by Godwin, Pam
Halfway to the house, twigs cracked around us. Foliage rustled. A growling hum erupted and entered my chest. Aphids swarmed out of the surrounding grove from every direction.
Drool stretched from disfigured mouths. Claws snapped in our direction. At least a dozen blocked our path to the house. Their numbers grew.
“Back in the boat,” Joel shouted.
I raised the carbine, pelleted the nearest two as I retreated. They didn’t slow.
Joel did the same, running with me, screaming between trigger pulls. “Start the boat.”
The motor rattled, drowning out Eugene’s shouts. More rounds fired. More unsuccessful hits. We had to get out of there. I spun toward the dock.
A sea of green bodies swallowed the entrance to the ramp.
Cheek against the stock, I exhaled and squeezed. Empty brass sprayed around me. The aphids in my scope ducked and darted. Most I tapped just jerked under the volley and continued chasing.
Pop, pop…pop, click. I hit the mag release. Tilted the carbine. Knocked the mag loose. Only four aphids down. All head shots, just like the one that broke into our home. Was that the only way to kill them? Destroy the brain?
“Aim for the head,” I yelled.
He grunted, fired off continuous rounds.
They were quicker in daylight. They could see us, dodge our bullets. And a head shot was the most difficult, especially on a moving target. That boat looked farther and farther out of reach.
I reloaded. The decibels of repeating trigger pulls rang my ears. Gunpowder chased my inhales. Carbine in high ready. Exhale. Squeeze.
His empty mag dropped at my feet. “Jesus…fuck…what’ve you got?”
Two M4 mags. Plus the twelve rounds in my USP. “Seventy-five.” Only a fourth of our predators were down. Some were dragging themselves back up. Maybe thirty, forty still alive.
“Make ’em count.” He clicked his mag in place.
The carbine tapped my shoulder, buffered by my vest. The barrel was hot. Clinking echoed around us as our missed shots ricocheted off the house, the shed, the Rubicon. Christ, their daylight reflexes. Seventy-five rounds should’ve been enough, but only one in ten bullets found its target.
The bugs forged ever closer. He screamed, “I’m out.”
I was down to the pistol. Five aphids remained, moving in from the tree line. I had about that left in .40 caliber rounds. I took a step toward the survivors. He grabbed my vest and tugged me back to his side.
“Joel.”
His jaw clenched. I was a better shot. He let go of my vest.
I swiveled back to the fast approaching aggressors and swallowed. Twenty yards. The pistol felt awkward in my hand. I adjusted my grip. It was not the time to be a candy-ass.
I bared my teeth and charged. The bug nearest to me lunged. I sidestepped its claws and Joel pistol whipped it. Its head dropped back. Orbs pointed to the sky. I shoved the barrel into its chest and filled it with lead. It fell against me and slid to the ground. I resisted the chance for a double tap and blinked through the spray of bug guts plastering my face. Joel beat another aphid with dull thuds.
Double jointed legs shot out of the bloody pile before me and knocked me off my feet. Shit, I hadn’t shot its head. Joel wailed my name. I unsheathed a knife from my forearm and sunk it in the bug’s eye. It sagged to the ground.
I climbed to my knees. Met two more. Plucked the blade. Plunged it into an eye socket above me. A sticky discharge clotted my fingers. It, too, fell on me. I shrugged it off. Drew the pistol. Aimed for the eye of the other one. Fired.
It screamed. Dark matter burst from its head. Its eye socket stared, hollow and leaking.
The remaining two hovered over Joel. He dodged them with nimble Jujitsu rolls and redirected their force with a swift arm. But his jabs waned. His kicks slowed.
“Hey,” I screamed.
The aphids ignored me. Joel jumped on one’s back. It shook and knocked him free.
I holstered the pistol. Gripped a blade in each hand. Lanced my left bicep, quick and deep. Enough to lace the air. A gush of fire burned through my shoulder. The blood welled. The aphids turned.
Man must evolve for all human conflict
a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation.
The foundation of such a method is love.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
CHAPTER NINE: UNTIL YOU HATE ME
The final two aphids sprinted toward me and stabbed the air with speared mouthparts. I dodged. Thrust the daggers at their eyes. Missed.
One crouched to spring when the second lost its footing in a mole hole. I whipped a knife at the crouching aphid’s head. Spun to my left. Sliced off the mandible of the stumbling second.
The second fell back and spewed a black parade of blood and fleshy bits. I finished it with the blade lodged between its eyes. I twisted around. The handle of the knife protruded from the first one’s face, mangled as it was. Its body twitched and sighed.
The strength left my legs and I fell upon my knees. Fire raged from the wound on my arm. I squeezed it to make it stop, but touching it set my teeth against each other and I bottled a scream. At least the arm slicing worked. They couldn’t resist the blood, but—fuck—the pain.
Joel dropped in front of me, his chest bare and his T-shirt in hand. He ripped it in strips and dressed my arm. His silence stung.
“It’s okay, Joel. Really. I mean…there were only a few close calls.” I smiled. Tried to make it reach my eyes. “I think I did all right.”
His voice shook. “You did better than all right. You fucking moved like them. You matched their speed. I don’t get it.” He brushed the hair from his face. “Christ, I don’t know if I want to get it.”
I leaned back, wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”
Eugene and Steve approached from the dock. Why hadn’t they covered us from the boat? They were both armed.
Joel glanced at a nearby pile of bodies and looked back at me. “What did you see? I can’t even track them with my eyes. They move like a blur. And you did too.”
I shoved to my feet. “What do you mean a blur? They moved…” Normal. Did he think…? “I’m not like them. I’m nothing like them.” My skin would be green. I wouldn’t be able to see in the dark. And my mouth…
He hugged me, buried his face in my neck. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Were his words for me or himself?
I stood on my father’s deck under the weeping arms of the willow trees, and waited for the rest of the house to wake. Another sip of coffee roused my senses. I leaned on the cedar railing and closed my eyes while the breeze from the lake took me through a memory.
The richness of Colorado mountain mahogany after the rain hung on my inhale. I felt the corners of my mouth tug up at the chimes of children’s laughter saturating the air. Fronds, laden with drizzle, trickled a grateful melody. A nearby stream joined in as water pushed over mountain moraine.
Joel picked through kindling. Annie and Aaron romped through tufted hairgrass and foxtail barley and rolled down a gentle swell in the forest floor, energized by their first camping trip. Beyond their playground, aspen trails snaked through far-reaching hills and valleys. I propped a branch under the tent roof and waterfalls of rain cascaded down the sides.
“Mama, look,” Aaron called. A giant swallowtail hopped from his arm to his tousled locks, antennae pulsing like radar. Powdered wings in bands of black and yellow spread the width of his head, beating in step with his giggles.
The smell of peat and standing water choked out the mountain mahogany. Wetland smog of death and decay settled over me. I opened my eyes, burning but dry. Always dry. I blinked at the lake. Smooth as glass, the surface didn’t move.
Neither did the bodies piled up in the field below. Two days passed since we returned from Hurlin’s ravine and killed twenty-three aphids. None of us wanted to touch them. But the cloud of rot crept closer, grew stronger. It was time to dump them in the lake.
<
br /> After breakfast, we gathered around the nine aphids that attacked the first night. Steve parted his lips and tightened an arm against his gut. Eugene squatted next to one and slurped coffee from a travel mug. “Damn. That there’s a lard bucket full of armpits.” He fanned his nose.
“An astute observation,” I said.
“Beauty and brains, Evie girl.” He puckered his lips and mimed hair fluffing.
We laughed. Even Steve looked a little less sick. Joel rolled a wheelbarrow next to the first pile. Then Joel and Steve hauled while Eugene and I stood guard.
One by one they carted them to the far side of the shoreline, each body more spoiled than the last. The ground was too hard to dig holes. Burning them would attract attention. So, they dumped them as far away from the boat house, and our swimming spot, as they could manage, and watched the alien bodies dissolve in the water.
Eugene lent assistance as the morning wore on. Two hours later and only one breakfast lost—Steve looked the better for it—I plopped next to Eugene on the dock. Rough breaths pushed through his mouth.
I patted his sweat soaked back. “You okay?”
“It’s hotter’n a taste bud in a pepper eating contest.” He dabbed at his forehead with a rag then used it to blot each armpit.
I nodded. “Those bastards are heavy too, huh? I found that out the hard way.” I told him about my encounter with the aphid by the pool.
Eugene whistled. “Ain’t that something? Not surprisin’ though seein’ how you move like ’em.”
Oh hell. I didn’t like the undercurrent of his tone. Every time he smiled and met my eyes, was he looking for tiny pupils? He always took his meals with me. Was he making sure I hadn’t switched to a liquid diet?
My expression must have betrayed me because he said, “But don’t you worry ’bout that, Evie girl. I reckon the Lord’s got big plans for you. Your ol’ man would be proud.” He rested a hand on my leg, fingers squeezing my inner thigh.
“Thanks, Eugene.” I wiggled away from the touch. “Now let’s go cool down and wash off the bug sludge.”
We joined Steve and Joel at the end of the dock. They were down to their briefs. Droplets of sweat glimmered on their backs. I stripped off my vest and weapons at the edge. Then I plunged into the water. Damn, it felt good.
A shampoo bottle and a bar of soap sat on the dock’s edge. We bathed there. We hauled drinking water from there. I tried not to think about that.
Under the murky water, I stripped off my clothes and tossed them next to my boots and weapons.
Joel sprawled on a life vest and floated over to me. “I’ve been thinking.”
My fingers shot to his temples and I massaged with feigned concern. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
He grunted. “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”
A wiry hair curled away from his sideburns, begging to be yanked. I obliged.
“Ow.” He slapped a hand over the hurt. “Listen, witch.” The water rippled as he heaved me flush against him. “I need you to clear your calendar for the next few weeks.”
“Hmm. That’ll be tough. Who’s gonna reorganize the sock drawers and buff the handguns to award-winning shine?”
“My point. We need to keep busy. So we’re going to start training again.”
I widened my eyes. “Really? Just like old times?”
He flashed me one of his glad-you-approve grins. “We’ll start with a refresher on knife throwing since you seem so intent on cleaving bugs. Then we’ll brush up on your hand-to-hand techniques. And once I’m satisfied”—his grin widened—“I’ll drill you on swat scenarios until you hate me.”
I looped my arms around his neck. “Oh, Mr. Delina, I could never hate you.” I brushed my lips along his whiskered cheek. “But why the renewed interest? If you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of already kicking ass.”
His hands circled my waist, letting the life vest float out from under him. “Yeah, and good thing it’s not getting to your head.” He palmed my backside, dipping into the cleavage. “But practice will make you better. And after watching you dance with those bugs, it’s like you…”
I held him with tapered eyes and he said in his Mr. Miyagi voice, “Lesson not just karate. Lesson for whole life.”
Good God, he was backpedaling behind a 1980’s movie impression.
He bit his lip, but a smile broke through anyway.
I returned the smile. I didn’t want to hear about my alleged super-human speed or some sermon about everything having purpose. “Fine. But I’m not waxing—”
Strong lips claimed mine. His fingers stretched under my rear and spread between my thighs while his other hand paddled. I clung to his chest and ground my pelvis against his. A groan erupted from his throat.
The water behind us sloshed as Eugene and Steve treaded, watching.
His lips moved over mine. “Can you fellows give us some privacy?”
When splashing sounded their exit, I relaxed my shoulders and kissed him back. I let my enthusiasm about the training build in that kiss, drowning him in licks and nibbles while he kicked his legs to keep us afloat.
Over the weeks that followed, our aphid infestation grew. We blew through at least one magazine a day to keep them at bay. With our ammunition dwindling, Eugene and Steve volunteered to gather more.
When they left, I knew they’d be gone awhile, traveling far to make the venture profitable. I also knew they might not return. I couldn’t think about the latter. Instead, I imagined the myriad of ways Joel and I could enjoy that time alone.
But he kept us on a regimen. Knife throwing for two hours. Jujitsu or Muay Thai until lunch. Kung Fu or Eskrima between lunch and dinner. My joints creaked, my muscles hurt to touch and Joel was inexorable.
Two weeks later—Eugene and Steve still gone—I lay on my back on the basement floor, massaging a sore calf. Joel stood over me, laughing and beating me with Aristotle. “We cannot learn without pain.”
He raised an ankle to his muscled ass, stretching his quadriceps. A taunting reminder of the kick I just absorbed. My knee popped as I stood and limped to the door.
Still laughing, he said, “Evie, come on. Use your aphid speed.”
“Apparently it just works on aphids. Not assholes.” Damn, I was a poor loser. But still.
“There’s that temper, which reminds me”—I continued toward the exit to escape the impending lecture—“forget everything I’ve ever said about your anger.”
I stopped before the stairs, but didn’t turn around.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Explode. But when you do, pay close attention to it.”
I blew out a breath and faced him.
“Figure out what it was that pissed you off. Was it anxiety, impatience,”—he cleared his throat—“humility? Take notes.”
I crossed my arms. “Why?”
He dropped his leg. “Because if you understand the foundation of your anger, you might be able to promote it in others.” A pause. “Think about it. On one side you’ve got an ill-tempered fighter blinded by her rage. On the other, an alert opponent in control of his own disposition. Who’s going to win?”
I shrugged and plastered on my best I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass expression.
“Just more tools for your toolbox.”
Anger made a pretty sharp tool, but…“Okay, asshat.”
We spent the next couple hours walking through Chi Sao rolling hand forms. His relentless barking gave me plenty of opportunities to note the signals of my anger. Control your speed. Sloppy. Watch your timing. Focus. Hit me. Fook sau. Again.
Then he mounted a plank of wood marked with targets on the wall. I spun my first blade from twenty feet away. It nailed the edge of the inner ring with a thunk.
He tapped my foot with his to adjust my stance. “Good. Now alternate between no spin, half spin and multi spin. And vary your distances.”
I nodded and wiped my forehead on my arm.
“Remember. This is like all your other training. When you
apply it, it’s got to come natural. And you’ll only get there through repetition.” He grinned. “Hate me yet?”
I smirked and flung another blade. The silent whirl, as it flipped end-over-end toward the eye of the target, lifted my chin. Several bulls-eyes later, I said, “Really, I’ve got this.”
He unbolted the basement door and lifted his carbine. “Let’s find out.”
Under the weight of my knives and the thick midnight sky, I followed him outside. Our boots scraped over the gravel trail to the lake. A fog shrouded the surrounding grove. The ground cover stirred within.
The last time I fought aphids was on the very trail we walked. I remembered their claws on me. And the blood, dark and oleaginous, leaking from their wounds. A twinge festered in the pit of my stomach. A birdcall floated through the walnut boughs. The shadows below grew louder. So did my heartbeat.
“The plan?” I whispered as we crossed the dock.
“When they hit the ramp, aim between the eyes. Since you can see them better than I can, I’ll be relying on your eyes until they’re close enough.”
We stopped with our backs at the edge. I wore four knives. He handed me six more from the pouch on his hip.
“And when we’re out of knives and ammo?”
He thrust his chin to the cove behind us. “We swim.”
The ashen moon’s double lay motionless on the black water. The humidity clung in beads on my upper lip. Beside me, his carbine trained on the ramp. Then the grove lit up with a glow only I could see.
“Show time,” I whispered into the dark.
The aphids emerged. Numbers in the twenties, they boarded the ramp. I snapped down my arm and released the knife at shoulder height. It traveled through the air in a vertical spin and plunked as it broke the water’s surface.
Dammit to hell. “Can you see them yet?”
“No.”
I waited until the first one skittered past the final boat slip. Flicked the knife. The aphid dropped, as did the next. My remaining knives found their targets. Aphids toppled upon each other. Some rolled from the ramp and bubbled in the lake. Others slipped by, climbing over the fallen and thrashing under Joel’s volley.
