The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories (5 page)

Manny smoothed
his mustache with one finger. “Look guys, I think we’re going to
hoof it back downtown.” He turned and started walking with
Pete.

“
Take it easy,”
I called after them and turned to Lane. “They seemed a little
spooked. Do you think we should try to get in touch with the park
service or something?”

“
No. Not yet.
This could be an important find. We don’t want the state coming in
and mucking things up with paperwork. If these beetles really were
crawling from the ground…I dunno, they could be a new species,
something not studied.” He must have seen the confusion on my face.
“You know about cicadas right?”

“
Cicadas. Yeah,
they make that buzzing sound. Only around during certain
years.”

“
Right. They
spend most of their lives underground, only coming out to mate and
die. A lot of insects go through early stages in the life cycle
underground—natural protection from predators.” Lane looked at the
beetle carcass, touching the tip of one foreleg. “I think this guy
‘grew up’ underground. Look at the forelegs.”

I examined the
two segmented limbs closely, noting they were somewhat thicker,
maybe sturdier, than the other legs. “How do they know when to
climb out of the ground?”

Lane bent down
and really scrutinized the beetle’s abdomen. “Probably just a
chemical trigger…something inside that says ‘it’s
time’.”

“
Probably?”
“Yeah. Sometimes these things happen because of environmental
factors.”

“
The
rain?”

“
Not exactly.
More like ground temperature reaching a certain point—raising a
degree or two. Something like that. Something that would signal
‘everything’s ok, come on out’ to the little bundle of nerves in
his ganglion—his insect brain.” Lane thrust a thumb toward the
beetle’s head. “I guess enough rain, if it’s warm enough—could help
boost the ground temperature. I don’t really know.”

We always had
our fair share of community wildlife in Monument. Deer or elk would
wander through town, especially in fall—during mating season, the
“rut” as we called it. That summer, more large mammals wandered out
of the surrounding woods, many more than I had experienced since
living there.

The sheriff, a
thick, balding fellow named Mort Kress, and one of his deputies,
Benny Wilson, brought this large buck into town one day. It was
dead—mauled. Something had torn the poor thing open, gutted it. I
was sitting outside the café when they pulled up in the sheriff’s
truck, and I could see the antlers sticking out of the bed.
Curiosity drew me across the street. “What happened?” I
asked.

“
Nothing but
road-kill, I guess. Benny and me figured we better load it up, get
it out of there. Found it out on Deer Creek Road. Surprised nobody
reported this one.” He slammed the door of his truck
shut.

“
What do you
mean?” I glanced into the bed, saw the horrible strips where flesh
was torn from the sides of the deer.

“
Look at it.
Must’ve messed somebody’s car up pretty good, by the looks of
that.” The Sheriff turned and followed Benny inside the café. I
stood for a moment, taking in the image of the mauled animal, and
imagining the monstrous car that could do that kind of
damage.

The rain started
again, heavy floods from the iron sky. I sat in my booth at Pine
Peak, munching on some burnt bacon and digesting a few short
stories from my new textbooks for the fall. Randy perched on his
usual stool with no sign of Pete or Manny.

“
I don’t much
mind the rain today,” Randy muttered to Darla. “Too many of those
damn bugs.”

I closed my
book, and turned my head slightly toward the counter, enticed by
the word “bugs”.

“
You’ve just
been workin’ too hard,” Darla said, smiling. “Trying to make up for
lost time with the weather.”

Randy tugged
hard on his beard and said, “No. No, there’s something out there.”
He wagged one rough finger toward the café windows. “Them bugs.
They’re getting bigger.”

“
Nonsense.”
Darla chuckled—she wasn’t the kind of woman who giggled.

“
Hell, I’m
telling the truth. Old Lumpy came running out of the trees last
Thursday evening, tail tucked between his legs. I started laughing
at him, they way he looked all scared—I figured he pissed off a
marmot or something. Anyway, this big son-of-a-bitch comes
scurrying after him. Craziest thing, watching this beetle the size
of that old hound come scurrying out of the forest.” Randy’s voice
became a little distant. “The damn thing scrambled right over a
downed tree, straight at me. I dropped the chainsaw right on it.”
His coffee cup made a noisy clink when it hit the
saucer.

“
I think the only
thing you’ve been dropping is a little too much of the old Kentucky
vintage, if you get my meaning,” Darla said as she turned back to
the counter and replaced the coffee pot on its warming
plate.

“
Randy?” I
asked, standing now just a few feet from the counter. “Was anybody
else out there with you?”

“
Hell no. Pete
and Manny totally turned on me. Won’t go out after talking to that
kid—Lane. Shit, I’m not going back until I’m sure those damn bugs
are gone.”

“
I think you
should call the sheriff. I mean if you _really_ saw something that
big…”

Randy stood up,
stretching all six feet of his barrel chest in front of me. “You
think it’s the booze too, huh?” He pushed past me and exited the
café.

I finished my meal in silence, walked home
under a black umbrella against the rain, and called Lane.

“
Hello?”

“
Yeah, Lane. It’s me
Rick.”

“
Hey Mr. Grinnich.” The kid
still called me Mr. Ginnich even though he graduated three years
ago. “I called my advisor. He was out of the office for the summer
session, but I left a message and emailed him some digital pics of
the beetle.”

“
That’s what I’m calling
about. Randy was down at Pine Peaks today, and he claimed he saw
another beetle. He said it was bigger and alive.”

“
Really? They couldn’t get
much bigger. The ecosystem just couldn’t support them.”

“
Randy does have a bit of a
whisky problem, but that wouldn’t make him hallucinate…”

“
What time of day was
it?”

“
I don’t know—wait he said
‘evening’. I know he’s been working late, trying to make up lost
time because of the rain. That and his workers have chickened out
on him.”

Lane’s voice grew distant
for a moment, like he spoke away from the receiver. “That would
make sense, most species of
Carabidae
are
nocturnal…Listen, I’m going to call Randy, see if I can go out with
him tomorrow.”

“
If it stops
raining.”

“
Of course. I
want to see these things myself.”

After a slight bribe—a fifth of Jack
Daniels, Randy agreed to drive Lane out to the woods. Lane called
that night and explained the deal, and I waved them the next
morning as they drove west on Kimberly-Long Creek Highway. It was
early on Tuesday, and I jogged around town, my usual workout.
Something floated in the air that day, something quiet and
watchful. The trees seemed closer, pressing in on the edges of
Monument, swelling the town to some breaking point. After the jog,
I ate my breakfast at Pine Peaks and spent a good part of the
morning camped at the booth in the corner. Darla seemed a little
distant that morning—distant and brooding.

Sheriff Kress came in around ten. “Mornin’
Darla.” He turned to me and nodded. “Mornin’ Professor.”

“
Black?” Darla
asked.

“
Sure.” He settled onto one
of the stools at the bar.

“
Busy morning?” she asked
while pouring the coffee.

“
Not so much. A couple of
calls on dogs.”

“
Strays?”

“
No. Old Elmer Nowlan’s
mutt got torn up by something. Probably just some over-aggressive
raccoons, but it was a bit of a mess. The Hernandez family can’t
find their dog—that old German Shepard…Zeb.”

Something clicked. “Sheriff,” I said while
standing and walking toward the counter, “did Randy Crouse ever
report anything strange to you? Call you about some large
insects?”

“
Bugs? No.” He sipped his
coffee. “What would I have to do with bugs?”

“
These are big. We brought
one to Albricht’s place, had Lane take a look.”

“
Randy hasn’t said anything
to me. How big is big.”

I sat down on a stool next to the sheriff.
“The one I saw was about the size of a shoe.” I held my hands up
for a visual aid. “Randy claims to have seen larger specimens out
in the woods.”

“
Randy has claimed a lot of
strange things over the years.” He stood, dropped a few coins on
the counter, and patted me on the back. “I wouldn’t worry about it
too much, Professor. Thanks Darla.” He strode from the café,
climbed into his truck, and pulled away.

Early that evening, the quiet seemed to
swell and fill the little clearing occupied by our town. I sat on
my porch, trying to enjoy the end to a rare, cloudless day. It was
the sort of day I’d moved to Oregon to find, the sweet pine smell,
the buzzing aliveness from all the trees and close wildlife, but I
felt anxious. I had been nervous since Randy and Lane left that
morning.

I was startled by the shots—not the first
time I’d heard distant gunfire, but this series of pops pushed all
the blood from my veins for some reason. The sound came from Deer
Creek Road, echoing through the valley to the east. I hurried down
the hill toward Main Street, knowing that the sheriff would be
there if he was in town.

Darla stood on the sidewalk wiping her hands
on her apron. A few other townspeople, maybe a dozen, stood around
in the gathering twilight, mumbling about the gunfire. Pete and
Manny were there, by each other’s side as usual. Nancy Albricht,
Lane’s mom, held a cell phone to her ear, pacing a small segment of
walk just down the street from the café.

“
What’s happened?” I asked
Darla.

“
Don’t know. I just heard
the shots. Nancy’s worried, trying to call Lane.”

A slight pop sounded in the distance, and
the lights flickered and went black inside the café. Darla rushed
inside. The sun started to slip past the crooked lip of trees in
the west, and a punishing silence crawled into Monument. A brooding
silence.

“
I got Lane. They’re on
their way back.” Nancy crushed the silence with her nervous voice
as she hurried into the small throng of people.

Darla stepped out of the café. “We aren’t
just without power. The phone’s gone too.”

The sun completely disappeared behind the
pine trees on the horizon, dropping night’s heavy blanket on
Monument. I thought about walking back to my house up the hill, but
the dark streets worked against me. I felt safer in the group of
people. Clouds started to roll over the little piece of yellow moon
in the sky. My stomach tightened. I looked at Nancy. “I think you
should try the sheriff on your cell phone.”

Before she responded, someone in the group
asked, “What’s that?” Everyone stopped breathing for a moment,
listening to the shadows all around. A small scrabbling sound, like
twigs scratching against asphalt and concrete, crawled toward town
from the east. I turned to look, just missing the headlights as
they rounded the curve behind me.

“
Lane!” Nancy hollered,
hurrying to Randy’s truck. The small gathering was blown bright
from Randy’s headlights, and most looked pale and unnatural under
the beams.

“
Mom, look, what’s
everybody standing around for?” Lane asked as he hopped down from
the passenger seat. “You look like you’ve all seen a
ghost.”

Nancy hugged her son.

“
Awww, Mom…” Lane pushed
away.

“
Did you find anything
today? Any more beetles?” I asked, moving closer to
Lane.

He rubbed his blonde hair.
“Yeah, but Randy couldn’t find the big one that he went
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
on the other day. All we found were shells, like the beetles
had been molting…growing. Like the cicadas. A bunch of them. But no
live ones.”

The crawling sound grew louder, just
underneath our voices, a scratching from the shadows. I looked at
Nancy again, “I think we better call the sheriff.” She nodded and
started punching numbers on her phone. Feet shuffled on the
pavement, a small gathering of nervous movement.

Randy climbed from his truck, engine running
and lights still shining. Another set of headlights swerved down
Main Street from the south. “Sheriff Kress!” Randy shouted,
recognizing the police vehicle. Those lights clicked off, and Benny
stumbled out of the driver’s door. Illuminated by Randy’s lights, I
could see his face was ashen and dotted with dark spots. He held
one arm close to his side, a dark streak spreading down his hand.
In his injured arm he carried a shotgun.

“
Get out, all of you! Load
up and get the hell outta here!” He took the bloody hand from his
arm and waved it wildly at the small crowd.

“
Where’s the
Sheriff?”