by Paul Clinton
Seattle, 1968
An eerie buzzing, and the clacking of large mandibles preceded the appearance of the giant ant from the tunnel. Butch heard Doug letting out a squeal of pain as the ant’s jaws clamped tight around the soldier’s waist. The soldier flailed, screaming as the ant cut him in two.
“I love that part,” Butch shouted.
Alvin laughed. “I’ll bet you never step on another ant,” he teased Doug. “He might have a big buddy waiting to get you.”
Butch had invited The Bad Boys; Butch, Alvin, and Doug, over to his basement for a sleepover and to watch a favorite Science Fiction movie, THEM.
“Radiation exposure creating giant ants… only a brain-dead chump would believe that.” Butch the alpha Bad Boy said.
“Maybe it could happen,” Doug responded with a huge grin. “You know they wouldn’t tell the public. What about this Terrifying Tales comic? It shows something like that happening.” Doug handed Butch his latest comic.
Butch waved it off. “I’m not wasting my time on comic books.”
“Well, you know the fallout shelter by school? I think it’s used for something else. Radiation or other creepy experiments. I heard strange noises and stuff when I walked by on my paper route. Maybe that’s where they’re making giant soldiers.”
“Come on dumb shit, the fallout shelter is there in case there’s an attack from the Russians,” Butch replied. “My dad got a letter identifying which corner of our basement would be safest during a nuclear attack.”
“That may be, but that doesn’t mean the Army isn’t trying to create huge soldiers. There’s more going on than they’re telling us.”
Alvin gazed at Doug with a melodramatic, worried look. Alvin was the joker of the group and Butch couldn’t wait to hear what he would come up with. “They’re probably creating huge ‘glow in the dark’ soldiers. If we’re doing it, then the commies probably are too. In a few years when you get drafted maybe they’ll make you into a super soldier and send you to Vietnam.”
“Yeah, maybe they’re creating soldiers with eyes in the back of their heads so no one can sneak up on them in the jungle,” Doug said with excitement. “They use those trucks under the freeway to move them out late at night when nobody’s looking. Getting ready to send them to Nam—”
“No, no…wait, even better, how about a two-headed soldier,” Butch interrupted. “If one head gets blown off it won’t matter—the other head could do the thinking.” Butch put his arm around Doug’s shoulder and in a mock voice added, “Hey… what’s that growing from your shoulder? Why I think it’s another head! A better looking one too, which is good for you because you were never going to attract girls with your butt-ugly face.”
Butch and Alvin broke out laughing and even Doug had to smile.
Butch pushed his point even further. “If they’re experimenting on animals, what about Lab Rat over there?” He gestured to a dark corner of the basement where a shelf above beat-up cabinets held a metal cage where two rats, one black and one white, were scurrying around. He pointed at the larger of the two, a white albino peering through the bars. “They did radioactive experiments on him at the University. I mean look at his red eyes. They look radioactive to me.”
“No way, you said Lab Rat was a medical rat at the UW. Medical experiments not radiation experiments, and all white rats have red eyes,” Doug explained.
“Medical rat my ass… they pump ‘em full of radioactive isotopes. He seems to have grown a lot since I got him. How else can you explain how much bigger he is than Shadow.”
“Shadow has always been a runt. Lab’s just outgrowing him.”
“Maybe,” Alvin said. “But here’s another problem, if an ant or a rat grew as big as the movie showed, its brain would be larger than ours—”
“Hell, I think Lab’s already smarter than Doug,” Butch cut in. “If he keeps growing you might wake up tonight with a giant glowing set of rat teeth ready to take a bite out of you.”
“Come on Butch, don’t be an idiot.”
At that moment Pouncer, Butch’s cat, jumped up on the shelf and approached the cage. Shadow fled to the back corner, but Lab Rat went wild baring his teeth and gnawing at the cage. Butch walked over and glared at the rat. “Look at that, even Pouncer is afraid of Lab.” Butch leaned in close. “You’re a killer aren’t you?” He took a pencil and shoved it through the wire, poking Lab Rat. The response was immediate and violent; Lab’s powerful incisors chewed into the wooden pencil. Butch hit the cage hard with his hand, shaking it enough to break the rat’s hold.
“Knock it off,” Doug protested.
Lab Rat backed off, crouched down, and went quiet. His eyes stared at Butch with a look of hatred. “Yeah, that’s just what I thought.” Butch sneered at the rat. “You’d love to kill me wouldn’t you.”
Lab Rat smelled the Tormentor as the blurry form approached him.
“You’re a killer aren’t you?”
The instant his whiskers felt the pencil he responded in fear and fury biting the wooden weapon. His response had been automatic as it had been when he heard and smelt the cat, the Hunter, approach him. Then something new wormed its way into his thoughts. Something that he had never felt before. The cage shook and he let go of the wood. He backed off, squatted down and gave in to this sensation. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he no longer felt fear—of the Hunter or the Tormentor—just a seething anger, and a ravenous hunger. He had an urge to sink his teeth deeply into something, anything. He felt confined. He needed room to grow.
“You’d love to kill me wouldn’t you.”
The Tormentor came close to the wire cage. Lab Rat calmly stood up, put his paws on the front of the wire cage and opened his cavernous mouth as wide as he could, exhibiting immense yellow, upper and lower incisors. He clawed at the front of the metal cage. The Tormentor moved back until it was only a dark blob, but still, his smell lingered.
Butch jerked back, startled as Lab Rat displayed his razor-sharp teeth and pawed at the cage. “Geez, maybe we should sleep out tonight. I don’t want to wake to a hundred-pound monster with huge teeth sitting on my chest, ready to take a bite,” he deadpanned.
The Seattle sky had faded from a bright blue to the indigo-black of dusk as the Bad Boys moved outside with their sleeping bags. The green leaves that were so vibrant in the full light had dulled to darker layered shades. A hint of warmth and the smell of fresh cut grass hung in the air giving a tantalizing preview of the hot summer ahead. Once settled, the talk turned back to the fallout shelter.
“It wouldn’t do much good as a fallout shelter,” Butch said. “My dad says it only has room for three hundred. It would need to hold thousands during a real attack.”
“What would your father know about it,” Alvin replied.
“A lot… he was part of the construction crew that built it. They stocked it with canned food and water. But the funny part is they have no stove to heat up the canned food. Dad says you were supposed to tuck a can under your armpit. After ten minutes it would be warm enough to eat.”
“Hey, let’s try that,” Doug suggested.
“Great idea,” Butch added. “I’ll get a can of something.”
Butch returned holding a can of chili and an opener. “Okay Alvin, you’re gonna be our guinea pig on this one.”
“Why me,” Alvin pleaded.
“Your idea to try it so you have to do it,” Butch said with menacing authority.
Fifteen minutes later they opened the can. It smelled bad and was tepid at best.
“Even bacon would smell bad if it sat in Doug’s armpit.” Butch laughed. “I’d rather be a radioactive charred marshmallow than be stuck in that shelter with only canned food to eat.”
“Just talking about food is making me hungry,” Doug said. “Anyone bring anything?”
Alvin reached into his knapsack and pulled out a bag of Cheetos. “Let me show you the best way to open it,” he said with a prankish smile. He held up the bag and clapped his hands hard in the center. Its contents exploded out of the bottom onto the grass. “They’re still good,” Alvin said as he picked up a Cheeto off the grass and popped it into his mouth. They polished off most of the Cheetos and went back to arguing over the fallout shelter.
“It seems to me that just about everything we do to prepare for a nuclear attack is pointless,” Doug said. “Like those duck and cover drills we do at school.”
“I can show you guys the only thing you can do to protect yourself from nuclear fallout.” Butch had a mischievous look. “Now lay on your back with your feet up.”
“Come on Butch, we’re not going to do that,” Doug said.
“Yes, you are. I’ve got some beers I stole from my old man’s fridge. He’s probably already drunk. He won’t miss ‘em. You do as I say, or you don’t get one. I mean both of you… right now!”
Reluctantly Alvin and Doug complied. “Now grab your feet,” Butch commanded. They both hesitated. “Do it… or all the beers are mine. That’s better. Now tuck your head between your legs and Kiss! Your! Ass Goodbye! Cause there’s no way you’re gonna survive a nuclear attack.”
The backyard erupted in anger and laughter. Doug and Alvin assaulted Butch with a barrage of uneaten Cheetos.
“Damn it Butch,” Doug shouted as he tried not to laugh. “That’s the last time I’m falling for one of your dumb ideas.”
After two beers each they all nodded off. As the moon rose Butch jolted awake. He’d had a nightmare but struggled to remember it. He looked around. Alvin and Doug were both asleep. Everything was peaceful and quiet. A beautiful summer night with a full moon lighting up the backyard. Get a grip. He put his head down and was out immediately.
Lab Rat lifted his head from the bloody remains of Shadow. He could not see the Hunter, but its smell and the sound of its movements were clear. He bent down and continued gnawing at the bones and licking up the blood. He had eaten every trace of food in the cage—and a few things that were not food—but still hunger tortured him. He needed to eat, and the smell of the Hunter tugged at him. The sides of the cage pushed against him on all sides. He pushed back. The wire mesh bulged then snapped sending pieces to the floor. He heard the Hunter startle and move further away. He moved to the edge of the cabinet and let his whiskers tell him about the new world he was entering. He smelled the tank of water before his whiskers felt it. Small shadowy objects moved within it. He stood up and reached in. He finished eating, but still, his insatiable appetite drove him. Sensing the Hunter, he climbed down to the pool table. He heard the Hunter twitch and recognized its smell. The vague form of the Hunter no longer looked frightening, but small and helpless. Maybe a meal and not the other way around. He opened his mouth and moved toward the smell. The Hunter fled.
His whiskers felt the stairs leading to the back doors. Ravenous, the odor of food lured him forward. New smells and sounds assaulted him from all directions, but the smell of meat drove him forward. The smell came from three indistinct forms directly ahead. His whiskers explored the first one. Food, but he hesitated. He did not understand what he was waiting for. After all, it was edible, but he longed for something more than just sustenance. His whiskers found the last snoring form. He stood on his hind legs, towering over it. He sniffed and an unmistakable odor assaulted him. This was what he had waited for. He opened his mouth wide and bent over the Tormentor.
Paul Clinton is a retired middle school physical educator inspired to write fiction by odd experiences in his teens.