Seeders: A Novel (17 page)

Sean rolled sideways and leapt to his feet, wanting to move quicker and cursing his sluggish muscles. He awkwardly sprinted in jags over roots and rolled over a clump of thorn bushes, where he landed in a clearing and faced a sea of crackling, undulating vines in every direction. Roots exploded to the surface in a spray of soil and leaves.

He headed toward the only tree not plagued with slithering creepers—a knobby old cedar, petrified to a dull gray. Without thinking, Sean heaved himself onto the lowest branch. It felt dry and brittle, but he kept climbing the thick limbs. They were mostly broken and ragged on the ends, hardened from the elements, but he found enough footing to climb ten feet.

Sean—

He looked down at the snake pit below where sidewinders clambered toward him and locked around the base of the tree, staring up at him.

Leggo—

The branch beneath his body twisted like an arm, trying to shake him loose. He heard the cracking of wood and tensed, straining to hang on.

Then there was a loud snap and the limb shattered like glass.

Sean toppled headfirst through the air and his skull hit the ground with a thud.

CHAPTER 16

THE BEACH WAS WARM
, the sky pale blue.

Monica ripped off her leather jacket and impatiently tied it around her waist. She had kept up a steady pace and dour mood since she and Luke left the house. A pebble slipped into her boot and she stopped to take it out, pulling the boot off her foot and banging it furiously upside down until the stone fell out.

Luke kept a good distance, wary of her temper. He had come down to breakfast that morning, love-struck and dreamy-eyed after their evening encounter, but Monica didn’t look up from her oatmeal.

He had sat across the table sneaking glances from the corner of his eye.

Her head snapped up. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing.”

Ginny had brought a cup of tea to the table, along with a map of the house crudely drawn in eyebrow pencil. “I’ve decided we need more order to our search. I’ve assigned rooms and we’ll take it one step at a time. You two will look upstairs, checking all the bedrooms, especially the closets that are stuffed with boxes and under any rugs. Look for loose floorboards and secret compartments. Isabelle and I will search downstairs again, beginning with the study. When we finish indoors we’ll start outside.”

That’s when Monica slid off the chair and grabbed her jacket, announced she was going for a walk.

Before Ginny could object, Luke was headed after her.

Neither had spoken on the way to the beach. Monica walked briskly down the path, kicking stones and swatting low-hanging branches. Luke couldn’t think of a conversation starter, not after their night together. He was afraid her response would ruin the magic.

It was a pitiful start to the romance Luke imagined, and now he watched Monica struggle to put her boot back on and then walk to the water, gazing mournfully at the sea as if she wanted to swim away.

He sidled up next to her.

She crinkled her nose. “Why are you following me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t
know
?”

“I thought we could hang out.”

“I’m not in the mood, Luke.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

She didn’t answer. They both looked at the inlet and its small lapping waves.

“Hey, what’s that?” Luke pointed to a pole protruding from the surface, about ten yards from the jetty. It was bent on an angle, with a metal cap that glistened in the light.

Monica didn’t answer.

“It could be the mast of a sunken boat. It has to be something big ’cause that’s deep water. You can tell from the change in color that there’s a sudden drop.”

She squinted at the pole and started walking, following the curve of shoreline. Luke trailed behind. The beach became narrow and the path underfoot was rocky. They stepped carefully to the far end of the inlet where the stone slabs were wet and slippery. Tall waves washed over the jetty, becoming larger as the fierce tide swept them toward the cliffs, where they curled into breakers that hammered the shore.

The sunken pole seemed much larger. It vanished under a wave for a moment and then reappeared.

“That’s definitely the mast of a boat,” Luke said, and a cold breeze showered them with a mist of salty sea.

Monica raised her chin and muttered, “Guess it belonged to George.”

“Or Hodges.”

She scowled.

“We could go for a swim, check it out.”

“The water’s freezing.”

“There are two wet suits in the shed to keep us warm.”

“I don’t know. Looks kind of rough out there.”

“You can hang on to me. I was on the Y swim team for six years.”

She clicked her tongue. “I just want to go home. I can’t wait to get my old life back.”

Suddenly, Luke was enraged, his face beet red. Something in her voice, or perhaps the finality of her statement, triggered the fatal switch. He was fed up, furious, and shouted, “Why the hell do you want your old life back? Your life
sucked,
just like mine! You don’t have to put on this act, like you’re going to Paris with some pretend boyfriend.”

“Shut up!”

“You told me you wanted to start over. Hey, I don’t know what happened last night but I know you like me.
You said so
.” His fists clenched but he tried to stay calm. “What happened to Rick, and not being phony, and turning your life around?” He closed his eyes, taking a long breath and holding his palms up, like something important needed to be said.

“This isn’t how I wanted to say it.” He exhaled the words softly. “I love you.”

Monica stared at him. Then she shook her head at the sky, letting out an angry laugh. “God, Luke, you’re such a dweeb. I was kidding, okay? I told you, I’m getting a job and going to Paris, and I don’t need some baby sophomore tagging along like a lapdog. Get it?”

She walked several paces and then stopped, not turning around.

Luke felt the blood drain from his body. It burned hot and cold at the same time. Never had he wanted to be away from a place so badly and he scrambled off the jetty, slipping twice on the rocks. He gained his footing and veered off the beach, into a patch of woods. It was far off the trail, but he didn’t care as he tore through a maze of tightly packed trees. His eyes blurred as he ran and he realized he was crying.

*   *   *

It was almost noon and Jules was having trouble concentrating. He’d been reading the green notebook for hours, staring at microscopic images of leaves and twigs and pinecones, while a dozen ideas swirled in his head.

On a piece of scrap paper, he jotted down three questions in pencil:

How did George entangle the thought waves of plants and humans?

How are plants able to understand human thoughts?

What role does the fungus play?

For now, Jules had to grudgingly accept the idea that George had used some kind of brain entrainment to unify the thought waves of plants and humans. It had something to do with V-waves and isochronic tones. Perhaps the last two questions were connected. The fungus had something to do with the way plants synthesized human thoughts.

Jules looked at the results of the EEG, the enormous amount of electrical activity flowing from plant to fungus every time he approached them. Could a plant and fungus form a symbiotic relationship that allowed them to communicate with humans? The idea was ludicrous with not a shred of scientific plausibility.

And how was it possible that so many species were involved? The notion that all the plants on the island could be working together was also impossible. Plants didn’t cooperate with each other. It was all about advancing the genes of their own kind. Just like humans, a plant wouldn’t think twice about overtaking another species, even killing vegetation that got in the way of their survival. But also like humans, plants had been shown to be altruistic in nature, even sacrificing themselves for the good of their families. There had to be something vital at stake for every species of plant to work for the common good.

Jules slumped in the chair, resting his head back and shutting his eyes, thinking how this was all so impossible. Yet, how else could he explain his own experience in the woods? Something supernatural had occurred. There was no doubt in his mind. Jules had felt their cold fingers probing his brain, spider-walking over his frontal cortex and touching certain memories. He could still feel their presence now as if they never left, and it gave him a chill.

It occurred to him that if George Brookes really had made such a discovery, his name would become the most famous in modern science. Of course, Jules Beecher would be right behind him, if he were able to reproduce the results and bring the research to light. He felt a rush of adrenaline and his gaze darted over the room, stopping on a row of plant specimens.

Imagine, actually hearing the thoughts of a tree, the sound of their language. It was practically inconceivable. He wondered what kind of reception there would be; this was more than clicking tomatoes. Perhaps even too big for the Institute of Plant Neurobiology. Undoubtedly, the publishing rights of his paper would be fought over by every major scientific journal. There would be a surge of media attention and money rolling in for more research. The demand for interviews would be a nuisance, but every biologist on the planet would want to speak to him. The British Science Foundation, the International Consortium of Botanists, the prime minister of England, the president of the United States. The Ministry of Defense would probably pounce on his research.

Of course, a Nobel prize was a given.

Jules blinked and his thoughts hit a wall. What was he thinking? It sounded so absurd; there had to be a rational explanation. Besides, what proof did he have but his own personal experience, a notebook full of sketchy observations, pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit?

He picked up the ivy and twirled it in his fingers. But keeping his mind from wandering was nearly impossible and he found himself imagining the troll-like reporter from the
Enquirer
. How he’d love to see the wanker’s face when the announcement was made to the world. Jules rolled the idea over in his mind. Why
couldn’t
George have discovered a way to communicate with plants? Wasn’t that the basis of his own work, everything he hoped to prove? Yet, here he was, sounding like all the other doubters and critics.

Of course it was possible. By God, it was his
duty
to prove it, for the sake of the planet. Because, all things considered, none of the accolades even compared to the scientific contribution his work would have on the future of earth.

Imagine what they could tell us
.

It was almost as if the decision created a chemical shift in his body. He was giddy with excitement and a kind of youthful wonder he hadn’t felt in decades. It was exhilarating, and he rubbed his palms together, eager to continue.

Isabelle came into the lab, her nervous fingers wringing a handkerchief.

“Isabelle, I’m glad you’re here,” Jules said, oblivious to her despair. “I’ve come up with some new ideas about these plants based—”

“Sean hasn’t returned,” she interrupted. “He’s been gone for hours. Maybe lost in the woods.”

Jules stared, as though she were speaking in a foreign tongue. Then he said dismissively, “I’m sure he’s all right. A boy his age certainly wouldn’t miss lunch. Now I’d like you to have a look at these electrical signals.”

“Jules, I’m not interested in plants right now. My son is missing and he could be lost.”

“He’s probably at the beach.”

“Well, you should help me look. After all, it was your idea to let him go.”

His shoulders sagged and he dropped the ivy on the table. “Fine. I’ll help you search.”

CHAPTER 17

LUKE BROKE THROUGH A TANGLE
of brush that hindered his path through the woods. Hot tears streaked his face, his nose was runny, and he could still hear Monica laughing. It plagued him with the kind of angst and humiliation that only a strenuous workout could quell, and he climbed a steep incline, quick as a squirrel. He made it to the top, slid down on his bottom, and kept on running.

Then he stopped suddenly. His head hurt and floaters clouded his vision. When the woods began to sway, Luke staggered sideways and dropped to his knees. He grabbed his gut, as nausea struck like a cannonball. Luke vomited into the mud. He hacked out burning saliva and the pungent smell made him heave again.

What the hell is happening?
He rolled onto his back, wiping his mouth and hoping it would pass. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the branches overhead and his ears buzzed with chatter, incoherent whispers that came from the foliage.

“Who’s there?” he muttered, slowly turning his head.

He was alone.

Friggin’ Monica
.

She had stressed him out until he hurled. The bitch teased him, seduced him, and made him feel like a fool. But he knew from the body chills and muscle aches, this wasn’t just stress. It was some kind of infection, viral or bacterial, possibly a strain of some island flu.

Good. Maybe I’ll die
.

Luke lay in the dark shadow of towering pines, listening to silence. When he sat up, it felt like a skillet hit his head, so he sank back down and rested a few more agonizing minutes.

You’re fine, bro. Just keep it together.

He took deep breaths and rested. With his face so close to the ground he came nose to nose with a pinecone. The woody scales were covered in black specks. Not far away there were sprouts of grass, also speckled black, as well as the bark of trees. Luke sat up slowly without any discomfort, and noticed all the fallen leaves and creeping vines were infested too. Curious, he crawled along the ground, following the growth.
Must be a fungus,
he thought, but didn’t contemplate the idea any further than that.

Slowly he rose to his feet, trying not to sway.