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nside the living room of a rustic summer cabin in remote British Colombia, Canada, a squirrel nervously glances over its shoulder at the shattered window through which it had entered moments before, should it need a fast retreat. It could just have easily entered any of a large number of irregular holes eaten through the massive logs that formed the cabin’s walls, but the odor that lingered near them had caused it to shun such ingresses. With its ears cocked, straining for any unnatural sound, the rodent looks like an exquisite sculpture carved from elegant stone.
No birds twitter in the pines.
No raccoons chitter from the bushes or from beneath the cabin’s crawl space.
Only the soft whisper of sluggish waves from the nearby beach, mixed with wind puffs sighing in the pines can be heard, accompanied by a hint of salty air carried on the breeze—a breeze tainted by a threatening undercurrent of something else.
Something relatively new to the world.
Something akin to the smell embracing the cabin’s numerous odd openings in its walls.
Something deadly.
Briefly, the squirrel sniffs the lingering odor again, and is satisfied that the things that made the odor did so long ago, and have not returned since. Reassured that its life is not endangered, the squirrel leaps from the back of the dusty couch onto a coffee table, sniffs the items scattered about, and decides they aren’t edible. Briefly, it clutches a cigarette lighter in its paws just to be sure, and then discards it. The lighter clatters off the table and tumbles onto the moldy carpet with a muffled thump.
The squirrel blinks once and backtracks to the couch, where it hops up to the back and eyes the rows of dusty bookcases lining a wall, and the shelf and cabinets jutting from beneath them.
Before leaping the three-foot gap, it eyes the strangely etched, yellowed tangle of human bones littering the floor; the remains have been dead so long that they carry no discernable death odors that might upset the squirrel. If the squirrel had had the ability to count, it would have known that the mortal remains of four people lay jumbled upon the rustic wood floor, three feet below its perch.
Unconcerned, the squirrel leaps the gap and cautiously searches the counter top in search of food. It finds none. Glancing upward at the bookshelves, it briefly weighs a few mostly empty nooks as potential nesting places, and rejects the idea: too easily reached by raccoons and other small predators.
Far too open and easily reached by the Floaters.
Bloaters are not a concern; they, at least, seem to be confined to the ocean.
Despite its instincts telling it that the next wave of Bloaters and Floaters aren’t due for another two months, a sudden scraping noise frightens the squirrel, and it jerks its head around toward a side window off the living room, expecting the worst. False alarm: only a tree branch dragging its stiff, woody fingers across the window, aided by a sudden breeze.
No Floater trying to squeeze its gelatinous bulk through a cracked pane.
After a long glance at other openings to be sure of its safety, the squirrel is satisfied and returns its attention to objects on the shelf. Hopping to the right, it examines in turn an old oil lamp, an ashtray with two ancient cigar butts, a telephone, and a Barbie doll. Lying supine on the counter, the doll is naked except for one dainty, high-heeled shoe and a purse draped around its neck.
Nearby, an equally naked Ken sits in his scratched red Corvette on scattered notebook papers. Tilted sideways across the front seat with his head turned to the right, it’s as if he’s embarrassed at Barbie’s lewd behavior.
“His and hers” doll clothing lies scattered next to the car on the countertop, leaving one to wonder what Barbie and Ken had been doing just prior to the present scene.
Twelve year-old Michael LeFevre could have cleared up the embarrassing mystery, were he still alive. But he was not. His strangely-etched skeleton lay jumbled with that of the rest of his family, a dozen feet away.
Finding nothing of worth on the bookshelves or countertop, the squirrel doubled back to the couch, ran across its back, and hopped to the adjoining loveseat.
From there, it first eyed the padded swivel work chair and the antique rolltop desk across the room. Hopping to the floor, the squirrel skittered lightly across the living room, and leapt onto the swivel work chair’s padded seat. Standing on its hind paws, it cautiously scanned the contents of the desk: a mug filled with pencils and pens; two smoking pipes tucked in one of the wooden cubbyholes; a ziplock pouch of dessicated tobacco; assorted envelopes jutting from other niches; paper clips in a small, magnetic holder, and . . .
. . . a yellowing diary opened to its last written page. The date recorded in the diary was July 17, 2009, nearly three years ago. The pen that had written those last frantic, frightened words lay on the desktop inches away.
The squirrel, of course, could not read the entries written there. But it didn’t have to, because the rodent had experienced the horrors that had overcome the unsuspecting, vacationing family from a different, but no less horrifying perspective.
Here, our tale must of necessity depart from that of the squirrel’s perspective. If we are to discover the remainder of the mystery contained in the diary’s pages, we must become voyeurs, and peer into the diary’s encapsulation of those last, terrifying days of death and horror for the LeFevere family, starting with the date of July 12; a month after their summer vacation had begun:
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Last night’s hellish electric storm brought blessed relief from the stifling summer heat that has dogged us for nearly two weeks. To celebrate the cool, crisp day, my wife Jolene, and our two children Michael and Charlene joined me for a noon picnic in the forest, keeping wary eyes out for bears. None spoiled our celebration of this wonderful outing.
Later, Michael and I decided to go fishing at beach around two p.m. Charlene joined us, and spent her time making sand castles (“cobble” castles, actually. There’s precious little sand) while Jolene lounged on a beach towel in the sun. Strangely, the fishing which had been good previously, was terrible. All we “caught” were stringers of seaweed, which continually tangled our lines. |
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July 13, 2009
Another cool, refreshing day. Hiked in forest with the kids during morning while Jolene continued reading her novel, and baked blueberry pies for supper. It wasn’t until we had returned to the cabin that I realized what had subconsciously troubled me during our earlier hike: the forest was unusually quiet. The one or two squirrels and rabbits we did see seemed unusually skittish, but not of us. Cut hike short fearing possible bear or mountain lion lurking nearby.
By mid-afternoon, breeze was already swinging around to the south. Warmer weather lies ahead. Tried fishing again late afternoon. Same result as yesterday. Seaweed was terrible—clogged our lines so badly that reeling them in took repeated pauses to clear them. |
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July 14, 2009
Family slept poorly last night, probably due to return of humidity. Closed windows and turned on air conditioning at around three a.m., but still could not sleep.
Intended to hike to Coozie’s Bluff, a half mile down the beach this a.m., but changed our minds. Humidity stifling. What sluggish sea breeze there is has a subtle but nasty rotten smell to it. |
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2:30 p.m.
Went to beach to see if perhaps a dead fish, or other dead animal of some size had washed ashore, and was fouling the air. Intent was to remove it elsewhere. Instead, found tons of seaweed clogging the entire beach, and small bits of gray, tendril-like stuff clinging to the rotting seaweed. Lord, how it stinks! Probably some form of ocean plant life that eats decaying seaweed. I sure hope there’s enough of the gray stuff to cope with the seaweed, because the entire beach is crammed with it. No possibility of enjoying the beach, today.
Entire family stayed inside with air conditioning running this evening. But even with windows closed, the smell worsens. |
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July 15
Family did not sleep well due to horrible smell, which intensified slowly all last night. Everyone complaining of headaches. Must be from gasses given off by decaying seaweed on beach. After taking aspirin, went to beach to see if there was any way to clear up some of the mess. If I can’t solve the problem, we may pack up early and return to Vancouver.
Entire beach crammed solid with seaweed, thousands of dead fish, and an increasing amount of the gray stuff clinging to everything. Put hanky over my face and stooped to examine the gray material more closely: long, thin tendrils with little bladders lining the stalks. Some bladders as large as two inches. Didn’t notice the gas-filled sacs yesterday, but wasn’t looking closely. |
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8:00 p.m.
Everyone miserable with headaches and nausea. Jolene and Charlene seem to be running low fevers. Would pack and leave tonight, but everyone feels too ill and tired. Will leave first thing tomorrow a.m. without packing, come hell or high water. Thunder rumbling in distance is splitting my head. |
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July 16
A wonderful break! Last night’s violent storm washed most of the rotting debris from the beach. East wind blowing what stench there is out to sea.
Strangely, some of the gray stuff remains, and it has changed dramatically. Now, the cove is scattered with the gray stuff, which floats about on gassy bladders, sort-of like a Portuguese Man-of-War. Some of the bladders are huge—nearly two feet high by three-plus feet wide. Why the stiff east wind doesn’t blow them away is a mystery. Perhaps each gray “colony” is anchored to the bay’s shallow floor? |
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11:00 a.m.
Sent Michael to his bedroom for messing with Charlene’s Barbie toys. Boys! What they won’t do! Michael had stripped Barbie and Ken naked, and Charlene had wailed like a baby. It was hard to keep a straight face while I swatted Michael’s bare bum a few licks with a willow branch for his actions. Fortunately it was me and not Jolene who disciplined Michael, or the shit would really have hit the proverbial fan. |
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1:00 p.m.
A hearty lunch has revived us all, and we are having second thoughts about returning to Vancouver. I attempted to find out if perhaps there had been some sort of oil spill or other industrial accident offshore that might explain the odd fish kill and weird plant life on our beach. Radio acting up. Nothing but static across the band, even after putting in new batteries. Tried the tele, but was shocked to find that it had gone on the blink, too. Well, we wanted to get away from civilization. Looks like we have! |
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5:00 p.m.
Returned to beach for closer look at weird gray plant life. Long tendrils of nearest floating “colony” washed up on the beach despite east wind. Kneeled and touched the stuff. Had weird, greasy feel. When I rubbed it between my fingers, I felt a strange, tingling sensation that scared me. Dropped the stuff and rinsed my fingers vigorously in the surf, then dried them with hanky. Slight tingle remains. |
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9:00 p.m.
Tingling has grown worse despite repeated washings with soap and even antiseptic. Tingle now accompanied by burning sensation. Have not told Jolene, but will pack family and leave for Vancouver first thing tomorrow a.m., if no improvement. |
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July 17
Disaster! Should have left when we could. Wind shifted to southwest during night, and with it came full-blown nausea and vomiting. Whole family violently ill. Too weak to attempt driving. |
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9:30 a.m.
Despite my illness (left hand now wrapped in gauze to hide massive, discolored, burning blisters), I staggered to beach with Michael, who feels only slightly better. Terrifying sight met our eyes. Cove packed with the gray things I’d been watching the past few days. Now, the largest gas-filled bags are enormous—eight feet across. Several of the “Bloaters,” as Michael has named them, are being lifted partially out of the water by their gas-filled bags. They sway in the breeze like balloons tethered to strings. Even as we watch, the first tears free of its mooring with a wet, sloppy sound, and begins to drift north.
Suddenly it changes direction, and, against the prevailing wind, heads directly for us! At first we stand, transfixed.
But as it nears us its tendrils, which had been laconically dragging the ground, wriggle to horrible life, and reach for us. Beads of liquid form and trickle down the outside of each appendage. Where the vile fluid dribbles onto the ground, white smoke springs up. Screaming, we sprint to the house and bar the doors.
But not before my son glances off to the south, and witnesses the ultimate horror: drifting placidly toward us like a troupe of hot air balloons, hundreds of “Floaters” fill the sky above the forest. |
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May be last diary entry
How stupid could I be? Floaters not plants, at all! They surrounded the cabin shortly after Michael and I staggered inside. Glass seems to resist their acidic digestive fluids, but not so the massive wood logs that make up the walls. Within thirty minutes of our returning to the house, putrid, white mist penetrated the walls in several places. Stench sickens us even more. All but me too weak to crawl, much less run. Sound of breaking glass—impatient Floaters crashing into windows, smashing them out. Through my rapidly fading conscience and burning eyes, I see one stuffing its way through window frame like jelly though a crack.
No basement to hide in. Even if there were, Floaters would digest their way through the floorboards.
Can barely write, now. Darkness closing in as my family huddles on the floor behind the couch, too weak to move. God be merciful and take us before the things eat us, alive. I must—I will find strength to crawl across floor and join them.
Still, I can’t help wondering, even at our end: with the radio and TV acting as they did, was there really any place for us to run to? |
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