James Axler – Deathlands

The attack seemed to have thrown the ants into total confusion. They were milling around, most of them still eating on, oblivious to the rising level of the liquid. But a significant number seemed to be grouping together, heads in the air, antennae twitching.

Ryan called across to Jak and Dean, who were on the far side of the basin. “How much more gas?”

“Less than quarter!” the albino shouted. “Going fast. Another two minutes’ll do it.”

Ryan bit his lip. It would obviously be stupe to expect to chill every one of the ants, but it was vital that they didn’t allow a significant portion to escape from the trap. “One minute!” he shouted.

“Some of them are coming this way,” Krysty said. “And lots of the others have stopped eating. Drowning in the pool of gas.”

“I know.” He checked the chron again. “Forty seconds!”

He reached into his jacket pocket for a small pack of self-lights, carefully removing one and holding it ready in his right hand.

“There’s thousands of them, heading fast toward the top, Ryan.”

Doc’s shout decided it. Ryan looked up and waved both hands over his head. “That’ll do. Everyone out of the way.” He looked at Itzcoatl. “Tell them!”

There was instant chaos. Some of the natives continued to tip containers of gasoline down onto the milling insects. Some threw down empty gourds and bowls, and others simply started to run, giving a frightened ululating cry.

Ryan waited a few moments, until the calmer spirits prevailed and everyone was moved away from the rim. He had kept a plastic can of gas for himself and he now carefully poured some over the edge, watching it wash away the leading group of fire ants that were climbing fast toward the top.

Ryan flicked at the self-light with the corner of his thumbnail.

And nothing happened.

He tried again, this time rewarded by a flicker of pale yellow flame. Ryan dropped it into the pool of gas, seeing it catch, the fire almost invisible at first in the bright morning sunlight. Then it grew stronger, lapping down the trickle of gas toward the bottom of the natural bowl of stone.

There was the thunder of a massive explosion as the lake of gasoline caught in a single moment of devastating power that made the rocks quiver.

The orange flames and the pillar of noxious black smoke rose more than a mile into the air.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They were back at the village well before noon.

Ryan stopped and turned around, looking eastward at the dark finger of smoke that still pointed toward the sky, ragged at the top where the easterly wind was tugging at it.

“Good one, Doc,” he said.

The old man put a finger to his chin and simpered prettily, like a vaudeville soubrette. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Thank you kindly.”

“Sure it got all of them, Dad?”

“I told you before that I thought that it wouldn’t possibly burn every single ant. But we took out way over ninety percent of them. There haven’t been many massacres in history that didn’t leave a single survivor.”

“The Alamo,” J.B. said.

“And the Little Bighorn,” Mildred suggested. “Unless you count the horse, Comanche.”

THERE WAS A CELEBRATION, though it was short on meat, virtually all of the village’s supply having gone to lure the ants to their fiery deaths.

But there was ample fish and great vats filled with atolli , the spiced gruel of maize, honey and chili. Everyone sat on the floor at the tables, helping themselves with their fingers. Pitchers of octli were passed from hand to hand, drained by the men and refilled by the women.

Mildred and Krysty were the only two females allowed to sit at the table, presumably because of their friendship with the god, Jak Lauren.

“The danger is now gone and the god light shines upon us again,” Itzcoatl proclaimed, looking pointedly at the white-haired teenager.

“Don’t want to be a spoiler, Chief, but you’ve got two other dangers.” Ryan ticked them off on his fingers. “The Jaguar people and the slavers. Both of them could mean the end of your village, as sure as if it was being overrun by the ants.”