How to Outsmart a Billion Robot Bees

by Paul Tobin

  I looked down.

  There was a note on the sidewalk. One of Nate’s notes. A precisely folded triangle with “Delphine” written on top of it.

  I opened it up, though it was a bit tricky, since the paper kept sliding partially through my mostly intangible hands. At least there was no chance of paper cuts.

  The note read, “Hey . . . no chance of paper cuts, right? But, I should get to the point. If you find this note, you’re only a few blocks from Tommy Brilp’s garage. I need you to go there and disable the transmitter before these bumblebee swarms get even worse. And, no pressure, but it’s probably best you hurry, because I can only hold off the attack on my house for so long. Also, if you look up, there are probably some bees about to attack you.”

  I looked up.

  There were some bees about to attack me.

  It was a huge swarm. The biggest one yet.

  I leaped onto Betsy’s hood (no way was I getting inside the car again) and yelled, “Tommy Brilp’s garage, Betsy! Hurry!” Thankfully, she didn’t argue with me or spend any time dreaming about Nate; she just zoomed off and away, leaving the bees behind. Her hood twisted a bit in order to form handles that I could hold, and I didn’t bounce too much since I was still partially intangible.

  But only partially.

  That meant I could use my phone.

  I called Nate.

  I said, “How did you know where to leave that note?”

  He said, “Because you wore a skirt yesterday, and there was an X19 solar flare measured this morning, and the prevailing wind is only gusting at seven miles per hour. It all adds up.”

  “Oh,” I said. Nate’s reasons rarely make sense to me. I’ve learned to accept that. Kind of.

  Nate said, “Well, I should go. I’m being shot at.”

  “What?” I screamed.

  “Yeah. Lots of shooting, here.”

  “Nate!” I absolutely screamed. And then I hung up the phone, because I’m one of those people who believe it’s not safe to be on the phone while you’re driving, and if you shouldn’t be on the phone while you’re driving, then you probably shouldn’t be on the phone while you’re being shot at.

  I scowled at my phone.

  Stashed it away.

  Scowled some more.

  Then I grabbed up my phone again and called Mom.

  “Delphine,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “At the mall,” I lied, because mothers almost never want to hear that you’re fighting millions of bees that are being controlled by a menacing secret society. “How’s the bee situation, Mom?”

  “Oh. Much better. There were so many! Gone now, though. There’s a peculiar gull flying over the house now. Just . . . circling and circling. I think it scared the bees off. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Weird,” I said. Parts of me wanted to explain to Mom that Sir William was a robot, but then I’d have to tell her all about Nate, and I was worried Mom wouldn’t want me to be friends with Nate anymore, because she would ridiculously overreact and think it was too dangerous.

  “Gotta go, Mom!” I said, because it was time to fight the mysterious murder society and their insect horde.

  “Delphine, you sound anxious. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Huh? No! There’s just . . . a sale here. At the mall. Where I’m at. A sale on . . . things I like.”

  “Well, that didn’t make me suspicious at all.”

  “Good!” I said, pretending I didn’t hear the sarcasm in her voice, which made me feel a little bit like Nate. “Talk to you later, Mom!” I ended the call just as Betsy screeched to a halt and screamed, “We’re here!”

  “Also,” she said, “there are lots of bees here.” I looked back the way we came, and there was an incoming swarm. Also, there was a swarm covering Tommy’s garage. So, two swarms.

  “I need to get in that garage!” I told Betsy. It didn’t look possible. The garage was currently a garage-shaped mound of bees, with the bees scrabbling to get inside. I could hear Tommy yelling from inside, cursing at the bees, but at least it didn’t sound like he was being stung.

  “I’ll spray sugar water to attract them,” Betsy said. “And then you run into the garage while you have a chance.”

  “Good plan,” I said. “Tell me when you’re about to do it.”

  “Ready in three . . . two . . . one.” A big cloud of sugary water sprayed out of her muffler, billowing into the air. The two bumblebee swarms both shivered with interest. Then, here and there, a bee peeled away from the garage to investigate the new and obviously interesting (to bees) cloud. Soon, like one massive creature, the entire swarm left the garage and buzzed toward the sugar-water cloud. The other swarm began heading toward it as well. This was my chance.

  I leaped off the car.

  Then, just before I could start running, Betsy’s door popped open and one of her air-conditioning vents sprayed another cloud of sugar water.

  On . . . me.

  “Glack!” I said, as the sugary mist spilled all over me.

  And then Betsy’s door slammed shut and locked.

  “Good luck!” she said.

  “What? No! Are you serious? You just . . . BETSY!”

  “I would advise you to run,” she said.

  It was good advice.

  So, if ever there was a time to panic, I’d found it.

  The bees were indecisively hovering between the two clouds of sugar water, meaning the one that was slowly settling to the street, and the one that was named Delphine Cooper and was kicking the side of a talking car. I was beginning to wonder if Nate had created Betsy on a Friday the thirteenth, the day he does really stupid things. Everything would make more sense that way.

  I ran for the garage. It was challenging, because I was still partially intangible, not getting much traction. Melville flew next to me, unable to perch on my shoulder because she’d sink right through. She gave a buzz that I took as an inquiry, and I said, “Sure. Go ahead. Have some sugar water.” She buzzed happily and began licking up some of the disgusting substance that was covering me. Because I was partially intangible, it was dripping off faster than normal, which was good, but it was also dripping inside me, because I was so porous that, in effect, I’d become a living cloud of sugar water.

  The bees approved.

  The two swarms had combined into one gigantic swarm, hungry and impolite, and they were gaining on me, but I made it to the garage door first, frantically knocking and yelling, “Let me in!”

  “Who’s . . . who’s out there?” I heard from inside. It was Tommy’s voice.

  “It’s me! Delphine Cooper!” Behind me, I could hear the bees getting even closer.

  “Delphine?” Tommy’s voice was full of wonder. I should probably point out that Tommy has a crush on me. He’s always asking if I’d like to go to the movies, or to the park, or to the roller derby (I honestly do want to go to the roller derby, but it would be more fun with Nate), and he tries to walk me home sometimes, even though we live in entirely opposite directions. Also, he wants us to form a band, with him on drums and me on guitar, but Tommy’s already in a band called Captain Underworld’s Circus of Breakfast Hellfire and I want to start a band called Unicorn Sparkle Boot, so I doubt we’re compatible, music-wise.

  “Let me in!” I said, intangibly pounding on the door. “It’s me! Delphine! You know . . . the cute girl who doesn’t like being trapped outside a locked door and getting devoured by bees? Remember?” I hoped that last part wouldn’t throw him off, since we’d never talked about me being devoured by bees before, but while it’s true that most boys are endlessly confused about girls, I think they’re smart enough to understand that we don’t want to be devoured by bees.

  “Are there any bees with you?” He sounded scared. I couldn’t help but think Nate wouldn’t have asked that question. He’d have immediately unlocked the door. In fact, he’d have probably known I was coming, and the door would’ve been unlocked from the start, because Nate seem
s able to predict the future sometimes, with the way he—

  I noticed a note taped to the garage.

  It had my name on it.

  In Nate’s handwriting.

  I tore it open and read it as fast as I could. It said, “I can’t actually predict the future; I’m just really good with probabilities. Not the same thing. Anyway . . . don’t forget you’re partially intangible. You can just walk through the door. Like a ghost.”

  “Oh yeah!” I yelled, just as the first bees reached me.

  “See you, suckers!” I said, stepping forward.

  It felt somewhat like water. But very dense water. There was more resistance than I’d hoped, enough that at first I was worried I wouldn’t be able to make it all the way through, and I’d have to turn around and apologize to all the bees for calling them suckers, and it would be really embarrassing because once you’ve said your exit line, you really do have to exit, or else it’s awkward.

  But I kept pressing onward, squeezing myself through the door, which groaned and moaned as the wood complained of my passing, like when you kick your way through a pile of leaves. As soon as I reached the other side, I waved hello to Tommy (he was hiding inside a stack of tires, with only his head and shoulders showing), and then I turned quickly around, unlocked the door (the bolt kept slipping through my hands, but I was growing more and more tangible), and opened the door just long enough for Melville to fly through.

  “Bzzz!” she said in appreciation as I slammed the door shut behind her.

  “Are y-you a g-ghost?” I heard Tommy ask with a whimper, hiding in his stack of tires. “Did the bees m-murder you?”

  “What? No! I just swallowed an intangibility pill so that I could . . . well, it’s complicated, but I’m not a ghost.” Melville landed on my shoulder and only sank a little. The intangibility pill was definitely wearing off.

  “Is that a b-bumble-b-bee?” Tommy shrieked. He tried to scramble away, but only managed to tip over the tires and fall. He looked like an enchilada, rolling around on the garage floor, encased in the tires with only his feet and head visible, yelling and cursing.

  “Quit laughing, ghost!” he said. Boys don’t like to be laughed at. Well, Nate doesn’t mind, but that’s because he enjoys my laugh, and also because he says he learns something every time I make fun of him. But, most boys hate it.

  “Seriously, Tommy,” I said. “I’m not a ghost.” I was helping him out of tires. The pill had worn off and I was entirely solid.

  “But you . . . phased through the door.” He pointed to me, and pointed to the door. It was unfortunate. I’d been hoping he hadn’t seen me do that.

  “And you were . . . transparent,” he said. “Ghostly.” He was becoming confused. He poked at my shoulder, then let out a squeak when Melville buzzed in warning.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “She’s friendly. Her name is Melville. And you must have been hallucinating everything else. Maybe you were stung by the bees? Did you get some bee venom in your blood? That causes hallucinations, you know.” I nodded in a knowing fashion. Nate tells me that most people will believe anything as long as you act confident when you lie.

  “Oh,” Tommy said. “Yeah. That’s probably what happened.”

  I looked around, trying to think of a way we could escape. There wasn’t much of anything in the garage that I thought could help us. There were the tires, a couple of bicycles, an assortment of household junk, but mostly it was a practice area for Tommy’s band, meaning there was a drum set, a pair of guitars, some speakers, and lots of band posters on the walls.

  I glanced at my phone, where I could see . . . via Sir William’s radar . . . the swarms covering Tommy’s garage. And there were several other swarms downtown, and another at the swimming pool, and all throughout the shopping district. There was another just outside my favorite comic book store, several at the police station, and basically there were swarms of bees . . . everywhere.

  “We’re stuck in here,” I grumbled.

  “Yeah,” Tommy said, resigned. He’d gone to his drum set and was fiddling with the drumsticks.

  “But I can’t be. I need to get back to saving the city.”

  “Saving the city?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. You’re like . . . a hero.” He drummed a couple of riffs on his drums. I walked over to the window, which had a fine view of a swarm of bees covering the glass. I made a gesture to them, a rude one that I was hoping they’d forget if they managed to get inside the garage.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  It was Nate.

  He asked, “Have you disabled Tommy’s transmitter?” I looked over to Tommy. He’s maybe five foot three. His long hair is the color of fresh dirt. He has pronounced cheekbones and an equally pronounced nose. He’s lanky. He was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt with an anarchy symbol, the one that always makes Nate laugh, because of the whole corporate structure that it took to sell Tommy a shirt about anarchy.

  I told Nate, “So, in order to un-attune the transmitter, I could just get him really scared, right?”

  “That would work, yes.”

  I looked to Tommy. He was playing his drums, nervously tapping on them, looking to the walls and the ceiling, swallowing repeatedly. After a bit he dropped the drumsticks and covered his ears. The relentless drone of the bees outside the garage was getting to him.

  I told Nate, “I think I can handle this. He’s terrified of bees.”

  “Oh. Bad time for him, then. Are you sure he’s not facing his fears?”

  “No. He’s facing the wall.” It was true. Tommy was now standing against the wall, mumbling to himself. I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the roar of the bees outside.

  “Hmm,” Nate said. “Well, then, have Melville sting Tommy.”

  “Can do,” I said. It was exactly what I’d been thinking. I wouldn’t normally ask a bee to sting one of my friends, but not only were the bees starting to inundate Polt, but I could hear Bosper frantically barking in the background of the phone, and there was also what sounded like occasional gunfire. Not good. Nate seemed calm, but he always does. The point is, there were already too many bumblebees in the city, and Nate needed me back at his house as soon as possible, and I needed to disable the bee-summoning transmitters, so . . . if having Melville sting Tommy would hurry that up, then so be it.

  “Go sting Tommy,” I whispered to Melville.

  She did.

  With permission granted, she eagerly whooshed closer to Tommy and then stopped, looking back to me. At first I didn’t know what she wanted, what she was asking, but then I figured it out and pointed to my left forearm.

  “Get him here,” I said.

  Melville turned, zoomed in, and stung Tommy on his left forearm.

  “Gee-yarggh!” he yelled.

  “Good,” Nate said. “Sounds like she stung him on the left forearm. An excellent choice. That’s one more transmitter disabled.” I was watching Tommy. He was staring at me in outrage. And he was glaring at his bee sting in outrage. He was also staring at Melville, flying back to me, in outrage. I’d have to say that his general mood was outrageous.

  “Who’s next?” I asked Nate. “I could find Marigold Tina, or should I try to find Gordon Stott again?”

  “I’d say Gordon. Since we didn’t find him the first time, it’s probably best that . . . that . . . Uh oh, that’s nuclear.”

  “Huh? What’s nuclear?”

  “Oh . . . nothing. A development, here. Entirely unexpected. How exciting!”

  “Nate, what’s nuclear?”

  “A weapon of Maculte’s. The Red Death Tea Society is—” But at that point there was a strange keening whistle from my phone, and then silence except for Bosper barking, and after that we lost contact, which instantly made me sweat. Sweat even more, I mean. I was wishing I’d have stashed that whole bottle of “Shower Pills” in my pocket.

  I immediately dialed Nate back.

  Nothing. No answer.

&nbs
p; I texted him, What happened?

  Nothing. No return text.

  Okay then, no reason to panic, besides having every reason to panic. I needed to help Nate, and that meant I needed to get out of the garage. I ran over to Tommy to find that he was clutching his forearm, where a big red welt was starting to form. It looked like he was growing a miniature volcano.

  “Your bee stung me!” he said. He was angry.

  “We needed to disable your transmitter,” I answered.

  “Oh,” he said. But his expression was understandably confused. Then he brightened and asked, “Hey, would you like to go out sometime?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whoa! Really? Excellent! We could go—”

  “No. Shush. I meant that I want to go out of this garage. But I can’t. Too many bees. Especially since I’m covered in sugar water.”

  “Is that what that is? Some new perfume? It smells like you put a lot on.”

  “A car accident,” I said, which was almost true and sounded saner than the truth. By then I was pacing, walking the length of the garage, looking for anything that might help. But it was just the tires, the posters on the walls, the band equipment, nothing of any use. I might be able to outdistance the bees on one of the bicycles, but that wouldn’t get me through the swarm in the first place, and the band equipment was useless, especially since I’m not all that talented of a singer, or a guitar player, as was so nicely (I mean incredibly rudely) pointed out by the rock camp instructor when she said that whenever I was really cutting loose it scared the bears, the deer, the raccoons, the squirrels, the turtles and . . .

  . . . and . . .

  . . . and . . .

  “Hey,” I said.

  Tommy looked up and said, “What?”

  I picked up the black guitar (because it looked the most hard-core) and slung the strap over my shoulder. I plucked on the strings, making sure they were properly tuned. Then I plugged the guitar into the amplifier and turned all the dials up as far as they would go.