To Bee or Not to Be (standard:other, 4710 words)
Author: Tom Soukup	Added: Feb 21 2003	Views/Reads: 3026/2244	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A very finnicky gardener finds that he's met his match with some very nasty bees.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

appointment.  By the time he reached the old doc's office only three 
miles away, Jeremy had a raging fever and the swelling had begun to 
take up residence in his shoulder and wrist.  His throat was starting 
to swell as well and he had a hard time even telling the nurse what had 
happened. 

He was released from the hospital four days later (that's two years,
three months and two days ago just in case you lost count) and, with 
this new revelation that he was cursed with some sort of 
hyper-sensitivity to insect bites, he vowed that there would never be a 
living thing possessing anything more than four legs inside the 
perimeter of his land.  And he wasn't all that sure about four-legged 
beasts either, insect-carriers that they were. 

So Jeremy ended up with one of the most impressive gardens in the
neighborhood and a shed full of bottles and cans that would make a 
chemical warfare depot look like a candy shop. 

It was late in the evening, sometime after ten o'clock but he really
wasn't sure just when because the clock was on the kitchen wall and he 
was sunk deep into his favorite chair in the living room with the 
latest Follet best-seller pressed to his nose, when he heard the 
buzzing.  Distant, maybe, and he wasn't quite sure if it was inside or 
out.  He cradled the book on his thumb to hold his place and glanced 
around the room.  The buzzing seemed to stop and he could only hear the 
silent sounds of the house, the wind brushing the windows of the dining 
room and a drop of water from the leaky faucet patting into the drain 
in the hall bathroom. 

He shook his head. 

"Must be crazy," he said and he bent forward to slide the antique
footstool closer. 

The buzzing started again and was punctuated by a tip-tip sound that his
trained ear recognized at once as the battering of a tiny insect body 
against a window somewhere.  He closed the book after bending one of 
the pages to mark his place ("Don't dog-ear the pages," Marla used to 
scold before she left him and his insecticidal tendencies for the 
comparative comfort of divorce) and stood as quietly as he could in the 
center of the room. 

The buzzing was there, all right. He followed it to the living room
window, the big one that faced out into the back yard.  There in the 
corner, crawling upside down at the top edge, was a single bee.  It 
traced its steps back and forth in apparent search for a way out, only 
to be caught in its own frustration to buzz and fly, bashing once again 
into the glass . . . tip-tip. 

Jeremy felt the bristle of gooseflesh travel his arms once more, a
repeat of his encounter with this morning's spider, and vivid thoughts 
of his stay in the hospital two years, three months and . . . ago 
danced just behind his vision. 

"A word of warning to you, Jeremy," Doctor What's-his-name said on his
discharge.  "Another bite like this one might cause you permanent 
damage.  Your body wants to react violently to the venom of these 
little creatures.  Oh, and by the way," he added just before he closed 
the door to answer his page, "something like a single bee-sting could 
be fatal." 

There probably aren't more than a handful of phrases that have that kind
of impact.  "Such-and-such could be fatal."  Okay . . . you've got my 
attention. 

Jeremy backed away from the window with those words crossing his vision
like ticker tape.  He reached down without losing sight of the bee and 
picked up the "A" section of Sunday's paper.  He rolled it up tighter 
than a baseball bat and cradled it in his sweating hands to measure the 
weight of it.  He took a step toward the window. 

"You're going to be sorry that you . . ." he cautioned the insect. 

The bee continued its steps, making its way back and forth along the
edge of the window, unaware of this human predator stalking it.  It 
flew again (buzz . . . buzz), drawn by the warmth of the window, and it 
hit the glass once more (tip . . . tip).  And Jeremy swung a mighty 
swing at the bee, the sound cracking sharply in the otherwise silent 
room.  He stepped back quickly, beads of sweat rolling down his 
temples, his eyes never leaving the spot. 

The bee tumbled from the top of the window frame, falling to the sill
below.  Jeremy smiled.  But the blow had been only a glancing one, and 
the stunned insect used the remains of its weakened energy to crawl 
helplessly into the crack at the edge of the window.  Jeremy stepped 
closer, carefully to be sure, the paper-weapon held high in the air, 
but the bee was gone.  He inspected the glass, figuring that the bee 
must have made it into that small space only to die in the solitude of 
it.  But what he found was that the bee had somehow survived, living 
through the incident to emerge on the other side and fly away to 
safety. 

"Damn," he mumbled under his breath then, disappointed that he hadn't
made the kill as he had with so many of the pests that invaded his 
garden, but happy nonetheless that he was rid of this one. 

"A single bee sting could be fatal," the doctor had said. 

Jeremy relaxed a bit and looked nervously around the room.  There was no
more buzzing or tip-tipping.  He turned to get back to his novel when a 
slight movement caught his eye.  There on the window sill near the 
point where the bee made its escape was one of its legs, twitching its 
final twitches . . . a purely biological movement caused by final 
reflex muscular activity . . . but enough to raise the hairs on 
Jeremy's arm once more. 

He ran his hand down his arm to settle the nerves. 

"Let's see just how far you get with one leg missing . . . missing,
hah," he said. 

*       *       * 

Three days had passed since the bee incident and even the last traces of
it had passed from Jeremy's mind.  He had spent the day puttering 
around in his garden, fertilizing the roses, weeding the pansies . . . 
and applying another healthy dose of the latest insecticide he picked 
up at the hardware store.  Nothing moved in the garden except the 
bright leaves in the gentle push of the afternoon breeze.  There was a 
slight chill in the air, so he figured that the last of the pruning 
could wait until tomorrow.  He turned from the garden and went into the 
house. 

As he washed his hands there at the kitchen sink thinking about what he
was going to prepare for dinner, he heard a faint buzzing sound once 
again.  It was coming from the living room and was loud enough that it 
took him a moment to realize that it wasn't there with him in the 
kitchen.  He opened the swinging door that separated the two rooms, 
just a crack at first, and the sound roared in his ears.  Peering 
cautiously through the opening, he saw eight or ten bees, maybe more, 
swarming at the window, some in flight, others busying themselves in 
the very corner of the frame.  They were working frantically at 
building a nest . . . or a hive, or whatever you call it . . . they 
were building something in that corner and he could see the fragile 
brown structure taking shape. 

Jeremy let the door swing shut silently and he pressed his back against
the cool metal of the refrigerator nearby.  His eyes darted back and 
forth around the room, his terror-struck mind searching for a clue to 
his next move. 

"The Raid," he said desperately.  "The wasp-killer Raid."  It was that
special spray can, the one that could shoot up to fifteen feet.  "One 
miserable little stinging bug must be pretty much like the next," he 
figured. "Wasp . . . bee, what's the difference?  It ought to work." 

He ran out the back door and across the yard to the tool shed.  Cans and
bottles hit the floor as he hysterically sought just the right one.  It 
too slid from his trembling hands but he caught it before it hit the 
floor.  Jeremy felt his terror subside, maybe just a little, and he 
went back into the kitchen with the can of Raid held in front of him 
like a machine gun. 

He pushed the swinging door open just that little bit and the bees . . .
there were actually twelve of them at the window . . . never noticed 
the intrusion.  They busied themselves at their predestined work.  
Jeremy took aim as best he could with the clumsy aerosol can and held 
the button down with so much vigor that the tip of his finger raged red 
from the pressure. 

The stream of toxin shot easily across the distance to the window, a
single shaft of liquid that broke up only as it splashed across the 
glass.  The startled bees took to flight, hovering nearby in confusion. 
 He adjusted his aim slightly, knocking each insect from the air, 
coating them in the deadly fluid, drenching the flimsy start of the 
hive until it shifted slightly only to fall sodden beside the already 
dead bees.  Jeremy continued until the can spit its last drop and he 
found that the trembling in his hands spread to his entire body.  He 
was breathing heavily. 

"Gotcha," he said and he broke into a nervous laugh. 

He didn't sleep much that night. 

*       *       * 

The morning dawned later than it should have due to the heavy layer of
clouds that hung low in the sky.  Rain fell lightly and sent zigzag 
streaks across the windows in Jeremy's bedroom.  It was one of those 
rainshowers that was likely to last most of the day.  It was one of 
those rainshowers that was regularly welcomed by Jeremy's garden. 

Jeremy walked into the kitchen to fix a light breakfast.  Coffee and a
little toast would do it for today. There wouldn't be much outdoor 
activity to work off a heavier meal so there was no point in putting 
one away.  He busied himself shuffling through the unpaid bills while 
the toaster did its own job and Mr. Coffee perked happily along. 

He didn't hear the buzzing sound at first . . . Mr. Coffee wasn't as
quiet as he was a few years ago in his younger days.  When he did hear 
it, he shook his head thinking the sound was just the remnants of 
yesterday's experience.  But it didn't shake away.  He approached the 
door to the living room and the noise grew with each step.  Those damn 
bees must be back.  Well, not the same bees . . . they met with the 
drenching death of Raid yesterday . . . but new bees that must have 
heard that this was a good place to live.  Bad advice for sure. Jeremy 
had another can of wasp killer in the shed and if it worked once, it'd 
work again.  He pushed the door open just a bit. 

The buzzing rung loudly in his ears.  The room was dark.  He figured
that was because of the dull weather just outside.  But as his eyes 
adjusted somewhat to the dim light, he saw the bees.  Thousands of bees 
. . . maybe millions of bees.  They covered the window, crawling busily 
across the frame and each other, taking to flight just a few inches 
away, then settling into a new position to hustle back into the crowd, 
back to whatever work was being carried out so desperately underneath. 

Jeremy stood there mesmerized, panic slithering up his back and
squeezing the very breath out of him.  He wanted to run, wanted to get 
the biggest can of Raid ever made, but he knew that it wouldn't be 
enough.  Instead, he swung the living room door wide and stepped 
inside.  The bees paid him no attention.  They continued their 
activity, undaunted by the intruder.  He stepped closer, closer than he 
knew he should, but closer to see what he had such difficulty believing 
he was seeing.  They never even turned their little heads his way, 
never brought him into their kaleidoscopic vision, didn't seem to care 
or feel threatened.  He saw them scurry across the teaming surface, 
stopping momentarily to rub their tiny legs together to remove the 
pollen that was stuck there.  It was a rhythmic motion, soothing 
almost, a tireless action that drew Jeremy even closer, brought him 
within two feet of the bees, carelessly close, dangerously close. 

"A single bee sting could kill you." 

Terror sunk its claws in savagely, so suddenly that Jeremy wondered
where the soft wheezing sound was coming from long before he realized 
that it was the start of a scream building inside him.  The bees 
stirred as a single mass, perhaps feeling his terror, perhaps smelling 
it on him.  They can do that, you know; they can actually smell it. 

Jeremy ran from the room, ran from the house and stood against the back
yard shed, the rain pasting his hair against his forehead, diluting the 
salty sweat of fear and blending with it to run in brackish rivulets 
across his cheeks.  He stared at the back door expecting it to be 
thrown open suddenly, a black swarm of angry bees hovering just inside 
the jamb, assembling in deadly ambush.  His heart pounded hammers 
inside his chest.  What would he do?  What could he do against such 
odds?  "A single sting . . ." What about a million stings?  Would it 
really even matter?  Dead's dead, ain't it? 

And then it came to him.  He ran from the shed to his car parked just
beside the house.  Mighty close to the building, but he had to risk it 
if there was going to be any way at all to avoid what they were 
planning there inside on the window.  He ran sideways, crab-like, never 
taking his eyes from the door just in case.  He nearly ripped a 
fingernail loose pulling on the handle of the car door but it opened 
and he slid inside so slickly that he probably would have slid right 
out the other side had that door been open.  He breathed heavily, 
relishing the safety. 

The vents. 

Frantically, he pushed the air conditioning vents closed, one by one in
rapid succession, hoping that the thin louvers would keep an intruder 
out.  "A single bee . . ."  It'd only take one.  He needed his car 
keys, dear God he needed those keys here and now.  He slapped the 
pockets of his pants and his shirt so hard that he was probably leaving 
bruises that he wouldn't find until tomorrow.  Where are those damn 
keys?  He could feel the bees crawling on him now . . . sure it was 
just in his mind . . . but he could feel them as real as if they were 
trapped there in the car with him, torturing him, just crawling on him 
but not stinging until the moment was just right.  Where are those 
keys?  Don't still be inside the house, not the house.  He raised up in 
the seat to pat down his back pockets when his knee hit something that 
jingled.  The keys were there in the ignition switch all the time.  
There was buzzing in his ears . . . was it the bees or was it that he 
was teetering on the edge of consciousness?  Which one do you even wish 
for at a time like this.  He turned the key and the engine fired.  But 
the buzzing, the buzzing was getting even louder and his vision 
blurred.  He turned the key again and the starter screamed its 
objection. 

Jeremy jammed the lever into reverse and accelerated down the driveway,
swerving wildly, mowing down the bug-free azaleas, gouging the pristine 
and sterile lawn deeply, throwing grass and mud until the tires found 
purchase on the street below and he raced away on tinges of blue smoke. 


And the bees continued their work. 

*       *       * 

The door to the living room opened just a crack once more.  The bees
went silent but their activity diminished little.  Jeremy entered the 
room, confident, almost cocky, a knowing grin of superiority on his 
face behind the netting.  He was clothed in one of those heavy 
protective suits worn by bee-keepers.  The fabric was tough as nails 
and gathered tightly at the wrists and ankles.  He wore heavy work 
boots, laced to mid-calf and tucked inside the tethered pant legs.  A 
broad hood draped from the brim of the safari hat, clinging tightly to 
his shoulders and back, a window of tight mesh affording his hateful 
eyes just enough view.  Clumsy gloves covered his hands as they 
clenched the heavy canister of industrial insecticide.  He was prepared 
for the worst.  There was no way for one of those nasty little killing 
machines to reach his tender skin.  He was Rambo, the Terminator . . . 
the Black Knight. 

A few of the bees struck out from the rest, an investigating party no
doubt.  They flew rapidly around his head, landing on the thick canvas 
for a moment, taking flight again and surveying this intruder. The 
others slowed their pace, their wings at rest and their legs scissoring 
in that monotonous fiddling action, silently.  Jeremy felt his own fear 
grow a bit and he had to keep telling himself that he was safe, that 
this whole thing was going to be over soon. 

He extended his arm, the one with the spray nozzle, and he pulled the
trigger.  A torrent of deadly chemical erupted from the nozzle, 
drenching the retched insects, tearing them in large clumps away from 
the window.  They fell writhing to the carpet below and he drenched 
them further until they either died from the toxins themselves or were 
drowned in the growing pool of liquid.  Jeremy mumbled curse words 
under his breath like a chant, vowing to rid the entire world of these 
miserable pests if that is what it was going to come to.  And he didn't 
finish until the canister was as empty as was the Raid can just the day 
before. 

He was shaking when it was done, shaking so hard that he dropped the
canister on the floor.  It rolled to the wall where it rested amid the 
saturated carcasses of a thousand dead bees.  He flexed his fingers to 
regain lost circulation and took three deep breaths to chase the shakes 
away.  It was done.  It was done.  It was done. 

And all that was left at the window was the remains of the honeycomb
that the bees had constructed.  The geometry was exquisite, hexagonal 
shapes so precisely formed that they nestled flawlessly with each 
other.  Architecture that under other circumstances would have been 
admirable.  But the structure was not quite as perfect as it should 
have been.  Jeremy had trouble seeing it at first, seeing exactly what 
it was, that is, but as he backed away it took form.  There, built 
skillfully within the paper thin jig-saw puzzle plan of the hive, were 
two words so perfectly formed as to be almost unbelievable . . . "You 
Die."  He shook his head and knew that his mind was playing a cruel 
trick on him. 

Jeremy sat trembling now in the solitude of the kitchen, his elbows
resting on his knees.  The rain had stopped and a confused June bug 
bounced off the kitchen window, redirected in its pointless flight.  He 
nearly threw a chair at it in unleashed rage and he cursed loudly this 
time.  He slid the hood and helmet off, dropped the gloves on the table 
before him and ran his fingers through his drenched hair.  Would he 
ever be rid of these insects who plagued him?  Would the world itself 
ever find a way to eliminate these useless creatures?  He unzipped the 
front of the heavy suit and he could smell his own fear as it was 
released.  How could these tiny things be allowed to cause him such 
misery?  Why did God ever choose to put them on His earth?  Jeremy slid 
his arms out of the suit and there were large rings of perspiration 
there and across his chest.  Wouldn't this world be a more pleasant 
place without the likes of mosquitoes and flies, roaches and hornets?  
Spiders and termites?  He slid the suit off his waist and down to his 
boots. His pant legs were stuck to him like a second skin.  He started 
to laugh.  How foolish to think that he could eradicate an entire 
species.  Hell, we're not talking just one species here.  Aren't there 
thousands of insect species?  Aren't we talking about eradicating an 
entire form of life?  With a can of Raid?  How sweet it would be but 
how utterly exhausting to even try to fathom it.  He slid one elastic 
cuff over his shoe.  As he tugged at the second, he felt the twinge of 
pain.  He pulled his hand away and found a bee nestled in the crotch 
between his middle and index fingers.  It stung him deeply. 

Jeremy shook the insect off his hand.  He stared in disbelief at the
swelling already beginning on the back of his hand.  The bee must have 
crawled into one of the folds of his cuff and laid their protected from 
the death shower of the chemical.  Jeremy stood and nearly tripped over 
the trailing bee-suit that was still attached to one of his legs.  He 
tried to scream but the venom of the bee-sting had already coursed too 
far through his body and his vocal chords had turned to granite.  He 
knew that he needed help; if there was to be any possibility that he 
would survive this, he needed help now.  But he was disoriented . . . 
was that a bad sign, he wondered . . . and instead he only held his 
throbbing arm by the wrist and stared. 

When Jeremy fell to the floor he did it with no grace at all.  He didn't
try to cushion the impact or slide against the refrigerator door so 
that he would avoid the hard tiles at his feet.  He fell hard and, had 
there been someone else there with him in the house, they certainly 
would have heard him fall and would have run to his aid.  But no one 
was there and it really wouldn't have made any difference anyway.  He 
fell without grace, without cushion, he fell hard because when he fell 
he was already dead.  His unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling above. 

The bee had been silently watching from the safety of the top of the
door frame. It took to flight now, surveying the scene.  It traveled 
the length and breadth of his rigid body.  It landed on the moist 
cornea of one sightless eye and was reflected in the milky surface.  It 
folded its wings tightly against its little body and rubbed its legs 
together leaving a few specks of yellow pollen to float there beneath 
it.  But one of its legs found nothing to rub against although the 
reflex action forced it to try.  The opposing leg was missing . . . 
missing. 

Hah. 


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