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Chapters (98)
  1. Author’s Note
  2. Tuesday
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. Wednesday
  21. 1
  22. 2
  23. 3
  24. 4
  25. 5
  26. 6
  27. 7
  28. 8
  29. 9
  30. 10
  31. 11
  32. 12
  33. 13
  34. 14
  35. 15
  36. Thursday
  37. 1
  38. 2
  39. 3
  40. 4
  41. 5
  42. 6
  43. 7
  44. 8
  45. 9
  46. 10
  47. 11
  48. 12
  49. 13
  50. 14
  51. 15
  52. 16
  53. Friday
  54. 1
  55. 2
  56. 3
  57. 4
  58. 5
  59. 6
  60. 7
  61. 8
  62. 9
  63. 10
  64. 11
  65. 12
  66. Saturday
  67. 1
  68. 2
  69. 3
  70. 4
  71. 5
  72. 6
  73. 7
  74. 8
  75. 9
  76. 10
  77. 11
  78. 12
  79. 13
  80. 14
  81. 15
  82. Sunday
  83. 1
  84. 2
  85. 3
  86. 4
  87. 5
  88. 6
  89. 7
  90. 8
  91. 9
  92. 10
  93. 11
  94. 12
  95. 13
  96. Tuesday
  97. 1
  98. Afterword

After watching the cloud of palmettos disperse into the night, Jack slammed the door and ducked into the rear bedroom. He peered through the window in time to see a bug-free Carl getting into his old Honda and roaring off. Obviously the bugs had lost interest in Carl as well.

Jack rubbed his arms and face as he returned to the front room. He could still feel them crawling on him. What had made them attack like that? And what had made them quit just as suddenly?

What was happening around here? Odd ornaments on lawns and behind beds, invisible symbols painted on walls, flying killer cockroaches…what had he stepped into? It didn’t smell of the Otherness, but that didn’t mean the Otherness wasn’t lurking behind these weird goings on.

Bigger question: Where did Anya fit in? She was involved, no way around it. Whether peripherally or centrally, he couldn’t say. But she seemed to be on his father’s side, and that gave him a little comfort. Very little. If She weren’t dead to the world in her recliner, he might go over and ask her for an explanation.

And say what? I was just attacked by palmetto bugs. Know anything about that?

Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. He was pretty sure she didn’t cause it. But at the very least she could explain the symbols on her house and his father’s, and how they’d got there.

Jack decided to let it go until tomorrow.

He paced the front room a couple of times. He was still feeling the after-buzz of the bug-induced adrenaline surge. It had burned away the alcohol from the wine and he was thirsty. Right now he needed a beer.

He grabbed a couple from the fridge—getting low; he’d have to pick up some tomorrow—and settled himself in front of the TV. After listening to the latest on T. S. Elvis, now drifting south in the Gulf and threatening to become a hurricane, he surfed around until he chanced upon his favorite Woody Allen film, Zelig, playing on TCM. He always envied Zelig’s talent for blending in with any group; it would be so handy in Jack’s fix-it business back home.

He sat and watched with the lights on. He wasn’t about to let any bugs sneak up on him.

Thursday

1

A soft clattering noise woke Jack. He lifted his head from the pillow on the guest room bed and squinted at the clock. The red LED numbers swam for a second, then came into sharp focus: 8:02.

He rolled out of bed and went to the window for a peek outside. There he was: Carl, dressed in the same shirt and work pants as yesterday, but this morning a set of electric hedge clippers protruded from his right sleeve as he trimmed away at dry-looking bushes that didn’t need it.