"The Satisfied" Tree by A.M. Bacon

The Satisfied Tree 

by A.M. Bacon

He had gotten separated from the rest of the troop when he stopped to tie his shoe, and one of the other scouts pushed him off the trail, sending him tumbling down a sharp slope where he stopped suddenly at the bottom, striking his head on a tree root.

  Dizzily, he rose, stumbling along. He wandered further away from where he landed. His mind reeling like a top, but somehow he had managed to stay on his feet.

  As he staggered along, one hand holding his head, the other out for balance, or to grab a branch to keep him standing. He winced as he was blinded by the blades of sunlight that pierced through the forest over him. He pulled his hand down from his head, but there was no blood. But he could feel a very sensitive bulge on his right temple.

  As the trail teetered and swayed, Michael trudged along, not knowing where he was going. Not really caring. His head hurt like hell. But his body was on autopilot. Guiding him nowhere and continuing to lose himself in the woods.

  The troop had been hiking for over an hour before leaving the main trail for one of that appeared to have been used by many animals, and a few people. That was before he was dumped off the trail and rolled down the steep drop.

  Hearing some voices, Michael started to meander through the trees, he left the trail. Following the calls. He couldn’t make out what they were yelling, but he hoped it was his troop looking for him. But if it wasn’t, it was likely other hikers or campers that could possibly help him out.

If he were coherent, he would have just sat down and stayed put. But he wasn’t, and didn’t.

  Pushing through the ferns and lower tree branches, he briefly lost his footing, and landed on his knees. 

  The trees were spinning out of control, as he closed his eyes and felt the bile in his throat as he vomited up the water and snacks that had refreshed him while hiking. After a few heaves, the contents of his stomach were presented in front of him, as if the puddle was an offering to some unseen deity.

  “Not good.” He told himself. He tried to remember what it meant, but he knew it was bad being dizzy and vomiting after a head injury.

  The voices were still yelling, so after he rested a minute, he stood again, and stumbled off in the direction of the voices.

  His balance was returning, but he still grabbed branches to keep himself steady.

  Muffled voices seemed to be getting louder as he managed his way along.

  There were ferns growing everywhere between stands of trees. He vaguely remembered that ferns would be helpful building a shelter, but the voices kept calling out. No time to build a shelter. Even if he could remember how.

  Walking along, following the siren song, Michael realized that the voices were the only thing he heard. Not his footsteps, branches scraping, birds singing. Only the voices.

  And since they were muffled, he just figured that the other sounds were as well.

  Reaching up, he grabbed another tree branch that just couldn’t take his weight. 

  As it fell away from the tree it was attached to, Micheal studied it with eyes that took time to focus.

  It was a rotting branch that was disintegrating at his touch. He could feel it crumbling apart as he gripped it. Then dozens of insects swarmed onto his hand, causing him to freak the hell out!

  As he screamed and thrashed his arm along the foliage, trying to remove the bugs that crawled all over him, he tripped and fell backwards, landing on the meadow floor. Hitting the back of his head this time. Darkness engulfed him.

  Swimming through the darkness, Michael drifted up. The less he struggled, the higher he went, so he set himself free, climbing back to awareness.

  Opening his eyes, he tried to scream, but couldn’t. 

  He tried to move, but his limbs were unresponsive. 

  Above him were six forms swaying in the branches of a tree. Each of the pendulums above him were quite familiar. They were his troop.

  There were vines around each of them, and they were upside down. Each was wrapped carefully enough that they could breathe, but not much else. They breathed heavy through their noses as the thick vines were penetrating their mouths, reaching down their throats for sustenance. 

  As their eyes were open, they said nothing. They saw nothing.

  Michael looked into the dead eyes of his fellow scouts, and let out a scream, only to feel the impact of a vine forcing its way into his mouth, and reaching down his throat.

  He could feel as his body was being milked from the inside. His internal organs being consumed from inside, and the vines squeezed him as he was lifted up into the tree. To be hung with the other hosts.

The tree fed well.