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. Unless a big one gets in.
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 thwonk. It bounced off the floor this time and tried an upward assault. I swung the shovel like a golf club and hit the thing dead-on. Instead of knocking it down the hallway and into the living room, however, my swing carried it straight up to smack against the ceiling. I had barely a moment to register this before it dropped on my head.
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 brought it right up into her face. Her jaw crunched against the fly. It screeched. Black blood poured down her chin. Clara stumbled back a few steps, steadied herself, and reached for me again. The groan in her throat, impossibly, became words.
“Kyyyyyyllllllllll,” she said. “We have to taaaaaaalllllllllk!” Her jaw crunched up and down against the still-struggling nightmare fly. “It’s veeeeeerrrrry impooooorrrtant!”
I swung the shovel again. It hit her face with a meaty crack. She stumbled. Another hit and she fell. Her hands came up to shield herself but now I had full advantage and I kept bringing the shovel down again and again until she stopped croaking words and that damn fly stopped screaming. At some point, I changed my grip on the wooden handle and brought the shovel down like a stake, right into her face. It tore her jaw completely off.
A new fly was crawling right out of her throat, its eyes covered in blood. It launched itself free and came right at my face. It landed on my nose, directly between my eyes, and stabbed me in the forehead. Intense pain erupted in my head like a blinding, white flash, and I had no thoughts, only reflexes. I brought the shoved directly up with a fast swing and knocked myself to the floor.
Intense pain flooded my head and the world spun beneath me. Darkness flooded in from the edges of my vision, but just before I fell into that black hole, I felt the fly crawl across my face and worm its way into my mouth, pushing my jaw open and tearing at my tongue with its beak.
* * *
Flies can live anywhere from a few hours to several months. In the proper conditions, like in a lab, flies can survive even longer, sometimes much longer.
I haven’t seen them in a long time, but I know where they are. Inside me, of course. I hear them buzzing in there. I feel them planting their eggs in my intestines. When the doctors come in, I try to tell them but they just give me shots. They won’t let me out of this jacket. Won’t let me get at the flies. They want them to be born. They think I’m some kind of freak experiment. They have no idea what they’re getting into.