I couldn’t unearth his religious holdfast, but I glimpsed the contrition behind his weary eyes. It was enough. During those visits, we spent most of our time with Eugene. My time with him brought me the closest I would ever get to the paternal relationship I longed for.
Eugene’s hug brought me back to my father’s disfigured face. Petrified in peace. His woolly beard, made thicker by all the blood, hid his Aryan features. Everyone always said I looked like him. I knew it was our eyes.
I spun the thumb-wheel on my father’s zippo. “Vater, ich hoffe euer Gott ist alles was sie wollen”. I flicked the lighter into the pyre. “Good-bye, dad.”
Eugene steered my father’s Sea Ray deck boat away from Hurlin’s ravine. The plume of smoke shrunk behind the tree line. We breached the open water and Joel joined me in the back seat. He kissed my brow. “What did you say to your father back there? In German?”
I rested my head on his shoulder. “I told him I hoped his god was everything he wanted. Or at least I hope that’s what I said.” I let out a small chuckle. “My German’s a little rusty. If he heard me, I hope he appreciated the attempt in his parents’ tongue.”
Joel raised his eyebrows.
“I know. I still don’t believe in afterlife. But after following this visionary nightmare thing today, I have to wonder if there isn’t something.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “Of course there’s something. Look around us. The forest, the wind, the lake, the stars…you and me. That something is the very energy that connects us.” He rested his lips on my temple. “Everything happens for a reason, you know.”
On the way back, the stillness around us hovered like a miasma. Besides the plant life on the shore and wake behind our boat, life was scarce. There were no other water crafts on the lake to rough the water, no squawking in the trees by ruffled birds, no squirrels scurrying dry leaves. The silence lay like a dead thing between us. We exchanged uneasy looks.
Eugene docked in the boat house.
Joel hopped out. “Stay here while I clear the property.”
When I caught up with him on the shore, we bandied glares. Then he glanced at the boat, where Eugene and Steve waited. “At least someone listens.”
We set off up the path toward the house, scrutinizing everything within the periphery. The small vineyard, the lawn around the house, the circle drive, the woods fringing all sides. No tracks in the dirt. No suspicious noises. The property was free of threats.
Halfway to the house, twigs cracked around us. Foliage rustled. A growling hum erupted and entered my chest. Aphids swarmed out of the surrounding grove from every direction.
Drool stretched from disfigured mouths. Claws snapped in our direction. At least a dozen blocked our path to the house. Their numbers grew.
“Back in the boat,” Joel shouted.
I raised the carbine, pelleted the nearest two as I retreated. They didn’t slow.
Joel did the same, running with me, screaming between trigger pulls. “Start the boat.”
The motor rattled, drowning out Eugene’s shouts. More rounds fired. More unsuccessful hits. We had to get out of there. I spun toward the dock.
A sea of green bodies swallowed the entrance to the ramp.
Cheek against the stock, I exhaled and squeezed. Empty brass sprayed around me. The aphids in my scope ducked and darted. Most I tapped just jerked under the volley and continued chasing.
Pop, pop…pop, click. I hit the mag release. Tilted the carbine. Knocked the mag loose. Only four aphids down. All head shots, just like the one that broke into our home. Was that the only way to kill them? Destroy the brain?
“Aim for the head,” I yelled.
He grunted, fired off continuous rounds.
They were quicker in daylight. They could see us, dodge our bullets. And a head shot was the most difficult, especially on a moving target. That boat looked farther and farther out of reach.
I reloaded. The decibels of repeating trigger pulls rang my ears. Gunpowder chased my inhales. Carbine in high ready. Exhale. Squeeze.
His empty mag dropped at my feet. “Jesus, fuck. What’ve you got?”
Two M4 mags. Plus the twelve rounds in my USP. “Seventy-five.” Only a fourth of our predators were down. Some were dragging themselves back up. Maybe thirty, forty still alive.
“Make ‘em count.” He clicked his mag in place.
The carbine tapped my shoulder, buffered by my vest. The barrel was hot. Clinking echoed around us as our missed shots ricocheted off the house, the shed, the Rubicon. Christ, their daylight reflexes. Seventy-five rounds should’ve been enough, but only one in ten bullets found its target.
The bugs forged ever closer. He screamed, “I’m out.”
I was down to the pistol. Five aphids remained, moving in from the tree line. I had about that left in .40 caliber rounds. I took a step toward the survivors. He grabbed my vest and tugged me back to his side.