Carlos held a small kit of tools under his arm, and walked along the edge of the Whispering Forest, about twenty yards. He and the graduate students, who followed behind him, also carrying equipment, had determined that this was the minimum safe distance to observe the forest, as if any of them got any closer than that, they would begin to hear the soft, sweet mutterings of the forest, inviting them closer, inviting them to stay. Carlos raised his glasses a bit, rubbing his eye. The sun was hot in the sky above them, but the forest deemed to grow in its own microclimate. The greater Night Vale area was, according to the Koppen Climate Classification System, a Dry climate, whereas the coniferous forest that grew on its outskirts seemed to be growing in a Cold climate.
There was no sort of meteorological gradient or interference in pressure systems, as there should have been, given the proximity of the radical differences between the Dry larger climate and the Cold microclimate. Carlos had decided to investigate it, now that they had hit some dead ends with the house that didn't exist (those dead ends being that still no one was brave enough to actually make contact with the house, even though it didn't even exist and there probably wouldn't be any adverse consequences), and had brought some environmental doctorate-hopefuls with him, as well as the normal scientific field team. They would be a bit of extra help in determining what about the forest allowed it to grow in the desert, and what allowed it to create its own microclimate.
"Terry, could you get a handle on that wagon?" asked Carlos. The red flyer that held some of the heavier equipment was teetering after running over one of the roots that stretched out from one of the trees in the forest. The flustered grad student caught a desk barometer as it fell from the top of the setup before it smashed on the sidewalk. He replaced it on the top of the other equipment and Carlos nodded.
"Okay," said Carlos, stopping the little caravan. They were on a sidewalk at abutted the desert of the edge of town, and the forest grew out of the ground behind the lead scientist. "We'll have to start by getting a sample of one of the trees, even just bark. We can start by analyzing the organic matter, and then work our way from there."
"So we're going with the hypothesis that the trees themselves cause the microclimate?" asked a short grad student near the back of the small assembly, who had a bright purple scrunchie holding back her wavy brown ponytail.
"Yes, Monica," said Carlos. He was working on knowing names. Cecil had told him that it would make him more amicable toward other people. He was stressing the importance of interpersonal relationships. Carlos had nodded and agreed, because he had earlier that day called the current radio station intern by the name of Cecil's floating cat. "We'll start there. I think it has something to do with the way they metabolize the people that join them."
"Who will get the sample?" asked Terry, his eyes darting to the wagon again, making sure that nothing was looking to fall, now that the wagon had stopped.
"Perhaps one of the environmental studies doctorate students might be interested in locating a prime sample for us," said Carlos, inviting any of the students to step forward. There was a hesitation. The students, as all people of Night Vale did, listened to Cecil's radio program. They knew the dangers of the alluring Whispering Forest.
"You know what? I'll do it." A tall, blond man stepped forward, his teeth glinting in the late-morning sun. Carlos knew him well; his name was Brandon, and he was a recent transfer to Carlos's lab. He was a flirt, and although he was smart, he wasn't at the same level as the rest of the researchers, and Carlos hypothesized that his looks had something to do with the reason that he had been transferred to Night Vale, a place that he had stressed was his "position of choice" as he introduced himself to Carlos two months prior, his hand resting lightly on the scientist's thigh. Carlos understood what the kid was doing, trying to manipulate him, but his flirtatious manner was useless against Carlos, who now was very wary around him.
"Thank you, Brandon," said Carlos, inviting the man to come forward. "Remember, do not listen to what the forest has to say. Its whispers are hollow and meant to make you feel good. Do not allow it to establish a neural link; it will be hard to pull away once it has you. Just get the sample and get back to us."
"Can do," said Brandon, giving Carlos a smile and a wink. Carlos couldn't be sure if he had even been listening to most of what he had been saying. He watched as the handsome man strode confidently toward the trees, sample bag and sterile knife in hands.
Carlos and his team of scientists stood watching as Brandon grew closer to the trees. He soon stood with them, and began chunking a bit of the bark out of the closest one into the bag. Terry stood off to the side, examining the barometer. "Um," he said. Brandon kept on digging at the tree, plunking more and more bits into the bag. "Carlos," said Terry, one eye on the barometer and one eye on the trees. A small gust of wind blew across the team, one or two of them holding their lab coats as it ruffled through them.
"Hey guys!" said Brandon, shouting to them. "I totally just carved in my initials!" He stepped back to show them the "B-U-F" in the tree, cut deep into the trunk. "Thanks!" he shouted after, without reply. "I thought I did pretty good, too!"
"Carlos, look at this," said Terry. "The barometer—" Carlos glanced at the instrument. The mercury was lowering steadily in the glass chamber. The barometric pressure was going down, rapidly. Carlos looked around for any sign of changing weather patterns, but the sky was clear as it had been before. Another gust of wind came through the air.
"Brandon!" shouted a graduate student. Carlos and Terry looked at the young man, and immediately saw what was wrong. His shoes had burst open, and his feet had begun to grow into the ground.
"Shit," muttered Carlos, his heart racing.
"Thanks!" said Brandon. "No, I have been working out, I really appreciate it!"
"Uh, Terry, monitor that," said Carlos, indicating the barometer. He dashed away from the group of scientists toward the one man being engulfed by tree-ness. After a moment's hesitation, Monica ran after him.
"Ah, thanks…" muttered Brandon. He stood still where he was, his feet totally formed into trunks, roots reaching into the ground below him. His fingers began to branch out, his left pinky even budding a leaf.
"Brandon," said Carlos, kneeling beside him. "Brandon, snap out of it!" His eyes went to the bag of samples clutched in Brandon's increasingly branch-like hand. The chunks of bark were no longer chunks of bark at all. They were shifting like a fast-melting popsicle from solid wood to bloody chunks of flesh. Carlos looked from these to Brandon, whose face was caving inward slightly, pulling at the cheek bones, gaining a bark-like texture. Carlos's eyes darted back to the bag and made a decision. He pulled back his arm and released it, slapping Brandon across the face, hard.
"Aaaah!" exclaimed the handsome young scientist. His eyes shot open and he looked down at himself. "Aaaah!"
"Brandon, can you understand me?" asked Carlos. His eyes were probing Brandon all over, looking for the spread of the tree growth on him, but there was none. Out of the hypnotics of the Whispering Forest, the transformation had stopped. A small nod came from the man, who trembled slightly, rooted in place.
"Monica," said Carlos. "Don't listen to them." He himself was hearing the soft voices of the trees, caressing at his mind, at the back of his consciousness.
"No, sir," said Monica, her eyes locked on the branchy fingers of Brandon's elongated arms.
"Brandon," said Carlos. "Can you feel your hands? Can you move them?"
"I—" His eyes shut and opened again in a slow blink that looked very painful. "I can, I think." The fingers on his right hand slowly clenched and released, the bark cracking slightly on them. His arm twisted a bit, as well. His left arm, which was further along and held the baggie of samples, only twitched with his exertion.
"Good," said Carlos. He turned to Monica. "Take the knife and samples, and be gentle with his hands." She set to doing this, and he turned back to Brandon. "Okay, Brandon, can you feel or move your legs?"
Brandon's eyes locked on Carlos's, and a bead of sweat formed on his forehead, just below his green-tinted hairline. He let out a sigh of exhaustion. "No."
"Do you still hear the voices?" Carlos asked this because the voices were encroaching on his personal thinking space rapidly as well, whispering the things that he wanted to hear. Your observation skills allow you to be very well versed in how the world works penetrated his brain, as did I read your paper on matter and anti-matter relations, and it was very good, probably hosting some of the top theories in the field. He shook his head, shooing them away.
"I do," said Brandon. His voice cracked at the end of the short sentence, which Carlos was not sure was because of the fear or because of his transformation.
"We have to get you out of here," said Carlos. His eyes shot to the roots that anchored Brandon to the ground and back to his face. "Monica," he said.
"Yes, Carlos," she said.
"Hand me the knife."
"What—" said Brandon, his words catching in his throat.
"The flora matter reverts to fauna when detached from the main part of the tree," said Carlos. He used the knife to cut back the bottom parts of Brandon's pants, revealing tree trunks that meshed into his lower thighs. "And I believe that if you are removed from the forest, you can survive."
"No, Carlos, it's too dangerous—" said Monica.
Carlos held a hand out to Monica, silencing her. "Brandon," he said. "You are doing something for the scientific community, right now, but you need to be strong. You're a scientist. And a scientist—" Carlos's eyes went from the knife to Brandon's face, to his legs, to the knife again. "A scientist is always fine."
"Aaaah!" exclaimed Brandon. Carlos plunged the knife into the bottom of the fleshy part of Brandon's left leg, which seemed to be more afflicted. He pushed into it, cutting hard through the muscle and bits of growing wood. If he cut lower, in the wood, he figured that Brandon would not be able to feel it quite as much, but it would take longer, and he didn't like the intrusion of the Whispering Forest's whispers in his brain. Just as he began in on the bone, the voices became stronger.
Carlos, you're so handsome, so perfect. Carlos gritted his teeth and put more muscle into the formerly sterile knife that was working through the bone, which seemed to be as dense as a thick knot of wood. Your smile is radiant, and the touch of gray in your hair give the distinction anyone would die for. The knife was halfway through the bone, and Carlos could feel it giving. He tried to block out the noise of Brandon's half-choked screams above him. Blood spilled over his hands, landing on the soil below, soil that was out of place in the desert. Your perfection should be preserved; you are a perfect specimen of the human race, so intelligent and physically attractive…
Carlos pushed hard and the knife cut through the last of the bone and muscle, completely detaching the leg from the wooden trunk of a bottom that rooted it to the ground. Blood spilled from the stump. "Quick, Monica!" said Carlos. "Tie it off with what's left from his pants!" She shook her head clear of the intrusions of the forest and leapt into action, grabbing up the bits of the bottom of Brandon's pants and working on his leg. Carlos began cutting into the second leg, just above the knee, because the transformation wasn't quite so far along on that side.
Carlos… The voices surrounded him, and he knew that was just projection from his mind. The voices were in his mind, from the forest, yes, but inside of his mind. Carlos, perfect Carlos, with his perfect hair and teeth like a military cemetery…
Carlos's eyes opened wide. The Whispering Forest was no longer just attacking him with compliments. They were going into his mind. They were invading. That was not just something that they came up with, to con him into staying around. He sawed at the leg. Brandon let out a guttural moan, his energy draining with the blood that spilled over Carlos and Monica's hands. The voices were finding things that Cecil had said, and were trying to turn them against him. He was cutting through the bone now. His arm started to get tired. He sawed harder with the little knife. They were using his Cecil against him, and how dare they? His arm was very tired now, aching, as he worked against the dense bone. He sawed harder, pushing the knife against the bone from the inside, cutting away muscle.
Carlos's eyes turned toward Monica. She had tied off the stump, and only a small drip came from the thigh now. Her palms were pressed against her temples, as if she had a migraine that she was attempting to massage out. Carlos heard the words of his boyfriend, repeated in his mind by the uninvited voices and probing words of the forest. He felt those words, inside of his chest and his eyes, and he grabbed ahold of Brandon at the waist. "Come on!" he shouted to Monica. She looked up and Carlos yanked Brandon, a loud snap coming from the bone as it broke free of the tree stump it left behind, blood flying as Carlos made a dash for his team of scientists, Monica following behind. Brandon slumped in his arms, unconscious.
Some of the other grad students crowded around him, working on tying off his second stump and watching as his arms melted back into human arms. They tried to tend to Carlos, but he shook them off, pointing them toward Brandon and Monica. He went to Terry, who stood by the barometer with a small field notebook, making notes with a not-pen fashioned from a paperclip, an old AAA battery, two rubber bands and a small water gun tank filled with some sort of ink. "Is he alright?" asked Terry, eyes rising from his notes to meet Carlos's.
"He'll be fine," said Carlos. He made eye contact with Terry, but was not really looking at Terry.
"The barometric pressure is connected with the transformation—the climate of the forest is connected to the way in which they metabolize human beings," said Terry. "So the hypothesis was proven correct."
"I wish I could celebrate that, but—"
"What was that?" asked Terry.
"Nothing," said Carlos. "The Whispering Forest is dangerous, and we have more than enough experience with it, and some samples we can go over in the lab." He turned from Terry to the rest of the team of scientists. "Get Brandon some medical attention, and get the samples back to the lab." Carlos turned from his team.
"Where are you going?" asked Monica. Carlos turned back to face her.
"I'm going to talk to Night Vale Community Radio—for both professional and personal reasons."