A. Colucci - The Colony

Derek moved protectively over to Kendra and she held up a finger to her students. “Just hang back. It’s probably one of the new park rangers with nothing better to do than hassle hardworking scientists.”

A tall, blond, clean-cut man in a black suit and sunglasses got out of the driver’s seat and walked toward Kendra. He had a clenched jaw, razor-sharp lips and a seriously determined stride that made her smirk as he approached.

“What are you, FBI?”

“Yes, ma’am. Agent Dan Cameron.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not, Professor Hart.”

Kendra pulled off her sunglasses and he did the same. The dry desert heat made Kendra feel like bread toasting too close to the coils, but this guy didn’t break a sweat. She looked into his blue eyes, light as crystals, and went back to counting ants. “Could you move back? Your shadow is throwing my little friends here off course.”

“You’re going to have to come with me,” he told her. “The fact is, you’re needed as a consultant for the U.S. government.”

Consultant? Kendra had served as a consultant before, in Texas and Florida. She figured this could mean only one thing: someone important was having problems with insects. She imagined the president of the United States waking up in a bed full of fire ants, before realizing the scenario was ridiculous.

“A consultant for what?”

“Can’t say. I’m only assigned to pick you up.”

She choked back a laugh. “I thought you guys only did this in bad movies.”

Cameron flipped open his agency identification. “I’ve already cleared things with the dean.”

“I’m going to have to call him myself.”

“Fine,” he replied and handed her a satellite phone.

Kendra knew she was beat. She lowered her gaze to the rippling landscape that the desert winds had sculpted overnight. All the ants on the surface were dead, except a dozen stragglers fighting on top of the mound. With a grunt, she kicked a spray of sand and they scattered toward the hole.

“Hey,” Kate said, flicking sand off her clipboard. The other two students looked uneasily at the FBI agent.

“Just wrap it up, Kate. You’ll have to catch a ride with Derek. Looks like I’ve got somewhere to go.” Kendra pulled back her shoulders and asked, “So where exactly are we headed?”

“New York.”

“ Really. ” She nodded with a smirk of curiosity.

Forty minutes later, Kendra was standing on the tarmac of Las Cruces International Airport, wearing a fresh pair of jeans, a crisp white cotton shirt and Doc Marten boots. The depressing sight of her pets scampering boundlessly across the desert was still clear in her mind.

The loud engine of a Cessna jet thwotted overhead. Kendra wiped her eyes, which stung from the swirling dust and contact lenses she rarely ever wore. Her hands were shaking. All the way to the airport she had pleaded her case of claustrophobia, but never had she expected such a small aircraft.

Agent Cameron tossed her duffel bag to the pilot and reached for Kendra’s hand.

She pressed her palms to her chest in a dramatic gesture. “Seriously,” she yelled over the engine, “I’ll have a panic attack! I might even be dangerous.”

“It’s all right,” he replied loudly, pushing her toward the doorway. “I’ve got a gun.”

CARLOS GONZALES HAD WORKED nights in the New York subways for twenty-three years and there was no place he felt more at home than the dark, winding tunnels of the number 6 Lexington line. He knew every track bed, swing signal, wire and bulb.

The trains were fully automated and operated by a computerized guidance system out of Transit Authority Traffic Control, but when there was a problem that none of the electronic wizards could diagnose, Carlos would do a manual check. He didn’t mind; it was the part of the job he most enjoyed.

But the call came in on his night off, just minutes before his grandson’s birthday party. He grumbled to his wife, “Signal’s down, same as yesterday. I supposed to check the whole Six line. Ees going to take all night, Rosa.”

“ No quejarse. The boys will save you some cake. Mira, Carvel Cookie Puss.”

Carlos entered the tunnels with his toolbox in one hand and flashlight in the other. It was the end of rush hour when he checked the first switches, tightened the circuits and flipped the override buttons, then rode a train to the next stop. By 11:00 P.M. there were few commuters and fewer trains to worry about. The last station was Seventy-seventh Street and he jumped onto the track bed and followed the tunnel to the hotbox.

Carlos knew he had seven minutes until the next train passed so he worked swiftly down his checklist. The job was nearly done when something odd caught his eye and he moved his flashlight to the wall. A huge chunk of concrete was missing and the surrounding tile was pocked full of holes and chinks.

“Qué es este?” Carlos whispered. He slid his hand along the wall and flakes fell to the ground. He checked his watch. Three minutes left.

With both hands, he pressed hard against the concrete. This time a mammoth section of wall crumbled to the ground and Carlos doubled back just in time. The flashlight illuminated a storm of dust, and when the debris settled, the light hit a cavity the size of a Volkswagen.

Carlos sucked in a breath of terror. Hundreds of rat skeletons lay across the rubble, skulls and bones glaring white and picked clean.

“Mal espíritu,” Carlos rasped and stepped back again, nearly tripping over himself as a shiver of fright raced up the back of his neck. He felt as though he were witnessing something supernatural. Carlos shined the light into the hole and could see an endless carpet of bones. There was a crackling sound and he aimed the beam down the track bed, checked his watch. Two minutes. He was shaking and wanted to get out of there, so he grabbed his toolbox, but a flicker of movement spun him around.

The flashlight fell upon the white tile wall covered in thin lines. Shiny black glass like the bobby pins Rosa wore—only, they seemed to be in motion. He followed the shimmering trails to the steel beams overhead and the concrete ceiling. There was a whistle of a train in the far-off distance. Carlos knew he had seconds to get out of there and he turned to run.

All at once, clumps of insects dropped silently down on him, like the muted patter of moss, falling onto his head and shoulders. He dropped his toolbox and flashlight, bending over and shaking his head wildly as legions of soldiers dropped from the rafters onto his back. Carlos felt the sting of a thousand needles stabbing in the dark. Venom shot into his eyes and burned through his corneas. He screamed and stumbled backward, swatting at his face and falling over the second rail. He gagged as they began to fill his mouth and swollen airways. Then the stings turned into bites, jaws hungry to devour meat.

Carlos heaved out a lungful of air and insects with a croaking sound deep within his throat. He staggered down the tunnel, half blind. Fire ripped through his swollen arteries and his body became a furnace, torched from the inside out. The pain grew unbearable, an agony no human could endure. Frantic for the torment to end, he rammed his head into the concrete wall. There was a whistle above the hammering in his brain and he turned his bloodied face into the bright white headlight.

Carlos tipped his head back in relief as the train struck, nearly cutting his torso in half.

IT WAS TWO WEEKS since New York mayor John Russo had read about the first attack in the Daily News. The headline screamed, THEM!