Steven’s body shuddered as he broke under the weight of his grief. No emotion flickered over Marie’s face. She simply stared into the empty air where she could see the woman from the crossroads, protectively cradling a ghost baby—Marie’s baby—cooing at the infant as it lay nestled in the crook of her cruel arms.
The lamppost shimmered. Asima blinked.
“So what’s this big secret you been keeping from me?” Roger asked and flicked the flame on his lighter.
Asima didn’t respond. She stared across the street at the lamppost. Had the metal really moved before her eyes? An unlit cigarette hung from her dry lips. Roger held the flame steady before her mouth.
“Well, ain’t you gonna light up?” he said. “My finger hurts.”
Asima didn’t answer.
“Damn,” Roger said and let the lighter drop to the ground. He shook his hand then looked at his fingers. Ridges from the lighter had cut into his skin, the flesh of his thumb was red.
“You’re such a baby,” Asima said. She rolled her eyes and pushed past him.
He bent down and scooped the lighter up from the concrete.
“Asima, where you going? Asima?”
Asima didn’t look back. She skittered across the street and stopped in front of the lamppost. She was standing before it with crossed arms willing it to move when Roger walked up behind her.
“What you doing, girl?”
Asima opened her mouth to respond, but no words—only sound—came out. Roger jumped back; Asima clapped her hand over her mouth. The lamppost undulated again—in laughter, it seemed.
“Did you see it?” Asima wanted to ask, but what came out her mouth was: “rrrrrraaaaaaauuuuuuugggggggggghhhhhhhhh.”
In the migration of ants, there is always one that can be distracted. One whose biological imperative hiccups, if only for a moment, and allows it to wander off the track, into some new delight or danger. What would call you from your daily grind? A herd of wildebeest thundering down the street during rush hour?
The movement of metal?
Asima stumbled backwards, but she did not pull her hand from her mouth. Roger lurched toward her, reaching out to help her. She looked at him, light bursting from her pupils. She felt something horrible tearing through her bones. She dropped her hand from her mouth to warn Roger to stay back, and the sound spilled out again: “rrrrrraaaaaaauuuuuuugggggggggghhhhhhhhh.”
In the migration of ants, the one that wanders off, away from the snaking line of workers, is the one who tastes honey. Is the one who climbs a blade of grass. Is the one who drowns.
Is the one who bursts into flame.
Roger was squeezing sweat in his palms. He didn’t know what to do. He had heard of spirits riding you, but only during sleep. He had seen possessions before, but only in church. He was frightened for his safety. He was terrified, too, of the secret Asima was about to tell him.
In the migration of ants, should you be the one that wanders off, you are on your own. Your feelers and you. No more refuge in the maddening movement of your community. There is no boss. No leader.
No queen.
Asima convulsed and leaped toward the lamppost. Roger didn’t know why, but he sprinted forward and caught her before she touched it. When his arms circled her body, the thing she had not told revealed itself. He heard the whisper of her voice. As the words unfolded he saw new life expanding in the air. The rapid multiplication of cells, the formation of new mitochondria and cellular nuclei—the consolidation of Asima and Roger’s DNA.
Roger pulled Asima to his chest, but she was as good as gone. He did not shake her or scream, nor did he plead for her to hold on. Instead he crumpled to the ground, holding Asima close. He leaned away from the lamppost, not noticing that Asima’s hand fell open and her finger rested against the base of the lamppost.
Have you ever seen a loved one burst into flame? I have. That is how this all began. Ages ago in a country that no longer exists, among a people long believed to be extinct, at least by flesh-dwellers, something that was what I am now found someone who was close to me, as close as this Asima is to this Roger — no, closer — and took her from me. Her body was left in flames, and I held her, wanting to burn too, but the flames would not eat me. Instead, they bridged this disease into me. You think the one in flames is in danger. No. She is already gone. It is the other, the one left behind.
The flames did not burn Roger. Even as Asima lay inflamed, he felt no pain. His mind did not register the heat, only the slow but certain advance of Asima’s death. He would not let go of her. Not even when her body began to glow, white hot. He barely flinched when that new life floated from her belly like a gently blown bubble and hovered over his waist. He stared vacantly as it lowered, disappearing into his solar plexus.
In the migration of ants, there is always one.
During third meal, Laki was fidgety. She shoveled down her food without registering taste. Being part of a large birth group had trained her to eat quickly but, for once, her siblings were not the cause of her haste. Today, she was eating alone, and it was an odd sensation that she did not enjoy. There was no one to tell her to slow down or to ask for her leavings. She had finished the whole meal before she realized that no one, not even Se-se was going to join her. With a heavy sigh, she folded her platter in half and pushed it into the dish slot in the wall. The slot sealed itself, and Laki left the kitchen to find some company.
The hallways were incredibly empty, emptier than Laki had ever remembered them being. She walked with one arm outstretched so that she could trail her fingers along the wall. Halfway to Se-se’s room, she stopped and
