But it was happening, terribly happening, beyond any doubt. The rabbit was flinging its bloodied body about in agonized terror. Blood spurted from its torn throat and ran out of the trap onto the leaves. The savage roach had chewed through to the blood vessel it wanted. Those mandibles must be powerful to rip a rabbit’s skin, the sheriff thought. Those teeth must be razor-­edged to cut the wounds killing the rabbit. The men were almost glad when the bewildered animal twitched violently and fell on its side, dead in moments, out of its suffering.

“Jesus God!” Ben Dorset breathed.

The sheriff shouted across to him, “Gimme that damn box!” As Dorset tossed him the picnic basket, Tarbell yelled up to Russell Homer, “Come the hell down! We’re taking the trap and leaving!”

Homer’s face contorted. “We want the pictures, don’t we?”

Amos Tarbell flung the trap into the aluminum box and slammed the cover shut. “Come on, Russ!”

“Jesus Christ!” It was a sudden cry of open alarm from Ben Dorset. The other men looked where he was pointing. An army of the giant roaches was advancing on them, literally thousands of the insects. To Russell Homer in the tree, their carapaces and wings looked like the shining armor of toy soldiers, little robots, wound up and coming mechanically through the leaves. But it was plain they were anything but toys. Their antennae were flailing above their heads. Homer thought of tanks with cannon circling in moving turrets. It was unreal, and it was the most terrifying experience he had ever known. He kept clicking his camera, desperately adjusting for shutter speed and available light. The Harvard people had to have this incredible record!

Amos Tarbell was screaming, “Russ! No more time!”

Homer kept taking shot after shot.

The sheriff and Ben Dorset emptied their revolvers at the insects. Earth and leaves and roaches sprayed into the air. But nothing deflected the column. The advancing cockroaches calmly crawled over the dead bugs. Some paused to chew at the bodies, but the main group kept coming.

Amos Tarbell tugged at Russell Homer’s feet. A boot came off in his hand. “Dammit!” he cried, “we’re in trouble, Russ! Get!” He flung the boot at the oncoming cockroach force and, banging into Ben Dorset, whirled for the road and the police car, much as Hildie Cannon had done the night before.

Russell Homer seemed suddenly to comprehend his peril. He jumped down from the tree, but in his effort to protect the camera he landed on his back, not his feet. Without his goggles, and missing a boot, Homer lay stunned. The roach column paused momentarily as the ground shook with the man’s fall. Then it shifted of one accord in his direction.