One half mile from the highway
leading to Lake Hydrilla was the Cunningham Nuclear Power Plant.  Dark steam and a grey mist formed ominous clouds over the reactor’s cooling towers.  On the right was a direction sign.  Letting up on the accelerator, Craig Thompson craned his neck to read the sign.  “What do you think about that nuke plant?” he asked his wife, Marilyn.
        “I don’t like it.  It could be a bad omen,” she said.
        “I don’t believe in omens,” Craig replied with a laugh.  Inwardly he felt otherwise, but he wasn’t going to tell Marilyn that.
        “Anyway, I hope we don’t have a view of it,” Marilyn said.
        “Me either.”
  
Marilyn fumbled with the brochure
from Fantastic Getaways.  “It doesn’t show the plant,” she said.
        “I imagine that’s because some people might be scared away.”  Craig leaned over and gave her a sly grin.
        “Yeah, like me.  The steam and mist are a bit weird, don’t you think?”
        “Yes.  I wonder what’s going on.”
        “And look at those clouds. The weather report made no mention of rain.”
        “They only get it right about half the time.”
        “Craig dear,” Marilyn said.  “Did you remember to bring the cell phone and charger?”
        “Crap!” he said, banging the steering wheel.  “I brought the cell phone and forgot the charger.  But I charged it yesterday.”
        “I hope that’ll be okay for the weekend.”
        “I’m sure it will.  Let’s find a good radio station.”  Craig turned up the volume and hit the scan button on the tuner.  It stopped on a station just as Kenny Rogers began singing The Gambler.
        “Hey, one of my favorites,” Marilyn chimed in.
        “Mine, too.”
        Marilyn consulted the map of Tennessee.  “We should be getting close to the lake and the cabins,” she said. Suddenly static replaced the music.  “Hey, the radio,” she said, slapping the dashboard.  “That’s a bummer.”
        “I wonder what happened.”
        “I don’t care, I’m just disappointed that it quit.”
  
Marilyn looked out the window at the tall pines and scattered daffodils that lined the road.  “Lake Hydrilla is an unusual name.”
        “Yet interesting.”  Maintaining the speed limit, Craig passed two cars, then slowed down and turned off the highway onto the road that led to the lake.  “I once read two articles on the Internet about this place.   The first was about before nuke plant got built.  An old scientist had lived on the land.  He conducted experiments, although no one knew what they were.  He was bought out through eminent domain so the plant could be built; but he refused to leave, and the Sheriff had to remove him from the property.  He cursed and swore vengeance all the way.”  He waited for Marilyn to absorb this and went on.  “Hydrilla is named after a local weed, green with slimy tentacles.”
        She shivered.  “Just thinking about it gives me the creeps.”
        “It may be strange, but it’s also intriguing.”
        “The brochure doesn’t mention either story.”
        “I’m not surprised,” Craig said.
  
As they passed the deep blue waters of the lake, Craig did a double-take. How curious, he thought.  There was something extraordinary about the place.  He’d just seen it.
        “What’s wrong?” Marilyn asked.  
        “Nothing really.”
        “What do you mean ‘nothing really’?  Craig, after thirty-seven years, I can always tell when something’s bothering you.”
        “It’s probably nothing.  We’ll discuss it later.”
        “No, now.”
        “Later.”
        Marilyn took a deep breath.  “You should tell me.”
        “When we get to the cabin.”
        “I’ll hound you until we do,” she said.  Silence.  “Look, we’re finally here.”
        Craig smiled.  “About the lake.  You’ll love the beach on the far side.  It’s sandy white, like an ocean beach.”
        “We’re hundreds of miles from the ocean.  How can that be?”
        “I don’t know, but I’m sure it can be explained,” he said as they passed another car.
  
He parked the Buick about a hundred yards from the lake, beside Cabin 10.  He opened the trunk and fetched their suitcase and carryall.  Marilyn followed behind with the groceries.  As they lugged their parcels up the short dirt footpath to the cabin, Craig abruptly stopped, put the parcels down and knelt to inspect the ground.
        “Why did you stop?” Marilyn asked.
        “It’s the weeds.”
        “What about them?”  She set the groceries down and knelt beside him.
        “Look! Did you see that?”
        “What?”
        “They’re moving in waves.”
        “Craig dear, that’s impossible.  There’s no wind.”
        “But—”
        “I see them.”
        “That makes me more curious.”
        “It makes me want to leave.”
  
Craig picked up their bags and made his way up the steps.  “Careful.  Part of the top step is missing.”  He slid the long round key into the old-fashioned lock.
        “You don’t usually expect to see broken steps at a resort,” Marilyn said.
        Craig chuckled.  “Isn’t it in the brochure?” 
        Marilyn meekly laughed.
  
The living area contained a small
brown couch, a one-bulb porcelain lamp, an end table, an old black dial phone, and a portable TV on a stand.  He tossed the suitcase and carryall on the queen-sized bed in the adjacent small bedroom.
        Marilyn began unpacking.  “Craig, know what I forgot?”
        “What?”
        “My extra pair of glasses.  And here’s something I wish you had forgotten.”  Marilyn handed him a pair of battered black boots.  “Whew!  They smell like a chemical waste dump.  I don’t like them.”
        “They do have an odd odor.  I bought them Thursday from the army surplus store in Moorland.  There’s nothing like tromping through the mud.  We’ll have time to look around the house later.  Let’s go outside toward the lake.”
        “No.  Looks like a storm’s coming and besides, it’s getting dark.”
        “Okay, we’ll just stand on the porch then.”  He started toward the door.
        Marilyn hesitated then followed him onto the large porch.  They stood together by an old collection of wrought iron patio furniture as the grey clouds thickened and a crackle of lightning gave way to booming thunder.
        Suddenly Craig jumped back.
        “Good God, Craig!” Marilyn shrieked.
        They stood rigid, their eyes fixed on the thick green tentacles snaking around the lower limb of a tree beside a nearby picnic table.  Craig stepped off the porch.  The wild green blades shot upward.  He bent over to get a closer look.
        In a pleading tone, Marilyn said, “Let’s go back inside.”
        “In a moment, hon.”
        “Now, Craig.”  
  
Rain began to fall.  He could feel Marilyn behind him.  “This can’t be!  Go back, honey. Don’t even look!”
        “Craig, what is it?”  She leaned over his shoulder.  “Aggg!” she screamed.  “It’s sickening.  Yes, I’m going back…with…or without you.”
        “I’ll be there in a minute.  I’ve never seen anything like this.  It looks like a mummy.” 
        Coughing, Craig pinched his nose and looked at the body more closely.  Dried flakes of blood covered the tentacles that wrapped around and cut into the torso.  He poked at the viney plant and their saw-tooth leaves and whispered, “It’s a woman.”
        “Craig…Please!”  Marilyn tiptoed back and tugged at his sleeve.
        “Not yet,” he snapped, too enthralled to abandon the scene.
  
The tentacles tightened around the body, within inches of Craig’s boot.  A rustling sound from the other side of the path seized their attention.  Craig whirled around.  Several saw-toothed vines were slithering across the path in their direction.  Marilyn called out to him in panic. 
        “I’m coming!” he said. 
        As the rain splashed down, Marilyn made her way toward the cabin.  “Craig, hurry, I can hardly see.”
        Craig rushed toward her.  A vine had shot out from behind the rocks and wrapped itself around her left foot.  Others were following.  A dark stain was forming above Marilyn’s ankle.
        “Try to be calm,” he said in a low voice, as he stomped on the murderous vine.  Sweat poured down his face.  He didn’t stop until it was crushed to a pulp.  The other vines slid away and retreated toward the lake.  “You step ahead of me and I’ll walk backwards, to make sure they aren’t coming after us.”
        “I can barely see,” Marilyn said, sobbing.  “You should have brought a flashlight.”
        “I know.”
  
Tendrils hung from the trees,
stretching to ensnare them as they passed.  Marilyn ducked, stumbled and fell on her face.  Her glasses flew off into the rocks.  “Craig! The vines! They’re wrapping around my arm.  I can’t feel… I can’t find my glasses!  My fingers…they’re almost numb.”
        “Take slow deep breaths,” he said.  “Keep your arm still.  Everything will be all right.”  While watching out for more of the saw-toothed leaves, he grabbed a small fallen limb.  He placed his foot beside her wrist for protection and gouged through the flesh of the vine.  The tentacles unwrapped and withdrew.  He helped her to her feet.  “You okay?” “I think so.  Let’s keep moving.”
        “I wonder why they backed off so quickly,” he said.
        “Who cares? Let’s go.”
  
Through flashes of lightning and
distant thunder, they hobbled through the downpour.  The vines were following them again, but kept their distance.  Without her glasses, all Marilyn could see was shadowy shapes.  “It’s all I can do to stay on the path,” she said to Craig.
        A nearby pine was struck by lightning.  The roar was deafening.  They kept going. “We’re close,” Craig said, pointing to the smoldering tree.  “That’s where we first saw the vines.”
        The cabin came into view.  They sloshed up the steps, with the vines not far behind them.  Once inside, Craig locked the door and turned on the lights.  They headed for the couch where Craig could examine Marilyn’s wounds.  He gathered her into a comforting embrace.  “How’s the leg and arm?”
        “Better,” she said.
        He pulled her close and could feel her heart pounding.
        “This is so eerie.  It can’t be happening,” she told him.
        The lights flickered.  “I’d better check the kitchen,” Craig said.  “Maybe there’s a flashlight in a cupboard somewhere.  Power’s bound to go any time.”
  
On a nearby shelf he found a radio
and a flashlight.  He pressed the yellow button on top and the flashlight spread a dim ray, which illuminated most of the room.  “Good enough.  Let’s try the radio.”  He pulled out the antenna and turned it on.   “Should have known,” he grumbled, as he put the useless radio back on the shelf.
        The lights flickered again.  Craig cringed at the look of fear in his wife’s eyes.
        “Try the TV,” Marilyn said in trembling voice.
        Craig grabbed the remote and cycled through the channels: static and snow.  “Oh, what a surprise,” he said.
        “Well, at least the power’s still on.” Marilyn wrapped a sweater tightly around her.
  
When the lights flickered again,
Craig decided to investigate, against Marilyn’s wishes.  He promised her he wouldn’t go off the porch.  On the way out the door, he picked up the flashlight.  The light on the pole in the parking area

was flickering.  The vines were curled around the pole and had obscured the security light.
        “Can you believe that?” he said to Marilyn, who was now standing in the doorway.
        “Right now, I’d believe anything.” 
        He came inside and they went into the bedroom and changed into dry clothes.  The lights flickered for several seconds then went out.  As Craig set the flashlight on the bedside table, a strange thump made them jump.  “Oh no, it’s the vines,” Marilyn whimpered.
        “Yes,” Craig said.  “And they’re coming after us.”
     
The plants were coming through the keyhole and under the door.  Marilyn screamed.  “Stay behind me and hold the flashlight,” Craig urged, as he eased toward the tentacles. The moment his boots touched them, they curled up and withdrew.  Before they could slither back under the door, he stomped on them.  The vines not within boot length stood ready to strike like cobras, then flattened out and began sawing a hole in the door. Craig ran toward them again, kicked hard until they retreated, but more took their place.
        The couple ran into the bedroom and bolted the door.  “Six hours to daylight,” he said to his wife.
        “We won’t survive that long, Craig. Where’s the cellphone?”
        “In the car.  I’ll go and get it.”
        “No!  You’ll never make it.”
        “I’ll be fine. There’s something about these boots they don’t like.”
        “I don’t want you to take the chance.  I’ve never heard it rain so hard.”
        “Me either.  I’ll make it.  Bring the flashlight and stand by the door.  It’s our only chance to get help.  I need something to protect myself from the leaves.  Did you pack my raincoat?”
        “It’s in the closet.”
        “It’s a long shot, but it’s the only way I can think of.”  He hugged her tight.  “I love you.”
        Her voice quavered.  “Love you, too,” she said over the grating whine of the saw-tooth leaves.  
  
Craig opened the door and, keys in hand, sprinted—actually slogged—to the car.  As he fumbled with the lock, the vines struck his leg above the boot.  Yelping, Craig kicked back hard.  A wave of nausea consumed him as another body floated by over the rim of the lake.  It was beginning to flood.
        Craig opened the console and retrieved the phone. Tucking it into the side pocket of his raincoat, he waded back to the cabin in knee-high water.  The boots had filled and slowed his pace; the current was strong enough to trip him, but it also kept the vines and their tentacles from grabbing onto him.  He struggled up the front steps and onto the porch, where he emptied the boots.  Marilyn opened the door, flung her arms around him and held on.  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said.
        “For a moment there, I thought I was going to be a mummy.”  He hung the raincoat in the kitchen and plucked the razor-sharp leaves off the coat and his jeans.  He handed the phone to Marilyn while he searched for dry clothes and something to bandage the gash above his calf.  He dug out two extra-strength non-aspirin tablets from his toiletry kit and swallowed them.
        Marilyn jabbed “911”.  No dial tone.  She tossed the phone on the couch and went to help Craig.
        “Feels better already,” he said as she dabbed at the wound with some antiseptic they found in the first aid kit.  “Let’s go into the bedroom and ride out the storm.  They haven’t gotten there, yet.”
  
They sat in silence listening to the
rain, the thunder and the sawing.  After a few hours, Craig got fidgety; he had to find out if they had a chance for escape.  Marilyn’s attempt to convince him to stay was futile.
        He grabbed the flashlight and cracked open the bedroom door.  The vines had sawed a sizeable hole in the front door.  Flood water had entered the living area.  He cautiously moved to the window; the porch banister was leaning outward, and their car was covered with vines.  He went to report the news to his wife.
        “The only safe place now is the attic,” he said.  “We’ll have to find the trap door.”
        They searched the bedroom and found the trap door in the bedroom closet.  Craig retrieved a chair from the flooded kitchen, stood on his toes and lifted the hatch.  “Looks okay.”  He gave a few hard yanks on the chain and at last the ladder unfolded.  “I’ll go first,” he said.
  
Holding the flashlight, he began a
slow climb up the ladder.  Except for some dust covering the floor and a few storage boxes, the attic was clean.  “Great, not even a blanket,” he grumbled. At the far end was a round window.  “You can come up.”
        Marilyn retrieved the bedding and their suitcase from the bedroom and climbed the ladder.  Craig pulled up the ladder and shoved the door back in place.  “I think we’ll be safe here.” He shined the light on his watch.  “Two a.m.” The flashlight dimmed.  “Damn! That’s all we need.” 
        They sat huddled together in the dark, silently praying for daylight.  Faint and distant at first, the sawing and growling resumed, soon increasing in volume.
        “They’re coming for us,” Marilyn said between sobs.  “We’re going to die.”
        “Don’t think like that!” Craig said.
        “There’s no way out.”
        “There is and we’ll find it.”
  
The vines had found them.  Craig saw it first, a long green shoot probing through a crack in the attic door.  In seconds, they had formed a mass of tentacles large enough to lift it.  “Quick, take one of my boots,” Craig said, as he advanced toward them.  Marilyn and Craig clubbed away until their arms were sore.  “Look, they’re backing off!” she said in triumph as the last remnants disappeared.
        “I wish they were, but they’ll be back.”  He carefully raised the trap door.  A tangle of vines and tentacles floated aimlessly in the water below him.  Were they finally dead?
        Suddenly he realized that it was quiet.  No thunder or lightning, just the soft pelt of rain.  “The storm’s subsiding,” he said over his shoulder. “And the vines look dead.  Maybe my stinking boots had something to do with their demise.”
        “Who cares why,” she said.  “I’m exhausted.”
  
Keeping the boots near, they settled back to wait for dawn.  Craig meant to stay awake, but soon lost the battle.  When he awoke, light was coming through the dust-covered window.  He looked out at a nearby tree.  Gently he shook Marilyn awake.   “What time is it?” she asked.
        “Seven o’clock.”
        “Where are the vines?”
        “Gone,” he said.
  
Moments later, they heard a
commotion below them.  “Is anyone here?” a male voice boomed.
        “We’re in the attic,” Craig shouted, “above the bedroom closet.”  He went to open the trap door.  As he let down the ladder, he saw a state trooper looking up at him.  “Lt. Tom Hawkins, State Police.  I’ve got another officer with me.  How many are with you, sir?  And do you need medical assistance?”
        “My wife is with me, and I think we’re okay.”
        “Are you folks able to come down the ladder?”
        “Yes.”
        “Be careful.  There’s a lot of water in the cabin.  Could be some snakes in here, too.”  Lt. Hawkins reached up and helped Marilyn down.    Her eyes widened as she peered into the waist-high water.  “They’re gone!”
        “What’s gone?” said the trooper.
        “Nothing,” Craig said as he stepped into the water.
        “Looks like you’re both pretty scratched up,” Lt. Hawkins said.  “Sure you don’t need medical attention?”
        “Yes,” Craig said.  “We’ll be fine.”
  
The second officer was waiting near what was left of the living room door.  “Sergeant Gilbert,” he said.  “Good morning, glad you’re okay.”
        “Thank you.  I’m Craig Thompson and this is my wife, Marilyn.”
        Marilyn’s eyes filled with tears.  She couldn’t stop shaking.  “Are we glad to see you.  I thought we were going to die.”
        “That was quite a storm,” Sergeant Gilbert said. “We can take you to Oceanus.  We’ll have to go by boat for a piece.  There’s no room for any belongings.  Are you up to it?”
        Craig and Marilyn nodded.  
  
Lt. Hawkins led the way.  Marilyn remembered her purse and the officer went back to retrieve it. Then he stood in waist-deep water and steadied the boat while Craig and Marilyn boarded.  The Sergeant started the engine.  As the boat sped away from the cabin, Marilyn and Craig took one last look at their ruined weekend.
        Marilyn blinked and squinted.  “Craig, where’s our car?” 
        Although he knew she couldn’t see, he pointed to the left.  “There’s the top.”
        She sighed.  “We can get another car.  I’m just glad the nightmare’s over.”
        While the boat skimmed over the water, Craig nervously scanned the surface.
        “Something wrong, sir?” Lt. Hawkins asked.
        “There are bodies in the lake,” Craig said with a weariness he hadn’t experienced before.  “You’ll have to see for yourself to believe us, but there were vine-like plants with tentacles—weeds of some kind—that attacked and killed them, and tried to kill us, too.”
        “What?” The sergeant looked at Craig as if he were an escaped mental patient.
        “I know it sounds ridiculous, and we have no proof, but when the water recedes, you will find them.”
        “It’s true, Sergeant,” Marilyn said.  “I thought they were going to kill us.  Just look at what they did to me?”  She showed them her cuts.
        “You can fill out a report later,” Lt. Hawkins said in a tone seasoned with skepticism.  “There’s a hospital nearby.  I think you folks should visit it.”
  
When they reached land, the troopers helped Marilyn and Craig into the back seat of the cruiser.  Craig put his arm around his wife and gave her a hug.  As soon as they got home, he would research what in his boots had repelled the vines; there had to be a substance or chemical of some kind that biologists could use to eventually eradicate them.
        Off in the distance they could see the steam rising from the reactor’s cooling towers: puffy and white as the clouds above.  The miles ticked by and Craig’s eyes focused on the road; there were vines along the shoulder and he thought he saw them slithering, reaching out toward the car.  It was as if they knew what he intended to do.  He struggled to purge their image from his mind.
        “What are you looking at so intently?” Marilyn asked.
        “Nothing,” Craig said, hugging his wife even tighter.
 
 
                         About The Author
  
        SIG member Dean Henning, a registered nurse, lives near Benton, AR, with his wife, Marilyn.  He has had two short stories published in Calliope and one in the online magazine, Rhapsody.  Dean is a member of the Fiction Writers of Central Arkansas and the Poets Roundtable of Arkansas. His poetry has been published in the chapbook, Unlocking Worlds, the local newspaper, and in Poets’ Roundtable anthologies.  He has also placed in several writing contests, including First Place, and First and Second Honorable mentions for poems in Arkansas’ Poetry Day.
        He has completed one novel and is revising another, and is working on a collection of sci-fi and fantasy stories.
        Of the writing process, he says, “I love the progress from rough draft to finished copy of a manuscript.”  He also believes that being in a critique group or having a co-writer contributes to his development as a writer.
        In addition to writing, Dean enjoys art, music (he is a trombonist with a local community band), and travel (he and Marilyn have traveled to every continent).  
  
                                      Copyright © Dean Henning