The Flies

A hovering drone sliced through the air and startled Asher awake. Clearing his eyes, he walked into the kitchen and stood by the small bay window overlooking the water. Instead of seagulls, the sky was filled with a swarm of flies, millions of swirling black specks that loured the beach like a festering cloud. He should have left yesterday with the others, but he'd drank too much and was hung over and decided it was all an overreaction, the Governor announcing the evacuation of more than one hundred thousand residents to be followed by a National Guard quarantine of the entire island. Besides, he had nowhere else to go. After twenty-five years of marriage he'd separated from his wife, leaving her and his two sons back in their townhouse in New York City. Other than the break-up which he'd contemplated for the past six months, Asher had no definitive plans; no secret mistress or hidden bank accounts or itemized itinerary of what to do next. Two days ago, his only concern was how long he would have to stay at the shore house until he'd be able to find a more permanent place to live. Now he had a different problem: how to get off the island.

A thermometer was fastened to the pane outside the kitchen window: Eight in the morning and it was already over one hundred and five degrees. Another hour and the heat would be equatorial. Speculation was that the rise in temperature had combined with an absence of wind to accelerate the gestation of the flies concentrated in the fresh water marsh two miles inland. It had happened before, about ten years back when the shoreline had become infested and Asher was forced to cut short the family vacation. This was different.

Asher reached into the refrigerator for a carton of milk and felt a sharp sting on the side of his thigh. He turned and swatted at the fly but it was already gone, pinballing against the cabinets and ceiling until it finally settled on the kitchen window. Couching his movements so as not to startle the insect, he took an old newspaper from the counter, rolled it up and with a quick snap of his wrist smashed the fly against the glass leaving behind a glutinous trail of blood and guts. The reports on the evening news warned that under no circumstance should you pick up or touch a dead fly. They were apparently infected, though the commentator was unclear as to the exact nature of the disease they carried. Asher tore off a strip of the paper and heeding the warning, positioned it between his thumb and forefinger and retrieved what was left of the dead body. Black flies are small, with short legs and tiny antennae. This one was large, nearly the size of a quarter. Keeping the insect away from his skin, Asher dropped it into the sink then ran the faucet and watched as the water flushed it away.

He then sat down at the kitchen table and examined his leg. A large blue welt had started to swell where the fly had bitten him, but rather than fear of a possible infection he was taken by the parched whiteness of his skin. Since the time when his children were born and he and his wife had purchased the house on the island, he'd always carried a deep tan throughout the summer. He tried to remember the last time he'd had a tan. Probably six years ago when his sons were in grammar school and he would spend up to eight hours a day with them in the surf. Now they barely spoke to him, both brothers blaming Asher for the constant fighting that had come to characterize their family life. Much as he hated to admit it, they were right. Asher, who ran a hedge fund, had become restless and disillusioned--with his job, his friends, his cars, his expense account, the trips to China and the vacations in Europe, with everything the world had fraudulently promised would bring him happiness or at least some small measure of contentment. Worst of all was his marriage, a union grounded in bitter complacency. Had he ever loved his wife? If he had, the affection was long past. His marriage like his career had become automated and impersonal, a binary relationship sustained by the pillars of money and social prestige. There was a time when he'd wanted to… he no longer had any idea what he'd wanted. One thing he did know: asked to make a choice he'd taken the easy path, become lazy and cynical trading his beliefs for the security of a well-appointed life.

So, he'd come down to the shore with the intent of putting all the rancor and duplicity behind him, but first he needed to address the rising welt on his leg. He was trying to remember what the news commentator had said about the flies needing human blood to propagate when he heard a buzz, sharp and quick like the jagged teeth of a saw scraping against rusted metal. A second and a third buzz followed and suddenly three oversized flies were banging against the kitchen walls with the same determined mayhem as the one he'd just killed. Asher picked up the newspaper and was about to go after them then stopped. How had they gotten in?

Asher's house was a three-story Victorian with a great room that sat above the dunes with an unimpeded view of the ocean. Before he'd gone to sleep he'd made sure all the doors and windows were tightly shut. He put down the newspaper and checked the bedrooms, the great room and the foyer then each of the three bathrooms. Nothing. It was only when he went into the downstairs family room that his attention was drawn to a low auditory drone. The room connected to an enclosed porch that opened out onto the beach. Except that now the beach as well as whatever vestiges of sunlight remained had been totally blocked out. The porch was alive with insects. The flies had sliced a hole through the screen and were hitting against the family room window with machine-gun intensity. The glass was solid but Asher had no doubt that it was just a matter of time before the swarm found its way into the house.

He was about to get a mattress to reinforce the window when his cell phone rang. It was his wife. She was calm but he could feel the tension in her voice, not from concern but annoyance. Had be gotten off the island? When he said no there was a long moment of silence before she explained, again in the tendentious manner that defined their relationship, that there were reports of similar incidents across the country. Aside from the increasing aggression of the swarms, the more disturbing news was that the flies carried a form of Renault's Disease, a rare degenerative virus that attacked the cognitive and motor functions. Ordinarily, the disease took months to manifest yet for some unknown reason people were becoming paralyzed, even dying, in a matter of hours. As he listened, Asher rubbed the bite on his leg. It continued to grow larger but he decided to say nothing to his wife who would simply launch into a reprimanding diatribe. Instead he said he would contact the police and inform them he was still on the island. She hung up and he was relieved. After more than two decades of dutifully playing his role as father and husband, Asher had discovered that he didn't much like his wife, nor did he especially like his sons or their friends all of whom he found to be self-centered, bigoted and condescending, but what did he expect. They were a product of the life he had made for them, a life of privilege and superiority totally removed from the realities common to the rest of the world. He knew that if anyone were to blame it was him. Knowing didn't make the pill any easier to swallow.

It was still early, only a few minutes past ten. Asher had no idea what progression the swarm would take and so true to what he'd grudgingly promised his wife, he dialed 911. After listening to his repeated apologies and an admission that yes, he was in fact stupid for not having left with everyone else, the police agreed to bring him out, but not by car. Yesterday the flies had been likened to a dirt-stained haze. Today the haze had thickened into an almost impenetrable black veil. Visibility was next to zero. Rather than come in over the steel-girder bridge that attached the barrier island to the mainland, the police would drop down by helicopter. The sky remained clear above the swarm enabling the pilot to more accurately pinpoint the position of his house on the beach. The police captain with whom Asher was speaking told him to set his watch; they'd be there in exactly fifteen minutes. The pilot would be carrying a special insect-repellent suit. The protective canvass gloves and helmet would enable him to safely lead Asher across the beach to the awaiting helicopter and their escape.

Seeing he was still dressed in his undershirt and shorts, Asher rummaged through the bedroom closet and put on a pair of khaki pants as well as a long-sleeved football jersey to cover his skin. Almost immediately, he started to sweat and realized the portable air conditioner he kept in his bedroom had stopped working. As he walked over to inspect the unit it began to shake. The flies. Somehow they had gotten inside. Moving quickly, he pulled the comforter off his bed and wrapped it around the metal casing. He then slipped a pillowcase over the comforter so that the flies were tightly bound and unable to break free.

Then he waited. The police captain had said fifteen minutes but it was closer to an hour before Asher heard the circular whap of the rotary blades. Looking out the kitchen window, he could see nothing beyond the swarm until slowly a large swath cut through the blackness and the helicopter appeared about one hundred feet overhead. The pilot looked down and seeing Asher at the window, waved and held up a red athletic bag that Asher decided must hold the canvass suit, but rather than descend, the pilot continued to hover just above the dunes and the outside deck. Asher assumed the man was determining the best place to land when without warning the helicopter's rear fuselage started to buck and swerve left to right like a giant aerial baton. Despite the intense heat generated by the helicopter's turbine, the flies had somehow penetrated its combustion chambers and blocked the fuel that drove the rotors. The result was that after several more spins, the helicopter pinwheeled out of control and crashed onto the dunes, its blades slicing huge rifts into the sand as the impact threw the pilot out the cockpit door. Asher saw that the pilot, who was still holding the athletic bag, wore the other canvass suit the police captain had described; everything except the protective helmet. Touching his hand to his face, the man also realized he was exposed and began to run towards the beach house, but it was already too late. In a matter of seconds his entire head disappeared into a raging black vortex. Slapping maniacally at the flies, the pilot collapsed to his knees like a puppet cut from its strings. His final act was to swing back his arm and throw the athletic bag up and onto the deck. Whether or not he screamed it was impossible to tell.

Asher stood at the window staring blankly at the pilot's lifeless body. Without the helicopter the only way off the island was over the bridge.

The back of the house featured a three-car garage that looked out across the highway and onto the bay. Asher's car, a late model SUV, was in the garage. The garage was connected to the house by an enclosed breezeway so getting to it wasn't the problem. The problem was how to drive through the swarm. The mass of insects was by now so thick you couldn't see beyond your outstretched hand. The flies had sliced through his porch, torn open the air conditioner and taken down the helicopter. What was to prevent them from getting inside the car's engine and bringing it to a dead stop? If that happened, he'd be trapped.

Inside the garage, a row of pinewood cabinets stood against the wall opposite the SUV. Asher opened the first cabinet, took out two rolls of three-inch electrical tape and spent the next hour double sealing every possible opening on the car's body and undercarriage. He then swabbed each strip of tape with a garden pesticide in hope that the deadly brew would ward off the insects. The only area that remained uncovered was the driver-side door. He'd seal it from within once he was inside the vehicle.

Climbing the stairs back to the kitchen, Asher felt weak and out of breath and remembered that he hadn't eaten since the previous day. The milk carton was still on the counter. He poured out a glass and gulped it down. A second later he became dizzy, spat out the milk and vomited into the sink. The room was spinning and he grabbed hold of the counter to steady himself. Thinking the milk had spoiled, he picked up the carton looking for the expiration date when his cell phone rang again. Asher read the Caller ID. This time it was his son Michael. Being the younger of the two brothers, Michael was less circumspect in his criticisms of what he considered to be his father's myriad shortcomings. About the only thing they agreed on was that Asher should move out. Asher had no doubt that his wife had instructed his son to call, more as a preemptive measure than from actual fear for his life. After all, if something were to happen to Asher it would be an embarrassment for the entire family. He let the call drop into voice mail.

More important than listening to his son's complaints was finding out what was happening on the island. An oversized flat-panel monitor dominated the great room. Asher turned it on and was confronted by a news reporter framed against a multi-screened backdrop. Each screen displayed a map depicting a different part of the country. Each map featured a blackened area representing the flies. The reporter informed his audience that swarms had so far been reported in fourteen states with twenty-six people confirmed dead. While government biologists were uncertain as to why the phenomenon was occurring, the consensus was that the insects needed to be eradicated as quickly as possible. Otherwise the virus they carried could easily spread beyond its present containment. To that end, the Department of Environmental Protection had announced that over the next twelve hours all affected areas would be sprayed with the previously banned pesticide DKT. All non-military personnel were strongly advised to leave the targeted areas without delay.

Asher turned off the television and started toward the garage, then abruptly stopped to the blare of a car horn sounding from the rear of the house. Looking down to the driveway that fronted the garage he saw the feint outline of what appeared to be a Chevy van, its headlights blurred by the surrounding swarm. If he was on the island then others had probably failed to get off as well. What he didn't understand was why the van had driven onto his property.

A pair of binoculars his wife used for bird watching hung from a hook in the kitchen. Asher adjusted the lenses and focused in on the vehicle. A piece of white cardboard had been taped inside the front windshield. The sign read: Baby Inside!

Asher lowered the binoculars. It was probably a family that had run out of gas and needed help, but what could he do? Two steps past the garage and he'd be engulfed by the flies the same as the pilot, but he also couldn't just ignore the van. The sign said there was a baby inside.

The athletic bag the pilot had thrown onto his deck: if he could retrieve the canvass suit inside the bag he could use it to help whoever was in the van. All he needed was a minute, possibly less. It could work if… and then the horn started blaring again but with diminishing force. The driver was weakening. If Asher was going to do it he had to do it now.

In the upstairs linen closet he found a set of gray woolen blankets. He wrapped his arms, legs and chest with the blankets then taped them to his body. To protect his head he used a pullover ski mask. Stove mittens were transformed into gloves.

The athletic bag was at most ten feet from the deck's sliding door; close but nearly invisible within the roiling mass. Asher took a deep breath, opened the door just enough to get through and lunged forward. He was immediately hit by a wall of angry flies. He lunged a second time, grabbed the bag, and was hurled back through the open door by the overpowering swell of insects flooding in. Asher threw the weight of his body against the door and somehow managed to shut it. That a mass of flies was now raging throughout the house no longer mattered. He was leaving.

Back in the garage, Asher stripped off the blankets as well as his shirt and pants and changed into the canvas suit. It was thick and heavy with elbow-length gloves and a brown pith helmet that featured an overhanging veil similar to that worn by a beekeeper.

Asher placed the helmet and a reel of electrical tape on the passenger seat and got inside the SUV. From without, the swarm's incessant drone had risen to where it sounded like a non-stop air raid siren. Asher pressed the remote control clamped to his windshield visor. The garage door rose and the flies charged in, wave after wave, mindless and unrelenting. Ignoring the melee, he stepped on the gas and inched the SUV next to the parked van.

The van's fogged windows made it impossible to see who was inside. Asher put on the helmet and protective gloves. He had to be quick. One mistake and … in a single fluid motion he got out of the SUV, swung back the van's side panel, jumped inside and closed the door behind him. To his surprise only a few flies had made it in. Asher crushed the insects with his gloves then saw that the driver was slumped over the wheel. Asher pulled him back and discovered that the man who appeared to be in his early thirties was dead, his body pockmarked with hundreds of bites each of which secreted a yellow-stained pus. Asher thought of the bite on his own leg and what his wife had said about paralysis. Then he saw the tiny body asleep in a plastic baby seat covered with a thin white mesh to keep off the flies. From the blue pajamas he guessed it was a boy. Asher unhooked the seat, took hold of its top handle and swinging open the van's side panel repeated the same quick set of movements until he was back in the SUV, the baby beside him. Again, only a few flies followed them in.

Asher killed the flies, strapped in the baby, taped up the driver side door, and put the car in gear. Thirty yards ahead he made a soft right turn out of the driveway onto Route-6, the two-lane highway that bifurcated the island. He was traveling blindly but had driven the road for so many years that he instinctively knew its every curve. He estimated that it was three miles to the bridge. Driving cautiously, he used the white divider lines to guide him. Three miles. He tried to calculate how long that would take but his mind was wandering and he was finding it difficult to focus, the divider lines swaying like ribbons on a flagpole. The infection was worsening. Three miles. At the speed he was going, it should take at most thirty, thirty-five minutes. Any longer and …

He looked over at the baby. It was sleeping, totally oblivious to the danger. He remembered when his oldest son Robert had been born. For the first two weeks after they'd brought him home, Asher slept on a mattress on the floor next to the boy's crib, getting up every hour to make sure he was breathing, convinced that if he broke his vigil his son would fall prey to some unforeseen malady associated with newborns. His wife had laughed and told him he was being foolish. Was he being foolish now, trying to rescue someone else's child? It wasn't his responsibility. He should have just… The SUV slammed into a curb and suddenly he was hurtling down an embankment. He hit the brakes and the car jerked to a hard stop. Asher cleared his head and heard the baby crying. There was a small milk bottle inside the seat. He placed the nipple in the baby's mouth and saw that his hand was shaking. He tried to control the tremor but couldn't, his arms and legs felt too weak, as if they were no longer part of him. With considerable effort he put the SUV into reverse. The wheels let out a high whine but the vehicle didn't move. He'd apparently jumped the highway and landed next to the bay where he was stuck in the sand.

To the north, he could see past the swirling flies to the soft contours of the bridge. He was closer than he'd thought, no more than a half mile away. He'd call the police or the National Guard or whomever was in charge, tell them he'd been infected and needed medical assistance and to come and get him. He took out his phone to dial 911 and discovered it was no longer working. He'd forgotten to charge it.

If he couldn't drive out then he'd walk. He had the suit and there was a mesh around the baby's seat. At the gym, he could easily run five miles without breaking a sweat. This wasn't the gym. His arms and legs were stiff and he could barely breathe. Maybe if he just stayed put and waited. He knew he couldn't. He had to get to a hospital now.

Asher opened the door and stepped unsteadily from the SUV, the baby seat gripped tentatively in his right hand. Taking his bearings from the bridge, he dragged himself up the embankment and set out north along the highway. Each step was a labor, the flies so thick it felt as if he were walking fully clothed under water. One step at a time, he told himself. Just maintain a steady pace and you'll be all right. And he would have been except that the flies had started to eat away at the mesh surrounding the baby seat. A few more minutes and they'd break through. If the baby were bitten, it wouldn't survive.

Asher came to a streetlight and leaned against the metal pole. The bridge was still a quarter mile off. Carrying the baby was like carrying a bag of bricks. He didn't know how much longer he could do it. Why do it at all? Very soon the flies would eat through the mesh. Why was he trying to be a hero? There was nothing he could do to stop them. All he could do was save himself.

He placed the baby seat onto the grass and started to walk away when to his amazement he saw that it was snowing. He held out his gloved hand and a few of the flakes fell onto his open palm. Not snow but some kind of congealed chemical. The spray. The planes had arrived and were blanketing the island with toxic DKT.

Asher slid down along the pole and sat on the grass next to the baby seat. The horizon was no longer black but speckled with a dank white. Slowly the chemical took affect and the blight began to diminish, the dead insects mottling the road and beaches, their humming drone gradually receding until at last Asher was again listening to what he had listened to each summer: the sonorous movement of the wind across the bay.

The sky had cleared. It was late afternoon, the sun cradled in the west by a fleece of blue and lavender clouds. Beyond the bay lay the Minisink River. Thinking back, he saw himself and his father and his uncles, all of them tan and bare-chested, wading in the water and scavenging with their toes for the clams embedded in the sand beneath. Music was planning from a distant radio - Frank Sinatra singing I've Got the World on a String--and there was a large inner tube with a wooden basket twisted into its center so that each time one of the men dove and came up with a clam, they would toss it into the basket until the inside was filled to overflowing. He'd been happy then but that time was past. The riverbeds were empty now and the clams were gone, killed off by chlorine and the drift of chemicals from the homes along the riverbank.

It took another six hours and over a dozen sprayings before the DKT was able to finish off the swarm. Reconnoitering the island for survivors, the National Guard found Asher sitting back against the streetlight. He was dead. Other than the helmet and netting, he was dressed only in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, his seared body covered by a blister of chemicals and molding insects. The canvass suit he should have been wearing was instead spread out next to him. Under the protective suit, the soldiers discovered the baby alive and smiling.

The funeral was held the following week in the suburban cemetery where Asher's parents and older sister were buried. It was a hot day and the service was short. Afterwards, his wife and sons left quickly. No mention was made of the child he had saved. The estate needed to be settled and there were papers to sign.

Had he lived, Asher would not have been surprised by his family's indifference. At no point during his ordeal did he think that there was anything more than a biological imperative directing the swarm's hysterical frenzy. To think otherwise would be to attribute to the universe a moral intelligence for which he'd found no tangible evidence. Rather than morality, what Asher discovered on that final day was that our lives are guided neither by providence, nor chance, nor a tragic inevitability, but by the choices we make, all of which are invariably wrong.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Rovito has two previous stories in Aphelion: The Individual is Nothing and Lord of Snakes.

E-mail: John Rovito

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