FIVE
The evacuation of Yarkie ordered an hour later by the selectmen and the sheriff’s office was quiet and orderly. People with their necessary luggage boarded the ferries called over from Chatham. All were silent and stunned, understanding the danger from the raging forest fire on High Ridge. The volunteer firemen were up on the Ridge battling the blaze, helped by the rain that had finally come down. But there were still too many flare-ups for safety, and with the storm still blowing, firebrands could land on homes almost anywhere.
More, there was a funereal mood among the people. Almost everyone was in some way related to the children who had gone on the Sunday School picnic, and there had been no word about the Tub. The spreading gossip was that the children had landed along the east shore and gone into the woods for their party. They might have been caught then by the fire the lightning had started. The people could get no answers to their heartsick questions from the stone-faced village officials.
Elias Johnson, Amos Tarbell, Stephen Scott, Ben Dorset, Russell Homer knew all too well what had happened. They had been coming around Dickens Point on the Jessica when the smoke billowed up on High Ridge. Johnson drew every ounce of power out of his massive engines. The men saw the Tub at once and, through their glasses, clearly made out what was left of the beach as the tide swept almost to the dunes marking high water. The torn bodies and skeletal bones of the drowned were all too clearly visible. Sickened beyond ability to speak, the men on the Jessica did not have to ask what was responsible for the wholesale ravaging of the wreck’s victims.
They could not look at each other, could not trust themselves to speak. In the presence of so overwhelming a tragedy, each man withdrew into himself, soul-shriveled.
Stephen Scott managed to whisper to Elias Johnson, wet-eyed, “Ought we try to get them off?”
The old man stood as if deaf. In all his years at sea he had faced nothing as horrible as this carnage. He had watched grim-faced as sharks had amputated men’s limbs. He had lost friends overboard to beating storms. He had had to bring the sorrowful messages of lost husbands and fathers and sons to weeping widows and puzzled children. It had been harrowing and painful, but within his comprehension. This scene of obscene insect debauchery—he could call it nothing else—emptied him of all spirit.
But he was the captain of this craft, and he was in charge. The decision was his and he made it without hesitation. “No!” he told Stephen Scott. “For God’s sake, let it be!”
“But—” The selectman made a gesture of pleading toward the shore. Even the pitiful remains deserved whatever decent Christian burial could be arranged.
Johnson read his thought and shook his head sorrowfully. “Stephen, by the time we tried to get in there, the tide will have the whole beach.” His voice broke. “But I wouldn’t bring them home even if we could!” The old man’s eyes were wet as he watched the waves scour the shore, lifting more of the broken bodies out to sea each time. “I take it as a blessing.” Let Nature cleanse what Nature had fouled.
Stephen Scott bowed his head and closed his eyes in his own silent prayer. Elias was right. Let the sea take what remained of the roach-desecrated children. The tides here would carry them away from shore eastward past the “cold wall”—the waters between the Cape and the Gulf Stream—and the Stream would mercifully bury the innocents in the deep forever. Let the parents never know the truth. Let all believe no one had been able to get ashore from the wrecked Tub. Everyone knew there were perilous riptides along this shore, especially when the sea was coming in, as now, during a nor’easter. Yarkie would be filled with lasting sorrow, but the people would suffer drowning easier than the unbearable truth.
Scott nodded to Elias Johnson. They were both sure the other witnesses with them would not disagree.
SIX
Amos Tarbell let his binoculars drop heavily to his chest from his big hands. He made no effort to hide his sobs. “I was in Vietnam and God knows I never saw anything as awful as this!”
Russell Homer kept his glasses to his eyes. He said in a thready voice, “I wonder how Reed is making out.”
Ben Dorset’s jaws were twitching with his effort to keep his knees from buckling. “I am praying to the good God that the fire kept Reed away before he could ever see that beach . . .”
“Amen,” the others said, as the big deputy broke into heaving tears.
SEARCH
ONE
Craig Soaras had returned from his Chatham trip too late for his cargo of dry-ice extinguishers to help the fire department with the High Ridge blaze. The same fierce seas that had scoured the east shore of the dead children had slowed even Stephen Scott’s yacht. By the time Craig reached the laboratory, most of the High Ridge fire was out, with volunteers standing by for possible flare-ups.
The volunteers and the group in the lighthouse—who had come to think of themselves as a Task Force—were the only ones left on Yarkie. Even Stephen Scott had agreed that evacuation was imperative. The forest conflagration proved an invaluable reason and excuse, without requiring further explanations to either the people or the ferries hastily summoned from Chatham.
In the laboratory, the scientists were plainly into some kind of experiment with the teeming cockroaches taken from Russell Homer’s garbage retrieval. The roach removed from the sacrificed rabbit remained alone in its original flask. The jar next to it held two roaches from the dump; the next, three; then six; then scores of the insects crowded into other containers. All of this series were without food. In matching flasks on a second shelf, there were beds of garbage for the insects to eat. The idea, Peter Hubbard explained, was to learn how long the roaches would go without cannibalizing each other.
The men regarded the crawling creatures with new loathing and virulence. These were no longer just insects, monstrous as might be. They were The Enemy now—barbaric, vicious, and abominable predators. Their horde was to be searched out, discovered, and destroyed to the last diabolical miscreation, no matter what the danger or risk. Otherwise Yarkie would be surrendered to this incredible malevolence.
Elizabeth and Bonnie had not been told of Dickens Beach. Instead, Elias Johnson had a tragic enough story—the loss of the Tub with all aboard. It was this appalling report to which the women attributed the new unstrung mood they felt in the Yarkie men and the Harvard couple. Although they had all been grim enough before, there had been some interplay—an occasional smile, a personal exchange. Now the men sat as if nailed to their chairs. Every face was tight and feverish. Eyes were shielded, evasive. Heads were bent, with gazes downcast to the floor. Elizabeth supposed it was the agony of the wreck and the battling of the forest fire that left the men so dramatically different from their usual steadiness.
But she had a suspicion that something else might have occurred, especially when her grandfather suggested that she and Bonnie leave the group to prepare supper. Elizabeth’s watch said four in the afternoon, far too early. She was about to ask what he was concealing when she saw the sternness in his eyes. She led Bonnie out at once. She would ask Peter later.
With Wanda Lindstrom standing pale at his side, Peter Hubbard asked Johnson, “None of the firemen reported any roaches?”
“That’s right.”
The scientist rubbed his cheek with the now familiar gesture. “Well, the forest fire obviously got the roaches that killed the children, and the rest of the colony are probably hiding in their nest. The fire would have triggered their alarm chemical over the whole area, and it will take time to dissipate.”
Johnson said, “You say they’re hiding in their nest. Now you are sure we’re talking about ‘a colony’?”
The woman answered him. “Everything points that way. After that terrible beach disaster, I have to say we are not dealing with individual insects. I believe these roaches have definitely mutated in the direction of the ants and termites Dr. Hubbard and I have tried to tell you about. They seem definitely organized, and definitely communicating as an integrated
group . . .”
Hubbard said carefully, “We certainly have to proceed on the basis that there is some center of control.” He indicated the roaches in the jars. “Look here. You can see for yourself a revealing pattern of uncommon behavior.”
The men turned baleful eyes on the insects.
“First, even in the jars where they have room, they are huddled together. That’s unusual for cockroaches, which are normally loners.” Hubbard pointed to the largest jar holding many scores of roaches. “And here we see them resting layer upon layer, the way Dr. Lindstrom said they might.”
“But most important,” the woman said forcefully, “notice how every single flask shows the roaches congregated in one corner! The same corner!”
“And watch this!” Hubbard rotated a jar. The roaches scurried across to the corner opposite their original resting place. The men gulped in wonder. Hubbard declared, “These roaches are definitely getting pheromone signals through the air holes of these flasks. And those chemical signals are definitely coming from one direction!”
“A nest?” Amos Tarbell ventured.
“That’s my bet,” Peter Hubbard said flatly.
“The dump!” Russell Homer gasped. “They’re pointing to the dump!”
“Or a hundred other places out that general direction,” Elias Johnson corrected him dryly. But he went on, “Seems to me the only sensible thing is to check out the dump, and the sooner the better.”
“And get ourselves torn apart?’ Stephen Scott rasped.
The old man kept himself calm. “Now look. It’s only around four o’clock, and it stays light until nearly nine. We dress as tight as we can—diving suits or whatever you have in your warehouse, Stephen. We wear snorkeling goggles. We take these dry-ice extinguishers Craig has brought.” Johnson lifted the red hose of one of the fire tanks, and petted the plastic black horn that hung like a narrow megaphone at the end of the tube. A trigger on the top handle of the extinguisher shot the carbon dioxide through this horn, where the chemical turned to dry ice on contact with the air. Firemen used this equipment specifically for oil and electric fires, where water would only make things worse. The old man continued, “We take guns along, and we take flares.” He looked over at Peter Hubbard steadily. “And we go hunting.”
The scientist met his eyes as steadily and answered as quietly, “We go hunting.” He had his own fury. He prayed silently the children had been drowned first.
“No ‘search and reconnaissance,’ ” Elias Johnson bit the words out. “Search and destroy!”
The scientist understood, and nodded, but said, “Depending on what we find.”
The men rose, ready, fierce. Hubbard held them. “Before we try the dump area, I would like to look at Dickens Beach . . .”
Johnson told him brusquely, “It’s under water now!” Under his breath he added, “Thank God.”
Hubbard said, “I mean the woods where the roaches came out. We might see where they tunneled . . .”
“There are tunnels around Dickens Rocks!” It was Elizabeth, who had obviously been listening at the kitchen door. Excitedly, she said, “If you’re going, I’m coming. I know those woods better than any of you!” Behind her, Bonnie blurted, “Hey, you aren’t leaving me here alone with these cockroaches!” She grabbed her own raincoat and followed Elizabeth who was getting into her gear as the men started out of the laboratory.
Amos Tarbell held back a moment. He had been tempted to advise a delay. Everyone was strained and exhausted, physically and emotionally. But old Elias was right again. Now more than ever they all wanted and needed to get after the sons of bitches. The sheriff shook his fist at the jars of brown, skittering insects lining the laboratory shelves. The roaches seemed to be staring at him with eyes as malignant as his. “Gonna get every one of you miserable damnations!” he pledged in a spasm of frustration. Tight-mouthed, he silently pledged that by the time he and his friends were done there would be no nest of the demon marauders left on Yarkie to plunder its children or anyone else ever again.
When the humans left the laboratory, the roach antennae went into a paroxysm, flailing and curving in what could only be a frenzy of attempted communication.
TWO
The fire above Dickens Beach had burned away the leaves in the forest, and it was easy to clear the ashes off the trails with a scuff of a boot. The Task Force split into groups. Elizabeth and Bonnie went with Peter Hubbard, Wanda Lindstrom, and Elias Johnson. Craig Soaras was following Amos Tarbell and Ben Dorset, while Russell Homer brought up their rear. They went through the charred woods alertly, but nothing moved. Hubbard was right. The roaches were burned to gray powder indistinguishable from the ashes of the leaves and branches.
Or they were in total hiding.
Once again the forest closed around a weird-looking procession. Where Amos, Ben, and Russell had worn yellow oilskins when they set the rabbit trap, these figures were in body-hugging diving suits. They seemed swimmers slowly advancing in an underwater grotto, heads turning constantly, on the lookout for shark shadows. They had to be careful not only of possible roach attackers, but of smoldering embers that lay beneath the ashes. The rain had been welcome, but the storm had blown the heaviest clouds off without a real local soaking. Fire could still explode.
Like a diver, Elizabeth tapped Hubbard’s rubber shoulder, and pointed away from the track he was entering. Despite the somberness of their mission, the man nearly smiled at the picture she made. Beneath the diving goggles, the woman’s lovely lips were moving like a fish’s as she spoke. “I remember when I was a kid, there was an open ditch along here.” She indicated the direction of the dump.
Hubbard aimed his flashlight at the earth. The lingering smoke of the forest fire and the darkness of the sky above made it hard to see clearly, but the outlines of a depression were visible. Elizabeth was right. The trench would never have been noticed before the fire because leaves would have filled it in. The scientist knelt quickly. This could be a major insect trail, possibly leading to a nest! He brushed leaves away with an impatient gloved hand. He came upright with an exclamation and held his find high for the others to share. He was holding a handful of broken cockroach shells. They were charred but had not burned completely. He said grimly, “The roaches were definitely along this way!”
He called the others at once. They joined forces to follow the trail now clear on the forest floor. Spirits rose. They might be getting somewhere at last! The column of pursuers moved faster despite the awkwardness of their protective dress.
THREE
Amos Tarbell moved up alongside Peter Hubbard. “I suppose we can burn them out once and for all . . . ?”
“Let’s find them first.”
Tarbell said, “But we ought to go back for gasoline, kerosene now . . . ?”
Johnson overheard and intervened. “Amos, you aren’t thinking. These woods are still hot. You’d blow us all to hell.”
Hubbard counseled the sheriff. “Amos, there’ll be time. If I’m right, those cockroaches are so scared they aren’t going to move out of their nest for days.”
The sheriff was insistent. “Craig and Ben have the dry ice with us. We have the flares. We could freeze them or fry them right now!” He let his imagination jump ahead, overlooking the fact that they had not yet even found a roach retreat. He wanted to see the insects burn, freeze, go up in smoke, melt in a great combustion of death. He hoped they would make noises, squeal or shriek or whistle in agony. It would help drown the cries of the children he kept imagining in his head.
Wanda Lindstrom said to the sheriff patiently, “We talked about this before. If I’m right about the way they cluster, fire would get only the top layers. Most of the brood would get clean away.”
The man’s anger would not let him rest. “We’d have them trapped, wouldn’t we?” he argued.
“No,” she told him, with an edge of impatience. “They would have many tunnels in and out. We would only defeat our own purpose!”
&n
bsp; Peter Hubbard confirmed, “There would be too many left. I did think of gasoline, of course, but it’s far too dangerous today, and wouldn’t do the job anyway . . .”
The sheriff remained upset. “Then what did we bring all this stuff for?”
“For protection!” Elias Johnson was irritated. “Now quit fussing, Amos. This isn’t easy for anybody . . .”
As the group resumed its slow hunt, none of them realized that a few steps into the opposite trail would have brought them to the burned skeleton of a man. In the instance, it did not matter to either Reed Brockshaw or his friends that it would be days before his remains were discovered.
It took only minutes more, however, for the group to discover they were on a false trail. Whatever purpose the trench had once served, it now ran into a dead end at a great boulder. The men dug far enough around to see that the trail went nowhere.
Elizabeth spoke with sudden spirit. “Peter, I remember a deep kettle hole somewhere out this way. They might be nesting there!”
Elias Johnson’s head came around hopefully. “Liz, I think you have got an idea!”
Amos Tarbell’s vexed face uncreased. “I remember that one, Liz! My father had it boarded over when I nearly fell in myself!” The sheriff grabbed his shovel and started away.
Elizabeth stopped him. “Not that way, Amos! The hole I mean is out behind the Cannon place.”
Tarbell accepted the correction, and the dogged procession resumed. In minutes, the Cannon house was visible in its clearing through the fire-denuded trees. To Peter Hubbard, seeing the mansion for the first time, the building was stern-looking. Its windows were small—harking back to glass taxes in the colonies?—and seemed to be disapproving the strangely-costumed parade emerging out of the trees.
Elizabeth went directly to a small mound of earth. No one needed to be told to be quiet. Breaths were held as the sheriff tiptoed behind the woman. They both kneeled carefully. And both nodded.
The Nest Page 19
