Authors: Steve Tasane
She’s right. I ain’t had no sleeps, have I? Been up since yesterday. No matter, our homes is bein’ invaded and we got responsibilities. Ain’t no Mega goin’ to do to my family what I see them do to His Majesty.
Don’ worry
’
bout me
I say.
I’m ready for battle
.
Oh
she say.
Actually I would like you to very slowly turn your head to your left. Don’ say a word, jus’ look, no sudden movement
.
Uh-oh.
I turn my head. Look across her floor.
Higher
.
Look to her bedroom window. See clear blue sky framed by gloss paint. Two straight bits of wire stickin’ down, like TV aerial. Thicker rod between ’em. Right by the edge, jus’ visible, two red globes, cherries.
Room is bugged
say Sis.
At the bottom of the window, the same, only TV aerials stickin’ up ’stead of down. Same bright cherries.
Two of the suckers.
Sis move her hand slowly up from under the bed. Baseball bat. ’Mazin’ how many of us in The Finger keep wooden bats under our beds, even though no one I know actually play baseball.
I give the count of three
she whisper.
You fling the window open, duck straight down
.
I’m with her.
Three!
We move like pros. Two seconds, Sis swingin’ her bat directly where the bottom bug’s bodysack waitin’ for a poppin’.
Damn
. She bring her arm back in, disappointed.
I stick my head out the window. We look up, down, and lef’ to right. Not a bug in sight. Fast as lightnin’.
Down on the ground, we see a council works van pullin’ up.
Hey, lookee here
say Sis.
Don’ see one of them very often. Maybe Big Auntie persuaded the council send someone check out what we all been claimin’
.
Maybe
. I ain’t convinced. More likely they jus’ come evict someone who behind with the rent.
Let’s go see. You up for that, Marsh?
I’m sweet, Sis. Come on, let’s call on Mustaph on the way down, see if he can keep me awake with his repartee and wit
.
So me and Sis and my dog headin’ down to the ground floor. Down and round we goin’, down and round. Mos’ days, stairwell don’t cause me no bother. Today I got me a dizzy feelin’ in my head, feel like I’m gonna stumble, gonna fly, float. Like my head under invasion as well as The Finger.
Wait in the stairwell, while Sis drag out Muskrat, grumblin’ – she disturbed his meditations. Voices fuzzy in my ears, like I ain’t shaken out all of them bugs from the rubbish chute.
Down and roun’, down and roun’. Bug bullet holes in the walls aroun’ us. Ain’t nothin’ else but the helter-skelterin’ of our footsteps, Sabretooth’s unclipped claws, clickety-clackin’ roun’ the stairwell, like we an army of hundreds, ready to do battlin’ with the invaders. Who goin’ to try snatch our territory off of us?
From behind a MISSING DOG poster pinned to a wall, a Megabug suddenly bolt out, waggle its feelers at us, and make a run for it, like it jus’ toyin’ with us.
Down on the ground floor we see two clowns in boilersuits. They from the council, carryin’ a big toolbox full of crowbars, screwdrivers and spanners.
Yo
say Muskrat.
Yo
answer one of the boilersuits sarcastically.
We’re here for the lift?
Meat men finally got tired of strugglin’ with them bodies up and down the stairs. Persuaded the council come and do somethin’ about it.
Step this way
say Sis, and waves them in.
Don’t look like these jokers know how to fix a light bulb in a light fittin’, nor step on no stool to do it, never mind no tower-block lift that ain’t even lifted a finger in months. Still, we lean back against the concrete pillar, fold our arms and watch ’em.
Boilersuit Number One, sportin’ a ’ceedingly helpful nametag
ANDY
, frown at us like he thinkin’
What, are we a circus act now, entertainment for
the youth?
Boilersuit Number Two, nametagged
RACHID
, says
Last job of the day, had to be the lousiest
. He throws us a filthy look, like we responsible for bustin’ our own lift. He open up his box of tricks, bring out two crowbars and what look like a mega drill. Instead of a point, this tool got extendible metal grips, all snuggled tight like – well, bugs in a rug.
Sis got a look of great interest on her face as Andy and Rachid huffle and puffle and sweat and grunt, each tryin’ to wedge his crowbar into the middle of the lift doors, get themselves a good grip, persuade them doors to part. Rachid manages to thrust his magical metal wedge into the incey gap between the doors, with a satisfactory smirk. He begins pumpin’ the handles like Edward Scissorhands cuttin’ down a hedge. As he does, the gap in the lift doors gettin’ wider and wider. Andy is leanin’ in, gettin’ all Vin Diesel and
Uurgh
in’ them doors further open with bare hands.
Suddenly, the doors open fully, ’zackly as they should. Andy and Rachid fall back, as a foulness billows out. They drop their tools, turn and tumble towards us. The foulness overtakes them, reaches us leanin’ comfy ’gainst our pillar. The stink is like the bins behind the butcher’s shop, if you had your head stuffed in ’em, face first. Bug smell.
Andy pulls himself together first, feeds us a look of disgust.
You bloody animals. You don’ deserve housin’. You should be locked in a zoo
.
What? He think this is the smell of the citizens of The Finger havin’ done their business in the lift for six months? Man out of his mind.
Rachid got himself more together than his workmate.
Always the same
he mutters, reachin’ into his toolbag, pullin’ out disposable breathin’ mask, and plastic gloves, like they are used to findin’ people’s doin’s when they fixin’ up lifts.
Hey, Rachid
say Sis.
He stop, turn to look at her.
You don’ wanna go back there
.
She right
say Mus.
Bad business
.
Is that so?
Andy cuts in.
Why don’t you kids do us a favour, go off and loot Argos or something, yeah?
Listen
say Sis,
and listen good. We got a big nest of giant bugs somewhere in the building, and smells to me like you might of found it
. She puttin’ on her most authoritative voice, doin’ her best to be convincin’. They got any brains, they be convinced.
Why don’ one of you fellas get on your radio and call back-up, yeah?
Do one
says Andy. Rachid jus’ grunts, walks towards the lift shaft.
No
Sis shakin’ her head.
You do not want to do that
.
You youth tryin’ to give us orders?
asks Andy.
Why exactly shouldn’t we want to look in the lift shaft?
The bugs will eat you alive
.
Andy sneers. This level of disbelief been our problem from the minute the bugs first appeared. You a youth, adults jus’ won’ believe you. You a youth from The Finger, you lyin’ with malice.
I repeat Sis’s words.
The bugs will eat you alive
.
Andy shoots razor-blade glare at me, like he thinks I’m
darin
’ him.
Watch me
he says, walks forward. Rachid steps forward with him.
Rachid
Sis say,
they goin’ to eat you alive
.
But he don’ even turn around. They walk slowly forward towards the lip of the lift shaft. Peer in. I admit, I’m grimacin’. They lean in and look down. Now I know what is meant in books when they go on about
my heart was in my mouth
.
They squintin’ in, adjustin’ their eyes to the dark. I’m waitin’ for the worst. Andy says
Oh, Jesus. Christ
.
What is it?
says Rachid.
It’s…
Sis catches my eye. She’s ready for everythin’. Got her mobile primed.
…absolutely disgusting
. He take a big step back.
A nymph, not much past egg stage, crawlin’ out of the shadows. ’Bout four inches long, mostly consistin’ of bloodsack. Little legs ain’t yet fully formed. Sorta
wigglin
’ more than crawlin’.
Rachid strides forward.
Filth!
He stamps his boot down on the nymph, and it disintegrates with a bloody squelch.
This whole place is sick
he say.
You need fumigators. The lot of you
.
I hear a rumble from overhead. Step back. Rumble gettin’ louder. Take two steps back. Andy and Rachid peer upwards into the shaft. Sis starts filming. I run back.
A big shadow tumbles down from the lift shaft, coverin’ the council men in gloom.
The shadow is bugs. The shadow is a mass of starvin’ Megas, pourin’ down the lift shaft like baked beans from a tin. Andy and Rachid don’t even get to cuss, jus’ gasp in ’mazement as a ton of Megas fall onto their shoulders, pile around their feet, beginnin’ to climb and bite.
This is where they been hidin’ all this time, cosyin’ up in the lift shaft. Bidin’.
Never seen so many bugs. They are a army. They keep droppin’, wave after wave, from the shaft of the lift. A invadin’ force.
Andy straight away tumble like a slap-sticked clown, pulled in towards the lift. Swallowed.
Rachid drop to his knees. A bug is crawlin’ over his face, its underbelly mufflin’ his scream. It gouges its claws into his ears, its own face hoverin’ for a second, focusing on his eyes, before plungin’ its proboscis right through, deep into his brain. It sucks.
Sis stops filming.
The mass come swarmin’ towards us, crawlin’ along the walls, sweepin’ across the floor, unstoppable as a tsunami tide.
Ruuuun!
yells Sis.
Sabretooth is way ahead of us.
We run.
Past the council van, left with its light blinkin’ like it in a perpetual state of confusion.
Past the smashed-up fence surroundin’ the smashed-up swings and slides.
Past the rundown corner shop with its emptied tubs of choc chip.
Past the scrubby hedge decorated with dog-poo bags. The hedge is officially the end of Finger territory.
We run towards the local school before Sis look back behind her, and grab a hold of my shoulder.
Wait up
.
We stop. Puff and pant and sweat. Eyes dartin’ all around us. Hackles up.
Whole view eerily quiet. No sign of any Megabugs. Just empty kebab cartons clatterin’ along like tumbleweed. Late-day sun dippin’ down behind distant estates. Gloom descendin’.
Can’t help it, keep lookin’ down at my feet, sure those beasties be crawlin’ their way up my ankles.
Mus jabberin’ and shiverin’ like a boy possessed.
Stop it, you two
Sis order us.
You gettin’ me at it too
.
Fair point. There ain’t no Megas to be seen. Not a single one come
pitter-pattin
’ after us. Like they not ready yet to show themselves outside the block.
We catch our breath.
What we done is: we run away.
I am
yellow
.
Sis starin’ at me with a fierce look on her face. I swear sometimes we can read each other’s brains. Sis ain’t no coward, no more than me. Our families are over there, in The Finger, with the bugs.
’Stead of comin’ chasin’ out after us, they gone up. Up towards our homes. Our people.
Come
she say.
We start runnin’ back, all the while keepin’ our eyes out, scannin’ the territory for the enemy. When we get near to the blinkin’ council van, Sis grab my arm, stop me. She gimme a wink.
Before I can stop her, she climbs in. Mus leaps in after her. I’m keepin’ lookout, listenin’ to them rummagin’ round inside.
Mostly porno mags and beer bottles in here, Marsh
say Mus.
Sis say
Here we are. Catch!
Sis type of girl who throw things at you without checkin’ first that you ready to do some catchin’. I’m used to it, throwin’ my arms up front just in time to receive a Thor-sized claw hammer. I weigh it up in my hands. This could smash a lot of Megas. Safe. Sis climb back out, herself clutchin’ what looks like the baddest-assed nail gun.
Mustaph clamber after her wearin’ a hard hat and wieldin’ a … Fast Foam Big One?
Sis fire a practice shot of her nail gun without warnin’, damn near give me a ear piercin’ that I ain’t paid for. Nail appear dead centre of a council notice board, ten feet behind me: NO BALL GAMES. NO CYCLING. NO SKATEBOARDING. NO BARBECUES et cet. Don’t say nothin’ about no nail guns.
Mustaph squirt his Fast Foam Big One gun at the nail. Foam squirt over it, instantly expandin’ and hardenin’. He grins.
Sis tuck whole box full of nails inside her hoodie. Gesturin’ back at The Finger, she gimme that look.
Mus throwin’ Steven Seagal poses with his Foam Gun.
Sis grins at me.
Dare ya?
Oh yeah, I’m darin’
.
We ain’t runnin’ out on our people, see? Them bugs want a turf war, they goin’ to get a turf war.
I ain’t gonna let these suckers get anywhere near Mum and Connor.
I’m a hundred per cent pysched, anticipatin’ diggin’ the claw end of this hammer into a Mega shell, like a old-school oil prospector.
Sploosh.
My head itchin’, itchin’ like I been bit all inside my ears, across the top, round behind my eyes. Scratch it. Scratch it. I got littl’uns tryin’ to escape through my nose, feet ticklin’ me. I push a finger up, squish it against my nostril.
Listen up. They crawled in my ears. Listen now.
Scritch-scritch
. Chewin’ and clawin’ through my earwax, burrowin’ in,
scritchin
’ towards my brains.
They got inside. They invaded.
Scritch scritch
. Through our windows and between our sheets and and behind the sink, bitin’ and suckin’ and pooin’ scattershot bullet holes.
Blam
.
Blam
. In my head.
We are bug fodder. Junk.
Marsh?