The Nest

by Gregory A. Douglas

  The thought came to him that it might be even more important than anyone had thought to get to the Laidlaws fast. Tarbell started to swing into the driver’s seat, but stopped. His keen eyes searched the car interior. There had been one scurvy bastard waiting to ambush him. You couldn’t take any chances with these sly bugs. You had to be as careful as they were cunning!

  The man saw nothing now. The two roaches had probably been just stays, after all. He waited a moment, searching again, then got in the car warily, and drove off. But his eyes kept sweeping the interior, so that he almost slammed into the big elm tree where the road curved to the Laidlaw place.

  FOUR

  Russell Homer landed on the dump beach sooner and harder than he had intended. A surge of wind and twist of wave had caught his boat and spun it around like a cork, literally catapulting it out of the sea onto the sand. It landed a long way above the water line. Homer hopped out, unhurt, but worried that the impact might have sprung the boards. He didn’t see how he was going to launch the boat again by himself, and feared that even if he could, the riptide he now saw running would capsize him in a second.

  But he had to try to keep his pledge, no matter how difficult or dangerous. Without further thought, Homer grabbed the metal can and shovel he had prepared in the boat. His eyes fell on his old jalopy, but his heart dropped again. No help as a way out. The automobile was on the other side of the dump, and with the cockroaches and rats still in the heap, he’d never make it across alive.

  And the huge roaches were there, all right! Suddenly, the surface of the garbage was alive with them. No rats, Homer noticed. The rodents had apparently been eaten or driven out—just as the woods, come to think of it, now showed no sign of the island’s deer and other animals. He must remember to tell that to the Harvard professors.

  Homer set up his metal can, preparing the cover for a quick closing. The son of a bitch roach giants were facing him as if daring him to approach. Their odor, mixed with the reek of the dump, was choking him. He had come away too fast to remember the nose mask he usually wore at work. Before the man’s startled and dread-­filled eyes, the roach population began to merge into a single shape. The carapaces, looking like a fused metal shield in the graying afternoon, seemed to form one huge surface, like a broad exo-­skeleton of a single organism. The form flowed into a wide circle, and Homer could not help thinking that it was like a drilling band on a football field at halftime, especially when—as if at a baton signal—lines of roaches began to radiate out from the central body. No majorettes now, Homer thought with a shudder. These were tentacles of death coming after him.

  The roach-­creature seemed exactly like an octopus now. From its thick core, a dozen “tentacles” were dipping and soughing over the tin cans, broken bottles, raw refuse. They were reaching for him, moving menacingly over the heap. Russell Homer realized with a jolt of new terror that the creature had an intention as purposeful as if it contained the “brain” the scientists had described. It was as if he could read its “mind”—it “planned” to back him to the sea where he could no longer escape, and then it would wind its suffocating “arms” around his throat and choke him to death. It would break his ribs, suck his blood just as an octopus would. And, according to the scientists, the roach teeth would even grind up his bones, leaving no evidence . . .

  Russell Homer sprang for his shovel. In seconds, he had his can half-­filled with garbage containing scores of the great roaches. He clamped the cover over the mess, and stood alertly searching for an escape route.

  The “octopus” began to move at him faster. The young man swallowed with bitterness and fresh terror. Was he really trapped? He realized that, much as he didn’t want to die, and certainly not this way, his deeper pain was that he would be letting his friends down. Yarkie had been good to him when he needed help. This would have been one way to repay. But with his usual bungling, he had not prepared well enough in advance, had not planned against the contingencies. Damn the storm. Damn the boat for not having stronger engines. Damn the—

  The man stopped wasting energy on his cursing. He could see an expectant shiver run along the whole body of roaches as the leaders’ antennae went into a frenzied wiggling. They were signaling, it was plain. More meat, more fresh blood here—come and get this stupid prey that had stumbled so obligingly into their power.

  The central mass of the roaches heaved, and the fattening tentacles swished back and forth over the garbage faster now. Homer was sure he would have felt their fanning of the air if it weren’t for the louder noise of the wind and new thunder in the waves pounding the beach behind him.

  One advancing roach tentacle had him backed all the way to the water. It gave Homer the idea that he might be safe after all. Roaches could not survive even shallow water. He might be able to run along the beach in the water until there was a chance to break away. He held the can to his chest stubbornly and took off, racing desperately and awkwardly with his burden against the sucking of the sand and water.

  And all hope was slammed out of him by a battering wave he did not see. It came surging out of the storm and knocked him face-­forward on the shore. The insects raced for him at once, alerted by the thud of his body. As he lay on the wet sand, half-­stunned for an instant, he saw them inches from his nose. Their little eyes were balefully on him. Their mandibles were like a sharpening of knives as they twitched forward seeking his flesh. Their antennae, reaching, reaching, reaching, seemed like the fangs of snakes ready to stab poison into his face.

  Homer was on his feet and plowing along the beach, still holding desperately to the can. The roach tentacles switched about madly, cheated, but his pounding feet told the “octopus” where he was. The great roach body started after the man with remarkable speed of its own. Loaded with the heavy can, it was hard to outdistance the roaches despite his athletic strength. He thought of abandoning the can, but if he dropped it, he might as well not return at all.

  Luck was on Russell Homer’s side. He had forgotten about the Yarkie bulldozer. It was standing like a hulking, patient animal of burden where he had left it—could it have been only yesterday morning? But Homer saw that he was not yet out of danger. As if the cockroaches realized now that he had a means of escape, many of them left off crawling and spread wings to fly. The strong winds made it difficult for them to reach the man, gave him more time in the savage, deadly contest. Homer leaped to his bulldozer seat just as a flying roach made for his right eye. He batted it away, and another. He had a moment to start the motor, disregarding a jabbing sting in his left cheek. He thanked God for the reliability of the powerful engine. The explosions frightened off other flying cockroaches that had started to circle his head. With one hand, Russell Homer plucked the clinging roach off his face. With his other he ground the gear shift into low. There was a stab in the palm of his hand. A giant roach was on the gear knob. It had brought blood, but he uttered a happy shout in his vindictiveness—he had smashed it dead.

  He was far from home free yet. Flying roaches resumed their attack. Russell Homer poured the power to the great machine, and it lumbered blindly over the garbage pile while he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped both hands over his face. The stings and bites didn’t matter. He had the specimens and the garbage for laboratory analysis. He had been able to lift the can into the bulldozer scoop, and it was riding safely in front of him now. Lest it roll out, he wanted to lift the scoop higher, but reaching for the control would mean risking half of his face. He could feel the roaches climbing all over his hands. It was a chance he had to take. With a flashing motion, he hit the scoop lever and heard the hydraulic piston go to work.

  The can was lifted safely, and Homer let out a cry of victory—only to swallow it as the bulldozer began to stall. The extra power he had called on was stalling the motor; there had been no time for warming up. He worked the throttle and clutches with all his skill. If the machine died on him now, he was a goner for sure. Huge roaches were flying all about him; more and more were
filling the air behind the trundling behemoth.

  The motor sputtered again, and died. The machine halted. Homer’s hands were soaked with dripping blood, his fingers slipped on the ignition key as he tried frenziedly to get the engine going. There was a sputtering, and his hope flared, but then silence except for the maddened hissing of the attackers all around him now.

  Homer’s raging temptation was to slam at the wheel and kick the throttle as if the bulldozer were alive and had purposely let him down. Instead, he murmured at the machine. It was a huge and hulking contraption, but he had always referred to it as his baby. He forced himself to work it gently, almost cooing to it, disregarding the roaches biting at his cheeks. Finally, pressing the accelerator tenderly, he brought the engine to life. Its new roar shook the whole machine, and the man could sense confusion in the swirling insects as the great coughing vibrations blasted the air. It came to Homer exultantly that for the roaches the noise and the diesel fumes pouring out now were what a savage cyclone would seem to a man caught in its funnel. The roach swarm veered away as Homer gingerly increased the power. He continued to keep his eyes glued shut against the insects still probing his face but he could feel the machine climbing up the garbage and he knew exactly where he was. Steering with one hand, Homer pulled away more of the avid, clinging insects. He could feel that he was tearing away bits of his own flesh with each roach he flung out of the cab. For the first time since he started the job, Russell Homer was glad for the stinking fumes the motor discharged. The thick smoke was blowing directly into the cab. It made him choke, but it kept the roaches at bay, and dazed the ones he was pulling off like ticks.

  The bulldozer rode mightily over the garbage and started majestically down the far side of the heap. Wreathed in the engine exhaust, feeling no more pricks and bites, Homer dared a glimpse at his hands. He saw the blood and open bites, and felt sharp pain, but no roaches! His fingers flew to his cheeks, his ears, his hair. No roaches! He could thank God, too, for his beard. People had smiled at it, he knew, but today it had protected him.

  The man looked back. No roaches were following the bulldozer as it clanked on to the road. The noise and the exhaust had apparently discouraged them. There was easier food around than a tough salt like Russell Homer, he crowed to himself, laughing aloud with relief and accomplishment. He sat like a lord on his yellow mount and shouted his joy as he steered the banging contraption toward the lighthouse. He could hear the metal can bouncing in the scoop, and knew it was safe. He had whacked the cover on so tight they’d need a crowbar to get it off! He had been needlessly reckless, Homer grinned to himself, but here he was rolling down the highroad bringing home the terrible bacon. The lighthouse was just ahead. He looked back at his boat. It was taking a beating. By the time he could get back to it, there might be nothing left. But it was worth it, the man told himself. He was keeping his promise!

  FIVE

  Deirdre and Tom Laidlaw had decided to walk the mile to the Tintons for their jeep instead of calling one of the Scott cabs that served Yarkie in the summer. The Tinton phone hadn’t answered, and they wanted their car for shopping. The coming storm was threatening rain, but they didn’t mind getting wet—it was part of the change of pace Yarkie meant to them.

  In some ways they enjoyed the wind-­blown days like this quite as much as the sunny mild ones. They liked the teeth of the wind, reminding of the sting of salt spray when they sailed. On idyllic Yarkie, it took the advent of foul weather to remind one that outside there was a world full of evil, crime, and catastrophe. Far away, for the summer, at least.

  The couple walked toward the Tintons hand in hand. All winter long the demands of their separate jobs in publishing left them little time for each other, and the Yarkie weeks were a precious renewal. They took comfort in and from each other, and after thirty years of marriage found the quiet sharing as important as passion had once been.

  Deirdre Laidlaw sniffed the air and wrinkled her aristocratic nose in distaste. “The wind must be coming off the dump today.”

  Tom Laidlaw agreed. “Awful stink.” He ran his hand through his graying hair, and looked around with easy, blue eyes that held a deep appreciation of the woods. “Maybe it’s that spray the firemen were warning us about earlier.”

  “What were they spraying against?”

  “Tent caterpillars, maybe.”

  Deirdre nodded her handsome head. “Lots of them this year, aren’t there?”

  Her husband smiled at her fondly. “Wouldn’t be Eden without some pain in the arse, would it?”

  “Pain in the arse that the Tintons kept our car last night.”

  “I’m enjoying the walk.”

  “Notice, no birds, Tom,” the woman said questioningly, stopping to listen.

  “Isn’t it always that way when a storm blows up?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “I suppose we ought to notice things like that. It’s the difference between really belonging and not.”

  She laughed, an attractive chuckle. “I don’t mind being in between. Best of all possible worlds on both sides.”

  “I love you for your wisdom,” her husband said, squeezing her arm.

  “And here I thought it was for my wit.”

  “I like your tits, too.”

  “I said ‘wits,’ ” she mock-­scolded, and halted again, listening again. “Tom, the past couple of days, the birds have stopped all of a sudden, even though the weather’s been perfect. I have noticed . . .”

  “Elias Johnson and Stephen Scott will now give you the key to Yarkie Village.”

  The woman’s usually cool face clouded over. “I’m not joking. It gives me a queasy sense that something’s not quite right.”

  Tom Laidlaw was genuinely surprised. His wife was known for her equanimity. But he smiled and said, “Because you can’t set your watch by the Yarkie birds?”

  The woman took a deep breath and changed her mood. She doffed her tam-­o’-­shanter, and smiled back to her husband. “Because I’m a witch.”

  “I’ll have a word with those birds, anyway,” her husband promised.

  They walked on in silence toward the Tinton place, hearing distant summer thunder, and observing the sky flaring with lightning far out over the ocean.

  “I hope it rains soon,” Deirdre Laidlaw said. “Last night, Stephen said he’d seldom seen so long a dry spell.—I hope there’s no trouble at the Tintons.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I don’t like their not answering their phone.”

  “They can be taking a walk, can’t they?”

  “Not with the hangover Harvey must be nursing this morning.”

  “Holier than thou . . . ? Not like you, dear.”

  “No,” Deirdre Laidlaw said sincerely. “It’s part of this feeling I have. I don’t know. A sort of premonition . . .”

  Her husband stopped and studied her questioningly from under lowered brows. “You’re not given to that sort of nonsense, Dee.”

  Her frown was uneasy. “Must be the storm.” Her shoulders shrugged as if without her volition. She forced a smile. “You know about weather changing the ionization in the air, and all that.”

  “We’ve been through storms before and your ionization never acted up this way . . .”

  “Well, Harvey was so drunk, and Blanche was so upset . . .”

  Tom Laidlaw laughed. “So you expect a scene of mayhem and murder at their house?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Tom.” Her voice went vague, uncertain. “I just have a sense that there’s some kind of trouble around . . .” There was puzzlement as well as worry in the eyes she turned to him. “It’s the smell!” she said. Until she said the words she hadn’t realized the truth of her statement. The repulsive scent brought out of the trees by the wind seemed aimed at her, touched some primal response of dread she could not identify or name. “Let’s go back to the house!” she said suddenly.

  “Hey,” Tom Laidlaw said, “you’re shaking!” Anxiety turned his mo
uth down. “I’ve never seen you like this, Dee!”

  “I’ve never felt like this!” she said, with an annoyance addressed not at the man so much as at the strange feelings suddenly churning inwardly.

  He spoke heartily. “We’re almost there. I’ll drive you down for coffee and one of Elvira’s omelettes. Fix you right up!”

  “I want to go home,” his wife said softly. “I don’t want to see the Tintons this morning!”

  Tom Laidlaw’s back went up. “You’re being damn silly, Dee! The hell with the smell—something died in the woods, is all. No reason for hysterics, is it? You go on back if you want. I’m getting the jeep, and going to the cafe.”

  Deirdre Laidlaw uttered a deep sigh and put her hand on her husband’s elbow. “I am being hysterical, aren’t I? Sorry. I’m sure you’re right about the stink. I keep forgetting that so much of Yarkie is really nature in the raw. We don’t have to see the Tintons anyway, do we? Just get the car and leave.”

  “Exactly.”

  They walked on in silence. Deirdre Laidlaw said something under her breath.

  “What?”

  “I still wonder why they didn’t answer the phone.”

  Tom Laidlaw’s voice thickened with irritation. “Because they want to sleep late, or took off for Boston—how the hell do I know?”

  There was challenge in his wife’s turning face. “All I said was I hope there’s no trouble there.”

  “What kind of trouble could there be?”

  “That awful quarrel in front of everybody . . .”

  “None of our damn business, eh?”

  “It is when they keep our damn jeep,” Deirdre Laidlaw said irritably.

  “Well, there it is,” her husband pointed ahead. “Safe and sound.”

  Their car was waiting under an elm tree, and the wind had driven leaves in a thick layer over the hood of the engine and the roof. “Leafed in,” the woman laughed.

  Deirdre Laidlaw got into the jeep on the passenger side, and tapped the driver’s wheel with an unpainted fingernail. “Come on, then. I want that omelette you promised.”