UK-based author Stephen Barnard has been writing and self-publishing both fiction and non-fiction for a number of years. He predominantly writes horror/suspense, and has a number of short story collections and novels available. He has also written the science fantasy trilogy, 'Portentous' and the sports biography 'Calamity Cricket'. His latest release is the novella 'They Let Themselves In' - an inventive take on the home invasion sub-genre. When he's not writing he sometimes teaches, parents, reads and binge-watches horror films.
Read more from Stephen right HERE.
COLONY
by
Stephen Barnard
Mitch was getting a beer from the refrigerator when Keely came in, Trent on her arm and her mouth running. ‘You left the baby outside!’
Mitch popped the cap. ‘He was playing with his truck. I came in for a second.’ The kid’s face was pink, trembling; their fifteen-month-old was distressed about something.
Keely, keen to show Mitch, pulled out one of Trent’s chubby arms. ‘There were ants on him; he’s been bit.’
‘I doubt it; he’s crying ‘cos you’re tugging on him.’ He went over and took a quick look at the plump flesh. There was a pink pimple. ‘That’s nothing.’
‘There’s fire ants in the yard, and you left him defenceless.’
‘They won’t be fire ants – Jesus, Keely, you’re making something out of nothing.’
His wife’s face nearly exploded with fury, but she was smart and held back her vitriol. They both knew this would be allowed to go three or four exchanges before Mitch put his foot down, and a hand up. She didn’t need to go to the diner with a bruised cheek. Instead she just held Trent out. ‘I have to go to work.’ Mitch took the kid with his free arm. ‘Please keep him out of the yard?’
She’d said please, showing Mitch he’d won. ‘Just don’t be late back.’ He took the kid and his beer through into the lounge.
When he heard the front door click, he took Trent out into the yard. If there were ants he wanted to see them, which meant the boy coming with him if Keely insisted he be watched constantly. He sat him down on the lawn, then popped back inside to the playroom. He picked up the four-sided wooden playpen and took it outside. He dropped it around Trent, trapping him.
The kid pawed at the bars. ‘Dada?’
Mitch threw in the truck. ‘Quiet, kid.’
He prowled around the yard, looking for these supposed ants. It was dominated by the dry lawn in its center. Around the edges, marked by tall fences, were the uneven contours of earth that he’d started to turn into flowerbeds, but ultimately couldn’t be bothered pursuing. It was here he looked, walking the boundary.
He found the anthill on the southern flank. It didn’t look much, perhaps twenty centimetres tall, but it was teeming with the coppery-brown, agitated bodies of dozens of fire ants.
Mitch was frustrated that Keely was right. He turned to Trent in his pen, pushing his truck around. ‘You waddle your way over here, big guy?’
‘Truck, dada!’
‘Yeah, yeah…’ He turned his attention back to the mound. His first thought was gasoline and a match. ‘Gonna fight fire with fire, boys.’ Before that though he stomped on the hill, pushing scores of them into the dirt and sending others scurrying in a ring around his foot.
And that was right, wasn’t it? It definitely was a ring – the ants formed a perfect circle around his depressed boot. Crafty little… When he lifted it, they moved in as one, like they were rushing to tend to their wounded. Mitch smirked, impressed. That wasn’t going to stop him taking them all out though. He kicked the earth again and decided on his first wave of attack: boiling water. He would have some fun before the fire.
Back in the house, he put a pan on the stove. He could see Trent through the window, lying on his side, wheeling his truck around. There was nothing wrong with him; it had all been Keely’s overreaction.
When Mitch went back outside with the steaming pan, Trent sat up and waved the toy. ‘Truck, Dada!’
‘Whatever.’ He went over to the anthill and lowered himself into a crouch, careful not to spill any of the boiling water until he was ready. They were back to busying themselves in their criss-crossing lines, carrying bits of leaf and twig – not that there was much of it in Mitch’s barren garden. ‘See if you can dodge this, shitheads.’
Mitch tipped the water onto the mound. The earth darkened, bodies of ants caught in the steaming waterfall turned brown, almost black. Some still tried to escape, despite their scalding; Mitch doused them again until they stopped. He cackled as those outside his circumference of pain scurried away. Not in their funky ring now but straight down into pinpricks in the soil. He couldn’t wait to scoop out a big hole, now the ground was sodden, and pour in gasoline.
‘Truck, Dada, truck!’
Mitch was about to brush it off, but he could hear distress in Trent’s voice. He turned to take a look.
Trent was standing up, holding the bars of his playpen. A large hole had opened up in the lawn and he was shying away from it. The truck had disappeared. Mitch dropped the pan and pushed himself up.
Ants were pouring from the hole, in their hundreds. They didn’t make for Trent but arranged themselves along the underside of the playpen. They were in position within seconds, just as Mitch started to cross the lawn. Then they started to move the wooden structure away, and Trent with it.
Mitch was running, confident he could scoop his son out of there before he got hurt. He reached the hole – still spewing ants – and leapt over it.
But the ground in front of Trent’s pen was no longer firm, and it collapsed under his weight. Down he went, unfathomably far, under the yard.
When he hit the bottom he landed on the truck, crushing it and forcing shattered plastic deep into his side. Swearing, he struggled to move.
Then they were on him: thousands of blood-red, giant ants – finger-length, sharp mandibles clicking furiously.
**
When Keely got home from her shift, Trent was crying in his playpen on the edge of the lawn. In the center was a huge hole, at the bottom of which was the boy’s truck, in pieces.
There was no sign of Mitch. Or ants.