| Featured Review |
 |
| Featured Review |
 |
| Featured Review |
 |
| Featured Interview |
 |
| Featured Interview |
 |
| Author Interview |
 |
| Author Interview |
 |
|
| They Come Here To Die by by Paul Nemeth (Issue 8) |
“Wop.”
Mark Turner had been staring at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, trying to visualize them clean, when the word sailed through the already-hot morning like an arrow.
“Wop.”
“Jakey?” he called over the kitchen sink. “What’s goin’ on, bro?” He smirked at the word, wondering what his son was trying to say.
“Woooooop!” The toddler shouted the word; part war-cry, part victory chant. Mark saw a boy-shaped flash launch itself across the living-room floor. Despite the oppressive summer morning heat, Mark grinned, never ceasing to marvel at the miracle that was his son. Jake Turner was just over two-and-a-half years old, and already growing into a force of nature. Already the height of a four-year-old, his son was a towhead with a grin like the sun, piercing blue eyes, and a piercing voice to match. Jake sung along to everything he heard: it was clear he’d inherited his father’s genes. Mark’s career as a guitarist kept him busy in the afternoons when he taught, and he was up most nights, but the knowledge that he was doing right by his son kept fatigue at bay. Mark watched the baby (boy, he corrected himself, but he was wise in the way of parenting now; his son would always be a baby to him) fling himself up to one of the living-room windows and halt, stopping on a dime, right index finger out.
“Wop,” the boy muttered almost as an afterthought.
“Now, Jakey,” Mark admonished the boy, but his tone was pure indulgence, “that’s not a nice word to use.” He thought for a moment.
“Well, you don’t hear it much anymore, but it used to be not a nice word, and it still won’t win you any friends if…” His voice trailed to nothing.
“Jake, get away from the window.”
His son stood, finger still suspended in the air, reaching toward the window-frame.
“Jake Turner! Away from the window, now!”
The toddler looked confused, but backed away from the window.
“Goddamn it,” muttered Mark through clenched teeth. He looked around for some kind of killing implement, but thought better.
“Jake. Uppies,” he said to the boy, who looked confused, but reached his hands out when Mark stooped to pick him up. Won’t be able to do this much longer, he thought.
Not only was Jake the height of a four-year-old, but damn near the weight of one. He had to be almost forty pounds, and not an ounce of fat on him: the boy was as solid and Teutonic as they came. The pediatrician had pronounced him in the 50th percentile for weight, perfectly proportioned to the boy’s advanced height.
Mark looked toward the kitchen sink: underneath were a couple of cans of Raid. One was strictly for outdoor use-Mark had used it the previous spring to bust up a nest over their apartment’s front door last spring. He’d shot from about fifteen feet away, and a cloud of twenty of the little black-and-yellow bastards had kicked up. A couple of them had escaped, but most had fallen to the ground, twitching as they died, true to the manufacturer’s promises.
The other can was for ants and spiders: it would probably do the trick, but Mark hated using the chemical inside the house. He sighed: guess it’d have to be a magazine again.
Still toting the hulking toddler, he walked into the living room, keeping one eye on the window-frame in case the intruder took flight.
Jake pointed at the tiny menace. “Wop!” he exclaimed, eyes twinkling.
Mark sighed. Susie, the maintenance supervisor had confirmed the beasts were in fact wasps, not yellow-jackets. “Just your basic paper wasps. Yellowjackets are actually quite a bit more aggressive. These ones won’t attack unless you threaten their nest.”
Fine. Except for the fact that the goddamn pests seemed to have decided the whole thousand-square-foot apartment was their nest, and the Sunny Shore apartment management was taking their sweet-ass time doing something about them.
Fighting his natural urge to kill the nuisance immediately, Mark stood Jake back on the floor. “Don’t move,” he admonished the boy, and it seemed the boy understood. Mark grabbed the digital camera from the shelf and flicked the ON button, eyes still glued to the wasp. It clung to the metal window-frame, not moving. He could have mistaken it for dead, except in death it would have tumbled to the ground. He took two pictures, one from farther away that showed the entire window, and one close-up, to show detail. He flicked the camera off, and grabbed a magazine, scanning back toward Jake. The boy hadn’t moved; it seemed he was engrossed in what his father was doing. Mark grabbed a Real Simple magazine from the wicker basket by the TV, looked at the date, thought better of it, and grabbed an older magazine from the bottom of the pile. He advanced toward the window, making sure Jake was a safe distance away when he started swinging.
This was the real delicate part; if he second-guessed himself and missed, the wasp might fly off and he’d have to chase it through the apartment. It might disappear, and who knew where it would reappear again? Mark rolled the magazine with intent and cocked his hand, lining up the thick periodical with the prone form on the window. The only saving grace so far had been that the wasps were strangely docile. Tiny, one of the handymen (bearing the fearsome stature that accompanied all men nicknamed Tiny) had given his analysis.
“It’s weird,” the lumbering, hirsute worker had explained. “Somebody told me that when you find ‘em sleepy like this, they’re drones-males-who’ve mated with the queen, and they’ve come here to die.”
“I’m just interested in why they’re coming here to die,” Mark had explained to Tiny, not unkindly. “And, I’m really curious to know how they’re finding their way inside a closed apartment.”
“Most likely through gaps in your screens,” Tiny answered. “They can get through a gap the size of a pinhole.”
“Great,” Mark muttered. Tiny’s analysis was nothing new: he’d called the front office repeatedly every year, reporting, cajoling, threatening. He’d finally pulled out the camcorder and digital camera—tools purchased for Jake’s birth—to record every wasp that came into the apartment.
Well, the little bastard had been documented; time to die.
Mark took a deep breath, cocking his arm. Don’t miss, he told himself. He didn’t want to knock the wasp free, riling it in the process. Better to stun it and finish the job on the windowsill or the carpet. Mark took a deep breath, held it, and swung, exhaling as the magazine came down. The periodical hit its mark, smashing the wasp into the glass. The insect fell to the windowsill where it thrashed about, dying. The stinger flicked and jabbed, piercing empty air, trying to kill its tormentor in the act of dying. Watching its abdomen lash out gave Mark a chill, and he brought the magazine down one last time. The tiny corpse bounced in the air with the force of his blow and was still.
“Jake, don’t touch it,” Mark called to the boy, still standing behind him, watching his daddy intently. Mark ran fifteen feet to the kitchen, grabbing a wad of filched restaurant napkins, and returned to the windowsill, wrapping the napkins around the dispatched wasp. For a moment, he thought he felt something sharp through the napkin and shifted the small lump around, holding it more gingerly. He made his way over the once-white carpet to the trash can and threw the pest in.
Mark sighed, turning back toward the living room, watching his son resume playing. “Crap,” he muttered to himself. The apartment had been a steal five years ago, but with yearly rent increases, he and Carmen were paying almost four hundred dollars a month more now than when they’d moved in. It was a sun-splashed second-story unit in Belmont, a San Francisco suburb, but now full of baby detritus and the trappings they’d accumulated during their stay, it seemed at best cramped, and at worst, squalid. And, for the last three years, they’d had the wasps every spring.
Mark picked up the phone, dialing the leasing office’s number by heart. The phone rang twice before the answer came: “Sunny Creek Apartments. Evelyn speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hi Evelyn,” Mark sighed, wondering how to play this. He’d been diplomatic the last two summers, but his patience was wearing thin. He didn’t enjoy putting his asshole hat on, but he was good at it when he had to be. Plus, like most musicians, he’d worked enough service jobs to know what words to use in situations like this.
“I just called to let you know I found another wasp. This is the third one this morning. I’m taking pictures off all of these and sending them to the corporate office, with the others.”
“I understand your frustration, Mr. Turner,” Evelyn started cajoling him. “Antonio from Clark Pest Control has been apprised of your situation and will be here Wednesday.”
Mark let calculated frustration show in his voice. “Antonio’s been here twice already, and came every Wednesday for three months the last two years. Whatever he’s doing doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Mister Turner, we’re so sorry about this. We’re doing everything we can,” Evelyn’s voice showed true regret.
For a moment, Mark was swayed and then his heart hardened. A hell of a lot of good her sympathy does. She doesn’t have to live here. Mark sighed theatrically. “As always, ma’am, I have to advise you that this problem has been going on for a long time, and we have a toddler living here. If somebody here is harmed as a result of your company’s neglect, it’s going to cost your company tens of thousands of dollars. Our son’s never been stung; for all I know, he’s allergic. If he’s stung and goes into shock, your company’s going to be liable for millions, and all you can give me is, ‘the exterminator’s going to be there Wednesday.’”
“I’m going to call Bruce Edwards at the corporate office,” Evelyn said, placating him. “He’s V.P. of property management. We’ll see about getting the exterminator in sooner. If Clark isn’t available, we’ll get a second opinion. I’ll also asking him about compensating you for the time you’ve had to deal with this.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Mark answered, letting his voice cool. “Like I’ve said, if my wife and I were shakedown artists, you’d have known about it already. We just don’t want our son hurt.”
“Believe me, Mr. Turner,” Evelyn gave a graceful, businesslike laugh, “neither do we. I’ll call you later in the day.”
“Thanks,” Mark answered. His son gave a delighted squeak from the living room. “Speaking of my son, something’s up. I’ll wait for you call.”
“Thanks, Mark,” Evelyn answered. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Mark hung up the phone as Jake shrilled again from the other room. He smiled, padding to the living room. “Jakey. What’s so funny?” The boy was running in circles. Spying his daddy enter the room, Jake gave a delighted cry and launched himself into his father’s arms. Mark wrapped muscled arms around his son’s sturdy frame: even though the boy was clad only in a t-shirt and diaper, he could feel damp sweat. Might just take the shirt off, Mark thought. He stood the boy up on the couch, peeling the damp shirt off, although it seemed the wind had kicked up; he could feel a faint breeze on his naked back.
“There you go, Jakey,” he crooned. “All cool now?” He looked to the clock on the wall, spying twenty to twelve. Just about lunchtime. “You want some lunch, Jakey?” His son looked up, over his shoulder, ears cocked at the familiar word. A shadow fell across his face.
“Wop.”
Mark felt it before he heard it; an insistent pulse in the breeze, a whish-whish splitting the air. Then, the buzzing. Like the other wasps he’d heard, but different. At first, without turning his back, he thought there must be a cloud of them, but the quality was wrong: his trained ears detected one signature, not many. I don’t want to turn around.
His son’s rapt gaze remained fixed over his shoulder. Like Jones the cat, the boy’s clear blue eyes were unafraid, but did not waver from their target, would not until he had deciphered whether he was predator or prey. Wop, Mark thought to himself. I don’t want to turn around, but I know I need to. Steeling himself, he turned around.
His mind wandered, not wanting to accept what confronted it. He found himself woolgathering, trying to remember the most bizarre thing he’d ever seen, something that made him deny reality itself. He remembered Halloween trips to cemeteries, tours of haunted houses (the Winchester House in Santa Clara being a personal favorite). He’d turned over his share of rocks, seeing blind salamanders and potato bugs the size of his big toe. He remembered one night at their old house in El Granada, a rugged coastal town, where he and Carmen had heard something big on the rear patio and had clung to each other like a couple of kids on a backyard camping trip, too chicken to look.
The memories flashed through Mark’s mind and were gone. He tried to summon them back, not wanting them gone so soon, but, perhaps wisely, they faded to the background. Look to your son, they seemed to say. If you don’t act soon, it may mean death for both of you. Mark snapped out of it, shaking his head, adrenaline flooding his limbs. Finally, his conscious mind spoke: The fucking wasp is the size of a German shepherd.
He’d swung to face the monstrosity, clutching his son to him. The beast hovered, hanging close to the vaulted ceiling, fourteen feet above them. It buzzed, active, mandibles working. A dispassionate part of Mark’s brain spoke up: This doesn’t seem to be one of the docile ones.
He looked at the abdomen, and the impossible stinger attached to it. How much venom could it possibly contain? Certainly enough to paralyze or kill a grown man, and if that was the case, enough to kill his son with one sting. And, of course, anybody knew that they could sting again and again.
It dove, buzzing them. Mark hissed, swinging his son out of the way, shielding his son with his body the way he remembered his own father doing. He spun, avoiding the stinger, and rolled toward the window until he faced it again. The wasp hovered, giant wings making thunderclaps in the closed space, cards stuck in the spokes of a hellish bicycle.
“What do you want?” Mark hissed. Maybe it had a brain, but he wasn’t counting on it.
Buzz-buzz-buzz. In spite of the fearsome size, it seemed as stupid as its tiny counterparts. No answer came from the empty black eyes. It feinted, half-diving and Mark gave a cry, shielding his son again. Does he understand what’s going on? Mark wondered. Jesus, I hope this isn’t his first memory.
At first, the boy had treated the wop as a giant toy flying through the air, something for his amusement, but he read a different truth in his father’s voice. He wasn’t crying, which Mark was grateful for, but he could tell it wasn’t a game now. The boy watched, catlike, completely in the moment. The wasp buzzed them, coming close enough for the giant insect’s forelegs to brush against Mark’s shirt. He felt hot-pointed gooseflesh raise up, tiny stings against his sweaty torso, now clammy.
“What do you want?” Mark growled. It was either that or scream, and he still had the presence of mind to keep from alarming his son. Buzz-buzz-buzz. The giant wasp helicoptered overhead, flitting to the sun-windows by the TV, then back in front of them, then over to the side. It hadn’t struck yet; apparently Susie’s appraisal was correct. It wouldn’t attack them unless it perceived them as a direct threat.
How the hell did it get in here? Mark wondered. He scanned around, looking for an obvious entryway, but there was nothing big enough to allow the creature passage. Were there more?
Lulled into complacency by the wasp’s non-aggression, Mark had relaxed his grip on Jake and was taken aback when the boy broke free. Smart, the same dispassionate voice in Mark’s head said. He was waiting for an opening to break free.
Jake streaked past the kitchen, but stopped when he heard his father scream. He’d only heard Mark scream once before, when the boy had run out into a street that had been miraculously empty. But Mark wasn’t screaming for Jake to stop; in fact, he wasn’t screaming at Jake at all.
The huge wasp hadn’t regarded them as a threat to this point, but something triggered it. Maybe it was the swift motion, or maybe it was protecting an area to the rear of the apartment, but the wasp hurtled into action, diving toward Jake with deadly purpose. Mark’s mind made the same calculations it had made when he’d killed the beast’s cousin on the window (seeming by comparison the size of the Earth when shadowed by the Sun), but he had nanoseconds to think now instead of minutes. There could be little doubt the wasp saw his son as a threat: the yellow-and-black shape barreled through the air like a great white shark.
Shards of phrases flew through Mark’s mind: Wings…going too fast…stay away from the stinger…grab it by the thorax? It seemed obvious he wouldn’t be able to snatch it out of the air: he’d have to knock it down. The shape descended, picking up speed as it flew toward Jake. Fighting back revulsion, Mark made his decision. Crossing his arms before him, he launched himself at the juggernaut, tackling it football-style and knocking it out of the air.
“Yaaaaaahhhhh!” Mark howled, backing off as the wasp spun on the floor, trying to re-orient itself. The abdomen spun around, needle at the end twitching, looking for a victim to sink itself into. Mark was a big man, over six feet tall, but lithe: he ran four miles three days a week and did his best to keep limber. He jumped, dodging the stinger, planting his right foot on the thorax, the chest section of the wasp. His foot met hardness. Exoskeleton, his mind thought. It has an exoskeleton. How do I get through?
The abdomen swung around again, and Mark saw a drop of poison shimmering on the end of the stinger, a drop the size of a softball. His gorge rose, but the sight of his son, standing frozen in the hall entryway, kept him from folding. He pinned the abdomen between his calves and grabbed the thorax with both hands, immobilizing the obscenity, ignoring the wings whapping his face, shrugging away the weak forelegs. For its size, it didn’t seem very strong or heavy; then again, it would need to be light to fly. The exoskeleton was a problem, though. Mark considered loosening his legs to try to give the beast a good stomp, but he couldn’t risk being stung. If he was paralyzed or killed, his son would be alone in the apartment. Alone with this nightmare that must have been growing, spawning for days or even weeks, unseen by Mark, or his family, or any of the neighbors. The apartments were spacious inside, but close together. Where the hell could it have been hiding?
A silver gleam from the counter caught Mark’s eye, stabbing his heart with a beam of hope. He’d left the Wusthof Grand Prix sitting on the counter, which would have earned him a royal tongue-lashing from Carmen, asking what if the baby had gotten it? She was right, of course; he needed to be more careful, but yesterday’s act of carelessness was today’s work of Providence. Mark took a long breath through his nose, exhaled from his mouth in a harsh haaaah sound, and grabbed the knife. Carmen was good about keeping it sharp, and the blade gleamed in the midday sun. All his energy focused to a white-hot point as he slashed the slim island between the horror’s abdomen and thorax.
Black-yellow ichor flowed, staining the already-gray carpet, but Mark was too busy exulting as the lethal abdomen and stinger fell, separated from the wasp’s midsection. The grotesque appendage fell away, all two-and-a-half feet of it, and rolled by the window, stinging empty air. The nightmare chattered, mandibles working furiously, but Mark leapt to the side. The wings beat the air: it was trying to take off, but circled wildly, unable to steady itself without the heavy abdomen to function as a rudder. As the abdomen ceased its efforts to sting, the fore-quarters fell to earth, the wings stilling, the mandibles falling.
“Holy shit, Jakey,” Mark droned, his voice low. “What the hell was that all about?”
The diaper-clad boy ambled carefully back to his father, never taking his eyes off the carcass. Mark donned flip-flops and, in disgust, kicked the head and thorax over to join the rest of the carcass. Sweat poured down his back and his breathing was ragged. The doorbell rang. Mark panted, not hearing. Another ring, and a key turned into the lock.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Turner,” Tiny greeted them with his typical bacchanalian fervor. Mark stood, not acknowledging. Tiny stopped at the door, question marks in his eyes. A small Asian man followed him, wearing a Clark Pest Control uniform, carrying a small canister with him.
“Is this a bad time? You did say we had permission to enter if you weren’t home.”
Mark’s mind was a blank, still trying to comprehend what had happened. His hand raised itself, motioned to the burly handyman. “All right, then,” Tiny acknowledged, stooping to get his bulk in the door. He was carrying a ladder. The living-room floor was a war-zone of toys and toddler debris: Mark usually greeted the workers with the salutation: Sorry, it’s the maid’s day off. Tiny walked past, not seeing the mutant wasp laying among stuffed animals and trains. He set up the ladder in the hallway.
The immediate threat gone, Jake had gone back into play mode and was streaking back toward his own room. Mark sleepwalked back, paying the handyman no mind. Jake settled in the middle of his room, pulling his favorite train out, and Mark looked toward the boy’s closet. It was open.
Something cracked in his mind, and light shone through. No longer sleepwalking, he strode toward the closet door, opening it all the way, and looking up.
A crack yawned down at him, framing an opening the size of a softball. Much larger than a pinhole, but still small enough to avoid detection unless one thought to look up. It was midnight-black up there, but Mark thought he detected flashes of movement. And, it might be his imagination, but he also heard sounds. Whispering sounds, insectile limbs rubbing against each other, maybe thousands of them.
He spun toward Tiny, who was at the top of the ladder, fussing with part of the ceiling.
“Tiny. What are you doing?”
Tiny wasn’t insulted at Mark’s tone, but looked surprised. “Checking your attic, like we promised.”
Mark shook his head, trying to remember. “We have an attic?”
“Sure. Thought you knew.” The hulking man thought for a second. “Although, the door’s spackled over, and we never told you about it. Didn’t want you storing stuff up there, although it’s not very nice. Probably a hundred and twenty degrees up there right now.”
“Tiny,” the exterminator spoke. “If you get it open, I’ll go up first and check for nests.”
“Will do,” the big man grunted, finishing chipping away the spackling.
“Tiny…” Mark hissed, but his voice died in his throat, the way it did during bad dreams.
The attic door opened, and Tiny was greeted with a monstrous, humming buzz that hurt Mark’s ears. The buzzing drowned out Tiny’s screams, and the exterminator turned tail. Without thinking twice, Mark grabbed his son and cleared the living-room in two giant leaps, sprinting to the parking lot, barefoot and clad only in boxers. His son’s large blue eyes stared up at the apartment, watching the windows fill with shapes like a giant fishbowl.
“Wop,” the boy’s clear soprano voice said.
|
|
| Login |
Not a member yet? Click here to register.
Forgotten your password? Request a new one here.
|
| Featured Review |
 |
| Featured Review |
 |
| NEW ANTHOLOGY |
 |
| Featured Review |
 |
| Author Spotlight |
 |
| Featured Review |
 |
| Featured Interview |
 |
| By Elvis Podvorac |
 |
| Author Interview |
 |
|
| 