A matter of boundaries

(a film treatment)

 

When my friend Bill calls for me to come over to his house, I know something is wrong.

He sounds so excited and pleased with himself, it can’t be good.

Bill took up horticulture years ago. But is a man with a thumb so “not green” every plant he touches withers and dies within hours.

Something should have warned me about pending doom when he decided to combine this with his previous hobby as a chemist.

I figure, how many times can a man blow up his own house. So I let it go.

I arrive at his place and he beckons me into his garage.

The place is so overgrown we practically need a machine to get to his work bench at the back.

But we do not.

Bill’s even careful not to bend a branch too far, saying it might cause the plants pain.

I think he’s kidding until I accidentally step on a vine and ear the thing cry out in a voice that sounds eerily human.

At this point, Bill informs that along with chemistry he has taken up genetics.

This scares the devil out of me.

I am a man of boundaries.

I like to know where one thing ends and another thing begins.

What is human; what is not.

Bill’s garage shows no such distinctions, and he’s thrilled with the idea.

I leave in a panic, heading – instead of home – to our favorite watering hole where I try to wash out the bad taste of Bill’s experiments with a couple of drinks.

Since me and Bill are seen here so often together, mutual acquaintances naturally ask where he is and how he is going, then laugh when I tell them he’s back in his garage performing unnatural acts with plants, then move away from me when I insist too strongly that it is true.

I suppose the dire not in my voice convinces these people that I’m bordering on madness. Those who are closed enough to bear up with my ranting tell me it’s all in my imagination, and rightfully inform that that Bill is not genius enough to perform the feats I claim for him.

In fact, he is downright stupid.

Big business, these people assure me, can’t accomplish half of what I’ve credited Bill with.

Perhaps the government has made such stride in secret underground labs some where, spending billions of our hard-earned tax dollars, but not in the back of Bill’s garage.

These arguments calm me.

A few more drinks and I’m convinced Bill is pulling my leg.

While I can’t say how he performed the trick – hidden speakers hooked up to a hidden tape recorder no doubt – I am convinced it is a trick.

How can it be anything else?

So when he calls me again later and tells me he needs to show me the progress he’s made, I’m not scared.

I go thinking I might be able to uncover how he pulled the trick.

All hope evaporates the moment I step across the threshold.

The plants are even more thickly packed than on my last visit, and that’s less disturbing than the change in them.

They don’t seem shy any more. They don’t wait for me to step on a loose limb to snarl and snap at me.

And they do have teeth.

Some plants are so ferocious; Bill says he has to keep them caged.

And these bang at the bars like a pack of rabid dogs, peering at me with tiny deadly eyes full of hate.

I fear what they might do if they get out.

I know I don’t want to be around if it happens.

Bill doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong in having plants that want to tear our throats out.

In fact, he thinks it’s funny.

When I ask him how plants could get so hostile, he tells me he’s combined their DNA with the DNA of sharks.

To some relief, he does know how dangerous these creatures will be if they get loose.

He claims they devour anything that comes within range.

That’s when he informs me that they have already devoured all of the cats, dogs, birds and raccoons in the neighborhood.

Since I did not see any lights on in any of the houses other than Bills, I ask about his neighbors.

Bill scratches his head and sys this is why he’s heard so few complaints about the stench lately.

This also suggests that not all of Bill’s man-eating plants are locked up in cage.

Bill, of course, is a little concerned since these plants then to replicate rapidly.

We step outside.

We hear no sound nor see no light for miles.

I take a deep breath then tell Bill this is his problem not mind.

I get back to my car and drive off, leaving Bill standing at the curb in front of his house.

The only debate going on in my head is whether or not I should drive to the police station or call the police from home.

I figure the police will need to call in the army to kill off the stuff before it wipes out the whole city – or worse.

I decide to go home, which turns out to be a mistake.

I catch sight of Bill’s car in my rearview mirror.

He apparently suspects my plan and intends to stop me.

At that point, I also catch sight of the plants along both sides of the road, filling up the landscape where wide lands should be, crowding out every other life form much the same way the plants in Bill’s garage have.

I would be long before the stuff comes out into the roads, too.

I step on the gas, changing my plans in mid-route so as to steer for the police station before Bill can stop me.

Once inside, I babble like a fool so that the cops naturally think I’m crazy.

Eventually, pleasing with them to come see for themselves, I convince the cops to drive back with me to Bill’s neighborhood.

Bill greets us on the walk.

I can’t see Bill’s house any more. I can’t see anybody’s house for that matter.

Bill boasts that his plant will soon take over the world.

He’s clearly proud of the fact and he should be.

It’s the most significant thing he has even accomplished.

Of course, the police try to arrest him.

I say try, because as soon as the cops make their move, Bill’s plants strike – not the cops, Bill.

His screams are lost in the rustle of leaves and snarling mouths.

If Bill knew how to stop the plants, the secret died with him.

At that point, I realize the plants gobbled up the cops as well.

And I’m standing in the middle of a street with plants edging towards me on all sides.

I’m so scared I’m frozen as rooted to that spot as any plant.

As I told you, I like boundaries, and that fact that the plants are taking over pisses me off.

I dive for my car and yank open the trunk, dragging out the space can of gas I keep there.

The plants get the idea and half their advance.

Not in time.

I pour out the liquid and light it with a flare.

Everything goes up: plants, houses, cars, garage.

But the only screams I hear come from the plants.

I do not move. The flames swirl around me as if I am immune.

I’m still not sure how I manage to breathe

Or why I suffer only minimal burns.

I can’t help laughing, even though none of this is funny.

Later, after the fire dies and the fire department extinguished the flames, I wander through the scorched landscape.

I suppose I’m mourning Bill.

He was, after all, my friend.

Then I see green growing from under some of the ashes.

The plants are making a comeback.

I know this is a bad sign. I know these are Bill’s plants because each of them is calling for me – by name.