Submitted for the July 2024 prompt: This Mortal Coil

"Come on, Dr. Davidson, gimme a break, will ya?" pleaded Sheriff Jack Taylor as he rubbed the bulge of his rumbling stomach. It was eight o'clock, and he should have been watching the sunset from his porch with a beer and a bag of Doritos. "You know you can't stop this from happening, right? Neither can I. Nobody can."

 

"Then I guess you'll have to kill me!" croaked back Gene Davidson. He'd been hollering for hours and his voice was starting to fail. "I'm ready to die right here with my friend, I swear to God!"

 

"That's not your friend, Dr. Davidson — that's just a tree. And it's not your tree anymore because you squandered all your money and lost this house."

 

"This isn't anyone's tree," Gene argued, coughing out the words. "No one can own another living thing, and this tree's been alive longer than—"

 

Taking a swipe through his combover, the sheriff turned and shuffled away. When the phone in his pocket buzzed, he snatched it up and answered. "This better be good news."

 

"Sorry, boss. I swear we used to have a pair of bolt cutters, but hell if I can find 'em. And the hardware's already closed. I could call Mr. Gibbs — have him let us in the store. Or we could borrow a pair from the Rivertown department."

 

"Hell no," Jack said matter-of-factly. "That's too damn embarrassing either way. If this old quack wants to spend the night chained to a tree, I might just let him. I'm pretty damn hungry, and the game starts in an hour. I'm not missing kickoff for this shit."

 

"Hey, my pizza's here. I'll catch you later."

 

Jack clenched his teeth as the line went dead. "Did you just hang up on me, you little shit? I should demote your ass. And I should confiscate that pizza and make you eat the box."

 

After checking the time again on his phone, Jack turned and stomped back to the craggy, old oak.

 

"I'm not sure if you realize this, Sheriff, but this tree was already growing here when this town was founded in—"

 

"Enough! I'm done with this shit. Doctor, tell me where the key is or I'm leaving your old ass out here for the night. I don't care about your Nobel Prize. I don't care that you used to be the world's greatest neuro-techno-botono-whatever the hell you were. You decided to retire to my little town, and now you're subject to my rules. Capiche?"

 

After a moment's hesitation, Gene said, "If you want the key, you'll have to wait until tomorrow — after my morning coffee. Because I swallowed it."

 

With that, Jack turned and left.

 

* * *

 

As the sound of the sheriff's racing cruiser faded, the sun dipped below the horizon and Gene Davidson shivered. He pushed and pulled at the chains he'd used to bind himself to the tree. They were heavy and cold, and the hard noise they made when he shifted eroded the inner peace he was struggling to maintain.

 

When the last color seeped from the western sky, Gene dropped his gaze to the gnarly root protruding from the ground beside his leg. Its rough bark chafed against the side of his knee as he shook, but he hardly felt it. The urge to look toward the muddy pond where he'd tossed the padlock key was strong, but he resisted.

 

Despite himself, a twinge of fear added pace to his shivering. No one other than his doctors and himself knew about the cancer, and that was as it should be because it wasn't anybody else's damn business. He'd come to terms with the idea that his death would be sooner rather than later, but still… the immediacy of the moment was jarring. And the cold wasn't numbing — it was painful.

 

Though he desperately wished for more time to continue his research, Gene realized it couldn't be. Time was up.

 

It was now or never.

 

Wriggling his right arm free, Gene reached to the bulging root. With a practiced motion, he popped free the cleverly disguised cover he'd placed there, revealing the electronics beneath. He unspooled the transfer cable, stretched it to the jack hidden in his ear, but then hesitated. Turning his face to the sky, he picked out the brightest star and whispered, "I wish to feel the wind in my leaves."

 

Then he plugged in.

 

* * *

 

The morning sun felt glorious. The breeze was the gentlest caress of a thousand angels' feathertips, and the rich soil pressing in around every root was a comforting embrace.

 

It felt good to be a tree.

 

In sharp contrast, the buzz-scream voice of the chainsaw felt ugly and obtrusive and very, very wrong. The anger it triggered felt wrong as well, but necessary.

 

The first bite of the saw felt like a small death, and the remnant of Gene Davidson recoiled not only in pain, but in revulsion. He pushed all that was left of his thoughts toward it, desperate to do anything to intervene.

 

He felt one long limb flex and bend and then stretch down toward the grating, killing sound. When he reached the man with the saw, he pushed against him, and then into him, and then through him. He kept pushing and pushing until all that ugliness was buried deep beneath the earth, trapped in the eternal darkness where it belonged.

 

Then he went back to feeling the sun and the wind and the soil. It all felt good, and he didn't feel bad — not one little bit.