There is no 'Them' after all

One must think of certain moments before.

The day is quiet. Chores are being done. The nest expands. Sugar is brought into and processed by the hive. The sun is out, sparkling over the water traps in the golf courses. Dew covers the grass.

Bunny rabbits hop along the fields.

And 6 Hummers and 2 F350 trucks, loaded down with dead ant carcasses, come barrelling over the hills. They smash through obstacles. They blare their horns. They blast classic rock.

The 2 F350s, loaded down with dead stinking ants, breaks off from the group. They skirt the factory parking lot, sometimes forced into grass and property, letting the air carry the scent of dead ant to the countless working, crawling, building, living ants. A shift overtakes the hive like a rippling wave.

And the trucks are followed. Ants rush behind them like a flood gaining strength. They crawl over each other. They barrel through unfinished work and loose debris. They spit sizzling acid in anticipation.

Having caught thier attention, the F350s circle the northern side of the factory, barely keeping off the railroad load zones, cutting through another parking lot, finally making a violent right turn north, on Park Avenue. Park Avenue runs like a tunnel, both into and out of the debris nest. These Ford trucks, blasting classic rock and bearing ant dead, zoom in and out of this nest like quick mice. The following crown simply wash over the debris nest like a tide. Those inside spill out of all exits to converge on the trucks. The trucks head left, first down Hershey Park Drive, then cutting through a parking lot of Disney proportions. The trucks ramp briefly onto Park Ave, crossing it, then ramp again straight onto a golf course.

They climb the rolling curving land and aim themselves for the center, and largest, of three man made lakes. The drivers and passengers secure the steering wheel, put stones or bricks on the gas pedals, and bail before the trucks jump, flying as fast and as far as they can into the water.

No one recovers before millions of ant legs stampede the human bodies to death. But the ants, being ants, follow the pheremone of thier dead comrades, a pheremone which is a homing beacon, news of a threat to be dealt with, a place mark for vengeance and war.

And they happily follow this beacon into the water. Bodies stacking on top of bodies, drowning, dying, thousands of killed ants building an organic bridge for a posse which no longer knows where the fight is. The search continues, filling the other nearby lakes with more sacrificial ants. The search still continues, and the ants spread over the area, looking for an enemy, like pooling liquid.

The rest of the Hummers, and one Orkin truck, drive straight into the exposed factory nest.

No hive has a blueprint, but we are very lucky in that they have chosen to place the nursury close to the main sugar source. This is very good news. It's not enough to kill the queen. You must poison the next generation.

Or in this case, pour gasoline over the eggs and light a match.

And this fire spreads. Ants can deal with many things. They never had to deal with fire. All they can think to do is evacuate, exiting in a second great ocean of giant insects, crowd surfing thier queen as they leave.

The ant army, on the other hand, gets wind that something is wrong, and converges back on the nest to initiate repairs. But again, they don't know what to do with fire. Smoke and fumes cause some to leave, others burn trying to protect the hive. And since the Hummers are driving with ant bodies attached, ant bodies with that strange star trek style shielding, shielding which pushes against the other ants in just a way to tell them, "Hey, this is your pal, don't spit acid on him", the ants crawl over, around, and even sometimes on top of the Hummers, but they never attack.

And the Hummers can therefore ride the wave, and make thier way to the queen.

And I, having tracked all of this on the battalion's radio traffic, tell one of the militiamen to take the wheel while I prepare a gift for her majesty.

This unfortunately includes me covering myself in ant gut goo. Covered thusly, I then suit up. Coveralls, hat, spray canister on back. Bug bombs in every pocket I have. And Duct tape. Because sometimes the world does depend on duct tape.

I am the fucking Orkin Man, bitch!

And as my truck pulls aside the royal train, I grab hold of a leg, climbing it to the back, and moving on my stomach, to the carried queen.

She's huge. 25 feet or more. Worse, her body is covered in concave discs. But I'm not shooting or attacking her. I'm simply duct taping bug bomb after bug bomb to her surface, climbing over her body at will and unnoticed. I guess the goo trick does work.

And because my family business likes to make high tech gadgets as much as anyone else, these bug bombs are timed release. In two minutes, she'll be breathing enough gas to fumigate the white house.

The colony passes a high tree, and I grab the branches to end my ride. I can't find the Hummers, and my radio gear has fallen off. Moments later I hear what sounds like a signal flare, which I recognize as the first bug bomb going off. The tide of ants below me once again get frantic, and strangely I see the ants piling around thier queen.

And time slows.

And time stops.

But I still percieve.

I am still free to look around.

And I see a second sunrise competing with the sun we already have.

And I hear, in my head, "Dayln...I am now god...will you sit beside me?"

And I feel confused.

And sadness.

And forgiveness.

And then, a woman's love for a hard man.

And all of this...goes...away.


My face is buried in a pillow, I'm lying above the covers, the television is mentioning Canada over and over again and someone is knocking at the door. Still in my clothes from the drive, I slide off the bed. I walk in an S to the door and crack it as far as the chain will allow. I'm looking at Mullet woman.

"You left your wallet at the desk." She says apathetically, then passes it through the door. When I don't lift a hand to take it, she finally looks at me strangely.

"Are you ok?" She asks.

I think about this, then reply, "...giant...ants?"

She drops the wallet into my room.

"No wonder you're an Orkin man." She says, then closes the door.

The even more clever idea...that just...might...work

I saw another movie, Mimic, (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119675/), where the heroes smear bug guts all over themselves, which makes them smell like bugs to all the other bugs, and allows them to infiltrate the hive.

I have no idea if this will work, but I tell the battallion to do it anyway. I figure even if it does work, we're all gonna die anyway. So it's not like I'd be in much trouble if it didn't.

Back along the roads, the battalion gathers up some squished ant carcasses, which really stink, and drags another two drowned ants from water, which don't smell at all. The next several hours are spent trying to pull the bodies apart.

"Can I shoot one?" Bob asks.

Instead of shooting, we work with levers, crow bars, hand instruments. Bullet proof doesn't mean everything proof. In fact, the endoskeletons give way with surprising ease. It doesn't make sense.

Athough we have several carcasses open, I'm reluctant to continue with the plan.

"What's wrong?" Asks Cullpepper.

I silently walk the line between the drowned ants, and the ants crushed by cars. On several pieces of endoskeleton, I find a strange concave circular indentation.

"What is it?" Cullpepper asks me again.

"I don't know. Where were the crushed bodies found?"

Two teeneagers and a woman in BDUs point down the road.

"I need to see the cars that hit them."

They shrug and keep pointing down the road. So I excuse myself and jog over. Dead ant smell lingers. The cars look like they've hit walls. They sit in the road crushed like soda cans into one half or one third thier size.

Cullpepper and others jog over and watch me.

"These cars didn't hit the ants." I say after a moment's silence.

"What are you talking about? The bodies were right under these cars." Says one of the teen age boys.

"But look at the cars. They look like they've been in a crash test."

"So?"

"So? They're ten foot tall ants. They would have hit the legs. If anything, the cars should look like they've hit trees."

"Well then what did they hit?"

And for some reason, in the same way all the action movies come down to one nutty idea, my brain answers with the concave indentations in the ant hide. Instantly, I run to
the last ant corpse, one we haven't started cutting yet. With the nearest crowbar I strike at an indentation. I aim right for it, swing home, and hit just right, or left, or above, or below. Everywhere, but exactly on the concave.

"Anyone else cutting have problems with these spots?" I call out. Most of the batallion nods. When placed directly above it, the crowbar wobbles in my hand.

For my next trick, I place a car in neutral, and roll it beside the body.

"Bob!" I call out. He hustles up. "Bob, let's test the 'ole Saw."

His eyes light up. "Really?"

"Just a couple test shots. I want you to stand here, take aim, and...squeeze off a few bursts." I say, trying to remember action-ese.

Bob looks to Cullpepper, who nods patiently. Everyone clears, Bob sets himself up.

"Fire in the hole!!" He calls out.

The 'Saw chuga chuga chuga's flying hot lead at the ant corpse, which treats us all to a spattering flashing light show. The car doors facing the ant, and on the opposite side of the chassis, shred.

Bob, happy just to shoot his gun, lets out a yell, but the wind covers him in dead ant stink so it turns into a coughing fit.

"Oh God!" He says. "Why, oh why, do they smell so bad?"

And then it finally occurs to me, because I know why. I always knew why.

"Cullpepper?" I say. "I have a much, much better idea."

All is quiet on the cocoa front

They should really call it "Golf", Pennsylvania.

I've never seen a single town with more real estate consumed by golf. Maybe the ants stopped because of all the chances to shoot a couple birdies or something.

I thought it was funny...

We've been travelling for days, and still the only ants we see are dead ants. Most of them squished by car collisions. One or two apparently drowned in large bodies of water. Still no people. The hillbillies are getting restless.

The state roads are too clogged with dead traffic, which forces us to off road it. The company "commander" also decides that moving in a big "J", approaching from the south is the best way to keep some element of surprise. The going is fine until a scout F350 radios back that its spotted movement. We park ourselves and hoof it to the top of a hill.

Six of us stand in a group, passing around a set of binoculars, acting very official. We act official because we don't know how to take what we see.

In the background, there is Hershey Park. Roller Coaster tracks, ferris wheels, the whole bit. In the foreground, the factory, complete with "Hershey Cocoa" written on the grass ahead of the parking lot.

All of this, ALL OF THIS, is crawling with giant ants. They cover both locales like a singlular undulating mass. On top of both areas it looks like they've piled tons and tons of debris in a round bulging mass.

"What are we looking at, bug man?" Asks the Company Commander. He's greying and bears a marine corp tatoo on his arm. The sleeves are torn off his lacket, which I imagine is the original one they gave him, since it has his name on it: Cullpepper.

"We are looking at a nest." I tell him.

"You think?" He says sharply. "What do we do? How do we kill them?"

I think for a second.

"Ants communicate chemically. They literally smell if someone is a friend or enemy."

"So what?"

I think some more.

"So, if we make ourselves smell like the other ants--"

"They'll let us in the front door." Culpepper finishes my sentence.

"Yes, something like that."

"You think so?"

"Well, other than the whole ten feet tall spitting acid thing, they're pretty much like all the ants I know about. I don't know why it wouldn't work."

"And what if they shoot lightning bolts out of thier ass?"

"Then...we all die?"

He chuckles, considers, then asks the obvious question. "How do we make ourselves smell like ants?"

A Bob and his 'Saw

Bob's been itching to shoot his M60.

We're almost to Hershey. The only ants we've seen have been the kind squished by a ramming car. It's wierd.

But Bob is ever vigilant. It's almost sad. He knows his ammo won't last long. So he shows remarkable restraint. The restraint that keeps a man's hands off the stripper giving a lap dance.

I don't have the heart to tell them the ants are bullet proof.

Hillbilly Convoy

The joke used to be that they live in a trailer and have satellite TV.

These people live in a trailer, have satellite TV, and drive Hummers.

How do they get the money for Hummers? Not even used Hummers.

"Billy's uncle works at a dealership. Worked out a special arrangement. He's wound up with at least one a year since they came out."

Some sit half out the window, guns ready for anything, looking for an excuse.


There isn't much to see. Not much moving, anyway. The convoy passes through razed towns. Sometimes the fires still burn. Sometimes they're out. Sometimes it just looks like a wrecking ball hit everything. But there are no people. No bodies. It is as if the towns were empty when they were destroyed.

Travel is not very fast. Most major roads are an obstacle course of wrecked, melted, or parked cars, scattered and rolled over, like a child's been playing with them. Medians are thick with vehicles who's drivers decided it was faster to drive against traffic. The convoy must snake its way through all of this.

"What if we run out of gas?" I ask one of the Militia during a rest stop. He shrugs, unworried.

"Jim brough a few good lengths of hose with him. You gotta figure most of these cars have pretty full tanks. We can syphon out what we need as we go. In fact..." He trails off, pointing to someone already on his stomach, sucking a green garden hose run into a green Ford Mustang. His face turns dark red, then he instantly wants to vomit. Instead he spits out a mouthful of gasoline and shoves an active hose into a gas can.

"You got any kisses?" Asks the Militia man.

"What?"

"Kisses? You got any Hershey Kisses? In case we run into some big critters?"

I'm the fucking Orkin Man

As news spreads of the turmoil in the rest of the country, Hog Island mobilizes its little know, little trained, militia group. In other words, a platoon of beer swilling hillbillies in BDUs, carrying civilian M16s.

I was content to let them swill beer, but they got it in thier head that I could provide "valuable intelligence on the enemy".

They only managed to find me because, well, an Orkin truck is pretty hard to miss. And they had the main road blocked off. And guns.

They had lots and lots of guns.

So I drive up to see them waving thier arms, being very "official". An overweight man then walks up to my drivers side window and taps the glass. Obligingly I roll down the window.

"You the bug man?"

"Sort of. You in the army?"

"Sort of. My commanding officer wants to speak with you."

That sentence does not compute.

"Um...why?" I ask.

"Sir, it is believed that you may be able to provide valuable intelligence on the enemy."

"Um...why?"

He pauses, then says "Well, sir, you know how to kill bugs, right?"

"Yeah, you step on them."

"All due respect, sir, there ain't a boot big enough. But you know what would kill these ants, don't you?"

"Well...we could tell the army to fly a giant magnifying glass over them."

The beer bellied sentry sighs and narrows his eyes.

"Sir, where did you plan on going?"

"Hershey, Pennsylvania."

"We can't allow that, sir."

"Um...why?"

"Because you might be able to provide--"

"--valuable intelligence, right." I interrupt.

He stares at me. I stare at him.

"What's in Hershey?" He says.

"Chocolate."

He starts to get mad. His partner, the skinny man in this two man act, chimes in. "What's the hold up?"

"Oh for Christ's sake! They like chocolate. They're freakin' ants! They LIVE for sugar! If you look at the maps, they slowed down in Hershey. And once ants find a supply of food, they form a train to and from the main nest. Find Hershey, find the supply line, find the nest, find the queen, kill the hive."

The man blinks once, twice, then replies: "How are you gonna kill the queen?"

Now my eyes narrow.

"I'm the fucking Orkin Man."

Beer bellied sentry lets out a yell.

"Now THAT'S all you had to say! Wait up a while, I'll tell me C.O. and we'll escort you on your mission!"

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I'm sure most of the roads are down. You might be needed to defend your homes."

"Are you kidding? We got Hummers and F-350's! And hell, half our wives are in the unit, anyway, an' the other half can join up! You sit tight, we'll get you to Hershey with a full escort and some major firepower! I think we even got ourself a fully functional 'saw 'ole Bob restored up. May even pack about 500 or so rounds. Once we recruit some of the older kids, we should be just about battalion strength!"

Why do I not feel safer?

Some Roads Lead to Hershey

It's amazing how the most mundane items are impossible to find when you need them.

Case in point: maps.

Hog Island actually has a library on it. This library does have a road atlas.

Which is checked out.

Of course, that is only my assumption. I had to break the windows to get in. I don't think anyone will care. Word of the Joe Bob killing ant scout hit the locals and they all drove off to administer some beer and shotgun homeland security. The point is that the road atlas I wanted is missing.

And still, the map is missing. And its not like you can just drive around to a bookstore, a gas station, or whatever. This is northern Maine. You gotta drive an hour to get anywhere. So I decided to rummage through the two room "library" for all its worth. After about an hour I give up and pound my head on a computer moniter.

My action takes the machine out of sleep mode, and the screen fades to life on the Yahoo home page.

No cel phones, but they get internet? I'm not complaining.

Now the real work starts. CNN.com to track movements. Yahoo maps to study the roads.

The invasion of the northeast almost looks like an upside down heart shaped wave.

Which means that something slowed them down somewhere. My thoery is not very scientific. I take a pen a draw a line from the apex of the curve and see where it leads:

Hershey, PA.

It seems our invaders have a taste for chocolate.

Apocalypse LIVE!!

It's the end of the world, and we're watching television.

We're watching television at a bar called "Rosies".

And Rosie is serving drinks while President Bush addresses the nation:

"(pause) our brave troops (pause) are violently, valienly (long pause) engaging in direct combat with these (pause) big bugs (pause). Unfortunately (pause) our weapons are proving inefficient (pause) and unproductive (pause) in the fight for our defense (pause). We therefore advise (pause) that you find, or make use of (pause) underground shelters. After consulting with my generals (pause) it has been determined (pause) that tactical (pause) nucular detonations (pause) placed within our borders (pause) may be necessary to assure the survival of the united states."

Just then everyone in a flannel (as in, not me) erupts into a roar of questions and declarations. People think we should nuke Canada instead. Others see it as a sign of the biblical end times. One swears there is a passage in the bible explaining how ants will be the vessel of God's Wrath.

"How come they're not hitting here?" Asks Rosie, a thin wrinkly woman who could bring down a charging beast. The question is heard but lost in the roaring speculation.

For some reason, the question pulls my eyes to the television, which has almost responded on cue with a news map of the Ants' path of destruction.

"How come they're not hitting here?" Rosie says again.

And just then all the arrows coalesce. Purpose emerges.

"I said how come--"

"Because they're foraging." I call back.

The noise stops. The news repeats Bush's speech.

"What?" Says Rosie. Everyone else stares, waiting for the explanation.

"Ants send scouts for food. Those scouts tell the other ants where to go. They're not here because there's not enough to eat."

The crowd thinks this over.

"I tell you what I think it is. I think it's the second horseman."

"Ants are not a pestilence."

"Well what you think these are, nice neighbors?"

The crowd goes back to making noise, and I notice the TV keeps pointing south. Not just south. And they're all headed for the same place. The eventual frantic absence is ignored.

We're gonna need a bigger truck

I woke up 30 minutes after my scheduled house call. But that's ok. We exterminators can be like the cable company that way.

Except they get no cable up here.

And they know everyone.

And they recon' that Joe-Bob Bumblefuck will be around at two or whot not.

Who the hell says shit like that?

Point being, they get upset when you're not on time up here.

After my lovely hot shower, hot oatmeal breakfast, and hot coffee, I get blasted with COLD as soon as I open the door. It cuts through layers and fleece and shivers the entire body. The damn truck won't start. The pleather seats are cold even through layers and fleece. This suuuuuucks!

Up here the cel phone reception goes in and out. When the truck hits a good place, I notice that Joe-Bob, and yes, his name is Joe-Bob, Joe-Bob from Hog Island, I'm tellin' you I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, he's left me a voice mail.


"Yeah, uh, my name is Joe-Bob, and I'm tryin' ta reach Max. Where the hell are you? My wife is tired of smackin' her counters with a shoe and watchin' some nasty critters crawl around the stove when she cooks! We had a very specific appointment made and--"

Crash, scream, message cuts off.

There's not much one can do to a message like that. You look at the phone. You wonder if you're about to arrive at a crime scene. You drive on like everything is normal.

And you arrive at a house that looks like a train's been through it.

And you find Joe Bob dead under three or four feet of debris.

And you find odd tracks in some mud. Like someone made a giant pipe cleaner bug and that was what ran through the house.

And then you follow these tracks until you come to that giant pipe cleaner bug. Only, it's a giant ant.

So I'm standing in some hillbilly backyard, trash and tractor parts included, staring at a 10 foot tall ant, and suddenly all those canadian news reports jump up from my subconcious. The news said that guns don't hurt them. They spit acid. They are virtually unstoppable. And yet, I still manage to ask myself "which spray from the truck is gonna kill this?"

And somehow, I think that the matter is actually that simple. Just spray the giant ant with bug spray, and it will die. Or go away and die later. Or, just...go away.

I am not panicked until it moves. Towards me.

It makes no noise. It just moves forward. Its feet make soft squishes in the mud, like rapid fire wet sneakers. It's body passes right over me and it continues back through the hole it made in the house, then further out, ignoring the truck.

The next car, however, sizzles away after the ant vomits all over it.

The cel phone decides its hit a nice patch of reception, and chimes in a news update.

"Giant Ants Invade. US Military Unable To Stop Them, Suggests Evacuation."

Wonder what my family would say about Them now?

 

Them

Growing up, the old movie "them" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0047573/) was a big thing in the house. The classic joke all the grown ups would say is that if we were in the movie, there'd be no "them".

I guess you had to be there.

No, actually you didn't. I never got it either.

But I couldn't help but think of that movie today.

So my family, still not sure what to do with me, sends me up to some ass end of nowhere place in Maine: Hog Island. Hog, freakin', Island. I have to wonder, if I were ever born in a place called "Hog Island", why would I ever stay?

But stay these people did, and apparently they have this huge ant problem, so some rinky dink branch office calls corporate, and corporate, being made mostly of my family, decides to not expend its usual resources, and sends me to see what's going on.

They fly me to the closest major airport, which was in Rhode Island, give me a truck (the kind we make our house calls with), and tell me to drive it up to Hog Island. Oh god, I don't even get a rental car.

So after about 5, 6, 7 (?) states, hours, and meals involving maple something or lobster something, I pull in to the Jackman Hotel. I see a man with a mullet talking on the phone when I enter the lobby.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The hopelessly bad hair tilts up in response, revealing a woman's face. Her eyes don't really care that they see me, and she's chewing something with slow, unconcious, single movements. After a nice long awkward silence, she asks me, "You need a room?"

"Yes, sirr-ree" I say, badly covering the fact that I almost called her "sir" again.

She shrugs, snorts, and searches both the desk and boredom for keys and paperwork. I fill out everything silently, choose the largest room, and charge it to corporate. If they're going to send me here, they may as well put me in the suite.

Or in this case, the room with satelite TV. I turn on the TV and land face first in the matress. Some Conadian channel has this fake news report about a giant Ant invasion. It is just stupid what passes for entertainment in some places.