Chapter 3: The Crimson Bloom

Chapter 3: The Crimson Bloom

The connection terminated, leaving Greg staring at the stark white STATUS: COMPLETE message on his screen. The only sound in the cavernous office was the frantic, ragged rasp of his own breathing. He lurched from his chair, stumbling to the small grey wastebasket beside his desk, and retched. Nothing came up but bitter acid, his stomach a clenched, empty knot of terror. He braced himself against the cubicle wall, his glasses slipping down his nose, the sterile, air-conditioned world spinning around him.

The earth is hungry. Bishop’s words weren’t a metaphor. They were a mission statement.

He collapsed back into his chair, his body trembling uncontrollably. He tried to process what he’d seen. The churning soil, the fleshy, questing roots, the way Dan’s form had been… absorbed. It defied every law of biology he knew. This wasn't decomposition. It was consumption. A supernatural, predatory act of digestion by the planet itself. The sanitized jargon of his job replayed in his mind, each word now dripping with blood. Restoration Project. Catalyst. Sourcing. They were priests in a death cult, and their god was the ground beneath their feet.

A soft chime startled him so badly he nearly leaped out of his skin.

A new notification had appeared on his dashboard, nestled right below the completed project entry for 734-Cumberland. It was labeled: FIELD OBSERVATION LOG: P734.

With a hand that felt disconnected from his body, he clicked it.

A text window opened, written by a field agent he didn’t recognize. The tone was professional, upbeat, and utterly monstrous.

AGENT: VALDEZ, A. SUBJECT: Post-Restoration Assessment, Site 734. LOG: Preliminary observation shows exceptional results. The catalyst was… potent. Immediate and vigorous growth response noted within minutes of project completion. Far exceeds projected biomass regeneration for a catalyst of this type. The Director’s new sourcing protocol is proving remarkably effective. Recommend expedited follow-up analysis.

Below the text were several attached image files. Greg’s cursor hovered over the first one, a cold dread washing over him. He had to know. He had to see the result of the horror. He clicked.

The image resolved with perfect clarity. It was a close-up of the ground near the base of the ancient oak tree. Where Dan’s empty shoes had lain on bare earth just minutes ago, a cluster of new saplings now pushed through the soil. They were impossibly vibrant, their leaves a shade of green so deep it was almost black. But it was the other growth that made his blood run cold. Interspersed among the saplings were flowers, blooming with preternatural speed. They were a species he’d never seen before, with delicate, bell-shaped blossoms of the most intense, shocking crimson. They looked like they had been watered with fresh blood.

He clicked to the next photo. It was a wider shot of the oak. New, supple branches had already sprouted from the gnarled bark where the cocoon had formed. The leaves on these branches were also tinged with a dark red, as if still blushing from their recent, horrific meal. The entire tree seemed to thrum with a terrible new vitality. Dan’s hubris, his defiance, his terror—it had all been converted into this grotesque, beautiful bloom. This was the “feast” Bishop had spoken of.

The realization crashed over Greg with the force of a physical blow. The DEI memo. Demographic parity. Holistic representation. Diversity. It wasn’t about race or gender. It was a menu. They had been starving the Telluric Maw with a monotonous diet of transients and loners, the people Dan had called ‘low-impact.’ Bishop believed the Maw needed a more varied palate. It needed the complexity of a family’s love, the sharp tang of a teenager’s rebellion, the rich flavor of an intellectual’s mind, the bitter spice of an arrogant man’s defiance. They weren’t project planners; they were sommeliers, curating pairings of human souls for a hungry, terrestrial god.

As this new, hideous truth settled in his mind, his monitor flickered.

The live feed from Project 734 reactivated.

Greg flinched back, his heart hammering against his ribs. The video was stable, showing the clearing and the grotesquely revitalized oak tree. A figure was standing at its base. It was Director Bishop. She hadn't left. She was standing exactly where Dan had been, her hand resting on the trunk, right over the spot where he had been absorbed.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned. Her head lifted, and her piercing grey eyes stared directly forward, locking onto the lens of the hidden camera. She knew its position. Of course she did. She had orchestrated this entire thing. The unsanctioned project, the live feed piped directly to his terminal, the timing of it all. It wasn’t a system glitch. It was a calculated demonstration.

A small, knowing smile touched the corners of her lips. It was not a smile of warmth or pleasure, but one of absolute, chilling authority. It was the smile of a predator that has just shown a cub how to kill. It said, I know you watched. I know you understand. Welcome to the nature of the work.

She knew. She had made him a witness. An accomplice after the fact. He was trapped, his horror a chain she had just forged and locked around his neck. Any thought he might have had of going to the authorities, of exposing this, died in that instant. Who would believe him? And even if they did, what mortal agency could stand against a woman who could command the very earth to devour a man whole?

The feed cut out for a final time. Greg was left staring at his own pale, terrified reflection in the dark screen.

He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. His name, his skills, his entire life were embedded in the agency's systems—systems he now understood were designed not for conservation, but for methodical sacrifice. He was as much a part of the machine as the code he wrote.

A sharp, authoritative chime echoed in the silent office. It was a different sound, a direct summons. A small, black message box appeared in the center of his monitor, overriding all other windows. There were only five words.

MR. MILLER. MY OFFICE. NOW.

There was no ‘please.’ No option to decline. It wasn't an invitation. It was a leash, being pulled taut. Greg stared at the words, his blood turning to ice. The trap had been sprung. There was no escape.