Ophelia

by Jessica Lynch

  That isn't even the biggest worry I have. Nope. That crazy thing chasing me is.

  One problem at a time. First, escape the monster. That’s going to be pretty hard now that I’m glowing like a beacon for it. On the really slim chance I survive that thing and actually make it back home, I’m smashing that mirror first chance I get. Swear you’ll use it, he said. Ha! Seven years bad luck would be worth it.

  My mind is racing. I’m bouncing on the tips of my battered feet, adrenaline rushing through me, not quite sure what I’m going to do. That thing is getting closer. I know it. And I know I can’t outrun it.

  I only got one quick horrified glance at the creature before my flight instinct kicked in but I saw enough of it to know what it is supposed to be. It’s a scorpion. I might be a Jersey girl who’s never gone south of Delaware but I know what a scorpion looks like and that thing, with its eight legs and a pointed stinger on its curved tail, is a scorpion.

  But it’s not a normal scorpion. Oh, no. Of course not. If I had shoes on, I could stomp flat a regular-sized scorpion. There aren’t boots big enough for the sucker I saw. Five feet long, three feet wide and tall enough to come up to my belly button, this creepy bastard is a giant scorpion.

  Okay. Time for Plan B.

  Later on, when the adrenaline worked its way out of my system and my sanity finally returned, I still didn’t know where I came up with my plan. I acted on pure instinct.

  Lunging forward, I grab a fallen branch sticking out of the slick grass. It’s about a foot and half long, thick and sturdy. The branch is split in two at the end, like a fondue fork. As a weapon, it’s the best I got.

  Spinning around, I face off against the monster as it bursts into the clearing. It hisses and rears back when it realizes that its prey has grown a spine and is playing at being a predator. It won’t stay still for long. I get a better look at the creature while I can.

  The giant scorpion is a dark brownish red everywhere except its eyes, which are black, beady and the size of an apple. A pair of claws come up from its front half; they’re even darker, more discolored, like they’ve been dipped in blood and it has dried. I really hope that’s not what happened.

  Its back half is even more dangerous. The stinger, terrifying. There’s enough venom in a regular-sized scorpion’s stinger to take out a man twice my size. Considering the stinger on this monster is as long as my arm, I know I have to stay away. The length of the branch is as near to that thing as I’m willing to get. If the scorpion gets too close, I’ll have to attack whether I want to or not.

  I hold my breath. The scorpion lifts its tail high, aiming its stinger. Or maybe it’s just showing it off. Yes, yes. Nice stinger. Now keep it the hell away from me.

  It doesn’t listen. How inconsiderate.

  Like that, the spell is broken. Its watery black eyes burn a vivid ruby red as it comes after me again. It doesn’t know what to expect from me, so its initial approach is hesitant. It has only eight legs—though it seems like more—and it moves each one separately, forward and then back again, as if gauging if it really wants to come at me.

  I lean forward, dancing on my tippy toes. I have to be ready to go as soon as the monster decides to make its move. Taking off too early all but guarantees it will chase me. I need to be able to defend myself.

  Snapping its claws in warning, the scorpion lumbers forward. I know from earlier that it can go much faster than that but now it’s hesitating. Something has thrown it off guard. Maybe it’s how I’m glowing like I’m my own personal night light. If I hadn’t already used up my “holy shit” quota, I might be a little more worried about the whole glowing thing.

  Oh, well. No time for that now.

  Jumping to the side and out of its reach, I jab my branch at the scorpion as it passes me. The plates protecting the scorpion’s sides and back are like armor. I hardly hit it when the wood just snaps, leaving me with a pointed stick and no clue what to do with it.

  Okay. So that’s not going to work. Like running, stabbing is also out.

  The scorpion takes offense to me trying to run it through with my branch. All I did was tap its side before it awkwardly wheels around and charges right back at me. It knows better now. I’m not a threat. I’m a snack.

  There’s no going back. The monster is big and ungainly but it’s also fast. As long as I keep diving out of its way, I might be able to beat it. If it comes down to a race, I’m toast. I could never outrun it. My only chance is to keep it off balance and pray I figure out some other way to take this thing down.

  Opening its maw wide, the giant scorpion lets out a hiss that puts Dud’s to shame. I fall backwards on my hands, watching in disgust as its mouth stretches big enough to allow something pointed and dripping green slime to slip out.

  Come on. Really? The bastard has pincers coming out of its mouth, too?

  The front end is obviously as dangerous as the back. I can’t approach either side. Great. That leaves me with two options: I could go under it or over it.

  Taking a deep breath, I realize I can do both.

  Until I hit sixteen, my mom insisted I take gymnastics lessons up to four times a week. Considering how tiny I am, I have the right body frame for the sport but none of the discipline necessary to succeed and I quit junior year. Ten years later, I tap into my rusty skills and pray like hell that I still have it.

  The scorpion charges at me again. Pumping my arms and legs while holding my stick tightly against my side, I run at the monster. When it’s close enough that I feel its hot breath on me, I jump like I’m doing a vault. I put as much power into it as I can, tucking my body in, knees to the chest, as I flip over the scorpion.

  I know right away that it’s too much. I land too low and, with an ooph, I fall on my ass. Ouch. Wincing, I scramble back to my feet as the scorpion realizes I’m not in front of it any longer.

  Its heavy body is bulky. The scorpion maneuvers awkwardly as it fights to turn around and come at me again.

  Over? Check. Now I’m going under.

  I time it perfectly, breaking into a run before the monster fully changed direction. As big and scary as it is, the scorpion’s not stupid. It’s learning. It lifts its head, snapping its pincers, waiting for me to flip over it again.

  Yes. The way it’s reaching up makes it easier for me to launch myself feet first at the gap between its belly and the dirt.

  Rocks bite into my upper arm. Dirt rubs my bare skin like sandpaper as I slide right beneath the scorpion. My head thuds against the ground hard before I realize I need to lift my neck up. I hold my stick like it’s a sword and hope like hell this works.

  It does. The stick slices right through the scorpion’s vulnerable underbelly. Its blood is thick, black and hot. I know that because it sprays all over me as I roll out from under the creature, dragging my stick with me.

  Rich, inky black spots dot my hands and my arms. It smears down the front of my nightgown as I roll roughly one more time before landing flat on my stomach, my nose in a patch of scratchy grass. My head is spinning, my whole body aching, but I can’t stop. I jump back to my feet. My face feels damp. I wipe my palm against my forehead, leaving dark grey streaks of scorpion blood against my skin.

  I’m panting. My shoulder burns from a particularly rough tumble. The rest of me has gone numb. I’m running on pure adrenaline, my every thought devoted to my prey. I let out a loud curse, squeezing my stick so tightly it nearly snaps. Damn it! It’s still coming for me. I’ve proven I won’t go down easy. Why won’t it leave me alone?

  Like a broken down car, the scorpion is leaving a dark, oily trail behind it as it stumbles purposely towards me. I hadn’t killed it but at least I slowed it down a little.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news?

  Even slower, it’s still faster than me.

  I narrow my eyes, pouring all of my focus into the hunt. I have no choice. It’s that thing or me. I can do this.

  Okay. The armor plates protect most of its
body. I doubt it’s going to let me get another clear shot at its underside so going for the belly isn’t going to work.

  And then, like that, I have it.

  It goes against every instinct I have. With grim determination, the scorpion keeps coming for me and, this time, I don’t run. I refuse to maneuver out of its way. I stay perfectly still, presenting the biggest target possible as I allow it to think it has tired me out at last.

  Little closer.

  Little closer.

  Now.

  I dodge to the side, allowing the scorpion to race right past me, then turn so that I’m sprinting next to it. I wait for it to start wheeling around to attack me before I aim my weapon, say another prayer, and plunge the stick in.

  My aim is perfect. The beady eye pops as the stick goes right through it. Something splashes me. I hope it’s just blood but I’m pretty sure it is eyeball goo. I fight not to heave as I throw my weight behind another shove. There’s got to be a brain in there. If I can hit that, I might get out of this in one piece.

  The scorpion screeches in agony, tossing its head back and forth, trying to dislodge the stick. I hold on. My arm jerks in its socket but, hell, it’s this thing or me and I’ve got a cat who needs me.

  Don’t worry, Dud. Mama’s coming.

  The scorpion’s pincers come within an inch or two of grazing my bare arm. This close, I see the sawtooth jagged edges on the underside of the pincer. I have to avoid those things no matter what—even if I lose my stick.

  I have one last shot. I make it count, shoving as hard as I possibly can. When the scorpion rears back and up, letting out a screech so shrill that the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, I throw my body to the side, tucking and rolling until I’m far enough away to catch my breath before I struggle to come up with Plan C.

  A second later, I realize that might not be necessary.

  Bouncing to my feet, I watch as its stinger curls up. The scorpion shudders and falls to its side with a thud. It gasps and twitches. It sucks its pincers in. The stinger jabs fitfully at nothing, one last ditch effort to take me down first, before its body gives a last jolt and it finally dies.

  Holy shit.

  The giant scorpion is dead. And I’m the one who killed it.

  Me. Noelle St. James, Ms. Five Foot Nothing. I killed that crazy thing with nothing but a stick and some old gymnastic moves.

  Oh, yeah.

  I yank my weapon back. The stick comes free with a soft sucking noise and some resistance. A long lick of slime clings to the pointed end, gloppy and clear and thick like raw egg whites. I kind of want to yack all over the place but since that would’ve ruined my newfound kickass image, I keep my mouth shut.

  Swallowing back the gorge that rose, forcing it down, I bend over and wipe my stick clean on the grass. I start to hum Eye of the Tiger under my breath.

  I feel amazing.

  I am invincible.

  I hear a short whistle, followed by an appreciative murmur. “Sweet ambrosia. That was mighty beautiful.”

  A chill runs up and down my spine.

  I freeze.

  I’m so not alone anymore.

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