and fell to her knees, still feebly clawing at
the plants while making some attempt to
crawl toward me.
The vines twisted over her, and I wished
that she would hurry up and die.
There was no return, and there was no
way to ease her suffering. I forced myself
to stand and watch. I should have gone
first or should have called out a quicker
warning. She did not deserve her fate.
I squatted and watched as she made a
blind struggle to find me. She never did.
After about three minutes of that torture,
she stopped moving and made no more
sound than the rustle of vines that consumed her.
Satisfied that she suffered no more, I returned to the fort to retrieve the canisters
of diesel fuel that we used to power our
satcom array. I returned near to where
Ramirez had died and unscrewed the cap
while monitoring the plant’s progress.
Lashings from the plant finally had made
it to the fertile soil between beach and
desert and had successfully rooted. Already the plants grew tall, and I knew it
would not be long before they created a
similar network to the beast structure we
had observed on Curacao.
As I approached, the vines noticed. They
made an attempt to reach me (sending
me scampering back several paces to
catch my breath), but the roots still held
them tightly. These were not so mobile as
the mass that took Ramirez, but I had no
urge to find what other abilities they held.
I unscrewed the diesel cap and tried to
splash the area with the fuel, though I
could not make the diesel rain farther
than the vines’ reach, no matter how hard
I tried. I wanted to burn Ramirez’s remains
in an imitation of a funeral pyre, but I did
not know if the mass from the sea still had
the same mobility. I finally gave up, lit a
match, and tossed it into the lines of diesel. The fuel caught quickly and began a
slow burn. The vines shied away from the
smoke, but I could not get the diesel far
enough out to cause them mortal damage. I turned and hurled the can into the
sea out of frustration, though it probably
washed ashore again moments later.
Defeated, I returned to the fort to observe
the plant activity, both on Verlaten and on
Curacao. Curacao had progressed badly
enough that I no longer needed the telescope to see the lashings; they rose up
on the horizon now like Medusa’s snakes.
Verlaten’s vines were still developing, but
I could see clearly from the fort that they
were organizing into similar networks and
already spreading throughout our fertile
stretch. I sat on the roof and wept both in
memory of what had happened to poor
Ramirez and in expectation of what would
befall the rest of our crew.
About half an hour later, the others returned, having seen the smoke in the
distance. When they asked where Ramirez
was, I told them as well as I knew to and
then showed them how Curacao now
looked on the horizon. One saw the expanding mass near our own beach, and
they did not doubt my story.
That was two days ago. I’m leaving this
here in the old Dutch fort. The vines are almost upon us, but they’re having difficulty
with this island. There’s no way that we
can leave and nowhere that we can realistically leave to. Curacao must be done for
by now. The vines spread for us, and we’re
out of options.
October 2015
INSIGHT