Dead of Eve (8 page)

Eugene steered my father’s Sea Ray deck boat away from Hurlin’s ravine. The plume of smoke shrunk behind the tree line. We breached the open water and Joel joined me in the back seat. He kissed my brow. “What did you say to your father back there? In German?”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “I told him I hoped his god was everything he wanted. Or at least I hope that’s what I said.” I let out a small chuckle. “My German’s a little rusty. If he heard me, I hope he appreciated the attempt in his parents’ tongue.”

Joel raised his eyebrows.

“I know. I still don’t believe in afterlife. But after following this visionary nightmare thing today, I have to wonder if there isn’t something.”

He wrapped his arms around me. “Of course there’s
something
. Look around us. The forest, the wind, the lake, the stars…you and me. That
something
is the very energy that connects us.” He rested his lips on my temple. “Everything happens for a reason, you know.”

On the way back, the stillness around us hovered like a miasma. Besides the plant life on the shore and wake behind our boat, life was scarce. There were no other water crafts on the lake to rough the water, no squawking in the trees by ruffled birds, no squirrels scurrying dry leaves. The silence lay like a dead thing between us. We exchanged uneasy looks.

Eugene docked in the boat house.

Joel hopped out. “Stay here while I clear the property.”

When I caught up with him on the shore, we bandied glares. Then he glanced at the boat, where Eugene and Steve waited. “At least someone listens.”

We set off up the path toward the house, scrutinizing everything within the periphery. The small vineyard, the lawn around the house, the circle drive, the woods fringing all sides. No tracks in the dirt. No suspicious noises. The property was free of threats.

Halfway to the house, twigs cracked around us. Foliage rustled. A growling hum erupted and entered my chest. Aphids swarmed out of the surrounding grove from every direction.

Drool stretched from disfigured mouths. Claws snapped in our direction. At least a dozen blocked our path to the house. Their numbers grew.

“Back in the boat,” Joel shouted.

I raised the carbine, pelleted the nearest two as I retreated. They didn’t slow.

Joel did the same, running with me, screaming between trigger pulls. “Start the boat.”

The motor rattled, drowning out Eugene’s shouts. More rounds fired. More unsuccessful hits. We had to get out of there. I spun toward the dock.

A sea of green bodies swallowed the entrance to the ramp.

Cheek against the stock, I exhaled and squeezed. Empty brass sprayed around me. The aphids in my scope ducked and darted. Most I tapped just jerked under the volley and continued chasing.

Pop, pop…pop, click
. I hit the mag release. Tilted the carbine. Knocked the mag loose. Only four aphids down. All head shots, just like the one that broke into our home. Was that the only way to kill them? Destroy the brain?

“Aim for the head,” I yelled.

He grunted, fired off continuous rounds.

They were quicker in daylight. They could see us, dodge our bullets. And a head shot was the most difficult, especially on a moving target. That boat looked farther and farther out of reach.

I reloaded. The decibels of repeating trigger pulls rang my ears. Gunpowder chased my inhales. Carbine in high ready. Exhale. Squeeze.

His empty mag dropped at my feet. “Jesus…fuck…what’ve you got?”

Two M4 mags. Plus the twelve rounds in my USP. “Seventy-five.” Only a fourth of our predators were down. Some were dragging themselves back up. Maybe thirty, forty still alive.

“Make ’em count.” He clicked his mag in place.

The carbine tapped my shoulder, buffered by my vest. The barrel was hot. Clinking echoed around us as our missed shots ricocheted off the house, the shed, the Rubicon. Christ, their daylight reflexes. Seventy-five rounds should’ve been enough, but only one in ten bullets found its target.

The bugs forged ever closer. He screamed, “I’m out.”

I was down to the pistol. Five aphids remained, moving in from the tree line. I had about that left in .40 caliber rounds. I took a step toward the survivors. He grabbed my vest and tugged me back to his side.

“
Joel.
”

His jaw clenched. I was a better shot. He let go of my vest.

I swiveled back to the fast approaching aggressors and swallowed. Twenty yards. The pistol felt awkward in my hand. I adjusted my grip. It was not the time to be a candy-ass.

I bared my teeth and charged. The bug nearest to me lunged. I sidestepped its claws and Joel pistol whipped it. Its head dropped back. Orbs pointed to the sky. I shoved the barrel into its chest and filled it with lead. It fell against me and slid to the ground. I resisted the chance for a double tap and blinked through the spray of bug guts plastering my face. Joel beat another aphid with dull thuds.

Double jointed legs shot out of the bloody pile before me and knocked me off my feet. Shit, I hadn’t shot its head. Joel wailed my name. I unsheathed a knife from my forearm and sunk it in the bug’s eye. It sagged to the ground.

I climbed to my knees. Met two more. Plucked the blade. Plunged it into an eye socket above me. A sticky discharge clotted my fingers. It, too, fell on me. I shrugged it off. Drew the pistol. Aimed for the eye of the other one. Fired.

It screamed. Dark matter burst from its head. Its eye socket stared, hollow and leaking.

The remaining two hovered over Joel. He dodged them with nimble Jujitsu rolls and redirected their force with a swift arm. But his jabs waned. His kicks slowed.

“Hey,” I screamed.

The aphids ignored me. Joel jumped on one’s back. It shook and knocked him free.

I holstered the pistol. Gripped a blade in each hand. Lanced my left bicep, quick and deep. Enough to lace the air. A gush of fire burned through my shoulder. The blood welled. The aphids turned.

Man must evolve for all human conflict

a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation.

The foundation of such a method is love.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The final two aphids sprinted toward me and stabbed the air with speared mouthparts. I dodged. Thrust the daggers at their eyes. Missed.

One crouched to spring when the second lost its footing in a mole hole. I whipped a knife at the crouching aphid’s head. Spun to my left. Sliced off the mandible of the stumbling second.

The second fell back and spewed a black parade of blood and fleshy bits. I finished it with the blade lodged between its eyes. I twisted around. The handle of the knife protruded from the first one’s face, mangled as it was. Its body twitched and sighed.

The strength left my legs and I fell upon my knees. Fire raged from the wound on my arm. I squeezed it to make it stop, but touching it set my teeth against each other and I bottled a scream. At least the arm slicing worked. They couldn’t resist the blood, but—fuck—the pain.

Joel dropped in front of me, his chest bare and his T-shirt in hand. He ripped it in strips and dressed my arm. His silence stung.

“It’s okay, Joel. Really. I mean…there were only a few close calls.” I smiled. Tried to make it reach my eyes. “I think I did all right.”

His voice shook. “You did better than all right. You fucking moved like them. You matched their speed. I don’t get it.” He brushed the hair from his face. “Christ, I don’t know if I
want
to get it.”

I leaned back, wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”

Eugene and Steve approached from the dock. Why hadn’t they covered us from the boat? They were both armed.

Joel glanced at a nearby pile of bodies and looked back at me. “What did you see? I can’t even track them with my eyes. They move like a blur. And you did too.”

I shoved to my feet. “What do you mean a blur? They moved…” Normal. Did he think…? “I’m not like them. I’m nothing like them.” My skin would be green. I wouldn’t be able to see in the dark. And my mouth…

He hugged me, buried his face in my neck. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Were his words for me or himself?

I stood on my father’s deck under the weeping arms of the willow trees, and waited for the rest of the house to wake. Another sip of coffee roused my senses. I leaned on the cedar railing and closed my eyes while the breeze from the lake took me through a memory.

The richness of Colorado mountain mahogany after the rain hung on my inhale. I felt the corners of my mouth tug up at the chimes of children’s laughter saturating the air. Fronds, laden with drizzle, trickled a grateful melody. A nearby stream joined in as water pushed over mountain moraine.

Joel picked through kindling. Annie and Aaron romped through tufted hairgrass and foxtail barley and rolled down a gentle swell in the forest floor, energized by their first camping trip. Beyond their playground, aspen trails snaked through far-reaching hills and valleys. I propped a branch under the tent roof and waterfalls of rain cascaded down the sides.

“Mama, look,” Aaron called. A giant swallowtail hopped from his arm to his tousled locks, antennae pulsing like radar. Powdered wings in bands of black and yellow spread the width of his head, beating in step with his giggles.

The smell of peat and standing water choked out the mountain mahogany. Wetland smog of death and decay settled over me. I opened my eyes, burning but dry. Always dry. I blinked at the lake. Smooth as glass, the surface didn’t move.

Neither did the bodies piled up in the field below. Two days passed since we returned from Hurlin’s ravine and killed twenty-three aphids. None of us wanted to touch them. But the cloud of rot crept closer, grew stronger. It was time to dump them in the lake.

After breakfast, we gathered around the nine aphids that attacked the first night. Steve parted his lips and tightened an arm against his gut. Eugene squatted next to one and slurped coffee from a travel mug. “Damn. That there’s a lard bucket full of armpits.” He fanned his nose.

“An astute observation,” I said.

“Beauty
and
brains, Evie girl.” He puckered his lips and mimed hair fluffing.

We laughed. Even Steve looked a little less sick. Joel rolled a wheelbarrow next to the first pile. Then Joel and Steve hauled while Eugene and I stood guard.

One by one they carted them to the far side of the shoreline, each body more spoiled than the last. The ground was too hard to dig holes. Burning them would attract attention. So, they dumped them as far away from the boat house, and our swimming spot, as they could manage, and watched the alien bodies dissolve in the water.

Eugene lent assistance as the morning wore on. Two hours later and only one breakfast lost—Steve looked the better for it—I plopped next to Eugene on the dock. Rough breaths pushed through his mouth.

I patted his sweat soaked back. “You okay?”

“It’s hotter’n a taste bud in a pepper eating contest.” He dabbed at his forehead with a rag then used it to blot each armpit.

I nodded. “Those bastards are heavy too, huh? I found that out the hard way.” I told him about my encounter with the aphid by the pool.

Eugene whistled. “Ain’t that something? Not surprisin’ though seein’ how you move like ’em.”

Oh hell. I didn’t like the undercurrent of his tone. Every time he smiled and met my eyes, was he looking for tiny pupils? He always took his meals with me. Was he making sure I hadn’t switched to a liquid diet?

My expression must have betrayed me because he said, “But don’t you worry ’bout that, Evie girl. I reckon the Lord’s got big plans for you. Your ol’ man would be proud.” He rested a hand on my leg, fingers squeezing my inner thigh.

“Thanks, Eugene.” I wiggled away from the touch. “Now let’s go cool down and wash off the bug sludge.”

We joined Steve and Joel at the end of the dock. They were down to their briefs. Droplets of sweat glimmered on their backs. I stripped off my vest and weapons at the edge. Then I plunged into the water. Damn, it felt good.

A shampoo bottle and a bar of soap sat on the dock’s edge. We bathed there. We hauled drinking water from there. I tried not to think about that.

Under the murky water, I stripped off my clothes and tossed them next to my boots and weapons.

Joel sprawled on a life vest and floated over to me. “I’ve been thinking.”

My fingers shot to his temples and I massaged with feigned concern. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

He grunted. “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

A wiry hair curled away from his sideburns, begging to be yanked. I obliged.

“Ow.” He slapped a hand over the hurt. “Listen, witch.” The water rippled as he heaved me flush against him. “I need you to clear your calendar for the next few weeks.”

“Hmm. That’ll be tough. Who’s gonna reorganize the sock drawers and buff the handguns to award-winning shine?”

“My point. We need to keep busy. So we’re going to start training again.”

I widened my eyes. “Really? Just like old times?”