The Goatheads that Ate Golden Valley
What if just the right sequence of unlikely events collided with the perfect combination of external influences. What if the consequences of that impact brought into being a terrifying threat to mankind. In the Arizona desert, not far from the red rock banks of the sparkling Colorado River, the inhabitants of a sleepy little village came face to face with the results of just such an encounter. Cradled between opposite mountain passes, the rural community is somewhat isolated, You won't find any green ADOT sign displaying the distance to Golden Valley on the fifty mile stretch of road that runs through the whistle-stop. Or anywhere at all, for that matter. The road connects two small towns on the other side of either pass and goes no where else. Few people other than locals are even aware of Golden Valley's existence. The secluded valley offered the perfect breeding ground for a monster to thrive undetected.
*****
A short distance from Golden Valley looms a certain mysterious chemical plant, furtive and half hidden in the desert. It's presence isn't advertised and its purpose is kept secret. Huge windsocks fly from the compound's walls in order to provide the employees with wind direction in the event an evacuation was ordered, should the unthinkable happen. It wasn't much of a chance, but it was something. The fabric tubes, full and taut, snapped sharply in the ever present high winds that often played havoc in the valley.
*****
Now to say Golden Valley is unremarkable and totally obscure would be a mistake. Actually the tiny speck on the map had attracted the attention of no less a national agency than Homeland Security. While monitoring the private conversations of Americans everywhere, they were particularly intrigued by what they heard when they turned their attention to the tucked away valley. The amount of seemingly random obscenity that was recorded from over the area was astounding. At all times of the day and night, the residents could be heard shouting blue blazes. I'll leave the expletives to your imagination, but the impassioned cussing ran the gamut of the words defined in the “wash your mouth out with soap” dictionary.
It was not that the people living in the valley were noticeably any more obnoxious than most. It was the goatheads that provoked their constant salty outbursts. Every living thing in the harsh desert habitat has defenses. None are as insidious as the goathead, named for it's resemblance the horned head of a goat. The goathead is a carnivorous plant, thirsty for blood, but harmless due to it's small size. The prolific creeper spreads itself by attaching it's fiendish spawn to unwary passerby's. With spikes as hard as iron and as sharp as nails, the devil's thorns attack hungrily. They are the bane of the good people of Golden Valley. Carried into homes on the soles of shoes, the abomination was deposited onto bare floors, into carpet, car floor mats, towels and bedding. Not even underwear was safe from assault. Goatheads lay in wait patiently, finding their way into the tender flesh of their victim often and by any means possible.
Late one hot August night, the low pressure caused by the high desert temperatures met with a southwesterly wind bringing moisture and produced a furious electrical storm over the valley. As the storm raged, the valley's only light was provided by bright bursts of lightning ripping through the veil of darkness, even as driving needles of rain repaired the torn sky. As usual, the storm had knocked the electricity out.
*****
The night watchman at the chemical plant walked through the grounds with his flashlight. He'd been at Crazy Fred's having a beer when the power went out. Since he was supposed to be on duty, he'd rushed back to his post. He'd become lax, standing guard night after uneventful night. “Who'd know if I slipped out to have a cold one every now and then? What harm could it do since nothing every happened?”
He'd switched the power to the backup generators before making his inspection. A greasy looking puddle under one of the canisters glistened in the beam of his flashlight. Raising the light, the label showed that the tanks contents, or former contents, was part of a study being conducted for Monsanto, the agrochemical corporation. Not that the outcome of testing mattered. If it was profitable, it was marketable. Test results could be doctored. Fines could be paid from the massive proceeds to counter any ill effects of Monsanto's newest formula for producing frankenfood.
The power outage must have let pressure build and cause the canister to leak. If he'd have been on site to flip on the generator there wouldn't have been a problem. Now if he followed protocol and initiated the mandatory emergency response, he'd get canned for sure. He decided to clean up the mess and pretend ignorance of any leak. The backup generator only maintained the chemical storage units safely, it didn't power the cameras. If something couldn't be proven, it never happened. Reaching for an overhead sprayer used to cool the units, he washed away any evidence of his poor work ethic and even poorer character.
Once he completed his rounds he headed back to the office for a nap before the day shift arrived. As he slept, outside the facility walls, under the cover of darkness, a silent predator positioned itself to trap it's prey, nurtured by the downpour.
No one witnessed the genesis of the thing that, by dawn, would hold the entire valley hostage. Everyone was snug in their homes, waiting out the storm. Heavy rains, common in monsoon season, pounded the valley, a flood plain that had long ago been the Sacramento river. Overflowing washes discouraged driving on all but the few paved roads, as flowing water forged it's own paths to the Colorado river. The country roads, being dirt, were susceptible to flash flooding. Unfortunate vehicles and their occupants had been known to be carried away by the momentum of the rushing water. People tended to avoid the treacherous conditions created by a torrential rain.
It was still dark and raining when he woke up. No one had shown up to relieve him. He had no idea what time it was. The electricity was still out, which was strange. The valley lost power often, but it was nearly always restored pretty quickly. His phone displayed the time as 10:07, but there were no bars showing service. The office phone was dead. Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, he walked out into the quiet facility. Where was everybody? The electronic entry system was useless. As he walked through the silent halls, he realized he was alone in the offices that should have been bustling with activity by now. When he reached an exit at the rear wall, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.
His thoughts spiraled to the edges of madness as he struggled with the connection he made between last nights chemical leak and the sight of in front of him. If Monsanto's chemicals had been the catalyst, the rain and high temperatures had strengthened the mutation until the plentiful goatheads plaguing the valley had evolved into huge thickets overnight, the now deadly thorns resembling the spiked ball of a mace. At ground zero of the leaked experiment, dense foliage had totally overgrown the building, blocking out the sun. Spurred by his rising hysteria, the man plunged headlong into the vegetation, in his desperation to be free of his green prison. He hadn't gone far when the earth gave way beneath his weight, leaving him neatly wedged in the gap created where massive roots had broken open the lid to a septic tank. Literally in deep doodoo, consciousness fled as his mind recoiled from the horror of his situation.
*****
Throughout the valley, disgruntled residents were held captive in their homes, without power or phone service, cut off from each other and effectively cut off from the rest of the world by the monstrous weeds choking the mountain passes at either end of the valley. The plants emitted an almost inaudible vibrating hum, half felt, half heard, like the buzzing made by the line on a telephone pole. There was no bird song, only the cries of terrified animals tangled in the maze of unnatural underbrush, punctuated by volleys of gunshots as some people tried shooting their way free of the brambles.
The only place in the entire valley that hadn't been overgrown by giant goatheads was a small area off the backdoor of the Maverik. About fifteen square feet of barren dirt was still visible. The graveyard shift employees had been trapped in the 24 hour gas station/convenience store. With the power off, they hadn't noticed the encroaching monstrosity until any way of escape had been cut off. A few people had fought their way through the living barricade and sought shelter in the store after abandoning their disabled cars when their tires were punctured by massive thorns. One of these bleeding and disheveled refugees noticed the little clearing off the store's back door. The cashier said that she always dumped the old coffee in that spot and had poured out a mop bucket full of caustic brew there, then hosed it into the rocks at the start of her shift. Someone decided to fill a bucket with coffee and douse the threatening greenery, on the theory that the coffee was what had held the beast at bay. The small group stood in nervous silence as the backdoor was pushed open. Greenish hued sunlight struggled through the thicket as the man who drew the short straw threw a five gallon bucket of steaming, caffeine infused battery acid that had been steeping all night onto the menace's nearest heavy stalks. When the inky liquid made contact the monster's reaction was violent and immediate. It actually reared back, convulsing and pulling it's roots out of the ground where the corrosive coffee dripping from it's leaves formed a lethal pool. It's common knowledge plants can move slowly, the way they do when seeking the sun in a windowsill. Apparently they can move much faster when they want to, but not fast enough. The freak flora shuddered a few more times and collapsed in an oozing heap.
*****
Homeland Security listeners, listening for cursing, discovered Golden Valley was under siege and that coffee seemed to act as an antidote. Convinced that ISIS had targeted Golden Valley for a biological attack waged on US soil, the Secretary of Homeland Security informed the President, who authorized the initiation of defensive counter measures and the deployment of the Arizona Cattle Guards. Without bothering to clear up the President's misconception about cattle guards, the Secretary of Defense commissioned fire fighting helicopter's to dump tanks of coffee on the overgrown valley only to be told nothing happened! Was it possible the lethal properties of the coffee were brand specific? He commandeered an entire warehouse of Maverik coffee for a second attempt. This drop reduced the chemically altered plants to huge piles of cooked spinach. The valley was saved! There was great rejoicing in Washington for having thwarted terrorism in a crushing defeat.
*****
Homeland Security was rewarded with an even bigger budget for its part in defeating the threatening vegetation, the better to monitor everything and everyone.
ISIS claimed responsibility for the attack. They would have lost credibility when the security guard came clean, once he'd been freed from the septic tank. Homeland Security preferred the record to show they'd defeated terrorism on US soil. It's rumored the guard's being detained at Gitmo indefinitely.
Monsanto didn't want the bad publicity and happily kept silent about their involvement. Their newest GMO product is a variety of grapes the size of watermelon.
Maverik marketed a new weed killer, sold in 128 ounce refillable insulated travel mugs.
The Arizona Cattle Guards insulted the President when they refused to accept commendations for bravery at a White House ceremony, failing to appear without so much as an RSVP.
Not easily impressed, the valley inhabitants set about cleaning up the mess. Battling goatheads was nothing new, what ever size they happened to be and anyone with the sense God gave a goose knows Maverik coffee is toxic. They did get a kick out of the idea of the cattle guards getting medals for bravery from the nations leader.
In the remote reaches of the valley, a crazy old coot kept some of the massive thorns, topping his fence poles with them to discourage trespassers. The funny thing about goathead thorns is that they are actually seeds that can lay dormant for up to seven years, waiting patiently to be resurrected by the right set of circumstances. It may be that declaring victory was a bit premature.
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