by Paul Tobin
I tapped my toes on the concrete floor and looked over to Tommy.
“Let’s make some noise,” I said.
The bees didn’t know what hit them.
As soon as I was ready, I had Tommy fling open the door. He then immediately ran to his stack of tires and dove inside, covering the top with a blanket we’d found on the shelves.
A few inquisitive bees came in through the open door, then immediately left.
“Scouts,” I told Melville. She was on my shoulder. I had my weight on one leg, guitar slung over my shoulder, waist cocked to the side, a sneer on my lips.
A mass of bees was now hovering just outside the door. A swarm so thick that I couldn’t see through them. It was a solid wall of bumblebees.
“Free concert,” I encouraged them. “Come on in.”
The swarm moved a bit closer. But they were oddly timid. Can bees sense a trap? I tried to look afraid. It was exceptionally easy to do, because I was, in fact, afraid. What if my plan didn’t work? How many bumblebees would sting me? Only a few hours ago, a single bee had swelled my forehead into a melon. This time, with so many bees, I could end up looking like a hot-air balloon.
The swarm moved closer. I adjusted the guitar strap on my shoulder.
“Are you guys music lovers?” I asked. The bees were invading the garage, marching across the floor like a thick and relentless tide, scuttling over the walls and the ceiling, creeping closer. And of course there were thousands of bumblebees in the air. Tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands.
“C’mon, girls,” I said. “Get your front-row seats.” The swarm was coming closer, closer. The ones on the floor and the walls were several inches deep. And the ceiling was forming stalactites, huge dripping columns of bees. The bumblebees were coming closer, closer, sharpening their stingers, probably already dreaming about the day they’d tell their grandchildren the story of how they’d stung Delphine Gabriella Cooper over one . . . hundred . . . billion times.
They came closer.
Closer.
They were a few feet away.
Even closer.
I cocked my hip even more to the side, delivered my absolute best sneer, and said, “Thank you for coming out tonight. The name of this band is . . . Sugar Water.”
Then I smashed my fingers against the guitar strings, strumming violently against them, and the speakers and the amplifiers did their job, and it was as if lightning had exploded inside the garage and I’d just become the sixth grade rock-and-roll equivalent of thunder.
“Thunder!” I yelled. Tommy peeked out from his tires, watching the first wave of pure noise drive the bees backward, sending them tumbling through the air, pinwheeling back over themselves, smashing into one another.
“Thunder!” I screamed, again strumming against the guitar strings, unleashing my entire repertoire of three notes. My fingers were flying against the strings, causing the guitar to shudder in my hands and the speakers to spark in the raging fury of the noise I was unleashing. Again and again I strummed against the strings, faster and louder each time. The speakers were screeching. The walls were shaking.
“Thunder!” I bellowed, and I started singing a song I’d written during Rock Camp, a song about a unicorn with a machete for a horn, and the army of tigers and lions it defeats, and how he sends them falling into a black abyss, and even though I didn’t really remember many of the words (mostly just “Unicorn strikes! Lion falls! Unicorn strikes! Tiger howls! Black abyss! BLACK ABYSS!), it didn’t seem to matter very much, because the bees were too busy desperately fighting to get out of the garage, with the noise battering them against the walls, a roaring wave of concussive force smashing them out of the air, sending them tumbling away from me, like leaves caught in a rock-and-roll hurricane.
“THUNDER!” I shouted at the top of my considerable lungs, and as I crashed my fingers down against the guitar strings, all the windows exploded.
Betsy wasn’t talking to me.
Not much, anyway.
She’d been waiting for me when I walked out from the garage, silently watching as I let the guitar fall to the ground, like rock stars do when they leave the stage. All around me was the broken glass from the windows, and huge piles of unconscious bees, all of them stunned by the sounds I’d unleashed. Tommy was following me, excitedly blabbering about how awesome I was, and I could see that he was crushing on me even harder now that I was the Queen of Rock-and-Roll Thunder, but I wasn’t interested in him (or in any boy that I’d have to save) because all I wanted to do was get back to Nate’s house and stop the Red Death Tea Society.
“Hmm,” Betsy said, opening her door so that I could get in.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Betsy, we have to get back to Nate’s house. There’s been a change of plans, and Polt will have to worry about the bees itself for a bit, because Nate and I talked on the phone and he said something about a nuclear weapon.” I was breathless from talking so fast and being so nervous.
“Hmm,” Betsy said, speeding off.
“Bzzz?” Melville said, crawling out of my hair, where she’d hidden when I was bringing the thunder.
“We’re going home,” I told her.
“Bzzz?” she said.
“Yeah. I know Nate wanted us to disable the transmitters, but that was before the Red Death Tea Society went nuclear.”
“Bzzz,” she said, agreeing with me.
“Hmm,” Betsy said.
“What is it?” I asked her. “Why do you keep grunting like that?”
“I believe . . . I just thought I should tell you, you see, the bees, in the garage.”
“Yes? What about them?”
“There were four hundred seventeen thousand six hundred and twenty-one of them.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t understand why that was important.
Betsy said, “Delphine, this means you’ve defeated one hundred thirty-three thousand nine hundred and ninety-four more bees than I have.”
“Oh,” I said.
Together, in silence, we sped off to Nate’s house.
There wasn’t anything wrong at Nate’s house.
Nothing I could see, anyway.
That made me more nervous than if I’d seen a whole herd (flock? swarm?) of Red Death Tea Society assassins. Where were they? Why were the house and even the entire neighborhood so quiet? Proton, Nate’s exceptionally irritating cat, was walking across the lawn, entirely unconcerned about anything. That, of course, meant nothing, because cats never truly concern themselves with anything beyond naps and food, neither of which I suspected the Red Death Tea Society would use in an attack, and certainly neither of which were known to go nuclear.
“Go take a nuclear nap,” I told Proton as he walked past me. He made the slightest of hisses. We haven’t been on very good terms since we first met, when he’d grown into a monster and tried to murder me.
I made it to the front door with nobody shooting at me, or doing anything at all. There was simply no one to be seen. No attack in progress. I could hear a television from inside the house. The living room is right off the front door, and a window was open. I snuck around the house and peered inside, to where I could see Nate’s dad, Algie, dusting the frames of the paintings that hang on the wall. The television was playing a game show from Japan, one where oiled-up contestants in bathing suits were seeing how far they could slide across a room without falling into a pit. Algie was watching the show, dusting the paintings, chuckling whenever one of the contestants tumbled into the pit.
“Nothing seems wrong,” I told Melville. She’d taken her perch on my shoulder.
“Bzzz,” she buzzed. I couldn’t tell what she meant.
“Do you think Nate lied about the house being under attack?” I asked. I should mention that it’s not like I thought a bumblebee could answer my questions; I just needed someone to talk to, to work out my thoughts. And I didn’t really think Nate would lie about the atta
ck, but maybe it was possible that he’d fibbed on the actual location, so that I couldn’t find him? He might’ve thought he was protecting me, keeping me from showing up and getting into trouble. If he’d wanted to protect me from trouble like that, then he was the one who was going to be in trouble.
I knocked on the door.
It was only a few seconds until Algie opened the door. Mr. Bannister is tall, a couple of inches over six feet. He has Nate’s brown hair, although not as floppy, and they have the same nose, meaning Algie’s nose is too big. Still, instead of looking out of place, Algie’s nose, like Nate’s, only seems to accentuate his eyes, which are wide and intelligent. Mr. Bannister works as a mailman and keeps very fit. I can remember Nate telling me his dad often wishes he could just strap a mailbag to his back and jog his delivery route.
Oh, and he skateboards, too, and there’s a full sleeve tattoo on his right arm, one in the style of the old Japanese prints, a tattoo of an entire fishing village trying to fend off an attack from a giant squid. It’s quite bizarre and I like it a lot.
“What’s up, Delph?” he asked, moving aside to let me in. He’s the only one I allow to call me Delph. My brother Steve calls me Delph, too, but he is not allowed.
“Looking for Nate,” I said. I stretched out the words, looking for evidence of tea drinking, of Red Death Tea Society members, or for anything that appeared out of the ordinary, especially if it was nuclear.
“He’s in his room,” Algie said. He turned down the hall and yelled, “Nate! Delph’s here!” Proton the cat took advantage of the open door and tried to get into the house, but Algie nudged him back outside and closed the door, saying, “Stupid cat’s been howling and hissing for the past couple of hours. Scratching at nothing.” He shook his head.
“Cats will do that,” I said, pretending that the cat’s behavior didn’t mean anything, but wondering if it did. I could hear Melville buzzing softly in my hair. She’d hidden when Algie opened the door.
“Can I get you anything?” Algie asked. “I just made sandwiches if you’re hungry. Cookies, too. Fresh baked.” He gestured to the kitchen.
I said, “No thanks. I’m good,” mostly out of habit, but then my stomach rumbled (apparently paying attention to the conversation) and I said, “Oh. You know what? A sandwich would be great.”
We walked to the kitchen, with Algie leading the way. At one point he seemed to stumble, and he frowned at the hallway floor. There wasn’t anything there.
“I’ve been clumsy all day,” he said, mostly to himself, scowling. Then, before I could comment, he yelled down the hall again. “Nate! Delph’s here! Come out of your room! Go rock climbing or something! It’s a beautiful day!”
We’d made it to the kitchen, where Algie tried to open the fridge, but it seemed to be stuck. He struggled with it a bit, frowning. “It’s been sticking all day,” he said. “Might have to get it looked at.” He took a covered platter of sandwiches from the now-open refrigerator and said, “You like rock climbing, right?”
“I guess.”
“It would do Nate a world of good to get out more.” Algie reached up to the cabinets to get a plate, but because he was talking to me he was absently reaching for the wrong cabinet. He was, in fact, reaching for the cabinet that I knew hides all the computerized equipment Nate uses to control every aspect of the house. There was more computerization in that cabinet than in a NASA control room. There were strange buttons. Levers. Dials. Keypads. Nate’s mom and dad are never supposed to look in there. Nate keeps his amazing genius secret even from his parents.
Just as Algie was reaching for the cabinet, a small valve opened and a spray of gas whooshed out. It momentarily enveloped Algie’s head, and for one second it was as if he were a robot, acting very mechanically, turning away from Nate’s secret cabinet and opening the adjacent one to take out a plate. He clearly didn’t even notice what had happened.
“Turkey, Swiss cheese, and guacamole,” he said. “That work for you?”
“Sure,” I said. Where was Nate? Where was the Red Death Tea Society? Was I too late? Had they already taken him and gone? Is that why everything was so quiet? My stomach was rumbling with anxiety and hunger.
Algie set me up with a plate of oatmeal cookies and a sandwich, plus a glass of lemonade. I sat at the table, eating, waiting for Nate. The sandwich was delicious. As were the cookies. Algie went to check on Nate, and while he was gone Melville crawled out of my hair and flew down to the table. I could hear Algie moving down the hall, and there was a soft thump, and then his voice quietly murmuring, “Again? Why am I so clumsy today?”
I just chomped on my sandwich. Wondering. I was thinking about what Nate had said about Maculte, how the man wanted everyone to have an assigned number, a set value of their worth, and I knew that it would all be based on pure intelligence. There would be no room for creativity, for dancers or actors or comic book artists. There would be no room for people who just wanted to laugh or swim or hang out with their friends. Those people . . . to Maculte . . . were small numbers. It would be a bleak, gray world if the Red Death Tea Society won. But where were they? I’d come to Nate’s house for a fight, but all I was getting was a sandwich. To say that I was confused and tense would be an understatement. Case in point, I almost screamed when my phone buzzed on the table, and Melville must have been feeling the same way, because she nearly stung my phone, as if fighting off an attacker.
It was a text, from Liz. It said, Where are you?
I texted back, At Nate’s. Again.
Oh. Again? I could say some things about you being at Nate’s again, but won’t, because . . . this. That was the whole of the text, but only a couple of seconds later an image popped up. It was Liz, looking thoughtful. And winking.
Seriously, nothing between us, I wrote back. I thought I heard a noise behind me. It was a . . . a . . . thumping noise of some sort, but I looked back and there was nothing there. Weird.
We’re still at the mall, Liz texted. But we were just thinking of you. There are bees here. Flying around.
Bees? I wrote.
Bees, Liz wrote. They’re insects. Like the ones that stung you.
Yes. Thank you. I know.
Bees in the mall, Liz wrote. It’s abysmal. Get it? “A bee’s mall.” Abysmal.
That’s very clever, Liz.
I know. Listen, seriously, you okay?
I’m okay.
Polt seems . . . weird today. Dangerous. Where are all these bees coming from? Be careful.
You, too, Liz. I put the phone down. Melville landed near it, as if keeping watch, perhaps wary of it buzzing at her again. Bees must hate being buzzed at.
I was just finishing my sandwich when I again thought I heard that noise behind me. I quickly turned around, but there was nothing.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Melville. She buzzed in a noncommittal fashion. I don’t even know if bumblebees hear very well. I kept an eye behind me as I munched on a cookie.
There was a loud thump from beneath the table. I gasped and pulled my legs back so quickly that I almost fell over, scrambling out of my chair to look beneath the table.
Nothing.
“What’s going on?” I murmured. I’m not prone to hearing things, or being paranoid, so I couldn’t chalk it up to that. I drank more lemonade and chomped on another cookie, chewing and crunching, eating so fast that my teeth were clicking together. It was delicious, but I barely noticed. Then, after I swallowed and I was no longer making all the chomping noises, I thought I heard . . . voices?
I concentrated on the sound as hard as I could. Melville started to buzz but I held up a hand to silence her as she flew up from the table to land on my shoulder. She stayed quiet.
There was definitely thumping from somewhere. Right in the kitchen. Was somebody hiding? I opened the kitchen cabinets, the cupboard beneath the sink, everywhere, but there wasn’t anybody tied up or anything like that, which is what I’d been expecting, so maybe I was paranoid after all.
/> Then . . . something brushed against my leg.
But there was nothing.
Nothing.
“Nate?” I called out. I was now officially nervous. And absolutely paranoid.
Algie walked back into the kitchen and saw me. There was a moment when he was a bit startled, but he immediately relaxed.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you. You startled me, Delph. How long have you been here?”
“Umm, maybe five minutes?” Didn’t he remember?
“I think Nate’s in his room,” he said. “I’ll see if I can rouse him.” Algie turned toward the hall and called out, “Nate! Delph’s here!” Melville crawled around to my back, hiding herself in my hair.
“You want a sandwich?” Algie asked, moving past me.
“No. I’m . . . good?” I didn’t mean to make it sound like a question, but Algie clearly didn’t remember having let me into the house. Something was definitely strange.
“Cool,” Algie said. “Help yourself if you change your mind. There’s some sandwiches on a plate in the refrigerator. The door’s been sticking today, though, so if you need help, just holler. And, speaking of hollering . . .” He turned to the hall again and bellowed, “Nathan Bannister! There’s a beautiful young woman here to see you!” He looked back to me, winked, then said, “That should do it. I’d have been out of my room in a flash, at his age, and Nate can’t be all that much different than I was.” I just smiled, thinking that Nate was vastly different from not only Algie but, well, everyone.
Then I frowned, because something brushed against my back, but when I turned around there was nothing.
Nothing.
Wait.
There was something.
One of Nate’s notes. On the floor. With my name on it.
I picked it up and was hurriedly unfolding it as Algie walked out of the room. Just before he reached the open doorway he seemed to trip on something and he almost fell over.
“What is it with me today?” he murmured, scowling at the floor, where there was absolutely nothing to be seen. I barely paid attention, because I was too busy reading the note. It didn’t take long.