Spore Page 10

  While the woman gushed her thanks and dragged her son to their car, Sean motioned for Mare to follow him.

  Mindy stood in the living room for a moment, then rushed out to help wrestle a stiff German Shepherd from the woman’s trunk.

  Chapter Eleven

  The dog stank. Not the full-throated gassy reek of a three-day-dead raccoon, but a soft decay with a promise to deliver a choking aroma. And maggots. Soon.

  At least it’s wrapped in a sheet, Mindy thought. And at least I’m carrying the butt end. She didn’t look at the weird, tire-wide dent midway up the dog’s chest that left the corpse flattened and oddly bent. Nor did she look at the dried blood on the sheet or the flies crawling all over it. Or even consider that once, not all that long ago, she was in a similar state.

  She swallowed down bile. Uh uh, no way. Not gonna think about any of that.

  Joey, the little boy, cried as he gamely carried a shovel at least a foot taller than he was. Every time he tripped over it, Mindy winced. “Can you balance it on your shoulder?” she suggested.

  Joey tried, only to drop it and fall to his knees, bawling.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” his mother, Donna, coaxed, shifting her grip on their burden. The sheet, although tied and taped, shifted, and Mindy saw what looked like a snout poking Donna in the belly. The stink seemed to increase, but surely that was her imagination.

  They managed to reach the backyard without dropping the dog. Mindy and Donna lowered it to the grass. “So. Near the water,” Mindy said, desperate to rub her hands on her jeans, but unwilling to put dead dog cooties on them.

  Donna nodded, eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t tell you how appreciative I am,” she said, meandering toward the tree farm while her son knelt and petted the bundle’s head. “Doing so much to help a total stranger, even though it’s likely crazy anyway.”

  Mindy nodded toward the house. “That’s kind of their thing.” The ground felt especially squooshy on the house-side of the shed and she called Donna over for a second opinion.

  “It’ll do, I think,” Donna said. She and Mindy returned to the dog and lifted it again, Joey trailing behind with his shovel.

  “Do you think Sean will help us dig the hole?”

  Mindy glanced at the house. “No idea. He seemed pretty intent on talking to his girlfriend.”

  Donna nodded and managed a sad smile. “It’s okay. My job, anyway.” She accepted the shovel from her son and began digging, the shovel sliding easily into the wet ground. Each scoop seemed heavier, weighted down with wet earth. After a dozen shovelfuls or so, Mindy offered to take a turn and she leaned into it. It felt good to work, to stretch, to lift.

  “Wow, you look like you could do this forever,” Donna said.

  “Nah, I’m already getting tired,” Mindy lied. She’d helped her dad dig a few post holes as a teenager and had found it exhausting. This, though, was easy. Too easy. After a few more shovelfuls, she faked a light quaver in her arms, then another with the next scoop before panting and handing the shovel back to Donna. As the other woman pressed the shovel into the ground, Mindy swallowed, seeing how far she’d dug. Water seeped into the hole and they were nearly deep enough to fully bury the dog.

  How’d I do that? she thought, reminding herself to pant and wipe her brow. I never could have dug that much without taking a break before. Across the yard, past the rhubarb, the rude guy from the paddy wagon splashed out of the trees and strode toward the neighbor’s house with a heavy-looking duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Mindy nodded hello when he glanced at her, but he merely glared in response before he went inside.

  Jerk.

  Joey crouched, still petting Betsy’s head. Donna glanced at Mindy and asked, “About last night. Your answer to my post?”

  “Yeah?” Mindy accepted the shovel after Donna managed six or seven scoops. She stepped into the hole and resumed working. Water stood in the hole, just an inch or so, but she dug anyway. Wanted to bury Betsy plenty deep.

  Donna watched her work. “You said that you had proof.” She paused as Mindy scooped up a dripping mound of black dirt with a corroded Frostie Root Beer bottle cap in it. “Do you really? Have proof, I mean?”

  Mindy smirked at the bottle cap and shook her head. Never heard of Frostie, but I guess you never know what you might find while digging up someone’s backyard. “Yeah, kind of,” she said, dumping the dirt onto the pile before going in for another. “I guess I’m the proof.” Water seepage and suction made the scooping harder, but still not too difficult. A few shovelfuls later, the water covered her feet and she felt around with the shovel for high places to scrape out. Should be plenty deep, plenty wet.

  “You?” Donna’s eyes grew wide. “You’re not saying—“

  “Yeah,” Mindy admitted. She stepped out of the hole and leaned the shovel against the shed. “I died in a car accident almost three years ago, then I walked into this very yard yesterday morning. I don’t know what’s happening out here, but it’s definitely real.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Seriously. But don’t say anything, okay? It’s weird enough to think about without everyone knowing.” Mindy managed a smile then said, “Now let’s see if this works.”

  “I’ve never heard of Lotus Lab,” Sean said. He turned on the shower and removed his shirt.

  Mare paced in the bathroom, rubbing her belly as if it ached. “Me either. The chicken farm’s been there as far back as I can remember.” She sighed harshly and muttered, “What the hell do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Sean admitted, wondering what had Mare so agitated. “I’ll Google it and go from there, I guess. But it’s affecting animals, too. I saw a squinney spore out of one of those slimy ball things.”

  “Great,” Mare said as she sagged against the vanity. “We’ll all be overrun by vermin.”

  “I kinda doubt that. Surely the predators will spore too. The wild animals will probably end up a wash.” He gave Mare a hopeful smile. “Not sure about the folks with dead dogs, though.”

  Mare blew out an exasperated breath. “Not sure how I feel about that. I’m happy to help people, sure…”

  “But letting them dig up our yard to plant their dead is something else entirely. I know.” He bent to peel off his wet jeans. “Sorry, babe. Shouldn’t have said okay without talking to you first.”

  Mare shrugged. “It’s all right. I probably would’ve let her, too, once the shock of it wore off. Takes balls to ask to bury your dog in a stranger’s yard, but after seeing that poor kid… I’d have caved. I know I would’ve. You were just quicker to decide.”

  Stripped to his boxers, Sean held Mare’s face in his hands and kissed her. “What’s wrong, then? If it’s not that woman with the dead dog, what’s going on?”

  She paused, chewing her lip. “The phone was ringing when we got back from Nic’s—just my stupid job—but there were four messages on the machine. One was your mother. She wants you to fix a light switch or something, and she has a loose—“

  Sean rolled his eyes and reached into the shower to check the water temperature. “That stupid basement switch? Again? I don’t know crap about wiring and I keep telling her she needs to—“

  “The other three calls were threats,” Mare interrupted, grimacing as he turned to look at her. “They were pretty nasty and I’m just glad Mindy had gone off to pee by then so she didn’t hear. I don’t know if I could’ve handled her freaking out. I had enough trouble all by myself.”

  Sean met her worried gaze. “What kind of threats?”

  “Started with hallelujah you’re the antichrist and you and your dead friends should be sacrificed so Jesus can hurry up and save the rest of us,” she said. “Then it was you should be gutted like the sick necrophiliac fuck that you are, and, um, the last was since you’re responsible for the zombie apocalypse you should be the first to get his brains eate
n, preferably by someone throwing your decapitated head at the encroaching horde.”

  So now I’m not just crazy, I’m a sick freak, too. Still in his boxers, Sean sat on the toilet and stared at her. “What do we do?”

  Mare sagged and sat on the floor, facing him. “Call the cops? Lock the doors? I don’t know. I’m just thankful almost no one believes you.” She took a breath and raised her head. “Maybe I should stay home. I know we need the money, but—“

  Sean flinched. If the nice lady with a dead dog can find us, the crazy assholes can, too. And they’ve already found our phone number. “Go,” he said, standing. “You’ll be safe there, at least. I’ll get ahold of Todd, maybe. Take Mindy with me to Mom’s…” He gave Mare a tight smile and reached for her hand to help her up. “Go. Work. Try not to worry. I’ll figure something out. Just email me before you head home, okay? A text from a friend’s phone… Something besides a phone call.”

  “Sean, you know I can’t—“

  “Screw the rules,” he snapped. “If your fuckwad boss doesn’t like it, we’ll worry about his meltdown later. If I don’t respond within five minutes, go to a friend’s and call the cops. Do not come home unless I say it’s okay.”

  “But… What about you? Mindy? What if these people actually show up? You’ve never done anything to hurt anybody. Why would these people want to kill you?”

  “I don’t know, but it’ll be okay,” he said, hugging her. “I promise. It’ll be okay.”

  Mindy and Donna had returned about half of the dirt to the hole when Sean walked up to them, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his face pale. Mindy gave him a worried smile as she scooped up another shovelful.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” he said. “How’s it coming out here?”

  “Better,” Donna said, wiping beneath her eyes with the back of her wrist and adding another muddy smear to her face. “Thanks again for letting us do this.”

  “No problem,” Sean said with a nod and a smile, neither of which looked genuine to Mindy. He pulled a green Post-it pad and pen from his pocket. “Can I get your name and number? In case your dog comes back?”

  “Betsy,” little Joey said. “She’s Betsy.”

  “Betsy. Right,” Sean said, handing over the pen and paper. “Whatever happens, I’ll keep you informed.”

  Donna wrote her information and Mindy let Sean take over the shovel. He made quick work of moving the remaining dirt and tamped it down. The others helped him press in the hunks of sod.

  Mindy stood back and nodded to herself. A fresh grave was never a pretty thing, but they’d managed not to mangle it too badly. At least the moist dirt compacted well.

  “We need to talk,” Sean said as he waved goodbye to Donna.

  Mindy looked at him, and tried to ignore the worried twist in her belly. Oh no! Have I screwed this up, too? “Talk? About what?”

  “Some crazies called making threats,” he said, walking with her toward the house.

  “Threats? Good God, why?”

  “Not sure yet,” Sean held the back door open for her. “But the sheriff’s on his way.”

  She swallowed. “I can hide in my room, if it would—“

  He locked the door behind them. “I think you need to talk to them. The sheriff, I mean.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ll take me away, lock me up in a lab or something.”

  Sean sat at the kitchen table and motioned for her to sit as well. “I don’t think so. I called Todd, the deputy who was here last night, to ask him what I should do about the threats. I also asked about the people I’d helped yesterday. He told me there never was a quarantine.”

  “Really?” She sagged in relief. “That’s good news.”

  “There’s more. When I asked if all of them had places to go, he admitted some were missing. That five had fled the hospital.” He paused to meet her worried gaze. “Apparently you weren’t the only one. But, anyway, the feds have arrived with a team of grief psychologists and social workers who are supposed to help with housing and jobs and adjusting to technology changes. Get you spore folks back into the groove of society again.”

  “Spore folk what?” she asked, confused.

  “The stuff you came from is a fungus, as far as I can tell, and fungi reproduce by sending their spores out into the world to create more fungi.” He shrugged. “Seemed like as good a name for the process as any, and a whole lot less creepy than non-zombies.”

  “Okay. Spores.” She took a breath. “But the cops. You’re sure they’re not looking to lock us up or run tests on us?”

  “No,” he sighed, “I’m not sure. All this happy-crappy seems like B.S. to me, especially if the feds are involved, but Todd also said the local cops are trying to keep tabs on the spore people because they might be in danger.”

  “What? Why?” she asked, looking over her shoulder as car doors slammed outside and someone yelled.

  Sean took a shaky breath then stood and laid a gentle hand on Mindy’s shoulder. “Because a woman was found this morning with her head bashed in. She had no ID and might be one of the spores who escaped. They’d like to make sure you, and the others, are all right. They’re just trying to get a head count.”

  The yelling turned into a chant and Mindy stood, the sick twist in her belly tightening. “So they won’t try to take me away and lock me up? You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything right now, but I won’t let them take you,” Sean said as he walked to the laundry room and came out with an aluminum bat. “Not without a warrant or court order. I’ll call a lawyer, whatever it takes. Okay? You can stay here as long as you think you need to. I promise.”

  Mindy nodded and moistened her lips. “Okay.”

  She followed him to the living room and they both stopped, gaping, as five people paraded on the sidewalk in front of the house. They carried signs about surviving the zombie apocalypse and they chanted, “Not eating my brains!” over and over.

  Sean pressed Mindy behind him and muttered, “What a mess.”

  A skinny, bearded guy with a shaved head had a rifle slung over his shoulder. His sign read, “Kill Shot,” and showed a slavering zombie with crosshairs centered on its forehead. A short, hairy guy had an axe strapped to his back and his sign suggested zombie decapitation equaled human survival. The other three were women, one with pistols on each hip, the other two with a gun and a knife.

  A police siren yelped nearby, one loud warning tone, and the five picketers froze for a moment before clenching their signs closer to their chests. The sheriff’s cruiser pulled up, lights flashing, and a large deputy got out.

  It’s that cop from yesterday. The grouchy one who kept treating me like a psychotic thief. Mindy took a mincing step toward the hall as Sean flinched. “I’ll go wait in the other room,” she said.

  Sean grimaced and stuffed the bat under the couch. “Probably a good idea.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “That’s enough,” Deputy Hendrix said, raising a hand to stop Sean from playing the messages. “Since you don’t have caller ID, and the callers did not identify themselves, there’s little I can do without the rigmarole of a court order, Mr. Casey. Since there were no direct threats, only their preferences as to what they’d like to see happen, I suggest that perhaps you should ignore the taunts. Or change your phone number.”

  Sean stood there, fuming, while Hendrix wrote in his little notebook. “Aren’t you going to do something? They threatened to kill me and my family.”

  “No, they stated what should happen, not what will happen, so there technically was no threat.”

  “This is bullshit!”

  Hendrix looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Do you have a family?”

  “A girlfriend, yes, but I don’t see—“

  “Are you the antichrist or a zombie?”

  Sean glowered but said n
othing.

  Hendrix tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to Sean. “Good day, Mr. Casey.” He turned to go.

  Sean glanced at the paper which informed him that his complaint had been addressed and no further action was warranted. “What the hell?” he muttered, following Hendrix to the living room. “No further action? There are armed people in my front yard! On my property!”

  “No, they’re on the sidewalk, a public avenue, and only one of the women is actually armed. She has a permit to carry. The others are carrying dummy weapons.” Hendrix gestured to a resin sculpture of Ghoulie with a machine gun that stood on the TV cabinet. “Like for costumes at that freak convention out in California weirdos like you go to.”

  Sean glanced out the window and wondered which woman’s guns were real. “This isn’t ComicCon, it’s my home.”

  Hendrix sighed and turned to face him. “Yes, a home that you opened to freaks just yesterday morning. Then you blabbed about it to every news station in the state. Do you know what’s happened since you began this journey, Mr. Casey?”

  Other than a dead dog buried in my yard, phoned threats, and five people picketing my house? Sean crossed his arms over his chest. “No. Enlighten me.”

  “You should watch the news more, and talk to reporters less,” Hendrix said. “Since you ‘rescued’ those fungaloid freaks, not only have mobs of ag protesters sucked up our time and resources, we’ve had a kid go missing and a woman murdered. Here. In Boone County where a stolen car or domestic assault is a busy investigative week. Now we’re dealing with four massive crises in less than twenty-four hours and it all started with those damn fungaloids you keep blabbering about.”

  “Oh come on!” Sean snapped. “First you accuse them of being frauds, now you’re blaming them for kidnapping and a murder? That’s nuts and you know it.”

  “Nuts? What’s nuts is that there are real crimes to pursue and I’m here, yet again, dealing with you over a matter that you brought onto yourself.” Glaring, he took a step toward Sean, but Sean held his ground. “Since you’re suddenly such an outspoken critic of our office, which strikes you as a better use of our time? Angry mobs? Missing boy? Murdered woman? Or coming all the way out here to listen to you complain about grumpy phone messages and innocent citizens exercising their right to protest?”