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

was never used in a medical situation and usually meant something changed in a mysterious or even magical way. Johnson Nightbird’s warnings of curses rushed back into his mind.

Greg got up on his toes and peered in through the porthole. He then used a sleeve to wipe the exterior and tried again, spending a few seconds trying to see through the grime or condensation on the inside. But still nothing showed.

Down one side were a series of latches, and he put his hand on one. He hesitated but only for a moment because he knew he needed to see, needed his proof. He unlatched the two levers, and with a slight squeal of hinges he drew the heavy lid back, and then stood away a step. There was an escape of a gas cloud, and a smell like spoiled fruit.

“What the fuck?” Inside was completely filled with fibrous growth, like a seven-foot root bundle with a solid core.

Greg couldn’t even get his head around what it was supposed to be, but it damned didn’t look like anything that was once human. Was this the end result of the transformation I had seen occurring at the DNA level? he wondered.

“Weird,” he whispered as he carefully closed the door. He left it unlocked because before he left he wanted a sample to take back to analyze.

He went to the next container and read the clipboard’s notes: “Cindy Maxwell, aged 11 – partial transmogrification.”

He peered in but didn’t expect to see anything because if it was a child, they’d be well below the porthole level.

He eased back and then pointed his light down along the row and saw there were over 20 of the coffin-like cylinders. He knew the CDC and them providing such an expansive storage facility meant these things were of interest and also of value. And by the look of their laboratory, they were undoubtedly still examining their samples.

Plus, the autopsy table and invasive medical equipment told him that they were performing both external and internal examinations on their guests.

Bottom line, if Cindy was only partially altered, he needed to see her, or what was left of her.

Greg unlatched Cindy’s cylinder and pulled the door open. Inside was a smaller body. It was grossly deformed but still vaguely human-shaped and he guessed that was because she was only partially transformed. And still potentially transforming.

He ran the light over her; the child was covered in spidery webbing-like roots and also had thorns, lumps, and bumps sprouting over every inch of exposed skin that was the color of old teak, and even running up through her hair.

Her entire frame looked like old, gnarled bark and he reached out with his flashlight to tap on Cindy’s breast—there was a hard clacking sound as if he had rapped on a tree stump.

He lifted his gaze to the face, just in time to see the tiny yellow eyes open.

“Fuck.”

It, she, Cindy, was still alive. He slammed the door, quickly latching it as something hard like claws skittered against the steel interior.

He shone his light in through the porthole and this time, he could make out frantic movement and a pair of yellow glowing orbs further down.

They’re still here, he thought. And still changing. Or transmogrifying. Since 1977, they’ve been kept here, entombed alive in these steel containers.

Greg backed up, knowing he needed to warn Mitch. It was then he heard the slight squeal of hinges again and remembered Martin Ainsworth’s isolation chamber was unlocked.

Greg spun but found himself staring at something roughly seven feet tall that was all monstrous plates, tendrils, and thorns, that reached out to take him by the neck.

Thorns pierced his flesh and he beat down on its arm that seemed solid wood and only ended in shredding his own skin from his fists. He was drawn toward the monstrous thing and then horrifyingly, it opened a mouth like a dark hole.

“No, please.”

He remembered the last thing Johnson Nightbird had said to him: curiosity killed the cat.

CHAPTER 33

Home of Joanne and Gary Adams, parents of James

“That one.” Benji pointed. “The one with the big tree in the yard.”

“Got it.” Mitch pulled in at the manicured streetscape. In the front yard of Number 12 was a pushbike on its side and a football under a huge oak tree.

It was getting late in the afternoon, but as Mitch stepped out, his stomach rumbled as his appetite told him it thought it was dinner time soon even if his watch didn’t.

Karen joined him and Benji immediately maneuvered himself to be in front.

“James’ parents are Joanne and Gary,” Karen said. “I know them, nice couple, and James is an only child.”

Mitch was first up onto the porch and knocked on the door. He turned to face Karen and Benji. The boy kept his eyes on the door as though trying to see right through it.

Karen mouthed, again.

Mitch did, this time harder.

They saw there was a flicker of movement in the slats of the glass panels in the door and then a shadow appeared there. A soft voice floated through the wooden door. “Hello.”

“Jo, it’s me, Karen. I’ve got Doctor Mitch Taylor with me.” She turned to face Mitch and folded her arms. “We’re just following up with a few people on some general community things and, ah, it’s your turn.”

They waited for a full minute but there was no response or movement from the shadow. Karen frowned. “Can you open up, please, Joanne?”

They waited again then finally the latch was slowly drawn back and the inside handle squeaked. The door was pulled inward just a crack. A woman, probably mid-30s, stared out. Mitch noticed that the eye was red-rimmed with a dark circle beneath it.

Karen stepped a little closer. “Joanne, are you okay, honey? Can we come in?”

The eye stared back for a moment more before the door was pulled fully open.

The first thing Mitch noticed was the smell. He turned to Karen, lowering his voice. “Like at the mine site.”

Karen went to the