Peter Hubbard blinked his eyes hard, willing them to recover. Thankfully, the effects of the chemical began to wear off. He still could not see clearly, but at least could make out the figures of Elizabeth and Bonnie, and saw the furious contest they were in. There were still scores of roaches attacking, each one a hideous threat of blindness and worse.

Hubbard grabbed Bonnie from her knees. “Get two more of the tanks, fast!” She obeyed swiftly. To Elizabeth, Hubbard barked anxiously, “Are you all right, Liz?”

“A few bites, but okay, I think!” Elizabeth panted. “You?”

For answer, the man grabbed the tank from her. “Give me that and get back inside with Bonnie!”

Elizabeth handed the tank over. As it left her hands, she was seized with a tremor. The ordeal had stimulated her to physical action equal to her fury. Now horror took over, searing every last nerve. The tears came as she took in Wanda Lindstrom’s ravaged face—that beautiful face ripped like a rag—and the stare of the blank eye sockets. Bright, intelligent, caring human eyes only minutes ago!

Elizabeth ran for the kitchen to help Bonnie bring more tanks. But the floor was slippery now with melting dry ice as well as gore, and she lost her balance. She landed on her buttocks with a bump that drove the wind out of her.

Hubbard cried out, aiming his tank near her, “Hurry up! Get into the kitchen!” He saw insects circling her fallen body at once. They were too close to Elizabeth to permit the use of the tank.

Crawling on her knees, in her panic the woman kept slipping and sliding like a clown. But it was not funny in any way. Sheer terror was on her face as she saw three great roaches nipping at her ankle, the blood spreading quickly on her skin.

“Peter!” Her voice came out as a croak of despair rather than a cry for help.

Hubbard dropped his tank and stepped carefully to Elizabeth. Disregarding the danger to himself, he deliberately picked off the attacking roaches, one by one. They punctured his fingers and drew his blood, but he did not stop.

Bonnie came in again, joining the laboratory battle. “Throw those bugs right here!” she yelled. “I’ll squirt the motherfuckers to death!”

Peter Hubbard was as human as any of them. When he had lifted Elizabeth safely to her feet, he carefully placed each roach where he could stamp on it with his heavy boot. He wanted the personal revenge of hearing their fat bodies pop and break under his foot. It could not help Wanda Lindstrom, or the other victims, but it could express the surging hatred he felt for these harpies, these scum of Nature. It was not a scientist’s reaction; it was a man’s.