My bike ate up the road like the pavement was candy and it was a fat man with the sweet tooth. I stayed off the interstates again, sticking to the country roads made for people who loved to ride. I left Greaser’s place in Roanoke early just so I could meet the dawn when she rose. A stop or two along US 11 to gas up meant I got to meet a new friend or two. It was the kind of day where I could have ridden forever. The blue sky was dotted with white clouds, breaking up the sun without threat of rain. The air that might have been too warm if I was standing still was just right at sixty-five — ‘cause I always drive the speed limit 😉 Mountains rose and fell in the distance, shadowed and regal. That’s something I’ll never tire of seeing. So different from home.
The great State of Indiana is over three hours wide and six hours from upper right to lower left. Up in East Chicago and Hobart, you feel like you’re in Chicago. Down in Jeffersonville and New Albany, you’d swear you were in Louisville. The Ohio River towns sometimes felt like New Orleans, just not quite as hot. Smack dab in the middle was Indianapolis with the Brickyard and the NCAA. Pure big city.
My corner was in the vicinity of the postage stamp. We build the things people need to work and play, grow the things they need to eat. It’s good land. Pretty land, but it’s flat.
Thank you, glaciers.
Nothing makes you appreciate what you’ve got like seeing something completely different. And nothing makes you appreciate something different than being used to what you got.
So, I kept one eye on the road, the other eye on the scenery – I’m talented like that – until I passed the sign welcoming me to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. This one was of my favorite places, where small town living crossed with history. Real U.S. history, not the generic kind every other crossroads with a zip code seemed to claim. While I was thinking about how many letters there were in where I was – twenty-two – my stomach was thinking about meat and potatoes. I took the next right and drove through an open gate.
Déjà vu kinda gave me a shiver down my spine.
I was in a wastewater treatment plant. Not where I meant to be, but over my career I spent more time in one kinda of plant or another than I did at my own house. Operators were good people and surely they’d tell me where to find something to fill this growl in my stomach.
The parking lot outside the Administration Building had a few trucks parked in the lot, none of which looked like they’d been moved in a year – or five. Flat tires, bird shit, pollen, dust. I pulled in front of the door and dismounted, looking for signs of another human being.
I found no one.
The glass doors of the building were in the same shape as the trucks. Still, I gave the handle a pull. It didn’t open. A sign on the door said Hours: 8am – 5pm everyday but today.
I was getting a vibe and it wasn’t a good one.
It was time to move on.
I went back to my bike to see a woman shuffling towards me. She was younger with blond hair hanging from yesterday’s ponytail. She wore a blue zipper hoodie, baggy pants, and tennis shoes. There was no purse or backpack to be seen.
She stopped well out of reach and looked as confused as I felt.
“Hey there,” I said. “If you’re going in there, they aren’t open.”
She blinked, looked at the building, then back to me. “Do you know where we are?” Her voice was quiet, like she was trying not to scare the birds away.
The only birds in sight were some ducks flying in formation in our direction.
“Well, we’re in Gettysburg. This is a wastewater treatment plant.” When she looked at me like I was speaking Greek, I dumbed it down. “It’s a shit plant.”
A smile cracked through the vacant veneer. “A shit plant. That’s funny. Um, do you have a phone I can use to call my boyfriend? We got separated. I don’t know where he is.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She shook her head no. “I woke up and didn’t know how I got there. I was on a bench and a guy was next to me. I didn’t know him.”
“Where do you live,” I asked. You didn’t need to be Spiderman to sense something was wrong.
“I’m homeless,” she said matter-of-factly. “He was with me last night, then I was alone. My bag is gone. Maybe I lost it. I don’t know.” The more she spoke, the faster she rattled on. But her voice never broke that soft plane. Her eyes were a blue-green that would have been beautiful if not for the faded bruise high on her cheek. Her face was clean, but her lips were cracked and chapped. One hand stroked up and down her arm as if trying to keep her warm…or safe.
“I can call him,” I told her. “What’s his number?”
I dialed the numbers she gave me, putting it on speaker. We didn’t get her boyfriend or his voicemail. We got the dead-end message that the phone was out of service.
She stared at the phone, her frown deepening. “What does it mean?”
I didn’t know for sure. “It’s turned off or maybe the battery died or something.”
“Oh.” She looked around, lost again.
“Let’s see if we can find someone to help us both.” I walked around the admin building, she shuffled along behind me.
“Are you lost, too?” she asked.
“Kinda. Took a wrong turn, I guess.”
Weeds grew in cracks in the asphalt, adding to the Apocolypse Now theme. We came to the first set of treatment tanks, clarifiers they were called because they clarified the shit out of water. A mechanical arm reached out from the center stem, swinging in a wide circle around tank, cleaning the surface. Clearer water poured over the weirs. The concrete tank had cracks on the side and top where more weeds had seeded and grown. The coating on the mechanisms was bleached to a pale blue and peeled away from the metal below. But the arm moved along silently, as if everything was normal.
The end of the plant was maybe some five hundred feet away. More tanks in similar condition. Some had smooth, glass surfaces; others rolled like a hot tub minus the heat.
There were still no people.
She pointed to a dark cloud the hung low on the property edge “What is it,” she asked.
It flattened, then grew into a column. It spiraled, then fell into itself.
“I’m not sure,” I said, strangely fascinated. “What’s your name?”
“Victoria. I’m Victoria.”
“I’m Hippy. Good to meet you.” As I watched, the cloud stretched into a long rope.
Those ducks that followed Victoria were close enough to be heard now. With a three-squawk call, the leader landed on the smooth water. Six more landed behind.
The dark cloud stilled, almost like it was watching the ducks, too. Then it morphed, turned twice before launching up, and shot toward the swimming ducks.
Maybe I should have said sitting ducks, because those birds never had a chance. The dark cloud was a horde. It dropped down, the drone of wings drowning out the duck calls. The tank seemed to boil. Feathers and water thrown violently into the air.
I caught Victoria’s wrist and dragged her toward a side drive. “Whatever that is just made foie gras out of those birds.
She stumbled with me. “Fwa gra? What’s that?”
“Liver bologna.”
“I don’t like liver. Or baloney.” She sneezed.
And the glutted horde turned the headless attention our way.
Something seemed familiar about the insects, as I stepped back. One floated near us. It might have been a scout or maybe a straggler. Either way, I recognized it. “I haven’t seen one of those in years. Not since my grandkids were little.”
Victoria stepped toward it, curiosity getting the better of her. “Is it a bug?”
I reached in front of her and snatched it out of the air. “Just as I suspected. Origami Cicada.”
The cicada was bigger than its flesh-and-blood brethren but would have fit in the palm on my hand if I’d given it the chance. Its head was flat and wings had sharp edges.
“Does it bite?” she asked, getting closer.
“This kind does. It gets ahold of you and won’t let go until you do it in.” I turned it over. The paper was a mix of pure white and white with words printed in blue. Gently, I unfolded the cicada, turning it back to a 12”x12” piece of paper.
What I saw had me cursing under and over my breath.
Victoria pulled my arm lower and read. “Punch List Item 56. Kickplate on pump building door.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “What’s a punch list?”
“It’s the final to-do list to finish a job.” I crunched the paper into a ball and dropped it.
The ball fell and started rolling around, buzzing like bugs do when they’re stuck on their back. Hearing their brethren, the hoard went from interested to hostile.
“Time for us to move, Victoria.” We hurried along the paths, trying every door on the back of the admin building. Then the pump house. They were all locked.
“Hippy,” she said quietly. “They’re coming.”
Over the noise of my thoughts, I heard the din of fluttering paper wings. We went further into the plant, through knee-high weeds, and between the rows of rectangular tanks.
Ahead of us was a small pole barn labeled “Storage.”
“They’re getting closer.” She was running, slowed down by shoes too big for her feet and pants she had to hold up. “I don’t like them.”
“In here.” If the door to the storage barn wasn’t going to open willingly, I was going to take it off the hinges.
It didn’t open voluntarily, but with the third hit from my shoulder, something snapped and the door gave way. Together, pushing and kicking, we got the door freed from the broken frame and all but fell inside. I shoved it closed, leaning against it, letting my eyes get adjusted to the dim light.
Then, the lights came on.
“Ohmygod,” Victoria said, her voice still soft, but now unbelieving. “Ohmygod, thiscantbehappening. Thiscantbereal.”
The lights went out.
“Itsnotreal. Theresnobodythere. Itsnotreal.”
“Victoria,” I said. “Turn the lights back on.”
“Did you see, Hippy? Did you see them?”
I hadn’t seen anything of the storage barn. It wouldn’t surprise me if there were rats or snakes or feral cats. This plant had been left to Mother Nature to run however she saw fit.
The dim light filtering in through the small-frosted pane on the door gave me enough to see a set of chairs next to me. I dragged one over and propped it under the doorknob. “Turn on the lights and let me see.”
She did and she was right. I wished she hadn’t.
The twenty-by-twenty space had two doors, the one behind me and twin garage doors on the opposite wall. Space was clear for a work truck to pull in one bay. The rest of the space was organized clutter. A riding lawnmower. Spare pumps. Heavy shelving lined both side walls, pieces and parts filled four levels.
Good news, we found the plant staff. Bad news, they died a death by a thousand cuts.
There was no sick stench of death, just a staleness in the air. Two men and a woman were huddled in a corner. Another chair was across one of the man’s legs. Best guess was he used it to defend the trio. The woman died with a rake in her hands. The last man had fallen on his belly, a weapon laid just out of reach.
Not just any weapon.
It was…a bug-a-salt rifle. The Black Camofly 2.5 model.
“Watch the door,” I told her, then went to see if luck was on or side…or laughing in our faces. The salt reservoir was empty, but the CO2 cartridge had held pressure. I felt around the shooter and found more ten cartridges. Three were unused. “Hey, Victoria. Do you see any salt around?”
“Behind the woman,” she said. “Maybe.”
Three boxes of salt were shoved into the corner. One was empty, one half-full, and one brand new. “We have hope.”
Just as I closed my mouth, it sounded like we were caught in a hailstorm.
Victoria pressed her fingers to her ears. “They found us.”
“We’re going to be okay,” I told her as I pulled the salt boxes from the corner. “I’ve handled a bug-a-salt gun more than a few times. They’ve been used in construction trailers more than once. Stink bugs don’t stand a chance. Look for a bag or something we can put the extra salt and cartridges in.”
She hurried to a rack of shelves. I heard the sliding and pinging of small metal parts before she turned and raced to me, a thick, plastic bag in her hand. I loaded it with the extra ammo and power.
I thought about giving her a weapon, maybe taking the rake. But I was worried she’d do more damage to her or me than the origami cicadas.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“We’re going to fight our way back to my bike, then ride like the fucking wind.” I aimed the bug-a-salt at the wall and fired, making sure everything worked.
It did.
This was going to either be fun…or hell. Maybe both. “You with me?”
“I’m not staying here. I’m going.” She was afraid, which only showed she had sense.
“Alright. It sounds like they’re striking from the plant side of the building. So, we’re gonna raise the garage door on the other side and try to circle around.”
“Maybe…maybe we should drive the lawnmover.”
It was an idea. She wasn’t much for running. It wasn’t exactly my thing either.
But could I trust her to drive?
No. Definitely not.
But we didn’t have another choice.
“Let’s see if it’ll start. It’s in better shape than the trucks in the parking lot.” The riding mower had a 25-horsepower engine and seating for one. “We’re gonna make this works,” I said, wondering how the hell I was going to make this work.
First things first, start the motor. It had been left sitting and whined and moaned when I pushed the starter.
Then, the engine caught.
Victoria took a step back but smiled.
“Do you know how to drive?”
She nodded. “My brother taught me.”
“Get over here then. Drive it close to the door, then I’ll raise it.”
She sat on the edge of the seat, leaving as much room for me as she could. Behind her legs was the sack of salt and cartridges. After a little trouble with drive and reverse, she got it going. I pulled on the chain, manually raising the door. The din of paperwings grew with every foot the door went up, but we didn’t see any cicadas.
I climbed onto the lawnmover, standing over the seat, by butt pressed against the back. “I’m ready,” I said, and we eased forward.
The woman drove like she spoke, smooth but soft. Maybe her strategy was to sneak out the backway. Hell, maybe it could work.
She followed the driveway around to the right. Once we cleared the storage barn, we saw the horde had split between those sitting on the building and those squeezing through cracks in the side panels.
The road we were on looped around the plant, inside a chain link fence. There would have been a straight shot to the parking lot and my bike except for the gate in the way. If we weren’t going over it – and we weren’t – then we were going back to the center of the plant and out the way we came in.
“You just drive,” I said. “Let me worry about our friends.”
She nodded and we puttered along at the speed of a two-legged dog. I kept my tongue on account of those cicadas hadn’t notice our escape. We crept past the three aeration tanks and made the turn toward the center road.
That’s when it happened. She sneezed again.
It was the starting bell at thoroughbred racetrack.
As if using one mind, the horde lifted into the air, turning as it tuned into the sound.
Then it locked in on us.
“Faster Victoria. Put that pedal all the way down and then some.”
She did and I used two hands to aim and steady the gun. I shot. Salt fired out of the barrel, tearing the leader out of the sky. An eight-foot section of gutter, the kind that should have been on the pole barn but wasn’t, bellyflopped into a clarifier.
“Victoria, we could be in more trouble than I thought,” I said, trying to process what I just saw.
“How is that possible?” she asked.
“Well, that cicada didn’t turn to paper. I think it turned into whatever was written on the paper.”
“What’s written on the papers?”
“I don’t know. It could be little, could be big. Could be light. Could be a ten-ton truck.”
A new group of leaders surged forward. I had to shoot or be sliced.
A 5-ft by 5-ft concrete slab of sidewalk landed on the tank wall. It cracked in two, one half falling into the water, the other half into the weeds.
Somewhere between shock and awe, I laughed. “We cannot let those get over our heads. Drive as fast as this baby will go!”
Victoria found the next gear while I made busy with the salt. Pow. Stainless steel nuts and bolts. Pow. A 5-hp motor. Pow. Metal parts bounced as they landed on the worn pavement. Just when I was getting cocky that the punchlist was small stuff, pow, a backup generator the size of a tractor trailer fell into our path.
With a gasp, Victoria yanked the wheel to the left. I grabbed the back of the seat, keeping my footing as two cicadas rose above the generator. Two shots and we grass seed fell like rain.
Then came mulch.
The flagpole missed us by three feet.
Paint exploded as if from a gallon-sized paintball.
The mower handled the sharp turn to the left without blinking an eye. A cicada tried pulling an end-around. Pow. It exploded in a puff of salt, dropping a motor control cabinet landed in front of us.
Smack. The ride was over. It took fifty weeks to get that man-size metal box with switchgear and uninterruptable power supply. It couldn’t have waited another thirty seconds?
“We’re on foot,” I said, pushing her out of the seat. “Run Victoria. We just have to get around the admin building.” I crouched then, reloading salt and CO2.
“I’m not leaving you.” Her quiet declaration.
“I’m right behind you. Go!”
She did and true to my word, I was behind her.
I shot. A chemical pump fell.
I shot again. Caulk fell. It wasn’t in a tube. Instead long lines of what looked like toothpaste erupting out of nothing.
I ran and shot the best that I could. My hit rate wasn’t up to my usual standard it but running for your life could screw with your aim. We rounded the building, my bike right where I left it. . .with the origami cicadas sitting on my handbars.
Victoria pointed. “Shoot ‘em!”
“That’s my bike. I’m not shooting it with salt or anything else.” The bug-a-salt rifle disappeared from my hand. I dug in my pocket and found my lighter. “Stay still,” I told her.
I approached, arms wide, inviting the fight. In my palm, my thumb flipped open the windproof lighter. A step closer and my thumb rolled over the flint wheel.
I had to get them off my bike. Last thing I needed was a four-wheeler or a load of landscape stone to fall on her.
Behind me, Victoria sneezed. The sound that started it all worked again. The cicadas launched off my bike straight toward Victoria.
With a flick of my thumb, the lighter lit. The flame held as I touched it to each paper bug passing overhead.
“Get back,” I ordered Victoria.
She leapt to the side as a box of LED lights, engraved plastic signs, and a thumb drive landed where she had been standing.
Hand to her mouth, she looked at me, and then around. “Are they gone?”
I cocked my head, listening for the sound of paper wings. “I think they are. I wonder how many of them there were.”
“One hundred and eighty-seven.” She took a step away from my bike, back toward the drive entrance. “I’m…I’m going to go.”
“Me, too. Here’s a few dollars for you.” I opened my wallet, pulled out two bills. “Take care of yourself.”
“Thanks.” She took the bills from my outstretched hand and tucked the money in her bra. “Oh, and, I like your bike. Bye.” She turned. Within a few steps, she’d faded into the scenery.
Invisible once again.
I took a deep breath and found myself staring at a white, Spanish lace ceiling. “What the…?”
The clock on the dresser said 6:42am. I sat up, dragging the phone with me. I dialed and the phone on the other end rang…and rang…
“Hello? Hippy? Is it really you?”
“Tim, I finished the goddamn punchlist. Are you happy now?”
Tim was the project manager on the job where I had made a speed bump out of Dexter Green. And by the sound of his voice, he questioned my sanity. Hell, so did I.
“Don’t worry about the punchlist. Hippy, they did an autopsy. Dexter was dying when you ran over him. The police think he crawled out of the woods. That’s why you didn’t see him.”
I just sat there, digesting it. “He really wasn’t there?”
“Not likely,” Tim said. “He didn’t have anything on him, no wallet, no phone. The only thing in his pocket was a receipt from the Floodwaters Motel in Johnstown, PA. He was there the weekend before he died.”
“Johnstown, huh? Well, I may be ride over there and see what I can learn. I’m already in Gettysburg.” I shook my head, pushing the dream away. “Wait, I’m not. Not yet.”
“You aren’t making sense,” he said. “Why don’t you come home. Everything will work out.”
Tim made sense, just the way Teresa made sense. Maybe it was time to head home.
But there were a few stops to make along the way.
Sorry it’s been so long between episodes. I was trying out a medication, among other things, it killed my creativity. #CommonSideEffectsIncludeStupidity. I’m off it now and happier for it.
Here’s a link to make your very own origami cicada: http://www.origami-instructions.com/origami-cicada.html
Victoria is a real homeless woman I met in a hotel parking lot. She broke my heart. I worry about the stranger I knew for just a few hours.
Godspeed, Josh. I’ll be working hard to finish these stories before you get back. Stay safe.
TG Wolff 