Aaron Polson: The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories

“What do you suppose it is?” Manny asked, a hint of fear floating just under his words. His usual ruddy face looked whitewashed and pale.

I bent over the tailgate, a little shocked by the possibility. “A beetle, I guess.”

“Damn big beetle.” Randy stroked his beard.

“You should really show this to Lane, you know Nancy Albricht’s kid. He’s back for the summer, and he’s studying entomology at Oregon State.” I looked at Randy. “This would be like winning the lotto for him.”

“Anto-mol-ogy,” Randy spoke slowly. “What’s that, beetle breeding?”

“Entomology. The study of insects. Bugs. Let’s give him a call.”

“It kind of looks like a common black beetle — family Carabidae . They’re an import from Europe. Not native to the Pacific Northwest, that is.” Lane Albricht, blonde and broad, stood in the center of the small group of men gathered around his father’s workbench, poking and prodding the specimen Randy brought from the forest. “Damn it’s big. Where’d you find this?”

“There were a few out near our site. Maybe a half dozen. A couple of them looked like they were crawling up out of the ground.” Randy made a face and pantomimed a large beetle exiting a pile of mud. I figured the beetle in the woods didn’t have a beard.

Lane tilted his head and studied Randy’s acting. “Interesting. Most Carabidae species usually live under old trees, bark, or stones near water. Were the others the same size?”

“Yep, close anyway.” Randy ceased his beetle impression. “Look, these things are a little spooky, and we haven’t even seen a live one.”

“Yeah man. I don’t wanna be out there with these things crawling all over me.” Manny shivered, jiggling his protruding belly. Pete nodded.

Lane carefully looked at each man in turn, “Large insects aren’t unheard of. They found this other beetle, Titanus giganteus ,in Brazil that was about seventeen centimeters long. This guy is easily bigger. I’d like to know if you find anything else. Especially a live one.”

“Whatever kid. If we do, it sure as hell won’t be alive for long.” Randy thumped Manny and Pete in turn. “I guess we better get to work fellas. We’re wasting daylight.”

Peter and Manny exchanged a look. “Look, Randy, I can’t speak for Manny, but I’m not really sure I want to go back out today,” Pete said, glancing back at the black critter on the bench.

“Yeah Randy, maybe we should…” Manny began.

“You’re both a couple of pansies. Ain’t nothing out there I can’t squash with my boot.” He started across the street toward his truck and climbed into the cab. “You sissies can walk home. And kid, you can keep that one. Call it a souvenir.” With a slight chuckle, Randy started the truck and rolled down the street.

The four of us stood in silence for a moment.

I turned to Lane, glancing first at the black specimen on the table. “Are these things going to be a problem?”

“Naw. Probably just some freaks, aberrations. I mean Carabidae is a carnivorous species, but…”

“Carnivorous beetles?” Pete’s taffy face stretched with surprise.

“Sure — they eat other insects and can run really fast to catch their prey. But they wouldn’t harm animals.” Lane ran his hand through his wavy blonde hair. “I’m gonna call my advisor. I know he’ll want to see this.”

Manny smoothed his mustache with one finger. “Look guys, I think we’re going to hoof it back downtown.” He turned and started walking with Pete.

“Take it easy,” I called after them and turned to Lane. “They seemed a little spooked. Do you think we should try to get in touch with the park service or something?”

“No. Not yet. This could be an important find. We don’t want the state coming in and mucking things up with paperwork. If these beetles really were crawling from the ground…I dunno, they could be a new species, something not studied.” He must have seen the confusion on my face. “You know about cicadas right?”

“Cicadas. Yeah, they make that buzzing sound. Only around during certain years.”

“Right. They spend most of their lives underground, only coming out to mate and die. A lot of insects go through early stages in the life cycle underground — natural protection from predators.” Lane looked at the beetle carcass, touching the tip of one foreleg. “I think this guy ‘grew up’ underground. Look at the forelegs.”

I examined the two segmented limbs closely, noting they were somewhat thicker, maybe sturdier, than the other legs. “How do they know when to climb out of the ground?”

Lane bent down and really scrutinized the beetle’s abdomen. “Probably just a chemical trigger…something inside that says ‘it’s time’.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah. Sometimes these things happen because of environmental factors.”

“The rain?”

“Not exactly. More like ground temperature reaching a certain point — raising a degree or two. Something like that. Something that would signal ‘everything’s ok, come on out’ to the little bundle of nerves in his ganglion — his insect brain.” Lane thrust a thumb toward the beetle’s head. “I guess enough rain, if it’s warm enough — could help boost the ground temperature. I don’t really know.”

We always had our fair share of community wildlife in Monument. Deer or elk would wander through town, especially in fall — during mating season, the “rut” as we called it. That summer, more large mammals wandered out of the surrounding woods, many more than I had experienced since living there.

The sheriff, a thick, balding fellow named Mort Kress, and one of his deputies, Benny Wilson, brought this large buck into town one day. It was dead — mauled. Something had torn the poor thing open, gutted it. I was sitting outside the café when they pulled up in the sheriff’s truck, and I could see the antlers sticking out of the bed. Curiosity drew me across the street. “What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing but road-kill, I guess. Benny and me figured we better load it up, get it out of there. Found it out on Deer Creek Road. Surprised nobody reported this one.” He slammed the door of his truck shut.

“What do you mean?” I glanced into the bed, saw the horrible strips where flesh was torn from the sides of the deer.

“Look at it. Must’ve messed somebody’s car up pretty good, by the looks of that.” The Sheriff turned and followed Benny inside the café. I stood for a moment, taking in the image of the mauled animal, and imagining the monstrous car that could do that kind of damage.

The rain started again, heavy floods from the iron sky. I sat in my booth at Pine Peak, munching on some burnt bacon and digesting a few short stories from my new textbooks for the fall. Randy perched on his usual stool with no sign of Pete or Manny.

“I don’t much mind the rain today,” Randy muttered to Darla. “Too many of those damn bugs.”

I closed my book, and turned my head slightly toward the counter, enticed by the word “bugs”.

“You’ve just been workin’ too hard,” Darla said, smiling. “Trying to make up for lost time with the weather.”

Randy tugged hard on his beard and said, “No. No, there’s something out there.” He wagged one rough finger toward the café windows. “Them bugs. They’re getting bigger.”

“Nonsense.” Darla chuckled — she wasn’t the kind of woman who giggled.

“Hell, I’m telling the truth. Old Lumpy came running out of the trees last Thursday evening, tail tucked between his legs. I started laughing at him, they way he looked all scared — I figured he pissed off a marmot or something. Anyway, this big son-of-a-bitch comes scurrying after him. Craziest thing, watching this beetle the size of that old hound come scurrying out of the forest.” Randy’s voice became a little distant. “The damn thing scrambled right over a downed tree, straight at me. I dropped the chainsaw right on it.” His coffee cup made a noisy clink when it hit the saucer.