by Tim Curran
Koska hurried to the foot of the staircase as Jake and Anders descended, followed by Garth, who was cursing and frantically slapping at his body.
“What the hell is it?” said Koska.
Garth reached the bottom of the steps, brushing himself off in shudders. “Goddamned mosquitoes!”
Tara broke out laughing. “Wimp!”
“Screw you,” muttered Garth.
“It was disgusting,” related Anders. “We opened the door to a bathroom off the master suite and there was this naked zombie sitting in the bathtub, taking a bath. The window was open and he was covered in mosquitoes. He didn’t even flinch, probably been sitting like that for hours.”
Jake said, “Garth shot him in the head and the mosquitoes jumped off the zombie and came after him.”
“Insect bastards,” said Garth, scratching his neck and face.
Jake continued, “We shut the door and got the hell out of there.”
“You sure the zombie’s dead?” asked Koska.
“Hell yes,” said Garth, insulted by the notion he would miss such an easy target. “One bullet to the head and his bathwater became bloodwater.” Garth continued to scratch all over his skin. “Damn fucking bugs!”
“You gonna be okay?” asked Koska. “We got a lot of equipment, but I don’t think we have anything for bug bites.”
“Suck it up, big boy,” taunted Tara.
Garth shut his eyes. “Screw you. It’s not funny… Seriously, I don’t feel so good.” He hugged himself. “Jesus, when’d it get so cold in here?”
Koska noted the red lumps all over Garth’s face and hands and felt some pity. The Mississippi Delta, soaked with swampy bayous and stagnant water, was one of the most fertile breeding grounds in the country for mosquitoes. Garth would probably scratch himself raw in the hours to come.
As he noted the bug bites, Koska observed something else – a ghastly pallor overtaking Garth’s complexion – and a foggy look in his eyes.
“You okay, Garth?” asked Koska.
Garth swooned. His hands dropped to his sides and the clawing fingers relaxed. He turned his head to stare at the hulking, fleshy Anders, who stood next to him.
“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” said Anders.
Garth’s lips curled back, showing teeth. His SWAT colleagues exchanged quick, alarmed looks and immediately reached the same conclusion.
Koska lifted his rifle. “Move back,” he told the others. He aimed for Garth’s head.
Garth looked into the barrel of the gun with a blank, dopey expression.
Koska felt sick to his stomach. In an instant, it all made horrible sense: If the zombie plague could spread through bites from the infected, why couldn’t a mosquito, feeding off the blood of a victim, transfer the condition to a healthy human?
Garth took a step toward Koska, his jaw chomping at the air, hungry for…
Koska fired.
Garth dropped, dead. Permanently.
The rest of the SWAT troop stared down at his crumpled shape, in shock.
“Done in by a goddamned mosquito,” muttered Hank.
Koska’s gaze lifted from Garth to Anders and Jake.
“What about you two?”
“What about us?” said Jake.
“You were up in that bathroom.”
“No, no, man…” said Anders, vigorously shaking his head. “Them bugs only got Garth. We were standing in the hallway. When he ran out, we shut the door. Them things never touched us. We’re cool.”
Tara whipped her head around, examining her surroundings. “There could be a lot more of them in this house… in this room!”
Anders made a move toward the front doors, sweat glistening on his face. “Jesus, we gotta get the hell out of here!”
“Stop!” called out Koska. “Not so fast. We’re not going anywhere. We’re safer in the house.”
Anders halted and looked at him, dumbfounded. “Are you serious?”
Koska gestured across the room. “Take a look outside.”
Anders turned to face the long, rectangular window that overlooked the backyard. Dense clouds of mosquitoes hovered above the ground, growing in size and strength. Black dots fed on the fallen zombie children, attacking exposed skin.
Tara said, “The sun’s going down. This is their time.”
Jake moved closer to the window. “It’s like they’re watching us.”
“That’s crazy,” said Hank, but a growing legion of mosquitoes gathered at the glass, occasionally striking it with tiny clicks.
With a swift pull, Koska shut the window drapes. He turned to face the rest of his unit.
“Stay calm. First things first. We must secure this house. Close every door to every room. Shove something under the cracks. Make sure every window is shut tight, every fireplace flue. We’ll meet back here in five minutes. Go!”
The mansion erupted with the sounds of rapid footsteps and slamming doors. Koska moved to the front entrance. The large doors appeared sealed tight. Instinctively, he flipped the lock, then chuckled at himself. Was he worried an army of mosquitoes could rotate a door handle?
Perhaps.
Regrouping in the living room five minutes later, the SWAT officers circled Koska as he radioed Operation Z’s Central Command for assistance.
The radio offered no response. Instead they listened to the droning static until Jake covered his ears and erupted, “It sounds like a hundred mosquitoes. Shut it off!”
Koska snapped off the radio. “We’re not getting a signal. Maybe we’re out of range. Or maybe something’s happened to…”
Zzt.
“Did you hear that?” said Hank.
“I sure hope that was more radio static,” said Tara.
Zzt.
“Radio’s off,” said Koska. His eyes circled the room. “We have got ourselves a mosquito.”
“Shit!” shouted Jake, spinning in a circle, waving his arms. “Find it! Kill it!”
Wham! Hank slammed the base of his rifle against the wall, startling everybody.
“Got it,” he said, pulling the rifle back from a tiny black stain.
“Everybody stay quiet. Keep listening,” said Koska. “There could be more.”
Standing perfectly still, they glanced around the room, eyes big, ears on alert.
Zzt.
“I hear something…” said Jake.
“But I don’t see it,” said Tara.
“Shut up!” said Koska. “Keep listening!”
Zzt. Zzt.
Then Koska saw it – directly above them, skimming the ceiling, a tiny, floating black speck. “Look up!”
All eyes stayed on the bug as it circled in a slow descent, landing on the edge of a fat, upholstered chair.
Koska picked up an antique vase from a nearby table. He brought it down on the insect in one powerful, shattering blow.
“Got it?” said Hank.
“Got it,” said Koska, breathing a sigh of relief, observing the mosquito’s remains. Unfortunately, the remains left a small red stain, indicating a victim had already been claimed…
“Oh shit,” said Koska under his breath.
“Aarrrgh!” roared Anders, arms outstretched, mouth opened wide, lunging for Tara. He grabbed her in a bear hug and thrust his teeth toward her neck. She desperately pushed his head away, screaming as he snapped his jaws like a mad dog.
Hank jumped on Anders' back, punching him, and the large man swirled around to swat him away with his big arms. Tara slipped free in the commotion and Koska had a split second to pull off a clean shot. He blasted a hole through Anders' temple and the big man toppled, completing a whirlwind transition from alive to undead to real dead in less than a minute.
“Damn, he was bit and we didn’t even know it!” said Hank, rising from the floor.
Koska swung his gun from Anders to Jake, who stood, wide-eyed in terror, across the room.
“What about you?” Koska asked Jake.
“What – what about me?”
“Positive. I mean it. I’m clean!”
“Then why,” asked Koska, “did I just see you scratching your face?”
“Scratch? Me? N-no…”
“You scratched under your left ear. You have an itch, don’t you…”
“Please…” said Jake. “I’m fine…”
Hank walked over, examined Jake and frowned. “I see a little red bump. Right under your ear.”
“It’s not what it seems!” said Jake, panicked. “I got bad skin.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” said Koska calmly, pointing the rifle at him.
“Shit…” said Tara, looking down at the ground. “Son of a bitch!”
“I’m a goner,” said Jake in a small voice.
Koska slowly nodded his head.
Jake shut his eyes, resigned. He reached up… and scratched hard at the mosquito bite, relieved by the freedom to do so. The truth was out. “Okay… Get it over with…” He continued scratching.
Koska hesitated. He had known Jake for seven years. This wasn’t going to be easy.
He had never killed a friend before.
Koska could see that Jake was trembling.
“Before we do this…” said Koska. “You want a drink? I got my good stuff.”
Jake looked at him and made a small, crooked smile. “You got the SC?”
“It’s part of my gear. Goes everywhere I go. You know that.” Koska reached into his jacket, the secret pocket sewed on the inside, and pulled out a small flask of Southern Comfort, 100 proof. He reserved this private stash for those harrowing moments where he desperately needed to collect his nerves.
This was one of those times.
Koska consumed a quick, hard shot of the liquor. It burned. It felt good.
He stepped over to Jake.
“Open your mouth, I’ll pour it in,” he said. “I don’t want your mouth to touch the flask. Germs. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“Of course,” said Jake. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth and shut his eyes.
Koska poured a steady trickle into Jake’s mouth. Jake kept drinking until he couldn’t keep up with the alcohol stream and coughed.
Koska pulled the flask back. Jake completed a swallow. “Thank you,” he sputtered.
“Ready now?” said Koska.
“Ready,” said Jake.
Koska placed the open flask on a nearby table, next to its cap. He brought the rifle into firing position. He aimed for the center of Jake’s forehead.
“Goodbye Jake,” said Tara.
“We love you, man,” said Hank.
“I’m sorry, Jake,” said Koska, and he knew there was no more time to waste…a foggy look had started to fill Jake’s eyes. His skin was turning pale. He began to rock off balance. His lips moved, possibly saying, “Goodbye” and then Jake was gone, replaced by another zombie thing, disguised as Jake, but not him, not really…
Blam.
Jake dropped dead to the floor.
“Now it’s just the three of us,” said Hank.
“Those fucking bugs,” said Tara between clenched teeth. “Those goddamned fucking bugs!”
“We have to stay cool,” said Koska. “Any one of us could be next. Keep watching the room. We can’t let a single mosquito to escape our sight.”
Hank continued eyeballing the room. “This is making me a nervous wreck. I’m jumping at every little speck.”
“It’s getting darker in here,” said Tara. “It’ll be harder to spot them.”
Koska stepped over to a thick candle resting on a buffet cabinet. He checked the drawers until he found a box of matches. “This will give us some light, plus they won’t like the flame.”
He lit the candle and its soft glow flickered against the living room walls. Outside, the sun melted into dusk. The mansion’s remote location promised a night of total and utter darkness.
“That little flame isn’t going to scare away anything,” said Tara.
“Ssh!” said Hank. “I think I hear something.”
The three of them froze.
After a long moment, Hank said, “Now I don’t hear it.”
“Maybe it’s landed,” said Koska.
Tara compulsively brushed her arms and face. “I’m not going to be done in by a freaking mosquito!”
“I think I see something…” said Hank, pointing across the room. “On the curtains.”
“That’s just a spot,” said Koska, straining for a closer look.
“These goddamned shadows are playing tricks,” growled Hank.
“Shut up! I hear something,” said Tara. “Do you hear it?”
Hank listened hard and shook his head. He looked over at Koska.
Koska said, “No… wait… maybe… I hear a humming sound…”
Tara shrieked, “Son of a bitch, one just flew past my ear!” She grabbed a fireplace poker and started swinging it wildly. “Where are you? I’ll kill you!”
Koska yelled, “On the lampshade!”
Tara hammered the poker against the lampshade, sending the lamp crashing to the floor.
“Is it dead?” asked Hank.
“Has to be,” said Tara. “I hit it straight on. I don’t miss.” She bent over the lamp.
A tiny, mangled mosquito lay on the floor next to the lamp wreckage. “He’s history,” she said.
But then the mosquito somehow pulled itself together, straightening its bent limbs. In an instant, it jumped from the floor.
The three SWAT agents shouted in unison.
“It’s a goddamned super mosquito!” said Hank. “The zombie blood… it rejuvenates them. These things won’t be easy to kill.”
“All the pesticide in the world might not stop them,” said Koska, keeping his eyes on the lethal, fluttering speck.
“We can’t beat them,” said Hank, his voice wavering with resignation. “There are too many.”
“Hell yes we can,” growled Tara. Her eyes flashed wild, overcome by the madness of their predicament. “We’ll kill every last one of them. I don’t care if there are hundreds, millions, they’re all DEAD!”
“I see one on the couch!” yelled Hank.
Tara whipped around and fired her machine gun at the mosquito. “Die you son of a bitch!”
“Tara, NO!” shouted Koska. Tara blasted the room with bullets, screaming profanity, crazed with panic. Koska ran to stop her, but it was too late. A spray of bullets punctured the drapes… shattering the glass behind them.
Then Tara froze, struck by the realization of what she had just done. The gun dropped to her side.
“Oh shi—" she started and before she could finish, a stream of mosquitoes emerged from behind the curtains. They collected into a single black cloud and attacked Tara’s face.
Tara screamed, clawing at her eyes, ears, nose and mouth. They stung her repeatedly, dozens of tiny needles piercing her skin, invading every orifice.
Koska snatched the burning candle from the buffet. He flung it into the curtains and they erupted into flames. The billowing smoke disoriented the mosquitoes… at least for a moment.
Koska turned to Hank. “Quick, into the kitchen!”
“One sec.” Hank held out his pistol, steadying his arm. With a single bullet, he shot Tara in the head and her screaming stopped.
Before racing into the kitchen, Koska grabbed his flask of Southern Comfort and capped it. He returned it to the pocket in the lining of his jacket. Priorities.
Once inside the kitchen, Hank and Koska slammed the doors and wedged dish towels to fill the cracks underneath. They tried to ignore the dead mother zombie in the apron, still sprawled on the floor.
Koska stared at Hank, searching for any faded look in his eyes. “You okay?”
“I’m cool. I’m good,” said Hank. “You?”
“I’m clean. But we gotta get out of this house. Those things know we’re in here. The smoke will only stop them for so long.”
&n
bsp; “Won’t it be worse outside?”
“Yes, but if we can make it to the van, we’ll be safe.” Koska peered out a small window above the sink, focused on the armored vehicle parked a few hundred feet away. “Inside the van, we can get to our gas masks. We’ll put them on to protect our faces. We can get our gloves. There won’t be an inch of exposed skin.”
Hank asked, “But how do we get to the van without getting chewed up?”
Black clouds hovered in the front yard, legions of mosquitoes thirsty for their next blood fix. Koska could see Grandpa Zombie face down on the red brick walkway, covered in insects, like a second skin. He turned back to look at the kitchen doors, where wisps of smoke trickled from the edges.
“If we stay here, we’ll be cooked alive,” said Koska.
“And if we go out there, we’ll be eaten alive,” responded Hank.