A. Colucci - The Colony

They knew brick buildings were like giant refrigerators.

As they neared the entrance, the ranks broke off in a hundred directions. They scurried up the face of the building and burrowed under doorways and into windows, air vents and cracks in the walls, following pipes, ducts and stairwells.

Within minutes, they blanketed the building.

IN A CRAMPED STUDIO apartment along Twenty-ninth Street, Donny Peltzer lay in bed wearing nothing but striped briefs and a Fender guitar slung across his chest. He picked up the roach clip in the ashtray and sucked in the last of the joint, thinking how expensive it was to live in Manhattan just to keep the creative juices flowing properly.

Donny was practicing “Crossroads” for the gazillionth time. It had to sound perfect. If he got this gig at B. B. King’s he could give up his dog-walking business. Donny hated dogs. He licked a scrape on his knuckles, where Scotty-the-ugly-schnauzer had bit him, and then pressed the triangle pick to the wire strings.

It was the slow and easy Robert Johnson rhythm, not the upbeat version by Cream, and the melody drifted nicely through the room, lingering with the stench of pot, dirty laundry, soaking dishes and the mustiness of a sagging purple sofa that was always damp for some reason. Most everything in Donny’s apartment was old and dingy—except the posters. Hanging from the walls were dozens of chrome-framed Broadway theater posters. A Chorus Line. Grease. Hairspray. Mamma Mia! Wicked . All the classics. Theater was Donny’s passion and each time he played a sleazy club, he felt one lick closer to an orchestra pit.

Just as he reached the second verse, the part that goes “ I’m going down to Rosedale, take my rider by my side ,” Donny paused midstrum and looked at the front door. Muffled voices were shouting in the hallway. But there was something else. A hissing sound in the kitchenette. It was a bit late in the year for steam to be rising from the radiator, especially since the heat was turned off in February, but hey, this was New York.

The sounds abated and Donny played the first chords again—and then his fingers suddenly lost their grip. The pick fell to the mattress. He froze with fear.

Donny stared at the wooden bedpost by his foot and the massive silhouette of an ant crawling across the top. It was the biggest, blackest ant he’d ever seen; big as a water bug, almost an inch long. He put the guitar on the bed and tucked his legs to his chest.

Instinctively, his eyes moved to a copy of a newspaper lying on the floor. There was a caricature of a scary ant on the front page. What did the articles say? They traveled in packs.

Oh great. Donny’s heart was pounding as his gaze shifted over the room and bare carpet. Finding no buggy friends, he settled once again on the ant, which was now spiraling down the bedpost. It ran along the mattress, straight for the guitar. It vanished under the instrument and Donny held his breath. He was too scared to move.

The ant appeared again, having eclipsed the guitar, and stood out boldly against the spruce grain. It seemed to be staring at Donny, who reached down to the floor and grasped the newspaper. Slowly, he rolled it into a heavy tube and raised it high in the air, ready to strike. But he didn’t. Instead, Donny leaned in closer to the creature. It was cleaning its face and antennae with nimble front legs. It stood very still for a moment and then it moved an inch to the left, then to the right, then cleaned some more. It appeared to be sort of—harmless.

Donny’s heart slowed and he chuckled. It’s an ant, he thought, quite correctly.

With the tip of his index finger, he gave the critter a shove. It flipped upside down, kicking its wiry legs above the smooth wood. Feeling more courageous, Donny rolled it back onto its feet. With a slight pinch, he plucked the insect off the guitar and dropped the little fella into his palm.

The ant didn’t move. It seemed rather powerless against the mighty force of a human hand. Still, Donny had never seen an ant this size. It may have been abnormal but certainly not dangerous. Suddenly the hysteria in the city seemed ridiculous, and Donny curiously inspected the tiny suit of armor. It had a bulky helmet head that reminded him of Darth Vader and made him smile.

“I am your father, Luke,” Donny said in a raspy voice and then breathed through his teeth, sounding like an air regulator.

A sudden pain ripped through his hand, as if a searing-hot skewer had pierced straight through the center of his palm. Donny howled and tried to shake off the ant as another burst of pain hit again, so acutely he fell to the carpet.

The ant was still hooked to his skin, slicing and stinging again and again. Donny stared wide-eyed and raked his nails over his palm, until all that remained was one pincer embedded under the skin.

Caught between a wave of shock and pity, Donny lay on the floor, crying like a baby and rubbing the wound, which was trickling blood. His hand burned red and swelled so much that his fingers looked like hot dogs. It hurt to make a fist, but Donny found a rolled-up sock and squeezed it to stop the bleeding.

Then the lights went out.

Donny bolted upright in the dark, holding his breath and wondering if the ant was still alive, looking for him with one missing claw. He heard the steam growing louder and that’s when he realized it didn’t really sound like the radiator after all. Didn’t the newspaper say the ants made a buggy noise? This wasn’t good, not good at all. Donny wanted to get out of the dark, badly.

With a quick and cautious hand, he reached under the bed for a flashlight and patted over familiar objects. Baseball bat. Rollerblades. Stack of Hustler. Bong. The carpet felt rough and irritating to his overexcited nerve endings. He squirmed farther under the box spring, until his hand hit the wall.

Then the hissing stopped.

Donny shimmied out from under the bed and sat in the dark, dumbly listening to nothing but his own irregular breath. His bare foot touched something cold. Small. Metal.

Donny snatched up his lighter. With one trembling hand he flipped open the cover and pressed his thumb to the trigger that spun wheel against flint.

It sparked. It sparked again. Come on, come on, man.

The flame lit and relief came to his face. Now there was a soft glow to the room. It was brighter yet somehow darker. What was different? His posters were missing. The walls were completely black. Holding the lighter over the bed, Donny backed away and screamed. He sprinted to the door, but never got past the triple dead bolts.

Not that it mattered. The murky hallway was packed with frantic neighbors, covered in blood and ants, screaming and crying out in pain. Shaking candles and flashlights revealed flickering images of insects crawling over ceiling and walls, down to the elevator. Desperate crowds headed for the emergency exit, but like most of the buildings in Manhattan, the stairwell was completely infested.

“NĬ ZÀI NĂLĬ?”

Chen Jinsong, a fragile old man with a red pinched face, stumbled to the top of the storage cellar and cried out to his wife, who was sweeping the back of the bodega.

“Dào zhèlĭ Lái!”

She hurried to him, clutching the broom. “How I know! Go see yourself!”

There was commotion in the street. High-pitched screams, breaking glass and shouts of alarm carried Chen back to the terrifying nights of his childhood when the Chinese army would invade his village, and summoned images of fleeing men and women grabbing their meager belongings.

Chen stepped into the street.

The outdoor market of Chinatown’s Mott Street was in chaos. Pedestrians ran wildly in every direction, knocking down tables of brightly painted dolls, silk fans and slippers. They sprinted past strings of bright red paper lanterns and Chinese signs in neon green, as the smell of fear mixed with the usual odors of spices, fish and smoked meats.