Halloween Ants Š 1999 by Jerry J. Davis 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 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 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.