Beetle Mania
It started with a sound. A stuttering series of clicks and taps. This was followed by a more deliberate string of stronger taps, almost thuds. It sounded like somebody knocking on a door.
It came from the door to the garage.
What the hell? Johnny put down the book he was reading and looked up. He didn’t hear anything. An irritated frown crossed his face and he settled back into the leather easy chair with a comforting creak.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
The first rivulet of worry, thin and diluted, flowed into his veins. In a single motion he push-kicked the recliner to an upright position and folded down the top corner of the page. Bookmarks were for assholes and librarians, and he was neither. He stood up and listened again.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Johnny’s eyes narrowed in thought and his breath caught in his chest. Was there somebody in his garage? The big outer door wasn’t locked or anything, he wasn’t sure if it even could be locked. He damn sure hadn’t heard it open though, that thing rattled and hummed like an uphill train.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
“Who is it?” he called out. Jesus Christ, they were in his garage, they weren’t here to sell him magazines or deliver a package. “I have a weapon… it’s a… a gun!” He looked around, frantic to find something, anything that could be used as a weapon. He scooped up one of the empty bottles that were lined up like failed promises on the folding table next to his chair.
There was a long silence. Johnny held his breath.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
He gave a short bark of exhalation and pulled his arm back, brandishing the bottle at the empty room and the insistent sound. Cheap, warm beer dripped from the mouth of the bottle and onto his arm and shoulder. It went unnoticed. His free hand clenched and unclenched and his breath caught in his throat. He took a few hesitant steps toward the door that led to his garage and to whatever was making that sound. Maybe a damn bird got in there?
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Sweat beaded at his temple; he scrubbed it away with the worn cuff of his favorite flannel shirt. The faded blue pattern darkened where it picked up that essential oil of his fear. Who was fucking with him? Who would dare?
Warmed by his anger he stomped the rest of the way to the door, his bare feet slapping on the cold tile. He placed his hand on the knob. Shit, it wasn’t even locked! A panicked, yellow voice told him to lock the door. Lock it now!
His breath pulled in and out of his chest with harsh abbreviation. He closed his eyes, hand still on the knob. A simple twist to open it or a small move to lock it?
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Oh shit, I felt that! He flipped a coin in his head, not even recognizing the small web of biases that shaped his so-called free will. With a strangled shout he turned the knob and pulled the door open.
There was nobody there. Even in the dim light that spilled past him, etching out his nebulous shadow, he could see there was nobody out there. Both bays were empty. His Buick, that trusty old bitch, had been repo’d the previous week by those assholes at the bank. (Persecution!) The other bay was empty as well, but expectant.
He took a step forward and reached for the switch that controlled the overhead lights.
“Hey, watch the fuck out!”
Johnny stopped and teetered backward to both feet, still on the tile. He looked around with wide eyes and a slack mouth. “Who said that? Who’s there? Don’t make me come out there!”
“Oh, please. You couldn’t hurt a fly. Are you crazy?” A small snort followed that rebuke.
The scornful voice came from his feet. Johnny took another step back and to the side. His shadow fled the garage and climbed up the nearest wall. Crouched on the concrete a few scant inches away from the raised sill of the door was something out of a nightmare.
Oh sweet Jesus, this can’t be happening. Johnny rubbed at his eyes again.
It was still there. The shell that covered its body was jet black with hints of brown where the segments met. It had a slick, almost oily shine.
Carapace. That’s its carapace. This fragment of a mostly forgotten high school biology class fluttered around Johnny’s mind on dark wings. Knowledge did nothing to alleviate the horror of this thing.
It was big, way too big. The large antenna by its head were a foot and a half long, at least. They were thick, in a visceral and disturbing way and were divided into segments that tapered to fine points at the far ends. The brutal and solid mandibles looked capable of snapping a log, or a thigh, in half with sickening ease.
Little sounds of fear and protest bubbled in Johnny’s throat.
“What is your problem? Are you going to let me in?”
The absurdity filtered out some of the paralyzing fear; Johnny was able to re-engage control over his own mouth. “What… what the…” He shook his head from side-to-side with a hard motion. “I must be dreaming.”
“Hey, if anyone here is dreaming it’s me.” The thing, (Beetle, it’s some kind of mutant beetle!), swung its head from side to side and its compound eyes shimmered in the reflected light. “Though why I would dream about this sad-sack shit life, I don’t know.” It paused. “I must have eaten some bad tacos on the way here.”
Johnny stared in horror as a harsh cascade of chittering and rasping came from the beetle-thing. The heavy antenna twitched and swayed. That son of a bitch is laughing!
“No shit, Sherlock.” The long back segment of its body split in half and opened for a moment and a fluttering sound filled the garage. The wing casings closed again.
Ohgodohgodohgoditcanfly. Johnny’s brain finally succeeded in rebooting the primary fight or flight systems. He backed away from the monster and dropped the bottle from numb fingers; it broke with a sharp sound, almost a hiss. He hurried farther back and his hip bumped into the lamp. It clattered to the floor and broke with a flash of light and a sharp pop. Darkness fell on the nonononoitsnotpossible giant fucking beetle and swallowed it completely.
Johnny turned and ran into the dining room, headed for the back door. That scraping, fluttering sound followed him. A heavy but muted crash came from behind him.
“God damn it, I really hate this stupid chair. What the hell is wrong with you anyway?” This was followed by ripping and tearing, and then several splintery crunches.
He stopped at the back door and unlocked it. He put his hand on the knob and twisted. Anger made him hesitate and turn back; he kept his hand on the knob. With a hastily pawed flick of his free hand he hit the switches next to the door. The light to the backyard came on. Damn it! He scrabbled at the switches again and this time the big overhead light in the dining room came on.
The recliner, his favorite place to sit, lay in ruined shambles. That gigantic insectoid asshole looked up at him and cocked its head. Between those sheering mandibles was the book he had been enjoying before this madness had started.
Indignation boiled up inside Johnny’s chest. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.” The book was just some airport schlock, nothing even that great.
The giant beetle tilted its head a little more; its antenna slowed to a stop. “Ohhww whaat?”
Johnny froze; he had nothing to back up his demand. He didn’t even have his sturdy bug-crushing work boots on. He looked around, desperate for any sort of weapon. He saw hope leaning against the side of the house, just outside the door. The hard-tined garden rake he had once used to level a patch of dirt outside. The concrete slab had never been poured, the hot tub never even purchased, let alone installed. The rake was still out there, though. It would have to do.
He yanked open the door with a flapping clatter of the crappy mangled blinds that only partially covered the dirty window. He jumped out and grabbed the rake, not noticing the dense sticky cobwebs that had covered it. He whirled and brandished his makeshift polearm. The feeble yellow light that shone through the dust-encrusted lamp enclosure fell flat on the head of the rake. He held up one hand to block the glare and peered through the open door.
The beetle-thing hadn’t moved. Although its multi-faceted eyes could have been looking at almost anything, its head was oriented on Johnny. With a slow deliberate motion it sliced through the book. A faint rasping susurration followed by a fluttering thump was the only sound between the two combatants.
Johnny narrowed his eyes. He marched forward and took a better grip on his weapon. Back inside the smell hit him. It was almost familiar, spoiled pork maybe, but with something else layered on top. Is that cilantro?
This was the last coherent thought Johnny had for awhile. He launched himself forward, his rake braced out in front of him. The beetle-thing reared back and spread its awful, shimmering gold wings. With a cry, Johnny thrust the rake against the underside of the monster. He kept pushing and his momentum carried them to the wall where the beetle-thing crushed a sizeable dent in the drywall.
Its horrible legs were flailing and scratching. The back legs found purchase and dug into the wall, pushing away. The heavy antenna slapped at the rake, almost knocking it from Johnny’s hands. Those awful mandibles slammed shut over and over but were unable to reach the thin wooden handle of the garden instrument.
With another scream, Johnny abruptly backed away and let the beetle-thing drop to the ground. Lightning fast, he raised the rake and brought it down as hard as he could on the head of the monster. The teeth of the rake bounced off the hard chitin crown but slipped down and gouged large chunks from the compound eyes that were on the top and side of its head.
No words from the beetle-thing. No taunting remarks, no more teasing, and judging. Just an awful bandsaw screaming sound. It lashed out and lunged from side to side, but Johnny was able to jump back and avoid its terrible clacking jaws.
“GOT YOU!” Johnny bellowed. Triumph burned in his eyes, veins bulged in his neck and forearms as he clutched the rake. His short brown hair was plastered to his skull in a dirty mat of sweat. His rage took him and he beat on the beetle-thing as it scrambled over the remains of his recliner. Empty beer bottles rang a chiming waterfall of dissonance as they were kicked and scattered.
“No! More! LYING!” Each word was punctuated with a heavy overhand chop from the rake. He turned it on its side and pounded at the vile beast at his feet.
“I hope it was-” He chopped and chopped. “WORTH IT!” He stopped, his chest heaving and his eyes wild and insane. He flicked his gaze around the carnage. Black blood was splattered on the floors and walls, chunks of something dark clung to the end of the rake. He shook it off. Still breathing heavily he spun the rake around and leaned on it, his gaze falling back to the thing on the floor.
“Make a fool of me? You’re gonna rot in hell next to that son of a bitch.” His voice was low and hoarse and he spit the words out like venom.
The next second he exploded into action again. The rake rose and fell.
“How could you!!” Tears mixed with the sweat pouring down his face. The rake head snapped off. With a roar he grabbed the rake in a double overhand grip and advanced closer to his victim.
“Johnny…no…”
He stumbled and his vision swam. With a shout of disgust he dragged his sleeve across his eyes several times. Why did his head hurt so much? He looked down at the mess on the floor.
“Melissa? Oh… god…” He sank to his knees.
“What have I done?”

