Block Party #3
There, some ten feet up and tucked away in the shadows, is Eddie, the massive insect positioned sideways against the wall but unbothered by gravity’s pull.
He perches with his six pointy legs, resting just as casually as he would on land.
Eddie’s four muscular tentacles writhe slowly around him, constantly rippling with movement as they snake through the air and inspect their surroundings.
He’s pumping out an extra helping of the pink dust, sparkling fog billowing from the cracks of his carapace and drifting through the night.
“Oh fuck,” I blurt, profanity filter still disengaged as sheer panic overtakes all brain function.
I immediately spring into action, backing up, grabbing my companions, and pulling them into the darkness of the kitchen.
“Here,” I whisper, dropping down behind the countertop island.
I’m not sure if Eddie noticed us, but lighting is on our side.
The kitchen is bathed in shadow, and out by the pool he’s got plenty of illumination to deal with as it bounces off the glass.
Still, he’s been seeing things just fine tonight through those dark sunglasses—and with only one eye, potentially helped by some otherworldly biology that I’m unaware of. It doesn’t bode well for our chances.
Marlo, Noah, and I sit in utter stillness, our backs pressed against the island. I can sense Noah staring at me, so I turn my head to meet his gaze. He says nothing, but his expression of dumbfounded terror and confusion says it all.
He believes.
I nod to the side, directing Noah to the reflective cabinets in front of us. This wall of drawers and cupboards has a metallic sheen, the light gray panels acting as a mirror that shoots back over our shoulders for a blurry view of the pool area.
Eddie is still perched up above, sitting quietly in the corner as his pheromones spill forth in wave after noxious wave.
“Can either of you smell anything?” I whisper. “Buttered popcorn?”
Marlo and Noah shake their heads.
“Good,” I say. “Keep those clips on tight.”
“Where’s yours?” Noah asks, reaching up and tapping his nose.
“I melted a whole candle into my sinuses,” I whisper. “I’m good.”
“Oh, right. Obviously,” Noah deadpans.
The haze is everywhere, creeping its way through all the cracks and structural imperfections. The AC units here in Palm Springs are the mightiest you’ll ever see, but when something gets inside one, it circulates quickly.
“What’s it waiting for?” Noah murmurs under his breath.
Right on cue, Eddie scuttles across the wall. I watch in the blurry cabinet reflection, charting the massive insect’s course as he disappears over the roof’s edge and into the darkness.
“I think he’s heading to the other side of the house,” I whisper.
I start to get up, but three loud knocks stop me in my tracks.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
We freeze, listening closely.
A familiar voice rings out, calling through the front door. It’s muffled, and in the din of a normal day it might be hard to understand what she’s saying, but here in the dead silence of the evening I can make out every word.
“Marlo! Are you in there?” our neighbor, Alison, calls out. “Your mom wanted me to come over and check on you.”
Thump! Thump! Thump!
She knocks again. “Hello?” she chirps with a distinct singsong cadence. “Wakey-wakey! Just checking in on you for Poppy, making sure everything’s okay.”
There’s a long pause, then another voice pipes up. It’s Bowie, Alison’s six-year-old son. “Marlo! Can you come over and play?”
“Poppy said it’s fine,” Alison chimes in.
Despite the inherent nosiness of her PI career, Alison is a sweetheart. In the middle of the night, however, that sweetness has turned sour. Her presence is so out of place that even my daughter doesn’t buy it, simply shaking her head and furrowing her brow.
That’s a good read, I think, proud.
I turn to the others, refusing to waste any more time. “Let’s go,” I whisper. “Out through the back.”
The three of us stand up and hustle through the kitchen, keeping our bodies crouched low and our eyes peeled. I grab a butcher knife as I pass the block, gripping it tight.
Alison finally loses her cool. “Get out here right fucking now!” she shrieks from behind the front door, feral with rage.
She starts hammering with her fists, her three-knock rhythm devolving into a frantic cascade of pounds.
“Marlo! Get out here or I’ll cut your fucking fingers off and make myself a necklace, you little bitch! ”
I briefly transition into Mom Mode despite our violently heightened circumstances, instinctively shaking my head at Marlo. “We don’t say mean things like that, right?” I remind her, struggling to act natural.
“You said the F-word when you got here,” she informs me. “Twice.”
“That’s … a good point,” I murmur. “Well then, you have my permission to swear tonight.”
“Ass,” she says.
“Great work, sweetie.”
We’re moving down the hallway now, headed toward my bedroom where another door will take us directly to the back patio.
As we pass the living room, my portrait of Stevie Nicks in four brilliant variants of neon color stares down at us, watching as we scurry along.
There’s a sharp turn in the hallway ahead, and as I approach this bend I can already feel the excitement bubbling up within me. Almost there. Almost free.
A figure steps around the corner, large and hulking in the darkness.
I let out a startled yelp as my mind struggles to shift gears. This shape is not Alison, nor Eddie for that matter, and despite the dim lighting I can still make out the enormous hatchet hanging casually by their side.
“Hey, Marlo,” comes a deep, unfamiliar voice. “I’m taking you to school this morning.”
The three of us stagger back as a terrible crash of shattering glass rings out from another room, then another. I glance over to see a new figure stumbling through the darkness, trying to get their bearings in this unfamiliar space.
A woman calls from the guest room. “Is Marlo here?”
I course correct, retreating our group back down the hallway, but this path is quickly blocked by a skinny man wielding a giant pair of gardening shears.
“Hey, everyone just needs to calm down,” he coos. “Which one of you is Marlo?”
We slowly back into the living room, the mob closing in on us from every side.
My eyes are darting, feverishly hunting for an exit, but there’s just too many intruders.
Forcing our way through is no longer an option.
Regardless, I’m not going down without a fight.
This might be the end of the line for me, but I’ll be damned if I let them take my daughter and keep their teeth.
There’s a part of my subconscious mind that keeps begging me to empathize, desperately reminding me that these are real people with real lives and real stories. They’re not the homicidal maniacs they appear to be, victims of Eddie Michaels in their own way.
Unfortunately, I can’t really care about that right now.
Noah lifts his bat and I prepare my knife, but before we get a chance to use them a strange, rattling voice spills across the room, halting our assailants with a simple command.
“Alright, gang, that’s enough!” Eddie croaks. “Stop moving!”
The mob freezes in place, transforming into statues of flesh and bone.
“Lights up!”
The man with the axe strolls over and switches on a nearby lamp, granting the scene a terrible new clarity.
The mob’s faces are now fully visible, and while a few of them are unknown to me, the vast majority of the attackers are my neighbors from up and down the block.
The skinny man with gardening shears is Kevin Lowery, from the end of the street, a guy whose cat always ends up over here for Marlo to pet and feed.
Next to him is Taylor Peterson, a girl who babysat for me a few times when Noah wasn’t available.
She’s holding a hammer. Alison and Bowie have found their way in, brandishing a power drill and a screwdriver, respectively.
The whole gang is motionless, their approach halted mid-stride to create a surreal assortment of poses.
Eddie crawls out from the darkness, weaving through the bodies on his many skittering legs and then stopping before us.
The massive, primeval earwig rears up a bit, getting a good look at Marlo as she cowers in fear.
My daughter is beside herself, unable to keep from sobbing as she buries her head against my legs.
“Mom, what is it?” she shrieks. “What is it?!”
“Grandpa,” Eddie rattles, then suddenly erupts in a strange pattern of staccato chirps that vibrate the sack under his chin. He rears back even more as he does this, swaying from side to side and giving the distinct impression of laughter.
“I’ll mangle her, too!” I hiss. “Then you’re really fucked.”
I squeeze Marlo’s shoulder a little tighter as I say this, as if to somehow express that I don’t really mean it, but I’m not sure if it translates.
“You would never,” Eddie retorts. “You’re not ruthless enough, sport. You’re … a disappointment.”
Eddie’s final word cuts much deeper than expected, and for the briefest moment I find myself thrown for a loop.
Instead of thinking of physically defending myself, I’m overwhelmed with the need to push back, to argue my case and show him I’m worthy.
I open my mouth, desperate for a clever retort, then quickly shut it when I sense the tears welling up instead.
Fortunately, the weight of my dread abruptly realigns, smothering this initial reaction. I point my butcher knife at Eddie. “Come any closer and I’ll gut you,” I growl.
The massive bug settles, pausing a moment. “I’m actually kind of interested in your friend.”