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

softly. “Whatever is going on, has been going on for thousands of years.”

“Could be something in the indigenous animal population that surfaces seasonally, but on a long cycle. Did you know that armadillos were found to spread Hanson’s disease, leprosy? In the Gulf states, some mating seasons the little bastards would wander closer to human populations, and bingo, people were catching the disease. Was a mystery how every second year, or decade, there’d be outbreaks, and it was only when they tested the local animals that they found their biological reservoir.”

“Interesting. Never thought about that,” Mitch mused.

Greg shrugged. “Well, thank God you don’t have any outbreaks now.”

“Maybe we don’t have any obvious outbreaks, yet. That is, unless we head them off somehow.” Mitch shrugged. “The sheriff is barricading off the mine, so hopefully we can keep people out and away from the water. But there’s an old Native American called Johnson Nightbird who described the infection to the museum. He was in Eldon back in the seventies. He also said that the people had become servants of Adotte Sakima—the tree god.”

Greg sat back slowly. “I don’t understand.”

Mitch shrugged. “That makes two of us. It’s somehow all connected but I don’t know how. And that’s why we need to talk to him.”

“And I’m guessing why we’re here.” Greg drained his beer and put the bottle down. “So, what do you hope to find out from this Nightbird?”

Mitch shook his head as he stared into his beer. “I don’t know yet. But I do know that the Otoe-Missouria tribe has been in this area for thousands of years and are one of the oldest in the country. Maybe entwined in one of their legends is an answer, or a clue, or something that can give us an idea of what it is we’re dealing with.”

“Well, sooner or later, you’re going to have to bring in the CDC. My contacts in there were a little suspicious about why I wanted to dig those old cases up.” He stood with his empty bottle. “Another?”

“Sure.” Mitch drained his own drink. “Just remember, the mayor wants it handled locally for now. I’ll play by his rules for a little longer.”

“Okay, you’ve got to do that. But keep in mind, the CDC has national and international expertise. Plus, they must know something about this Angel Syndrome as they’ve dealt with it before.”

Mitch looked up and shook his head. “No, they dealt with it by simply locking it away.” He scoffed. “And what happened to all the children? Did they die or become petrified like their parents? Or are they still alive somewhere?”

“Mitch, we’ve both worked for the military and know what a tripwire is for. They asked me a hellova lot of questions about my basic searches. I kinda got the feeling if I asked any more, I’d set off some alarms and then someone is going to show up and start asking me, us, a lot more questions. Are you ready for that?”

Mitch shook his head. “No, not yet. I still don’t understand what it is I’ve found or even what I’m looking for.” He smiled. “And that’s why I want to speak to this old Otoe elder.”

“Did you make an appointment?” Greg asked.

“Nope. And only just found out where he lives an hour ago,” Mitch replied.

“Hope he speaks to us. You better take him something… I dunno, like a house-warming present.” Greg grinned.

“Good idea.” Mitch went to the bar and bought a carton of cigarettes. He settled on Marlboro. He slid them on the table and Greg picked them up, cocking an eyebrow.

“Marlboro? Seriously? Is that a good idea? Don’t cowboys smoke those?” He chuckled.

“Pfft, how old are you, 80? They retired the Marlboro Man decades ago.” Mitch shrugged. “If he doesn’t smoke, he can give them away.” Mitch finished his second drink and stood. “Just don’t tell anyone a doctor is handing out cigarettes.”

“I’m sure he’d prefer a bag of kale and a scented candle,” Greg laughed.

“Even I’d shoot me for that sort of gift. Let’s head out early tomorrow, 6:30 am, I’ll pick you up. Should only take us an hour to get there, and hopefully track the old guy down.”

Greg toasted his friend. “May you live in interesting times.”

Mitch grinned. “Isn’t that an old curse?”

*****

Mitch slowed as he spotted Greg standing out front of his hotel. The military medical man jumped into the rental.

“Let’s go find ourselves a nightbird,” he said as he buckled up.

Mitch followed the instructions given to him by his desk clerk and headed firstly out across flat highway for several miles toward a line of ragged, low-lying hills.

As they left the main highway that held a lot of the gas stations, hotels, and malls, they saw nature reclaim the landscape, where concrete turned to trees, waving grasses, and exposed pink stone.

It also meant that the roads became less smooth, and in no time, they were traveling along tracks with deep potholes that tested their suspension and jarred them to their back teeth.

“There.” Mitch pointed through the windscreen.

It was a mailbox with an American bald eagle carving on top. There was no name or number on it, and Mitch guessed you just had to know whose it was. And you would if you lived out here.

Mitch turned slowly onto the path and headed on up.

“Should be only a few hundred yards now. Keep a lookout for a house. Or an old guy with a shotgun.” Mitch chuckled as he drove about ten miles per hour as both men scanned the forest for a sign of Johnson Nightbird’s dwelling place.

Then they passed through a large stand of trees and saw just up ahead nestled in among some huge trunks there was a cabin. Smoke curled from a stone chimney and the yard was strewn with automobiles, some were the color of earth as all their paint had rusted away, and another looking like someone was attempting to either take it apart or put it back together.

“This must be the place,”