Killer Kudzu

By JULIUS tHOMPSON

Killer Kudzu is a pre-apocalyptic, semi-horror novel where science has gone terribly wrong. There is a southern twang in the characters voices and a distinctive down-home feel in the locale.
It is written with a social twist and a commentary about the relationship between blacks and whites in the south.
Killer Kudzu is in the vain of the creeping menace like Pandemic, The Atlantic Gene, The Hot Zone and The Day of the Triffids

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julius Thompson Books
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201206826

JULIUS tHOMPSON

Award Winning Author Julius Thompson grew up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, New York and attended Bushwick High School. The sixties in Brooklyn was an era that had a personality, a feel, and a life-force that changed a generation. Mr. Thompson felt this energy and experienced these fires of social change.

Book preview

Prologue

A Northeast Georgia backroad four weeks after the Randolph tornado... 

Raymond Camp staggered out of the juke joint drunk as a skunk around eleven Saturday night.

He was headed home, walking down Hog Mountain Road, just outside the small town of Randolph. It was a late July night; the moon seemed brighter and fuller than normal. He only had a quarter-mile walk to Horton Street where he would take the short path to his boxcar-style house, trying not to awaken his grandma.

The occasional car passed as he left the road rushing to relieve himself of seven bottles of beer. Something seemed amiss; he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. That darn creeping kudzu always seems to be moving eerily.

Raymond froze...

A gentle puff of air, like that of a baby's breath and smelling of jasmine, grazed his cheek. Next, something touched his foot, curling around his leg and caressing his thighs with a seductiveness that froze his soul.  

He struggled to make his way back to the road but Raymond tripped and fell to the ground. He felt cornered as the Kudzu's vice-like grip entrapped his body. He screamed, but nobody would hear his cries for help.

He clawed at the ground, but he was now covered in the aggressive plant. Its grip was unyielding, squeezing his body, tearing flesh and releasing streams of blood as it dragged him into the underbrush. 

Chapter One

Center for Disease Control Research Lab in Atlanta

Scientist John Miller suffered from Little Man's Disease with an attitude more in tune with a captain in a warzone. Coworkers knew him as the man with a not-so-mild attitude who never gives up and takes risks in the lab.

He smiled to himself as he walked toward the lab. When I talk, people listen, standing at attention as if they were in the army. No one was in the area but he didn’t care.

Bending over and rapidly blinking his eyes, he stared through the electron microscope at the activity in the Petri dish.

His experiment with the Venus flytrap and the native kudzu was going well, inserting Venus flytrap genes that code enzymes that help break down insects for energy in addition to using solar power for photosynthesis using a Crisper CAS9 System (a molecular editing tool).

The experiment was showing some very positive results as the DNA from both plants created a mutant organism. I hope the damn thing isn’t virulent.

Miller was looking for a chemical that could help cure eating disorders such as bulimia. It would give people an appetite that would curb binge eating and throwing up afterwards, something that would help digestion.

From previous tests, the chlorophyll in the plants was becoming inactive because of a virus that was affecting it, which meant the plants were unable to go through photosynthesis via sunlight.

What Miller was observing was scary. The compound the plant created exuded a sickly sweet smell like jasmine perfume. When his hand passed over the Petri dish, it would shimmy and shake, as if tracking his every move.

When he grabbed the jar, the chemical reacted violently. As he put the jar in the refrigerator to incubate, the substance settled down.

Chuck Miller, his taller brother, was ready to leave for the day. People talked about how both brothers were total opposites. Hey, little man, time to get the hell out of here.

Wait a damn minute!

Come on, there's traffic on 85. It'll be hell getting off Buford Highway, then Chamblee-Tucker Road, and then make it to the interstate. We're talking bumper-to-bumper until we get to Randolph. Man, I always drive and all you do is fall asleep, leaving me to fight all the cidiot Atlanta drivers.

I've got to refrigerate this experiment, give me a second. John closed the door, grabbed his jacket and the two brothers headed to the CDC parking lot.

***

The Randolph Inn was full Wednesday night as the patrons ordered the special of the day: smothered pork chops and brown gravy over rice with sides of pole beans, plus creamy mac and cheese. There was cornbread and sweet tea to wash all the goodness down. The Randolph’s sweet tea was good because it had a touch of a special ingredient: baking soda. Customers raved about this southern drink poured over ice. What brought the customers to the Randolph Inn was Ms. Betty Lou Rogers's luscious red velvet cake, the specialty of the house.

Everybody came to the inn on Wednesday for the mid-week specials, their incredible country food.

The locale was iconic Southern with mostly white folk's country music or black folk's Rhythm & Blues dominating the music on the juke box.

Grandma Peters was a surly waitress who threw insults faster than the Georgia Bulldogs football team scored touchdowns at nearby Sanford Stadium. She was a statuesque woman with a quick wit and a sarcastic tongue that sent customers into submission like it did her three long dead husbands.

Sweetie, when Grandma Peters speak you run and cower. Then she burst into a gut-wrenching belly laugh.

Grandma, I don't think you will find husband number four in Randolph, the Reverend Jonathan Barber remarked. Everybody knows your smart-ass reputation.

Grandma chuckled and smiled, Such language from a Southern Methodist minister, hmm, hmm.

The only person who could handle Grandma Peters was the minister of the Bush Chapel A.M.E. Zion Church. Minister Barber was from up yonder, Knoxville, Tennessee. 

Why are you always wearing that bright orange of a Tennessee Volunteer?

Honey, I am a loyal Tennessee fan, I bleed orange!

You sure do, and maybe since you came out of those Tennessee mountains you can get enough oxygen for your brain to function and realize that you should be yelling, 'Go Dawgs!'

Never, ever will you hear that disgusting cheer come out of this Tennessee Vols' mouth! 

Randolph Inn patrons were enjoying the border skirmish between the Bulldogs and the Volunteers, verbiage Grandma Peters and the pastor provided twice a week. 

Pastor Barber was a kind and generous man who started the local ministry to help all poor people in black neighborhood of Birchwood and the many poor white trailer parks that surrounded Randolph. He established a food bank where residents could get fresh vegetables and meat free of charge. On Wednesday mornings, Randolph residents pulled up to the church and received bags of black-eyed peas, collard greens, carrots, watermelons and other vegetables raised in the Randolph area.

He had short, dark hair and stood about five-foot seven-inches as compared to Grandma Peters who was five-seven.

He always said upon greeting people, May the Lord keep you and He will never fail or forsake you.

If Pastor Barber's back was turned, Grandma Peters mimicked him. He knew what she was doing.

Grandma, the Lord still loves you. Only He can do that.

She rolled her eyes, No orange today?

Too much red and black in this place.

Go Dawgs!

...Grandma Peters, not again.

Pastor, let me get you a booth.

The wily waitress always left glasses of water, knives, forks, napkins and a basket full of fresh cornbread muffins on each table.

She turned from organizing tables and stared as John and Chuck Miller walked into the crowded restaurant, the bell tinkled as the door opened. The men waited to be seated.

Hmm...here come the weirdos—yup my nephews.

She showed the pair to a booth in the back of the restaurant. She gave each a table setup. Usual?

John looked up, Yes.

I was speaking to the adult. Chuck guffawed.

John glared at Grandma Peters, Food please.

The old woman walked toward the kitchen and yelled in a bass voice, Specials for three!

She paused. Oops, almost forgot, two adults and one child.

Everybody knew who she was referring to and either chuckled or laughed.

Someone screamed, Go Grandma, you on fiiiire!

"Grandma Peters you got jokes!" John yelled.

Oh okay, three adult orders please.

Thank you.

You so sensitive about your height, I can't even tease my own nephew. She paused to let it sink in. "Justin is coming from Philadelphia in a day or two. You know I'm always worried about that boy. I feel he is always on the edge of doing something stupid.

Can't wait to see my cousin, Chuck piped up.

He'll be here for a few weeks before heading back up North. I wish he would stay longer. I worry so.

She walked toward the front of the inn while Pastor Barber opened his Bible. John and Chuck got into a deep conversation about the experiment at the CDC. Concern etched deep crevices in the brothers’ foreheads.

The jukebox was old style with bright orange and red lights surrounding the edges, and the numbers were sunshine bright. Grandma Peters plopped in fifty cents, and it began to play Brooks Benton's hit song, Rainy Night in Georgia:

"Hoverin' by my suitcase

Tryin' to find a warm place to spend the night..."

***

Randolph, Georgia

Drive one hour east from Atlanta into Northeast Georgia and you’ll be transported into a different world. John and Chuck experienced these two worlds. They worked in Atlanta and came home every night to rural Northeast Georgia. What Randolph’s residents had was an authentic sense of place and devoted locals who got excited about preservation and reinvention more than demolition of the old historic buildings in town.

They kept the same historic buildings that were recycled over and over again with different local businesses filling the space. Walkers’ Department Store was Randolph in the 1950s, but now at street level, there is a barber shop and some kind of food place that changed with each new wave of residents coming into this small very sleepy Northeast Georgia community.

Randolph was the birthplace and home of known segregationist, Senator Richard B. Russell. The area around the senator’s house was Russell Town. They even named a middle school after the segregationist. The crown jewel of this community was Fort Yargo State Park. This wooded park was named for the 1792 fort built by settlers. Amenities include camping, cottages, the 260-acre Marbury Creek Reservoir with a beach, boat rental, hiking and biking trails, picnicking, and mini-golf. The county historical museum offered a look into the people and events that shaped Randolph.

Variety was the spice of life in Randolph, a small town with a big personality. The locals could and would tell you all the secrets of small-town life, who was secretly dating a married man or married woman; who was selling rabbit tobacco, aka marijuana; who was crazy and should be sent to Milledgeville, the home for the mental patients. This typical, small southern town was about to be changed fundamentally forever!

Chapter Two

Justin Camp hoverin' next to his suitcase in Philadelphia

Justin Camp stood on the precipice, contemplating jumping into swhirling waters of the Schuylkill River and killing himself. He was conflicted in spirit and sometimes suicidal. Too often, he wanted to end his life with one motion of a blade to the stomach or perhaps jump off the river bridge in Center City. However, he was smart and analytical, too smart to kill himself but not smart enough to eliminate those negative thoughts. I live in a state of confusion.

He climbed on the top railing and was ready to jump when a swift wind pushed him back making him fall backwards on the cement. Justin felt as if an invisible hand had snatched him from the brink of suicide.

Justin turned, spun around and heard someone yell, No! However, there was nobody in the area, only a whistling wind.

He rolled over on his right and pushed up from the sidewalk. A wintry mix of rain and sleet made getting up treacherous. He finally made it to his feet with only one thought in mind. I need to get to Pastor Kate. She was a small, blonde minister from West Texas, but without any of the rancor and racism that he associated with that part of the dusty countryside of Texas.

He continued walking, staggering down Market Street in a daze until he reached City Hall seeing the statue of Philadelphia’s founder, William Penn, who most Philly residents called Billy Penn, gazing down at him from the top of the domed building. He made a left on Broad Street.

Justin saw his objective, Arch Street United Methodist Church with its metallic sign showcasing Pastor Kate Ecklund’s sermon for next Sunday.

He walked into the chapel like a homeless man, not caring about his dirty, greasy pants or his dark-green stained coat. I need to see Pastor Kate now.

Wait in the chapel and I will call her.

Justin continued his zombie-like walk into the chapel with candlelight casting eerie images on the walls, sitting in a vacant pew.

Justin prayed, sometimes he rocked uncontrollably while talking to God.

Pastor Kate was always available to any person in Philadelphia in need. When she strolled to the altar on Sunday mornings, she had a commanding presence.

People must be tolerant and accept each other, she muttered to herself, flipping the pages of her notebook containing her weekly sermon. We are all God’s children.

Pastor Kate sighed as she looked out her office window onto Market Street seeing the bustling crowd walking up and down the block to the various Broad Street office buildings.

The volunteer came into her office. Justin is downstairs in the chapel, he looks terrible!

What!

"Justin Camp, the former Philadelphia Bulletin reporter who is a little coo-coo, perhaps downright wacky."

Janice, I’ll be right down and please stop talking like that.

She was nervous and a little intrigued after seeing him in Sunday services for the last couple of months; she wanted to get some insight into his character. She liked the way he interacted with members of the congregation.

Justin had met with her prior to this about a problem, stormy winds, a term he used instead of suicide. She thought it an odd phrase, but he said stormy winds attacked his mind when he felt depressed about the loss of his career, recognition and wealth. Sometimes people were destroyed because of vicious winds that came without warning. He said turbulent winds was his way of viewing life’s many conflicts and challenges that either make or break a person. Now, he felt he was at the breaking point. 

As she walked down the backstairs, she made a right turn toward the chapel. Justin was sitting in the front row with his head bowed and his hands covering his face; he was crying.

Pastor Kate walked down the aisle to the front row, reached out and touched his shoulder.

He dropped his hands, turned, and looked at the pastor. Tears brimmed from his light-brown eyes.

Pastor, I’m a failure.

What do you mean by that?

I just tried to commit suicide. I tried to jump off the Schuylkill Bridge but something pushed my backwards!

Pastor Kate pulled her hand back, thought better and grasped his shoulder again. That was God at work.

Justin frowned and just stared.

You, Justin, are God's creation, and it is a sin to commit suicide. Do you hear me? It’s a sin to kill yourself.

Justin yanked away from the pastor, screaming and falling on his knees, his clenched fists beat against the wooden pew. No! No! No!

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Justin fell to the floor and cupped his hands over his face as tears streamed down his face.

Janice stared straight ahead as she walked inside, concern etched on her face.