The drizzly rain hung in the air like a fine mist, dampening the already wet muddy ground. McArthur stood in the field in his mud splattered boots and weatherproof outer layers, inspecting his crops. He reached out and touched the mould-riddled plant and a faint blue dust crumpled away with the wind. Even in the rain the dust seemed to make his hand itch and he sneezed a few times spasmodically. Parting the rotten corn husk of its outer layers, inside was a perfectly formed cob, flawless in every way like a golden nugget. His green-grey eyes narrowed and he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Outstanding,” he muttered, twisting the cob and it snapped off in his hand. He held it up in the rain like a glistening jewel, plucked out of a nightmare.
In the distance, the sound of a car could be heard grumbling up the track. It stopped just short of the muddy field and McArthur felt the urge to sneeze again but somehow managed to suppress it. Putting the cob in his coat pocket, he trudged through the wet field towards the waiting police car. Standing in the rain, he watched the officer in his freshly pressed uniform ferret around before pulling out a large black umbrella which he duly put up. He also noticed the gun in his holster and the fact that he was alone. “McArthur,” the officer called out above the steady purr of the rain. “You probably know why I’m here,” he began, coming closer so that he could be heard. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Here’s fine,” McArthur grunted as the rain battered his weather-beaten hat and slid down off his waterproof clothes.
“Some weather,” the officer commented and the sound of distant thunder rumbled as if the gods had been challenged. “A storm’s coming in,” the officer noted but McArthur said nothing. “Ground looks pretty wet; how’s business?”
“Business is good, very good.”
“Looks too wet to grow anything,” the officer added, conversationally.
“Are we here to talk about my crops or did you have something more specific you wanted to discuss?” McArthur challenged, and the officer returned his gaze with a steely glare.
“We have six workers from your farm all in the hospital.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“We don’t know yet, all we know is they are highly contagious,” the officer explained. “They have a blue fungus growing on their skin, spreading.”
“You say they’re sick, how?”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me?” the officer barked and McArthur reached into his pocket, causing the officer to instinctively reach for his gun. “I wouldn’t do that,” the officer warned, but McArthur kept reaching. Slowly McArthur pulled out the bright yellow cob and the officer smiled wryly, returning his gun to the holster.
“You see this,” McArthur said, holding up the cob. “Every year the weather worsens, the plants look half dead, but the fruit is spectacular.” McArthur hacked up a few dry coughs. “You say they are sick, but are they still able to function?”
“The blue fungus is creeping slowly, covering their skin, soon they will be covered.”
“How’s it affecting them?” McArthur yelled into the wind and there was a moment of electric silence as the storm moved over them. “They can still walk, talk, think.”
“Some have to be restrained because they keep hurting themselves trying to remove the creep.”
“The creep,” McArthur cackled with laughter. “It didn’t creep when it came through here and covered my crops.”
“You don’t regard this blue fungus as a problem?”
“Look,” McArthur held up the cob again and took a bite out of the juicy vegetable before throwing it to the ground where it became instantly engulfed in mud. “They have it on their skin, but it won’t hurt them inside.” McArthur itched at his beard and looked to the sky.
“Is there any way to get it off?”
“Fire, maybe,” McArthur suggested with a disinterested shrug. The officer put the umbrella down despite the rain and reached for his handcuffs, glinting in the dim light. “I’m going to have to take you in,” the officer said, and McArthur held up his hands in mock surrender. The officer squelched over to him and ordered, “Behind your back.” McArthur complied, and when the officer flicked on the cuffs, he noticed a blue smudge on McArthur’s skin. “You’re infected,” the officer pointed out, spinning him around and noticing blue fungus in his beard.
The officer took a step back and observed McArthur in his field like a dusty scarecrow amongst his contaminated crops. As the wind picked up, part of a rotten husk broke away. “It’s all infected, everything,” the officer remarked.
“I know,” McArthur agreed and the thunder boomed directly overhead. “Now you are too.”
Gregory Ballinger is an avid reader, writer and time traveler. When Gregory is not reading or writing, he often travels back to the 1800’s in England where he likes to spend his time in country gardens as an ornamental hermit contemplating life in the cosmos. Gregory also likes cats.
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