Seeders: A Novel (36 page)

Isabelle let the words sink in. “You’re saying the fungi and plants are working together to infect people with ergotism?”

Dr. Jacobs chuckled. “I don’t think it’s contemplated, the way humans premeditate murder. It’s an automatic response. The same way plant species have been using chemicals and fungi to ward off herbivores for millions of years.”

“That kind of evolution takes centuries. How could it happen so quickly?”

“Your father came up with just the right genetic components. I suppose plants have been waiting all these years for such a chance.”

“A chance to do what?”

“Get us to act the way they want. Protectors of the environment. Not destroyers.”

Isabelle shook her head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, but human mind control seems too great a task for a fungus.”

“It’s not so unusual,” the doctor replied. “Fungi can be shrewd, calculating, and manipulative.”

“You make them sound human.”

“They do have motives and they’re highly intelligent.” He raised his chin. “Have you ever heard of the fungus species
Ophiocordyceps unilateralis
?”

Isabelle hadn’t.

“It’s a fungus that grows out of the heads of ants. Sometimes they’re referred to as zombie ants because the fungus actually takes over their brains. Once the ant is infected, it’s given very specific instructions. First, it commands the insect to abandon its colony, fall off the tree to the ground ten inches from the forest floor, and seek the exact temperature and humidity needed for the fungus to grow. At precisely noon, when the sun is highest in the sky, it commands the ant to bite into the vascular vein of a leaf. Scientists call it the death grip because the ant locks on to the leaf while the fungus grows safely inside its body. Then the ant dies and the fungus bursts out of its skull, releasing spores and repeating the cycle.”

Isabelle blinked slowly and leaned against the counter, feeling weary.

Dr. Jacobs crossed his arms. “There are literally hundreds of
Cordyceps
fungi that are able to change the behavior of their hosts, before consuming them.”

“So you’re saying the fungus was using my father and Jules as a means of transporting their spores across the earth?”

“It’s not just about spreading their spores. It’s about spreading the message.”

Isabelle flinched, recalling how Jules spoke those same words.

“You see, the plants on the island are sending genetic instructions to their fungal partners, which are able to send very specific instructions to the human brain. What you saw as Dr. Beecher’s own behavior was actually a fungal genome expressing the plant’s instructions through the body of its host.”

“You mean telling humans to kill each other?”

Dr. Jacobs took a deep breath. “The message is not about violence.”

“What about the bodies at the campsite?”

Laurie raised a gentle hand to Isabelle. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Mrs. Maguire, like everyone else.” Her voice was lilting. “Plants don’t want to kill us. On the contrary, plants are peaceful creatures. Their message is one of peace.”

Isabelle felt a chill.

Laurie’s gaze became hazy, her smile broad. “You can feel it the second you walk into a forest. It’s a calmness that comes over you. I felt it since I was a little girl. My family used to go up to the woods in Maine and I knew then nature was trying to tell me something. It’s a message of harmony, telling us how to live.”

“My father and Dr. Beecher became killers.”

Dr. Jacobs shook his head. “They interpreted the message wrong. It’s something to do with mixed-up connections in the brain. They get the message all boggled.” His jaw clenched ever so slightly. “Although I can’t really blame them. Killing off mankind is a logical solution to the problem.”

Isabelle swallowed hard, and whispered, “Excuse me?”

He stared into her eyes. “Who do you see as the victims on earth? Do you know what’s happening to trees all over the world?”

Isabelle tried to look composed as the color drained from her face. She asked in a low voice, “How long have you been working on this island?”

“Long enough to know we can still save this planet. People like me, Laurie, and Sean. We can be earth’s salvation.”

Sean
. The sound of his name drew both panic and hope. She gaped at the doctor. “Do you know where my son is? Where is Sean?”

He cleared his throat. “He’s here, on the island.”

“Here? Is he … dead?”

“No.”

A blaze of emotions swept through Isabelle’s body like a brushfire. She wrestled with joy and fear in equal measure. She tried to speak but her voice caught.

“I can take you to him.”

She managed a nod.

“All right,” he said. “Come with me.”

Isabelle followed Dr. Jacobs and Laurie outside, barely able to keep up on legs that felt like rubber. It seemed as if she were walking through a dream.
This can’t be happening.

The tractor filled with plants rumbled across the lawn. A pallet fell off the top of the heap, hitting the ground and spilling bags of saplings, seed, and soil. The man stopped and got out of the driver’s seat as the three passed.

“Watch what you’re doing, Oscar,” Jacobs said firmly.

The man repositioned all the plants. Isabelle could see that each of the pallets was marked with cities and states:
San Francisco, California; Bangor, Maine; Tallahassee, Florida
 …

Laurie was already at the shed, arms folded. As Isabelle reached the open door, Dr. Jacobs put a hand on her shoulder and she felt her knees giving out. She grasped the splintered doorframe. It was mostly dark inside, illuminated by dim blue lights that hung from the ceiling over crowds of plants that filled the room. Isabelle peered inside and was hit with the smell of mildew and a cool spray of mist.

She turned to Dr. Jacobs, apprehensive. He could sense her unease.

“You said you wanted to see Sean.”

For a moment, Isabelle had an urge to run, but her desire to see her son was overwhelming. She took a breath and stepped deeper into the shed. It was cold and hazy with particles of dust flying around. Plants were everywhere, covered in fungus. A labyrinth of plastic tubes kept them damp with mist. She heard the humming fan of a humidifier.

“Sean? Are you here?” she called out softly.

The door slammed shut.

Isabelle turned her head sharply. She ran to the door and pounded on the wood with open hands.

Dr. Jacobs spoke with a muffled voice. “Isabelle. I’m afraid you have to stay with us a while.” His mouth was close to the crack in the door. “You can sleep in the shed. I promise you’ll understand everything better in the morning. By tomorrow it will all be crystal clear.”

She clawed at the door in panic, scratching for a way out. The wood splintered beneath her fingers.

“Stop it, Isabelle. Do as you’re told, and you’ll see your son.”

Isabelle pressed her head to the wood, crying softly. She wiped the dampness from her cheeks.
Sean
. She would do anything to see him again. If there was just a chance, however small. After a few more moments she walked placidly toward the doorway of the generator room and stepped inside. It was dark, but pinholes of light bled through the cracks of the boarded-up window and she could see that the generator was gone. The entire room was covered in plants and fungus so thick it hung from the ceiling and dripped down the walls.

She walked to the end. There was a small table and a plate of biscuits. Just below the table, caught in a crack of light, there appeared to be a person. Isabelle felt her heart kick up. She stooped down and her eyes adjusted to see it was a child sitting on the floor. The fungus completely enveloped the body as though it were mummified in soft brown bandages.

Isabelle felt a scream in her throat that wouldn’t dislodge.

It was Sean. His face was emaciated, but every feature was distinguishable from his nose to the shape of his chin. His neck and shoulders were rail-thin but there was no doubt in her mind it was her son. She stepped back and hit a wall, staring in mute horror.

The body was relaxed. Sean sat with his arms wrapped around his shins and profile turned slightly to one side. Fungus mushroomed from his ear and somehow Isabelle knew they were deep inside his brain.

Learning from him, even in death
.

Then Isabelle felt her eyes widen and her face tingle with scorching heat. There was a feeding tube in his arms connected to a plastic bag hanging on the wall. Oxygen tubes were inserted in both nostrils. She listened to the soft sound of his shallow breathing, watched his chest rising ever so slightly.

Isabelle raced from the room to the door, pounding with both fists. She cried, “What have you done to him!”

There was silence on the other side, then a whispering debate.

Dr. Jacobs spoke. “I’m sorry, Isabelle. Sean was the last, but the most necessary.” He came very close to the door; she could hear the whistle of his breath through the crack. “The others wouldn’t cooperate during the rooting process. It takes months of lying very still. After only a week George would have to kill them. But Sean was willing, eager really, to be the living specimen they needed. They know how our brains work now, so there won’t be any more deaths. Do you understand?”

“
No
.” She was crying and shaking her head, not wanting to understand.

“They’ve studied us through your son. They know how to communicate, make people do what needs to be done, without killing each other. We can return to the way it was before. A world in harmony, don’t you see that?”

There was only a muffled cry.

Dr. Jacobs’s voice was upbeat. “Well, of course you don’t. But you will. Laurie and I—you’ll be just like us. And in a few years, so will the rest of the world.”

Isabelle clenched her fist white-knuckled against the wall. Her mouth was wide open, pulled back in a scream, but nothing came out. They were both walking away. She heard the tractor start up and drive off.

Then a horrible cry broke through from her throat and she began to wail hysterically. Tears streamed down her face, as her legs gave out and she slid to her knees, choking on a walnut-size lump in her throat that wouldn’t dislodge. Her body wrenched with pain and grief that had been stored up too long.

It was a while before Isabelle could stand. The purge of emotion left her light-headed and numb. With teary vision, she made her way back to the generator room.

A fly buzzed over the plate of biscuits. Below, Sean was fixed in frozen contemplation.

Isabelle stared unblinking, and then sat down on the cool, fungus-covered ground across from her son, purple dust staining her skin and clothing. She wiped her nose and listened to the whirling of a humidifier fan that blew dampness into the air, stirring up clouds of spores. There was a distinct sound of chatter and she could feel their fingers scratching at the back of her head, making their way inside.

Think of the sun
.

She held the image in her mind and felt them loosen their grip. Time stopped moving. Isabelle took deep breaths into her lungs and leaned back against the damp fungus that crept over the wall. Her mind fell freely as she continued to breathe, thinking of nothing at all.

It was awhile before she was aware of time again. Through the wooden slats of the window came bright orange streaks of a sunset. Hours had passed. She focused on Sean, how he used to be. High up in a tree, waving at her. Then the image of the tree morphed into earth, spinning in space.

Brown and white with lots of blue. But no green. No life.

She thought about Luke and Sean, Jules and George. They were with her too, poking around her brain. Dr. Jacobs was right. There was no violent message, no urge to murder. She could sense their peace. The messages came fast and easily now and she understood everything from the beginning of time. We were part of it all, every creature on earth, no one species greater than any other. It was so simple, and all this time the answers were right in front of us and we didn’t even know it.

Think of the sun.

Then Isabelle smiled and shuddered, realizing why she’d returned to the island. Everything was as it should be. The sun’s light gradually faded from her mind. She rested her head back, closed her eyes, and let go.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing is a solitary occupation, but publishing a book involves a cast of many. A huge thanks to my agent, Adrienne Rosado; my editor, Toni Kirkpatrick; and all the folks at St. Martin’s Press who do the hard part so I can keep writing.

For their generous time, knowledge, and enthusiastic support, I’m grateful to plant biologist Dr. Eric Brenner of New York University, mycologist Dr. Roy Halling of the New York Botanical Gardens, survival expert Skip Thomsen, and Chris Gall for his weapons expertise and editorial input.

All the science in this book is based on fact. There are many individuals whose work I reference throughout these pages in mycology, neurobiology, and the emerging field of plant signaling and intelligence; most notably Dr. Stefano Mancuso of the International Laboratory of Plant Neurobiology. It is through their discoveries that I’ve been able to keep the story as realistic as possible. Of course, any errors in the text are solely mine.

I’d feel remiss not to acknowledge the late Roald Dahl, whose short story “The Sound Machine” not only scared me to death when I was eight years old, but forever changed the way I think about nature.

I’ve been fortunate to have friends and family members read and comment on manuscripts over the years. For this book, I have to thank Erika Ducati, Lorell Ducati, Joanne Dufresne, Diana Schmelzer, Michael Colucci, Theresa and Rick Merino, and, most of all, Joann Shepitka, who was there since the beginning. To my in-laws, Danielle, Irma, and Mario Colucci, your warm encouragement keeps me going.

Special thanks to my father, Anthony Ducati, for giving my overly imaginative mind some focus and a waterfront hideaway to finish this novel. And my mother, Marilyn Ducati, who taught me from birth that books fall somewhere between food, water, and oxygen.