by Meg Kassel
Reece wedges a step stool under the knob. “That won’t be enough,” he calls over the wailing alarm.
There’s pounding at the front door. A slow, relentless thud that sets my teeth on edge.
Reece looks at me. His chin is high, but fear glints in his eyes. “Their patience has run out.”
Lacey slings the backpack over her shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”
Another window breaks. The smell of honey seeps into the kitchen. I grab for something—anything. A butcher knife from the wood block, even though it won’t help me against a Beekeeper.
There’s only one other way out of here. “Follow me!” I dart for our only exit, bursting into the dark garage. “The door locks from the kitchen.”
Reece jams a folding chair under the door. The alarm noise is muffled here, but still loud. The waning sun leaks through the narrow garage windows.
We group in the space where my dad’s car is usually parked.
“What are we waiting for?” Deno opens the door of my car. “Let’s go.”
I stare at my car, mouth dry as a desert. “I don’t have the keys.”
“What?” Deno shrieks. “Where are they?”
“They’re in my backpack, at The Strip Mall.” I yell back at him. “With the rest of my stuff.”
“Why did you leave them there?”
“You were there, Deno.” My fists ball at my side. “You tell me why I wasn’t thinking about keys to a car I wasn’t driving!”
“You don’t have a spare?”
I throw my hands up. “Yes! On my dad’s keychain.”
“What about that?” Reece nods toward my mom’s beautifully restored Volkswagen Bus.
My insides turn to ice. Cold, unmeltable ice. “No way.”
Reece raises a brow. “You said it runs. Are the keys in it?”
“Yes, but no. I-I…can’t.”
The doorknob rattles. All of us jump. Roger’s nails click nervously on the cement floor. The chair Reece put there holds. For now.
Suddenly, Lacey is in my face. Right in my face. Her fingers clamp on my shoulders.
“Angie, sweetie, we’ve fought through hell to make it this far. I know you have personal issues with that vehicle, but we are going to get in it and drive out of here. Right now.” Her voice is mild, but her nails dig painful half-moons into my skin. She doesn’t smile. “Now get in the damn van, or I’m going to use your dad’s nine iron on your hard head and drag you in.”
I back out of her unnerving grip, nodding. “Hell. Okay, fine.”
“I’ll drive it,” Deno offers.
“No!” No one’s sitting in that seat but me. “The gearshift is tricky. I’ll do it.”
The thought of doing this makes me want to curl into the fetal position, but I’m not making up that part about the gearshift.
Reece runs a warm hand down my hair. He cups the back of my head and tilts it up to his dark eyes. “It’s only a van, Angie. Your mother left it a long time ago,” he says, gently. “I can drive if you want.”
“I got this.” The words are sluggish, like I’m underwater, drowning in all the lonely voices in the dark places of my mind that insist I abandoned my mother. That if I had been more, she would have been okay. I know better than that now, but a few revelations can’t overturn a lifetime of thinking a certain way.
The knob is no longer rattling. Something hard smashes against the door.
“Angie!” Lacey’s voice is shrill. “I will use that nine iron!”
Deno and Lacey are already inside the van, Lacey in the back, Deno in the passenger seat.
Seeing them inside punches the breath right out of my chest, but not with that tired, well-worn grief I am so used to. It’s a decision, clear and resolute. A single thought burning in my chest—no one else will die in this vehicle.
I run to the van but the dog stays at the door. “Roger! Come on, boy!”
Reece climbs into the seat behind me, but the dog doesn’t budge. He’s rooted at the door, fur up and snarling, looking as ferocious as I’ve ever seen a yellow Lab.
“I can’t leave Roger!” I yell.
“Just go. The Beekeepers want us, not the dog,” Reece shouts back. “We’ll lead them away from him.”
I bite my lip. Every shred of my being wants to run over there and haul my dog into the van, but it would take three of us to carry a thrashing, snarling Roger inside.
My fingers find the key and turn it. The engine rattles to life, momentarily filling the interior with a puff of exhaust. My stomach clenches at the familiar smell. Memories crowd my head. I lock one hand around the steering wheel and the other around the knob of the gearshift.
Reece looks at me, then hits the garage door remote button. “You got this.”
I nod, but my heart pounds in my throat. “What if they grab on as we’re driving away?”
“That happens only in movies,” Reece says. “Just drive.”
The garage door isn’t fully up before I tromp the clutch and put us into reverse. I’ve driven this beast many times—illegally, of course. I was eleven, twelve, but tow-away zones wait for no mother to regain consciousness.
The Bus feels clunky and old compared to my automatic Honda. But I still remember how to finesse the sticky gearshift and the weird timing required to work the clutch.
I set my jaw and ignore the two Beekeepers who jump out of the way. Roger clamps his jaws on one of their ankles. A powerful arm swings down, sending him skidding across the garage with a pained yelp.
My throat squeezes tight at the sound, but the Beekeepers are already outside. They spread their arms and burst into two massive swarms of bees.
Lacey lets out a muffled scream. “Oh my God, did you see that?”
I hit the brake, turn the wheel, and slam the Bus into drive. The smell of burned rubber mixes with honey and exhaust and the bite of my own fear.
A roiling wall of bees rolls toward us like an angry storm cloud. And it’s gaining on us.
“Where are we going?” I call out to anyone in the van. “Directions!”
“Turn right at the T,” Deno replies. “Follow it to the old mine road.”
I go sightless for a split second. “Are you sick? We’re not going there.”
Deno stabs a finger toward Reece. “He says they won’t go underground. There’s an old mine entrance back there somewhere. It’s—”
“Burnham Mine,” I cut in. “I know where it is.”
“Good. That’s where we’re going.”
Reece nods. “They won’t follow us into the mine.”
I glance at the rearview mirror and let out a whimper.
“You’d better be right.” I grit my teeth and yank the wheel toward the right at the crossroads.
The van pitches to the left but doesn’t tip. Tires squeal. I hit the gas and steer through the winding road as the paved drives of my neighbors’ homes flash by. The road ends in a tidy gravel parking lot and a big sign about proper trail conduct and a dog poop bag dispenser. I never took note of these civilized things before on my many walks out to the mine. The world right now is not civilized at all.
I blow past the trail entrance to the lovely hike up Mt. Franklin and turn left down the maintenance road, flattening a sign that says Official Vehicles Only.
We bounce horribly over rocks and roots, but I can’t slow down. The bees are behind us. I can hear their furious drone over the noisy engine and the branches whipping against the windows. I remind myself to thank my dad for putting new, all-weather tires on this thing when he had it restored. This ride would be over at the first bump if the van still had the bald, cracked ones my mom drove around on.
Then I find the side path to the mine. It’s perilously narrow for a bit, but then the road widens and the entrance to the mine comes into view. So does the eight-foot-high chain link fence that I’m used to squeezing through.
My heart stops. I swear it does. “Reece!”
He grips the back of my seat. “Keep go
ing. The fence is down around the other side, behind those trees.”
This is suicide. The bees must have discerned our plan. They divide up—half follow us, the other half break off and appear to swarm at the entrance of the mine.
I ignore Deno’s frantic pointing and swing around a stand of trees, downshift, and brake in a spray of dirt and rocks. Sure enough, a section of the fence curls away from the rest. I hit the gas and burst through the opening. It’s not wide enough. The sides of the Bus screech as clipped chain link scrapes teal paint, but we take down what is left of the fence and cross to the mine entrance. Yes, the one we’re heading toward. That’s when I understand—the bees are swarming there to disguise the precise entry. Maybe they are trying to make us crash so they’ll have us injured and surrounded.
I bite my bottom lip and line the van up with the domed entrance as best I can, working on memory and instinct and hoping for a bit of luck.
“Oh crap!” Deno yells. “There’s a wall up there, Ange!”
“I can take it down,” I say, not that anyone’s listening.
I’m beyond the point of questioning myself. I couldn’t if I wanted to, and I do not want to. I hold my breath. We’re being sandwiched—a swarm ahead and a swarm behind.
A mine entrance that I may or may not be lined up with.
“Headlights!” Reece bellows.
I fumble for the knob and yank the headlights on. I gulp down air and hit the gas pedal again, propelling us into the swarm. Bees splatter on the windshield in sick thuds, immediately followed by the wooden barrier and gate. The windows darken with bees, then darken completely as we plunge into the pitch-black mineshaft. The buzzing eases off, as does my foot on the gas.
My breath comes in long wheezes as I slow the ailing Bus down the shaft. The tunnel was designed for trucks to get inside, but I don’t know how far I should—or can—go. It narrows and snakes off in different directions into the mountain.
Despite the high ceiling of the tunnel, Volkswagen Buses were not intended to drive through such places. I come to a full stop, hands shaking so badly, putting the Bus in park comes only after an epic fight with the gearshift. The sudden quiet and darkness is disorienting. I swivel in my seat and look back. I can’t judge the distance, but the tunnel opening is a prick of dim evening light, pretty far back there. The bees coil in a huge, furious knot at the entrance. But they don’t follow us in here.
I turn off the key and sag against the seat. I—and the Bus—let out rasping sighs of relief.
The smell of honey is replaced by cool, damp earth and overworked engine. With reluctance, I switch off the headlights. We may need the battery. The dark corridor ahead plunges into darkness. The only light comes from the opening far behind us. And that is fading by the second. Night will arrive soon.
Deno slaps my seat. “I can’t believe we just did that. Good thing I knew about this mine, eh?”
I’m too exhausted to respond. But if I wasn’t, I’d remind him that his role was limited to a lot of pointing and yelling in my ear. Getaway drivers are underappreciated.
Reece reaches over and finds my hand. “Nice driving.”
I sit still, listening to my heart hammer away at my ribs. “I never want to do that again. Ever.”
“I hope you never have to.”
I will, probably. We have to leave the mine at some point. There’s really no telling how long the bees can—or will—lay siege to us.
Deno lets out a loud, maniacal whoop. He flings open the door and jumps out.
“What is he doing?” I ask.
Lacey lets out a startled noise as we hear the sound of Deno’s feet crunching on gravel. A vile stream of profanity flows from his mouth. He’s walking somewhere, but it’s too dark to see anything.
“He’s gonna get lost out there.” Lacey grabs Reece’s arm. “Stop him! Please!”
Reece lets out a curse himself, and slams out of the Bus. “Lights, please, Angie.”
I pull on the headlights. Lacey and I watch, faces pressed to the glass as he rushes to Deno. I’m not worried about Reece. He’s a hockey player, which I assume means he’s used to being in fights. Deno knows more about digital mixers and obscure bands than throwing punches. Hopefully Reece won’t actually hurt him.
The boys’ voices are muffled, but I can see Reece trying to reason with Deno. There’s a brief, heated discussion, but it does no good. Deno waves his arms and tries to take a swing at Reece. Lacey lets out a yelp as Deno misses by a mile and winds up taking Reece’s right fist neatly on the jaw. Deno goes down, and Reece catches him in the midsection with one arm, knocking the wind out of Deno.
Reece returns to the Bus, dragging a mumbling, semiconscious Deno. He hauls my friend onto the floor of the back of the Bus and begins fiddling with Deno’s clothes. “Did you pack a flashlight?” he asks Lacey.
“I think so.” She climbs in the back to dig through the backpack and returns with my dad’s small mag light.
Reece takes the flashlight and shines it on Deno’s neck. He purses his lips. “Help me pull up his shirt, please.”
Lacey blinks in confusion but untucks Deno’s shirt from his pants. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for something.”
She yanks Deno’s shirt up his back. “What, exactly?”
Reece sweeps the flashlight over Deno’s lower back. His breath hisses through his teeth. He aims the beam on Deno’s lower back and an angry red spot with white striations curling from the sting like frayed lace. “That.”
Lacey leans forward. “What is that?”
“Exactly what I was afraid of.”
Panic knots my gut. “It’s a Beekeeper sting.”
Reece rubs his hands over his face and nods. “I suspected. It’s why I wanted us to stay together—to keep an eye on him. He’s dangerous. You remember that nice young man who came to the college parking lot with a gun?”
I jerk back. “No. Deno could never do that.”
“He’s been stung by a Beekeeper,” Reece says grimly. “He’s capable of far worse.”
“No,” I say again. “How can we fix this?”
He flicks off the flashlight. “We can’t.”
Lacey shifts around next to us. “Are you saying he was stung by one of those bees?” Her voice goes shrill. “And now he’s going to go homicidal maniac on us?”
Reece wisely takes his time with a reply. He turns the flashlight on again and shows Lacey the sting. “See those white marks fanning out? They tell me this sting didn’t just happen. It’s at least a day old. By now, the infected person is usually out of control, psychotic.”
“But Deno wasn’t like that,” Lacey says.
Neither was my mother. But look how she ended up. I wrap my arms tight around my middle and breathe through the chill rattling me. It’s unthinkable that Deno will spiral slowly into psychosis or that he’ll snap and try to kill us.
“Deno was sane,” Reece agrees. “He just got kind of…nasty.”
Lacey’s lips compress at the description, but she doesn’t argue it. “That’s a good sign, right? He could end up okay?”
The hope in her voice is painful to listen to. Oh Lacey, I’ve seen how this ends…
Reece pulls down Deno’s shirt. He snaps off the flashlight again, plunging the van into darkness. “It’s unlikely he will be okay, Lacey,” Reece says gently. “His control is unusual, though. Beekeepers can sense people who are unstable, just like harbingers can smell impending death. That’s who they typically sting—the unbalanced. People who are sick to begin with.”
“Which Deno isn’t,” Lacey says. “So why sting him?”
Reece’s brows pull together. “That’s a good question. Maybe because of his connection to Angie. Maybe—” He breaks off and shrugs. His mouth hardens, and his eyes take on a faraway look. He’s thinking something. Something he’s not going to tell me. Or maybe just doesn’t want to say in front of Lacey.
I bite my tongue and turn to Lacey. I’ll quiz Reec
e later, when we’re alone. “You’ve been with him this whole time. Any idea when or where Deno may have gotten stung?”
Lacey’s eyes flutter skyward as she thinks. “Well, um. The only other time we were around bees was yesterday. When we almost got on a rescue helicopter, there were bees around. Deno didn’t say anything to me about getting stung, though.” She looks to Reece. “Do they hurt? Would he have even known?”
Reece makes a humorless laugh. “Oh, he knew. It’s terribly painful, so I’ve heard. He may have kept it to himself so he wouldn’t worry you.”
“My mom didn’t have a sting like that,” I say quietly.
“The stings fade,” Reece replies, head close to mine. “They disappear completely upon death.”
“So what do we do?” Lacey demands. “We have to do something. There must be a cure—a way to reverse whatever this sting is doing to him.”
“I’m sorry, Lacey.” Reece’s voice is empty. Devoid of hope. “There is no known cure for a Beekeeper sting.”
36- under the ground
Our eyes adjust to the darkness. We have a debate about it, but decide against tying up Deno, even though Reece makes it clear that it would be smart if we did. He even offers his belt—which came from my dad’s closet—for the job.
When Deno is lucid again, we ask him about the sting. He knew, of course. Afraid to scare Lacey, he kept it to himself and tried to deal with his increasingly negative impulses.
He doesn’t ask about a cure. He doesn’t ask about anything.
Lacey and Reece take the flashlight and go to check the mine entrance, to see if the bees are still there, and I stay in the Bus with Deno. He sits on the floor, a dark shape in a dark place.
For a long time, we are still and quiet. I count my own heartbeats. I wait for Deno to talk, which usually doesn’t require a wait, but he falls silent and stays that way. Deno, who for as long as I’ve known him, has been the schemer, the planner, the hopeful one. This time, he seems to be the one who needs a plan and some hope.
I sit across from him. The rear seats are long gone, leaving the back open. When I lived with my mother, this was packed with our stuff and us, when we weren’t living with some guy. My fingers pluck at the matted floor carpet. My dad had the Bus thoroughly detailed, but a bit of her scent lingers—hair spray, ramen noodles, pot. The industrial cleaners have scrubbed away the smell of unwashed bodies and general life apathy. Still, I’m afraid to breathe too deeply.