My scream of surprise was swallowed in the vibrating hum of thousands of flies crawling all over the bathroom. They covered the mirror and sink. They obscured the flower-print wallpaper and even surrounded the vanity bulbs above the mirror, shadowing the bathroom in blobs of darkness. They covered the toilet completely, inside and out to form one grotesque living chamber pot.
Even worse, not all the flies were of the small, ordinary house variety. Some were big like the beetle-sized one that crawled over my hand, yet still others were larger, almost kitten-sized. Their sharp hairs stuck out like spikes as the bugs crawled over each other with their jointed stick legs that almost sounded like little pins tapping on a hard surface, but that was just my ears playing tricks because all I could really hear was that droning buzz. That humming of their bodies and the frequent flap of their transparent wings.
I backed slowly out of the doorway, sure that at any moment all of the flies would leap into the air and attack me. They’d swarm around me in one gruesome hive and start suckling at my skin. The large ones might have enough suction to rip the flesh. What would happen if they got inside me? Could the flies eat me alive?
I hurried down the hallway and into the kitchen. I flipped on the hallway overhead light and then the fluorescent kitchen light. I thought there was bug spray under the sink, maybe even a bug bomb.
I stopped. There were flies everywhere. They were crawling over the wood cabinets and the drawers and over the stove and completely concealing the microwave. The front of the dishwasher was now a swirling mass of gray and black bodies, each with black stripes that made them look menacing. They surrounded the fluorescent light as if it were a hanging deposit of food and they canvassed the floor like scavengers.
A large fly, easily the size of a toy poodle, hobbled across the counter over the uneven terrain of thousands of other flies. Its bulbous eyes were black and monstrous. It stopped, cocked its head in my direction. Gelatinous slime slipped from its snout. I swore I could hear it slurp the slime back up into its mouth.
No fly swatter could kill that thing. I needed a phonebook or the giant dictionary we used as a doorstop. Or a shovel or a--
I turned and ran down the steps toward the garage but stopped on the landing. Flies covered the huge wall leading up from the foyer in one giant, living swirl. It was an enormous black eye, an all-knowing evil eye. I know that now. That eye was peering through from the darkness beyond reality; it was watching me, knowing what I did not.
I went down the second flight of stairs to the garage. A beetle-sized fly buzzed into my face. I screamed and slapped it away. It bounced off the wall with a
Thousands of flies filled the air like a dark cloud. The buzzing throbbed and echoed in here like the sound of a giant, groaning machine.
The shovels were on the opposite end of the garage, leaning against the wall between the two large car entrances.
How could I ever kill these flies? I needed an atomic bug bomb. But that didn’t mean I had to stay here, endure this madness.
I hit the two buttons for the automatic garage doors and they groaned to life. The clanking of their motors and the squeaking of their chains barely registered over the buzzing of the damn flies.
The doors rose in unison and the pale light of an autumn moon seeped into the garage, backlighting the flies so it seemed I was witnessing some theatrical illusion.
The world outside was thick with flies. It was as if the ground had opened and millions of the damn bugs had sprouted free.
My car sat only a few feet away. I could jump in and speed off, drive until I found a fly-free zone. Even if the bugs followed me, I could outrace them. Some might get into the car when I opened the door but I could kill those few.
The keys, however, were up stairs in the bedroom on my dresser.
I pulled my undershirt over the back of my head to shield my ears and ran across the garage with my hands up to swat the flies from my face. Even so, they nailed me in every exposed crevice. One struck me in the eye, tried to burrow into it. I had to squish it against my nose. Guts trailed down to my lips.
Flies crushed beneath my feet, their insides mushing up between my toes. But no matter how many I crushed, more flies swarmed onto my flesh.
Leaning against the far wall was a pointed garden shovel, a plastic snow shovel, and the one I wanted: a flat, metal snow shovel that was strong enough to break ice and wide enough to flatten tons of flies at once.
I grabbed it and swung it back and forth before me. Flies clinked and plinked off the metal. Some of them splattered against it. Others bounced off to die against my car and even the far wall.
I ran back inside the house, back up the stairs, which were now covered with flies. I nearly fell on the very top step, my feet slipping on fly gunk. I swung the shovel back and forth before me like some monstrous windshield wiper and ran down the hallway. The shovel bounced off the walls with a vibrating clang that shook my arms all the way into my shoulders.
Clara stood in the bedroom doorway. Her hair was a mess, her nightshirt and sweatpants askew. Flies crawled all over her. They hugged her breasts and swarmed over her crotch. They crawled in and out of her ears.
She opened her mouth to berate me and the two bulging grey eyes of a mole-sized fly filled the space between her teeth. She gagged, her throat swollen like she had swallowed a rolled-up sock. She choked and gurgled against the fly. The fly got its two front legs out, hooked around the sides of her chin, and pulled itself forward. Its head shook back and forth, trying to wriggle itself free. Then the large wings like clear plastic popped out and flapped against Clara’s face.
This was not simply a giant house fly. Its eyes were reddish brown and curved in a slightly different, more menacing way. Behind its head, a large tuft of brown hair poked up and its body was not grey with black stripes but yellow and brown. Yet the worst part, the most horrifying part, was its mouth. Instead of some almost ridiculous snout meant for vomiting and ingesting, this thing had a curved horn like a beak, but that’s not what I first thought. No, at first, I thought of the curved mandibles some vicious spiders have. The kind that’s made for biting, injecting venom, and killing.
I think I screamed, but I might have been screaming the whole time. I can’t be sure. The flies had killed my wife, used her as some kind of incubator, and now were morphing into creatures much more threatening than common house flies. This thing was nasty and, I had no doubt, would relish its first chance to stab my eyes out with its beak.
It came free from her mouth and went right for me. With no room to swing the shovel for a full-strength hit, I used it as a shield and deflected the bug into the wall. It bounced back with ease and came right at me again. It meant to stab me and bite me and, eventually, kill me. Then it would plant its eggs inside me so hundreds of others of its gruesome kind could be birthed into this world.
The shovel smacked it again with a stronger
It bit into my scalp with its pointed beak. I screamed and grabbed it with one hand. Its body was hard like a rock but slimy and its splotch of hair stabbed at my flesh like thorns. It shook in my hand and made a deafening, squalling noise that can only be called a scream. Its legs frantically tried to pry free from my grip. I tried to squeeze it but its body was too hard. Then its beak pierced into my thumb and I threw it to the ground. I brought the shovel down as hard as I could. Brought it down again. Still, the thing screamed in that high-pitched insect cry. I brought the shovel down again and then jumped on it. This finally killed the thing.
I turned back to Clara. Another fly, exactly the same with a pronounced, sharp beak was wriggling its way free from her mouth. And now flies were crawling out of her nostrils, stretching her skin to the point of transparency. They birthed free in gooey, bloody slop, most of them falling right to the floor.
Clara stretched out her arms and reached for me, a death groan vibrating from her throat. And then I knew it: she had willingly given birth to these things. She wanted them to use her, to be born from her. They would do her job. They would swarm after me, attack me, punish me. She was the Fly Mother.
The next giant mutant fly was almost free and Clara’s hands were nearly on me. I swung the shovel. I
