by Tim Curran
Koska continued to watch the smoke. It gave him an idea. “Not necessarily…” he said.
Koska reached down to his SWAT utility belt and extracted a small cylinder. “I have two flash-burn grenades. This is what I used on that barricaded wife killer in Baton Rouge, remember? They don’t make a big explosion, but they simulate one to create a lot of confusion and disorient the enemy. They produce a lot of smoke…”
“…to hold off the mosquitoes,” said Hank.
“Precisely.”
“It’s worth a try.” He could hear the crackling flames in the living room. “We don’t have much time.”
“Then say a prayer,” said Koska, gripping a grenade in each hand. “Because here we go.”
Koska kicked open the kitchen door with a swift thrust of his boot. He plunged forward into the fiery living room, immediately spotting swirling clouds of black specks – ashes or bugs? No time to figure it out.
“Keep moving!” he bellowed at Hank, who followed behind.
They made it to the front doors and Koska pulled them open.
Sure enough, the front yard was dense with mosquito swarms creating a single, steady hum like a monstrous machine. Before the insects could pursue the fresh prey, Koska lobbed the first grenade. It lit up the yard with a loud bang, spewing billows of smoke.
Koska ran into the haze, keeping his eyes focused on the van on the other side. He could hear mosquitoes buzzing near his face, hopefully too dazed to attack.
Koska tossed the second grenade and again the yard illuminated for a quick blink of daylight before going dark and thickening with smoke. Koska could hear Hank coughing behind him.
Almost there.
Koska fell on the door handle, yanked it and jumped into the van at the same time Hank entered from the passenger side.
They slammed their doors and immediately scrambled for the gloves and gas masks.
Koska tightened his mask as tight as he could without cutting off his circulation. He heard his own panting amplified in his ears. He tugged the gloves as high up on the wrists as they could go.
Safe at last.
He looked at Hank. Hank also wore gloves and a gas mask, covered from head to toe. He gave Koska a thumbs up.
Koska returned the thumbs up, grinning. He turned to look back at the mansion.
The fire was spreading fast and several windows along the ground floor glowed orange. The front yard remained a hazy fog of smoke. Angry black specks zigged and zagged in the air, circling the van.
Koska watched the mosquitoes skip across the windshield, separated from their food, watching through the glass, hungry.
“The vents are closed, everything’s sealed tight,” said Koska. “They’re not getting in.” He finally felt a moment of triumph over these savage insects. He stuck his middle finger out at them.
“Screw you, zombie mosquitoes!” he called out and the comment was so absurd, so hopelessly crazy, that he had to laugh.
Hank joined him in the laughter. Once they got going, the two of them couldn’t stop. They laughed like lunatics, rocking in their seats, clutching their sides, overcome with relief and delirious from the sheer absurdity of it all. The van filled with their raucous laughter…
…and then Koska abruptly stopped.
He stared in horror at his partner.
Hank realized something was wrong and sobered up, returning the stare. “What is it? What is it?”
Koska’s eyes observed a small, dancing mosquito caught on the inside of Hank’s gas mask. Before Koska could reach out and rip the mask off, the mosquito landed on the bridge of Hank’s nose.
Hank jerked his head back, feeling a tiny jolt of pain, and in an instant, all was lost and both men knew it.
Hank’s eyes filled with tears.
Koska reached for his gun.
Hank begged, “Don’t do it.” He brought out his own pistol. “I’ll do it.”
Hank climbed out of the van, shut the door, and planted his boots into the swampy Louisiana bayou. He placed the pistol to his temple and shut his eyes. Clouds of mosquitoes swirled around him, searching for an entry.
Koska turned the ignition and the engine roared. He thrust the van forward. He did not look back.
As he sped away from the burning southern mansion, flames licking the sky, he heard a single gunshot.
Koska wept throughout the drive back into town.
***
Koska arrived at Operation Z’s Command Center representing the sole survivor of his unit. His tale of deadly swamp mosquitoes confirmed the military’s worst fears: the entire town of Clarkson would have to be destroyed. Total annihilation was the only way to ensure the removal of every living organism that might carry the zombie plague.
After the uninfected townspeople had been rescued, the SWAT force pulled out and the military moved in. They were equipped with a single mission: to devastate everything within the town’s boundaries and eradicate all forms of life.
The resulting explosions and fires could be seen for many miles. Clarkson was wiped off the map, replaced by a sterile, desolate dead zone of scorched earth. The nation mourned the tragedy at the same time it hailed a victory: all signs indicated that the zombie outbreak had been stopped and the plague contained.
For his courageous entry into the zombie den where it all started, Koska received special honors and recognition. He shunned the publicity the best he could out of respect for his fallen comrades. He did not return media calls.
But then an offer arrived that Koska could not refuse. As the country celebrated the swift and efficient containment of the zombie outbreak, a prominent visitor flew to the scene to personally thank the hardworking troops: the President of the United States.
The President’s press secretary arranged for the media to cover the event. Koska was invited to meet the President as a representative of the state’s SWAT force, while other individuals were selected on behalf of the army, air force and National Guard.
Although exhausted, Koska agreed to attend. After all, who could turn down a personal thank you from the President? Once the event concluded, Koska planned to close out his term of duty and return home to his wife and kids, whom he hadn’t seen since the beginning of the zombie outbreak. He missed them terribly. He needed a return to normalcy.
The President’s handlers arrived in advance to outline the protocol for the visit: Don’t speak to the President unless spoken to; no autograph requests; no photographers or video aside from the authorized media attendees; and shake the President’s hand only if offered.
As the momentous occasion approached, Koska grew nervous thinking about what he would say to the President, surrounded by television cameras capturing the event for a global audience. For Koska, it was the capper on the most intense week of his life and a full realization of the magnitude of the crisis.
Special occasions required special measures. Koska planned to bring a secret companion to the event – a friend with the initials SC.
The flask fit securely into the interior pocket of his sport coat and promised just what he needed to settle his nerves before the big meet and greet.
On the day of the President’s visit, Koska joined six other high-ranking representatives of the victory over the zombies. They gathered in a small room in a municipal building in a town outside of Clarkson that served as home base for Operation Z’s Central Command.
“The President will be here in five minutes,” announced a short, brisk woman on his staff.
Koska exchanged nervous smiles with the others in his group, including the gray-haired army general who coordinated the bombing of Clarkson. While the camera crews scrambled into place, Koska took a quick step toward the wall, pretending to examine a series of framed pictures of old southern generals. With his heart thumping and back turned, he pulled out the flask and uncapped it, prepared to take a quick and calming swig.
However, as Koska removed the cap from the flask, a tiny mosquito emerged, buzzed past his ear and disapp
eared into the room.
“Holy--!” said Koska, stunned.
And then the realization hit him. This was the first time he had opened the flask since sharing a drink with Jake in the Leery mansion… Jake’s final drink before receiving a bullet to the head.
In the madness, a mosquito must have entered the flask before Koska returned the cap.
Panicked, Koska threw aside the flask and began hunting for the escaped mosquito. He caught a glimpse of the black speck dancing across the room but then it disappeared in a sudden flash of camera lights.
“The President is here!”
Koska scrambled into place, his designated spot, standing between the army general and a National Guardsman.
The President of the United States entered the room. He stood tall, confident and immaculately dressed. He made a small speech about heroes and bravery and conquering an unspeakable enemy that threatened the country.
Then he moved down the receiving line, praising the “brave and noble combatants,” shaking hands, clasping shoulders, exchanging pleasantries as video cameras and still photographers captured his gratitude for the masses.
When the President reached Koska, he smiled warmly and extended his hand. “Thank you for everything you have done for the American people,” he said.
Koska reached out to accept the handshake. But then the President abruptly withdrew his hand and brought it up to his face to smack himself on the left cheek.
The president’s smile vanished and he grimaced.
“Ow.”
The End
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