by Rob Smales
They’re eating it!
He stared at the insects covering the grass, at the dozens depending from his coat-front. Everywhere he looked, it was the same.
They’re eating everything!
All across his chest the woolen fabric was disappearing as the army of little horrors moved about, and wherever he could see their heads those blank, alien faces were pressed firmly to him, tiny mandibles working. His head swam as more of them crawled about his ears, and the hiss grew louder, masking all other sounds but his own screams, muffled though they were; frightened to open his mouth again, he shrieked almost nonstop through clenched teeth.
Another whinny slashed the air, and he caught the hint of motion through the now nearly horizontal flow of tiny whirring bodies, and he turned toward it, one hand thrust out blindly, the other up protectively, if ineffectually, before his face.
The buckboard! It’s my only chance to get ou—
The thought was interrupted as the horse suddenly erupted out of the locust swarm, eyes round and rolling in terror at the living mane of clinging, chewing insects covering its head and neck. It was panicked, running full out, thundering past Devin a mere three feet away. Realizing the danger, he tried to leap aside, but the iron-bound wheel of the trailing buckboard caught him a terrific blow to the ribs, spinning him about to land hard on his back on the locust-covered lawn.
No, in the lawn, as the army of already-grounded locusts washed over him like a misplaced seaside wave. He opened his mouth to scream, but somewhere along the way the wind had been knocked out of him. Two, maybe three of the marching insects tumbled into his open maw, and he gagged even as his lungs strained against their paralysis. He tried to roll onto his side, to get to his feet, to spit out the clawing, wriggling bodies filling his mouth and throat, when a sudden knife of pain stabbed through his chest, pinning him to the ground like a great railroad spike driven by the famous John Henry.
His left arm thrust skyward, stiff with pain, as his right hand beat at his breast, looking for the source. His searching fingers encountered no spike or knife, merely the tatters of his waistcoat and great swatches of skin in the places where the Hell-spawned bugs had chewed all the way through the outer garment, then the shirt beneath.
Within his breast, his terrified heart tried, but failed, to beat.
And now they will eat me, he thought numbly, unable to feel any more horror. As his body arched, drumming its heels upon the ground, his mind clung desperately to words and phrases he’d learned by rote back when he was in short pants, and still said every Sunday, standing next to a stiff-backed Margaret.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in—
He was interrupted by blackness swallowing him as his heels slowed, then stilled, his rigid arm falling slack to the ground beside him. Stiff and spasming fingers relaxed, opened, and the last remnants of his buff-colored envelope, all the proofs of his authority, both legal and financial, were caught up by the breeze and sent fluttering into the air, where they were set upon by a dozen of the ever-chewing locusts.
In less than a minute it was as if they had never been.
Evangeline Clarke spun from the window, pressing her back to the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor, legs splayed. Sobs shook her as she stared across the room at the settee, at the fireplace mantle, at the painting of her mother above it, at anything but the window again. She cried, and listened to the scritter-scratch of tiny legs as they covered the porch, the roof, the entire house; the sound barely audible over the chittering hiss of their chewing and chewing.
She had watched through the window until that poor man had fallen. Watched until his body became nothing more than a hump in the crawling, writhing carpet of living insects that extended in all directions, just as far as she could see.
She had owed him that much, having called this Doom down upon him.
Long before it was over, long before he fell, she had begun to pray to God for mercy, trying to take it all back; but it was as if her Lord, so attentive to her prayers for punishment, had turned away, unable or unwilling to hear.
Lord, please, it was a terrible thought, a sin to pray for, and I do repent, but please please please take back Your plague. I prayed for punishment, and it came. I prayed for revenge, and it came. But, Lord, please . . .
She got to her knees to peer out the window, ignoring the odd hump on the lawn, carefully not seeing the black, polished, inedible shoes thrust out of one end of the squirming, man-shaped mass. She looked instead to the left and right, to the east and west, and as far as the eye could see there was nothing but locusts. Millions of them. Billions. Billions upon billions, and they were all eating. Eating everything.
The farm they had fought so hard to keep, that her father had worked himself nearly to death for, was gone.
Eva recalled the sky before the locusts had begun to fall, the cloud that stretched from horizon to horizon, and knew that theirs was not the only farm to be destroyed that day.
They all were. Everywhere.
She closed her eyes.
The cost is too high, Lord. Too high. I repent, Lord! It’s too high!
She was sitting on the floor again, though she was unaware of it. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.
Her hands were clapped over her ears, pressing as hard as they could to block out the crunching, chomping hiss of those tiny little mouths, all those tiny little mouths, all chewing and chewing, though she no longer heard it.
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
She heard only her own voice, within her own head, as, rocking swiftly back and forth in that little house at the end of the world, Evangeline Clarke prayed her sanity away.
. . . forgive us our trespasses . . .
Author’s note:
In July of 1874, the now extinct Rocky Mountain locust rose up to devastate the North American Plains. “The largest locust swarm in 1874, according to an 1880 U.S. Entomological Commission report, ‘covered a swath equal to the combined areas of Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island and Vermont.’” (Lyons, “1874: The Year of the Locust,” HistoryNet.com). When on the move, the swarm took more than five days to pass overhead, and when it landed it ate everything—crops in the fields, washing left out on the line, the clothesline itself, the handles from tools, even the manes and tails of horses and the wool from the backs of sheep. Witnesses compared the sound of their chewing to the roar of a hard rain or a prairie fire.
Many people thought it was the end of the world.
After eating its fill, the swarm rose up and simply dispersed, leaving the people to try to recover from its depredations: devastated crops, massive property damage, and, in many cases, financial ruin.
Then, in 1875, it happened again.
THOSE LITTLE BASTARDS
The way those little bastards look at my house usually thrills my heart, you know? I should probably be used to it by now, but it’s still something to see. I watch them walking past—I know I don’t see all of them, but I see enough—all wide eyes and anxious faces. At least when they’re alone. See, that’s the thing about people, kids in particular: they’re all frightened when they’re alone.
In groups, though, it’s different. In groups they have that crowd mentality, and they’re suddenly capable of much more than when they were alone. That’s the bad thing about the holidays—Halloween in particular. The holidays bring people together, but Halloween brings the children together, and that’s when things get bad, in my opinion.
I peek out the window and see them on the sidewalk. Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, complete with a stuffed dog. Superman. Can you believe kids still dress as Superman? A werewolf and some sort of machete-wielding fiend in a hockey mask round out the littl
e discussion group standing in front of my gate.
I can’t hear a word, but I know what they’re doing. They’re daring each other to come through my gate and up the walk to knock on my door or ring the bell, then run like the chicken little bastards they are. It happens every damn year.
And this is only the beginning; the asshole appetizer, as it were. Later, after the younger kids have gone in for the night to empty out their candy bags and start eating themselves sick, the older kids come out to play. My windows have been soaped. My house and trees toilet-papered. My front porch and door have been pelted with eggs—both fresh and rotten—and occasionally smeared with what was hopefully dog feces.
I say hopefully because I wouldn’t put anything past those little bastards, and the thought of them saving up their own leavings to brownwash my door doesn’t seem completely crazy, especially after last year. Last year, they threw a rock through my pantry window, then fired some of those giant squirt guns they make nowadays through the hole in the glass. From the amount they used, and the absolutely rancid smell, I’d have to say they’d been saving their urine for quite some time.
It’s been a year now, and the pantry still isn’t what one would call fresh.
You’d think the police would do something, wouldn’t you? You’d think, after coming here and tromping through my house and yard, after seeing all the evidence left behind, they’d put a stop to it? Maybe arrest someone?
No.
They look at everything, and talk like I’m not here, and fill out their reports, but nothing happens. Not. One. Thing.
And you’d think, what with the way they look at my house the rest of the year, those little jerk-offs would leave me alone tonight, too. That’s what gets me! What happens to the fear? The respect? Gone—just gone—for one whole night.
And they look at the house that way, look at me that way, because they know. I know they know, and I know the cops know too. They know but they can’t prove. That’s why nothing’s ever done, no matter how many times they have to come out here. They couldn’t then, and they can’t now.
That’s why I got away with it.
And here comes the moke with the machete, opening my gate and coming up the walk. I want to rip open the door and run out there, scare the hell out of him, but I don’t. There’s something else I want to do, have wanted to do for such a long time.
I look down at the straight razor in my hand, the light glinting along the edge as my old friend beckons me, wanting to be used again. I hear the masked idiot on the steps and move to stand at the front door, placing the razor between my teeth like some sort of pirate, freeing up both hands. He’s going to knock or ring, and if I’m quick enough—and I know that I am—I can tear open the door at the first sound and grab his outstretched arm. I can snatch him in here; snatch him bald-headed as my mother used to say. Then, once he’s in here, he’s mine.
It was a long time ago, but I got away with it once. I can do it again.
I hear his footsteps, wait for the knock, the ring, my heart just pounding in anticipation . . . but instead of a knock or ring, the knob begins to turn.
He’s coming in!
I take my old friend from between my teeth as the door edges open, slipping behind it, out of sight. I nearly laugh aloud at the quavery “Hello?” he sends into my foyer. He’s not in a crowd now, and the fear is back, so big I can see his eyes right through the holes in that ridiculous mask, huge and round, as he passes the door.
I slam the door behind him as my first fluid strike takes him across the throat, cutting deep, silencing any cry. I rip two slashes—one across his chest, one on the belly—opening him before he can fall, and I drop to my knees, eyes closed, listening for the pitter-pat of hot blood spattering the hardwood floor . . .
. . . but all I hear is his boots scuffing my floor as he turns, oblivious to me, and fifty-four years of this impotent frustration—no, fifty-five now—well up inside me. I begin to sob and swing my blade in ineffectual swipes that pass harmlessly through his legs as he shouts down the walkway to his friends.
“See? I told you! There’s no such thing as the ghost of Old Man Peterson!”
My God, you little bastard, I wish you were right.
I wish you were right.
MAXWELL’S SILVER HAMMER
“Damn water damage! I can’t make this out—Ben, can you decipher this?”
Dr. Maxwell thrust the travel-stained note across the desk at him. Dr. Benjamin Binder took it, glancing at the weather-beaten package on the desk, its brown paper wrapping torn at the top like a Christmas present given to an excited child. He focused on the note in his hand.
“Let’s see . . . you’re right, this really is a mess.”
Maxwell made an impatient gesture. “Yes, but can you read any of it?”
Ben held the paper up to the light.
“Well, there’s a whole section right in the middle that’s nothing but a blur—wait, there are a few words here. ‘Powerful.’ And this says ‘never seen before.’ Toward the end it’s talking about ‘controlling the heart,’ and ‘absolutely amazing,’ and then just this last line: ‘beyond our wildest dreams.’”
He held the limp note out to his mentor, who took it with a trembling hand.
“That’s about what I could get out of it, too,” said Dr. Maxwell, gazing into the open package. “But do I dare use it, without knowing the whole story?”
That last was a murmur, more to himself than to Ben.
“Sir,” said Ben, resisting the urge to just lean over and look in the open box. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s all this about?”
The old physician looked at Ben with an expression of surprise, then nodded.
“That’s right, you don’t know anything about this, do you? Of course, we weren’t supposed to tell anyone anyway. Let’s see . . . do you know Bill Harrison?”
“Dr. Harrison? Yes, I met him when I started here, but he went on sabbatical shortly after I arrived. I’ve never actually worked with him. Rumor is he’s looking into retirement, using his sabbatical to see what it’s like to not work for a while.”
Dr. Maxwell waggled a hand.
“Yes and no. People came to that conclusion on their own, and I haven’t dissuaded them, but it’s really the opposite of that.”
Ben’s eyebrows climbed skyward.
“Beg pardon?”
Dr. Maxwell paused, smoothing a hand over his shock of white hair. His cheeks darkened, and Ben realized the old sawbones was actually embarrassed.
“Look, Ben . . . I know what everyone thinks of me. I’m the oldest doc on staff, and Bill’s right behind me. We were in med school together, and that was back before you were born. We know everyone’s just waiting for us to retire—looking forward to it, even. The thing is—” he took a deep breath, then sighed. “We don’t want to.”
Ben felt awkward about this conversation. Maxwell was right: the entire staff was anticipating his retirement, but Ben didn’t think it politic to confirm that right now. He settled for nodding, and saying “I see.”
“We both love the work. That’s why neither of us ever went into administration—we wanted to stay in the field. But medicine is changing fast. Years ago, we were the hotshot young docs on the floor, but now we’re falling behind the times. There’s still a lot of good we can do, but not while people are treating us like a couple of broken-down horses, ready for the glue factory. We were discussing this when Bill came up with the plan.”
Ben pointed to the package on the blotter. “This is part of the plan?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Bill’s idea was to try to get our edge back. New techniques come out every day; there’s no way we could keep up. He wanted to go old school.”
“Old school?”
“He went on sabbatical so he could travel to places where they look at medicine differently. He was hoping to find something so old it had been discounted by modern medicine, but so effective that it would look like a miracle
to you young docs.”
Ben pointed again. “And that would be this?”
“It’s got to be—I’ve gotten letters, occasional phone calls, but now he’s actually sent something!”
Maxwell reached into the box and withdrew a jar holding about a pint of pearlescent gray liquid. As the light glinted off the glass, the fluid roiled in response to Maxwell’s motion. Ben thought it looked somehow organic.
“What is it?”
Maxwell shook his head, his attention fixed on the jar. “I have no idea. It’s from Haiti, according to the postal markings, but it got soaked somewhere along the way. That note we can’t read is the only explanation Bill sent, but it has to be something special! According to the note, it seems to have something to do with the heart, but I just don’t know . . .”
He put the jar back into its nest, then swept the box from Haiti into a lower desk drawer. “Well, Ben, it’s time. Are you ready for tonight’s festivities?”
Ben smiled. Though he had been anticipating Dr. Maxwell’s resignation sometime soon, he still admired the man’s love of the job.
I hope I still look at a night working in the ER as “festivities” when I’m his age, he thought.
But all he said was “yes, sir,” as the two of them walked out of Maxwell’s office, and toward the emergency room.
“Her MedicAlert bracelet says she has a congenital heart defect,” shouted the EMT squeezing the bag valve mask.
“How long has he been at it?” Ben gestured to the man riding the gurney side-rail as it rolled, counting aloud as he continued chest compressions.
“Six minutes!”
Dr. Maxwell looked at Ben as they rolled the woman into ER-1. “I don’t know how much good we’re doing, Ben. She’s cyanotic. Even with help, her heart’s not doing what it’s supposed to.”