Extinct Read online

  He would have to adjust his approach to compensate for Jim’s mistakes.

  “This is stupid,” Brandon said. “Let’s watch TV.”

  “Cable’s out,” Robby said. “All you can get is channels Two and Five.”

  “You don’t have satellite?" Brandon asked. He tossed the deck of cards into Jim’s pile of money.

  “With your power out, neither do you,” Robby said.

  “If my dad were home, he’d start up the generator, and then we would,” Brandon said.

  “Isn’t the generator still broke?" Jim asked.

  “Shut up,” Brandon said. He turned back to Robby and said, “If your dad was smart enough, he could start up the ferry and take us back to the mainland. Then we wouldn’t even be stuck here. I’m turning on the TV.”

  Robby thought about stopping Brandon. His parents didn’t like him to watch TV—they all tried to keep their viewing to a minimum; they usually read books or magazines. But stopping Brandon would be tough. The boy stood several inches taller than Robby and had a mean temper. Perhaps Robby and Jim could stop him together, but it would take a while to convince Jim to oppose his brother. From Robby’s experiences in school, he always assumed family would stick together. Robby got lucky—his father came in before Brandon found the remote control.

  Sam stepped over the coffee table and pressed the power button on the side of the TV.

  “We’re gonna fire up the boob tube and see what’s shaking,” he said.

  Paulie, Sarah, and Haddie Norton followed him into the room. They all stood in the center of the front room, looking at the television. The boys gravitated to the couch to get out of the way. Sam punched another button on the TV to switch it over to the antenna and then tried to navigate down to channel Two.

  “I got it, Dad,” Robbie said. He hit the button on the remote control to tune in the station.

  A commercial for toilet paper filled the screen.

  “There’s no crawl or anything about the storm,” Paulie said. “Usually they have text across the bottom of the picture when there’s an emergency or a storm warning or whatever.”

  “Try channel Five, Robby,” Sam said.

  Robby hit the button for channel Five. They found a rerun of a daytime talk show.

  “Nothing there either,” Paulie said.

  “Well, maybe this storm’s not a big deal for the rest of the state,” Sam said. “Wouldn’t be the first time our island problems didn’t make the local news. You boys keep your eyes glued to that TV and let us know if something happens.”

  “I’ll stay here with the boys,” Haddie said. She sat next to her son Jim on the couch.

  Robby jumped up and caught his dad before he could go back to the kitchen.

  “Hey, Dad,” Robby said, “I think those stations are fed down from the network via satellite.”

  “Yeah?" Sam asked. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Who knows for sure,” Robby said, “but they might not even have anyone there. Maybe we’re just seeing the network feed because everyone disappeared, like Early or Master Johnson.”

  “Do you have any reason for that speculation?" Sam asked.

  “No,” Robby said. “But I was just thinking—if we assume this is a local problem, we might decide to wait it out. If we assume it’s a larger disaster, the worst-case scenario, then that might suggest another course of action.”

  “Sometimes you think too much, son,” Sam said. He put his hand on Robby’s shoulder. “And you talk like a textbook. Sometimes we just get a freak storm on Thanksgiving and the phones go out. But if you get any more information, you let me know.”

  “Okay,” Robby said. He smiled and tried to imitate his dad’s easy way of letting go. But he couldn’t let go, and as he sat down in the big brown chair his mind kept spinning. His dad was right—he had no solid evidence. Robby liked to be cautious; he liked to prepare for the worst case. With no way to get information from the outside world, how could he set his mind at ease? Robby slipped from his chair and headed for the steps. In his room, he turned down the volume on his clock radio before turning it on. Static came from the speaker. Robby wasn’t surprised—he never used the radio. Who knew when it had been last tuned in to an actual station. He rolled the dial all the way down and then slowly scanned through the frequencies. He didn’t hear anything except the constant fuzzy white noise.

  Robby stopped next at the hall closet. His mom kept a portable radio there, next to the sewing machine. He dragged it out and took it to the bathroom to plug it in. He found the same result on that radio—nothing but static. The radio went back into the closet. Robby flushed the toilet, so nobody would ask where he had been, and walked back downstairs. He had just taken his seat again when his mom entered.

  “All right, everyone, let’s eat before it turns to mush. We don’t have enough room at the table, so you kids can take your plates to the coffee table,” Sarah said.

  Aside from a few mumbled compliments to the chef, the procession remained silent as each person made their plate. The turkey turned out great—just a tiny bit dry. They had plenty of food; Sarah cooked for maximum leftovers.

  Sam waited for everyone else before fixing his plate. He had the old camping lantern at the head of the table. Sam wrapped the old lantern mantle in a sandwich bag before slipping his small scissors in to cut the string. The old mantle dissolved as he pulled it from the lantern. Robby watched him fit the new one on and knew the next step—his dad would burn the mantle to prepare it for lighting.

  Sam stood up and said, “I’m going to the garage to burn this in.”

  “I’ll go with you, Dad,” Robby said. He set down his plate and followed his dad.

  “No, you get your food,” Sam said.

  “But I want to get the box of candles and the spare flashlights, anyway,” Robby said.

  Sam nodded.

  In the garage, Sam set the lantern on his bench and turned to Robby.

  “Okay, let’s hear it. What has your big brain cooked up now?" Sam asked.

  “Can I ask a couple of questions?” Robby asked.

  “Shoot,” Sam said. He trusted his son, and respected his son’s intellect, but he sometimes lost patience with Robby’s tendency to analyze every situation.

  “Were there less people on the ferry when you landed than when you set off?” Robby asked.

  Sam had a great poker face. He didn’t show the slightest reaction to the question. He just considered how to answer—should he try to gloss over the facts and comfort his son, or tell the truth? “Perhaps,” Sam said.

  “Did you see anyone downtown?” Robby asked.

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  “Anyone aside from Paulie, Ms. Norton, Jim, and Brandon?” Robby asked.

  “No,” Sam said.

  “Any lights on in any of the houses as you came home?” Robby asked.

  “No, just ours,” Sam said. “But the power is out to who knows how many houses.”

  “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 lo
cal 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.

  In his bathroom, he slipped off his sandals and sat on the edge of the tub. The cool water felt good on his swollen calf, so Brad just let it flow for a couple of minutes. He touched a puncture on his ankle. A little invisible splinter from the thorn still stuck out of the wound. Brad reached the vanity drawer and got his tweezers. He couldn’t see the thorn, but by brushing the tweezers over his ankle, he could feel it. When he pulled, the skin pulled up too. The thorn’s barb tugged at his flesh.

  “Why would you be so persistent?” he asked the thorn. “Usually with burrs there’s a seed or something to transport,” he said.

  The other bloody spots were surrounded with leg hair. He couldn’t tell if they still had thorns or not. He plucked out several hairs before giving up. After scrubbing the rest of the blood from his leg, he dabbed some antibiotic cream on the worst spots.

  Back in the bedroom, next to his bed, Brad kept a little diary with a pen stuck in its spiral binding. He flipped it open to the ribbon he used as a bookmark and wrote, “Plants that move.” This book served as his Internet reminder list. It used to be his ex-wife’s dream journal. Aside from the smell of her hair conditioner, the journal was the only thing of hers left in the master bedroom. He sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched his leg. A few of the bumps really itched. He opened the diary again and wrote, “Ven
omous plants?” He put the book back on the nightstand.

  The pillow sat right there at the head of the bed. With one quick move he could stretch out and kill the whole afternoon with a nice nap. This was the problem with working at home and vacationing at home, he decided. Every moment turned into a decision—should he stay busy, or just relax? Which would lead to a better quality of life? Brad usually chose activity over leisure. He gained a great deal of satisfaction from a job well done. This week would be tough. He had the whole week off to catch up on chores and home projects, but he couldn’t finish everything on his list. No matter what he did, he would remain disappointed at the end of the week.

  He pushed to his feet and then flopped back down. On second thought, he figured a slothful hour or two wouldn’t hurt anything.

  ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

  WHEN HE WOKE UP, the sun had already set. The clock read nine something. He felt stiff all over as he rolled over to turn on the lights. He immediately looked to his leg. No real sign of the injury remained. He found a couple of slightly red spots on the back of his calf, but his leg looked so intact that he started to wonder if it had just been a dream. Brad jumped up and headed for the kitchen. His little glass still sat on the counter with a tiny amount of water in the bottom, but he didn’t find the vine.

  “That’s odd,” he said.

  The phone started ringing. Brad just stood there, staring at the glass. He almost didn’t get to the phone before the call disappeared into voicemail-land.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Hi, Brad?” the voice asked. His client, Phil Anderson, didn’t wait for a response before he continued, “I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off. Is this a bad time?”

  “No, not at all, Phil,” Brad said. He rubbed his temples with his free hand. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got a surprise slippage with some of our programmers. We’re looking for a white night here.”

  “Yeah?” Brad asked. Phil couldn’t possibly be this dumb, thought Brad. He’d sent a memo to Phil almost a month before, predicting this exact circumstance. How could he describe it as a “surprise slippage?”