others scatter through the maze of branches. Lightning slams through the trees. Fire licks at fresh leaves.
A branch bursts out of Winston, a wooden tentacle, thickening, widening. He screams, his mouth open so wide his whole head hinges back on the spine of a book. One leg is growing, lengthening. I see bark spreading over his chest.
And shit and balls. Oh unredeeming buggery-fuck. They’re turning Winston into a tree. They’re turning him into… Jesus.
He screams again. It’s muffled. Leaves burst from his face even as it’s lifted into the sky by his suddenly colossal legs.
Lightning arcs. He staggers round, smashes a wooden arm into the newly grown forest. Branches fall like rain, rattling and snapping their way down. He sways again. The top of a tree falls down beside him, obliterating another bookshelf. The tall Russian dives for safety a second time.
I scramble for cover. Crouched behind a tree, I’m unable to look away. I wait for it to be over, for stasis to seize Winston, for him to die.
Turns out he’s a bit of a persistent bugger.
“Oh fuck me backwards!” Words start to emerge out of Winston’s senseless yelling. “Oh Jesus.”
He smashes into more of the newly grown forest. I heave on Clyde moments before a tree limb slams into the space his head just occupied.
“I’m a fucking Ent!” Winston yells. “I’m a Tolkien fanboy’s wet dream!”
He stumbles forward. The Russians scatter as he mashes towards them.
“What have you bastards done to me?” He sweeps an arm clumsily in their direction. Furniture is obliterated. Chairs fly across the open space, shatter against the walls. The woman turns, a look of fear on her face. She stretches out a hand.
“No you bleeding don’t.”
Winston’s massive foot comes down. Lightning flares—
—and dies. There is a crack and a crunch. A sickening wet snap of bone and blood.
“Ow! Jesus!”
Winston’s foot is on fire. He hops backwards, trips, comes sprawling towards us. The tall Russian is scurrying for the floor.
“No.” Malcolm is calm and furious all at once. He opens fire at the Russian. I join in. Bullets chew through wood, spatter among bookshelves, embed themselves in Winston’s leg.
“Timbeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr!!!”
And gravity finally wins. And Winston comes down.
NINETEEN
“M ove!” I haul hard on Clyde. He is a sack of skin and bones. Branches fight me.
Winston hits the treeline.
The world shudders. Explosions drum against my sternum. Noise eclipses my senses. Everything is shattering and cracking and creaking. Everything is falling apart. My face is full of leaves and tree.
Somewhere, between my heartbeats, silence returns. Only the whistle of damaged nerve endings in my ear and the heave of my breath to listen to. I am pinned in branches. They give way one by one. I half collapse, half slither to the floor.
Clyde has been thrown to the very edge of the trees. He’s still unconscious. Missed the whole thing. Lucky bastard.
He better just be bloody unconscious. I do not want to have that conversation with Tabitha.
“Bastards,” says a basso cockney voice. “Bastards made me a bloody treeman.”
Winston’s voice. Winston is still alive, still here. His form’s changed, violently and unmistakably, but the animating force that is Winston is still invested in it.
No breach of contract. So no death. So Clyde is definitely still alive.
Well thank God for that.
I bend down, start heaving my friend up. Aiko emerges from a nearby thicket. Her clothes are torn and blood from a cut on her forehead is matted in her eyebrows.
“Come on,” she says. “Let me help you with him.”
“You OK?” I ask as we pull Clyde free of the trees.
“Not really.” She shakes her head. Then she lets go of Clyde. I stagger against the sudden increase in weight.
“Shit.” Aiko sits down hard. “This is twice in one week. Normally the worst I have to deal with is a six-year-old calling me a poopyhead.” She starts to
A branch bursts out of Winston, a wooden tentacle, thickening, widening. He screams, his mouth open so wide his whole head hinges back on the spine of a book. One leg is growing, lengthening. I see bark spreading over his chest.
And shit and balls. Oh unredeeming buggery-fuck. They’re turning Winston into a tree. They’re turning him into… Jesus.
He screams again. It’s muffled. Leaves burst from his face even as it’s lifted into the sky by his suddenly colossal legs.
Lightning arcs. He staggers round, smashes a wooden arm into the newly grown forest. Branches fall like rain, rattling and snapping their way down. He sways again. The top of a tree falls down beside him, obliterating another bookshelf. The tall Russian dives for safety a second time.
I scramble for cover. Crouched behind a tree, I’m unable to look away. I wait for it to be over, for stasis to seize Winston, for him to die.
Turns out he’s a bit of a persistent bugger.
“Oh fuck me backwards!” Words start to emerge out of Winston’s senseless yelling. “Oh Jesus.”
He smashes into more of the newly grown forest. I heave on Clyde moments before a tree limb slams into the space his head just occupied.
“I’m a fucking Ent!” Winston yells. “I’m a Tolkien fanboy’s wet dream!”
He stumbles forward. The Russians scatter as he mashes towards them.
“What have you bastards done to me?” He sweeps an arm clumsily in their direction. Furniture is obliterated. Chairs fly across the open space, shatter against the walls. The woman turns, a look of fear on her face. She stretches out a hand.
“No you bleeding don’t.”
Winston’s massive foot comes down. Lightning flares—
—and dies. There is a crack and a crunch. A sickening wet snap of bone and blood.
“Ow! Jesus!”
Winston’s foot is on fire. He hops backwards, trips, comes sprawling towards us. The tall Russian is scurrying for the floor.
“No.” Malcolm is calm and furious all at once. He opens fire at the Russian. I join in. Bullets chew through wood, spatter among bookshelves, embed themselves in Winston’s leg.
“Timbeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr!!!”
And gravity finally wins. And Winston comes down.
NINETEEN
“M ove!” I haul hard on Clyde. He is a sack of skin and bones. Branches fight me.
Winston hits the treeline.
The world shudders. Explosions drum against my sternum. Noise eclipses my senses. Everything is shattering and cracking and creaking. Everything is falling apart. My face is full of leaves and tree.
Somewhere, between my heartbeats, silence returns. Only the whistle of damaged nerve endings in my ear and the heave of my breath to listen to. I am pinned in branches. They give way one by one. I half collapse, half slither to the floor.
Clyde has been thrown to the very edge of the trees. He’s still unconscious. Missed the whole thing. Lucky bastard.
He better just be bloody unconscious. I do not want to have that conversation with Tabitha.
“Bastards,” says a basso cockney voice. “Bastards made me a bloody treeman.”
Winston’s voice. Winston is still alive, still here. His form’s changed, violently and unmistakably, but the animating force that is Winston is still invested in it.
No breach of contract. So no death. So Clyde is definitely still alive.
Well thank God for that.
I bend down, start heaving my friend up. Aiko emerges from a nearby thicket. Her clothes are torn and blood from a cut on her forehead is matted in her eyebrows.
“Come on,” she says. “Let me help you with him.”
“You OK?” I ask as we pull Clyde free of the trees.
“Not really.” She shakes her head. Then she lets go of Clyde. I stagger against the sudden increase in weight.
“Shit.” Aiko sits down hard. “This is twice in one week. Normally the worst I have to deal with is a six-year-old calling me a poopyhead.” She starts to
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