Triffid Fury, Part Four

We managed to talk Dukes into staying home, with instructions to call the police with a story if we didn’t call him in an hour. Then Rachel and I rang the bell on Lillian Floria’s front door. “She may take a while,” I warned.

            The door opened two seconds later. Lillian held a potted gardenia in her hand. Her blouse and jeans were stained with dirt and sweat as she glared at us. “Yes? What?”

            I held out the tag. “Is this yours?”

            She peered at it. Then she looked at Rachel. “Who are you?”

            “Rachel. I work with Tom.” She patted my arm.

            Lillian opened the door. “Come in.”

            I checked out the rubber plants next to the door, but they didn’t reach out for me this time. Lillian led us through the jungle of her front hall, past the stairs and into the kitchen. We could see the greenhouse through the window. 

“Where did you get that?” She set the gardenia on the table and crossed her arms.

            “Next door.” I tossed it on the kitchen table, next to a potted cactus. “It belongs to one of the Triffids in your greenhouse, right?”

            Lillian frowned. “Erick. I thought I could trust him.”

            I’d probably just gotten him fired. But I had a feeling he was going to quit anyway. “So it is yours.”

            She slapped the edge of the table. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Is it because of that stupid cat?”

            “And Devon Hatler.” Rachel leaned back against the sink counter.

            “Troublemaker.” She shook her head. “All right. You want to see? Let me show you.”

            Outside, we went down the back porch steps into the yard. On the path to the greenhouse, Lillian stopped and pointed to a plant. Four feet tall, it looked like a sunflower with large red petals. “That’s one of my favorites. It took years to breed.”

            I glanced at Rachel. She shrugged. “Pretty.”

            Lillian put a delicate hand on the stalk and pulled it closer. “Smell it.”

            A faint perfume drifted from the flower. I wasn’t going to sniff it—

            But a puff of pink mist unexpectedly spurted from the head of the flower. It smelled like lilacs mixed with ammonia. I turned my head away and sneezed, and Rachel lifted a hand to cover her mouth.

            Too late. The mist coated my face. I closed my eyes and tried to wipe it off, but with my eyes shut I realized I couldn’t stand up straight. I staggered, moaning, and reached for Rachel’s arm. Then my knees gave out, and I dropped to the ground.

            I didn’t feel the grass as I hit it.

Damn it. The old “knockout flower” trick again, eh?

            I opened my eyes. I was in a folding plastic chair, my hands tied behind my back with clothesline, and my feet bound together in front of me. Rachel was next to me, similarly tied up. We were in the greenhouse.

            The humid air smelled like flowers, fertilizer, and damp dirt. I blinked, trying to focus my eyes as sweat dripped down my face.

            Lillian Floria stood at a small garden table, wearing her garden gloves and holding a spray bottle. 

            Behind her I saw Tanya. Or something just like her. Along with four others.

            Five or six feet high, their bodies were covered with shaking triangular leaves. The star-shaped maws at the top were closed, but they were clotted with the red berries that had almost blinded us last night. 

            “Uhh . . .” Rachel rolled her head and opened her eyes. “Tom? Never buy me flowers again.”

            I struggled to sit forward. “Your neighbor is waiting for a phone call from us. Otherwise he’ll call the police.”

            She shook her head. “They won’t find you. After I spray you with this—” She shook the bottle up and down. “They’ll get rabid to eat.”

            I eyed the bottle. The liquid inside was a dirty yellow, like the bile that had spilled out on Dukes’ arm last night. “Is that how you killed Devon Hatler? Spraying him?” Asking questions was still my first instinct. Plus, I figured the longer I could keep her talking, the less time the triffids would have to eat us.

            “I have a spell book for controlling them. This is just easier. They’re hungry.” Lillian started spraying us, squirting my shirt and Rachel’s. The liquid smelled like maple syrup. 

            Spells. Magic. Of course. None of this was natural.

            “What about—” Rachel kicked her boots. “The cat? Did you send them after Precious?”

            “Who cares about the goddamned cat?” She sprayed Rachel in the face. “They get hungry! It’s just a cat!”

            I lurched forward, furious as Rachel coughed violently. “And Devon Hatler was just—what? A troublemaker?”

            “For my son, yes.” She rammed the bottle down on a table. “Who needed him? All he was after was money. Feeding my plants was a better use for him.”

            She stripped off her gloves. “A better use for you, too. I’d better leave now. I want my plants to know just what to eat.”

            Oh god. This was like a bad James Bond parody. Get the villain to monologue, and then have him or her leave the heroes to their demise instead of just shooting them in the chest.

            Not that I wanted to be shot in the chest, of course. 

            The plants were starting to rustle and move as Lillian closed and locked the door.

            Rachel kicked her bootheels on the floor planks. “This is another fine mess.”

            “If you’d only stay in the car just once.” I started struggling.

            The clothesline was slippery, and it wasn’t very tight. And Lillian Floria had probably never learned Boy Scout knots. Rachel got her feet free by kicking her way out of her boots.

            But the plants were leaning forward. Reaching out. The mouths opening.

            “Get out.” I almost had my hands loose. 

            Rachel reared up from the chair in her socks, hands behind her back. One of the plants lunged at her. She twisted away and then

curled up on the floor in a fetal position, still pulling at her wrists. The clothesline loosened, and eventually she slipped it off just as I managed to pull my own hands free—

And them the plants surrounded us.

The red petals started bursting like tiny Molotov cocktails. Rachel pulled her T-shirt up over her head. I closed my eyes, kicked my chair over, and lunged for the table where Lillian had left her spray bottle. 

Rachel swore viciously as the red mist stung her skin. ”Son of a—mother—goddamn bitch of a—” 

I cursed, not quite as colorfully, and for the bottle, my fingers numb. It was the only thing I could think of.

My eyes closed, protecting my face with my arm, I blasted the maple-syrup smelling liquid blindly and randomly around the room.

One of the plants brushed my shoulder. I risked a blink to aim, and then shot a spray straight down its throat. 

The same horrible stench burst from its maw. I closed my eyes again, pumping the spray bottle back and forth until it felt close to empty. Then I lost my nerve and fell to the ground, crawling next to Rachel.

She was gasping. I tried to cover her. “Sorry.”

“That’s what I get for hanging out with you. Jerk.” She grabbed my hand.

Then I heard the greenhouse door slam open. 

“What the hell?” Lillian’s voice boomed. “What did you do?”

The plants were spewing their deadly crimson mist at each other. Two of them were twisting their bodies together, grappling like wrestlers. Another one just stretched up, almost hitting the glass ceiling of the greenhouse. The last one drooped over like—well, like a dying plant.

What—it worked?

I pushed Rachel toward the door. I thought about grabbing the bottle and spraying Lillian with the stuff, but it was out of my reach and almost empty. Plus, I didn’t really want to kill her. I just wanted to get out. 

Rachel pushed her. Lillian stumbled back and almost tripped, but I caught her shoulder as I plunged through the door. Lillian pounded my chest with her fists. “Stop it! Stop it!”

I kicked the door shut. Outside, Rachel knelt and pulled her T-shirt off, gasping as if about to throw up. Fortunately she was wearing a bra. 

Lillian sank to the ground, her body shaking.

“Where are our phones?” I needed to call Dukes before he called the police.

She just shook her head. “I can’t . . . you . . . my Triff—Triff—Triff . . .”

Then she closed her eyes and fell over onto the ground.

Back home we opened some beers and dug into the latest pie Dukes had given us.

            I’d called an ambulance for Lillian Floria. She was awake but incoherent when the paramedics showed up. They took her away, and some cops questioned us. Mostly they checked out Rachel in her bra before Dukes brought a shirt over for her, but when they peeked in the greenhouse, they decided not to arrest us.

            “I need to a shower.” I stood up from the table, my legs still shaky. Dukes had given me a fresh shirt, too, but the smell of Lillian’s spray was still on my skin. I hoped we had enough soap for me to scrub it away.

            “Me too.” She cut another slice a pie. “Can you add pies to your invoice?”

            Before I could think of a snappy answer, my phone buzzed.

            Michael Floria. Oh hell. We who are about to die . . .

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s Michael Floria.”

            I tried to speak through a dry throat. “Yes, Mr. Floria. How is your mother?” It seemed the polite thing to ask an Outfit guy.

            “They say she’s had a stroke. At her age . . .” He sighed. “She’ll probably have to go to a facility.”

            “I’m sorry.” How soon would he be sending the hit men? How many more locks could I put on the door? Maybe we should just move out of town, make up new names, and get plastic surgery.

            “Look, I knew my mother was involved in some—strange stuff. With her plants. I didn’t know how weird until I went to her house. I’m here now. This is—unreal.” 

            “You didn’t go into the greenhouse, did you?”

            “I looked inside. Just for a second. I’ve seen a lot of things, Jurgen, but this—I’ll probably have to destroy it all.”

            He probably knew people who could set fires. “I’m sorry.”

            “Just stay away from her, and we’ll be done with each other. That’ll be it. Do you understand?”

            “Perfectly, sir. Thank you.” I gulped some beer as he hung up. “I think we’re off the hook with the mafia.”

            “Thank god.” Rachel took another bite of pie and stood up. “Let’s take a shower.”

# # #

[Of course, one should read the original novel,The Day of the Triffids, by John Wyndham. It’s great.]