Seed of Evil by Greig Beck (great reads .txt) 📕

don’t even need to add caffeine or sugar—it’ll be the healthiest drink on the market.”

He tipped the bottle up and drained it. “This is damned good. Well done, everyone.” He headed for the door but paused. “I want it in everyone’s icebox by week’s end.”

*****

Just before dawn, the morning deliveries were being made to the many cafes, restaurants, convenience, and corner stores in Eldon. In among their usual deliveries of milk, soda, and alcoholic drinks was a crate of brilliant green bottles.

On the side of the crate were the words “Eldon Spring Water – Super Health Tonic.” The samples were free, and before noon all had been given out to the public or at least tasted and approved by the shop owners…

Who all made follow-up orders—the new spring water was a hit.

*****

Harlen Bimford carried the crate into his shop and placed it into his cool room. He pulled out several bottles, stuffed way too many under one arm, and carried them out. When the heavy door closed behind him, he held one up to examine it. He liked the color and the labeling.

He nodded his approval. “Real interesting.”

He’d place several in the glass-fronted ice box and also one on the counter as a display—you know, for sales purposes. After all, as the ole saying goes: eye level is buy level. He chuckled.

As he carried the bottle, Buford, his old hound got under his feet. Harlen tripped and one of the bottles hit the ground, popping its lid so half its contents spilled over the floor.

“Dang it, Boo. Go on, get out now.”

The dog’s ears drooped, and it got belly-low to the ground. It looked up at him with one of those crushed expressions only a dog could conjure.

“Aw, I’m sorry, boy, you’re okay.”

Buford immediately recovered his sappy dog grin and wagging tail. Harlen placed the remaining bottles on the counter and snatched up the now half-empty one from the floor. He took a sip.

“Ahh, that is good.” He wiped his mouth. “Oh well, guess I get to sample the stock after all.”

He turned to see Buford lapping up the puddle, and he laughed softly.

“You never need a mop when you got a dog.” He sipped again from the green-tinged bottle.

CHAPTER 17

“Alfie? You up there, son?” Hank Bell waited at the bottom of the attic steps, staring up into the dark void.

Alfie was Big Alf to his friends, even though he was still only ten years old and to his dad would always be little Alfie, the kid with the chubby face, toe head, and cheeky grin.

The kid was a bit of a scatterbrain but friendly and lovable, and that was why it was odd that he had been spending too many days up in the attic by himself for it to be normal.

Come to think of it, Hank hadn’t even seen the cat for a few days either. Probably no real problem. After all, Patches might just be up there keeping him company; one thing about felines was they loved the dark mystery of a basement or attic.

Hank had thought nothing of it when early on Alfie had moved some bedding stuff up there, and he thought he was just making some sort of fort for him and his friends to hang out in. But then he hadn’t caught up with Benjie, Kenny, Gemma, James, or any of his usual posse for ages.

“I’m coming up, okay?” Hank grabbed the railing and began to haul his bulk up the steep steps. He puffed after just a few; too many beers and not enough exercise had slowed him down, and he knew it.

His head came above the attic floor and he hung there for a moment. It was gloomy, and his eyes found it hard to adjust to the darkness. And he could see that the globe overhead had been removed.

Why would the kid do that? he wondered. Weren’t they supposed to be afraid of the dark—Hank swallowed—like he was now.

Dummy, he thought. He should have brought a flashlight. He contemplated going back down to get one when a small mewling noise brought his head back around.

“Patches, that you, kitty?” He came up a few more steps. “Alfie?”

He licked lips that had suddenly gone dry and noticed the weird smell. It was bad, and he wondered if the kid was relieving himself instead of using the toilet. He’d catch hell if he was.

Hank started to come up a few more steps and placed a hand on the attic floor but jerked his hand away. His fingers came away sticky and he saw something dark on them. He held them to his nose, sniffed, and his brows came together.

Phew, he thought. Bad, but at least it wasn’t shit. He wiped his hand on his pants.

“Alfie, where you at, boy?” He stepped up into the attic and cast around for the removed globe to at least give himself some more light.

There was an object the size of a baseball and also scraps of something covering the floor, and he bent lower waiting for his eyes to adjust a little more. He pulled back, baring his teeth in revulsion—the mounds were scraps of black and white fur, and the thing he thought was a ball was their damn cat’s head.

From out of the darkness, the thing leaped onto his back. Hank fell under its weight and immediately things like needles fixed to his upper shoulder near his neck.

Rage, and fear for his son, filled him. If whatever this thing was had killed the cat, maybe it had also attacked his son.

He rolled over, fighting. Whatever it was, it was hard and made a furious animal sound as it ripped and tore at his flesh.

Hank managed to throw it off and the thing thumped brittlely on the floor then skittered away into the darkness.

He flipped over and scrabbled to his feet. “Alfie, where are you?”

His instincts were to flee, but he lumbered further into the dark, knowing his son was the priority.

Hank felt the