by Jeremy Bates
Paul took the brown paper bag that contained his lunch off the passenger seat and headed into the snow-mantled forest. He made his way to a well-used trail in the snow, which he followed for ten minutes until he reached Dead Man’s Mine. He sat down on a log at the top of a knoll, where he liked to eat, as it provided him a clear view of the mine’s entrance, as well as the white modular research habitat that looked as though it belonged in deep space rather than the icy Canadian wilderness. Two men in civilian clothes stood guard before the mine. By their posture and discipline Paul had come to the conclusion they were military.
Paul sat on the frosted log for a long while watching the snow drift silently to the ground around him. His mind wandered. Following the massacre at Rex Chapman’s cabin in October, he fell into a week-long coma. When he regained consciousness, his stomach was sewn up, an IV drip was feeding him antibiotics, and according to Nancy, the RCMP had fingered a lone madman for the murders of Rex Chapman, Tony Lyons, Daisy Butterfield, as well as Constables Stephen Garlund, and Karl Dunn—the same madman, many people surmised, responsible for all of the disappearances at the lake dating back over the years.
Complete and utter bullshit, of course.
So when two Mounties came by the hospital to get a statement from Paul, he told them he didn’t see his attacker, and he didn’t remember a thing that happened afterward.
He never let Nancy in on the truth of what he heard and saw. Nor did he go to the press. He had planned to keep silent about the whole incident indefinitely. After all, nobody in their right mind would believe him. But more than this, you never knew to what lengths a government might go to keep matters of national security a secret—and man-sized, deadly insects were most definitely a matter of national security.
Paul wasn’t a conspiracy theorist, but hell—what happened to Rex Chapman’s flame, Tabitha? He’d tried tracking her down a short time after he’d been released from the hospital, knowing she would be the one person he could speak to about what they’d experienced, but she vanished into thin air. The last any of her coworkers, friends, or neighbors heard from her was a couple of days after she returned to Seattle. Abruptly, phone calls and emails went unanswered. Her house appeared deserted. Nobody knew the whereabouts of the two kids who had been with her either.
As the days stretched into weeks, and then months, Paul became a restless, haunted shadow of his former self. He tossed and turned all night in his sleep. He got headaches, stomach ulcers, joint pain. He couldn’t concentrate on work. He was terrible company to be around, and so he kept mostly to himself, in his office, out of sight.
Then, out of the blue, NASA rolled into Lillooet.
Now, NASA personnel can’t just show up in some dustbowl town and not arouse suspicion from the locals, hence the story the space agency leaked to the Lillooet Examiner. The subterranean lake in the heart of long-abandoned Dead Man’s Mine harbored a species of extremely rare coral-like formations, which were related to life forms that had existed on Earth billions of years previously. NASA wanted to study them in their natural habitat, believing they could aid in the understanding of what life might look like on other planets.
More complete and utter bullshit.
Nevertheless, Paul could no longer sit idly by. Giant insects existed. They’ve been killing people in his jurisdiction, right under his nose, since his first year as Chief of Police in 1981. Fifteen deaths, by his count. Fifteen deaths he didn’t prevent. For his peace of mind and perhaps his sanity, he needed to know more than that these things existed. He needed to know what the hell they were, how they got so big, and whether they were going to be preying on anybody else in these parts in the near future.
And so Paul had driven out to Dead Man’s Mine last Tuesday, then again on Friday, and now today, Monday. He had made no mention of the Mosquito Man—correction, Mosquito Men—to any of the NASA guys yet. He was simply playing the part of the bored country cop. It was why, he supposed, they put up with him nosing around and asking silly questions.
Paul was halfway through the bologna sandwich Nancy had made for him when the research habitat’s airlock opened from the inside, and a man dressed in a heavy winter parka and beige khakis emerged. He lit up a cigarette.
Paul stuffed his sandwich back in the brown paper bag and picked his way through the trees.
“Howdy, Walter,” he said, waving pleasantly, his breath frosting in front of his face.
“Back again, are you, Paul?” Walter Williamson said. With his gelled hair, mousy face, and black-rimmed eyeglasses, he looked like a geekish, middle-aged astrobiologist—and that’s exactly what he was, or claimed to be.
“Not much to police in a small town,” Paul said. “Coming out here breaks up the doldrums. Find any more of those micro-whatdoyoucallem?”
“Microbialites,” Williamson told him, sticking to the script. “Sure, we found more. Only a few freshwater lakes in the world support this kind of life. It’s truly amazing.”
“That’s good,” Paul said. “Real good. Need to know all we can about the Martians before they attack, am I right?”
Williamson chuckled.
“Anyway,” Paul went on conversationally, “I’m not here today to talk about coral. My grandson’s working on a science project for school. He had a few questions for me last night that I couldn’t answer. And then I thought, ‘Wait a sec. Walter Williamson out at the habitat is an astrobiologist. He could help!’”
Williamson raised an eyebrow. “What kind of science project is your boy working on?”
“It’s got to do with bugs.”
Williamson went poker-faced. “Bugs, huh?”
“Bugs and their evolution,” Paul said, rubbing his hands together to stave off the cold in his ungloved fingers.
Williamson took a thoughtful puff of his cigarette, exhaled through his nose. His gray eyes were calculating. “Sounds interesting. What kind of questions was he asking you?”
“Well, he can’t really figure out why insects were so big back in the time of the dinosaurs, and why they’re so small nowadays. Dragonflies apparently had wingspans of three feet! Can you believe that?”
“They were called griffinflies,” Williamson said. “But to answer your son’s question as to why insects are so small nowadays, it’s quite simple really. Millions of years ago, the air surrounding the planet was not only warmer and moister, but contained more oxygen. This was important for insects because they don’t have lungs like we do. They have an open respiratory system that diffuses oxygen through their bodies. So higher oxygen levels in the atmosphere meant more oxygen could reach their tissues, which in turn meant they could grow to very large sizes. When oxygen levels began to lessen approximately one hundred and fifty million years ago, the largest insects died off. The smaller ones remained unaffected, with many of them surviving to this day.”
Paul was nodding agreeably to this line of reasoning. “I read about all that. And you know what else? Some scientists believe birds had a part to play too. Because about the time the large insects were dying off, dinosaurs were taking flight, on their way to becoming birds. As they got better at flying, they became fast and agile hunters, like birds today. Giant insects, on the other hand, remained slow and lumbering. Easy prey.”
Williamson frowned. “Seems you know your stuff, Paul. Seems like you just answered your own question.” He flicked away his cigarette. “How old did you say your grandson was?”
“I don’t think I did say. But he’s eight.”
“Eight,” Williamson repeated, as if impressed by the number. “Anyway, I’m freezing my ass off out here, Paul, so if you don’t mind—”
“Just a sec, Walter. I have one more question, if that’s all right?”
“You sure you don’t already know the answer to this one too?” he asked shrewdly.
“What I’m wondering,” Paul said, ignoring the remark, “is, well…you can get smaller and quicker to outclass your predators. That’s one option. But there’s another opt
ion too.” He paused. “You can get bigger and stronger.”
Williamson smiled, yet it didn’t touch his eyes. If he hadn’t known from the get-go that the science project talk was a farce, he certainly did now. “Bigger than griffonflies?” he said. “Those would be some damn big bugs, Paul.”
“Maybe even man-sized,” Paul said meaningfully. “Could you imagine something like that? A man-sized insect? A man-sized mosquito, say? You know, I have a funny idea of something like that standing on two legs just like us. Standing on two human-like legs. Like some sort of Mosquito Man. Can you picture that?”
Williamson studied Paul, his smile souring to a pucker, as though he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Why don’t we cut to the chase here, Paul? What are you getting at?”
“I just…” Paul was a tough man, a proud man, a reserved man, averse to revealing his emotions. But right then he allowed his eyes to reflect the fear and confusion and turmoil that had been eating him up from the inside out these last few months. “I just need to know what in God’s name those blasphemous things were, okay?”
Williamson continued to study Paul for a long moment. Paul didn’t know what the man was thinking, or what words would come out of his mouth—he half expected the astrophysicist to summon the undercover soldiers to escort him back to the road—but when he spoke his voice was modulated, sympathetic: “If such creatures existed, Paul—and they don’t, let’s be very clear on that.”
“We’re clear,” Paul said promptly.
“If they existed,” Williamson continued, “there would be nothing blasphemous about them. Their gigantism would be a matter of evolution, plain and simple.”
“But the way they stood—”
Williamson cut him off with a curt wave. “Insects and the rest of arthropods are covered by a more or less hardened exoskeleton. Guys like me call it a cuticle. As you can imagine, it’s quite heavy. If an insect grew to be as large as you’re suggesting, man-sized, the weight of its cuticle would become a problem. Its legs wouldn’t be able to support its mass. It would need much thicker legs. The thing is, all insects have six legs, and if what we’re talking about here is a flying insect, it wouldn’t be able to get off the ground with six thick legs. You following me, Paul?”
Paul nodded, his attention laser-focused.
Williamson said, “It would probably have to settle for two thick legs.”
Paul clamped his jaw tight, visualizing the creature he’d seen. “And if they weren’t using the other four legs to stand on, they might evolve into…something else?”
Williamson nodded. “Appendages that could be used to attack or defend. Because while these giant arthropods would have become too large to be hunted by predatory birds, some of the bigger terrestrial animals would likely still pose a threat to them, especially during molting, when they shed their cuticle to grow.”
“Pincers,” Paul stated flatly.
“Those would do. Especially a lightweight variety.”
Paul was silent as he processed this information. Here it was. What he came here for. What he’d so desperately sought. A scientific explanation for the physiology of the nightmare abominations. Did having this new understanding make him feel better about their existence?
Yes, in a way it did.
The creatures were not some alien life form beamed in from outer space, or some demonkin arriving on the express elevator up from the depths of hell.
They were, as Walter Williamson put it, a matter of evolution, plain and simple.
Williamson said, “I really am freezing my ass off out here, Paul. I need to get back to work.”
“Right,” Paul said distractedly as a huge weight seemed to melt from his shoulders. “And…thanks, Walter. I—”
“I won’t be seeing you out here anymore, will I, Paul?”
“No, I don’t think you will.”
“That would be for the best.” He turned toward the habitat.
“Walter?”
Williamson glanced back.
“Those microbialites you’re studying…after you fellows leave…I’m not going to have to worry about them causing any problems around here, am I?”
“No, you’re not. You have my word on that.”
Nodding more to himself than to Williamson, Paul tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, drew a breath of pine-scented winter air into his lungs, and started back through the snow toward the police cruiser, remembering that Nancy had said she would be preparing an early supper. He was looking forward to that tremendously.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Thank you for taking the time to read Mosquito Man. If you enjoyed the story, it would be wonderful if you could leave a review on the Amazon product page. Reviews might not matter much to the big-name authors, but they can really help the small guys to grow their readership.
Also, please check out the books in the award-winning “World’s Scariest Places” series below:
BOOK 1: SUICIDE FOREST
SUICIDE FOREST IS REAL - ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
Just outside of Tokyo lies Aokigahara, a vast forest and one of the most beautiful wilderness areas in Japan...and also the most infamous spot to commit suicide in the world. Legend has it that the spirits of those many suicides are still roaming, haunting deep in the ancient woods.
When bad weather prevents a group of friends from climbing neighboring Mt. Fuji, they decide to spend the night camping in Aokigahara. But they get more than they bargained for when one of them is found hanged in the morning—and they realize there might be some truth to the legends after all.
“In Bates’ (The Taste of Fear, 2012, etc.) horror novel, a simple excursion into a reputedly haunted forest turns into a nightmare when people start dying in conspicuously unnatural ways. Ethan Childs, an American teaching English in Tokyo for the last four years, plans to climb Mount Fuji with girlfriend, Mel, and a few pals. But when a looming storm nixes the outing, Israeli tourists Ben and Nina convince the group to join them on a hike through nearby Aokigahara Jukai. The forest is infamous for an incredibly high number of suicides, reportedly in the hundreds per year, and some believe the ghosts of the dead haunt it. What begins as an unsettling ambience (there are no sounds of animals or any trace of wind) quickly gives way to serious, tangible threats when one of the party members dies from an apparent suicide. Ethan and company are soon lost, and the noises they hear in the woods either confirm the existence of ghosts, or perhaps worse, mean that a murderer is tracking them down. Readers may recognize a slasher-film vibe—people willingly go into the creepy woods—and familiar characters...But Bates’ approach to the story is surprisingly restrained, cultivating impressive frights in the unnerving environment...No one is sure whether the unseen villain is human or apparition or whether they are simply victims of unfortunate circumstances...Bates’ choice to avoid brazen scares makes for an understated horror story that will remind readers what chattering teeth sound like.”
- Kirkus Reviews
BOOK 2: THE CATACOMBS
WELCOME TO THE EMPIRE OF THE DEAD
Paris, France, is known as the City of Lights, a metropolis renowned for romance and beauty. Beneath the bustling streets and cafés, however, exists The Catacombs, a labyrinth of crumbling tunnels filled with six million dead.
When a video camera containing mysterious footage is discovered deep within their depths, a group of friends venture into the tunnels to investigate. But what starts out as a lighthearted adventure takes a turn for the worse when they reach their destination--and stumble upon the evil lurking there.
“Some books use different approaches to characterization as their ‘hook’ and others have a twist to their plot, but few sport the attraction of The Catacombs, a novel in ‘The World’s Scariest Places’ series, set in the catacombs of Paris. Why should the setting be such a draw? Because in creating a story that revolves strongly upon a sense of place (and an unusual place, at that), it succeeds in making a horror story like none other. There really could
be no better place for horror than the Catacombs, when you think about it: an ancient burial place for the dead, they hold antique mysteries and a foreboding reputation as “the world’s largest grave”...The first-person story of growth and challenge fuels the underlying horror in The Catacombs: readers live every footstep, every decision, and every uncertainty in a gripping story that is hard to put down. The protagonist, a feisty female whose new moniker is ‘Stork Girl’, is anything but staid and retiring and drives a story replete with as many twists and turns as the Catacombs themselves hold. It’s the ‘you are there’ feel that creates compelling tension throughout... Readers don’t just follow the story line; they are in the Catacombs right there with the protagonists, reliving the decisions and choices that come with exploring the unknown...If it’s one thing that can be said about The Catacombs, it’s that the combination of a back-and-forth perspective that enhances overall events and a focus on action that is less than anticipated makes for a read that will delight horror fans who want their novels steeped in psychological suspense as well as action.”
- Midwest Book Review
BOOK 3: HELLTOWN
NO ONE LEAVES ALIVE
Since the 1980s there have been numerous reports of occult activity and other possibly supernatural phenomenon within certain villages and townships of Summit County, Ohio—an area collectively known as Helltown.
When a group of out-out-town friends investigating the legends are driven off the road by a mysterious hearse, their night of cheap thrills turns to chills as they begin to die one by one.
“I just tore through Helltown by Jeremy Bates and I have to tell you—I am fast becoming a fan! The latest in Bates' World's Scariest Places books is a bloody romp through backwoods horrors and Satanic Terrors. Reminiscent of books by Richard Laymon, the story telling is hard and fast, barely leaving you any breathing room between thrills. Now this one isn't quite as epic as some of the others. While we get a little of the history of Helltown, I wanted more history to add to the atmosphere. This is a little more of one of those 1970's horror flicks starring Ernest Borgnine mixed with a little Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Still supremely cool, but I did miss the history and the atmosphere that Bates had in his books in Japan and Paris. Nitpicking aside, this is still good, gruesome horror. And the fact that it takes place in a place you could actually visit only adds to the fun. I'm on board for whatever Bates throws at us next!”