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 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.
posted by Max Orkin at 11:40 PM
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