Gina Ranalli - Unearthed

“Martin?” she called as she drew closer to the vehicle. “Joyce?”

When she reached the Rover, she peered inside only to find it empty. She noted that the keys were in the ignition, though the auto wasn’t running.

Odd , she thought.

Lou pushed past her and leapt into the vehicle, panting at her from the passenger’s seat.

Rebecca considered scolding him, but decided against it. What would be the purpose at this point? Instead, she said, “Sorry, buddy. No rides today.”

Turning to face the house, Rebecca felt a small surge of hope. The fact that the Land Rover was here meant that the Days were home. That seemed like a good sign, despite the silence. In fact, Joyce was probably peeking out from behind a curtained window at her at this very moment, busy-body that she was.

“Come on, boy,” she said and began her way across the lawn to the front door.

She was about forty feet from the bundle on the ground when she realized it wasn’t laundry at all.

Gasping, she broke into a run, Lou at her heels.

When she reached the body of Joyce Day, she skidded to a halt and bit into the knuckle of her index finger to keep from screaming.

The elderly woman had been dead for some time, judging by the flies swarming around her. Her face was completely gone, as was most of the exposed flesh of her arms and legs — anything not covered by her flower-print house dress.

What from a distance Rebecca had thought was various pieces of red garments, was actually raw, red meat, oozing blood, a stark-white protrusion of bone here and there.

Joyce Day now resembled a freshly butchered carcass wearing a dress, black orthopedic shoes and a curly gray wig.

Sniffing cautiously, the dog inspected the corpse from every angle, disturbing the feast of the flies while Rebecca stepped back a pace, fighting the urge to retch.

What could have done this?

But she already knew the answer, if only because there was no other. Those things …those bee creatures.

The realization made her check her surroundings; she searched the blue sky for any sign of movement, her ears pricked for that now familiar high-pitched drone.

She saw nothing but it didn’t make her feel any safer. Knowing how fast the things could fly, one could be upon her long before she could outrun it.

A chill racked her body and turned her attention to the house. Martin must be inside, probably hiding, paralyzed with terror and surely traumatized by the killing of his wife.

Rebecca stepped around the body, trying not to think about the flies, some of which were probably already laying eggs in the savaged flesh of the old woman.

She climbed the porch steps quickly, anxious to find Martin but also to get inside where it would be safe from enormous and apparently carnivorous insects.

The inside of the house was dark, all the curtains drawn tight and from somewhere within it, Rebecca could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock, each swing of the pendulum as loud as a firecracker in a long-abandoned crypt.

“Martin?” she called, deciding to leave the front door open behind her. “It’s Rebecca Robinson. Hello?”

From where she stood in the foyer, the living room was directly to her right. A quick scan told her the room was empty and she moved down the hall to the kitchen and dining area, only to find these places were also void of life.

After checking the bathroom as well as the screened-in back porch to no avail, she was left with the upper level of the house.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, she swallowed, her palms suddenly moist with perspiration.

Could he be sleeping? And if so, for how long? Did he even know his wife was dead?

Rebecca shook her head. The feeling of impending doom was almost enough to make her flee the house entirely, but where would she go? Into town, of course, but to what end?

She couldn’t think about that now.

Briefly, she considered forgoing the search for Martin and just heading back to the kitchen to use their telephone and call for help.

She looked down at Lou, faithfully standing beside her, gazing up at her with adoring eyes and a gently swaying tail. “What do you say, boy? Up or just get the hell out?”

Lou’s only response was a soft whine.

“I was afraid you’d say that. Up it is, I guess.”

For the first time since entering the house, she felt like an intruder and proceeded slowly, her hand trailing along the mahogany rail, each riser creaking underfoot.

The dog had no such qualms. He raced by her as if he were in his own house, making it to the top of the stairs in a few quick seconds.

On the landing, Lou turned to look down at Rebecca as if pleased with himself, then darted away, out of sight.

“Lou!” Rebecca hissed, increasing her pace. She imagined the dog scaring the crap out of poor old Mr. Day and winced inwardly.

“Martin?” she called again as she crested the stairs. “I’m sorry. It’s me, Rebecca, from up the road.”

In another room, Lou barked once and she hurried towards the sound.

The second level of the house was even darker than the first but she made it to a far bedroom at the end of the hall without banging into anything.

She stopped at the threshold of the master bedroom, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Martin?”

When black shapes formed into actual objects — bed, dresser, hope chest — she saw her neighbor seated in an armchair by the window facing the front lawn. He appeared to be gazing out the window, though the blind was barely cracked.

At his feet, Lou sat, watching the man expectantly, his tail thumping the carpet.

Rebecca swallowed what felt like a cantaloupe lodged in her throat. Martin didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge either the dog or herself.

The most disturbing part of the scene was the rifle laying across the old man’s lap.

“You saw what the bastards did to Joyce.”

The man’s words so startled Rebecca that she cried out, clasping a hand to her mouth.

Finally Martin turned his head to look at her. “You saw it, Rebecca?”

She nodded as her heart pounded painfully against her breastbone. “Yes.”

“It’s over now. You know that, dontcha?”

Crossing the room, she sat on the edge of the bed nearest the old man and leaned over, placing a hand on his knee, doing her best to ignore the rifle so casually placed on his thighs.

“Those…creatures,” she said. “One of them did that to Joyce?”

“Digger bees,” he said.

Brow furrowed, she said, “Excuse me?”

“Those creatures. I’ve seen something like ‘em before. Those are digger bees, sure as shit.”

“I’ve…I’ve never heard of digger bees before.”

“They live in the ground. Where they get their name from. They dig their nests in the ground ‘stead of building ‘em like regular bees. Stepped on a nest once when I was a boy down in Oregon. Bastards can be fierce. Foot swelled up the size of a damn football.” He chuckled a bit at the memory, then continued. “’Course never saw any so big. That part I don’t know about. Probably some science project gone awry or some crap they been putting in the soil or water supply. Poison, probably. Who knows, right? Don’t matter now anyway.”

Rebecca thought about this for a moment, then said, “But…since when do bees…” She trailed off, grateful for the dark because it prevented Martin from seeing her blush. “Do what they did to Joyce?” she finished.

“They ate her,” Martin said, matter-of-factly. “That’s what they did to her. Goddamn me having this rifle locked up in the attic. Might have been able to save her if I wasn’t so damn worried the grandkids might find it in the closet sometime when I was watching a game or some shit. Goddamn me all to hell.”