The Colony

by A. J. Colucci

  Soldiers were everywhere. They stood armed and kept order, in muddy boots and uniforms covered with some kind of clear plastic.

  Paul scanned the nondescript faces and touched the sleeve of an elderly man in scrubs walking briskly by. “Excuse me. Are you a doctor?”

  “I am,” the man answered curtly, continuing his hurried pace toward the entrance.

  “Please. This child fell from a window.”

  The doctor stopped and looked at Paul, confused. Then he checked the girl’s pulse, then pupils, and made a quick examination of her body.

  She moaned and crinkled up her nose.

  “Slight concussion,” he grumbled. “Lacerations, maybe a fracture. Come with me.”

  Relieved, they followed him through the shattered glass doors into chaos. The lobby, spacious on any other day, was now packed. A circular visitor’s desk was staffed with aides scrambling to sign in a steady flow of doctors and nurses, who had flown in from all over the country. Injured children were being admitted and anxious parents were shouting and refusing to leave. Everywhere victims were sprawled out and bleeding, too close to death for assistance, not close enough to be tossed. The expensive leather furniture and Persian rugs were now just comfortable places to die.

  Paul and Kendra followed the doctor through broken fire doors into a brightly lit hallway. Massive generators in the basement vibrated under their shoes. Corpses sat upright against the walls next to patients, making it hard to distinguish between the living and dead.

  The doctor shook his head in disgust and flagged down an intern. “Get these bodies out of here. This is a hospital, not a morgue.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” The orderly chose a body that didn’t flinch when he kicked it lightly with the tip of his shoe, and then threw it over his shoulder.

  “Damnedest thing,” said the doctor. He grabbed a pen off the counter and wrote a few notes on a pad. Paul noticed sting marks on the back of his hastily bandaged hand.

  “Are the ants here?”

  “Not yet.” The doctor ripped a sheet from the pad and handed it to a nurse. “Just came from Bellevue. It’s completely infested.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Paul. “What about the patients?”

  “I have no idea. I go where I’m needed and there’s nothing that can be done there now.” He spotted an orderly with an empty gurney. He whistled loudly and said, “Bring that over here, please.”

  The young woman changed directions, spinning the gurney toward the doctor.

  “Tag this girl,” he instructed and asked Kendra, “Do you have her name?”

  “Her first name only. We don’t know if her family is alive.”

  “Well, she is, and quite well, considering.” He pulled a toe tag from his pocket and handed it to Kendra with a pen. “It’s not often we see someone we can save.”

  Paul set the child gently on the gurney, hesitating just a moment, and then watched the orderly cover her with a blanket. The toe tag simply read, Hannah, 268 E. 36th Street. It was placed around her tiny wrist and the girl was carted away. Paul stared blankly as his hopes sunk to a new low; logic and reason seemed to evaporate from the universe, sucked into some backward dimension. Right now anyone could tell him the earth was flat after all and he’d believe it.

  From the loudspeaker came a booming voice of the military that filled the hallways and stopped the frenzy of people in their tracks. “Attention, all hospital staff and patients. By order of the United States Army, all persons are to evacuate this hospital immediately. There will be no new admittance. Doctors and nurses are to assist as many patients as they can to evacuation locations, and those not able to move should be transferred to the lower levels of the hospital. We will have further instructions as the day progresses.”

  There was a new rush of emergency personnel through the hallways, shouting and wheeling patients. Paul and Kendra stood like statues in the wind of a hurricane. Without saying a word to each other they walked back to the lobby, out of the hospital and away from the cries of victims, until there was only silence and the empty street again.

  CHAPTER 31

  “FUCK FEMA!” MAYOR JOHN RUSSO yelled into his private line to the governor. “This is a war zone, Bob. I need military guys. Marines! Send me fucking Marines!”

  Russo slammed down the gold-plated receiver, disgusted at being the only person left in New York who had any balls. The only official willing to make the hard decisions from the front lines. He stared down at the mounting list of callers, famous names from around the world offering useless assistance: celebrities, politicians, heads of state, wealthy private citizens.

  And then there was the media. The damn media. Calls were coming in from every TV and cable news station, reporters from The New York Times, The Washington Post, Time and Newsweek. Nightline and Meet the Press were hounding him. Dateline NBC and 60 Minutes wanted to nail him. The list was endless.

  Everyone wanted to know how he was going to kill the ants. When would the city be evacuated? Is it true that the only way to destroy the beasts was nuclear radiation?

  There was no way to avoid it any longer.

  U.S. Army Public Affairs was setting up TV cameras in the control center for the mayor’s first televised news conference, broadcast from an undisclosed location.

  “Olivia! Find out if Paul O’Keefe is back yet,” bellowed Russo, and his secretary appeared in the doorway. “And those damn people from federal. I want up-to-the-minute reports. Those interviews start in an hour and I need answers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what about the president?” he added. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

  “I’ll keep trying.” Olivia closed the door gently.

  Russo pressed his palms against his temples and rubbed them down the sides of his cheeks, feeling the coarseness of two-day-old beard. That was unacceptable. He had seen the faces of other bureaucrats in disasters, their ridiculous attempts to look as if they were doing the work of the true rescuers. Digging out survivors from a bomb blast, pulling bodies from a flood, hosing down a four-alarm blaze. They all spoke to the cameras from a safe distance, with their sleeves rolled up and their twenty-four-hour stubble. That was for actors.

  From the top desk drawer, he pulled out a silver-plated electric razor with engraved initials and a matching hand mirror. He ran the humming blade over his beard and blew the stray hairs from the desktop. He nodded approvingly at his reflection and leaned back in his bulky leather chair.

  Focus. Focus. Focus, John.

  The mayor knew the next few hours would make or break him and he wasn’t about to take any chances. Russo returned to his computer, linked up with the Siafu Moto command center in Baltimore. The screen read:

  BREAKING NEWS … U.S. PRESIDENT DAVIS SEEKS CONGRESSIONAL AID FOR IMMEDIATE EVACUATION OF ALL NEW YORK CITY BOROUGHS, AS WELL AS SOUTHERN NEW YORK STATE AND NORTHERN NEW JERSEY … 3,000 ADDITIONAL MARINES HEADED TO MANHATTAN.

  General Dawson walked into the office.

  “Where have you been?” Russo demanded. He flicked the message onscreen. “It’s about time we got some more troops on the ground. I can’t exactly clear the city with what’s left of my police force—”

  Dawson cut him off. “Those Marines won’t be coming. There’s been a change in plans.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you heard from Professor Hart and Dr. O’Keefe?”

  Russo shook his head.

  The general replied gravely, “I’ve deployed a special task force to the bunker immediately. They’ll be arriving within an hour to keep order and begin a steady evacuation by helicopter.”

  “Just wait one minute.” The mayor scowled. “Down here I’m in charge. You’re in my territory. This is still New York City, and what I say goes.”

  “This is a military operation. I get my orders from the commander in chief.”

  “So do I,” Russo angrily retorted

  Dawson was in no mood for a stalemate.
He laid it on the line. “Look, we can help each other, but that means supporting the president one hundred percent, and as of now his plans have changed. We’ll be hitting this city with a series of low-yield nuclear bombs.”

  The mayor was aghast.

  Dawson looked him in the eye. “Plan is to cut off all bridges and tunnels with thermal air strikes, then hit Manhattan with four missiles.”

  “I don’t believe this. Nuke the city?” The mayor’s thoughts hit a wall.

  Colonel Garrett entered the office and announced to the general, “They’re loading up the planes, we’re getting clearance.” He gestured toward Russo. “Is he on board?”

  “Are you insane?” Russo shouted. “No, I’m not on board! I was never informed…” He stammered, “On whose authority…?”

  Garrett didn’t even blink. “We are under direct orders of the president.” He threw a copy of Operation Colony Torch onto the mayor’s desk. “We will stop these ants by nightfall, before they attack and spread even further, and we will bomb these bastards to kingdom come—as planned.”

  “This is my city!” the mayor shouted.

  “Your city has eight hours.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE FIRST LIGHT OF morning was returning to the sky, but everything looked colorless and gray, like the battlefields of war. The rain had stopped, but the cool air settled and lacy wisps of fog danced gracefully over the pavement. Manhattan was lifeless and nearly out of power. There were bodies everywhere, and Kendra was disturbed by how quickly she’d gotten used to the sight of them. She stepped over a partly devoured cat.

  “You were right,” she said to Paul. “The ants are eating more than rats and people. They’re learning how to survive out here. Falling back on natural instincts.”

  “There’s nothing natural about a planet ruled by insects.”

  They were both exhausted but the evacuation announcement at the hospital had put an anxious spring in their step. “Do you think the army would actually nuke the city?”

  “No way. They can’t be that stupid. I’m pretty certain if they dropped a nuclear bomb on Manhattan, the only thing crawling out of the rubble would be these damn ants.”

  “Still, we better find that queen. Fast.”

  Paul flipped on his flashlight. Once again they were standing in front of number 268 East Thirty-sixth Street.

  “Go time,” Kendra said, and they headed for the entrance.

  * * *

  Rectangular sunlight stretched from two narrow windows that bathed the laundry room in a pinkish glow, electrified the beige walls and added sparkle to the line of steel dryers. It looked like any other laundry room in New York City, except for a pair of large Nikes sticking out from under a wash basin.

  Paul and Kendra followed the feet to the body of an enormous man curled up under the sink. Paul squatted down to examine the corpse. “Body’s cold. Only a few bites and stings,” he said. “Yet his extremities are swollen and his pupils dilated. Maybe a heart attack.”

  “The ants probably snuck up on him,” said Kendra, walking across the room to a table of half-folded clothes, size XXXL. She eyed a bottle of blue laundry detergent that had spilled all over the floor. “Must have scared him to death.”

  “That’s odd,” Paul said and strolled to a back door leading out to the street. “Why didn’t he run to the exit instead of the sink?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Does it matter? All we need is a queen.”

  Paul scrutinized the back of the room, which was featureless except for the airtight fire door and two windows painted shut. “The ants had to come from the hallway in front of the room.” He spoke with the befuddled tone of a TV crime-scene investigator as he followed the man’s soapy sneaker prints. “These footprints go to the washers. Then they stop and go to the sink. Why did he walk to the washer instead of running out of the building?”

  “Yo, Sherlock,” Kendra said. “You’re an entomologist, remember? Think Ant.”

  “Right.” Paul nodded. “Ant.”

  She let out a weary breath. “It’s morning. We must have missed them.” She felt hot and zipped open the heavy white suit. Something caught her attention, and Kendra pointed with her chin. “Paul, check out that washer near the body. I hope I’m wrong, but it looks like a head.”

  A mop of reddish brown hair was pressed against the circular glass. Paul walked to the washing machine and tugged on the handle. Out flopped the snout of a dog, curled up tight inside the metal drum.

  “Collie,” Paul said and looked over at the dead man. “He must have been trying to save Lassie here from the ants.” He lifted the dog’s limp head. “Suffocated, I guess.” He bristled and then refocused his thoughts on the room. “So I guess we look for pipes, vents, holes. If they’re hiding in the walls, this is probably the best place to find them.”

  Kendra nodded and pressed her palm against the wall. She put her ear against the cold plaster and listened for any sounds of activity.

  Paul tracked a pipe that stretched across the ceiling to a dark alcove by the hallway. Below the pipe was a wall vent, about six feet from the floor. He called to Kendra, “Hey, over here.”

  She followed him into the shadows.

  A four-foot ladder splattered with paint was folded up in the corner, and Paul pried it open. He dragged it under the vent, climbed the rungs and removed the iron grating with a hard shove. The opening was small, but he managed to reach an arm inside and then tried to fit his head. Dust rained down on his hair.

  “Forget it. This building must be a hundred years old,” he said, coughing. “There won’t be any passageway big enough to fit the two of us.”

  “How about a colony of twenty-two million ants?” said Kendra, drumming her fingers on her cheek. “Think. They may have been bred to attack a city, but they can’t escape their nature.”

  Paul sat down on the stepladder and closed his eyes. He considered everything he knew about Siafu and then said, “So where in this building do we find the equivalent space of a fifty-foot hollow tree trunk?”

  Kendra’s face brightened. “I’ll tell you where.”

  CHAPTER 33

  DING. THE ELEVATOR BELL broke the ghostly silence in the lobby as the gilded doors parted, revealing a roomy interior paneled in chestnut brown. Paul and Kendra stepped hesitantly inside, relieved to see that the small light fixture was still working.

  Paul unhinged the stepladder and positioned it under the trapdoor screwed to the ceiling. “Are you certain about this?” he asked.

  “‘Certain’ will not be in our vocabulary today.”

  Paul shook his head and climbed up to the escape hatch. He used a penknife to turn the screws. The lid dropped and dangled from its hinges. He stared up at the darkness, listening to the quiet, then peered down at Kendra. “You ready?”

  “I’m fine. You’re the one about to risk a face full of killer ants,” she joked.

  He flipped his hood, not amused, and zipped it tight. “Gimme the flashlight.”

  She handed him a bug vacuum as well. It was a pistol-shaped device, but when extended, it looked more like a Star Wars light saber.

  Paul poked his head through the opening. The elevator shaft was dark and he strained his ears, listening to the silence through the plastic head cover and raising his flashlight skyward. The bright beam dissolved in two hundred feet of darkness. He lowered the light and it settled on the walls.

  That’s when his cheeks lost color and for a long moment Paul didn’t dare move, or even blink. Millions of ants covered the elevator shaft. Their black armor shined like marble in the shaking light of the beam, as the colony moved slowly and methodically in wavy columns like slithering deadly snakes.

  Paul blew out a breath of air and ducked inside the car, slammed the door and held it closed with all his might. He was beginning to hyperventilate. The bug vacuum dropped to the floor and he threw off his hood.

  “What?” Kendra asked.

  “They’re in there! All ov
er the place. Jesus.” He tightened the first screw with trembling fingers.

  “I knew it,” she declared. “Well, get up there.”

  “Get up there! Are you crazy?” Paul backed down the ladder and wrung his hands together, willing them to stop shaking.

  “Did they react to you? Show any signs of aggression?”

  “I don’t know, Kendra.” He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. In the dark recess of his mind he could see them crawling, slowly. His brow furrowed. “No, actually, they didn’t seem to notice me.”

  “Then they’re in down mode, right? Like the ants in your lab?”

  “Maybe.” He cast a troubled eye at the hatch door. “We can’t really be sure.”

  “You seem to forget why we’re here,” Kendra said, zipping her suit. She flipped her headpiece and started up the ladder herself.

  Paul grabbed her wrist and eased her back down. “Okay, okay,” he gave in. He climbed to the top and turned the screw, gazing down at Kendra through the crook of his elbow. “But if I hear even a lip smack from those buggers, I’m out of there.”

  She reached up and handed him the bug vacuum. “Fair enough.”

  Paul slid the vacuum through the hatch, along with the flashlight, and zipped his hood once again. “Wait till I get up there. If it seems safe, I’ll tell you to press the button. We’ll look for the queen floor by floor.”

  Arms braced, Paul hoisted himself onto the roof of the elevator, landing on his chest and skimming across fifty years of dust and grease. He got up on his knees in the filthy white suit, surrounded by darkness and millions of imaginary legs racing toward him. He shivered and flipped the flashlight to lantern mode. The shaft became awash in light.

  Paul stood ready to retreat, but the ants were fairly still. At least he saw no outward sign that they were preparing to attack, so he began looking around. The elevator roof was less than ten feet across. In the center, two thick cables operated the car from an electrical box at the top of the shaft, while four thin wires secured each corner for balance. The air was musty with a metallic odor of gears and machinery.