot had no shoes or socks.

“What are you doing out here in just your jeans, man?” Tom asked as he knelt down, illuminating the man's ankle. It was wedged tightly into a hole in the ground and twisted at an impossible angle. Tom winced.

“Wow. Yeah, you might've broken something, there, mister,” he said, brushing the man's hands away. The ankle was deeply swollen and red. “Yeah... what's your name, man? Is there a hospital near here?”

“My name's
bluagghr,
” the man said, his last word cut off by a sudden stream of vomit. The spray of stomach contents hit the ground right next to Tom. Tom flinched backwards and looked up.

“Are you--”

Tom got his first real look at the man's face-- if it could be called that. There were no eyes or nose. There was just a gnarled, fleshy surface, the 'mouth' closer resembling a gaping wound.

“
Shit.
”

The 'man' vomited again. Blood and pus struck the ground with a wet
slosh
. A hand lashed out to grab Tom's wrist, and he felt the fingers twist his skin. Tom drew his pistol.

“
Let go
,” he demanded.

“
Heeerrrrhhllp.”

“Let
go
of me or I'll end you,” Tom said with eyes narrowed. The man threw his head back and made a gurgling, struggling scream. Tom fired into the man's chest. A plug of congealed blood spurted out and splashed against him.

The grip on Tom’s wrist remained tight. Tom swore loudly and chastised himself for having rolled up the sleeves of his fleece jacket. Tom heard a wet crunch sound, and looked down to find the source. The man's ankle had disappeared into the hole, and now Tom saw the man's leg being pulled down further into it.

“What the
fuck
,” Tom cried as he fired desperately into his captor's chest again. The fingers around his wrist squeezed harder, and the man's screams died away to a sick, wet sound. The hole continued to draw him in. Tom took in a horrified breath when he saw the man's leg squish and change shape to fit into it.

“Artie, is this actually happening?” he yelled.

“Yes, I'm seeing all of it,” Artie exclaimed quickly. “Objective, I repeat, the threat is Visible. Get it
off
you.”

“I'm fucking trying,” Tom shouted. He dropped his gun to the ground and tried to pry off the hand that was clenched around him. Like quicksand, it only served to trap him further. He saw the fingers elongate and form a tight wrap around his entire forearm.

The man's leg had disappeared into the hole. As if to respond, his other leg bent upwards. Now his other thigh and bottom of his torso were being sucked into the hole with a squishing, a crunching sound. It was as though he were a rubber glove filled with jelly and twigs.

The creature, clearly no longer a man if it ever was, tried to scream through its gash-wound mouth. It managed only a sick gurgle.

Tom wrenched at the mutilated remnants of a hand that locked around his arm, and found himself losing his balance. He scraped his feet against the ground in a weak attempt to walk backwards. He fell onto his backside, clenching and unclenching his arm, feeling the circulation being swiftly cut off.

“Artie, what the fuck
is this?
”

“I don't know, Tom, get that thing
off you.
”

“Thanks for the fucking advice.”

Tom wished he could cover his ears, to block out that sick, impotent cry for help. Tom's hand turned white in the creature’s grip. He whipped out his pistol with his free hand, and fired twice into the appendage that held him in place. Congealed blood splattered out of the fresh wound.

The creature’s dragged on the ground. Almost all of its form had disappeared into the ground. The head stuck out from the hole, convulsing and frothing at its prey. Tom stamped his foot down to pin the arm into the dirt. He yanked and pulled with all the force he could muster.

“Let the fuck
go.
”

Tom took his foot off and fired his gun again to split more of the creature’s flesh. He planted his foot against the wound and twisted, hard. The remains of bone in the thing’s limb crunched and cracked loose. Tom ground his foot into it, and watched the head disappear down the hole. Freedom was close, but not close enough.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Just as Tom felt his fingernails scrape in the dirt and the hole grew near, the sinew and muscle split free from the limb holding him. Tom saw that he had torn it off entirely.

 His hand was free, and he flexed his fingers in relief, trying to restore the blood flow. The creature’s bleeding appendage hit the ground with a wet splat. Tom could hear the thing’s muffled scream as the last of it disappeared into the earth.

Tom bounded clumsily towards his car, whipping his hand around to shake out the numbness. He fumbled with the car keys, fearing that his heart might burst before he could work them into the lock. The door finally opened and he sat down, slamming it behind him. He reached frantically for a cigarette. He took a long drag and fidgeted. He waited anxiously for his pulse to slow down.

“Tom, report-- Are you okay?” Artie's voice was fearful in his ear. Tom threw off the earpiece and grabbed his cell.

“Yeah, I'm good,” Tom lied through labored breaths.

“You cut a piece off that thing, right? Did you bring it with you?”

“No,” Tom responded. “Shit.”

“Don't worry about it. We can come find it in the morning.”

Tom took more deep breaths. His heart rate slowed, if slightly, and he took another long drag from his smoke. He started the car.

“Well. Whatever we're dealing with-- it knows we're here now.”

********

His feet were bare. He only had jeans and a ratty, loose t-shirt. He felt the searing heat of the sand on his soles, the white light in his eyes. He trudged forward to whatever horrible sight awaited him. The bleached sun bore down on him, and he felt a sensation like being in a great, unknowable room with no end. Floating in space, alone.

“Please let me go,” Tom pleaded. There was nothing to hear him. He kept walking.

Dunes rolled into hills. He found himself at the base of a great slope and looked up with exhaustion. His head was aching from the heat, and he had nothing to drink. A force within him urged him on. He dropped to hands and knees and crawled pitifully up the hill, finding little purchase in the loose sand. For every few feet he moved, he felt as though he slipped twice as many.

He looked up to gauge his progress. He was only halfway there. For a long moment, Tom just lay with his head pressed against the sand, trying to will his heart to stop pounding its way out of his ribcage. Soon the sand on his face grew too hot, and he groaned in frustration, forcing himself to keep climbing.

When Tom finally reached the crest of the hill, he lifted himself to his hands and knees to survey the low valley before him. He saw an oasis. A grassy knoll dotted with palm trees, a wide pond of sparkling clear water in the middle. He stood up shakily, and threw himself down the hill at a bound. He barely maintained his balance, finally landing on all fours at the bottom. The palm trees loomed over him, but did little to block out the great sun.

Tom stumbled forward, kneeling down to drink at the bank of the glistening pond. He cupped a handful of water to his lips, then another, sucking them down in greedy relief.

“
That's enough
.”

A voice that shook the world commanded Tom to stop. He moaned in anguish.

Suddenly, the oasis was gone. Tom scrambled backwards quickly on all fours, barely avoiding a mottled hand that grasped at him from where the pond used to be. It had transformed into a pool of gore. A moat of groaning, shifting blood and errant body parts, twisting around a tiny patch of land.

Tom felt his skin crawl as he laid eyes on the center of the pool. A great, awful thing towered over him from the tiny island. Its gnarled, flesh-colored roots were planted in the lake of offal like drowned snakes, drawing its sick nourishment.