The Colony

by A. J. Colucci

  Colonel Garrett was entirely skeptical. “My team of top scientists spent months trying to find a way to kill these ants. You waltz in here the day you learn about them and tell us you have some magic formula?” He shook his head vehemently. “General, you know as well as I, these ants are indestructible. Nothing that kills ordinary insects will kill Siafu Moto.”

  “We don’t have a clue how to destroy them,” the general replied. “But their idea is far safer than any I’ve heard today.”

  “We agreed on the solution, an infallible plan. Not some half-witted theory that hasn’t been tested.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything, and neither has the president. I’m willing to give the pheromones a try—if it can be done quickly. That means twenty-four hours.”

  Garrett started for the door. “As far as I’m concerned, this matter has already been decided.” He left the others in silence.

  “He’s right, you know,” the general told Kendra. “This is a long shot, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” she admitted. “But I’m sure it stands a chance.”

  “What do you need from us?” Russo said.

  “We could use some help finding a queen. Perhaps the army, or National Guard.”

  Russo shook his head. “I’m afraid the Guardsmen are too busy with the chaos on the streets, evacuating the city.”

  The general concurred. “Besides, none of my men know the first thing about finding an ant queen.”

  “It takes a trained professional.” Paul nodded to Kendra. “Guess we’re it.”

  “You’ll need a gun out there. People are going nuts. Agent Cameron will issue you a weapon.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kendra said. “Our only concern is the ants.”

  “We have nothing to protect you from those insects or help you find a queen.”

  “We’ll be in full gear, searching the city for nesting sites,” Kendra told them. “It doesn’t take a lot of fancy equipment, just good instinct.”

  “Where will you look?” Russo asked.

  “I hate to sound morbid,” Paul replied, “but we should check the biggest food supply. There are plenty of residential buildings in Midtown. I’m going to assume these ants are like Siafu. Attack all night, rest in tree trunks—or I should say buildings—all day.”

  Kendra wondered if she should mention that Jeremy’s computers predicted the same thing. She decided not to.

  “What are your odds?” Russo asked Paul.

  “Better than one in a million.”

  “So let’s say, by some miracle, you find a queen,” Dawson said. “What then?”

  “We synthesize enough pheromones to cover the city,” Kendra replied.

  “How much do you need?”

  “Not as much as you think. This is potent stuff, and insects have highly developed receptors in their antennae. Just to give you an idea, it takes less than one tablespoon of trail pheromone to lead an ant around the world five thousand times. Just a few molecules can stop a colony.”

  “We’ll hit every street in Manhattan,” Paul said. “After that, we can pump the chemicals into the sewers and subways where they hide.”

  “Of course, we should spray all the buildings as well,” Kendra said, and her expression darkened. “We have to consider alates.”

  “What’s that?” Russo asked.

  “Something we don’t want to think about but have to be prepared for,” Paul replied.

  “It may happen soon.” Kendra explained to Russo the mating ritual of ants. During the flight of the alates, winged virgin queens take off in a nuptial dance with the males, filling the sky with billowing gray clouds of swarming insects. Then the newly pregnant queens fly away to begin new colonies. “They can fly thousands of miles. It would be devastating.”

  “It usually happens once the queens reach full maturity,” Paul said. “Hopefully we’re not too late.”

  “So you can make these pheromones in the lab?”

  “No, we can’t. We can isolate and identify the molecular structure, but we’ll need at least a metric ton of the synthetic pheromone to kill the colony.”

  “Where will we get that?”

  “I have a friend, Jack Carver, at the USDA. One call and he can whip up enough base for this pheromone right in his laboratory.”

  “I’ve got a direct line out,” Russo said, and picked up a phone with a heavy cord snaking to the wall. He handed Paul the gold-plate receiver.

  Paul dialed the Washington number, waited for a connection. He was relieved to hear Jack on the other line.

  “Good Lord, Paul. Don’t tell me you’re still in New York City? Somewhere safe, I hope.”

  “Can’t say exactly.”

  “Well, it’s good to know you haven’t been eaten. Guess the ants have better taste than that.”

  “Jack, this is no joke. I’m here with Kendra and she’s possibly found a way to kill these crazy beasts, but I need your help.” Paul relayed a short version of their plan.

  “I’d like to help you, but I’ve been snubbed by the Pentagon. Tried to send out a team after our last excursion, but they pulled the plug on our whole operation. They don’t want the USDA involved.”

  “I have a United States Army general here who can give you all the clearance you need.”

  General Dawson gave a nod.

  “He’ll be calling you as soon as we find a queen. In the meantime I need you to whip up a metric ton of base for the pheromone. Maybe soybean oil. Nothing that can evaporate. I need at least forty-eight hours of nondiluting odor.”

  “A metric ton? You’re talking millions of dollars.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jack. It’s not on your tab.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “No more than six hours.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Never more so.”

  “I’ll have every synthetic chemist on it, Paul.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell Kendra if her experiment works, she’ll have my job.”

  “Doubt she wants it. She’d just wind up a sarcastic old geezer like you.”

  “You just get me the breakdown.”

  Paul hung up the phone. “We need a way to spread the chemical over the city.”

  General Dawson nodded. “I can get a fleet of aerial firefighting aircraft. The Green Sweep C-130 is a converted cargo plane capable of dropping twenty thousand gallons of liquid. It’s been instrumental in cleaning up the oil spills in the Gulf and putting out the Los Angeles fires. It will be perfect for widespread areas and buildings.”

  “Terrific. Get me a couple of those. And a few crop dusters for the smaller streets.”

  “I’ll have them deployed immediately.” The general spoke into his handheld recorder. “Jack Carver, USDA.” He winked at Kendra and started for the door. “Good luck out there and remember, you’ve got just twenty-four hours. By sundown tomorrow I want this city completely evacuated.”

  Kendra furrowed her brow, unsure why the statement sounded so foreboding.

  Mayor Russo waited for the general to leave. He gestured to Paul and Kendra, waving them over surreptitiously. They leaned in close as he spoke quietly, a dire look in his eyes. “There’s been talk of dropping low-yield nuclear bombs on Manhattan.”

  “Nuke the city?” Kendra gasped. “Whose dumb idea was that?”

  “Colonel Garrett has been telling everyone at the State Department with ears that radiation kills the beasts.”

  “Do you think they would actually do it?”

  “I think the colonel is blowing smoke, grasping at straws to save his own hide. Can you imagine the president authorizing such a thing?” The mayor huffed. “As long as I’m alive, there won’t be any bombs falling on this city.”

  * * *

  Kendra started for the lab to gather equipment for the trip. Paul tracked down Agent Cameron, who wasn’t pleased about issuing a gun to a scientist with no training.

  “You’ll probably shoot
yourself,” he said, and reluctantly led Paul to a small room with a large closet that was loaded with weapons locked down tight.

  Cameron grabbed a pistol and opened a file cabinet that was full of magazines. He eyed Paul suspiciously. “You’re wasting your time out there.”

  “No one else is doing anything productive.”

  “That’s because they want to save their weapon,” he muttered.

  “What weapon?”

  Cameron bit down hard. “Never mind.”

  “Do you know something about these ants, Agent?”

  Cameron slammed the file cabinet, startling Paul. “That’s the problem. No one does. This was an FBI investigation from the beginning. I was this close to exposing whoever was funding this operation, until the plug was pulled by Military Intelligence. My sources disappeared, the money trail evaporated, we were thrown off the case. So Garrett rushes into Bolivia and destroys the entire laboratory without gathering any evidence. His technical crew didn’t bother to investigate who created these monsters, how they did it. You’re a scientist; don’t you find that odd?”

  “I find your suspicion odd.”

  “You didn’t see what I saw. Those bodies in Bolivia were completely mutilated. Liquefied. The people who created these ants are extremely dangerous. Garrett doesn’t seem to care about finding them.”

  “Maybe the army knows more than they care to share with the FBI.”

  “Maybe.” Cameron gave Paul a stern look. “Now I’m stuck following two bug scientists around.”

  “You think I have ties to ecoterrorists?”

  The agent didn’t answer.

  Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Are you going to issue me a weapon or what?”

  CHAPTER 25

  FIVE HOURS TILL DAWN. A large moon cast a veil of light over the city, picking up thin wisps of smoke and speckled ash, white ash like snowflakes blowing in the breeze from small, scattered fires. Kendra emerged from the hatch onto the roof, where she had just been hours before, but now the cool air had a bitter stench of sulfur, and she could see a fleet of army aircraft spewing extinguishing foam from their pregnant bellies over Midtown. News choppers dashed over the city like mosquitoes at a campout. In the distance, sirens blared from emergency vehicles going nowhere and store alarms wailed through hundreds of broken windows.

  Paul emerged from the hatch right behind her, dropping a Bug Out suit at her feet and stepping into his own. He glowed white like a space alien. Neither of them spoke.

  Kendra climbed into the gauzy material, which seemed paper thin but felt heavy, like a bulletproof vest. The lining was metallic and stiff: new breathable steel from DuPont. It would be an uncomfortable field trip. Paul zipped her headpiece and checked the seal. It was immediately cramped and hot inside the suit and Kendra threw off the hood, wiping her brow.

  Paul knelt on the blacktop, checking the contents of the knapsack. There were specimen bottles, flashlights, blowtorches and a medical bag, along with a pistol.

  “A gun?” Kendra blinked hard.

  “Not just a gun, a Beretta 92f.”

  She balked.

  “You heard the general. There are desperate people out here.” Paul closed one eye and aimed at the moon. “Cameron didn’t want to give it to me. Thought I couldn’t handle it.”

  “He’s probably right.”

  “All I needed was a quick lesson. He showed me how it works. This doohickey here is the magazine release.” Paul ejected the magazine and found it empty. He checked the chamber. “Jackass gave me one bullet.”

  “And I’m sure you’re an expert marksman. All that training in…?”

  “Eagle Scouts.” He replaced the magazine. “Although that might have been a flare gun.”

  “Right.”

  They headed for a small steel hut in the center of the roof. Once inside, they descended five flights down a narrow stairwell to the first floor. They were facing an office with the words UNITED NATIONS BUREAU OF PUBLIC OF AFFAIRS lettered in gold on frosted glass.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Looks like the same as below. Emergency headquarters for the UN, FBI, CIA, all the biggies.”

  They moved quickly down the turquoise carpeting. In every office, lights were on and televisions crackled with static or instructions from the Emergency Broadcast System. Phones were off their hooks. Spilled coffee cups and papers were strewn about the floor. These people had left in a hurry.

  Paul heard voices and motioned to an office, where he and Kendra discovered a small television with cable coming in clear and they stopped to watch a few seconds of a news report. Camera shots of Manhattan revealed an endless stream of refugees packing the George Washington, Williamsburg and Brooklyn bridges, where helicopter spotlights guided them to another borough or the shores of New Jersey. SWAT teams from the Tri-state area were evacuating parts of the north in armored buses. South of Midtown was barraged by cruise ships, military boats and carriers along ports east and west.

  A seasoned newscaster was talking over the footage: “I haven’t seen images like this since Hiroshima. Right now the Department of Defense is estimating up to one hundred and forty thousand fatalities and twice as many wounded … skin eaten away … blinded … just horrendous.”

  He called it “the worst natural disaster in the history of mankind,” but Paul knew there was nothing natural about it.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  At the end of the hall was a swinging door marked CAFETERIA. Paul and Kendra eyed each other before blowing their way inside. The eatery was a mess. Chairs were tipped over and tables were filled with plates of stale sandwiches, dried-up stew, noodles, rice and beans. Tidy cuts of decaying fish lined a sushi bar.

  “Is it wrong to grab a snack before saving the world?” he asked.

  “We’ll need our strength,” she replied.

  Paul stretched the long leg of his white suit over the velvet rope to the buffet, where steel counters and glass shelves displayed sandwiches wrapped in cellophane, fruit and Jell-O, cereal boxes and cans of soda. They were both starving. Paul handed Kendra a turkey on whole wheat with mayo and bean sprouts.

  She flung the sandwich over her shoulder and reached for a slice of chocolate cake. “Damned if sprouts are going to be my last meal.”

  Paul unwrapped a roast beef on rye, taking great bites and closing his eyes with a satisfied grin, and then washed it down with a can of Coke. He watched Kendra alternate bites of cake with spoonfuls of fudge pudding, her mouth moving in ecstasy. He had forgotten how beautiful she was: the way her nose crinkled up and the little crescents that formed in her cheeks whenever she smiled or frowned.

  “Still eat chocolate for breakfast?”

  “Still eat bees?” she replied.

  “That was a dare.” He winced at the memory.

  “You didn’t have to do it.”

  “I was trying to impress you.”

  They smiled at each other. It was the same warm smile Paul remembered from years ago.

  Kendra tossed the empty plates on the counter. “You ready?”

  There was no putting it off anymore.

  Paul crushed his soda can. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 26

  THERE WERE NO PEOPLE. Anywhere.

  Kendra gazed over First Avenue as though it were a movie set for a disaster film. Towering buildings loomed in darkness; the electric had shorted out from insects gnawing on the wires. Store windows had been shattered by looters and folks just out of their minds. A yellow cast from an overhead streetlight spilled across smashed hoods of tightly packed cars that all looked the same shade of rusty brown.

  There was not a lot of sidewalk space. Kendra moved alongside Paul, snaking around vehicles and climbing on bumpers. Pieces of glass and debris lay scattered at their feet, along with photos, letters and mementos people had grabbed as they ran from their homes, irreplaceable items they couldn’t live without. It was the dolls and teddy bears that got to Kendra the most, and the clothe
s: pants, shirts and undergarments frantically torn from people being eaten alive.

  Kendra had never witnessed so much stillness outside of the desert. At the same time, there was an uncanny feeling of movement all around her. Shadows fluttered in doorways. Even the concrete sidewalk appeared to quiver with life.

  “I wonder if we’re going to be swarmed any second,” she whispered.

  “Probably not,” Paul answered. “The ants are looking for people and its pretty slim pickings around here.”

  The two scientists navigated the street, shrouded in white, except for their heads sticking out of the bug suits. They decided to forgo the hoods, which could be flipped and zipped in a matter of seconds if necessary. With added white shoe mitts and gloves they felt reasonably protected, but quite conspicuous. That worried Paul. There was definitely a risk that someone might steal their suits. He had one bullet in his gun, which would be useless against a mob of looters. Paul was an entomologist and to him, swarms of angry ants—even deadly mutant ants—were far more controllable than street thugs. Humans were unpredictable and irrational, driven by self-preservation, and there was no telling what stupid thing a person might do. He unconsciously reached for the pistol to check his response time, and then recoiled, aware of his own primitive instinct. He tried to focus on the task at hand.

  They headed west and turned the corner of Fortieth Street, where the intersection had clogged up quickly and the street was mostly clear. After vaulting over cars and obstacles, it felt good to walk on pavement again, but it was dead quiet. Sirens fell silent as entire city blocks lost power. Not a soul was on the street. Manhattan was becoming a ghost town.

  The quiet was broken by a police squadron bursting out of a diner. The men were armed with shotguns and wore menacing hoods like ninjas and sleek black uniforms with NYPD across the chest. They marched past Paul and Kendra, who halted their journey until the pounding of heavy boots grew faint. Then the two scientists continued toward Midtown, turning the corner onto a narrow lane where the buildings were old and expensive. There was a deceptive feeling of sanctuary among the flowering gardens and iron benches, old-fashioned gas lamps and cobblestone courtyards.