by Amber Fallon
You look up from the water and spot a deer approaching cautiously. You hold your breath as she carefully steps towards the lake, eager for a drink. A fawn emerges from the shady forest behind her, and you find yourself almost wishing you had your camera with you. Almost…because a small part of you selfishly wants to keep this sight and all of its wonder to yourself. This moment is all yours, and the warmth in your heart is something you aren’t quite willing to share. The doe dips her head gracefully and begins to drink from the cool water as her offspring looks on from the fern-filled tree line.
You slowly reach out to the gentle creature, and, as you do, you notice a butterfly skimming the surface of the lake between you and the deer. It’s a peculiar, although spectacular, shade of shimmery pale pink. You stare in wonder at its casually graceful movements, the slow elegance of its vaguely heart-shaped wings as reflected in the still blue water. You notice another butterfly nearby, this one greenish with a hint of gold, and the two of them flutter together for a moment in an intricate dance.
The doe lifts her head up as if enjoying the fragrance of the wild flowers, and you are speechless at the beauty before you. You can only gaze in awe at a scene that looks straight out of a storybook. The green butterfly alights on the deer’s small black nose, completing the picture, but only for a moment as the deer flips her head, dislodging the butterfly. The butterfly appears undaunted and flies back to land once more on the beautiful creature, this time on the soft-looking, brownish-red fur around her foreleg. The pink butterfly follows suit, and more of the delicate insects arrive as if from nowhere.
The doe jerks backward as more and more of the creatures land on her, and you notice a sharp undertone of something that smells like burnt hair or singed flesh. The deer’s eyes go wide with fear as she tries to step back out of the lake. You can only look on in confused horror as more and more butterflies gather, covering the frightened deer with matching sets of jewel-toned wings, their fluttering suddenly anything but serene.
You gasp as small areas of the deer’s exposed skin begin to melt away, revealing the raw red musculature beneath. You are utterly transfixed by the sight of the nightmare unfolding before you until you feel a tickle on your arm and notice a glimmering blue butterfly has settled there. In a panic, you slap at the vile thing, crushing it in your hand. You cry out in pain as some sort of acid eats away at a small patch of flesh on your palm.
* * *
SOMETHING BIT ME
I was awakened from a deep sleep by a pinprick of pain on my arm. I slapped it, feeling a spot of wetness blooming on the blanket beneath my palm.
“Great,” I muttered. “Probably some poisonous spider. Or maybe we have bed bugs.” Gracie stirred in her sleep beside me. I decided to leave it alone until morning so I didn't wake her. Besides, it was probably just a stupid mosquito, anyway.
By the time the alarm went off, dragging me from sleep with its piercing wail, I had forgotten about the bite. The tide of life continued as always, ebbing and flowing around us as we went about our morning routines. Gracie had to leave first, so she took the first turn in the shower. I made coffee while I waited for her to finish, hoping she'd save me some hot water.
After showering, I cleaned my ears with a Q-tip. Yeah, I know the package says not to stick them into your ear canal, but how else am I supposed to clean out all that wax? I glanced absently at the head of the swab as I went to toss it away. It was squirming with dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny black bugs.
I screamed in horror, flinging it away from me, tripping in my hurry to be as far from those writhing little insects as possible. Gracie raced in, wrapping me in her arms.
“It's okay,” she soothed, “once they're inside your head, you'll never be sad or afraid or lonely again.” My blood went cold as I looked up at Gracie. Tiny black dots swarmed in her eyes.
* * *
TEQUILA SUNRISE
Highway 19 was gouged into the Nevada desert like a scar. The night was arid and dry. Overhead, the sky was clear, the moon a waxing gibbous looming ominously over the silence. She didn’t have a name, not that she remembered, but she didn’t need one, so that was all right.
She stumbled drunkenly along the shoulder, short, white eyelet dress hanging in tatters above her scraped and bleeding knees, streams of tear-blurred mascara running down her crumpled face below eyes that, in the daylight, would’ve appeared almost colorless. She wore a beat-up motorcycle jacket that no longer remembered when it had seen better days. Her heavy, black snakeskin cowboy boots thudded hollowly on the pavement with her every step, one of them having long since worn a raw spot into her left calf. A long string of pearls hung down the front of her, resting between her small breasts. Her short, messy, platinum blonde hair stuck up in some places and was matted down in others. In one hand, she carried an old leather-bound book, and, in the other, a half-full bottle of clear tequila, long since missing its cap.
The road she walked was lonely, but she didn’t mind. If she did, another few swigs of tequila made certain she was beyond caring. As it was, she was well past merely buzzed and headed straight toward full-on drunk at breakneck speed. She paused for a moment in the shadow of a great saguaro to take another swig from the bottle. As she did, a tractor-trailer came speeding down the highway, causing her to stumble and spill tequila on her dress as she was buffeted by its wake. She lowered the bottle, taking a few poorly planted steps as quickly as she was able before leaning forward and screaming, “Fuck your mother!” at the rapidly receding taillights, twin embers burning in the darkness.
She straightened too quickly, nearly falling over before she resumed her slow trek. The desert wind caressed her small frame, pushing her onwards. After a time, she began straying from the shoulder, weaving as she made her way down the road. An older model silver car honked at her as he swerved to avoid hitting her, and she screamed after him as he departed, shrieking her anger into the cooling air. Eventually, she stumbled upon a landmark no one else would’ve noticed. Turning 90 degrees in a mock salute, she began walking, the desolate roadway at her back, the even more desolate desert spanning out before her. Her boots were filling up with sand, but she barely noticed. Another swig of the potent liquor, and she was beyond anything but the all-consuming drive to reach a destination which only she was aware of.
After a time—one that felt like days, but was barely more than an hour, she halted and began looking around, turning in frantic circles and swearing until her eyes came to rest on a particularly smooth, flat stone which had been sunk into the sand at an angle. It stuck out from the loam like a lone tooth. She stood before it for a moment, staring, and took a final swig before spitting her mouthful of regret balefully onto the rock. It was tinted pinkish with blood. “Fuck you!” she cried, wavering on her feet. “You fucking old man! You didn’t…you didn’t even try…” she slurred.
At last, she began to cry in earnest, sobs hitching in her chest, tequila sloshing in the narrow glass bottle. She seemed to have aged a decade in less than a day. After a while, she gathered herself and took a deep breath, letting it out in one deep, exhausted sigh. “Fuck it. It doesn’t fucking matter, anyway.” She spoke in a voice that sounded nearly sober. “Let’s get this over with.” She released her grip on the bottle, which fell upright into a cradle of sand, before falling to her knees in the desolation of the dessert. Without pause or preamble, she began to dig…
* * *
The sun rose over the Nevada dessert, rosy light picking out details along the skyline and making them glimmer and glow as if by magic. The road stretched out like an asphalt ribbon, winding its way through the sand like a song. An old man, dressed in blue jeans and cowboy boots, emerged from the shadows of a huge tri limbed cactus, stepping onto the firm surface of the shoulder as he made his way towards town. In his hands, he carried a thick, leather-bound tome and a clear glass bottle which bore no label and from which emerged the stem of a single purple flower. His resolved seemed to strengthen with
his every step. On his shoulders sat a much-loved motorcycle jacket that was definitely headed towards better days.
* * *
DAWN OF THE DEATH BEETLES
The rosy-hued fingers of dawn were just beginning to reach for the break of day. Kulg stood in his field, surrounded by freshly turned soil. He held a heavy iron hoe in his calloused hands as he surveyed the work he’d already accomplished that morning; it paled in comparison to what he had left to do.
Normally, he would have enlisted the aid of his son to help in this task, but he had graciously decided to allow the boy his sleep. Kurr would be heading off to the Capitol City soon to begin his required military training. Kulg beamed with pride and love for his whelp, as well as nostalgia for his own time in the service.
The sky had lightened from deep purple to pale blue shot through with oranges and pinks by the time Kulg finished gouging shallow trenches through the area of land he’d marked off for planting the previous day. Soon, delicate blue tendrils would emerge from the rich soil and begin the process of growing into strong stalks of grain, which would then be tended to and harvested by Kulg’s strong hands.
As tiring as the work was, Kulg enjoyed it. It kept his muscles toned, his midsection firm and taut, even as he approached his middle age. He had just turned back toward his home, where his mate Lurra would be preparing the family’s breakfast, when a piercing shriek tore his thoughts away.
Something streaked through the brightening sky. Something massive. Mere moments after that horrible sound, there came another: a crash as the thing slammed into the land not far off. The ground shook and nearly knocked Kulg off his feet.
He was instantly alert, switching his grip on his long farming tool so that it became a weapon. Lurra appeared in the doorway, her face ashen. Kulg snarled at her to get back inside. Kurr pushed past her, a pair of long kitchen knives in his hands. The boy was young and headstrong; even the smallest surge of adrenaline had him readying for a fight. Normally, Kulg would have sent his boy inside, as well, but today he was glad for the young man’s zeal and furor. They would investigate this thing together as father and son.
The land rose to a grassy hillock where the family’s land abutted that of their neighbor. Just over the rise, smoke rose from a massive crater where the huge rock had fallen. The soil was scattered around the hole, spilling into the plant beds and crushing precious new tendrils. Kulg approached the rock, surveying it warily. His son exercised no such caution. He leapt forward and scurried around, kicking clods of dirt at the alien object.
Kulg sniffed the air. It smelled metallic and singed his nostrils, but there was something else there, too. Something primitive and wild.
Kurr’s pale hair flew out behind him as he darted around the crashed object, the brightening sunlight highlighting his still healing tattoos, inked red into his chest and shoulder. They were the family symbols Kulg himself wore over his own breast, only smaller and without his decorations of service.
Kurr tapped the rock with the blade of a knife before darting backward, eyes wide with excitement in his pale-skinned face. His father raised a hand to try to calm the boy, perhaps to urge him to show more caution, when another shrill scream split the air, sending Kurr once more into a frenzy. Another crash shook the ground. Frightened shouts from nearby rang out as neighbors reacted to the chaos and cacophony.
Kulg and Kurr looked up as more meteors streaked across the sky before slamming into the ground. Neither had ever heard tell of anything like this before.
Kulg’s attention snapped back to the rock before them as it began to crack. First slowly, as if it were reacting to the cool temperatures on the surface, then more forcefully, as if something were trying to break free.
Kurr tapped again with his knife and the rock split in half. A swarm of man-sized insects emerged, rising up on wings the color of pitch. Multifaceted eyes locked onto the men as the creatures took flight.
Kulg called out to Kurr, but the boy ignored him. Instead, he swung his pair of knives around in what he hoped was an intimidating display as the beetle-like creatures shrieked a chorus of warbling cries that chilled Kulg to his bones.
The boy braced for attack, setting his broad shoulders and digging his heels into the ground. He nearly toppled over as his father grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back toward their home.
Kurr cried out in protest, wanting only to fight, to sink his blades into enemy flesh and feel their blood on his skin. Kulg silenced him with a growl. They had to prepare for combat. Kitchen knives were not weapons suited to battle. They needed armor, protection from hungry claws and vicious spears.
As they ran back down the rise and over their fields, more of the meteors slammed into the ground. Pockets of enormous insect invaders began hovering here and there across the landscape. This was an invasion.
The beetles were huge, infinitely larger than the palm-sized bugs Kulg often found in his fields. From the tops of their segmented antennae to the tips of their sharp, cruel looking claws, they dwarfed Kulg by a fair bit. They were nearly as wide as they were tall, with a pair of shining purple wing covers over their deep black wings. The noise they made as they took to the air was the most terrifying sound Kulg had ever heard…until their awful cries echoed, building in strength as more of their numbers returned the call.
Thunha, Kulg’s neighbor since his youth, cried out in agony as one of the creatures speared him through with a sharp weapon that looked like a gigantic insect leg. Black blood ran down his pale skin, spilling over his leather loincloth. The thing tossed its grisly prize away, discarding the corpse as if it were nothing more than unsightly rubbish.
Kulg was faster than Thunha, who had long since stopped tending his own fields. He pulled Kurr along, who was looking back over his shoulder with rage on his broad face. They had to make it back to the shed where he kept the tools. Behind rows of equipment used for digging and planting were the weapons he had used in battle long ago. He must use them once again, now to defend his family and all he held dear from the alien invaders.
There were shouts from somewhere in the distance. The Great Horn blew a rally cry. The defense force had mobilized. Shining arrows cut through the air as the bowmen let loose, sending a shadow over the field with the sheer volume of their projectiles.
The arrows bounced harmlessly off the insectoids’ carapaces. The creatures turned as one, their mandibles parting in piercing battle cries. Kulg took the opportunity to run while the enemy was distracted by the group of fighters. He was no coward, but he needed adequate weapons if he was to stand a chance in this fight.
The defense force was there, but they were not at their peak. Many of the older, more experienced, soldiers had been relieved of their duty only weeks before. It was customary to allow as many hands as possible to help with the planting of new crops. The group of young men soon to replace them—Kurr’s peers—had yet to be dispatched for the same reason. The insects had chosen, or chanced on, the perfect time to strike.
The meteors continued to fall, their strikes shaking the ground, the sharp whistles of their descent almost deafening. They disgorged their warrior contents, unleashing them upon the land to wreak more havoc.
Kulg had nearly reached the family home, could see the colored tiles that lead to the entrance, when the largest meteor he had yet seen crashed into the building he had constructed with his own two hands. In an instant, he lost what he loved most in the world. His heart was broken, but the pain only made him more determined to destroy the invaders. They would pay for what they’d done.
Smoking debris rained down, falling upon father and son, sending soil and smoke into their eyes. Tears of both pain and grief ran down their faces. Kulg wasn’t sure whether Kurr had seen his mother before the meteor destroyed their home, but it didn’t matter. Their goal remained the same: Get to the weapons in the shed and join the battle.
The Great Horn blew again, twice in quick succession: the emergency summons of all
able-bodied citizens. Kulg had known it would come when the beetles first emerged. He would answer the call.
Without words, Kurr understood their destination. He knew where his father’s weapons were and how to use them. He had merely forgotten their existence in the heat of battle.
The men had nearly reached the shed when the sturdy wooden door was thrown open and Lurra appeared in her own armor, clutching an enormous battle axe. She let out her own battle cry as she raised her weapon skyward. Kulg’s joy and relief at seeing his mate alive and ready for battle filled his heart with triumph. The family prepared to face the invaders amidst the shouts and screams of their defense force allies as the beetles swarmed and attacked, cutting through the men as Kulg’s blade would cut through stalks of grain.
Kulg threw the rack that held his farming tools to the ground, and the clatter it made was drowned out almost entirely by the sounds of battle and the crashing of the meteors. He swung an enormous shield to bear, testing its weight, before tossing it to his son, who caught it ably. He picked up another shield, a pair of lances, and a sharp spear, the latter of which he shoved into Kurr’s waiting hands as Lurra lead them into the heart of the battle—the open field which had once been a meeting place between six neighboring farms.
The ground was pitted with craters, littered with debris, and soaked with the oil-like blood of Kulg’s fallen comrades. Severed limbs nearly tripped them more than once, but none of the invaders seemed to be among the fallen. Kulg ignored this fact, for it did not matter. He would fight with every breath left in him, even against impossible odds, until he could fight no longer. It was the way of his people.
