Spread, Tales of Deadly Flora by Various Authors! Publication Day Push!

 

Blake Carter, newly-minted MI6 operative on his first assignment arrives under an alias in Vietnam and meets his local civilian contact/guide, before checking his cache of weapons.Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora

Green thumbs beware. Plants are beautiful, peaceful, abundant, and life-sustaining. But what if something sinister took root in the soil, awakening to unleash slashing thorns, squeezing vines, or haunting greenery that lured you in? 

Perhaps blooms on distant planets could claim your heart, hitch a ride to Earth on a meteor, or simply poison you with their essence. Imagine a world where scientists produced our own demise in a lab, set spores free to infect, even bred ferns to be our friends only to witness the privilege perverted. 

When faced with botanical terror, will humanity fight to survive, or will they curl and wither like leaves in the fall? 

Read ten speculative tales ripe with dangerous flora to find out.

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An excerpt from Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora (Page Turn Press).

An Invitation to Grovener Mountain Resort by Lisa Fox. After receiving mysterious letters from her missing grandmother’s favourite vacation destination, a curious woman is lured into a perilous supernatural encounter.

A residual echo of Annie’s laughter reverberated all around, a clanging echo. The sound morphed into a booming chuckle. It rattled the broken windows; it raised waves in the sludgy waters of the pool’s deep end before settling into the tinkling of a child’s giggle, in time with fat raindrops that fell through the non-existent ceiling. A shudder ran over Annie’s body and through her mind like a parade of baby spiders. She drew in a sharp breath, bit her lip, and stood still as an oak. Annie prayed that her thrumming heartbeat was contained enough within her chest to avoid amplification in this dilapidated room; this room she needed to escape, where her fear was as palpable as the moss-covered concrete upon which she stood.

The sensation of wet, prune-like fingers tickled the back of Annie’s neck. “Who’s there?” she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper. She thrust the postcard in front of her like a sword, spinning and turning until she found herself wrapped in cold perspiration. It felt as if someone had thrown a damp pool towel over her. Annie slipped, landing with a dull thud, and skittered closer to the pool. The lichen was like a carpet pulled from under her. She pushed herself up, retching as her hand sunk into the muck that consumed her, a moist mouth plagued with vegetative thrush.

Her cheeks heated; her mind dizzied. Cold steam rose from the surface of the pool in a cloud, and Annie’s peripheral vision succumbed to a fuzzy haze.

The crow cawed. It shuddered; its chest feathers momentarily raised like a thousand hairs of gooseflesh before smoothing down. The bird spread its wings. They stretched wide… wider… until they grazed the broken walls on either side of the poolroom.

Annie blinked hard. She gagged at the rotten tang of mold that landed on her tongue, or was it Rye seeds? It pushed down her throat as the steam cloud engulfed her, the fog generating an impenetrable blindness. She coughed and sputtered. Yet when she opened her eyes, the mist had disappeared as if it had never been there at all. The giant bird, too, had vanished, and a man in a black tuxedo emerged from behind the diving board. His hair was slicked-back blonde. An old-fashioned moustache curled up over his grin.

“Dearest Annette, thank you for accepting my invitation.” He gestured toward the postcard that Annie still gripped tight with both hands. It crawled with moss from her fall. “Welcome to Grovener Mountain. I am Charles Grovener, the proprietor of this resort.”

Grovener bowed with exaggerated drama, the sleeves of his jacket slipping away from the white gloves on his hands. Sagging, purpling skin melted around his wrists. Annie clenched her jaw, trying not to gape.

“You sent the postcard,” Annie said. She swallowed back the panic that rumbled through her gut.

“I sent all the postcards.” A split-second sneer flashed across his smile as he sized her up—something like polite disdain for a request for ketchup on quiche or white shoes after Labor Day.

CHAPTER 3

Saigon, Vietnam

March 1967

As Blake stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhat Airport the heat and humidity hit him like a slap. Inside, the airport bustled with activity; people were speaking in both French and Vietnamese. Most of the men looked lean and physically fit. The women were petite and slender, many of them wearing ao dai, a high-necked, close-fitting tunic cut to the ankle with a slit on each side to mid-thigh, over loose-fitting flowing trousers.

Blake hired a rickshaw and was driven through the heat, smells and a cacophony of noise to the heart of the city. The driver stopped at Rue des Fleurs, a busy side road with a scattering of market stalls set out on the pavements. Blake followed the instructions and found the entrance to his flat up a communal stairway tucked between a barber’s and a shoe shop; as he went up the stairs he saw a Vietnamese man on the landing.

‘Mr Miller? I have been expecting you. My name is Duong Khien,’ he said in English, and shook Blake firmly by the hand. His eyes were bright and his cheeks ruddy.

‘John Miller, nice to meet you,’ said Blake.

‘Which language would you prefer, English, French or Vietnamese?’

‘Vietnamese is fine with me.’

‘Do come in,’ said Khien in Vietnamese, leading him inside and shutting the door. ‘I hope you will be comfortable here. My accountancy office is downstairs, a small door on the left. Please find me if you need anything. Now, let me show you round the flat.’

Khien was taller and larger built than the average Vietnamese. The buttons on his tight shirt strained over his paunch and the dark hair on his stomach showed through the gaps. Inside the flat was cooler than outside. Blake looked round. In the main room, a bamboo dresser was set in one corner with china displayed on shelves. Four wicker chairs with faded green cushions surrounded a wooden table. Thick net curtains at the windows made the rooms seem dark and dingy. There was a faint smell of cigarette ash in the air. The flat had a well-used, slightly dilapidated feel about it.

‘The flat is simply furnished, as you can see.’

‘It seems to have everything I need.’

‘Good, but it also has a few surprises,’ said Khien. ‘Saigon is an uncertain place these days. We need to be vigilant.’

Khien led him into the bedroom. An insect net, suspended from the ceiling, surrounded a double bed.

‘Here, let me show you this.’

Khien squatted down and lifted the carpet. He pushed his stubby finger between two floorboards and lifted one of them clear of the floor. A cluster of firearms of different shapes and sizes lay in the cavity.

‘I collected these over the years,’ said Khien proudly. ‘Automatics, handguns, silencers, you might like to try them out, some are in better condition than others.’

Blake took a quick glance at the motley group. ‘Interesting,’ he said.

Khien replaced the floorboard. He stood up, pushed his shirt in and pulled up his trousers.

‘I’ll give you some time to settle in, then maybe you’d like to accept my hospitality and have dinner with myself and my family; we live in the next street. I’ve written down my address and left it on the table for you; say seven o’clock.’

‘Thanks, I’ll be there.’

Khien let himself out.

Blake walked from room to room. There was another bedroom, a compact kitchen and a large bathroom. The flat was spacious and the location discreet. On first impression he thought he would be able to get along with Khien, who seemed welcoming and helpful, and on the surface, reliable. However, in his risky business appearances could be deceptive; he would need to be cautious. He walked over to the window and pushed back the net curtain. It had a yellowish tinge through years of accumulated cigarette smoke. He pulled on the rope to open the sash window; with force it yanked free. Outside the air was hotter. A smell of spices and leather wafted up from the market. There was a barrage of shouting, banging and traffic from the street. A café called Les Croissants was directly across the street; people sat at tables outside, drinking coffee. Blake lifted the loose floorboard again and examined the firearms. A battered-looking AK-47 rifle issued to both the VC and the NVA, an M-16, standard American issue, a No.4 Mk1(T) with telescopic sight and a Colt AR15 5.56mm. A few handguns lay amongst the heap. He noticed the Browning 9mm high power semi-automatic. He liked the Browning; he’d used it extensively during his training. This one looked in good condition.