Long Eyes and Other Stories

by Jeff Carlson

  Julie waved her TI gun as she hit the stairs, glancing back at him through the office space. "The ceiling is hot—"

  Highsong wasn't moving. "We're three stories up," he said. "If the floor lets go, you won't be so excited about making our bonus."

  He couldn't have stopped her any faster if he'd smacked the wide part of her jeans. Julie froze and then turned on the fourth step, exasperated — in part because he was twenty feet away. A dozen low cubicles separated them. Highsong could be as stubborn as a rock, but the truth was they made a fine pair. Julie was aware that they both looked out of place in this well-organized call center, dragging guns and packs into the maze of desks. He was six and a half feet of Irish/Cheyenne, a mix almost as exotic as her own African/Arabic/French ancestry, and lean and firm in comparison to her curves.

  "It's not about the money," she said.

  "Isn't it?"

  "It's about doing well."

  "Then why is your radio off?"

  "We don't need help."

  "Always the superhero."

  Watching him, Julie shifted beneath thirty pounds of sensors and other gear. She never felt the weight when she was running — only when they stopped to rest in the late July heat — and the mischief in her heart grew as she took in Highsong's posture. Spine straight. Arms folded. His protectiveness made her happy, so she flirted with him by stamping her feet up and down two stairs in a spontaneous little salsa dance. Maybe she put more hip into it than necessary. Ba boom bang bang. Her thoughts were like a drum. I love you.

  "Seems safe," she said, lilting the words.

  "If you fall through—"

  "You wish."

  Highsong's mouth twisted as he fought with a smile and won. His scowl deepened. Then he started toward her through the cubicles. "Just be careful," he said.

  Julie laughed. "They haven't made a bug yet that's got more brains than— Yaaah!"

  The stairwell exploded overhead. Julie fell. In the first seconds, the avalanche was only noise, a stampede of footsteps and crashing boxes, but then she was overwhelmed by hundreds of small, shiny objects and cardboard and a leaping man. He was Caucasian. Brown hair. Brown beard. He wore a backpack even larger than her own.

  "Run!" he screamed.

  Julie tumbled into an unladylike heap on the floor, her elbows and knees spread to catch herself. Instead, the man squashed her flat when he put his shoe on her pack. Everywhere, the small trinkets clattered down the stairs — silver balls and red balls and gold stars — and Highsong shouted behind her. He might have tried to intercept the man. Julie heard someone bang against a desk, another shout, and a sharper crash.

  She yelled, "What the—"

  Then she got a face full of bugs. The stairwell was buried in winged termites. They were slick, yellow, damp, stinking. Julie shrieked and clawed both hands across her mouth.

  "Yuck!"

  Blinded by the swarm, she tried to get up. Someone grabbed her shoulder. Highsong. No one else would have waded into the bugs for her — but he was still supporting her when he slipped, yanking her sideways. Julie bounced off the wall. Highsong hit the floor. She landed on him.

  Fortunately, the termites were dispersing. Julie spit in disgust and looked around, not unhappy with her position on Highsong's chest. There were bugs in his hair and bugs on the floor and Julie giggled to shake off the lasting sensation of creepy little feet against her skin. But it was too hot to stay together. The office building was stifling in the summer sun, so she patted his arm affectionately and began to roll aside.

  Highsong grabbed her waist. "Wait. You okay?"

  "Hey!" Julie said, not fighting too hard.

  His free hand went to the absurd junk on the floor, distracting her as he lifted a clump of trinkets — a glittering blue-and-white ball, a plastic snowman, and a red-nosed toy reindeer. Julie wrinkled her eyebrows in confusion. Highsong smiled. "Merry Christmas," he said. Then he kissed her.

  #

  What had the other man been doing in the building? This part of town was supposed to be clear, but some hold-outs had stayed to fight the bugs themselves. There were also looters, thrill-seekers, and other assorted fruitcakes. The man was probably stealing as much as he could carry. He was about the twentieth unauthorized person they'd seen today.

  Julie rubbed a bruised elbow as she and Highsong worked to kill the termites. It was messy. The bugs were in the walls and file cabinets and a translucent squirming mass of yellow bodies burst from an easy chair in one office. The air was hazy with winged termites and dust. They had a hard time finding the nest. Julie used her thermal imaging gun to locate the worst pockets in the walls as Highsong created some breathing room with his glue sprayer. They laid down bait and pheromone beacons.

  As it turned out, there were already three queen colonies. Heterotermes aureus machovsky moved fast — too fast for an eleven syllable name. Julie called 'em machos for short, like nachos, even though their creator's surname was pronounced ma CHOV ski. Lance Machovsky. His babies were smaller than most termite species but acted like they bled methamphetamine.

  The bugs had ravaged most of the building's top floor, which seemed to be dedicated to management offices and storage for discontinued items. In back, endless boxes had slumped to the floor, chewed apart by the machos, leaving flecks of bright wrapping paper and cardboard and what looked like eighty-six billion Christmas ornaments and other holiday goodies like pint-size Marys and Santa Clauses. Julie crunched through the debris with an alarming sense of guilt.

  "Is this going to put us on the nice list or naughty?" she called back to Highsong, wincing at each krnnch and pop of snowflakes, elves, and holly beneath her boots.

  "You know which list you're on," he said.

  #

  They were dumber than pigs to mix work and romance, of course. Julie's grandpa would have said Never poop where you eat, with stronger language, but Julie Beauchain and William Highsong had been partners in the Department of Fish, Wildlife & Parks before they were lovers. Neither of them wanted to quit the job. Putting in for a transfer would have created another problem, most likely moving one of them too far across Montana to see each other regularly. So they had rules.

  Rule Number One: Keep your clothes on during your shift.

  "Stop it!" Julie said, laughing as she skipped away from Highsong outside the office building. But he caught her easily. The sidewalk was empty. The road was empty. Julie let Highsong take her prisoner again and they nuzzled right there beside an abandoned car for anyone to see, no matter how filthy they were with grime and sweat.

  "I'm glad you're all right," he said.

  "Next building," she said.

  "That guy could've broken your neck."

  "And you let him go."

  "That's right." Highsong touched the sensitive skin behind her ear and Julie shivered.

  "This is business, not pleasure," she said, even as she ruined her own attempt at severity with a wink. She loved to encourage his playful side — was that the Irish in him or the plains-riding Cheyenne? — and she felt especially glad for it now. The silence was worse than the bugs.

  Missoula, Montana was hardly a major metropolis with a population of 60,000, but it seemed larger in the preternatural quiet. As far as she could see, the downtown blocks were lifeless, resonating only with the sound of distant helicopters. She smelled smoke and gasoline.

  "Let's move," she said. "We're behind schedule."

  "Yes, sir."

  That earned him a whack and another approving kiss. The truth was that Julie wore the pants in their relationship. At least she liked to think so. Highsong was hardly a cliché TV Tonto, yet he seemed content to follow her lead, in part because her head was just louder than his. Most of their gadgets were Julie's inventions. Their notoriety was also because of her tech skills. Two days ago, every public servant in Montana had been called into duty at all levels — city, state, and federal — but few Fish, Wildlife & Parks rangers like themselves were actually in combat.


  Missoula had been under DHS quarantine for thirty-plus hours as the 4th Infantry and units of the National Guard tried to control the infested areas. Martial law was in force across most of Big Sky Country and neighboring Idaho.

  "Scanning," Julie said as she tried the glass doors of the next building. The ground floor was retail, a coffee shop and a women's clothing store. Both were locked. Very few people had obeyed the requests by DHS to leave their businesses and homes unsecured. No problem. Highsong took his pry bar to the coffee shop door and they were in.

  Julie was already fairly sure the place was clean. Even sitting still, machos ran hotter than normal termites — and these bugs never sat still. Her TI gun had only penetrated through the windows into the front room, but if there were machos anywhere in the coffee shop, she would have picked up movement or trails outside where the bugs were squeezing through the slightest gaps around the windows, doors, or vents. That was how they'd tagged the office building next door. H. aureus machovsky was voracious. Even with more than enough dry wood or paper to sustain a colony, the machos always sent scouts to expand their foraging area.

  Julie and Highsong swept the back rooms of the coffee shop, then moved to the clothing store. Minutes later, they broke into the first of eight apartments on the floors above. It was hot work. Their grid consisted on two full city blocks, which they were expected to clear before sundown, so the pace was relentless. Sweep each room. Leave bait if suspicious. Chart their maps. Keep moving.

  "You can't buy a work-out like this," Julie gasped at the top of three flights of stairs. She hoped Highsong would smile and say You don't need the exercise, babe.

  The big lunk just nodded and said, "No kidding."

  Julie laughed. He gave her quizzical look — yet as much as she liked to argue, there wasn't time. She would bring it up again in the shower, though, he could be sure of that.

  "You're some date, Highsong," she said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  I love you, she thought, but she was careful with those words, hoarding them to herself. It was better to joke. That was how their relationship had begun, light and easy, and for the most part Julie was okay if it stayed that way. Except she was crazy for him. Who was she protecting?

  "Scanning," she said as she approached the next building.

  Inside, they refilled their canteens in a men's room sink and snacked on the sodium-laced Buffalo Wing chips and bland cheese sticks they found in a break room, scavenging like the machos. Unfortunately, their packs were nearly empty of beacons and bait. Soon they'd be forced to hoof it back to their FW&P jeep, which they'd left down the block.

  They emerged into the late afternoon sun with less than two-thirds of their quota done. Julie's disappointment made her mad, which seemed to heighten her senses. She felt on stage in the empty city. Maybe that was why she noticed the change in the air. There were voices around the corner of the nearest intersection.

  "You hear that?" she asked. "Either we've got more civvies who should've evacuated or there's another bug team poaching our grid, and I don't want 'em making any kills that are ours. Let's get in their face."

  "We could use the help."

  "Whose side are you on?"

  "Let's just call it in," Highsong said, but Julie marched away from him. They could have driven, but their jeep was in the other direction, and Julie wanted to surprise the other group if possible.

  She was still two buildings from the corner when the voices turned to screams. "Look out!" a man yelled as Julie broke into a run, the TI gun swinging in one hand. Her pack jostled against her shoulders. Highsong quickly passed her and she doubled her effort, cursing under her breath. What she wouldn't give for legs that long.

  He beat her to the intersection. Then they froze. The five men and women in the street were unauthorized persons, that much was clear. No uniforms. No gear. They'd also dropped a lot of money when they panicked, breaking away from the doors of a check cashing operation. Machos rushed from another entrance to the building as if the two-story structure had opened its mouth and breathed. The fog was an evil yellow. Great tendrils of bugs swept over the paper bills on the street and absorbed the screaming people.

  Three of them made it to their pick-up truck, beating madly at their hair and faces. They left a duffel bag and their friends behind in the swarm.

  "Jimmy!" a women shrieked from the pick-up.

  "Freeze!" Julie yelled. They ignored her. The engine roared and the full-size Dodge Ram lurched toward Julie and Highsong through the bugs, trying to intercept one man. The other guy had charged in the opposite direction.

  Neither Julie nor Highsong had any real weapons, so Julie faked it. Her thermal imaging gun looked like a Martian death ray with its stubby barrel and a side-mounted display as round as a dinner plate. Julie pointed it at them, shoving it forward in a classic gunman's stance. Someone inside the pick-up shouted. The vehicle jerked.

  Highsong blasted them with his glue sprayer, hosing down the windshield and the open passenger door and the schmoe they were trying to rescue. The schmoe fell down, coated in a sticky gray mess full of hundreds of bugs. At the same time, the pick-up swerved again — its driver blind — then submarined magnificently into the street front of a laundromat, sending glass through the sky. Alarms went off. The neon TOPWASH sign slipped and then detonated against the truckbed.

  "Holy crap," Highsong said.

  Julie had almost lost track of the fifth bandit, the one on the far side of the bugs, but he flinched and looked back at the noise. She saw his brown hair and beard and recognized the extra large pack.

  "That's the same guy from the Christmas place!" Julie yelled, running toward the billowing swarm.

  Highsong caught her arm. "Let him go," he said.

  "What!?"

  "These people are hurt. I need help."

  Julie glanced at the moaning schmoe in the street and the dazed bandits inside the truck. None of them had fled in the same direction as the fifth guy. Was he even with them? "Highsong, we can't let him get away! Something's not right about—"

  "Get on the radio or I'll glue you myself," he said.

  #

  The state police and 4th Infantry platoon who responded came in two patrol cars, two gun-mounted Humvees and a half-ton Army truck. Julie was taken aback. She wouldn't have expected more than the patrol cars even if they'd captured Butch Cassidy and the Hole In The Wall gang.

  The arrests derailed them from their bug hunt. Julie hated to give up on her grid, but the police sergeant wanted their statements and the platoon captain dispatched his men into the infested building. "I guess that's enough fun for one day," Julie said to Highsong, leaning close as she watched the cuffed, bruised, and bandaged robbers led into the back of the truck. "Um. Wanna take a bath?"

  "Yep."

  No nonsense. That was what she liked about him. Lord knew she generated enough malarkey for the two of them. Is that why you haven't asked me to move in with you? she wondered as they got into the sergeant's patrol car. One of his men would drive their FW&P jeep back to HQ.

  The outskirts of the business district looked like a war zone. Five huge fires crackled in the Wal-Mart's parking lot, sending smoke over the city like winter clouds. Civilian truck rigs and Army vehicles jammed the streets, suddenly forcing Julie's escorts to stop and start through the traffic — empty trucks leaving, full trucks arriving.

  Ash ticked against the windshield as Julie stared out, biting her lip. All of the incoming rigs were swaddled in ungainly fat bulges of plastic. The soldiers unloading the trucks wore respirators, goggles, and jackets despite the summer heat. Others patrolled the lot with glue guns and flamethrowers.

  They were burning Christmas trees — hundreds upon hundreds of Christmas trees. The whole scene looked like a demented Satanic fantasy. Say something funny, Julie thought, but her mind had gone blank. She loved Christmas. Growing up, the holidays were the best times in her life, when she and her mother visited her cousins in Tampa and m
om put on a convincing veneer of normality, drinking less, hugging her more, even joining in for carols and cooking and corny old movies like It's A Wonderful Life.

  Watching the trees ablaze was like incinerating those memories. Worse, Julie knew this was one of the smallest burns in Montana. Rumor was there were uncontrolled fires in wide swaths of forest just east of Missoula on the Continental Divide. This hell consisted of a tiny number of trees. By the last count she'd heard, barely a thousand had been reduced to charred stumps on the Wal-Mart's flat asphalt lot. These trees were being cut from city parks and open spaces — not only to be destroyed but tested for termite samples.

  Each pyre had a white tent set beside it. Technicians in yellow protective gear strode back and forth from the incoming trees and their tents with clippers, jars, chem kits, rakes, nets, spectrometers, and laptops.

  "It's like Plan 9 from Outer Space," Julie said at last, turning in her seat to keep her eyes on the Wal-Mart as they broke through the heavy traffic.

  "You all right?" Highsong asked.

  He must have heard the slightest hitch in her voice, which left Julie both unsettled and pleased. "Sure," she said. "I'm great. Hungry. Can't wait to get out of these clothes."

  That drew a glance from the cop at the wheel, a white guy with freckles. Julie smiled to herself, feeling better.

  The trees aren't my fault, she thought.

  Headquarters was in a preschool around the corner, which seemed goofy, but the school offered a neat space with lots of tables for the DHS and military officials who were running the show. They'd also wanted to be close to their field labs.

  As soon as the cop parked his car, Julie hopped out and beelined inside, looking for Agents Coughlin or Reaves. Once again she felt that jarring sense of the surreal. Hard-voiced men and women sat among laptops and radio gear, surrounded by rainbow-colored charts of the ABCs, the solar system, and smiling cartoon dinosaurs.

  She found Reaves first, a tall, thin man with thick wheat hair. He was on the phone but Julie said, "We have a problem."

  Reaves recognized her without a second glance. He covered his phone with one hand and nodded. "Hey, sure, we heard about your little gang of banditos. Nice work. Just help the cops and I'll do what I can to keep the paperwork to a minimum. Thanks."