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Clattering of the aluminum trash can outside falling onto the concrete pathway and rolling several feet resounded in the bedroom as clearly as a clap of thunder, jerking Charles out of an otherwise uneasy slumber. Rousing of the dogs followed soon thereafter, causing ringing in his ears followed by involuntary, startled convulsions at each piercing bark that erupted through the night. It must have been those God damned raccoons trying to rummage through his trash again, though unlike nights past, the lid was secured with a bungee cord that he ran through the handles and over the top of the lid to hopefully prevent there being another scattered mess for him to clean up in the morning. If they chewed through that, they’d be getting a hell of a lot more than buckshot in their asses if he caught them. They might even make good trophies to stuff and place outside as a warning to other overgrown rodents. It was almost every night with this shit now, and despite the oath he made to himself that he’d deal with whatever mess they made in the morning, if he didn’t go outside now, the dogs would continue their ceaseless barking until he wanted to turn the shotgun on himself. 

In a daze, he sat up, threw the blanket off, stood, and slid his feet into his slippers. They were little caverns of damp ice, slightly crystalized from wading through a puddle earlier in the day and not properly drying them before lying down. Just another thing to bitch and moan about when Mildred got back in the morning, among how the heaters they bought seemed to do nothing but raise the electricity bill. With each exhale, he could just barely see fleeting wisps before his face, illuminated intermittently by the harsh, red light emanating from the alarm clock that blinked on and off. Beginning to shiver, he bent down and retrieved his bathrobe. While it wasn’t wet, it was definitely chilled from its time spent on the floor. He shuddered as he donned it, tied the sash around his waist, and staggered out of the bedroom. 

The living room was a bit more tolerable, made so by another heater that radiated warmth from the center of the room, reaching into the edges before no doubt being swept away by the small gaps between the front door and its frame. From those gaps rolled in a draft, a cold knife cutting through the otherwise pleasant air. He stepped closer toward the heater and embraced its presence for a while, mulling over whether he should abandon his bedroom and sleep out here for now, at least until his wife returned from visiting her mother. Sure, the couch wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, composed of bonded leather that was beginning to crack and chip away, but neither was sleeping in a glorified freezer. Then again…

Under his sons’ door, he could make out flashing blues and greens from the TV inside. Though he couldn’t hear any clicking or clacking from controllers, they were in all likelihood still awake playing video games, and those boys had a tendency to get loud when they did. Light of a sleeper as Charles was, if they made so much as a peep while he was trying to sleep in the living room, there’d be hell to pay for all of them. How he was awake now was baffling. With how much trouble he’d been having sleeping lately, he got a prescription from his doctor for some supposedly pretty powerful medication to knock him out. “Take one before bed,” the doctor told him. The pharmacist parroted the same instructions while adding that he shouldn’t consume alcohol along with the medication. As if to spite them both, he ended up taking four and downing them with a beer. That should’ve been enough to let him sleep through the next World War, much less a fallen trash can and some barking dogs. Next time, he may just swallow the whole bottle. 

He lingered by the heater for a while, embracing it with outstretched hands to enjoy its warmth on his palms. Part of him wanted to see if any noise came from the boys’ room so he could sufficiently scold them before going outside. Nothing came, so they were either asleep or wise to him being awake and waiting for him to leave, probably tucked away in their beds for good measure to try and fool him should he open the door. Either way, they were in for a stern talking to when he got back. He might even fire off a couple shells to put the fear of God into them, telling them there were some monsters outside that were attracted to the light. Davey might just believe that. Jonathan would roll his eyes like he always did to everything. Still, the idea was amusing enough to paint a grin on Charles’ face. 

Done with his fantasy for the moment, he walked over to the front door and donned his jacket over his robe. After fighting with the zipper for a moment to get it to cooperate, he zipped the jacket up and pulled the hood tightly over his head. Beside the door, where it’d been resting since the night before, was the shotgun, barrel pointed down at the floor and butt leaned against the wall. Picking it up, he twisted the metal doorknob and shuddered at how it was simultaneously fire and ice in his grip. He removed his hand from the knob and looked back at the coat rack. Normally, he’d leave his gloves on there as well, but it seemed in his stupor from the night prior, they’d been lost. The kids’ gloves were there, as was Mildred’s scarf and his old bowling cap, but his gloves were absent.

He fought with his eyes to make them focus and looked back through each portion of the rack once more to ensure he didn’t simply miss them. Content that they really weren’t there, he withdrew his hand into his jacket sleeve and wrapped it around the doorknob, pausing when he realized the dogs were quiet. Maybe they scared off those pesky creatures. Curiously, in lieu of barking, he could still make out the faint rattling of the trash can as it continued drifting along the pathway. The wind was possibly pushing it along, and it’d soon be in the grass and then caught up against the fence between his yard and the street beyond. Realistically, he could probably go back to bed and deal with this in the morning, but he was already up and dressed, and if the lid was off, it’d leave one hell of a mess for him to clean up. Best to deal with it now than to let the wind blow garbage all over his and his neighbors’ yards. 

The door creaked open, and his face was accosted by a frigid gale that burned his eyes and sucked the breath right out of his lungs. He threw his arm up as a shield and took a few quick, shallow breaths, then stepped out onto the porch and followed it as it wrapped around the side of the house before descending down into the yard by way of a short ramp. Normally, the dogs would go ballistic upon hearing the slightest disturbance, whether that be something in the yard or the opening and closing of the front or back doors, but they remained quiet, enough so that Charles was growing concerned about what he might find when he rounded toward the back of the house. Surely if something attacked the dogs, there would’ve been more of a ruckus, unless whatever it was dispatched them quickly. He pressed the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder and laid his finger gently on the trigger. It could’ve been a bear, or maybe even another person, but what he was met with instead caused words to spill out of his mouth as his jaw dangled open. 

“What the fuck?”

Partially illuminated by his motion detector lights was an impossibly tall, monolithic structure that protruded out of his own back yard. It rose high into the sky and bore branches similar to a tree, though the entire thing seemed to be composed of small, interconnected strands that splayed out at the tips of each branch before drooping downward and dangling delicately like slender vines. At the top, or at least what he thought might be the top, was an interconnected canopy of the same crimson strands that stretched endlessly into the distance, nearly swallowing the entirety of a horizon that was beginning to herald morning’s arrival with a faint blue glow. 

The vines twisted and spiraled in all directions, dancing aimlessly through the air before it seemed their weight grew too great to stay suspended, causing them to droop and make a course for the ground. Upon reaching the earth, they snaked their way along it, either diverting around objects they couldn’t push or budging those they could. Innumerable strands dangled from the canopy and grew at differing rates, creating a strange veil that made it difficult to see far ahead in any direction. One such strand Charles traced from the bottom of the canopy to the dog pen, where it slithered through the chain-link fence and coiled around the animals inside, creating a near-perfect replica of their shapes, down to the deep wrinkles on his basset hound’s face. 

From within the cocoons came faint whines and growls. He stepped over another vine that stretched across his yard, unlatched the gate, and entered while propping the shotgun against the fence. Not sure of what exactly he could do, or where he could even start, with shaking hands, he began trying to pry the strands away from the back of the basset hound’s neck. To his surprise, the strands separated fairly easily, almost like peeling the flesh from an orange. Though like an orange, fluid began to flow from the point at which he pried. Though the dog’s mouth was held shut with an unnatural muzzle, it managed to whine louder, a plea for Charles to stop what he was doing, lest he inflict more pain upon it than what it was already experiencing. He heeded the plea and let go, watching as the hole he made resealed itself.

Charles looked at his hands. They were coated in the dog’s warm blood. A tingling sensation arose in the back of his throat, and he turned away as the urge to vomit hit him while trying to wipe the blood away on his clothing. Nothing came out save for a groan that he followed up by spitting on the ground. Surely this wasn’t actually happening. He had to be experiencing some sort of hellish nightmare induced by those sleeping pills. Soon he would awaken in his bed, probably to the sound of the kids getting rowdy in the living room or Mildred lamenting over her mother’s physical decline. He just needed to wake up.

Lost in his thoughts, it barely registered in his mind that one of the vines was wrapped around his ankle and beginning to snake its way up his leg. Upon instinctively trying to jerk away, he only managed to knock himself off balance and fall to the ground, thankfully avoiding the small accumulation of fluid that pooled beneath his hound. The vine continued coiling around his leg, and wherever it made contact with his skin, he felt sharp stabs, followed shortly by a burning sensation. He tugged at the vine, and while its strands separated like the ones on the cocoon before, he couldn’t pull enough of it off at once to free himself, nor could he separate enough strands at one time to sever it. 

With few options, he reached for the shotgun and quickly pressed the butt against his shoulder. He aimed at a portion of the vine on the ground, took a steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger. The blast rang out, and the vine was eviscerated by the pellets, allowing him to pull his leg away and clamber to his feet. While some of the vine remained anchored to his leg and his shoulder ached from the recoil of the gun, he was at least okay for now. What clung to him still administered that burning sensation, but it no longer grew around him. 

“Davey,” he shouted into the darkness. “Jonathan, we have to go!” He broke into a sprint, reascended the ramp, and made his way back around the house to the front door to find that it was partially ajar. Filling in the gaps between the door and the frame were several vines, some of which pushed with enough force to unlatch it so that the rest could creep their way inside. He pushed the door the remainder of the way open and peered inside. 

Where moments ago the house was empty, it was now coated in the same tendrils that rained down from the sky. They created a fine mesh across the floor, leaving gaps just small enough that he might be able to step between them. The walls bore a similar resemblance, with family pictures and wall-mounted trinkets now either permanently affixed by the vines or haphazardly knocked onto the floor below. They dangled from the ceiling and off of light fixtures, almost resembling an upside-down windswept field, and like a windswept field, they swayed from the breeze that rolled into the house from the doorway. Through their rustling, he could also make out the creaking of wood overhead as it struggled against the weight of what must have been hundreds, if not thousands, of vines bearing down on the house all at once. 

Upon stepping inside, he grabbed his set of keys from a hook on the wall, covering them with both hands so as not to let them jingle in his grasp. After safely tucking them away into his jacket pocket, he turned his eyes to the floor to determine a safe path to take so he wouldn’t become ensnared again. While there wasn’t an ideal path, there were a few that seemed viable. Still, he was beginning to wish that he’d opted to wear his boots out now instead of his slippers. As carefully as he could, he stepped around the clusters of vines, more often than not relying on the stability of his tiptoes to carry him through while ducking underneath the vines that hung above him. All the while, he held his breath and hoped that an errant creak of the floorboard wouldn’t draw any attention to himself. Whether sound attracted them or not, the fewer risks he could take, the better. After a half dozen long strides, he found himself in the center of the living room, standing beside the toppled heater, which still radiated a pleasant warmth. 

The boys’ bedroom door was closed, as it was before, though the light that rebounded off the floor from the TV inside was now consumed by the vines as they snaked their way underneath the door. Was he too late? Abandoning all pretense of stealth, Charles barrelled forward, gripped the door knob, twisted, and pushed. The door budged slightly, then became stuck. “Boys, are you alright?” he called before ramming his full body weight against the door. 

“It has Jonathan!” Davey called back. “I can’t get him out.” Between his words came choked cries and creaking from the bed. 

“I’ll get him, just stay away from the vines.” Charles continued throwing himself at the door until the brittle hinges broke and it fell forward. Much like the living room, the boys’ bedroom was utterly consumed by the vines, leaving little surface area. Davey was on the top bunk, kneeling beside the cocooned form of his brother, whose eyes met with Charles’ for a brief second before the remainder of his head was swallowed by the strands. “We have to go,” Charles said, taking a step forward and extending his hand.

Without looking away, Davey pulled away at the stands, his chin trembling. “We can’t leave Jonathan!” he said while tears began to flow down his face. 

“We have to go,” Charles repeated, his voice shaking. “Come on.” He took another step forward and grabbed Davey’s arm. It was difficult to get a good grip on him at first, as his arm was coated in blood from tugging away at the vines, but he managed to pull Davey down from the top bunk despite his screaming protests. More cracking of wooden beams came from overhead, and the ceiling was beginning to visibly bow. With Davey over his shoulder, Charles retraced his steps back to the front door, stepping on a few of the vines along the way. It seemed that the boy’s screams indeed drew the vines’ attention, as those that hung from the ceiling swiveled in their direction when they passed, their curved ends twitching while gliding through the air toward them. 

Charles’ footfalls became clumsy when he got out to the front porch. The burning sensation in his leg before was giving way to a numbness that made moving it difficult. That must have been how the vines subdued their victims: a paralytic. With how easy it was to separate the strands, if the victims were injected all over with such a venom, they’d be immobilized and unable to fight back from within. If the dogs’ whining was any indication, though, the victims were fully conscious while encased in the cocoons. Hopefully adrenaline and the vine attached to his leg being separated from the main body would be enough to keep him from becoming fully paralyzed. Whatever the case may be, he needed to get Davey to safety, and he needed to make sure Mildred was safe as well. 

After stumbling his way to the truck, Charles opened the driver side door, hefted Davey inside, tossed the shotgun in the backseat, withdrew the keys from his pocket, sat down, and started it. While the vines seemed content to leave the vehicle alone previously, the roaring of its engine drew their attention, and they began snaking their way toward it. They descended from the canopy in chaotic coils, and the canopy itself extended further into the horizon, blotting the sunrise out entirely. Over the roaring of the engine, more crackling came from behind them, and Charles turned his eyes to the rearview mirror in time to watch their home collapse behind them into a pile of splintered wood and shattered glass while pulling out of the driveway. 

Hopefully Jonathan went quickly. That was the only thought that consumed Charles’ mind while pulling out into the street. There’d be time for mourning later, he told himself. For now, he had his youngest and his wife to think about. Beyond that, there wasn’t much of a plan. How could there be? He was still caught in that space between unconsciousness and alertness, one that he’d typically navigate with a cup of coffee while watching the news. In total, he hadn’t been awake for more than ten minutes, and now he was trying to devise any way to keep the remainder of his family safe, if such a thing was even possible. There was no sky above them anymore, only a crimson canopy that rained down tendrils capable of tracking them. If as far as he could see was already consumed, who was to say the entire world wouldn’t soon be enveloped?

The scene before them was much like what they left behind. Vines coated everything, dangling off of street lights, power poles, and leafless trees. Distantly, the water tower and mountains beyond were also being consumed, appearing as though they sprouted hair that flowed from their tops and reached toward the ground below. What few houses they passed by on their lonely street were in no better condition than theirs was, nor were sheds and doghouses for that matter.

While the homes could hardly be considered pristine to begin with, they now lay in a similar broken heap of wood and glass with concentrations of tendrils largely inhabiting the space where the homes once stood. The denizens inside were presumably in their own cocoons and crushed, though some of the yards held cocoons of their own that adhered to the shapes of animals and humans alike. While they drove past, one neighbor, Mr. Oakley, called out to them, crying in a desperate bid for rescue while the vines engulfed the lower half of his body. When it became apparent Charles had no intention of stopping to help, Mr. Oakley, an otherwise kindly old gentleman, spewed obscenities toward them at a volume that rivaled the roaring of the truck’s engine. 

Just as there was no time to mourn, there wasn’t time to save anyone else. Not only did his shotgun only contain one more round, stopping and getting out could easily endanger them, and that wasn’t a risk he could take. Nor could he risk turning back around to get more shells from home. Even if he could find the gun locker amid all the destruction, with how quickly everything happened, there was no telling how many more vines there’d be back there now. One shell would have to do, and he wasn’t about to waste it. 

“Dad?” Davey’s voice was quiet.

“Yeah?” he responded absentmindedly, eyes flicking back and forth between his rearview mirror and the road ahead of them. They rounded a bend, putting Mr. Oakley out of sight. 

“Is Jonathan going to be okay?”

The question was a gut punch that he physically recoiled from. He looked at Davey, whose face was turned up toward his, revealing his puffy, red eyes from all of his screaming and crying. Where he’d attempted to wipe those tears away were red smears that shone dully from the street lights they passed beneath, a stark contrast to his blond hair. 

Truth was, he didn’t know if his oldest son would be okay. After seeing the state of the dogs, he couldn’t say yes, but a piece of him wanted to cling onto hope that maybe, somehow, some way, Jonathan was still alive and that the house falling on top of the cocoon somehow neutralized it, allowing him to become free from its grasp. Returning his eyes back to the road, he responded calmly. “I don’t know. I hope so, but for now, we need to go get your mom and grandma.”

They continued on in silence for a little longer before Davey asked another question. “Is God punishing us?”

That one made him swerve a little. Where the fuck did that come from? “What makes you ask that?”

“Well,” he paused. “Promise you won’t be mad.”

Charles looked back at Davey and saw more tears welling up within his eyes, then focused back on the road. “Okay, I promise.”

Davey took a deep breath. ”Nana told me God hates liars, and I lied last night about not having cookies before dinner.” 

“So that’s why you wouldn’t eat your macaroni,” Charles chuckled weakly, pretending that the confession was a surprise to him. Truth was, he found the empty container stashed in the back of the cupboard when he was preparing dinner the night before and decided not to say anything about it. Kindergartners weren’t exactly experts when it came to hiding evidence. Still, what a terrible thought for such a young child, to think that he was responsible in some way for what was going on. It was a question he wasn’t quite sure how to answer in a meaningful way beyond a simple no. While he wasn’t a man of faith now, he had been in his youth, and the God he knew then wasn’t one to do something like this. Though that begged the question, then, of what this thing was. From the Bible stories he could recall, trees represented life. They were supposed to be a blessing. This one was quite the opposite. “God doesn’t hate anyone, son, and God certainly wouldn’t do this over a tummy ache caused by some cookies.” He hoped that’d be enough to put the boy at ease for now. 

His voice was but a whisper when Davey spoke again. “Either way, I’m still sorry.” Whether he was saying so to his father or his God was unclear, but Charles placed his hand on top of Davey’s head and tousled his hair. 

“You’re forgiven.”

The drive was silent after that. Charles fiddled with the radio to see if there was any news as to what was going on, but every station came through as static. It’d take them about an hour to reach Mildred’s mother’s house, and while he typically didn’t mind the sole auditory accompaniment of the truck’s engine, right now its rhythmic tone was equal parts hypnotic and agonizing. Events replayed in his head, from the dogs’ whines to the blood oozing from their and Jonathan’s cocoons. All the while, he rubbed along his leg where the vine that grabbed him before was still attached. While the surface was rough and he could feel each individual strand that composed the thing, it was also somewhat spongey. He could press against it and it’d give way fairly easily, but it bounced back when he stopped applying pressure. 

He pulled at it to try and separate it from his skin to no avail. Whatever it used to inject the paralytic also served as a barbed anchor. It went in easily, but if he tried to pull it out, it’d tear his flesh apart. Removing it would probably require surgery, and he caught himself before he opened his mouth to ask Davey to remind him to call his doctor’s office later. Charles sighed and put his hand back on the steering wheel. 

More and more vines crept across the road ahead of them, making the truck bounce up and down as it was driven across them. It probably wouldn’t be long before the entire road was consumed and became unusable. The truck was an all-terrain vehicle and definitely took some abuse in the past, but Charles doubted the manufacturer accounted for these kinds of driving conditions. No one could’ve accounted for anything like this. Assuming survival lay at the end of this ordeal, homeowner’s insurance would probably call the tree an ‘act of God’ and refuse to pay out. Of course, during the apocalypse, the insurance companies come out on top. Typical. Maybe that’s who God was mad at. Charles started to laugh, but coughed to cover it up. 

“You okay, dad?” Davey asked. 

“Yeah, I’m alright.” He coughed once more for good measure, then cleared his throat. The venom must’ve been messing with his brain, too, for him to be in a laughing mood after all that happened. Or maybe he was just finally losing it. Who wouldn’t if this was the hellscape they awoke to? Had the vines not knocked over the trash can, he very well may have never awoken at all. Or at the very least, he would’ve awoken when it was too late to do anything about it, ending up as poor Mr. Oakley did, half-swathed in a cocoon while begging for someone, anyone to save him. Dreadful as the situation was, he was alive. There probably weren’t many people in the surrounding area who could claim the same. Hopefully Mildred was among them. Esther could rot for all he cared. That woman was never much more than a thorn in his side anyway. 

The truck rattled violently all the way to Greenbrook, shaking the windows such that they sounded like buzzing insects. Much as he wanted the maddening sound to stop, he found that trying to keep the truck steady with one hand on the wheel and the other against the window was a monstrous task. He tried to lean his head against his window to stifle it, but doing that for more than a minute gave him a splitting headache. It was a long drive, but eventually they rolled into town. 

“Welcome to Greenbrook,” Davey said, reciting the message from memory as the sign itself was yet another object consumed by the vines. A singular ‘o’ was visible through a gap in them, illuminated by a small spotlight pointed at the sign from the ground. They drove beneath an overpass from which dangled more vines that batted against the truck’s windshield, leaving a translucent, whitish substance smeared upon it. Instinctively, Charles sprayed wiper fluid and turned on the windshield wipers, but the substance seemed to be resistant to the cleaning solution and was smeared more than it was removed. 

The ride became a little smoother past the overpass. There were indentations in the vines on the ground that indicated other cars drove over them at some point, giving him a path to follow. At least there were other survivors, so maybe this whole thing wasn’t hopeless after all. The sidewalks, however, told a different story. They were laden with cocoons in sporadic intervals, like the townsfolk were going about their business before suddenly being ensnared. That only got worse the further they went into town, going from one or two every block to clusters of four, five, even more. With the larger groups, it was difficult to count how many individual cocoons there were. Some clung to trees, some protruded out from houses or garages, and then there were the scant few that hovered in the air, held aloft by thin vines that shouldn’t be able to bear the weight of an adult person, but suspended them nonetheless. 

As the cocoons became more frequent, so did signs of life from other individuals, primarily in the form of cries and yells that tore through the otherwise silent town. At Charles’ command, Davey covered his ears and closed his eyes. No child should ever have to witness such things, not when some of the people they drove past were turning their weapons on themselves while vines constricted their bodies. In the back of his mind, Charles wondered if that last shell in the shotgun would see a similar use, turned on either his wife, his son, or himself to spare one of them from a horrid fate. He did his best to put the thought out of his mind for now. 

Frequent trips to Greenbrook in the past meant he knew the town inside and out, regardless of whether it was covered in vines and enshrouded in darkness. After driving a few more miles down the highway, he turned down a side street and reached the old mill houses at the end of Willow Circle. Most of the houses were abandoned and boarded up long ago in favor of newer developments deeper into town, but there were a few that still held elderly residents who decided living out the rest of their days in their own homes was better than dying in a retirement community. As such, the houses still stood, and it seemed the vines were less dense in this area than the surrounding apartment buildings and strip malls. 

Charles parked in the driveway of his mother-in-law’s house. Mildred’s silver sedan was parked in front, as it typically would be, and though the old woman was bedridden, Esther’s white van was parked behind the sedan. Across both vehicles were a few vines that lazily draped across the hoods, roofs, and windshields. The house appeared largely untouched, though he could trace a couple of the vines from the canopy all the way down to the roof. Rather than seeping inside, it appeared content to dangle off the side of the house and gently sway back and forth. Inside, the lights appeared to be on, and through the curtained window, he could make out the faint shadow of someone walking around.

“Stay in the truck,” Charles whispered to Davey. “Try to be as quiet as possible, but if any of those things get in here, get out and yell for me. Do you understand?” Davey shakily nodded his head. “Good boy.” Charles wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him in for a tight hug. “I love you, son.” 

“I love you, too, dad,” Davey whispered back. 

Charles kissed his son on the top of his head, grabbed the shotgun from the seat behind him, and exited the truck, taking extra care to close the door as quietly as possible. The small click that came from the latch was enough to send his heart pounding. When he turned around, he expected to see the vines swarming him already. Thankfully, they remained as they were, oblivious to his presence. 

Numbness was now beginning to radiate down his other leg and up into his abdomen, and his attempts at walking were like the first steps of a newborn fawn. From the base of the two front steps, he looked up at the front door and considered calling out to Mildred. Though the vines were disinterested in him at the moment, ignoring his labored movements and the crunching of icy grass beneath his feet, speaking was certainly out of the question.

Lifting his leg as high as he could, he attempted to ascend the steps, only to have his slipper collide with the bottommost, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall onto the pavestones of the front lawn. A grunt escaped his throat as he fell, but the vines still ignored his existence. From the ground, he looked back toward the truck and saw Davey peering at him over the dashboard. Charles lifted a hand to signal he was okay, then turned his attention back to his leg, wondering if perhaps like some earthly creatures, the vine continued secreting its venom postmortem. Or maybe it being severed from the main body wasn’t enough to kill it, only to prevent it from growing further. Both, he supposed, were equally likely. Either way, being rendered immobile was a death sentence. At the rate the paralysis was spreading, that would only be a matter of time. 

Left with no other options, Charles resigned himself to what needed to be done. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside to where the sash bound the ends of his robe together. After pulling it free, he tied it around the ensnared leg just above where the vine reached furthest and pulled it tightly, leaving enough length to fold it over on itself a couple of times and put it into his mouth so he’d have something to bite down on and muffle his screams if what he was about to do was as painful as he was anticipating. He looked back up at his son and raised a hand up in front of his own eyes to signify that Davey should look away, which he did. With that, Charles took a few deep breaths, bit down on the sash, and began tugging at the vine. 

Uncertain if there was a better way, he pulled the first briar out as though he were removing a knife. Whether due to adrenaline, the tourniquet, or the paralytic, and despite the gushing of blood that followed the extrusion, he found the pain was nearly bearable without making his teeth meet through the wad of cloth in his mouth. A small chunk of flesh came out along with it, and after the nausea of looking at it wore off, he removed it and inspected the briar. Its curved end resembled that of a fish hook, and the way it was pointed indicated that it pierced his flesh according to the direction the vine was facing upon its ascent. While the briar was thin and brittle looking, it took much more force than he expected to make it snap, giving him hope that he’d be able to pull out the rest while causing minimal damage to himself. With that information, he began extruding the other briars, each one coming out a little cleaner than the last until he had it down to a science and was able to remove them with nary a trace of his tissue still remaining on them. Altogether, he managed to remove every one of them with only a couple leaving larger wounds in their wake. 

With enough time, the smaller puncture wounds would clot, though the first several would definitely require medical attention. Thankfully, the old lady had several first aid kits interspersed throughout her home. Hopefully those first aid kids included painkillers. At present, the most he felt was a dull ache radiating down his calf and ankle, but once the numbing wore off, if it did, he’d find himself in a whole different world of pain. For now, he was able to move his leg a little more freely. He tossed the vine into the grass, stood up, and turned back around to the front door of the house.

Though his legs were still a little wobbly, he was able to ascend the steps with assistance from the handrail. Finally, he stood before the front door to his mother-in-law’s house. Upon trying the door knob, he found that it was unlocked and swung open without so much as a singular squeak from its hinges. He was immediately met by the embrace of warm air on his face and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The house he stepped into was a world far removed from the world outside, appearing serene in its calm normalcy. Sitting in an armchair, holding a book in one hand and a steaming mug in the other, was Mildred, looking up at him with a sweet smile. Draped across her lap was a gray Afghan blanket, and her feet were covered by pink slippers whose design mirrored the ones he wore now, save for the bloodstains that decorated his.

“Come to check up on me, have you?” she asked while closing the book and placing it down on the table beside her. 

Before he could answer, he heard footsteps coming from the direction of the kitchen, causing his eyes to dart between the hallway leading to it and Mildred’s face. “Who’s here with you?”

“My mother, of course.” Mildred laughed. “Who else would be here with me?”

Charles took a couple more steps inside to try and see around the corner toward the kitchen, and out from the hallway stepped Esther while carrying a mug of her own. In his mind, he recalled the last time he saw her, bedridden and unable to contend with the intricacies of a spoon in a bowl of soup. Now, she was just as thin and frail as she was then, but she waltzed through the living room without any difficulty, stepping right up to him to embrace him with one arm that was so light, it might as well have not been there at all. “Charlie, it’s so good to see you again.” Her voice was alien to him, lacking the rasp he typically associated with her speech. 

The brief experience of her hugging him and speaking so clearly left him in a brief daze. What he noticed only after the embrace was the slimy substance she left behind on his arm, a clear, viscous fluid that clung to his skin and consumed most of Esther’s body, including the floral dress she donned. Upon looking back at Mildred, he could see that she also had that same fluid on her body, but there wasn’t as much and the chair seemed to absorb some of it. He looked between both women for a while, his mouth hanging open in an effort to say something, but his mind was totally blank from what he was witnessing. 

“Isn’t it a miracle?” Mildred said. “My dear, sweet mother, all well again. And look,” she said while lifting her shirt up to her navel and leaning back slightly. “The scar is gone.” 

Charles’ head was spinning, and all he could think to say was, “We need to get out of here. Have you seen what it looks like outside?”

“It’s a beautiful day out today. We should have a picnic.” Mildred beamed at Charles while taking a sip from her mug.

Bewildered, Charles closed the distance between himself and Mildred, grabbed her by the shoulders, and looked into her eyes. “Listen to me,” he said, shaking her gently, his voice tinged with desperation. “Jonathan is…” he swallowed, uncertain if he could force the words out into the open. The presumed death of their oldest son was something he was struggling to come to terms with himself. Admitting it to his wife may very well tear her apart. If anything would snap her out of her bizarre state, though, this would. He searched in her eyes for a moment longer while his mouth curled into a frown. “He’s dead.”

“Johnny is fine, Charlie,” Esther said matter-of-factly. “He’ll be here soon, you’ll see. Don’t you worry.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I saw him get crushed!” 

“Now, now, dear, you know mother doesn’t like that kind of language, ” Mildred said with a scowl. 

“And you’re dripping all over my floor.” 

Charles looked down at the blood oozing from his leg onto the carpet, then returned his gaze back to Esther in disbelief. Either he was losing his mind, or they already had. At this point, either option was equally likely. Before any further potential hallucinations could set in, the wounds needed tending to, so he released his grip on his wife and stood upright. “This is all insane,” he muttered to himself while walking around the armchair to the kitchen, propping the shotgun against the wall beside the door to it. 

Upon entering the kitchen, he fumbled his hand around on the wall to find the light switch and flicked it on. As he remembered, the first aid kit was there, sandwiched between the refrigerator and the two switches, but situated in front of it was the unmistakable shape of a cocoon. This one, however, was split open, and within it was an accumulation of the viscous fluid that coated his wife and mother-in-law. Barbs protruded from within the cocoon, but these weren’t hooked like the ones that were in him before. They were straight and glistened from the small amounts of blood that remained on them. 

Charles’ breath caught in his throat and he began backing out of the kitchen, only to be stopped when he felt something against his lower back. “Going somewhere, dear?” Esther asked while shoving the barrel of the shotgun firmly into his spine, forcing him to take a step forward. He dropped the first aid kit and raised his hands in the air. “On your knees.”

He had no choice but to oblige, sinking slowly down onto his knees while listening to another set of footsteps approach him from behind. “Don’t worry,” Mildred said, stepping past the two of them. “It’ll all be over soon.” 

His heart sank even further when he heard Davey call to him from outside. 

“Oh, you brought Davey, too?” Her voice was cheerful, sounding like her typical self when Davey would run up to her when she came home from a long day of work. “You can come on in, sweetie,” she called back to him. 

Charles immediately yelled after her, “Davey, that’s not your mo–” his voice was cut off and the world became blurry for a moment after the butt of the shotgun smacked the back of his head. 

“Quiet,” Esther commanded.

“Come to me, my sweet little boy,” Mildred called out again. 

Another blow was delivered to the back of his head that knocked him down onto the floor before he could say another word. Shortly thereafter, a knee was pressed down into his back. Struggle as he might, the little old lady was able to keep him pinned to the ground. “Just let this happen, Charlie dear,” she said, pressing down on his shoulders with her hands. “This is good for all of us.” Her hot breath and small droplets of saliva hit the back of his neck. “Do it.” 

Mildred opened a small window in the kitchen situated just above the sink and let out a long, ear-piercing whistle. In response, a vine crept in through the window and snaked its way down across the countertop, along the cupboards, and onto the floor. Charles wriggled on the floor underneath the weight of the woman while calling out, begging for them to stop this. “Please, don’t do this. Someone has to protect our son.” 

“I am protecting–” A quick, dragging sound met all of their ears and Mildred turned to its source. “Sweetie, what are you doing with that gun?”

In the brief second he felt Esther’s pressure on him lighten as her head craned back to see what Mildred was referring to, Charles struggled again and managed to buck her off. She fell beside him, and before she could remount him, he scrambled to his feet and began stomping as hard as he could on top of her head. 

“Stop it!” Mildred shouted while grabbing a chef’s knife from a block beside the kitchen sink. “Don’t hurt my mother!” By the time she withdrew it and began lunging toward Charles, Esther’s head was already nearly indistinguishable from what it used to be. Shards of her skull were scattered across the floor, yet no blood poured out from her.

“Millie,” he said through labored breaths. “You don’t want to hurt us. This isn’t you.” She ignored his words outright and continued lunging toward him. When trying to take a step back for better positioning against her, his slipper skidded and he fell onto the floor again. He threw his arms up in time to catch her hands before she was able to plunge the knife into him. Mildred screamed obscenities as he began to overpower her, but before he could pry the knife out of her hand, one of Esther’s reached up and grabbed hold of the handle as well, angling it back down toward his clavicle. 

Before he could finish saying the quick, silent prayer in his head to a God he no longer believed in, a blast rang out beside them and Mildred’s torso was shredded apart, throwing her to the floor. The knife flew out of her hand and clattered onto the floor beside her. Charles looked over to Davey, who was lying on his back and screaming while tears streamed down his face. He was clutching his right shoulder. It dangled a little lower than his left, apparently dislocated from the gun’s recoil against such a small body. From his other side, he heard the knife scrape against the floor, calling his attention back to Mildred, who was struggling to stand back up. No blood seeped out from her wounds either, and through the holes left by the pellets, her exposed organs didn’t seem to move at all, yet she continued trying to stand up while glaring at Charles with hatred in her eyes.

“N-naughty boy,” she said with a cough. Using the wall for support, she stood halfway up, but sank back down to her knees when she tried to stand the rest of the way without it. Left prone on the floor, she began dragging herself across it. 

Charles stepped over to Davey and picked up the shotgun from beside him. It may have been out of ammo, but as Esther proved, it made an excellent bludgeon. Taking a deep breath, he walked back over to Mildred and met her gaze once more. In the middle of extending her arm outward to continue crawling, he softly said, “I’m sorry,” before raising the gun over his head and bringing it down on top of hers. From that point, a symphony played out into the darkness, one composed of a simple two word apology followed by the cracking of skulls until all that remained of Mildred and Esther were two bodies whose heads were transposed into flat splotches on the floor. Extreme as it felt to do so, it was the only way he could be certain they were dead and would stay that way. Even then, he couldn’t be sure that this measure was enough. He couldn’t be sure about anything anymore. It was when the linoleum floor began to break away that he decided enough was enough, and he took a step back to catch his breath.

What his foot fell upon, though, wasn’t the carpeted floor of the hallway he anticipated, it was a lump on the floor. When he looked down at it, his already racing heart hastened even more. Despite treading on top of the vine that crept its way through the kitchen, it seemed oblivious to his existence. It made no effort to confine him, and the panicked voice of his son calling out to him alerted him as to why. Davey’s arm was already consumed by the vine, wrapped all the way up to his dislocated shoulder.

Charles spun back around. The knife. He needed the knife so he could at least stop the vine from growing any further, but where was it? Amid all the scattered fleshy chunks and shards of bone, it was nowhere to be found. In a panic, he sank back down to the floor and started sorting through the mess, throwing pieces of his wife and mother-in-law across the kitchen to get them out of the way. It was when he turned Mildred’s body over that he found the knife lodged in the same arm she held it in before. He withdrew the knife and brought it down as hard as he could on the portion of vine closest to him several times, cutting away at the strands until it was finally severed. What wasn’t cut away from it retreated out of the same window through which it entered, and Charles wasted no time in closing it.

There was no satisfaction in that smallest of victories, as when Charles returned back beside his son, his body was nearly fully enveloped, leaving only his face and upper chest exposed. Around his ankle was another vine, one that must have followed the boy inside when he came to his father’s rescue earlier. Davey’s cries were much quieter. While intermittent groans emanated from his throat, it was clear that the paralytic had already done its job. Charles stepped close to his son and knelt down beside him. 

Knowing what needed to be done, he bent down and kissed Davey’s forehead, covered his eyes with one hand, and raised the other with the knife in it overhead. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, knife trembling in his grasp while tears began to roll down his cheeks. This was for the best. He couldn’t let his youngest son end up like the monsters that were his mother and grandmother. Davey deserved far better than that. After taking a steadying breath, Charles tightened his grip on the knife, ensured it was right above his heart, said one final, “I love you, son,” and plunged downward. 

***

From the moment the knife went into Davey’s heart to when Charles was halfway back home was a blur. Around the wounds on his leg were tightly wrapped bandages, and the aching in it, his head from being hit by Esther, and his shoulder from the shotgun blast were all but forgotten thanks to a stash of opioids he found in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. During his self-administered aid, he could have sworn he heard gasping coming from the living room, though that may have just been his son’s final breath replaying in his mind over and over again as some form of sick self torment. 

In the seat beside him rested the shotgun and the knife, both jittering against each other while the truck drove over the same vines it did on his way to Greenbrook. The radio played a quiet static that could seldom be heard over the rattling windows, but as long as it was there, he wouldn’t have to be left in complete silence. Not that he would have been anyway. Driving back the way he came, he passed by those same cocoons he did on the way into town, and the denizens that once inhabited them now stood to the side, watching Charles as he drove by and letting out the same sharp whistle Mildred did when calling the vines. Neither the people hatched from the cocoons nor the vines made any attempt to pursue him past that. 

If anything, the vines seemed to be keeping their distance from him now. The ones beneath the overpass didn’t bat against his windshield like they did before, and the road overall seemed a little smoother. He wasn’t going to complain. It probably knew full well what he was doing and what fate would befall him when he reached his destination. The only real opposition he had on the way was Mr. Oakley screaming more obscenities at him. It seemed he held a grudge and flung himself in front of Charles’ truck. Rather than make any effort to miss the man, Charles sped up and plowed through him, numb to the crackling of bones beneath his tires. In the rearview mirror, he watched Mr. Oakley twitch while trying to stand back up. It seemed cruel to leave him there. If he was still alive later, maybe he’d come back and put him out of his misery. Maybe. 

Overall, the ride back from Greenbrook felt quicker than the ride there. That was typically the case. There was always a looming dread when it came to seeing his mother-in-law. While he didn’t necessarily dislike her, in fact, he had a great deal of respect for her, seeing her bedridden and unable to do so much as take a piss without assistance was disheartening. He was getting up there in age himself. Another couple decades and he would have been that little old lady, burdening his family with his existence. 

It was after he shared those thoughts with Mildred that she decided to take this most recent trip on her own when they typically would have gone together. He expected himself to feel guilty in some regard, partially responsible for the fate that befell her for not being with her when the tree appeared. At the very least, he should have felt a tinge of regret. Fact of the matter was that he didn’t feel a thing, numbed to it all in the same way his leg was numbed before. The drugs coursing through him must have been powerful indeed. 

Upon pulling into the driveway, he noted how the vines that once consumed the area had long since departed, showing almost no signs of having existed in the first place, save for the tree still being there. The dogs barked as they typically did to herald his arrival. If the house hadn’t been in shambles, it would have been like any other homecoming, and he treated it as such. He exited the truck and walked around the side of the house to greet the dogs like normal, smiling upon seeing them. Their cocoons, like the others he’d seen, were split open, though the fluid seemed to have dried up for the most part. The dogs’ coats were clean, presumably from licking the substance off of themselves after exiting. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the dogs were perfectly normal, but soon their excited barks turned to snarls and growls, and the smile that was on his face faded. They knew he wasn’t one of them, and he had no intention of joining them either. 

Maybe that would have been easier. As it stood, the presumed remainder of his days would be spent trying to survive in a world that was against him. From his experiences thus far, he was already exhausted. Thinking further into the future, going through the tribulations of survival for any extended period of time felt like an impossible task. All he wanted to do now was go to sleep and never wake up again. How calming of a thought that was, and how morbidly funny to him it was that his state of mind now wasn’t much different from what it was when he went to bed the night before.

Charles knelt down so that he was eye level with the dogs. “Smoky, Cheyenne, you’re both good pups. I’m sorry I have to do this to you.” They continued to growl as he walked away from the fence to begin rummaging around the ruins of his home, overturning boards and remnants of family photos. Shortly thereafter, he found the gun locker on its side where the closet would have been, unlocked it, and withdrew a box of shells. After loading up his shotgun, he walked back over to the fence. Confined as they were, the dogs could only look up at him as he aimed down the barrel and squeezed the trigger, dispatching them both in quick succession. The culmination of their lives was punctuated by each one making a final yelp before their bodies fell to the ground. 

Based on his experience with Milded, Esther, and now the dogs, destroying the brains of those hatched from the cocoons appeared to be the most effective way of dealing with them. Otherwise, they continued on, oblivious to the wounds their bodies sustained. The dogs’ bodies twitched on the ground as he loaded his shotgun again and walked toward the other side of the house. Maybe before he settled in for the long sleep he desired, he’d leave behind some notes for posterity. 

Sitting on the bottom bunk of his bed, eyes affixed to the blank TV that was toppled onto its side, was Jonathan. In the black void of the TV, Charles could barely make out Jonathan’s features. “Hi, dad,” Jonathan said, not turning to face him.

“Hey, John,” Charles said softly, his voice steady. “I take it you knew I was coming.”

He nodded. “It tells me everything.” 

“Then you know.” 

“You did what you thought you had to.”

“Not just what I thought, but what was right. Your mother and grandmother–that wasn’t them. They couldn’t live like that. And I couldn’t let the same thing happen to Davey.”

Jonathan remained composed, locking eyes with his father through the reflection rebounded by the TV screen. “Justify it however you wish; it’s a moot point. You won’t listen to me, and now the tree won’t touch you anyway.”

Charles tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Did you stop to consider that maybe this tree isn’t evil?” Jonathan finally turned around to face Charles, hugging his knees close to his body while he spoke. “Sure, its methods are strange, but it isn’t here to hurt anyone. It sees our planet and its creatures as things that need protection. Grannie Esther was able to walk again for the first time in nearly a decade. Mom’s c-section scar from Davey was gone. And Davey,” Jonathan swallowed. “He was sick, dad.”

“The doctors said the tumor was benign.”

“Doctors can be wrong. The tree was going to cure him. It was going to ensure we all live a long life together.”

“It’s lying to you,” Charles said bluntly.

Jonathan laughed and shook his head. “I wish you knew how stupid you sounded. Not that you’ll get the opportunity to find out the truth. It sees what evils you’re capable of now. Willing as it was to bestow its gifts upon you before, now it never will. Not after smashing their heads in, or killing your own son. Hell, you loved those dogs more than anything and you don’t look all that torn up about what you did to them. Even now, you point that gun at me when I pose no threat to you.”

“Why doesn’t it protect you then?” Charles snapped, his voice bordering on a yell. “Why doesn’t it reach down right now and pry this gun from my hands?”

“Because it’s afraid of you.”

“Bullshit!” Charles spat. 

Jonathan chuckled. “Believe what you want. There’s no talking sense into you. Never has been. Before you squeeze that trigger, though, could you answer one last question for me? What is it that you think you’ve accomplished?”

“Freeing all of you.”

Jonathan laughed again. “We were already free.”

Charles took a deep breath and aimed down the sights of the shotgun, ensuring he was lined up perfectly with Jonathan’s head. What he said didn’t matter. He wasn’t himself anymore. For that matter, after this entire ordeal, neither was Charles. All he could do now to honor the memory of his oldest son was put this shell of him out of its misery. That’s all he or any of them were now, shells of their former selves that needed to be dealt with. 

His heartbeat hastened while his finger squeezed the trigger, and a smile began to creep across his face. There was a peculiar exhilaration in the action. The blast rang out, and Jonathan’s body slumped over. When the echoing of the gunshot faded away, he leaned the shotgun back against his shoulder and looked up at the canopy. From it, he could trace vines raining down all throughout the sky, but not a single one dared to come near him.

It was as Jonathan said. Nothing Charles did scared himself, but everything he did scared the tree.  

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