Shifting

Eighteen

The gasoline idea went over big. We could imagine setting the thing alight and standing back to toast marshmallows while it flailed about. No one wanted to take hatchets to it like a pack of pygmies pin-pricking an elephant while it ate us one at a time.

“First, we’ll pick off the flying things, sniper-style,” I said.

I teamed up three people with hunting rifles to take care of the flyers. Wilton had always been more into hunting than most women, so I suggested she should lead the sniper team. I paired her up with Nick Hackler and Jason Dagen, both of whom knew their way around a rifle.

“We’ll try not to miss,” she said with a weak grin.

“Who’s fast on their feet?” I asked the huddle, I looked around and pointed at Vance. “You, Vance. You will be the decoy.”

“Decoy?” he choked.

“Someone will have to give it something to chase. Once it’s on fire, we don’t want it crashing into the lobby and burning this whole place down.”

“So, I’m the bait? What, am I supposed to tie an ass-load of tin cans to myself and run around in the street?”

I nodded, “Something like that. Whatever gets it to chase you while it is burning. Certainly, you need to be louder than the rest of us while we retreat into the building.”

Vance’s mouth hung open. “And what is everyone else going to be up to?”

“I’ll get the gas out of the gens,” said Brigman. “And I’ll swing this axe when it comes down to it.”

“I’ll throw the gas on it,” said Carlene.

“I will too,” said Monika. I had been surprised when she had joined the group. She seemed to have decided to become a fighter.

“What about your wrist?” I asked her.

She pursed her lips. “It’s okay.” She demonstrated by clonking the cast on a tabletop and flexing her fingers. It did look like she could heft a bucket if she had to. It troubled me that she was going out there with us, but I couldn’t really see a reason to keep her out of it. She was half the age of some of the others who were going, and if an old bat like Mrs. Hatchell was going, why shouldn’t a younger, stronger woman join the battle? It wasn’t like we had a SWAT team of athletic professionals handy.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have each of the women ready with a half-full bucket of gas. The men will carry the heaviest cutting tools we have in case a root gets hold of someone. Vance will be the rabbit, and once it’s burning hard and chasing him, we’ll all slip back inside.”

“And how do I get back?” demanded Vance.

“You outrun it and circle back. It should be pretty well messed up after burning for awhile.”

Vance breathed hard and blinked for a few seconds. He was probably thinking of all the other things the strange storm might have awakened out there, all of the things we didn’t have any inkling about yet. He was critical to the plan. If I did the running around, and something went wrong, I wasn’t sure I could keep the rest of them together. I wasn’t sure we could keep it together in any regard. If one of us was grabbed by those roots and dragged into the inferno, would the others keep throwing gas on? Would they stand their ground against a nightmare ten times the size of any we’d seen before? I didn’t know.

“I always wanted to be the hero,” said Vance after a bit, looking around at everyone. “I guess this is my chance.”

The first steps went off without a hitch. We snuck down into the large, dank basement. We weaved past old office furniture and medical equipment that should have been hauled away years ago. There were broken gurneys and outdated X-ray machines and ancient computer terminals that were now wired together only by cobwebs. In a back room where the generators slept, we broke out the surgical tubing and prepared to siphon off the gas. The basement reeked of mold and wet concrete, until we started to fill the buckets and then all odors were replaced with the special stink of gasoline. We got about six gallons out of the two generators plus a few more from the cans kept down there. We had plenty of two-gallon plastic buckets, and after filling each one with about a gallon we hauled them upstairs again and handed out three buckets each to the women. We thought about rigging up Molotov cocktails but figured it was too risky without practicing. The last thing we wanted was a nasty accident.

To light the monster, we soaked mops in the buckets of gasoline. The smell in the lobby was overpowering and everyone was forbidden to even think about lighters or matches or lanterns until we got outside.

By ten A.M we were ready to roll. The hunters had carefully wriggled into place and cracked open frosted glass windows. They took careful aim at the dozen or so kite-shaped things that hung like huge bats from the tree limbs. I heard Wilton shout, “Fire!” and three booming shots rang out. Two of the things popped in fleshy explosions. Several others took flight and fluttered around the tree like angry wasps. Another volley boomed and two more went down. By then all the rest were flying, and I grimaced, wondering if they could kill them in the air. I doubted it; we would need shotguns out in the open for that.

And then, before things even got really started, they went horribly wrong. A bullet had clipped the tree trunk, furrowing a line across its bark. There was a spray of orange-white wood pulp and it seemed like a sappy vein was hit, because a dark, yellowy, thick fluid flowed out of the tree’s skin, looking for all the world like alien blood.

“That did the trick,” said Vance beside me.

And indeed, it had. The tree woke up, and it didn’t just wake up, it went berserk. It heaved up on its roots like an angry father standing up out of an easy chair and raised its sagging, single arm. The arm had two knobby elbows in it, and it struck out with sweeping, groping motions like the blind abomination it was. The thick fingers latched onto the heavy towing bumper of a small white pickup and yanked the rear wheels off the ground with a groan of twisting metal.

“Let’s GO!” I shouted to my stunned troops and charged outside. They paused for only a heartbeat, and then I heard them following me. Once outside, we lit our dripping mops. The mop heads flared up into balls of orange heat and black rippling smoke.

“Throw the gas, come on, ladies!” shouted Brigman beside me. His deep sonorous teacher’s voice rang out in the cold still morning air.

The tree shuddered in response to that voice, and I knew it had heard him, and I knew it was enraged.

“Get out there Vance, get its attention,” I hissed urgently.

Vance ran by, pushing a dilapidated shopping cart he had gotten from somewhere. It rattled and squeaked and crashed when he ran it into cars purposefully as he headed across the parking lot. The tree paid no attention, however. It still came toward the lobby, toward the spot where it had heard Brigman’s voice. We were all streaming out under the covered entrance in front of the lobby and taking up our positions, but the tree had a target, it had fixated on the spot where Brigman’s voice had come from. It was headed straight for the lobby doors.

I think Brigman knew it, too. He hung back under the covering, he had his red axe raised, but I could tell he was close to running back inside.

Everyone was moving a bit too slowly, no one knew quite what to do, we were way off script and everyone was yelling now.

“It’s not following Vance.”

“Burn the frigger!”

“Gannon!”

“Gas, gas, just throw it!” I screamed. The women finally moved and threw. They threw it a bit too early, from too far back, and only splattered the roots. Carlene sloshed a load over her sweater, half-tripping as she threw it.

“More gas before we-” I started, but it was too late. Someone had thrown in his mop. I think it was Jimmy Vanton. It did go up with an amazing and gratifying whoosh. The tree paused and the roots thrashed in what looked like agony, and I felt good inside to know that it was hurting.

“Yes!” roared Brigman. “Burn you bastard!”

“More gas!” I shouted and grabbed up one of the extra buckets, I wasn’t sure whose it was and I didn’t care as I heaved it up into the center of the inferno. The ladies did their work better now, emboldened, and tossed their buckets deep into the flames despite the choking black smoke and searing heat.

The tree lurched into gear again, over its initial shock, and kept on its original path. Behind it the white pickup dragged, the front wheels must have been in park because we all heard the tires as they were hauled squealing over the pavement. Some of us naturally moved behind it now, not wanting to be in its path, and we threw more buckets of gas on its back. The pickup’s tires caught and the white painted fenders turned black.

Then that massive arm flexed and the pickup went up and over in an arc. We all watched with our mouths forming perfect O’s of surprise. Flaming, screeching, tortured metal, the tree wielded the pickup like a club and smashed it down with fantastic force on the small peaked roof over the entryway. The old wood and bricks exploded and crashed to rubble. The door to the lobby disappeared.

Someone was screaming. Several someones, in fact. I looked this way and that, taking in multiple disasters at once. Carlene’s arm was on fire somehow, Mrs. Hatchell was trying to bat the flames out. There were legs sticking up from under the burning pickup and the smashed entry way roof-I recognized Brigman’s shoes. And near me, running to me in fact, was Monika with one of the flying things on her back, trying to sink in its fangs.

I grabbed her and slashed at the thing and cut it away. Then I felt fangs in my own neck and howled. I struggled, went to my knees, clutching at the fleshy leaf of meat. I could feel a fluttering sensation in the wound, it must have had a tongue or something like it to lap up my blood.

The tree was still in the game, too. It lifted the pickup a second time, and I could see right then that it was going to destroy the entire building and kill us all. The flames had only enraged it, only blackened its skin and filled it with a terrible resolve. Soon, the gasoline would probably burn off and the green wood beneath wouldn’t burn.

There was a strange, tremendous ripping sound that at first I couldn’t identify. Then it sounded again, and I saw the tree’s arm crack open. Bright orange-white wood-flesh appeared in stark contrast to the blackened bark. That dark sappy alien blood sprayed out and bubbled in the flames. The ripping sound came again and I saw the arm completely come off and drop the white pickup back into the rubble. I looked for the source of the noise and saw it was the Captain, walking toward us across the parking lot, carrying an M4 rifle. Set for full-auto, he had emptied a clip into its elbow and the tree’s only arm had torn off under the weight of the pickup. He was messing with it now, no doubt it had misfired or jammed or needed more ammo.

The tree seemed to give up then. It shuddered one last time as the flames built up to a roaring height, scorching the full length of its trunk and even the antler-like upper branches. It toppled over, flattening an imported SUV in a handicapped parking spot. A shower of cinders and choking black smoke rolled out over everyone as we fled.

Vance and Monika worked on the thing that had my neck. They pulled it off after breaking their nails and roaring with exertion. Someone put a dirty rag on my neck. I knew I would live. I found myself on my knees beside the dying tree, which still occasionally heaved or shook its roots spasmodically.

We had won the day.