Davis, Jerry - Halloween Ants

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Halloween Ants

Brad Anderson awoke suddenly, sitting straight up in bed and

staring forward into the dark with wide, horrified eyes. He'd

dreamed that he'd killed and eaten his wife. Throwing the sheet

off, he stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, turning on the

light and looking at his pale, shaken face. What is wrong with me?

he wondered. He stared into his own eyes through the mirror,

searching for some sort of answer. Instead of seeing himself he

was reliving the horrible dream, seeing the shock and dumb terror

on his wife's face as he plunged the knife in, cutting her flesh

like he would a deer or some poor farm animal, feeling a dark

hunger as he bit into it like a rabid carnivore. She screamed and

screamed as he ate, dying a little bit at a time. The sound of her

screaming still seemed to ring in his ears.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and there was sweat

beaded up all over his forehead. For God's sake, he thought, what

is the meaning of this dream? Brad splashed water in his face,

dried with a towel, and paused to give himself a once-over in the

mirror – short blond hair, trim mustache, sloping shoulders, baggy

eyes – then walked back into the bedroom, turning on the light and

looking at the bed. The bed was empty, his wife gone. He stared at

it, trying to sort out his thoughts. It must be anger. He did feel

anger, a lot of it – that and shock. Shock that it happened. Shock

at the nerve of Dale McKinney, who lured her away. Shock that

she'd fallen for such a phony, a sleaze.

Brad turned off the light and – against his will – he walked

across the room to the north window and pulled the curtains aside.

Dale lived five houses down and on the other side of the street.

The windows were dark. His wife, presumably, inside. Sometimes he

wished he had the nerve to borrow one of Randy's hunting rifles,

the kind with the big fat 'scope, and just pick the jackass off as

he walked by a window. Or – better yet – out at the golf course

while Dale was giving lessons. Blam! Right through the chest.

He could deal with his anger towards Dale. It was an easy

emotion to understand, especially considering the situation. But

the dream about his wife – it disturbed him. It made him wonder

about his mental health.

Brad rolled back onto bed but was not able to sleep. He

shifted from his right to left side and back, over and over every

few minutes. Finally he gave up, and went downstairs to the living

room and turned on the television. A John Wayne movie was on one

of the cable channels, and he sat and stared at the images and

sounds, letting the television turn off his mind and the ugly

thoughts within.

Later, with the sun shining through the windows and across

his polished hardwood floor, Brad awoke to the distant sound of

his alarm clock going off upstairs. The coffee was on automatic,

brewing away in the kitchen. The smell made him feel better, and

he got up and walked stiff-legged into the bathroom to take a pee.

He dimly remembered the nightmare, but was able to shrug it off.

Things like that didn't matter much in the daylight.

Brad stepped through his weekend morning routine. Shower,

shave, dress, then retrieve the Saturday paper and scan the

headlines while he sipped his coffee. The house around him was so

quiet. It was their dream house, one that Janice was thrilled

with, that made their relocation from Concord, California much

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less traumatic. Brad had been an outstanding supervisor and his

company needed a manager for their new huge shipping depot in

Arizona – this was their chance, with his doubled income and

prestigious job, and this new big house that he and Janice were

supposed to fill with children. That didn't happen, and now she

was gone and it was only him, the cat and the dust motes that swam

in the shafts of morning sunlight. The cat didn't like him, and

avoided him at all times unless the food dish was empty. He hadn't

even seen it for the past few days – for all he knew Janice had

come and confiscated it.

Opening the paper, Brad found the headlines held bad news.

Two more people were missing. This time it was Bob and Dana

Mueller. Like so many people in this small community, Brad had met

and was familiar with these people. Bob was a big, beefy,

country-western type who worked down at the local hardware store,

and Dana was a little redhead with a big attitude who worked with

some computer firm over in Phoenix. That brought the total to six

missing people in two weeks. The Dickson police were appealing to

the state for help, and even thought the paper didn't say it, it

was obvious the authorities thought it was a serial killer.

Brad put the paper down and finished his coffee. He was

hungry this morning, much more than usual. His stomach felt

hollow, empty, and it was making noises. Normally Janice would be

preparing breakfast. A dark thought crossed him – she probably was

making breakfast right at that very moment, five houses down the

street.

He stood, and picking the coffee cup up, he threw it. It

bounced off the wall and the carpet but didn't break. There was no

satisfaction in it. Still feeling dark and hateful, Brad exited

the house through the back door and out the back gate, walking out

onto the golf course path toward the clubhouse.

Along the way he came across several balls of ants. He

kicked at one, and they scattered. They were large, frightening

ants, all black and orange. The locals called them "Halloween

ants." The town's claim to fame was that they'd been overrun by

them. The ants were desert natives, and all the new unnatural

plants – the lawns, the trees, the hedges and flowerbeds – were a

boon to them. It was all food, more than nature had intended, and

their population had exploded. Being that Dickson was an upscale

bedroom community for Phoenix, some important people had been

angry at the ants for eating their grass and flowers. A company

called Nupoint Chemical was invited out to test some of their

experimental pesticides on the hapless bugs, which prompted them

to form in these large, disgusting balls. Brad had tried once to

step on one, but he only killed half of them and the other half

crawled onto his shoe and up his ankle. Like wasps or bees they

had stingers, and several of them got him before he could brush

them off. His leg was swollen for hours, and he never tried it

again.

He reached the clubhouse and walked into the small coffee

shop, and heard half the conversations come to a sudden halt. He

looked around at the familiar faces and none would make eye

contact. It was because his wife, Janice, was sitting with Dale

McKinney in a booth toward the back. Everyone there knew what was

going on.

Janice, her long blond hair pinned back, was dressed in

shorts and a nice blouse. She had a sharp nose and long eyelashes,

and a solid muscular build. Even though she was aware her husband

was standing several feet away she pointedly ignored him. Dale,

who was a tall, lanky man with a stylish three-day beard, had the

balls to smile and wave. Brad felt himself flush. His face and

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neck burned. He walked quickly over to the table, and Dale stood

up and faced him.

"I have nothing to say to you," Brad said, and turned to his

wife.

"I'm the only person you get to talk to," Dale said,

stepping in front of Janice.

Brad lunged, swinging, but the others around them quickly

grabbed the two and pulled them apart. The club manager hurried in

and took Brad by the arm, leading him toward the door. "What are

you doing?" Brad demanded.

"I'm kicking you out."

"You're kicking me out?"

"You have no business coming in here and causing trouble!"

"I'm causing trouble? It's your goddamn golf pro sitting

there with my wife."

"I don't think she's your wife anymore. You should go out

and find another one." The burley old guy pushed him out the door.

"You don't come back until you're calmed down."

Brad cursed at him and then walked angrily away. He couldn't

believe it – the club manager was on Dale's side! Like Dale had a

right to anyone's wife, anyone he chose. Brad felt they were all

against him, all of them, everyone who was sitting in the coffee

shop. He wished he had a machine gun. He wished he could mentally

snap like some disgruntled postal worker and step in there and mow

them down. Then he'd cut them up into little pieces, fry them in a

big pan and eat them. Just eat them. Gobble them down like a good

steak, with eggs on the side.

As he walked down the path back toward his house, he heard a

group of kids signing in their backyard. It was to the tune of a

Christmas song, but the words were oddly changed:

Joy to the world, my teacher is dead

I bar-be-cued her head

Where is the body?

I flushed it down the potty

Round and round it goes

Oh round and round it goes…

Oh round, and round, and round it goes…

The children's song disturbed him, just like his own

thoughts disturbed him. He wasn't merely angry with those people.

He wanted to eat them. It was a genuine desire, not just a

fleeting thought. He wanted to butcher them like cattle and chop

them into steaks, especially Dale and Janice.

Jesus Christ, he thought. Where is this coming from? He

stepped over a ball of black and orange ants and passed his back

gate without stopping. Abruptly he changed direction and headed

across the fairway, walking over to Randy's shack. He needed to

talk, and Randy was the closest thing he had to a friend out here.

In the back of his mind, a niggling little thought persisted:

Randy had a gun collection. Randy had let him borrow guns in the

past. Try as he might, Brad couldn’t get this thought to leave him

alone.

Halfway to Randy's shack, Brad stumbled upon the oddest

thing he'd ever seen. There were two snakes right in the middle of

the fairway, both mottled brown and looking to be of the same

species, and they were eating each other. They had swallowed a

good portion of each other's tail. As he stood staring at it,

there was the sound of an automobile horn, and Brad looked up to

see a van driving right down the fairway at him. Brad took several

steps out of the way and the van drove past, running over the

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Davis, Jerry - Halloween Ants

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