Anything Can Be Dangerous (6 page)

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“
It’s the resin,” Greg
said. “Whatever it is, it’s in the recycled resin. That’s why
there’s so many of them, why they’ve infected multiple
products!”

“
So what do we do?” she
replied. “How do you fight such a thing?”

A crash boomed from somewhere deeper
in the building and the floor vibrated under their feet. A second
later, a fresh wave of smoke entered the room.

“
First,” Greg answered, “we
get the hell out of here.”

11.

Greg climbed to the roof of a
four-story brick building using a steel ladder bolted to the
outside wall for the purpose of gaining access to the billboards
overlooking the street.

He had a pair of binoculars now, as
well as a Polaroid camera that he’d looted from a deserted drug
store along the way.

He ran across the roof’s surface in a
low crouch, feeling like a soldier in enemy territory. At the
opposite side of the building, he concealed his profile behind the
massive back wall of the billboard stand.

He peered out, raising the binoculars
to his eyes.

The recycling plant across the road
looked like a small city or castle, consisting of a massive
collection of gray buildings surrounded by a concrete mote of
parking lots and roadways. Greg tried to figure out the best way
in, looking for the most inconspicuous place to sneak past the
fence. He also wondered which structure he should focus on once
inside. He was trying to imagine the layout, speculating on where
he should go to find the proof he needed to confirm his theory, but
it was impossible to decipher the complexity of the place from the
outside.

Not that getting in would be
easy.

Trucks were coming and going as if it
was business as usual, and that only strengthened his belief that
this, if not all recycling plants, was the source of the plastic
invasion.

The truck drivers had no
faces.

Their outgoing cargo was huge spools
of sheet plastic.

Greg watched the latest departure, a
flatbed semi carrying dozens of brown cardboard barrels—containers
probably filled with pellet resin for other plastic making
applications—when suddenly he heard something that made his whole
body go cold.

An inhuman howl droned out from the
recycling plant, originating somewhere within the labyrinthine
network of buildings that made up the factory.

It filled the air with a machinelike
vibration, and Greg dropped the binoculars as he clamped both hands
over his ears to muffle the bone-jarring noise.

After several excruciating seconds the
howl died off, replaced by the keen of tearing metal and snapped
welds, the sound of damaged aluminum, steel, and iron all crying
out in elongated groans and quick gunshot cracks.

Greg saw the roof of one of the larger
central buildings suddenly bulge upward and burst open, the steel
crossbeams of its frame torn asunder by a quintet of enormous green
tentacles. Each had to be over a hundred feet long and the diameter
of a tractor tire.

“
What the—”

Eight more slimy appendages followed
the first group, widening the hole. They fanned out, relaxing
across the undamaged portions of the building’s rooftop, dropping
limply over the sides. There was a second howl. This one sounded
less frenzied than the first, more content, and Greg managed to
endure it until all was quiet again. The trucks and workers below
never paused in their activity.

Greg staggered away from the edge of
the building, almost fell. Trembling, he raised the camera and
snapped off as many shots as the film cartridge held, then raced
back to the ladder and down to the ground, where Mia waited with
the motorcycle.

“
What the hell was that?”
she pleaded as he slid onto the seat.

But Greg only managed a shake of his
head as his mind raced to figure out how to reach the police or the
military or whoever could blow up that building and destroy
whatever hellish beast was growing inside.

He cranked the engine, opened the
throttle, and they sped away.

Behind them, the trucks went on to
make their deliveries.

* * *

FEEDING FRENZY

This story can be found in the
anthology:

BEST
NEW ZOMBIE TALES (Vol. 1)

The restaurant stood less than forty
feet away, small and unimpressive in comparison to the encompassing
forest landscape, but also the blackest thing in sight on an
otherwise bright and sunny day.

Ron parked the rental car just outside
the entrance to the parking lot, pulling to a stop amid a small
pile of animal bones that crunched beneath the tires.

He switched off the engine. “Not
exactly the first impression I was hoping for,” he said.

Beside him, Greg seemed undeterred.
Minus his beer-gut and his rapidly receding hairline, the older man
looked like a six-year-old kid on a jackpot Christmas morning.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “They told me the property was
a little messy. Look at the building, though! Are you sure this is
the right address?”

Ron nodded to the realty sign standing
to the left. “This is the place, all right.”

“
Jeez… It’s in great
shape!”

Maybe, maybe
not
, Ron thought, but he decided to hold his tongue.
They were already falling into their usual mode of operation, Greg
seeking out the sweet deal while Ron remained ever-watchful for the
lemon that could sour it.

They got out of the car.

Outside, the smell of dry oak leaves
instantly enveloped them. Ron drew in a long breath of it,
cleansing the stink of the rental company’s pine-scented air
freshener from his sinuses. He glanced behind them, to the dirt
lane that tethered the old restaurant to the highway, frowning at
the distance. It couldn’t have measured more than fifty yards in
length—he spotted traffic blinking between the trees—but the
silence here made it seem immeasurably farther than it
looked.

“
It’s kind of
out-of-the-way, don’t you think?” he asked.

Greg had already reached the building
and was tugging at the locked doors. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Are you kidding? This is a prime location. We’re surrounded by
farmland and national forest. We’ll get all the traffic between
Brainerd and Clearwater Creek. Cut down some of those trees and we
can put up a sign that’ll practically be on the
highway!”

Farmland and
forest
, Ron thought, but again he kept his comments to
himself.

“
The realtor must be
running late, huh?” Greg asked. He cupped both hands over his face
and leaned forward, trying to find a chink in the plywood armor
that covered the building’s windows.

Ron strolled across the lot. He
studied the dimensions of the restaurant, guessing that the
original owner had attempted to emulate the layout of a traditional
fast-food business but with a slightly higher-scale motif, to set
it apart from the larger chains that dominated North America’s
roadways.

He’d never seen a fast-food joint with
a black slate-shingled roof and widow’s walk. Or wrought iron
lampposts shaped to resemble a cluster of entwined tentacles.
Still, despite its unorthodox appearance, Ron thought the building
looked good and sturdy. That, coupled with the rock-bottom price
tag, opened a world of possibilities for improvements.
Nevertheless, he didn’t want to get too excited too
fast.

Greg joined him as he made his way
around the side of the building to get a look at the
back.

“
You said this was a
fixer-upper, right?” Ron asked.

Greg nodded. “The ad mentioned
‘extensive fire-damage’ but this looks a lot better than I
imagined.”

Ron stopped walking.

“
Oh, hey, a takeout
window!” Greg said, pointing. “This is great! That’ll save us even
more money on the renovation!”

But Ron wasn’t looking at the takeout
window. “What’s that?” he asked.

Focused as he was on the drive-thru,
Greg had failed to notice the giant hole in the wall of trees
beyond the restaurant, or the enormous four-lane road that extended
off the parking lot, stretching to a pinpoint in the far depths of
the surrounding forest.

Greg gaped at the sight. “Holy, shit!”
he laughed. “And you were worried about being too far from the
highway!”

Ron ignored the comment and approached
the road. A gust of wind ushered a group of dead leaves across the
concrete, but, other than that, the vast avenue appeared as vacant
as a desert wasteland.

No cars.

No people.

Just a wide lane of unbroken grey
cement that receded into the distant shadows.

“
You don’t think this is a
bit strange?” he asked.

Greg shrugged. “Could be under
construction… Maybe it’s a new expansion to the
Interstate?”

“
Leading to a restaurant?”
Ron replied. “There’s no median, no streetlights—”

The sound of wheels crunching over
gravel broke into the conversation, and they both looked toward the
parking lot.

“
That must be the realtor,”
Greg remarked. “We can ask her about it.”

They headed back toward the car. Ron
let Greg lead the way, lingering behind just long enough to cast
one last glance at the unusual forest road. They’d walked only a
short distance, but from his new perspective he noted how the trees
shielded it from sight, the branches interlacing overhead,
enclosing it like a tunnel.

Greg threw a hand against his chest,
halting him in his tracks.

“
God bless the locals!” his
friend said. Then, before Ron had a chance to get his meaning, the
man resumed walking, stealthily adding, “Be a pal and let the
single guy do the talking…”

Ron followed his line of sight to
where he spotted the realtor exiting her vehicle.

Dwarfed by the SUV she’d arrived in,
the petite young woman looked in need of a climbing harness to get
from the driver’s seat to the ground. On the contrary, she moved
with an athletic grace, seeming to flow from one position to the
next. Out in the open, her long blonde hair caught the full
radiance of the sun, contrasting with the black material of her
pants and jacket, which hugged the trim contours of her
body.

He thought of Diane back home, so far
away, knowing that if they did indeed buy the restaurant he’d
become a local himself for the first several months of operation,
overseeing the renovation and training all the staff.

Ahead of him Greg looked back,
twitched his eyebrows.

Ron shook his head and
followed.

This is
business
, he opened his mouth to say before the other
man was out of earshot, but stopped short when his gaze once again
shifted to the girl. She still stood next to the open door of her
sport utility, a blatant expression of perplexity creasing the skin
across her brow. Her full attention remained focused straight
ahead, staring at the restaurant, and she didn’t even notice Greg
approaching until he’d closed within the last ten feet of
her.

She spun to face him as if suddenly
realizing she was in the shadow of a grizzly bear.

“
We’ll take it!” Greg
declared before she had a chance to say anything.

Ron watched the look of fear mix with
another fleeting flash of bewilderment, and then she was laughing
with embarrassment. Her voice sounded melodic in the open woodland
air.

“
You must be Mr. Brunik,”
the woman said, offering Greg her hand. “Wendy Thomas. We spoke on
the phone.”

“
It’s nice to finally meet
the woman the beautiful voice belongs to,” he said.

Her smile stiffened at the corners,
becoming more perfunctory than genuine.

A moment later Ron stepped up to join
them, trying to think of something that would downplay Greg’s
excitement until they’d viewed the entire property, and when the
realtor faced him there was no mistaking the way their eyes locked.
Her smile of sincerity returned and she instantly dropped Greg’s
hand.

“
And you’re Mr. Caldmond,
correct?”

In her business-minded clothing, she
looked like an office intern who’s college diploma was still a year
or two away.

“
Pleased to meet you, Mrs.
Thomas,” Ron replied, purposely emphasizing the prefix.

Her hand slipped neatly into his,
smooth and dainty, but slightly chilled. It lingered there a
heartbeat longer than what might’ve been considered professionally
courteous.

“
Miss, actually,” she
corrected.

Behind her, Greg placed his hands
together and mouthed ‘thank you’ to the sky.

Ron pretended not to see. He
acknowledged the realtor’s smile with a polite one of his own, then
pivoted away from both of them in an attempt to get things back on
course.