Those Creeping Fingers
Zachary Wooldridge
The stark contrast between man and nature was evident, and Phil was sure the vegetation was trying to reclaim its lost territory. Maybe it was the way the vines of ivy menacingly reached up over the large, rusty-red brick building, its thin finger-like tendrils eerily grasping at the window sills, Or perhaps it was the fact that late at night, he could hear a slight moaning and a slow squeezing sound, as if the plants were trying to crush the building.
Maybe he was crazy.
He had shared these thoughts with a new guy joining him on the night-shift. Being a custodian on the night-shift was not the best position to be in, but it paid the bills. It was lonely though, and he regretted sharing his thoughts with the new arrival, because in the morning there was a vacant position. Evidently he was crazy.
However, he couldn’t help but wonder if the plants had done away with him. Maybe they just wished for Phil to know of their sinister plot. It was probably because of the time he had tried to remove them. And now, maybe they were trying to make a fool out of him. To make him a pariah, to turn him into a Cassandra.
But he wouldn’t do that. Not he.
He knew they wanted him to be crazy, they wanted revenge. He wouldn’t give them that pleasure, that satisfaction. Instead, he would give them exactly what they deserved. That’s why tonight he had with him the strongest weed killer on the market.
It was the kind of stuff so powerful, so outlandish that you could only purchase it outside of the U.S., outside of most countries. Only in places like Mexico, Singapore, or Somalia. It would burn your nostrils if you smelled it, probably knock you out if you smelled too much of it. It was strong.
It required application from the top of the vegetation, that way it could travel down the plant killing all of it, right down to the roots. As he fitted the backpack of the poisonous fluid and the sprayer, he felt like he was gearing up for war. An apt metaphor, Phil thought.
He ascended the stairs, trudging up the squared spiral that they formed, all the way to the final door. His key fit snugly into the handle, and he was met with a warm gust of air. It was humid, which meant those weeds were happy.
He was about to change that.
As he made his way to his enemy, he felt calm, superior. These damned vines were going to learn why humans were the dominant species on the planet. He shifted the weight burdening his shoulders. He gripped the sprayer tightly, and rested his finger on the trigger.
Then he pulled.
As warned, the fumes from the killer were strong, very strong. However, Phil was delighting in the instant shriveling and the dying of the foe. He probably should have brought along a gas mask, but he would be fine. The stronger the shit, the stronger the smell, he reasoned. He was only feeling a little light headed anyways.
Suddenly, something caught his eye. A new vine, one that had not been there before. He shouldered the sprayer like a rifle, and unleashed the poison onto the small green tendril. That taught them to sneak up on him.
He heard a rustling of leaves behind him. He turned, expecting some fearsome plant-monster, ready to crush him. He would give it a piece of his mind too. But there was nothing there, just the wind as far as he could tell.
Phil took a step forward with his left foot, but his right did not budge, and he fell. He had not realized how close to the edge he had been. Now he realized, he was dangerously close.
He was so close, he was beyond close. He was hanging off the edge, his fingers gripping onto the cold concrete for dear life. He could feel the weight of the backpack, the weight of the poison, pulling on him. The problem here was that he couldn’t let go to unlatch it from his back.
His feet dangled in the air, nothing for them to rest on. It was an extremely odd and nervous feeling. An epiphany hit him; he could use the dense vines to push off, like a make-shift ladder. He swung his feet towards the vines. Oh the irony.
But there was nothing there. The weeds had slithered off, refusing to aid him. Of course they had every right to; he’d been waging war on them for years now. Or had his poison, his extremely illegal poison, killed them?
He could feel his strength failing, and gravity prevailing. Then, all at once, he dropped. The poison splattered all about, drops landing in his eyes, blinding him. It was an excruciating pain, falling several stories while having your eyes burned. He screamed, but found he could not, as his jaw had been shattered upon landing.
And as the darkness of death encroached upon him, he could feel one thing. He had landed among the vines, his crushed bones tangled within their grasp. All he could feel, his last feeling, were those creeping fingers wrapped around the new corpse forming.
Zachary Wooldridge
The stark contrast between man and nature was evident, and Phil was sure the vegetation was trying to reclaim its lost territory. Maybe it was the way the vines of ivy menacingly reached up over the large, rusty-red brick building, its thin finger-like tendrils eerily grasping at the window sills, Or perhaps it was the fact that late at night, he could hear a slight moaning and a slow squeezing sound, as if the plants were trying to crush the building.
Maybe he was crazy.
He had shared these thoughts with a new guy joining him on the night-shift. Being a custodian on the night-shift was not the best position to be in, but it paid the bills. It was lonely though, and he regretted sharing his thoughts with the new arrival, because in the morning there was a vacant position. Evidently he was crazy.
However, he couldn’t help but wonder if the plants had done away with him. Maybe they just wished for Phil to know of their sinister plot. It was probably because of the time he had tried to remove them. And now, maybe they were trying to make a fool out of him. To make him a pariah, to turn him into a Cassandra.
But he wouldn’t do that. Not he.
He knew they wanted him to be crazy, they wanted revenge. He wouldn’t give them that pleasure, that satisfaction. Instead, he would give them exactly what they deserved. That’s why tonight he had with him the strongest weed killer on the market.
It was the kind of stuff so powerful, so outlandish that you could only purchase it outside of the U.S., outside of most countries. Only in places like Mexico, Singapore, or Somalia. It would burn your nostrils if you smelled it, probably knock you out if you smelled too much of it. It was strong.
It required application from the top of the vegetation, that way it could travel down the plant killing all of it, right down to the roots. As he fitted the backpack of the poisonous fluid and the sprayer, he felt like he was gearing up for war. An apt metaphor, Phil thought.
He ascended the stairs, trudging up the squared spiral that they formed, all the way to the final door. His key fit snugly into the handle, and he was met with a warm gust of air. It was humid, which meant those weeds were happy.
He was about to change that.
As he made his way to his enemy, he felt calm, superior. These damned vines were going to learn why humans were the dominant species on the planet. He shifted the weight burdening his shoulders. He gripped the sprayer tightly, and rested his finger on the trigger.
Then he pulled.
As warned, the fumes from the killer were strong, very strong. However, Phil was delighting in the instant shriveling and the dying of the foe. He probably should have brought along a gas mask, but he would be fine. The stronger the shit, the stronger the smell, he reasoned. He was only feeling a little light headed anyways.
Suddenly, something caught his eye. A new vine, one that had not been there before. He shouldered the sprayer like a rifle, and unleashed the poison onto the small green tendril. That taught them to sneak up on him.
He heard a rustling of leaves behind him. He turned, expecting some fearsome plant-monster, ready to crush him. He would give it a piece of his mind too. But there was nothing there, just the wind as far as he could tell.
Phil took a step forward with his left foot, but his right did not budge, and he fell. He had not realized how close to the edge he had been. Now he realized, he was dangerously close.
He was so close, he was beyond close. He was hanging off the edge, his fingers gripping onto the cold concrete for dear life. He could feel the weight of the backpack, the weight of the poison, pulling on him. The problem here was that he couldn’t let go to unlatch it from his back.
His feet dangled in the air, nothing for them to rest on. It was an extremely odd and nervous feeling. An epiphany hit him; he could use the dense vines to push off, like a make-shift ladder. He swung his feet towards the vines. Oh the irony.
But there was nothing there. The weeds had slithered off, refusing to aid him. Of course they had every right to; he’d been waging war on them for years now. Or had his poison, his extremely illegal poison, killed them?
He could feel his strength failing, and gravity prevailing. Then, all at once, he dropped. The poison splattered all about, drops landing in his eyes, blinding him. It was an excruciating pain, falling several stories while having your eyes burned. He screamed, but found he could not, as his jaw had been shattered upon landing.
And as the darkness of death encroached upon him, he could feel one thing. He had landed among the vines, his crushed bones tangled within their grasp. All he could feel, his last feeling, were those creeping fingers wrapped around the new corpse forming.