Short Story

In This Edition of Thursday Stories: The buzzing, the horrible, incessant buzzing…

Happy August, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my dusty herd of short stories, I realize that some of these rascals haven’t seen the light of day in quite a spell. Time to let them romp a bit! And so—drumroll please—I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the archived tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Super Emergence. A plague of cicadas, a rural enclave gone insane, and one family in peril. The genre is psychological horror. Super Emergence first appeared in The Piker Press, 2024.

Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Super Emergence

by Marco Etheridge

Buzzing Bugs Incite Violent Reaction

Amy Gretzky, Byron Gazette

Today, in Byron, a local man went on a shooting spree in a municipal park. Police arrested James Campbell, 62, for unlawful discharge of a firearm within town limits. There were no reported injuries. Mr. Byron was taken into custody after a brief standoff with police.

Mr. Campbell allegedly fired a shotgun into the trees at Jefferson Municipal Park. Witnesses stated that the suspect fired multiple times, pausing to reload his weapon. At least four police units responded to the incident.

Byron resident Gary Benson heard Mr. Campbell ranting about cicadas. “That old man went crazy. He was blasting at the trees and screaming about how cicadas were drilling into his skull. I guess he was trying to shoot the bugs.”

Cicadas emit a harsh mating song that can reach 120 decibels and carry over long distances. Many residents have voiced complaints about the insects’ incessant buzzing. NIU entomologists confirm that this year’s cicada emergence is unique. Scientists state that north-central Illinois is experiencing a rare co-emergence of the 13-year Brood XIX and the 17-year Brood XIII. The last recorded super emergence occurred in 1805.

*  *  *

Dog-tired, Bert Bennet drives out of Byron heading for home. He flips down the visor against the westering sun. Smashed bugs blot the windshield. Bert curses and peers past the smears.

He steers south, following Route 2 along the Rock River. Oven-hot air fills the cab. The pickup rolls past riverine trees, sugar maple, birch, and cottonwood. And from every tree, he hears the incessant buzz of cicadas.

Bert yearns for home, supper, his sweet wife Maggie, and the kids. He’s been working since sunrise, first on their farm, then in town wrenching on tractors and harvesters. There’s too little money in family farming, so he fixes machines to make ends meet. It’s a tough row to hoe, but a man does what he must. The farm is a family legacy and Bert aims to keep it that way.

He turns west onto a gravel section road trailing a roster tail of dust. The truck rolls past fields and clumps of trees. Even out here away from the river, the cicadas wail like a million tiny chainsaws.

Bert can’t ignore the damn bugs. Hell, it’s weighing on everyone. Cicada hatches are nothing new, but this year is the worst anyone can remember. The whole town is on edge. Some old geezer went nuts and started shooting up the park, trying to kill cicadas with a shotgun. The sheriff carted the old boy off. That’s how bad it’s gotten.

He swings onto a farm lane and stops at his gate. Out of the truck, open the gate, drive through, close the gate. The same routine coming or going. One day, he’ll get around to installing an automatic opener. More dust and then he’s pulling up to the farmhouse.

A boy and smaller girl burst from the kitchen door shrieking like tiny banshees. Bert leaps from the truck. Ten-year-old Jeff grapples his dad’s leg. Bert hop-steps with the boy attached, growls, and scoops up the girl. Mary squeals and wriggles like a puppy. Maggie appears in the doorway, a grin on her face.

“Knock it off, you two. Dinner’s ready. Get inside and wash up.”

Brother and sister ignore their mom. Bert staggers to the porch and hauls himself up with Jeff still clinging to his leg. Husband and wife embrace, squishing their daughter between them.

“Hi, Honey, I’m home.”

“I can see that.”

Maggie peels eight-year-old Mary away from her father and stands her on the porch, then knuckles Jeff’s skull.

“Inside. Hands washed and at the table. Go!”

Family supper is Bert’s reward for a long day of labor. Tonight’s meal takes a strange turn as Maggie fetches the dessert. Bert is listening to Mary’s chatter, then notices Jeff staring across the kitchen. He sees Maggie standing at the kitchen window, a pair of army-surplus binoculars at her eyes.

“Jeff, mind your sister.”

The boy nods. In a blink, Bert is standing beside his wife.

“What is it, Honey?”

Maggie hands him the binoculars.

“Karl’s throwing some kind of fit. That poor man hasn’t been right since his wife passed.”

Bert sights through the eyepieces. The Bronski farm is almost a mile off and the evening dimming, yet the powerful optics pull the neighbor’s place into a sharp, flattened perspective.

He spots his seventy-year-old neighbor, Karl Bronski, running back and forth in front of a ramshackle barn. The old man is flailing his arms at the evening sky. Then Bronski grabs his head and falls to his knees. Bert doesn’t need to see more.  

“Dammit.”

“Language, Bert.”

He looks over his shoulder at the kitchen table.

“Sorry, Maggie. Well, I better get over there.”

Bert hands Maggie the binoculars and squeezes her shoulder. He turns to two small, puzzled faces and forces a false cheer into his voice.

“Kids, I’ll be right back. Mister Bronski is having a little trouble. You two save me a piece of cobbler, you hear?”

“Can I go with, Dad?”

“Not this time, Champ. You stay and mind the house, okay?”

Jeff nods, his face serious with ten-year-old responsibility.

Bert pushes the pickup too fast. He leaps out at the gate while the dust trail washes over him. He curses his way through the gate routine, then speeds away.

The Bronskis have always been good neighbors. Bessie’s passing was a hard blow. Karl is all alone now, and not doing much farming. Bert helps when he can, but his neighbor isn’t getting any younger.

He steers onto the section road, turns at the next lane, and then the damn gate dance again. By the time he pulls up in front of the Bronski place, worry eats at his guts. The last daylight is fading fast.

The Bronski farmyard ends at a sagging barn. Behind the barn, a narrow band of cottonwood and poplars form the farm’s windbreak. An insect scream pierces the evening. 

Bert finds Karl Bronski near the edge of the trees. The old man is crouched over a stump. Atop the stump is an ancient chainsaw. Karl yanks the pull cord again and again, but the engine refuses to catch. And while he claws at the saw, he’s screaming at the trees.

“I’ll cut down every tree, see if I don’t. That’ll shut you bastards up.”

Bert can barely hear his neighbor over the wail of cicadas. The cacophony is a horrible chorus of two competing frequencies. He sidles around the stump, but Bronski appears not to see him. He has to shout to get the old boy’s attention.

“Karl! Hold up a sec, will you? Karl Bronski!”

The old farmer’s eyes snap open like a man coming out of a trance.

“Is that you, Bennet? These goddamn bugs, they just won’t quit. I tell ya, this buzzing is driving me insane.”

The look in Karl’s eyes sends a shiver down Bert’s spine. This man is as solid as they come, a good farmer. Now he’s acting like a lunatic.

What the hell is happening? Has the world gone nuts?

It takes fifteen minutes to get his neighbor calmed down. After talking him out of the chainsaw, Bert walks Karl back to the farmhouse. He’s uncertain about leaving Karl alone but feels an overwhelming urge to be back with his family.

Gravel crunches as he walks back to the pickup. He starts the engine and turns on the headlights. On impulse, he reaches for the radio. Dire words swirl through the cab, fueling his growing anxiety.

…an alert to residents. Police urge citizens to remain in their homes. There have been reports of violence. An emergency curfew is in effect for the Tri-County area. Local officials have contacted the Governor. We will update these reports as further information becomes available. To repeat, stay in your homes… 

Bert slams the gas pedal to the floor. Dust rockets past the taillights and into the night. As the truck slides onto the section road, the boom of distant gunshots punctuates the wailing cicadas.

It’s full dark when he kicks off his boots and steps into the kitchen. Maggie is waiting.

“Bert, did you hear?”

“Yup, bulletin on the radio. Let’s get the kids into the storm cellar.”

“What about Karl?”

“Karl’s a grown man. He’s okay for now. What stuff do we need?”

“I stocked up the tornado supplies, and the emergency radio is down there. I’ll grab my tablet so we can monitor the video cameras. What else?”

“Grab those earmuff things for the kids, and earplugs for you and me.”

Bert catches the wave of worry on Maggie’s face.

Too much, Bert. Maggie will catch on soon enough. Don’t push.

“It’s just a precaution, Honey, nothing to fret about. We might be down there a while and those bugs are damn loud. You gather up what we need. I’ll grab the deer rifle.”

In an instant, Maggie’s expression goes steely, her mouth a grim line. He knows and respects that look. She nods once, her jaw tight.

“You take Jeff. I’ll get Mary.”

Bert squeezes Maggie’s shoulder and turns away. Walking out of the kitchen, he snags his son.

“We’re going down to the cellar. I need your help.”

Jeff lights up like a lantern. The boy falls into step without questioning his father. Bert’s heart swells with pride.

Father and son turn into the master bedroom. Bert slides open the closet door and removes a canvas gun case. He pulls down a box of thirty-thirty shells and hands them to Jeff.

“You carry the ammunition, okay.”

Jeff nods, clutching the box to his chest.

“Right. Let’s get the girls into the cellar.”

Maggie waits beside the kitchen door, a bag over her shoulder and Mary at her knee.

“Everything’s locked up.”

Bert holds the door while Maggie herds the kids outside. He slips into his boots, steps over the threshold, and locks the door. For a moment he pauses, his palm flat against the familiar wood. Then he turns away.

Outside, Maggie unlocks the cellar. The entrance is built at a slant into the stone foundation. The twin doors are solid, made from oak planks milled a century ago. Maggie levers one door open while Bert grabs an edge to steady it.

“Jeff, hold Mary’s hand while I get the lights.”

She’s down the stone steps like a cat. Lights blink on. Then Maggie is back on the steps, her arms reaching. She helps Mary down and Jeff follows.

Bert descends into the cellar, lowering the oak door as he goes. Through the gap, he sees the black night and then a quick flash of lightning. Thunderheads are building on the horizon. The door thumps shut. Two steel bolts clack home. His feet find the packed earth floor.

“Why are we in the cellar, Momma?”

Maggie scoops up Mary and flashes her brightest smile.

“It’s like a tornado, Hon. You remember what we do when a bad storm comes?”

“We play snakes and ladders!”

“That’s my smart girl. You help Jeff set up the game, okay? And put on these earmuffs. Jeff, too.”

“That’s silly. We don’t wear earmuffs to play snakes and ladders.”

Maggie swings her daughter to the floor and crouches.

“Mary Bennet, you do what I say. Those bugs are real loud. I don’t want that noise giving you kids a headache.”

Mary rolls her eyes while fitting the earmuffs over her head. She snatches a thin box from a nearby stack. Jeff joins her, and they begin laying out the game. Maggie stands and looks at Bert. He slips his arm around her shoulders and whispers.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Stop being mysterious and tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s these cicadas. That fella in town went nuts, shooting up the trees. And Karl was ranting, said the buzzing was driving him crazy. Karl’s always been ornery, but he scared me. There’s bad news on the radio. And I heard gunshots.”

“And you think it’s the cicadas?”

“I don’t know what to think, but I feel a lot safer having you and the kids down here.”

“Good Lord, it sounds like a plague out of the bible. You help the kids while I set up the tablet. I want to keep an eye on what’s going on outside.”

Husband and wife break their huddle. Bert moves to the card table where the kids are already arguing. Maggie props her tablet on an old workbench. Her fingers tap the screen. Grainy black and white images appear, split views from cameras at the front and back of the house.

Bert referees the kids while waiting for Maggie. He looks up, sees Maggie staring at the tablet. Before he can speak, Maggie shoots him a scared look and waves him over.

“One sec, kids, then we’ll start.”

Then he’s beside Maggie, hunched over the tablet. A pole light bathes the farmyard in white mercury vapor light. A figure lurches out of the darkness, the tiny image of Karl Bronski. He’s staggering like a drunk, and he’s clutching a chainsaw.

“What do we do, Bert?”

Bert remembers Karl’s crazed eyes. In his knotted guts, he knows things have gone very wrong.

“Get the kids to the back wall. I’ll deal with Karl.”

Maggie asks no questions. She herds the kids away from the game, silencing their protests with a stern voice. Bert grabs the gun case, unzips it, and slides the rifle free. The old lever-action is heavy in his hands, a Marlin 336 handed down from Bert’s father.

He peers at the tablet, but Karl has vanished from the camera’s view. Then he hears gravel crunching beyond the cellar doors and Karl’s angry shouts.

“Bennet! I know you’re down there. You let me in right now, you hear me?”

Bert moves to the foot of the steps, fear and bile rising in his throat. A metallic surge of adrenalin coats his tongue. Behind him, Mary is crying as Maggie shushes her. He straightens his shoulders and pushes the fear from his voice.

“You go on home, Bronski, and leave us be. This is no time for foolishness. There’s children down here and you’re scaring them. Go home, right now.”

For one long heartbeat, the only sound is the muffled buzz of cicadas. Then the rip of a chainsaw cord, the stutter of an engine, another pull, and the growl of the saw coming to life. At his back, Bert hears his daughter scream, and beyond the oak planks, the revving chainsaw. He levers a shell into the chamber, raises the rifle to his shoulder, and yells as he has never yelled before.

“Bronski, I’ve got a gun. Stop right now or I’ll shoot.”

Outside the oak planks, the chainsaw revs once, twice. Words will not stop the madness that has taken his neighbor. Whirling teeth bite into hard oak. The doors vibrate under the assault. A roar fills the cellar, blotting out everything else. Bert pulls the rifle stock tight to his shoulder and sights down the barrel.

The tip of the chainsaw appears in a cloud of wood chips and dust. Hungry steel teeth slice into the sanctity of the cellar, cutting a descending slot. A section of plank splinters away.

Bert Bennet, husband and father, aims just above the invading sawblade and pulls the trigger. A crack of thunder fills his brain. A hole sprouts in the oak as if by magic. Outside, a gargled scream rises above the snarling chainsaw. Bert levers another round, aims lower, and fires again.

The chainsaw sputters to a burbling idle, its blade wedged between the wounded planks. There is a heavy thump against the oak doors, then the sound of something sliding down rough wood. The chainsaw coughs, stutters, and goes silent.

Bert’s ears ring with echoed gunshots, the whimpering of his daughter, and behind it all, the buzzing cicadas. The combined noise pulses into his guts. His stomach heaves. Still clutching the rifle, Bert staggers to a corner, falls to his knees, and begins to vomit. From somewhere far away, he hears his daughter’s hysterical voice.

“Daddy! You killed him! You killed Mister Bronski!”

Mary’s accusation triggers something in Bert’s reeling brain. He spits away the last of the vomit. Remorse fades, replaced by a rising tide of white-hot anger. Gripping the warm barrel, he uses it as a prop to push himself upright.

This is all their fault. You had to protect them, so you killed a man, shot your own neighbor. Now you’re a murderer because of them.

His wife and children crouch against the back wall. The kids are weeping. Maggie looks at him with questioning eyes. For a long moment, Bert Bennet feels like a man being torn apart. Then he blinks, shakes his head, and leans the rifle against the stone wall. His fingers grope into his shirt pocket and find the earplugs. He tears open the package, fits the foam plugs into his ears, and only then goes to his family.

Maggie’s arms encircle the sobbing children. Bert crouches beside them and adds his arms to the protective ring. They clutch each other, a frightened family hunkering against a stone wall. Beyond the doors lies a dead body. The presence of death oozes into the cellar and fills the air.

 Bert struggles to understand what is happening, what has already happened. He’s killed his neighbor. Impossible! But a ragged gash in the planks and two bullet holes tell a different tale.

 Maggie speaks through tears, her words echoing Bert’s jangled thoughts.

“Poor Mister Bronski. We went to the same church, Bert. How can this be happening?”

Bert feels the sharp edge of panic and pushes back.

“I don’t know, Mags. For now, we spend the night in the cellar. We keep the kids safe. That’s the most important thing. In the morning, I’ll call the sheriff and explain what happened.”

“Let’s turn on the radio. We need to know what’s going on out there.”

Mary is a whimpering ball tucked tight against her brother. Jeff’s eyes are wide, staring at his father. Bert squeezes his son’s shoulder while Maggie disengages herself from the clutch. She’s across the cellar in a flash, snatching up the radio and rejoining her family. Her fingers flick a switch, adjust a dial, and words tumble through a static buzz.

…unconfirmed reports of arson in the town of Byron. The Governor has declared a state of emergency…

…public disorder and possible riots in the Rockford area. Repeat, stay in your homes. The emergency curfew remains in effect for the Tri-County area. Do not leave your homes. Lock your doors…

The radio is drowned out by the sound of metal scraping wood, a creaking, then a thump and clatter against the cellar doors. The parents jerk as if scalded. Jeff stares at the door, his eyes wide. Mary is still tucked tight under his arm.

Maggie’s voice is thick and halting.

“Is he… is Karl still alive out there?”

Bert holds up his hand for quiet. Jeff slips the earmuffs down around his neck, his head cocked toward the doors. His words come in a shaky whisper.

“Dad, I think it was just the chainsaw falling.”

Bert reaches down and ruffles the boy’s hair.

“I think you’re right, Big Guy.”

The family settles into a tight knot with the children huddled between their parents. Time ticks past. Mary falls asleep in her mother’s lap. Jeff nods against his father.

Bert whispers to his wife.

“We better call the police.”

Maggie eases a cell phone from her pocket, trying not to wake Mary. She thumbs three digits and waits. A tiny robot voice drones from the speaker.

We’re sorry. All circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later.

She kills the call and drops the phone to her lap.

“We’re on our own, Bert.”

He reaches for her hand. A black wave of fatigue and anguish washes over him. He settles back against the cool stone and closes his eyes.

*  *  *

Something shakes him from a dead sleep. His groans are cut short by Maggie pushing him. She’s pointing to the workbench and the tablet.

“The police are here.”

Bert stares at the tiny screen, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. Then he’s up and lunging for the workbench. On the tablet, a police cruiser rolls past the front camera, its roof lights flashing black and white. But something isn’t right. The cruiser is swerving like a drunk is at the wheel. Just as the vehicle rolls out of view, Bert spots jagged spiderwebs in the passenger window.

For a heartbeat, the split screens are empty. Then the cruiser appears in the rear camera’s view. Bert sees a lumpy shadow slumped over the steering wheel. The car idles across the farmyard under the white glare of the pole lamp, rams a fence, and stops. Something else glows in the camera’s eye, a flickering light from beneath the rear of the police cruiser.

“Shit. Mags, that deputy is in big trouble. I gotta go out there.”

Maggie leaps to her feet. Mary rolls against her brother and groans in her sleep. Jeff is awake, his eyes wide. One second ticks into another. Bert sees the storm clouds on his wife’s face and raises his hands in an appeal.

“If I don’t go, he dies. You take the rifle. If anyone but me comes to the door, you shoot.”

Maggie closes her eyes and exhales. The storm passes.

“Okay. Be quick. I love you.”

He nods and then he’s on the stone steps, his hands sliding back the bolts. The weight of the door fights him. He leans in with a shoulder, pushing with his legs. A gap opens, revealing a dead body sprawled across the base of the doors. Karl Bronski’s sightless eyes stare into the cellar.

There is a rustle behind him, and he knows that Maggie is there. He grunts out a warning.

“Don’t look, Mags. Bolt the door as soon as I’m through.”

Bert heaves against the door and the body rolls to one side. He climbs the steps holding the edge of the door and lowers it back into place. He waits to hear the bolts slam home, then stands.

What’s left of his neighbor lies in a crumpled heap, kneeling face down like a forgotten doll. Bert mutters an apology and rolls the body away from the doors. Then he’s sprinting across the farmyard.

Hungry flames sprout from beneath the police cruiser. The fire is not the black and white of the tablet screen, but an angry orange, alive and dangerous. Before Bert reaches the burning car, he hears the sharp crack of gunfire from somewhere out on the section road. He curses himself for a fool and keeps running.

He yanks the driver’s door open and a body slumps out. Acting on instinct, he crouches to catch the deputy. The sudden weight and momentum topple him backward in slow motion. He lands on the gravel with a limp body draped over his chest. Heels and elbows scrabble at the gravel as he fights his way free. With legs splayed out to either side, he manages to sit up.

The deputy’s head lies cradled in his lap. He sees blood-soaked stains on her uniform, one at the shoulder and another above her utility belt. His brain reels and then locks onto a fact. A female deputy.

Flames flare beneath the cruiser. Bert feels a wash of super-heated air. His body takes over, survival instincts overriding his frozen brain. Without knowing how he is on his feet, his hands under the woman’s armpits, dragging her away from the deadly flames.

Bert’s almost to the barn, breath ragged and chest heaving, when the flames engulf the stricken cruiser. There is no huge explosion, only a soft whomp and a ball of fire that rises into the dark sky. Across the farmyard, the cellar doors seem miles away. He’s never going to make it. Then he spots the wheelbarrow.

It takes every ounce of his strength to heave the wounded woman into the wheelbarrow, but he needs more. The weight of the handles threatens to yank his arms from their sockets. Staggering like a drunkard, he half-runs across the farmyard, swerving the wheelbarrow around the burning car.

He crunches to a halt beside the cellar doors, barely remembers to stand to one side. He calls down to Maggie, his throat rasping.

“It’s me, Mags. Open up.”

Bolts slide back and a gap opens. Bert claws at the door, flinging it back against the stone foundation. Ignoring the curled body of his neighbor, he pushes the wheelbarrow to the very edge of the steps. Maggie’s face goes white, but she braces herself and reaches up. Somehow, half tumbling, half dragging, husband and wife lower the deputy to the earthen floor.

Bert leaps back up the steps, pulls the door closed, and slams the bolts home. Then he wobbles down and collapses beside his wife and the unconscious deputy. All three are coated in blood.

A small voice breaks through Bert’s exhaustion.

“Dad, I got the first-aid kit.”

Bert blinks in confusion, trying to focus on his son’s voice. Jeff stands beside him holding out a bulky first-aid kit. Mary stands behind her brother, tears rolling down her grimy cheeks.

“We should prop her feet up. That’s what they taught us at school.”

The boy’s words seem to trigger the adults into action. Maggie reaches for her daughter.

“Don’t be scared, Mary. Fetch me the water jug. Can you do that?”

The girl nods and scampers away.

“Jeff, you find the old quilts. Get moving. Bert, open that kit.”

Time becomes a blur. Bert uses his clasp knife to cut away the blood-soaked uniform shirt. Jeff rolls a quilt and wedges it under the wounded woman’s ankles. Mary pours water for her mother. Maggie washes blood from the deputy’s flesh until she can see the damage.

“It could have been worse.”

She points to a puckered wound in the woman’s abdomen.

“The bullet went right through her. Luckily, she’s not gut shot. I don’t think the bullet hit any organs.”

“What about her shoulder?”

Maggie reaches beneath the woman, probing with her fingers.

“No exit wound. I guess the bullet’s still in there. Probably lodged against her shoulder blade. Let’s get this bleeding stopped. We need all the gauze and lots of tape.”

Thirty minutes later, the deputy is bandaged, and the first-aid kit is empty. The woman’s face is white against the rag quilt pulled to her chin. Bert and Maggie kneel at the deputy’s head. The children stand beside them.

Maggie tries the cell phone, but the recorded voice defeats her call.

“Nothing. We’ve done about all we can. We need to get this woman to a hospital.”

Jeff points at something on the earth floor.

“Could we use her radio?”

Bert snatches a handheld radio from the deputy’s discarded utility belt. He fumbles with the cord, finds the mic, and keys the transmitter.

“Hello, hello? Is anyone reading this? We have a wounded deputy here. Is anyone out there?”

No one answers except the droning cicadas. Bert drops the mic to his lap and shrugs.

“We’re probably out of range. I think the handheld repeats from the big radio in the cruiser, but the fire got it.”

With a burst of static, the speaker comes alive.

…civilian on police frequency. I repeat, are you a civilian on a police band?

Bert jerks as if he’s been stung but shakes it off and speaks into the mic.

“Yes. Affirmative. We are civilians.”

What is the officer’s name?

Maggie holds up a fragment of the bloody uniform. Bert squints at the name tag.

“Um. J. Ferguson.”

The speaker squawks, and then screams out a drumbeat of rattling gunfire. 

Teargas and smoke on that corner. Do it now!

Then another stream of static.

…speak to the deputy myself…

“She’s unconscious. She’s been shot twice. We need emergency medical care.”

Name and location, Sir.

Bert reels off the information, careful to pronounce each syllable.

Got it. I’ll relay this to dispatch. We’re in a bit of a situation here. Do your best, Mister Bennet. The cavalry might be a while.

“Thank you, officer. Keep your head down.”

Listen, don’t shoot the EMTs when they show up. We’ve lost a few…

The rest of the reply is cut short.

“Good Lord, Bert. It sounds like a war zone.”

“I heard lots of shooting when I was outside. Thought they were shooting at me.”

Maggie lays her palm on Deputy J. Ferguson’s forehead.

“No fever yet.”

She points a finger at the name tag.

“Of course. Jennie Ferguson, Mildred’s daughter. She goes to the Methodist in town. Poor girl. What are we going to do?”

Bert sees two options hovering above them, both bad.

You can’t leave your family here, and you can’t let this woman die. What are you going to do? Lay it out straight for Maggie, but you know what she’s going to say.

“We can hunker down and wait for an ambulance, but we might be waiting a spell. Or we take our chances and drive her into town.”

Maggie looks at the kids and then back to her husband.

“I don’t believe we’d make it to the highway, much less into town. I won’t risk the kids, Bert, flat out won’t do it. And I’m not letting you go out there on your own. One death is more than enough. I say we stay here and pray.”

Before Bert can respond, a huge crack of thunder peals from the night. A flash of white blinks through the gash in the cellar door. Mary shrieks and dives under her mother’s arm. Jeff leans into his father’s shoulder. Bert wraps an arm around his son.

“Big storm, Dad.”

More thunder follows, rolling down from mile-high clouds. Another sound penetrates the cellar, the patter of heavy rain on gravel. In just a few minutes, the patter becomes a drumbeat as torrential rain washes over the Bennet farm.

The family kneels in a tight huddle over the unconscious deputy. Outside their sanctuary, the storm rages over the night-blackened land.

Bert prays in his head, over and over, the same two simple pleas.

Lord, you know I’m not much for prayers. That’s Maggie’s department. But please, let my family be safe. And keep this woman alive for just a little longer. Amen.

The storm lasts an eternity, or maybe only a few minutes. Jeff is the first to notice the change. The boy peels the earmuffs from his head and stares at the cellar doors. His face is a mask of concentration. Then he nudges his father.

“Listen, Dad. Can you hear it?”

Bert cocks his head but hears nothing. He pinches one of the earplugs and pulls it free. Now his ears register the breathing of his family, the last drops of rain splashing on the sodden farmyard, and nothing else.

“It’s the bugs, Dad. They stopped buzzing.”

Bert finally realizes what his son is saying. The cicadas have gone quiet, driven to shelter by the thunderstorm. He feels his chest loosen as if a great weight has lifted. Breathing in deep lungfuls of air, he smiles at his son.

“You’re right, Buddy. The rain must have shut them up. Maybe now everyone will calm down.”

Mary appears from beneath Maggie’s armpit. She rubs her eyes and blinks.

“Can we go upstairs now, Momma? I don’t like it down here.”

Maggie envelopes the girl in a huge hug.

“Not just yet, Sweetie, but maybe soon.”

“Awwww…”

As Bert’s head clears, he feels relief and remorse in equal measure. Relief may have to wait, but remorse births an idea.

You killed him. That’s a fact, and you can’t change it. But whatever happened, Bronski was your neighbor. He should be treated with human respect.

“Maggie, I need to go outside for a bit. Something I need to do.”

“Is this about Karl?”

“Yeah. It’s not right leaving him lying out in the rain like a dog. I want to wheel him over to the barn and lay him out proper. It’s not much, but it’s the decent thing to do.”

Maggie glances at the kids and then back to her husband.

“I guess you’re right. You be quick, though. We need you down here.”

Bert catches his son’s eye before the boy can say anything.

“Jeff, you help your mom and guard Mary, okay?”

The boy nods and ducks his head. Bert sees the boy fighting back tears. Better to go right now. He ruffles his son’s hair and stands.

“Be right back. Jeff, you bolt the door behind me.”

Looking happy to have an important task, Jeff follows his father to the steps. Bert unlatches the bolts and shoulders the door aside as he ascends. The air outside is cool and wet. He lowers the door. When he hears the bolts slide into place, he turns away.

Karl Bronski’s body lies hunched face down in a puddle. Bert places the abandoned wheelbarrow beside his dead neighbor. He bends down, warps his arms around the slippery corpse, and heaves. Getting Bronski into the wheelbarrow saps the last of Bert’s strength. The dead man’s limbs are already stiffening with rigor mortis. As the corpse tumbles into the wheelbarrow, the dead man’s skull bangs against the steel edge with a sickening clang.

Bert tucks himself between the handles, raises the awkward load, and pushes forward. The wheelbarrow fights him, plowing ruts into the wet gravel rather than rolling in a straight line. Twice he almost spills the corpse, righting the wheelbarrow only by main force and stubborn will.

The rain fades to nothing as he struggles across the farmyard. Once on the concrete apron at the barn door, he lowers the handles and straightens himself. He stands arms akimbo, gasping for breath and staring at the night sky. The last ragged clouds are sweeping overhead. Stars appear in their wake.

Bert shakes off his fatigue and rolls the barrow into the barn. He tilts the dead man onto a low stack of pallets. Laid on his back, Bronski’s corpse refused to unbend. Dead forearms and knees stick up as if trying to climb an invisible ladder. One eye stares blindly. Bert closes the eyelid with his thumb, but it pops open again.

The staring eye is too much for Bert. He pushes the body so that it rolls to one side, dead eye staring at the plank wall. Then he covers the corpse with a horse blanket.

You killed this man. Say something for the poor dead bastard. Maggie would know what to say. A proper prayer, or a psalm.

He struggles for anything, a scrap of ritual, but fear and worry steal Bert’s voice.

Ultimately, he croaks out the only words he can say.

“I’m sorry, Karl.”

Outside the barn, the eastern horizon glows with a false dawn. Bert crunches across the farmyard until a rising sound stops him dead. A single cicada screams. Then another insect takes up the call. The broods come alive, and their harsh song fills the air. Bert stands frozen as the horrible buzzing swells to a pulsing curse.

Bert feels the evil pull of the insect chorus. A wave of anger courses up his spine and fills his brain.

No! I won’t. Shut up, damn you. Just shut the hell up.

His body begins to move, one step, then another. He staggers across the gravel, almost falls, rights himself. Heart pounding, Bert Bennet finds his feet and sprints through the darkness, his only focus the wavering cellar doors, drawing nearer and nearer.

Finis

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Marco Etheridge is a writer, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over 180 reviews across Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, the UK, the USA, and India. Marco’s story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco serves as a contributing editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art and as a reader for Marrow Magazine. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.