by Jason Starr
“Okay,” he said. “I appreciate that. Let’s stay in touch, man. And don’t worry, I won’t come over here again uninvited. I promise.”
Back in his apartment, Scott felt relieved, but he knew he had to find Monica Rappaccini before Carlos, or anyone at the FBI, did. Otherwise his Ant-Man identity would be revealed, and maybe the technology would be sold to the highest bidder. While Scott wasn’t sure whether Monica had been the one who’d zapped him at the house, everything was pointing in her direction.
Just for the hell of it, he went online on his iPad and Googled “Monica Rappaccini” and “criminal.” He didn’t find anything useful. But when he typed in just “Monica Rappaccini” to Google Images, several photos of her appeared. One was from a high-school reunion in California, taken a few years ago; another was a photo of her and several other women on a beach; the other two seemed to be from a wedding. There was nothing in any of the pictures to indicate that she was living a double life. She seemed so benign in the photos that Scott would have believed Carlos had gotten something wrong, that she wasn’t involved with Hydra and A.I.M. at all—if she hadn’t told him that photographer-in-Hoboken story the other day. Scott didn’t need any proof that Monica Rappaccini was a liar and a scammer—he’d seen the evidence in person.
Scott turned on the TV, then went to check on Cassie, but the door was locked.
“Cassie, open up. I want to talk.”
She didn’t answer.
He knocked hard a few times and said, “Cassie, come on, are you okay?”
Still no response. He was getting concerned. He didn’t think she’d hurt herself, but then again he’d never seen her so distraught and traumatized.
He tried again. Still no response. He was about to shrink to ant size when something on the news caught his attention. It had nothing to do with Willie Dugan. Then again, maybe it did.
Close-up images of bushes with dead ants hanging upside-down from the leaves were shown. The anchorwoman, in a jokey tone, explained that thousands of ants had died in Upstate New York in what appeared to be a mass suicide. There was a closer shot of the dead ants as the anchorwoman said that scientists “don’t know what is causing the ant suicides, but think it could be related to the so-called zombie fungus that normally affects ants in South America.” She joked to the anchorman next to her that she hoped a “vampire fungus doesn’t hit the ants next,” and then went on to the next news story.
Scott felt empathy for the ants—all those lives wasted—and anger toward the newscasters for not taking it seriously.
Cassie came out of the bedroom, noticing how upset he was. “Dad, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
Scott, distraught, didn’t say anything.
SCOTT switched channels frantically, trying to find more information about the zombie ants. But he couldn’t find anything.
“What’re you looking for?” Cassie asked. “What’s wrong? Is it something bad? You’re scaring me.”
“Yes, it’s something bad,” Scott said. “Very, very bad.”
On the iPad, Scott found a few reports that were pretty much the same as what he’d seen on TV, reporting on the strange ant deaths in “Upstate New York.” Then, on another news site, he found what he’d been expecting to find: that the ants were dying mainly in Wallkill, New York.
“I knew it,” he said.
“Knew what?” Cassie asked.
Scott scanned the article again as Cassie read it over his shoulder. The stories didn’t make any connection between the ant deaths and the murders of Willie Dugan and his crew, but why would they? The only connection—well, the only obvious connection—was that both events had taken place in Wallkill.
“Wait, I get it now,” Cassie said. “Does this have something to do with all those ants that were near the house when we left?”
Smart kid.
“It might,” Scott said.
Scott had summoned all those ants to the house—maybe they’d been affected by something that had happened nearby. Scott flashed back to getting zapped, falling onto his back like a dying bug. Had whatever zapped him also affected the ants?
“But just because ants were there, why are they committing suicide now?” Cassie asked.
“It’s not actually suicide,” Scott said. “They can’t help themselves. I’ve heard about the zombie ants before. A fungus grows in their brains, and causes them to seek out moist areas and die. This fungus, it’s the biggest natural enemy of ants. That’s how it got the zombie nickname. It totally sucks the life out of them.”
“So a bunch of ants died,” Cassie said. “I get you feel bad for the ants, but what’s the big deal?”
“Ants are the most important insect in the ecosystem of the entire planet,” Scott said. “If all humans were removed from Earth, Earth would be better off. But if all ants were removed, there would be mass extinctions and chaos. You know those dystopian novels you love to read? It would be like that, but worse. Much worse.”
“So that’s what you think’s happening?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure, Cass. All I know is whatever’s happening is happening fast. Normally it would take days, even weeks, for the fungus to progress to the point where it would cause mass deaths. So something must’ve happened, something that accelerated the growth of the fungus or that’s causing it to spread.”
Scott was talking to Cassie, but he was also talking to himself, thinking out loud.
Then Cassie asked, “But if it’s a fungus, where did it come from?”
“It just takes one ant,” Scott said. “An ant could’ve come over in a crate of fruit from South America and wound up in Wallkill. When I called to the ants for help, the infected ant could have been one of them, one of thousands. Normally, ants have defenses, so whatever happened must’ve messed with the immunity of the ants. But why would they want do that? What do they get out of it?”
“Who’s they?” Cassie asked.
“I don’t know,” Scott said. “That’s the problem.” He realized he’d said too much. He didn’t want to frighten her again.
“Never mind,” Scott said. “Can you get dressed to go out?”
“I thought you said we can’t go out today.”
“We have no choice now. Come on, get ready, let’s go.”
As Cassie was getting dressed in her room, Scott’s mind was churning, trying to figure out what Dugan’s and maybe Monica Rappaccini’s motive was in all this. It was like trying to solve a complicated riddle. He knew the answer was there, that it existed, but that made it even more frustrating that he couldn’t come up with it. Why did they want to destroy the ant population in the area? Was it some sort of sadistic, nihilistic payback plan by Dugan? The world had screwed him over, so he was going to screw the world?
No, that didn’t make sense. Dugan had wanted revenge, yes, but for him revenge was always personal. Was it about money? That didn’t make sense, either. Where was the money in a potential ant holocaust?
On the NY1, the anchorman said, “The unexplained suicide-like deaths of ants in Upstate New York appears to be expanding. There are a reports of the mass deaths of ants throughout the Catskills and Adirondacks, into parts of Pennsylvania and Connecticut.”
Scott had heard enough. He shouted, “Come on, right now!” He practically grabbed Cassie and pulled her out of the apartment.
Cassie was holding her jacket as Scott raced down the stairs. There weren’t as many reporters and onlookers in front of the building as there had been earlier, but there were enough people to cause a tumult when Scott and Cassie exited.
“Keep walking—don’t say anything to anybody,” Scott instructed Cassie as they made their way along the sidewalk, heading toward York Avenue. A couple of cops helped clear a path for them; when they got to the corner, only a few reporters were still trailing them, shouting questions.
Scott hailed a cab heading downtown and got in with Cassie.
“Fifty-seventh and Sixth,” Scott said to the driver. “As fast a
s you can.”
“There’s gonna be bridge traffic,” the driver said. “I can’t fly, buddy.”
“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Cassie asked Scott.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Scott said. “I’m taking you someplace you’ll be safe.”
“No, let me out!” Cassie screamed.
She reached for the door as the cab started moving, and Scott had to grab her hand to prevent her from opening it.
The driver stopped short, wide dark eyes glaring in the rearview, and said, “Hey, you crazy back there? Want to get killed?”
“It’s okay,” Scott said. “Drive, just drive.” Then he said to Cassie, “Look, I swear you won’t be in any danger.”
“Yeah,” Cassie said, “that’s what you said last time.”
“No, that’s what the FBI said the last time.”
“I want to come with you, Dad. Please.”
“No, Cassie.”
“But I can help you. If you think what’s happening with the ants has to do with what happened in the house, you need me with you, because I was there!”
“No, absolutely not, it’s going to be way too dangerous.”
“Oh, really?” Cassie sassed. “And where’s it going to be less dangerous?”
Scott didn’t answer. But about five minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Stark Tower, Tony’s new, obnoxiously large multi-story residence.
“Seriously?” Cassie said. “You want to leave me with Iron Man?”
As they rode the elevator up, Cassie continued to complain. “I don’t want to stay here,” she said repeatedly. “Why do I have to?” Scott could hardly believe it. Cassie had grown up as a super hero’s daughter, which hadn’t always been easy for her, but was she so jaded that she was seriously complaining about having hang time with Tony Stark? What if Spider-Man wanted to spend a day with her? Would her attitude be, Sorry, Spidey, but I’m way too busy for you?
“You know, in another context, I’d say you’re acting spoiled,” Scott said.
Scott and Cassie had been announced by the doorman. When they rang the apartment door, which was practically as big as the one in Emerald City, Pepper Potts answered.
Scott hadn’t seen her in a while, maybe a few months, and she looked great with her straight red hair and bright green eyes. Had she gotten into Pilates or yoga? He’d had a crush on her when she first started working for Tony, but he backed off when he picked up that she and Tony had something going on between them—he didn’t want to get into an awkward love triangle. For a long time, Tony’s relationship with Pepper had been ambiguous. Were they coworkers? Friends? Lovers? Given that she was at Tony’s place on a Saturday afternoon, barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt—it seemed as if she and Tony were officially a couple.
“Wow, it’s great to see you guys,” Pepper said. She kissed Scott on the cheek, then said to Cassie, “Look at you, you get bigger every time I see you.” Then to Scott, she deadpanned, “Wish I could say the same for you.”
Little good-natured ant humor there. Scott was used to it.
Then Tony entered in faded jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and five -hundred-dollar designer sneakers— the rich-guy casual look. The outfit said, I have so much money, I don’t have to dress up.
“Scott, the man,” Tony said.
He came over and gave Scott a big hug.
Then Tony said to Cassie, “And look at you, all grown up and pretty. You sure this guy’s your dad?”
Nobody was smiling except Tony.
“We need to talk,” Scott said.
Picking up on the urgency, Tony said to Pepper, “Hey, Pep, can you take Cassie upstairs, maybe play some dress-up with her?”
“Certainly,” Pepper said.
“Dress-up?” Cassie asked, as she reluctantly followed Pepper up the winding staircase.
“We don’t want to define anything yet,” Tony said to Scott, responding to the unasked question about his relationship with Pepper.
“We, or you?” Scott asked with a slight smirk.
Tony hit back with, “Maybe we can go for a double date sometime. I mean, if you ever have a date again.”
“Do you know anything about a woman named Monica Rappaccini?”
Tony paused, processing the question. Then he said, “I know you’re not dating her. I mean, even you aren’t desperate enough to go out with a nutjob like her.” Tony saw Scott’s guilty expression. “Or are you?”
“It was just one date,” Scott said, “and—”
“Come on, buddy,” Tony said, “there have to be better options for you out there. I know you’re divorced, and it hurts, but you should be more like me.”
“Cold?” Scott asked.
“Practical,” Tony said. “When your heart’s already broken, you can’t get it broken again.”
“So what do you know about her?” Scott asked.
“Actually, she’s been out of the game for years,” Tony said. “Lying low, I guess. She used to work with A.I.M., though, had a scientific background. She knows how to fight, too. Ex-Marine. Changed teams after the war—delusional, felt her country had let her down. Talk about abandonment issues.”
Scott explained about getting zapped at the house upstate, and that he suspected Monica had been involved.
When Scott was through talking, Tony, who had remained expressionless throughout, said, “Wow, your life is freaky. I mean, I’m glad I just have shrapnel in my heart and fly around in an electrically powered suit of armor—I feel normal in comparison.”
Scott said, “Ants are dying at an incredible rate, committing virtual suicide.”
“I heard about that on the news,” Tony said. “They’re calling it ‘Antpocalypse.’”
“I don’t think you get the implications of all this,” Scott said.
“I get that a bunch of your ant friends are kicking the bucket, and you feel bad about it.”
“It’s bigger than that,” Scott said. “Much bigger. This isn’t the beginning of a world war, or an attack from outer space, but it’s potentially just as dangerous—if not more so.”
Tony was catching on that Scott was serious about all this.
“Continue,” Tony said.
“If the ant deaths reach a tipping point,” Scott explained, “it’ll lead to chaos—we’re talking food shortages and mass extinctions.”
Now Tony seemed to be getting the direness of the situation.
“Ants are your department, so I defer to you, my friend,” Tony said. “What type of time frame are we looking at?”
“Ants are already dying in three states,” Scott said. “By the end of the weekend, it could be the entire East Coast.”
“And how is this happening so quickly?”
“I’m not sure,” Scott said. “I know the ants’ immunity has been affected. And I’m almost certain it’s related to what happened to me yesterday.”
“Obvious question,” Tony said. “Why would someone want to kill off the world’s ants?”
“I think it was an accident,” Scott said. “What’s happening to the ants is collateral damage. They wanted something from me, from my Ant-Man tech, and the ants were there. Then somebody double-crossed Dugan, and killed him and the rest of his crew before I got there.”
“That sounds like Monica Rappaccini,” Tony said. “If she wants something bad enough, she’ll do anything to get it. Was that on her dating profile?”
Scott ignored the dig. He said, “And whatever she wants has to be worth a lot of money, or they wouldn’t have shot a federal marshal and pulled off a risky kidnapping to get it—and she wouldn’t have killed three men and left the evidence.”
“So what do you want from me?” Tony asked. “You want me to help you find Rappaccini to figure out what’s going on?”
“No, I want something much more important than that,” Scott said. “I want you to watch my daughter.”
“Sorry?” Tony asked.
“You said you’d help me any time I
asked for it,” Scott said. “Well, this is the help I need. I can handle Rappaccini, but Cassie’s the most important thing in my life, and I can’t risk anything happening to her again. Protective custody is over, and I need her to be in the safest possible place. If you can’t protect her, who can?”
“You got yourself a deal,” Tony said, smiling. “And if you want to find Monica, you also probably want to talk to Peter Lawson. I can give you his address in Brooklyn.”
“Who’s Peter Lawson?” Scott asked.
“Monica’s ex,” Tony said. Then, putting on some street affect, he added, “Face it, my man. You got played.”
* * *
LEAVING Tony Stark’s building, Scott reflected that he had to get better at this whole post-divorce-dating thing.
Scott’s phone chimed—a restricted number, which he assumed was the FBI.
“Scott, where are you?” Carlos asked.
Walking fast along 57th street, weaving between the horde of tourists, Scott asked, “What’s going on?”
“They know you didn’t rent a Zipcar to go upstate,” Carlos said. “They want to talk to you again.”
Scott knew “they” meant agents Warren and James.
“Tell them I can’t right now.”
“You don’t get it. They think you’re a suspect now in the murders upstate.”
Scott saw a couple of cops up the block. They hadn’t seen him, but he did a one-eighty just in case and headed toward Sixth Avenue.
“Tell them to back off,” Scott said.
“I can’t do that,” Carlos said.
“If you want me to find Monica Rappaccini and keep your job, you will,” Scott said.
“Did you talk to her yet?” Carlos asked.
Scott ended the call.
He rushed over a few blocks to a diner and went into the bathroom. He took off his street clothes, put them into the pouch attached to his uniform, then activated the Pym gas and was suddenly ant-sized.
He noticed a few ants in the bathroom: two babies and one adult female. They weren’t here because they were attracted to Scott—they were obviously sick. They were walking unsteadily and had gross deformities on their heads, as if they’d contracted the ant version of the Elephant Man’s disease. They seemed unaware of Scott’s presence as they wandered toward the puddle of water under the sink, attracted to the moisture.
