Slowly the chair tipped, tugging Trouvelot’s head roughly sideward. The fetid glop drained. The man gurgled and coughed back to life. His usual pallid pallor returned.
Trouvelot sat up and flinched as the chair clattered toward him. His bloodshot eyes went from the egg mass webbing to his congealing vomit to the four-foot-high mass of caterpillars pulsating in the corner. He rose unsteadily and walked to the study window. Massaging a hideous kink in his neck, he stared for a long time into the woods beyond. Finally, he nodded as if agreeing to a silent proposition and tugged open the window.
“You have saved my life,” he said. “In exchange, I return yours.”
Trouvelot abandoned entomology for astronomy shortly thereafter, though he reluctantly continued to care for silkworms not nearly as keen on liberty as the Lymantria dispar. Eventually he returned to France where he gained wide renown by drawing complex illustrations of the cosmos at the Meudon Observatory. Colleagues described him as a brilliant, slightly aloof man possessed by an eccentric fealty to insects. He once nearly came to fisticuffs with a fellow researcher over a swatted moth.
“They’ll come for you, Pierre,” Trouvelot shouted as a gaggle of astronomers held him back. “Mark it, they shall!”
* * *
Inside my personal kaleidoscope theater, the Lymantria dispar relate the brief, yet-glorious, season of unmolested peace, breeding and consuming in the pristine inner forests of New England. Eventually, however, the pincers of post-industrial human society closed in: rows of suburban homes fanning out in planned communities as mechanized sprayers attached to trucks and single engine airplanes spewed liquid death, setting nervous systems aflutter, scorching larvae in white tent wombs, instilling hitherto unseen perversions into the natural order.
The poisoners wanted not to eat leaves, only to gaze at them.
A final—and not particularly flattering—image of my fall fades as the crushing throng recedes, lowering me gently to the ground. The egg mass canopy above disperses the late afternoon sunlight, casting an otherworldly amber glow.
“Thank you,” I say, clambering to my feet. “I’m, uh, going to go share what I’ve learned with the rest of my species right now.”
I spin directly into a wall of setae bristles hanging below red and black melon-sized, eye-like warts. The mammoth caterpillar’s mandibles stretch wide. Its mouth cavity smells of fresh cut grass; the gullet walls are as slippery smooth as petroleum jelly-slicked Saran Wrap.
I press both hands against a large nub inside the rippling shaft to keep from being swallowed. A barrage of sticky, metallic-tasting strands spurt from the spinneret into my face.
Ripple. Splat.
Ripple. Splat.
Ripple. Splat.
A thick crust of egg mass encases my head. The mandible tip penetrates the base of my skull—a sharp sting followed by a warm electric tingle. As the beast milks my cerebrospinal fluid, I believe I see what it sees. And what it sees is everything I’ve ever done.
At the end I fear wrath—suffocation, maybe, or worse, being slowly devoured. Instead, the mandible slips out. I glide from the great maw and tear at my cocooned head, breaking off bits and pulling at strands between muscle spasms until I can breathe, then see the million shining, tiny black eyes awaiting, I imagine, either an act of defiance or a pledge of allegiance.
I choose the latter.
* * *
I slumber upon a shiatsu bed of larvae and awake at dawn famished. I manage to forage a few berries, then sit cross-legged amongst my new compatriots and munch foliage.
When in Rome…
Somewhere, my long-suffering proctologist must be smiling.
Sated, I explore a bit, do the odd, odd job—divert a stream deeper into the encampment here, connect precariously drooping egg masses to sturdier branches there. A swarm passes by, hauling poor Rhonda’s demolished body up a steep embankment, flower print muumuu dragging behind like the flag of a vanquished army. Preferring not to know what end her body will eventually serve, I turn away.
* * *
The great mass summons me again as the midmorning sun rises toward its peak. I wade into its midst, voluntarily this time. The first wave of caterpillars scales my body, arranging themselves into a single layer covering my torso, arms, and legs. Comrades spin an egg mass film over them and another battalion climbs aboard. Then another.
My knees creak beneath the weight. Sweat drizzles from my brow. I waddle in little circles to ensure my body retains some range of motion. I practice taking shallower breaths without slipping into hyperventilation.
A shoal of moths flies up alongside me, unsteadily toting an egg mass hammock. I sink back into it without fear and we jerk and bob through the air for what seems like a couple hours, the markings on the moths’ collective beating wings melding into a single glorious battle insignia. After an uneven landing in a wooded clearing, I am reluctantly on my feet again, plodding through the bramble. Hundreds of moths cling to certain tree trunks—living, hopscotching signposts leading me along an invisible path.
At the edge of a paved road, I lean against the post of a Smokey the Bear fire safety billboard and shudder. No thanks to Fenwich Airlines, I’ve arrived at my original destination after all.
A dozen or so uniformed Forest Service field agents lounge at outdoor picnic tables eating lunches out of fast food bags at a leisurely governmental pace while receptionists chain-smoke and gesticulate wildly nearby.
I wobble across the street with what nonchalance I can muster. Silken white suit glistening in the sunlight, my reflection in the glass door resembles a South American drug lord from an old Roger Corman picture.
Inside, a young woman takes my name and waves me off toward a small waiting area. On the counter lays a copy of that day’s Concord Monitor. Its rumpled front page features headshots of Rhonda and myself, passengers lost during an in-flight fuselage rupture. Of course they chose a disheveled Cape Town shot. I snag the newspaper and stuff it behind a chair, then rest my forehead against the wall to gather the strength necessary to rock myself upright again.
“Everything all right, Mr. Beemahr?”
Walter Rawls stands before me in a smart dark-green uniform, lips pursed, head slightly cocked. The receptionist stares out from behind him, her mouth a perfect O. She holds pink lipstick and a cosmetic mirror up in either hand, like talismans capable of warding off crazy.
Living fat suit and nitroglycerin-strength case of explosive diarrhea notwithstanding, I nod. Rawls’s look of concern morphs into a contrived grin. The receptionist returns to her ongoing self-improvement project.
It is almost tragic, this obliviousness to the falling hammer.
“That getup a holdover from your high fashion days?” Rawls asks as we traversed a long hallway.
“It’s a sample from a new line…that’s about to…take the world…by storm.”
“If you say so. Outside of work I’ve worn the same pair of blue jeans since 1994.”
Ah, the passive-aggressive jibe disguised as modesty—Rawls wasn’t so far removed from runway culture as he supposed.
In the conference room, a mix of eight or ten rangers and suits sit around a long rectangular table, making small talk and passing around a cardboard carafe of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. The surreptitious smirks and eye rolling do not escape my notice. I want to tear the ten-gallon jug off the water dispenser and pour its contents down my parched gullet, but in the interest of keeping up appearances, I accept the java.
“Pestilence by Beemahr is quite the concoction,” Rawls begins. A polite murmur of agreement echoes through the ranks. “We sprayed the sample you provided on a nearby gypsy moth infestation two weeks ago, and the little bastards disappeared virtually overnight.”
The caterpillars surge, cinching my makeshift corset tight. A wet fart reverberates through my testy confederates. The filtered stench hangs weighty in the air. Rawls raises an eyebrow. The caterpillars relax their grip.
“Pleased…to…hear it,
” I say.
A ranger tries to mask his snicker as a coughing fit, but the contagion spreads. Soon everyone is clearing their throats or staring down at the tabletop and biting their lips. The niggling anger I’d felt since Cape Town flares into something hotter. The gypsies had it right—human arrogance is incurable.
“Yes, well…brass tacks then,” Rawls says. His geniality evaporates. “We’re prepared to offer you a five year consulting contract. I think you’ll agree that the compensation is very generous, and there is a considerable bonus if the Pentagon chooses to adapt Pestilence by Beemahr for human scale, which, let’s be honest, they almost certainly will. Those boys cannot resist new toys.”
Knowing chuckles all around.
“If for some reason we don’t renew our option, you are free to peddle your wares in the overseas private sector,” Rawls continues. “Hit the tin pot dictator circuit as hard as you like—just make sure Uncle Sam gets his cut and we’ll be right as rain.” Rawls pushes a two-inch thick contract down the table. “So, Mr. Beemahr, are you ready to become a very rich man by helping rid your nation of its nastiest creepy crawlies?”
I place my palms on the table and push myself up out of the seat. My head is a helium balloon, but the rest of my body might as well be enshrouded in six snowsuits soaked in boiling water. Beneath the surface of my disintegrating suit, Lymantria dispar work themselves into a furious froth, scratchy backs setting fire to every flesh staging area, every stretched orifice, every hair follicle as hundreds of mandibles simultaneously gnaw at egg mass seams.
“Well, don’t let’s keep the room in suspense, Beemahr.”
I hold up a finger and then collapse. Hems rupture as I hit the floor. Walter Rawls and a few of his collaborators rush toward me and freeze, agog at the cresting wave of caterpillars framed by a chafed naked body. Near-orgasmic relief washes over me.
“Étienne Leopold Trouvelot…sends his regards,” I say. Judging by the horrified faces, it seems safe to say my giggles are maniacal.
I shimmy on the floor like a grossed out little girl, freeing the remnants shellacked to my body, but the survival instinct of our foes does not remain dormant long. They choose flight and fight in equal measure. Government-issue boot heels mash the initial charge. Day-Glo yellow guts are fused into carpet fibers as bare palms easily swat away the first few climbers.
We do not relent.
A woman in a teal pantsuit struggles in vain to open a sealed window. “Pull harder,” shouts a suit from his tabletop perch. Too late. Caterpillars stream up her wide pant leg and she does a crazed jitter across the room. I know it well from my greenhouse tanks. The death dance.
I block the doorway, prepared to take down the first potential escapee. None, however, prove desperate enough to wrestle a wild-eyed, panting naked man with an ever-thickening trickle of mocha diarrhea spiraling down his quivering leg. So I pitch handfuls of caterpillars at any head within range. Gypsies quickly spelunk ear canals, choke screaming mouths, and burrow deep into the vulnerable corners of tightly closed eyelids, instilling panic, destroying equilibrium.
For historic vegetarians, Lymantria dispar sure do develop a taste for meat fast. Corpses dot the room; bloated human foie gras erupting like science fair paper mache volcanoes gone horribly awry. Ulcerated boils leak milky white larvae. Wiener dog-sized caterpillars emerge from gut craters and slither up the wall, settling into cocoons that harden at the speed of a time-lapse film.
A relative quiet overtakes the room, and somehow we all instinctively agree it is time for Phase Two. The remaining unfed legion masses above the door. I feel a few pangs of conscience—support staffers are noncombatants, really. Then again, if modern geopolitics teaches us anything, it is that collateral damage is unavoidable. I press the intercom button.
“Hey people, we’ve got a couple boxes of leftover Munchkins back in conference one. First come, first serve.”
And we chide moths for flying too eagerly to the flame.
I offer the doomed an apologetic shrug as consternated stares shift from the empty table to the exploded coworker carcasses. A sprinkle of caterpillars becomes a hard rain.
I retrace my steps through the eerily vacant building. Abandoned telephones ring in off-time cacophony. Outside, sunlight seeps into my scratches, burning like hydrogen peroxide. A jeep roars out from behind the building, tires screeching, swerving close enough to lift my poor, prolapsed nutsack in its tailwind. I meet the eyes of Walter Rawls, drenched in caterpillar gizzards and human remains. A woman strapped into the passenger seat convulses.
Across the road, Smokey points the way to safety.
Alas, this time the bear has misjudged the threat level.
A large shadow passes over me. I raise my eyes to the sky just as a swarm of moths release Rhonda’s caterpillar-laden carcass ahead of Rawls’s jeep. The burst of putrefied gore sends the jeep zigzagging into a ravine. A brief volley of screams, an explosion, and then nothing save for the pop pop pop of toasting caterpillars.
Martyrs.
I retire to a nearby brook and let the slow, cool undercurrent dredge filthy nether-region detritus and soothe wounds. I wonder if this idyll in the blue-gray dusk will be the state the world returns to under Lepidoterean Reign.
Pterodactyl-sized moths circle the sky, tiny brethren clinging onto their bodies, dreaming, I imagine, of feasts and supercharged pupal transformations to come in the cities and towns of the human infestation. Earthbound females fan out, laying trails of opaque eggs clusters. A trusted comrade, I am left unmolested.
Two bullish moths alight before me, rear back and fix their tranquil stare upon mine—at my service, as recompense for my fidelity. I ponder what I want out of the twilight of man. I think of my nymphs. Once I dreamt of artificially returning them to a superficial glory. Now I realize a drastically downsized humanity will be obliged to accept a new order. We are on the cusp of a world in which I am a king, Simone a queen and Ciro Argyros an archaic relic destined to become larvae feed.
“This son of Étienne Leopold Trouvelot would like to return home,” I say, “to teach Simone and the Philyra’s Nymphs to love bugs again.”
And after a few stops to engorge ourselves in the immaculately manicured backyards of so-called civilized man, that’s exactly where we head.
Shawn Macomber
Musical Inspiration for “Pestilence by Beemahr”
For this story, detailing a long-gestating counterattack against humanity by the much-derided gypsy moth caterpillar, I drew inspiration from Consuming Impulse, the groundbreaking 1989 progressive death metal masterpiece by Dutch musical extremists Pestilence.
The influence can be divined in two, uh, segments: first, and most obviously, in the one-two punch of the title and cover artwork depicting voracious creepy crawlies’ instinctive hunger shifting from leaves to flesh. And then there is the mid-album track “Out of the Body,” which tells the tale of a man whose body and very being has become a vehicle for crawling creatures. This, it turns out, is the perfect comeuppance for perfumer-cum-exterminator described in “Pestilence by Beemahr.”
“In death metal, a lot of bands talk about Satan or gore or blood and guts and all that stuff,” Pestilence vocalist/guitarist/mastermind Patrick Mameli told me back in 2013 during an interview for a Decibel magazine feature. “But I’d rather bring listeners in a more esoteric direction and create an atmosphere where the human intellect can drift a little bit; where the boundaries of the imagination can expand.”
Here’s hoping the story summoned a similar roadmap and atmosphere for you.
Used to be, you could listen to Beethoven’s Fifth and not die. You didn’t need to have a security clearance to get into the Sydney Opera House. Playing the tuba wasn’t considered a skill necessary for killing people. Being a maestro didn’t automatically make you a war criminal.
We’re strapped into our seats, with six pounds of electronics attached to our bodies. Our instruments are delivered to us by black-clad G-Men, taken o
ut of strongboxes with magnetic locks. They look like something out of a Thein art exhibit—flutes and percussions and violins with cancerous, blinking growths. My tuba is jacked onto a jumble of wiring that runs up the walls, converging at the ceiling. Everything is so quiet that the tapping of the maestro’s baton on the music sheet echoes like thunder.
The maestro motions our battle plan in the air with his left hand. Beethoven. Fifth. First movement. Annihilation overture, we call it. Allegro con Megadeath. I try to imagine what his voice must sound like, and all I can think of, while I look at his lips moving wordlessly, is wheels spinning on gravel. He takes a deep breath, struggling not to make a noise. When he raises his baton, the instrument screens come to life. Wavelength simulations shudder in anticipation. We won’t be able to hear the music, but we will get to see every picosecond of it unfold.
The brass instruments go first, unleashing the first notes of Beethoven’s destructive potential. The wavelengths start bobbing like crazy. Above us, the bass blast travels all the way up to the ceiling. The killing machines begin revving up. The violins provide the fuel, their trills becoming subtle signals that dictate the positioning of satellites. The roof of the Sydney Opera House begins to open, speakers the size of trucks align according to machine mandates.
The building shudders and quakes. Beethoven radiates outward in waves of infrasound, focused by satellites and DEW disks before it comes crashing down, an invisible five hundred thousand decibel hammer that ruptures organs and turns cement into fine powder. Somewhere across the world bridges collapse, their rivets bent and crushed as if by the fist of God himself. Halfway through the first movement, I can picture red splashing across spider web cracks on car window glass as the hoods crumble like sheets of notepad paper, pregnant with nonsense scribbles. In my mind’s eye, I can see a torrential rain of blood and feathers that were once a flock of birds, smacking down onto the rubble. Inside, we feel the thunderous roar of faint vibrations across the wooden boards. The maestro signals for us to stop.
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