Reed Brockshaw’s unutterable anguish pulled the corners of his mouth back into a plastic grin of death. He was beyond mourning, he wanted only vengeance and requital. He lit a flare. His thumping heart knew what he planned. His delirium led him striding off the dune down to the beach, boldly stamping into the torrent of roaches now fleeing the oncoming ocean. Roach leaders made for him at once. Their antennae went high, an arrogance of superiority—how did this Enemy dare to come among them, they who could butcher him in moments! The insect teeth clicked, their mandibles scissored, they hissed and puffed new commands to attack, slaughter, devour.

They waited menacingly for Brockshaw . . .

The man understood, and laughed, and bellowed his maledictions with his first thrust of the flare at their malignant bodies. The flare sent the cockroaches scuttling crazily, their bodies bouncing in the fire, as if they were popping in a hot pan.

Reed Brockshaw laughed insanely at the gratifying debacle. He swept his fiery torch around as if he were scything a field. Circle after circle of burning roach bodies curled and twitched and burst in the fierce immolation.

Soon the man realized he could not get all the roaches while on the beach, and he wanted them all, every killer of them! And, ah, he could be as cunning as they! They would follow him into the woods, because the ocean was chasing them, and because he was more food, and because he had attacked them. Whatever drew or drove them, the insects flocked after him into the trees. Brockshaw was jubilant as he saw them filling the earth behind him, sheets and sheets of cockroaches, a pouring cascade of cockroaches filling the forest floor after him.

Brockshaw paid no attention to the lacerations on his feet, the roaches now sucking blood from the deep bites on his ankles. He rejoiced, knowing his intention. He was impatient, but he forced the time. He wanted them all in his power, every villainous murderer wet with the blood of the drowned children on that beach of horror. He turned to wait for them. He held the flare before his face, though the light hurt his eyes. He fended off the roaches that flew at his head. He kept stamping and shouting in invitation. He laughed. They thought they were the attacker! Hah! They’d see! Soon now! He slapped more flying roaches away. They weren’t going to blind him, not yet! He wanted to see, to have the bursting joy of witnessing what he was about to accomplish.

Reed Brockshaw shook his head madly from side to side to splatter his own blood out to the roaches to make them more avaricious for him, to keep them signaling for more of their brothers to hasten to the new feast where he stood in the forest.