Touch the Veil will be published as soon as edits and cover art is finished, so hopefully you'll enjoy this little bonus.
Enjoy!!
I
stood and stretched, my back ached from crawling the last fifteen acres of
Joshua Sharp’s expansive peanut farm, marking out the vast network of
subterranean Pussal larva tunnels. If
Sharp had waited any longer to contract my services, the remaining four hundred
and eighty five acres would end up in the same disastrous state as the back
nine of his fields.
When
I can safely feel my toes again I open the trunk of my Jeep and began pulling
out milk jugs filled with neon green liquid.
No lie, it looks like antifreeze under black light. It’s not antifreeze and as far as I know, it
won’t damage Sharp’s crops any more than the Pussal larva already had. This field wasn't just infested, it was
ruined. If not wiped out, the bastards
would spread. Sharp would lose
everything. And the price of peanuts in
Antigone would ratchet up to astronomical heights. I don’t necessarily care for nuts, excuse me,
legumes, but Denise does.
People
usually limit the preternatural community based on what they read. They’ve lumped them all into varied categories
of sentient creatures; vampires, trolls, faeries, shifters, etc. Truth is and will always be stranger than the
greatest fictions. Every biome has
pests, even the preternatural ones. And
that’s exactly what Pussal larva where, pests, big, ugly, crop decimating
nightmares that perpetuated world-wide famine.
Have
you ever snuggled with a grub? Or
perhaps turned one over while planting your garden, maybe burying a body? Well Pussal larva and grubs have a lot in common. They have a pale white C shaped body, three
sets of legs, and a wormy appearance, though that has more to do with their
lack of spine and supporting architecture than anything else. Bulbous brown heads with no discernible
eyes. And both have a dangerous
addiction to cellulose, as both were dedicated herbivores. That’s where the similarities between the
grub and Pussal larva end.
Pussal larvae were
built like grubs on PCP with a little Miracle Grow thrown in for good
measure. Attached to those similar brown
bulbous heads though, Pussal larvae have two sets of mandible jaw
pinchers. One that is meant to capture
and hold roots while the other works to push food into its voracious mouth;
well they also use them for defense when necessary. Like ants and bees, Pussal larvae share a
hive mind, and have delegated work groups.
They come on like a ravenous horde and don’t leave until they’ve eaten
every piece of vegetation they can.
They’ve caused more than their fair share of crop blights and dust
bowls. Soldiers prowled the perimeters
to keep away intruders, or would be predators while workers harvest and drag
dinner back to the queen.
She’s who I’m here
for. And ten gallons of Wicca fortified
insecticide should more than do the job.
Still, I don’t relish the idea of crawling through those tunnels. They’ll all know I’m there the minute I
breech. And that’s when things will get
ugly. Fifteen acres worth of tunnels, I
didn’t need to be a mathematician to know that beneath the soil wormed a
venerable army of preternatural creepy crawlies. It’s enough to make my skin crawl. Pussal larvae, future B movie stars. Though they’d have to come up with a better
name, something that inspired fear in the masses, grubs just don’t have that
violent ring to it. Not like JAWS.
In an effort to prevent
ruining a clean shirt, I slid on my coveralls and began the arduous task of
dragging the pest-be-gone toward the center of the field. This was where Sharp had first noticed the
damage. He’d even marked off the area with
bright blue flags, very considerate. It
narrowed down the amount of tunnels I was going to have to crawl through. I’d make sure to keep that in mind when I
tallied his bill.
With each step closer
to the circle of blue flags, the ground beneath my feet begins to give. Behind me, all ten gallons of
ultra-preternatural-insecticide were being dragged by a network of cleverly
woven bungee cables and climbing carbineers.
If I fell through and landed in the center of their nest, any discount
I’d planned on cutting Sharp would be negated.
He hadn’t said anything about the integrity of the ground and it was
something he would have noticed. There
was absolutely no way he could drive a harvester over this area. Details man, details.
I try to tread the brittle
terrain the best I can, but the closer I get to those flags, that spindly
feeling of dread unfolds in my stomach warning me I’m not going to make it to
my destination. No sooner than the thought
forms the ground gave way.
Shiii-
-iiii
-ii
-iit.
When I land, it’s with
a firm thud and a freshly blown curse.
Thankfully Mother Nature padded the fall with a convenient pile of rich
soil. Above, the stars were
twinkling. No, not twinkling, they were
laughing. My sudden entry was not
cloaked in stealth or masked by loud machinery so they knew I was here. Quickly my eyes dart from left to right as I
use all the power in my legs to bring the gallon containers below with me, one
at a time. At least they hadn’t fallen
on my head. Oh what fun that could have
been, my second concussion for the week!
Sadly, it wouldn’t be a new record.
The flashlight mounted
to my forehead lit up the tunnel. Four
feet wide, two feet tall, yep, my only navigational option was the belly crawl. Not the best defensible position if the
natives got restless and decided to come at me all mandible wielding ninja
style. For several seconds I studied the
walls, the top and bottom of the tunnel, sifting through the remains of roots
for signs to follow. They had front
legs, three sets for fucks sake, they should have left something behind, a
trail to follow straight to the heart of their compound so I could shove poison
down their queen’s throat and use the rest on any and all eggs. Ew, leaky egg sacks….for a moment that scene
in Alien’s plays out on the back of my lids.
The one where the freaky-tentacle-sucker face latched onto the
unsuspecting soldier, yep, totally what I needed to be thinking about before
crawling down a long dark tunnel into a nest of nasty.
Shaking the imagery of
Pussal larva attempting to attach its mandible jaws to my face, I had only one
decision to make, sigh, left or right.
Keeping with the tradition of any good dungeon crawl, I went left.
Left was a bad idea.
Not more than three
feet committed and I could hear them snuffling and shuffling through the
earthen walls, above and below. They
weren’t in front or behind me yet, but it wouldn’t be long. Extinction event was put on pause as my
flashlight illuminated the path ahead of me, one amber brown mandible peaking
around a corner. Bastards were going to
ambush me. Damn sneaky.
I try to wiggle
backward. It’s a mistake. The space is too narrow for such an acrobatic
feat, and I’m no contortionist. Even if
I was, ten gallons of metaphysical bug spray blocked the backward exodus. Range of movement was a vital and in this
earthen crawl space there wasn’t any. As
the mandibles I’d spotted inch around the corner I slid my hands down my
hips. Bullets were useless down
here. Pussal larvae weren’t much more
than fluid filled sacs. All a bullet
would manage, if it hit, was to turn them into pissed off seeping sacs. Nope, tonight it was all about blades. Close quarters and closer contact, my favorite. Some people like roller-coasters I like hand
to hand combat. And yes, I know how
incredibly psychotic and suicidal that sounds.
If things went Sasquatch hairy, well, I had a grenade secured to my
suit. A very, very last resort since it
wouldn’t kill the infestation, all it would do was collapse their network of
tunnels and force them further out into Sharp’s other fields.
My daggers slide from
their harness, and for a split second, I revel in their reassuring weight, all
2.2 lethal ounces of it. I had four
others attached to various parts of my body, but these were a personal
favorite. Four inch black skeletonized
daggers, one side serrated while the other was sharpened surgeon scalpel
smooth. They slice, dice, and mutilate,
making them perfect for the task at hand.
While earlier I cursed
the gallons of insecticide for blocking any retreat, I’m grateful for them now,
they’ll provide cover so I won’t have to divide my defenses on two
positions. My enemies will come to
me. It’s a very lemon and lemonade
assessment. Battlefield strategy 101.
As if they can hear the
tactical wheels in my head spinning, one Pussal larva finally rounds the
corner, impatience forcing it to make the first move. Mandible gnashing, its albino skin so thin
the flashlight illuminates its gooey innards.
I’m granted one second to appreciate the melatonin in human skin and all
it does to conceal the things we have no business seeing. Membrane lung sacks, milky tubular
intestines, like rolls of puff pastry submerged in white muscadine jelly. That I’m still in my belly crawl position
works to my advantage because its spindly legs force it up so it slides against
the earthen roof. It swings its bulbous
head my direction, the larger mandibles snapping to grab me, covering me with
rancid spittle. Instinct, years of
training takes over. One swift left, the
serrated edge rips through the viscous membrane of the larva’s exposed abdomen
while the scalpel edge of my right blade is shoved through the bulbous
skull. The once soothing dampened earth
smell was replaced by a nausea inducing fragrance of rotted fruit. I’ve pierced a bowel. Bluish green slime slid down my hand just
before I pull my daggers back. The
mandibles take one more wild swing at my face before emitting a low gurgling
noise as it choked to death on its own bodily fluids. A mournful shriek escapes the creature before
its body crumples in a fat seeping heap of disgusting.
There was no time to
enjoy victory or vomit. Three more
larvae have pushed their way around the corner.
And while smaller, they look absolutely pissed. Yep, hive mind. I’m not just an intruder. I’ve been upgraded, my threat level moved up
another level. Goodie. Last thing I wanted was a boring night. It’s not like I had a hot date to cancel or
anyone waiting at home. That this was
the highlight of my week was almost pathetic.
If I was a selfless hero I could claim that I was making the world a
better place, that I was sacrificing my personal life for the greater
good. But I’m not a hero. And even without creatures like the Pussal
larvae, I’d still have no life. At least
I had purpose, direction. That meant
something didn’t it?
The great quandary over
my life’s meaning ends when the encroaching larvae hiss at me, covering me in a
new layer of that rancid herbicidal spittle.
It’s a stink slice festival as I turn insides into outsides and wear
their entrails like soupy merit badges as I carve my way forward, dragging the
insecticide with me as I inch deeper to find an army of rabid mandibles waiting
around the corner. It’s going to be a long night.
Time lost meaning as I
crawled and carved a swath through the Pussal horde. While time consuming and nasty, they weren’t
exactly the smartest or toughest creatures I’ve ever dealt with. Their hive mind had a down side, their shared
consciousness meant they all thought the same, fought the same, and had the
exact same weaknesses. They were used to
fighting small mammals, rabbits or raccoons that mistakenly crawled into their
tunnels looking for an easy meal. They’d
likely never encountered predator like me, so they weren’t prepared for how to
deal with me. The confined space worked
more to my advantage than theirs. Their
vast numbers meant nothing in the narrow confines. They couldn’t overwhelm me, or sneak up from
behind. They were forced to face me head
on-er-mandible on? And I dug into
battle, no longer nauseated by the smell, no longer gagged by the noises my
blades made as I carved their gelatinous bodies. I became a machine, muscle memory and
adrenaline taking over as humanity fell away to hard-wired survival
instinct. The animal beneath the
civilized veneer, it’s in all of us, but mankind likes to pretend we’re not the
most vicious predator on the planet. I’m
not afraid of it. I own it. Some people have an eye for numbers, others
build things. Death is what I do. And damn if I’m not good at it.
I slide through the
gaping maw entrance to the main nest.
Bodies fall to the ground around me, landing in wet thwapping
heaps. I’m bruised and my ankle sang in
mild agony, but it’s nothing a hot shower won’t cure. Considering the mandible militia I’d just
carved through, I actually came away better than I should have. It’s not that I was that good. Any redneck with a Bowie knife could have
done the same thing, but it would have taken longer. Without sparing the corpses a second glance,
I pull the bungee cord tethering the gallons of unconventional bug killer
down. One by one, I tug them out of the
tunnel and set them on the ground, unhooking them from my throbbing ankle. Should have bracketed them to my hip, but you
know what they say about hindsight right.
It doesn’t take a
genius to know I’m in the nest and the horn for a retreat has been blown. There’s no way I killed all the Pussal
larvae. My flashlight illuminated the
room, moving with my head as it swivels from left to right and back again, like
a typewriter. Sure enough the brood
queen is sitting there, blind-fat-and nine times bigger than any of the larvae
I’d encountered in the tunnels. Attached
to her backside is an embryonic sac, with hundreds of soccer ball sized
eggs. Damn, that was enough larvae to
eliminate all the vegetation in the tri-county area. The brood queen lacked mandibles like the
others. She shouldn’t need them. After all, she had an army to defend
her. Well, had, was the operative word
there. I might not have killed them all
but I’d put a dent in her forces.
I look at her size and
then give the ten gallons of poison a skeptical glance. I sure hope I brought enough to do the job…..
She knew I was there
but for all my menace she doesn't make a sound.
No gaseous hissing, no watery warbling.
Her big head just tracked my movements, following me as I shouldered the
poison and dragged it closer. While I
assessed the best route to climb the gelatinous mountain, she studies me. I’m going to have to pour at least four
gallons down her throat. The rest I’ll
have to apply to the eggs she’s already laid.
When you destroy a large group of people, its mass murder, maybe even
genocide if you've got a real hate on for who they are or what they stand
for. When you lay waste to an entire
community of larvae, it’s called larvicide.
Somewhere, someone will read this and think me a monster. That I’m destroying creatures I shouldn't. PETA will add me to their
ever lengthening list of chronic offenders.
I should feel guilty right? I
don’t.
First, these creatures
don’t belong here. They aren't of this
world and I don’t have a way to send them back to where they belong. Second, Pussal larvae do not get full. They eat.
And eat. And eat. Until there is nothing left but barren soil. So it wasn't just Sharp’s peanuts in danger
here. It was the entirety of Antigone’s
flora. Unchecked, they’d create another prodigious
famine. Thirdly, and most importantly,
I’m a humanist. And in the coin toss of
them-or-us existence, I’ll choose us every-single-fucking-time. Someone has to be willing to make these
decisions and carry the consequences because no one else likes the weight of
it. Next time you eat peanuts, remember
this. Next time you give your kid the
apple he’s been begging for, remember this.
And maybe you won’t thank me, if I've done my job right you won’t even know I've done anything at all. You’re
welcome. Now point the judgment
elsewhere while I finish my work.
The ascent was
treacherous, finding and keeping your footing on a waterbed, and the brood
queen’s body is very much like a waterbed.
Despite the pain I’m inflicting with my climb, the brood mother remained
still, silent. And this unnerves
me. As if she’s accepted the defeat.
When I make it to her
head, I have to trap it with my arm and anchor it, though she doesn't fight,
the last thing I need to do is lose my damned footing and land on my ass in
this chamber. With my arm around her golden
brown head, her mouth is forced open.
Using my free hand I pop the first bottle of poison, and turn it up.
“It will be quick,” I
promise, and painless I think but don’t say.
It will taste like honey suckle sugar.
Second gallon, she’s guzzling it down.
Third.
Fourth.
As the last of the
sticky sweet poison drips out, the empty bottle falls to the cavern floor with
the others, landing with a hollow thump.
She still isn’t fighting me, so I loosen my grip on her neck. The poison has to work its way through her
digestive track and right into the eggs in her belly, the ones in her birthing
canal. I can feel her insides quiver beneath me as
the poison finally hits home.
I dismount her
carefully, knowing when she falls I don’t want to be anywhere near her. I back away, letting the poison finish what I
started. The brood queen’s once tall and
foreboding body arches, tilting awkwardly before landing inches away from the
tip of my boots. I wipe my face with a
grimy sleeve, my eyes stinging from some kind of dirt I must have gotten in
them. I can’t physically cry, haven’t
been able to for years, so it’s debris I’m wiping away, not phantom
tears.
Guilt doesn't live
here.
Humans win;
every-single-fucking-time.
