Seed of Evil by Greig Beck (smart books to read TXT) 📗

Beside the house was a pile of chopped firewood six feet high.

“This guy is supposed to be in his late 70s and chopped all that wood himself?” Mitch observed. “Impressive.”

“They must make ‘em tough out here,” Greg replied.

They pushed open their doors and stood in the pleasant, dappled sunshine.

Mitch drew in a deep breath of clean air until the rifle shot made both of the ex-military men crouch and reach for sidearms they didn’t carry anymore.

“Hold your fire,” Mitch yelled.

The pair moved forward with their hands up. “Do. Not. Fire.” Mitch tried to see where the shot had come from.

“What do you want?” The response came from the tree line. “You from the bloodsucking IRS?”

“Tree line, ten o’clock,” Greg said softly.

“No.” Mitch let his eyes slide to where Greg indicated. “I’m a doctor. From Eldon. I just have a few questions.”

He saw then the shape just behind a tree trunk, the barrel of the rifle still pointed loosely in their direction. It slowly lowered some more.

“Show me some ID.” The man half-stepped out but cradled the gun in his arms.

Mitch took out his wallet and tossed it over. “Medical ID is in the slot.”

Greg did the same. The man picked them up and kept his eyes on the men. “You boys don’t look like doctors. More like cops.”

“Nope, check the ID,” Greg replied. “We just need your help or advice on something. Something we think you might be able to help with.”

The man stepped out a little more, and Mitch was finally able to see him clearly—he had white hair past his shoulders, faded jeans, and a stained chambray shirt. Though he was slim, and stood no more than 5’9, his forearms and hands were large and strong—cutting firewood would do that to you.

“Johnson Nightbird, we presume?” Mitch said.

“That’s me.” He checked the ID and lowered his gun. “ID could be faked, but what the hell. I ain’t no conspiracy nut.”

He walked up onto the deck and placed his gun by the door. Mitch and Greg followed, and he handed back their wallets.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Nightbird.” Mitch held out the cigarettes. “These are for you.”

Johnson looked at them. “Where’s my firewater?” His eyebrows rose. “Or my blankets?”

Mitch just stared.

“Could you be any more patronizing, you pair of white-eyed devils?” The man glared.

Mitch shook his head. “I, I, just…”

Nightbird snatched the cigarettes. “I’m only shitting you—I love Marlboro.” He turned to Greg. “What did you bring me?”

Greg held his hands wide. “Goodwill and a nice smile.”

“In that case, I might still shoot you.” Nightbird winked. “Come on, let’s grab a beer and sit a while.” He turned. “Beer is three bucks a bottle.”

Mitch laughed. “You got a deal. And my buddy will pay.”

The trio sat on the front deck, Mitch next to Nightbird and Greg on the floor decking with his back to the wall. In the distance, they could just hear water cascading somewhere and guessed it must have been the Red Rock Canyon River.

“Peaceful,” Greg said.

“That’s why I like it here. Makes me humble,” Nightbird replied. “When you have very little, these little things are the big things.” He eyed the pair. “You guys say you were doctors?”

Mitch nodded. “I’m a general practitioner, and Greg’s a medical research guy.”

“Our doctor is on a fly-in, fly-out basis.” Nightbird’s mouth turned down. “I’m on the Otoe head council for the city. And fix cars in my spare time.” He nodded to the least rusty-looking wreck. “Working on that one now.”

“Good work,” Mitch replied.

“Yeah, right.” Nightbird winked and toasted Greg and Mitch who also sipped their beer. “Well, why did you boys drive all the way out to see an old injun?”

Mitch lowered the bottle. “You were there in Eldon in ‘77…during the outbreak,” Mitch said.

Nightbird nodded slowly. “Yep.”

“And also assisted the museum for its display on the Eldon Angels?” Greg added.

“Always happy to help.” Nightbird watched them.

Mitch could tell now he was avoiding giving away anything until they showed their hands first. They had nothing to lose, Mitch thought. “It’s happening again.”

Nightbird lowered his beer. “Of course it is,” he said softly while staring straight ahead.

“It’s the mine water, isn’t it?” Mitch asked.

Nightbird bobbed his head from side to side with his mouth turned down. “That’s the end result. Not really the cause. I told them nearly 50 years ago to close that mine. All they did was fence it off.” He turned to the pair. “I’m betting the fencing has come down, huh?”

“Yeah, and now we are getting all sorts of infections—rashes—and after we did some analysis found that it might be corrupting the mammalian genome,” Greg said.

Nightbird shrugged. “I don’t know what that means, but I do know that people should be kept as far from that mine as possible. Especially when it has welled up.” He turned. “Hey, tell me, has there been any tremors lately?”

“Yeah, a mild one a few weeks back,” Mitch replied. “Does that have something to do with it?”

Nightbird grunted. “It is in the legend.”

“Of the tree god?” Mitch replied.

“Adotte Sakima.” The old man turned slowly to him. “What do you know about it?”

Greg quickly called up some of the images of the petrified people from the CDC’s files and handed it to the Native American.

“Just like the group in the museum, but these poor souls were alive in the seventies,” he said.

Nightbird looked at them and then sighed. “Now they too are forever servants of the Tree God.” He handed the phone back.

“Tell us about the legend.” Mitch sat forward. “Everything you know.”

“Everything I know.” He snorted softly.

Nightbird tilted his beer back and drank half the bottle. He lowered it and stared out over his property.

Mitch thought he was about to ignore them, but after a soft burp, he began to speak as if in a trance.

“In the time before the beginning of time, before mankind was born into this great land, and maybe before any animals set foot here, there was just the water.” He closed his eyes and