The man stopped wasting energy on his cursing. He could see an expectant shiver run along the whole body of roaches as the leaders’ antennae went into a frenzied wiggling. They were signaling, it was plain. More meat, more fresh blood here—come and get this stupid prey that had stumbled so obligingly into their power.

The central mass of the roaches heaved, and the fattening tentacles swished back and forth over the garbage faster now. Homer was sure he would have felt their fanning of the air if it weren’t for the louder noise of the wind and new thunder in the waves pounding the beach behind him.

One advancing roach tentacle had him backed all the way to the water. It gave Homer the idea that he might be safe after all. Roaches could not survive even shallow water. He might be able to run along the beach in the water until there was a chance to break away. He held the can to his chest stubbornly and took off, racing desperately and awkwardly with his burden against the sucking of the sand and water.

And all hope was slammed out of him by a battering wave he did not see. It came surging out of the storm and knocked him face-­forward on the shore. The insects raced for him at once, alerted by the thud of his body. As he lay on the wet sand, half-­stunned for an instant, he saw them inches from his nose. Their little eyes were balefully on him. Their mandibles were like a sharpening of knives as they twitched forward seeking his flesh. Their antennae, reaching, reaching, reaching, seemed like the fangs of snakes ready to stab poison into his face.

Homer was on his feet and plowing along the beach, still holding desperately to the can. The roach tentacles switched about madly, cheated, but his pounding feet told the “octopus” where he was. The great roach body started after the man with remarkable speed of its own. Loaded with the heavy can, it was hard to outdistance the roaches despite his athletic strength. He thought of abandoning the can, but if he dropped it, he might as well not return at all.