The Corn Maze

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by Jim Wright

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       The helicopter buzzed the flat scrub of central Florida. Alyssa Beveridge sat next to the pilot, squinting at the horizon as he pointed: “Look, Lyssie, there’s your corn patch.” She could make out a dark-emerald rectangle, expanding steadily as the chopper clattered toward it.

      “What’s going on over there?” she asked, motioning toward a tight cluster of buildings at the edge of the cornfield, where columns of smoke were rising.

      “That used to be a real nice village, Winding Way,” he sighed over the radio. “But with the unrest, things on the ground are unraveling pretty quick. We’ll need to do the job and bug out fast as we can.”

       The pilot was Donnie Blastick—“Black Ops Donnie” to the project managers at Plantagenet. There were great stories about Donnie’s flying CIA kill missions in Iraq, almost certainly bullshit, Alyssa thought. Still, everybody knew Donnie. He carried his big belly like a prizefighter, was irreverent, and loved to tell filthy jokes, which sometimes got him into trouble in the buttoned-down culture of Plantagenet Agriculture. But his job was safe. Nobody could pilot a helicopter like Donnie. Even today, with two heavy tanks strapped to the underside of the helo, Donnie steered it like a Cadillac through the hot, heavy air.

       Alyssa looked down at her phone. It displayed an encrypted email sent to her ten days ago from Jack Strawn, who had been the field-station manager for the corn plot. For the hundredth time, she scanned it, as if searching for a missing clue:

         Lyssie-I know I’ll be seeing you in NYC later this week to hand over my Florida project. But right now there’s scary stuff happening here among the locals. I’m sure you’ve been watching CNN—it’s flaring up into real violence. So, this email is my brain dump in case I’m delayed getting back to base. Burn after reading: my job’s on the line if HQ gets their hands on this.

       The project’s name is Labyrinth. You won’t find it in the project database because the Innovation Committee wants it kept in the deep dark.

       Mission: With all the political turmoil, the Committee thought the company should do a proof-of-concept demo on the DL: plant a 50-acre genetically modified plot with the capacity to self-sustain for at least 5 years with no external support. Just looking for ways to safeguard our investment dollars in uncertain times.

        The base crop is corn, but our lab geeks stacked it with a boatload of chimera genes. For starters, they used a recent breakthrough from R&D to jigger the genome and make it immortal.

       To minimize meddling from locals, we planted in a pattern designed to disorient intruders and funnel them into a few predictable paths.

       Root systems throughout the plot interlink through a fungal network that allows the plants to ‘talk’ to each other.

       To tend the corn, the R&D folks designed an autonomous bot we call Caretaker. We had a tight deadline, so Caretaker was built on the chassis of an off-the-shelf combat bot from a company Plantagenet has a stake in. Caretaker 1.0 can already handle most plot management on its own, including foraging for fertilizer. But we still have a few bugs to work out.

       Lyssie, this project breaks more laws and regs than anyone can count. But these are crazy times. Sit on this, please, until I can brief you in person. Tomorrow I’ll stop by the plot for a last software upgrade on Caretaker and then jump on a company plane to meet you in NYC. Stay safe! Jack

       Alyssa looked up from her phone as the helicopter approached the plot. The corn surged in a green tide beneath them.

       “Beautiful,” Donnie said admiringly. “I’m from Nebraska. We see a stand of corn like that, it’s a holy thing.”

Alyssa shook her head: “Corn in name only. It has more animal genes than a zoo.”

       “Still,” Donnie drawled, “shame we have to burn it down.”

       Alyssa paused. “What I say stays in this cockpit,” she said finally. “Senior management is shitting themselves. Since our field-station guy went missing last week, the company has had second thoughts about leaving a field full of trade secrets in a no man’s land.”

       “Sure,” Donnie said evenly. “Makes sense.”

       He swung the helicopter around. “I am taking her to the far edge of the field,” he said, pointing. “That’s where we’ll set up our practice run.” He looked over at Alyssa: “By the way, how’d you get clearance to use military-grade herbicide stocks for this dust job?”

       Alyssa grimaced. “We called in some favors,” she said. “No over-the-counter weedkillers would even dent this corn.”

        “Well, after we dump these tanks, your field’s gonna be a bald patch for a hundred years,” he said with a chuckle.

       Donnie guided the helicopter away from the plot, then turned in a tight half-circle to align with the outermost rows of corn.

      “Going in low and slow—down to sixty feet,” he said, “Then I’ll do my final instruments check before we open up the tanks.”

       As the helicopter sped above the corn rows, Alyssa watched tassels and leaves pitch wildly under the churn of the rotor wash.  A strange motion farther up the field caught her eye. Something was coursing rapidly—very rapidly— toward them down the space between the rows, hidden under the luxuriant leaves but big enough to shake tall corn plants as it passed.

       “That’s interesting…”, Alyssa muttered, then screamed, “Watch out!”

       A large length of twisted angle-iron abruptly arced upward from the plot. Spinning end over end, it tore into the main rotor.

       “Christ!” yelled Donnie. His face was a grim mask as he struggled to control the crippled machine. The fuselage began to spin. The helicopter lurched and gyrated out of the corn plot and over a patch of scrub. With a shrill whoosh, it plummeted and crashed into the ground. The tanks from underneath broke free and lay inert. The wreck was suddenly quiet. One of the figures moved spasmodically in the smashed cockpit. A stray spark ignited fuel from a ruptured line. A flame flashed and enveloped the wreckage.

***

       The village knew the marauders were coming. For several days, they had watched turkey buzzards gyre lazily over the scrubland to the north, at first some miles away, then drawing ever closer. Yesterday evening, they heard scattered gunshots. Now, at dawn, the population of Winding Way was gathered at the center of their little hamlet of shabby trailers and decaying houses. Five summers had passed since the lights went out and the last cars fled through town toward Orlando. Several burned-out hulks of vehicles that had attempted the transit still littered the roadside.

       A pale young woman with red hair stepped lightly up onto a platform of logs and packed earth at the side of the road. She addressed the huddled group, pointing with a determined air up Highway 48 to where it disappeared around a curve into thickets of bushes and chicken trees. Then she turned, still speaking, and gestured to the south. Even from the village center, her listeners could see the vast, brooding field of corn that stretched from the outskirts of the town for a half-mile along the empty road. In the clearing morning mists, the stalks at the edge of the field rose up in a wall of green-black shadow, stately as bamboo.

       A stooped older man with a flushed face started to harangue the gathering, interrupting the woman. He scuffled with a couple standing nearby and was silenced.

       The red-haired woman resumed speaking, deliberately and without hurry. She raised her voice, calling out to the group. All but two raised their hands. Heads nodded.

       The villagers walked briskly back to their homes. There was a flurry of packing. An ancient wisp of a woman led four goats down the highway. She was soon joined by the rest of the villagers carrying knapsacks and bags of supplies. Twenty minutes after the conclave ended, the villagers had melted soundlessly into the scrub. The pale woman remained on the platform, looking northward at the blank ribbon of highway.

***

       The squad reached the village in the middle of the morning. Ticker was walking point, as usual, with the other four pacing in single file behind. They presented a motley appearance. Ticker sported a Panama hat like a peacock. Sarabella wore a maroon tank top. Terryboy and Rique were in camo pants, and Phat had on a T-shirt with a faded American flag. But a closer look revealed that each squad member was outfitted for a common purpose: backpack, high laced boots, Kevlar vest, two handguns, survival knife, machete—tools to wrest resources from an unwilling environment and its inhabitants. Ticker also carried an assault rifle, while Rique guarded the rear with a shotgun strapped to his back.

       The troop walked the crumbling pavement of the highway with an easy swing that spoke of months of patrolling. Each scanned the shrubs and small trees that crowded the shoulders of the road with a hunter’s alert gaze.

       The morning march had been cool, a welcome change from the stickiness of the day before. Ticker thought again about the shared history of his troop. They called themselves the Merciful Ones, a mocking reference to a desperate last plea once made by one of their victims.  They had been together for years, since the early days when the electricity stopped and chaos first erupted. During the worst of the initial fighting in Clearwater, as the bodies rotted in the streets, Ticker assembled the squad. He sought only ex-military and ex-cops.

       But Ticker would not recruit anyone unless he could first look into their eyes and know that, like him, they had experienced this revelation: Once, long ago, they had lived a life of duty and rules and compliance. That life was swept away. This new world of extreme violence was their true home.

       When Ticker spotted the small cluster of buildings ahead, he stopped and pulled a faded map from his pocket. Tracing a finger along the map down Highway 48, he confirmed that the squad had reached Winding Way.

       He considered attack options as the rest of his team walked up. If Winding Way were heavily defended, the squad would disengage. But if they had the element of surprise, they could execute the plan that worked a thousand times—rush in, apply maximum killing force, crack the village like a soft egg, scoop up the loot, and move on. He thought with a smile about the coming assault. This was going to be so easy.

       The squad entered the village, with Ticker in the lead. Behind him, Phat and Rique walked the buckling sidewalks on the left side of the street, and Sarabella and Terryboy advanced on the right. They moved silent as panthers, to be met with an equal silence from the crumbling buildings interspersed with burnt-out ruins and scrub trees.

       When they reached the center of town, Ticker stepped up on a low log platform to look up and down the street. He signaled to the pairs to search the buildings. Pistols drawn, they stepped into the houses and trailers and storage sheds, surprised to find doors unlocked. Ticker watched as they emerged from each building, signaled all clear, and moved into the next shadowy doorway. Within thirty minutes, the search was complete.

       The team regrouped around the platform, where Ticker gave instructions: “Place is deserted, so just grab the good stuff—canned food, batteries, any ammo ‘cause we can always trade what we can’t use, medical supplies. When you’re done, burn the place—”

       “Boss, lookee, we got a visitor.” Rique pointed down the street. Ticker turned. Right at the edge of town, they could see a striking young woman with flaming hair striding hurriedly away. She carried a cane and walked with a limp.  As Ticker stared, she looked back at them in alarm, then hobbled behind a building.

       He faced the troop. “She’s mine,” Ticker said tersely. “Sara B, you’re in charge. Wait for me at that last building. If I’m not back in twenty, come after me…” He threw his rifle over his shoulder and started off at a run. 

       “Looks like bossman found something shiny,” Sarabella said under her breath. Louder, she said, “You heard him. Move.”

       Ticker sprinted down the street. Coming around the last building, he saw no sign of the woman. But the sight of the cornfield brought him to a stop. The great stand of corn stood impossibly tall, as if from a fairytale. He saw that the boundary between field and highway was neatly trimmed, although for miles around, wild vegetation had overrun virtually every once-civilized space. His guard was up. Who tended this field? To what purpose? And what threat did they pose?

       Ticker then thought of the slender woman with the limp. She must have taken shelter in this corn! If he hurried, he could catch her and be back to the safety of the squad before anyone knew of his presence. Ticker studied the impassive face of the corn. The stalks crowded the road’s edge like a dense hedge of spears. Then he noticed a slightly wider space between two rows forming a narrow tunnel under a leafy arch. He dove in.

        Ticker trotted down the row, shouldering the corn aside. The air was strangely stale, but the plants rustled as if they were whispering in a breeze. He studied the soft soil for evidence of the woman’s passage. The earth in the row appeared churned up, as if much traffic had passed, but there was no hint of her. Yet she must have come this way. Occasionally, Ticker could make out mysterious geometric shapes stamped in the dirt, each longer than a man’s foot.

      Gradually, the path widened, and Ticker advanced more quickly. He passed first one, then several intersecting paths that led off diagonally in long dusky trails away from the main path.

       Ticker slowed, then stopped. He felt a tickle of fear, a sense that the light down the row behind him had darkened as if something were following. He thought he could hear a faint drumming sound. Yes— there was no mistake. A shadow filled the leafy corridor at his back. Panic engulfed Ticker, and he rushed forward, flailing, under green-tinted sunlight. Behind him, the ground vibrated in thumping pulses and the air buzzed like an orchestration of bees.

***

      Sarabella had followed Ticker to the edge of town and observed where he had entered the corn. As the rest of the squad caught up, she said, “Drop your packs and get some rest. No word from Ticker in twenty minutes, we go in.”

      Terryboy looked with astonishment at the soaring wall of green. “I know corn. I used to help grandpa on the farm,” he said. “This corn ain’t normal.”

      Sarabella looked at him and smiled. “T-boy, look around you. Things haven’t been normal ‘round here for a long time.”  Terryboy did not answer but stared with hostility at the field. Rique and Phat amused themselves watching an armadillo amble across the highway.

      They heard a distant shout in Ticker’s unmistakable voice, ragged gunfire, and a long, wailing scream.

      “We’re going in,” Sarabella said. She pointed to the gap where Ticker had entered the field. “Packs on, move out!” Rique and Phat were already entering the cornfield. Terryboy held back.

       “T-boy,” Sarabella said, “Ticker needs us. Get going.”

      Terryboy did not move. “We go into that corn, we’re gonna die,” he said.  

      Sarabella unholstered her Glock and centered the laser sight on Terryboy’s forehead.

      “Honey,” she said quietly. “If you’re not in that corn in five seconds, we’re all going to miss you very much.” Terryboy gave her a sullen look, grabbed his pack, and pushed into the high thicket of stalks.

      The squad moved quickly along the narrow row, leaves slapping their faces like jungle undergrowth. Almost imperceptibly, the path widened until two could walk abreast. Sarabella trotted to the front of the line to take point. Passing Rique, she said, “Keep an eye on T-boy. He’s spooked.” Rique nodded.

       In lead position, Sarabella sensed that the path veered gradually to the right. They trekked on, crossing intersecting pathways and each time peering down their dim passages, alert for danger. But all was silent—except for a murmur at the threshold of hearing, like blurred voices.

      Finally, there was a gleam ahead. The squad stumbled into a large clearing and stood blinking in the sunlight. The cleared space formed a square of three acres, bounded at all edges by the corn. There was a stand of solar panels at the far corner of the enclosure. Fronting the corn were faded blue signs with large, printed barcodes.

Near them, a rough tripod had been fashioned from scrub trees and erected by the boundary of corn. From it dangled a scarecrow figure, hanging upside down. It was Ticker. He was stripped naked, with his throat slashed. His body was suspended above a shallow trench that ran along the boundary of the field. His blood slowly trickled into the ditch.

      Phat swore loudly.

      “Shut up!” Sarabella hissed and pointed to a dark blot in the clearing that was moving toward them.  It was a dull-black machine, larger than a pickup truck, with the lines of a rough beast. Its oversized head was shaped like a sloping pig snout with three sensors flashing red and a shovel-like tool at the mouth end. Extending from each side of its head were two large steel blades that it plowed into the dirt with the motions of a goring bull. It seemed to be extending the ditch that ran under Ticker’s corpse.  The body of the machine flexed like a lobster.  Its front legs were short, with extended digits that Sarabella could see grip the soil like the stony hands of a giant. The hind legs were massive as the haunches of a bear.

       Hearing the humans, the machine ceased digging and reared up. Balanced on its hind legs, it rose higher than the corn, standing almost like a huge horned man. It swiveled its head toward the intruders, servomotors humming, and swayed back and forth like a waving blade of grass.

       “It’s calculating our range,” whispered Sarabella. She paused, then shouted, “Run!”

       Even as she spoke, the machine dropped to all fours and burst into a loping gallop toward the squad. Phat, Rique, and Terryboy scattered, vanishing through different bolt-holes into the corn. The machine bore down on Sarabella, who remained alone in the clearing. Looking back as he dove into the cover of the field, Terryboy saw her at a crouch, both handguns drawn, blazing away at the robotic creature.

***

      At dawn, the last of the residents of Winding Way emerged from the scrub to join those already gathered at the center of town. Yesterday from their hiding places, they had all heard the gunshots and shouts drifting from the corn. By early evening, the last plaintive cries had ceased. Everyone knew that it was now time to walk the field.

       Villagers pulled handcarts from storage sheds and set out in a large straggling group. First, they headed down the highway, searching next to the corn, but found nothing. When they reached the corner of the field, they stepped off the highway and made a right-angle turn into the scrub, always keeping to the track of neatly trimmed space along the edge of the corn. As they walked the field perimeter, the villagers came upon full backpacks, guns, Kevlar vests, knives, machetes, and clothing dumped at intervals just outside the corn as if flung away by a careless traveler. Keeping a nervous eye on the dark corn, they piled the loot in their carts.

       The foragers were grinning as they returned to the town, where the red-haired woman waited. She directed the emptying of the backpacks and divided the spoils into equal shares while the villagers looked on. All agreed that it was one of their best hauls. There was excitement in the air as families carried their prizes back to their homes. All looked forward to the celebration planned for later that day.

       The red-haired woman remained in the square. She had kept a single item from the spoils, a white Panama hat. She held it now in upturned palms as she stepped up onto the earth and log platform. At the back of the structure, a niche had been cut into a log post. Within that niche was a small crudely carved figure of a horned man. The woman placed the hat at the base of the post, bowed her head, and said a short prayer. Then she left the platform to prepare for the party.

 

 Jim Wright (he/him) lives and writes in central New York State, USA. He enjoys crafting short stories (realistic and speculative fiction) and draws creative energy from Ivy, his parrot and life coach. Jim has worked as a school psychologist, school administrator, and educational trainer. He is a past member of the Downtown Writer’s Center in Syracuse, NY.

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John Sowder is a freelance illustrator best known for his work in Drew Edward's long running comic book series HALLOWEEN MAN.  He also contributes to Daniel Blanchard's COMIC NASTIES series on globalcomix and creates art for the rock group ZOMBINA AND THE SKELETONES.