by Tim Curran
“Seven. I did a few extra jobs with Rex without you knowing.”
“What? Why did you go behind my back?”
“Because I knew you'd kick up a fuss about it,” Burt said, matter-of-factly. “Let's not get carried away, kid. We'll go back, cover the bugs in the basement with some Delta Dust, then head to the job we got booked for this afternoon. We ain't had no other reports from any of our previous clients about the reappearance of insects so I think it's safe to say there ain't been any.”
“We'll see,” Connor muttered darkly.
-V-
Up in the warm, stale environment of Carl Reinhold's attic, moths had made a home in and around several large boxes of old clothes. “I don't care what you use to kill 'em,” he told Connor and Burt. “They've completely ruined all my clothes now anyway.”
“So why are you bothered about getting rid of them?” Connor couldn't help but ask.
“Because this is my fucking attic,” Reinhold replied, giving the younger man a look that clearly said 'you're an idiot'. Connor shrugged it off and helped Burt lift Rex's covered tank into the attic. “That your new secret weapon that's got ever'body so goddamn excited?” Reinhold smirked.
“Yup,” said Burt. “Now if you'll excuse us, Carl, we'll-”
“Yeah yeah,” Reinhold interrupted, clambering down the metal ladder muttering “My fucking attic” to himself.
“I really think you should reconsider using Rex for this job. I think the little guy deserves a break.”
“Nice try Connor my boy, but I ain't retiring Rex just yet, just because you got some spooky feelings goin' on.” He gave a throaty chuckle and gently lifted Rex from his tank. “Moths, Rex. One of your favourites,” he whispered, setting the roach down in the empty floor space that dominated the low-ceilinged attic. The pale insect skittered through the layers of dust directly towards the clothes boxes, vanishing in an instant. “Alright, let's leave him to it.”
“What? I'm not going anywhere.”
“Suit yourself,” said Burt. “I'm gonna get that cranky bastard to fix me a whiskey. Rex'll be okay up here on his own for a little while.”
“Like hell he will,” Connor blustered. “I'm not leaving him up here alone after what we saw earlier.”
“Fine,” Burt replied, calmly, easing himself back down the attic ladder. “You stay up here in the heat an' dust, overreactin'. I'm getting a drink.”
***
“Still think I'm overreacting?” Connor tried to keep the smug tone out of his voice but failed miserably. Together, he and Burt stood watching Rex as he methodically dragged or carried moth bodies from various hiding places into the centre of the floor. This time, Connor didn't even have to voice his opinion because Burt did it for him.
“That is some damn strange behaviour...”
Connor simply nodded in agreement.
“Why you stockpiling the husks, Rex?” Burt asked the roach.
“They're not husks,” Connor said, crushing a couple underfoot. No blood or juices leaked out as the furry grey skin of the bugs split to reveal a pale body underneath. “They're more like cocoons.”
“What-”
“Rex is infecting, I guess, other insects, to turn them into pale versions of themselves. You can't deny the bugs in the basement and these-” he motioned at the crushed moths “don't look like little ol' Rex there.”
“There's got to be an explanation...” Burt shook his head, kneeling down.
“There is and I've just given it to you, but the real question is-” Connor paused as Burt started to coax Rex towards him. “Are you sure you want to do that, Burt? Now we know what he's doing, you sure you want him on your unprotected skin? I dread to think what his bite could do to a human.”
“Don't be ridiculous, boy,” Burt sneered. “Most insects ain't got the muscle power to puncture human skin, and why would Rex decide now's the time to try a nibble of me anyway?”
“I think he might have got a taste for blood. Human blood,” Connor replied sickly, watching the old man gently carry Rex over to his tank and lower him into it. The roach happily enjoyed the journey without so much as trying to attack his constant handler.
“When? How?”
“I'm pretty sure he tasted some of mine from a piece of broken glass the other day.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Well yeah, I...” Connor faltered. Maybe he was overreacting in that respect – Rex never tried to hurt the old man or escape from him so at least in that sense the roach was harmless. “But the other bugs...”
“We'll crush these, then go check on all the dead ones that'll currently be decorating the floor of the Macready basement,” Burt said, in a deeply patronising tone. “Come on.”
-VI-
The strange, pallid conglomeration of insects were completely unfazed by the liberal dusting of Deltamethrin Burt and Connor had coated them in. “Incredible…” Burt whistled. “This shit's stronger than Hercules.”
“Look at 'em; it's impossible every species in this little group would be immune to the Delta Dust, yet there they all are, happy as Larry.”
Burt took a swig from his hipflask, wiped his lips with the back of a hand, said, “Guess it's the old fashioned-way...” He hefted a piece of broken furniture from a pile of junk on the basement floor and began to crunch it into the swarm of insects. Connor followed suit, feeling sick at the feel and sound of the activity. After a few hits, the bugs started buzzing/scuttling/twitching in frenzied activity, and Connor noticed a fair few critically damaged insects dragging their bodies along the wall when they should by rights have been slowly curling up in death-throes. “I don't like this, Burt.”
“We...just...need t' keep...smashin' 'em,” he huffed.
Connor laid a hand on the old man's shoulder and said, more insistent, “We need to leave. Now.”
As if this sentence had been the cue they were waiting for, the insects poured from the wall and swarmed towards the two men, herding them out of the basement in a panicked hurry. Burt slammed the basement door shut, keeping the insects behind several inches of sturdy wood. “Okay,” he admitted, “we might have a small problem on our hands.”
“Unstoppable bugs is more than a 'small problem', Burt.”
“There you go, gettin' carried away again!” Burt hobbled across the kitchen. “There're other chemicals we can use. Heck, Rex might even want to eat those little buggers now-”
“Enough!” Connor was surprised at the volume of his own voice and stared unblinking as his boss for a few moments. “I'm sorry, Burt. This is just...” he sighed, “too much. I'll admit I actually thought for a while Rex would be exactly the master-stroke you thought he'd be, and we've had a good couple of months business using him, but this has to stop. He's doing things to other insects, changing them, and I don't like it one bit. He has to go, Burt; Rex has to go.”
“It could be any number of reasons,” Burt replied levelly. “A contaminated food source, a fungus, anything. Rex's involvement could be nothing more than coincidence.”
“Have you already forgotten what your pet was doing in Reinhold's attic?!” Connor shouted in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Burt. I've heard of denial, but...Jesus Christ.”
“It's been a stressful day,” the old man continued in the same, calm voice. “Why don't we both go home. I'll tell Hendricks to quarantine the basement off, and I'll come back first thing to spray some Cypermethrin, see if that works. I said it before: no-one from an earlier job's contacted us saying they seen pale bugs, so what we got to worry about? Nothing.”
“Maybe the other bugs are waiting.”
Burt harrumphed, “Yeah? For what?”
Connor answered quietly, “I hope we don't find out.”
-VII-
The room was buried underground, beneath wood and brick structures, down in the darkness and damp where things without colour grow and bloom. Connor's breath fogged in the air in front of him, though he couldn't see it.
Something moved t
hrough the subterranean night, close-by. Startled, Connor spun on the spot, trying to remember how he got here. There must be stairs, back to the surface. Hands outstretched, Connor stumbled around for an indeterminate amount of time, all the while acutely aware of tiny unidentifiable noises around him.
Eventually, he bumped off a wet wall, its surface caked in fungus-like lumps. Scrabbling along its surface, Connor came to a set of narrow steps. Carefully, he clambered up their creaking length until his hands encountered something soft and warm; a trapdoor, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.
Afraid, yet certain he was headed in the right direction, Connor heaved the panel up and open, revealing glistening red light. Connor pulled himself into a tunnel, one which sloped gently upwards. The walls here were as soft and welcoming as the illumination that emanated from them, and Connor soon reached the tunnel's end.
Almost reluctant to leave, Connor pushed through the increasingly narrow exit and realised, too late, his hands were covered in thick, white bristles. As he struggled to pull himself free, he also realised his arms were backward-jointed, and curved inwards. Like an insect's. No, he thought. No, this isn't possible. The tunnel entrance contracted and buckled as Connor struggled to get free, and two instantaneous realisations dawned on him:
He was crawling out of someone's mouth; at the same time something was trying to crawl out of his.
He woke, screaming as hundreds of thick, white legs swarmed over his body. Spiders, pale as Rex and almost as big, filled Connor's bed. The quilt rippled as waves of the creatures tickled and caressed his limbs, his torso, his face. He leapt from his bed in a wild panic, the memories of sleep sliding from his mind like wet mud. Locusts and beetles and a hundred other insects wriggled and jumped from the bed onto Connor. Desperately, he spun on the spot, flailing his arms and swatting at the creatures. Why are you doing this? his mind screamed as his body itched with hundreds of bites, turning his blood to fire in his veins.
“Help me!” he shouted, but the horde of mutated insects crawled into his mouth, covered his eyes, blinded and suffocated him. He could taste their pallid skin, and choked violently on the sting in his throat. He had just enough of his wits about him to wonder where they had all come from, only to realise he already knew the answer. Not like this, he thought. Not like this. In a pain-fuelled agony he collapsed to his knees with a piercing snap, just as his mind followed suit.
-VIII-
“Connor,” Burt knocked loudly on the young man's front door. “Wake up, kid. Not like you to oversleep.” When he still received no answer, he rummaged around under the plant pot where the spare key hid, took it and let himself in. There was a strange, buzzing silence in the house. A sound Burt could feel more than hear, like standing near a railway track as a train approached.
“Connor?”
Burt wandered through the rooms, a feeling of deep unease growing inside him. “Come on kid, this ain't like you. I'll think about giving Rex a break, how about that? Con-” the word died on his lips when he stepped into his young apprentice's bedroom. “Oh Jesus...” he whispered, collapsing against the door frame.
Connor lay on the bare floorboards of the bedroom in an untidy heap, his skin swollen and deformed. Web-like vines bloomed from various areas of his anaemic skin. Several different species of insect crawled over and out of him.
“Help...” Burt croaked, sliding away from the bedroom. “Help!”
He hobbled from the house, calling out for assistance. It was only now he realised just how empty the streets were and had been on the drive over, even given how early it was. The unease inside him grew thorns and pierced his guts, filling his throat with the taste of bile. Fighting the urge to vomit, Burt staggered over to Connor's nearest neighbour's house and pummelled the front door and windows with aged fists. “Someone!” he bellowed. “Someone help me!” He pressed his face to a window, cupping his hands around his eyes so as to block out the reflection of the early morning sun. A woman sat in an armchair, fleshy tendrils trailing over the armrests. Her left hand clawed feebly at the air. “Christ, oh Christ,” Burt sobbed, hurrying back over to his pick-up.
He drove through street after street, and it didn't take long to realise the entire town had been claimed by insects during one night. Mutated people, not-quite-dead-nor-quite-alive, lay sprawled in awkward positions inside their homes, evidently overcome before they could raise the alarm. To all intents and purposes it appeared as if Burt was the only person who had been spared. “Rex...” he murmured, heading home.
Burt half-expected the roach to have escaped his tank and be out on the streets, leading his brethren in their uprising, but it was with an unrestrained sigh of relief that he found the three inch creature sitting patiently in his glass home. “What are you?” the old man asked, leaning down and staring directly into Rex's opaque eyes. Rex twitched his antennae but said nothing. Burt tried to think things through, feeling his luck was fading fast. “Are you controlling them?”
Still no reply.
“Kelson,” Burt snapped his fingers in a sudden burst of inspiration. “There must be something I can use in his old place...”
Picking up Rex's tank, Burt carried him out to the truck and placed him in the footrest on the passenger side, before slipping in behind the wheel and kicking the engine into life. Seeing no point in adhering to the speed limit or traffic lights, Burt made straight for Kelson's house, reaching it in record time.
He wasn't at all surprised to find the front door ajar – as far as he was aware, there were still people working on clearing the place out, and with Kelson's creepy reputation hovering over the house like a dark cloud, kids never tried to break-in to or vandalise the place. Burt pushed the ancient oak door open with a ponderous creak, calling out “Hello?”
He was answered by silence and dust.
Then, a scratch. Inside the walls. Burt felt against the wooden panels, trying to locate the source. The sound drew him into the house, into dusty gloom. Half-packed cardboard boxes and overflowing garbage cans filled some of the rooms, waiting to be removed. Down, deeper into the house, the scratching methodical and insistent in its pattern, its clarion call. Burt stepped over the malformed and shifting bodies of workers without batting an eyelid. He knew before he entered the house he'd discover why the house hadn't been cleared on schedule.
Into the cellar, where vines bulged from the crumbling brickwork, some still leaking dark liquid from cuts made by inquisitive removal men. The scratching led towards a far corner of the cellar, beyond the reach of the grimy light bulbs. More vines peeked through the flaking masonry here than any where else in the property. The scratches became staccato and frenzied, aping, Burt realised with a deep coldness, Morse Code. He looked around in the semi-darkness for a blunt object, his gaze settling on a ancient lamp stand. He managed to heft it without too much difficulty, and began to chip away at the cellar wall, the scratches urging him on.
The stonework, long since dried out, crumbled away in easy chunks to reveal a dark recess hidden behind the wall. Fear catching in his throat, Burt stepped back from his grim discovery, the dirty light just enough to illuminate the almost-phosphorescent form secreted away down here.
“Kelson?”
A body the queasy white of glow-in-the-dark paint rested inside the alcove. Or rather, it was held up by the hundreds of vines that sprouted from the desiccated flesh and burrowed deep into the brickwork around it. Once, it may have been a man, for it wore the ripped and tattered remnants of a suit, but all trace of masculinity had been erased from its features by the horrendous physical changes that contorted its frame. Its eyes were smooth obsidian rocks fixed in cavernous sockets, its jaw held open by the plant-like growths. From the way the vines looked, and from where they grew from, Burt strongly suspected they were in fact veins, and he staggered backwards and threw up on the cellar floor.
The scratching picked up the pace once again, and Burt chanced a step closer. The body's right arm twisted up above its head, hand
grasping the wall in a vicious claw. The nails had long since been ripped away by the constant scratching of the fingertips against the brickwork, thin tendrils twirling from the crusted wounds into the stone.
A bucket filled with cement sat beside the body's feet, or at least what was left of them. A trowel was stuck firmly in the dried mortar, a pile of surplus bricks next to the bucket. A pen and piece of tattered paper lay in the dirt, and Burt bent down to pick them up. He flipped the paper over to read a note written in scrawled calligraphy:
experiment 427 went terribly wrong should have seen this coming no time to make proper arrangements will hole myself up try to keep away from population chance not work but no other choice now must fight it cant die now roots taken hold spread effects of 427 through contact insects insects loose feeding please burn me losing grip dead now still alive find me burn me someone please
“Christ Almighty Kelson, what were you tryin' to do?” Burt breathed.
The body's eyes rotated towards him in answer.
Cursing, Burt began to feverishly hunt for anything flammable. His search took him back upstairs where he grabbed a couple of cardboard boxes, tipping the contents onto the floor, desperately aware of just how alive the walls now were. Hurrying back downstairs, Burt doused the scientist's ragged clothes with booze from his hipflask and crammed the cardboard boxes in the alcove by the mangled feet. “I pray this works,” Burt whispered, flicking his lighter and setting the whole thing aflame. He hobbled from the cellar as the fire licked eagerly at Kelson's deformed living corpse.
A horde of insects waited patiently for him outside.
Burt slowed to a limping walk, thousands of tiny black eyes watching him as he climbed into the cab next to Rex. When he closed the driver door the ones who could took flight and swarmed back towards the town; the others scurried away in the same direction. Burt looked down at Rex. “Maybe the fire'll spread an' kill 'em?”
