The Swarm Read online

She shook her head. “I saw that wrong.”

  She rewound the live TV, played it again, and saw that the name of the old woman read: Miranda Karino.

  She turned the TV off, shaking, picked up the phone to call Paul, then decided not to. What would she say? She had seen a woman on TV’s name as Miss Kari? It’s the funniest thing, Paul, really, because all this stuff that’s going on, and you know how God can be cruel sometimes, this woman’s name on TV in Miss Kari! Well, it wasn’t really her name, but I saw it that way! Is that something a normal person sees? I know! I know! So fucking funny!

  She put the phone down and got up. Outside the sun was canting hard, casting long shadows in the backyard. They had a small house on the West Side of Bay Isle, nestled close to other year-round residents who mostly occupied the western—bay side—of the island. She opened the sliding back door and went onto the patio. It was warm already. It would be hot today. Their yard was enclosed by a six-foot high wooden fence. They had a tiny patch of green grass, which needed a cutting. There was a small wooden shed in the left corner, where Paul kept his tools and she kept her gardening stuff. In the center of the lawn was a fluttering paper. She went onto the grass, taking her slippers off and leaving them on the stone patio. The sun struck her neck, warming, and the dew on the grass was cool and as it wetted her feet, it was somehow stabilizing. She picked the paper off her lawn. It was a crumpled, empty envelope with her neighbor’s address on it.

  Garbage, she thought.

  She went back onto the patio, left her slippers, and walked down the alley on the side of their house, which was a two-story Cape Cod. Most of the houses on the west-side of the island were unassuming Cape Cods. The garbage can was near the front of the alley. She went to it, opened the lid, and put the garbage right on top. She put the lid back, and stood, listening. She could not see beyond the alley, for there was a wooden gate at the end. She heard a noise, softly, and thought it was that of a running car…with a low-volume radio on. She put her eye to the opening on the left, between the house and the gate.

  There was a car. That car, still running, sat on her neighbor’s lawn. The driver’s side door was wide open.

  “What the hell?”

  She unlatched the gate and pushed it open. She went along the concrete walk, she moving slowly with her eyes trained on the idling car. Birds chirped and squirrel rustled in a tree along the curb. It became clear that the car had been driven onto the lawn mistakenly, for it had clipped the mailbox, cracking the post and dropping the box to the driveway. The radio was on, and the driver was not in the car…nor anywhere near the car. The plates were from Delaware, probably a vacationer…

  She stopped at the end of their driveway. She caught movement on her right and looked up the street. There were about half a dozen people moving up the street. They were coming towards her fast, determined, and her first thought was this: they’re zombies.

  Run, she thought. Run fast and hard, lock your door and stay inside.

  But she didn’t run. This wasn’t a fucking movie. She waited, and watched. The six shapes kept coming up the street. There were only two more blocks before the end of the island, which literally stopped on the edge of the bay and wetlands. Beyond that were miles of marshland and water. She didn’t know the people further down the block, only the neighbors immediately next door, speaking of which why was there a car on one of their lawns?

  She glanced back to the car, then turned to left and glanced the opposite way on the street. There were shapes moving in the distance, moving away from her; there were quite a few and she put the number at 20.

  More people, she thought, confused. They’re heading to the east-side of the island.

  She had a quick deduction concerning the abandoned car: the driver had gone up onto the lawn, gotten out, left the car running with the door open, and started walking up the street with the other people in the distance.

  But why?

  There was a low nervousness growing inside her, but she was not scared yet. The fear would come much later when it involved her directly. For now, she waited until the six people coming at her grew closer. She was ready to run, if she had to. These people, they were moving fast but not running: they moved with the dogged persistence of…of what?

  Animals in a herd?

  That was close, but not quite right. It wouldn’t occur to her much later, after the climax of The Swarm: they looked like animals in heat with blinders to all other thought or distractions.

  As they got closer, Dawn recognized one of the walkers; it was Mitch from the Dunkin Donuts. He was the manager. It was one of the only franchises that the blue-hairs had allowed on Bay Isle. Mitch was on the other side of the street, moving in time with the other five. There were four women, Mitch, and one other man she didn’t recognize. One of the women did not have shoes on. She was bleeding from her right foot, each step leaving a red blot as she pressed down. Her toe-nails were painted red. She was tanned. A light perspiration was on her forehead. She gave a slight indication of pain, her face wincing as her injured foot pressed down with each step.

  Why didn’t she put shoes on?

  She called to Mitch, waving. He didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge her voice. He continued, determined, to move along the street. He looked like Mitch, the friendly young man who sold her coffee before work on Saturdays, but he didn’t acknowledge her.

  “Mitch, hey Mitch! What’s going on!”

  Nothing. He kept moving. She started into the street, taking a few steps forward, stopping, then moving forward again.

  “Mitch! Mitch!”

  He was in front of her now, undoubtedly within earshot, but he walked on. She stopped and looked to the others.

  She tried to communicate with them: “Hey, what’s going on!”

  The woman with the hurt foot moved by. The other man with graying hair, eyes focused at some spot down the street, stalked past her. The other three women (one of whom was wearing a nightgown and slippers) passed by. She was left to stand there alone, watching the backs of the six walkers as they moved towards some unknown destination. She watched until they were four blocks down, passing along Bay Avenue, which transverse the entire island, then she went quickly went the rest of the distance across the street. She went carefully towards the idling car, peaking inside. It smelled like coffee. There was a thermos in the cup-holder. The radio station 101.5 FM was on and Jim Gearhart was, not surprisingly, talking about the corruption in the Great State of New Jersey. Unsure of what to do, Dawn reached in and turned the ignition off. The key wouldn’t turn off. Confused, she went further into the passenger side, not wanting to sit in the seat, and she saw eventually that the car was still in drive. Somehow it had settled on enough of an incline that it wasn’t inching forwards. She had to get into the car then, to apply the brake and switch to park. She turned the car off and sat, numb, while the car dinged around her. She pulled the keys out slightly, so the noise stopped, then noticed the cell phone in the dashboard cup-holder.

  The driver left the car in drive, the engine and radio on, and their cell phone in the car. They got out and walked up the street. They didn’t even think that stopping on someone’s lawn might be an issue.

  They’re not thinking, she told herself.

  Those five people and Mitch weren’t thinking. They weren’t even fucking here. They were walking shells. She hadn’t been frightened of them, not really, for they had been so intent on some purpose, some destination that she had not existed to them.

  She got out of the car. The shapes of the people were growing smaller. They were heading towards the beach. She looked to her neighbor’s house. The front door was shut. No car was in the driveway. She knew they were working, but decided to ring the bell anyway. She went in her bare feet up the walk to the doorbell. She rang, waited, and no one came. Her car was in the driveway. It was a two-year old Toyota RAV-4, blue, the sun beaming in sharp angles off the rear bumper. She started back across the street, her limbs tingly and her mouth d
ry. It was one of the few times since taking the pregnancy test that Dawn forgot about the miscarriage. She went down the alley, leaving the gate unlatched in her hurry. She went inside, grabbed the phone, and called Paul. Her hands were trembling slightly and her head hurt from her pounding heart.

  The call went to Paul’s voicemail after five rings.

  “Paul, something weird’ s happening here, and it’s not me. I mean, I am okay. But something’s happening to other people. Call me back, please.”

  She hung up, standing alone in the kitchen, and the terrible thought finally occurred to her: what if Paul was moving like one of those people?

  She called him again. Voicemail. She hung up and called again. Voicemail. She called Paul’s main office line, praying that his secretary would answer, praying that anyone would answer and tell her that Paul was okay, just in the can, or in a meeting…but he had no meetings today, Dawn, you know that, don’t you? He said he was catching up on administrative work, which meant a full day in the office with no meetings.

  “Oh, Christ,” she mumbled. She was near to crying now. “Paul, pick up!”

  The generic office answering message came on, asking the caller to press extensions or find employees in the directory and Dawn wanted to reach into the phone and choke that robotic bitch with her even-toned, somehow alien voice. She hung up and paused, but for only one more minute. Then she grabbed her cell phone from upstairs, her purse, and went out of the house into the car.

  In her haste she left all the doors unlocked, and she didn’t care.

  Chapter 2

  The phone rang in the Rodriquez house at 7:45 A.M. on the morning of The Swarm. Angelica sat up in bed, grabbed the phone, and saw the caller ID displayed as:

  Wireless Caller.

  She knew it was Robert’s cell.

  The shower was running in the bathroom attached to the bedroom. Antonio was not next to her. She could hear him talking to himself—singing or rapping—so she quickly went to the bathroom door and pulled it shut. She had taken the phone with her. She wore boy-shorts, her soft feet whisking across the carpet. She wore only a t-shirt and no bra. The phone had rung three times, and on the fifth time she knew the machine would pick up. She pressed the talk button and answered.

  “Hello?” She said, somewhat groggy.

  “Hi,” Robert said.

  “Hi.”

  “Everything okay?” Robert asked.

  For a moment her heart rate doubled, making her dizzy almost instantly. “Yeah, why?”

  “I don’t know,” Robert said. His voice sounded strange. Not accusing, but concerned. In her guilt she had a hard time deciphering it. “I just been having this bad feeling.”

  “About what?” She hoped it didn’t sound too shaky, questionable.

  “I don’t know. I had a dream last night that the house got struck by lightning and there was a fire, but you didn’t know it…then I couldn’t get inside because all the doors was locked.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. The shower (and singing) stopped in the other room. She knew that he was listening.

  “That was just a dream,” she said.

  “I thought you might have been up already,” Robert said.

  “I was just waking up.”

  “You sound asleep still.”

  “I was just getting up. Where are you?”

  “Indiana,” he said. “About 12-13 hours out.”

  “Did you sleep last night?”

  “Yeah, until that dream.”

  “Sorry, baby.”

  “Okay, just checking on you.”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “I’ll call you when I am back in Jersey.”

  “Okay.”

  “Love you,” he said.

  “Love you too,” she said, and meant it.

  She hung the phone up and then went back into the bedroom. The bathroom door was still closed. She opened it. Antonio was drying himself. He was medium-built with a slight pudginess around his mid-section, but there were muscles in his shoulders and arms. He dried his arms, chest, legs and genitals, which he shaved almost daily. It was nice to see that. It made him look bigger, which was just an added bonus.

  “Everything okay?” He asked.

  “I love him,” she said.

  He stopped, slightly puzzled. He wasn’t sure how to respond. And he knew that he hadn’t heard her wrong.

  “I know,” he said, then kept drying himself.

  “I am a fucked up person,” she said. She put her hand to her head.

  He hung the towel up and came over to her. He was still a little damp, but he wrapped his arms around her anyway. Her smell had a taint of body odor, light, and it turned him on. But later: now he had to focus on her.

  “Don’t say that,” he said. “You’re human.”

  “So is he,” she said. “I can’t see him doing this. Guy would do anything for me.”

  “So would I,” Antonio said.

  “It’s not the same, Ant. You know it.”

  “Okay, but it’s close.”

  “I feel fucking horrible. I don’t know if I can keep this up.”

  She paused for a long time. She knew that he was horny, could feel it, and now she was too, but there were other things, okay, that had to be dealt with like this guilt.

  “I feel like I should tell him.”

  Antonio squinted at her. “Really?”

  “He called me cause he had a nightmare the house was on fire. He said I couldn’t get out, and he couldn’t get in. All I ever have nightmares about is that he’ll catch us. It’s selfish. He’s not selfish. He shouldn’t be married to me. I can’t even give him kids.”

  “Not your fault.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not the point. Point is, I love him. I think I should tell him.”

  Antonio shrugged. He didn’t know Robert, except for the photos and possessions in his house, and he had no business connection to him. Far as he saw, his life would go on unperturbed.

  “That’s your call.”

  “I know,” she said. “I think I will tell him when he gets back.”

  The thought of seeing his face (of the tears that she knew would come) and knowing of the pain, she wasn’t sure if even her own selfish guilt could push her to tell him. She just wasn’t sure of anything.

  “I’ll support you, whatever you do,” he said.

  He leaned into her and tried to kiss her neck. She pushed him back. He knew it wasn’t happening today so he got dressed. She went downstairs and made herself coffee. The sun was bright in the kitchen. From her kitchen she saw the backyard. She took her first sip of coffee. Then she heard the bang. Something had fallen upstairs. She came out from the kitchen and looked up the stairs of their living room to the second floor. Antonio had knocked something over.

  “Ant, what was that?”

  She put a leg up on the first stair. She saw a shadow moving on the wall in the hallway. It was Antonio’s, but he was not answering her. The shadow was not moving right…it was sort of shuffling back and forth in very small cycles, as if unsure of which way to turn.

  “Babe! What’s going on?”

  She took two more steps up the stairs. She was about to go up completely after no answer, when Antonio came around the corner. His hair was standing almost straight up in the front. He styled it with paste, but must have stopped without finishing. He wore boxer shorts and white socks only. There was a ring of toothpaste foam around his mouth. In the center of his boxers was a penis and that penis, absurd, was erect.

  “Ant?”

  That was all she managed, for he did not pause on the stairs. He stepped down the stairs in an unfaltering, determined way.

  He’s possessed, she thought randomly.

  “Ant, wait…!”

  She didn’t have time to move. He walked into her, his knees locking and unlocking. She screamed and fell to the left, onto her belly. The coffee cup fell, spilling hot coffee onto her hand and arm and Antonio’s torso and thigh
. She grappled with the hand-rail, latching onto it with her left hand. Antonio stepped on her right ankle, bending it hard. She winced. Antonio fell forward, missing the last two steps, and landed on the floor. His face hit the floor, hard, knocking a tooth out of his gum. It fell absently from his mouth as he shook his head like a bird discarding the shell of a seed. He stood up again, opened the front door, and left the house in his white socks and boxers, with blood seeping from his open mouth.

  Angelica’s ankle was throbbing. She felt extremely dizzy, ready to vomit, but forced herself to close her eyes and focus on the pain. It throbbed for a while longer, escalating until it reached a peak, and then the throbbing faded to dullness. She managed to turn herself around. The coffee was dripping slowly down the wooden stairs in a tiered waterfall. She stared at the splatter of blood and Ant’s tooth, which looked to her like an absurd piece of popcorn.

  What the fuck just happened?

  She pulled herself up and limped towards the door. Outside she saw people—a lot of people—moving up the street. They were heading to the east, she supposed, towards the beach. She couldn’t count them all. Maybe 20. Maybe 30. She had no idea where Antonio was.

  Ahead of them, she thought. He went out before these people.

  She was about to call out to them, to ask them what they were doing, but she remembered how Antonio’s shadow had moved back and forth on the wall, as if confused, and then she decided not to. She shut the door, locked it, and went into the kitchen. She was shaking and her ankle hurt if she put pressure on it. She got to the phone, picked it up, and called 911. A dispatcher answered. She told him what happened.

  “Where is your friend now?” The dispatched asked.

  “I don’t know. Going down the street, with a whole bunch of other people.”

  “Did he attack you?”

  “No, not really. I think it was an accident.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “We’ll send a car out,” the dispatcher said.

  Angelica thought about called Robert, but what could she say? Certainly not about Antonio, not yet anyway. It wasn’t the time. She could tell him about the people outside. She picked the phone up and called him, deciding she would tell him that. The phone rang five times and then went to voicemail. He probably couldn’t hear it over the truck’s engine, or maybe he stopped for the bathroom. She told him to call her, it was important, please. She hung up and waited. She thought about his dream, how he had called her because of the nightmare that he couldn’t get into the house.