Infestation
by
Thomas Canfield
“What’cha doing, Johnny?”
John Warwick looked up, frowned. It was his neighbor,
‘Tweed’ Murphy. He was leaning over the fence that
divided their two properties, a look of open curiosity
on his face. Murphy had a habit of showing up at
inopportune times.
“What’s in the bottle?”
“Poison,” Warwick said.
“Yeah?” Murphy raised one eyebrow. “Who’re you trying to
poison?”
“Not who,” Warwick said. “What.”
“All right,” Murphy said amiably. “What are you
trying to poison?”
“Moles. I’ve got an infestation of moles. They’re all
over my property, tearing up the lawn.” Warwick stepped
over to the fence. “Moles are insects, aren’t they,
Tweed?”
Murphy looked surprised. “Insects? Geez, I don’t think
so. They’re more like rodents. You know, rats and the
like. Or mice, they’re like mice.”
“They’re not insects?”
“I don’t think so but, hey,” Murphy spread his hands, “I
could be wrong. They’re a nuisance, I do know that. What
makes you believe that you’ve got moles? I haven’t seen
any on my side of the fence.”
Warwick looked across at Murphy’s lawn. It was
immaculate, not a blemish or an imperfection, not a weed
anywhere. It resembled a carpet of green velvet, soft
and downy and lush.
“They’re tunneling all over the place. That’s what
moles do. If they aren’t moles, then I don’t know what
they are. But this,” Warwick held up the bottle of
poison, “this is going to settle their hash. This is
going to put an end to ‘em.”
“Let me see that.”
Warwick hesitated. Murphy was just the sort to make a
stink over some little thing like a bottle of poison.
But it was too late to hide it now, too late to pretend
that he was not going to use it. Warwick handed over the
bottle. A skull and crossbones was displayed prominently
at the top of the label. Underneath, in fine print, were
a series of warnings and precautions and, at the bottom,
a second skull and crossbones. Murphy started to read
the label, his expression growing bleaker and his eyes
narrower as he read.
“Jesus!” He looked up. “Where did you get this?”
Warwick smiled. “I got connections. A friend of mine is
in the military. I told him that I had a problem and
that I needed something strong.”
“Yeah, but ...” Murphy frowned. “This stuff is lethal.
It’s not designed for casual application around the
house. I mean, the military employs this in active war
zones, places where there are no friendlies. I’m not
sure but it may even be proscribed by the Geneva
Convention.”
Warwick bobbed his head. “Yeah, should do the job all
right. The commercial stuff, the stuff they sell at the
hardware store, it isn’t worth the time of day. You put
it on and all it does is make the moles angry. I know
that for a fact because I tried it.”
“Listen, Johnny, you might want to rethink this. You got
no idea what you’re doing here. Or what the possible
consequences might be. If you got a few moles, well,
there are other solutions available. But not this! This
is crazy.”
“What’re you worried about, Tweed?” Warwick’s eyes
glittered with malice. “You afraid the moles will come
over into your yard?”
“I hardly think that’s likely. I’ve never had any
moles in my yard. Not once.”
“Well step on over here. I want to show you something. I
want to show you what’s going to happen to your
yard if I don’t do something about mine.” Murphy rolled
his eyes as though humoring a wayward child. He slipped
around the end of the fence. “Over here,” Warwick
beckoned him. “Step over here.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Johnny. I
believe you. Just remember: however bad your problem is
it doesn’t justify ...” Murphy stumbled and lurched
forward. Both his arms pinwheeled in the air. Suddenly
the ground gave way beneath him. He disappeared in the
lawn up to his thighs.
“What did I tell you,” Warwick proclaimed triumphantly.
“You think a mole that can dig a tunnel like that is
going to respond to some wimpy, over-the-counter
pesticide? Not a chance. I got to bring in the heavy
artillery to deal with these babies.”
“Sweet Jesus, Johnny!” Murphy scrambled up out of the
hole. His pant legs were covered with dirt, and his
shoes -- he lifted one and examined it in horror -- were
coated with a thick, malodorous excretion that resembled
roofing tar. “What the heck is going on here?”
“Moles. I already told you. But this time I’m ready for
them. This time they’ve met their match.” Warwick
slipped his arms through the straps of the pesticide
applicator and stood up with the unit mounted on his
back.
“My god man, these aren’t moles!” Murphy brushed dirt
from his pants, looked around the yard in shock and
dismay. “A whole army of gophers couldn’t do this kind
of damage. You’ve got some sort of serious infestation.
What, I don’t have any idea. I not only never seen
anything like this, I never heard of anything like
this.”
“Isn’t that what I been trying to tell you? I was down
in my basement the other day and found cracks in the
concrete. They’re actually undermining the foundation of
my house. That’s how bad it is. But for every problem
there’s always a solution.” Warwick waved the wand of
the applicator in the air. “That’s what I’ve got right
here: the solution. All I got to do is stick this nozzle
in one of the tunnels, give the trigger a squeeze and,
bang!, it’s lights out. This stuff’ll stop a charging
bull elephant in its tracks, bring him to his knees and
melt the tusks right off his face. Or so my friend
said.”
“Don’t do it, Johnny.” Murphy waved his hands in alarm.
“This could set off a chain of events that you got no
idea how it would end. I’m telling you, don’t do this.”
“Bah!” Warwick shook his head in dismissal. “What’s the
worst that could happen? Maybe I kill a few birds along
with the moles. That’s show business.” Warwick stabbed
the applicator into the soil. His eyes glittered with
relish. “Step on out of the way, Tweed. Cause once I
start, there’s nothing but the wrath of God Almighty
Himself going to stand between me and destroying every
last one of these little bastids.”
“This is a mistake.” Murphy picked his way across the
lawn like a man navigating a minefield. “Please listen
to me. If you were to stop and examine the matter, I’m
sure you’d change your mind.”
Warwick flashed a crooked grin. “I thought you was on my
side, Tweed. I thought you was one of the good guys. Why
take the part of the moles?” And he squeezed the
trigger.
There was an instant of absolute stillness and silence,
as though time itself had paused, poised upon some awful
threshold.
“Johnny?” Murphy’s voice was barely audible, even in the
silence. A tremor passed through the earth. Leaves
drifted down from the trees overhead, “Johnny, I think
...” A mound of earth sprouted upwards, like a dimple
hammered in a sheet of copper. There was a flurry of
agitation just beneath the surface, an ominous thumping
sound that gathered volume and speed. “I think we ought
to consider getting out of here.” The dimple exploded
outwards, and something began burrowing through the
earth, its line of pursuit heading straight for Tweed
Murphy.
Murphy stood frozen for an instant, his face fixed in an
expression of outright disbelief. Then he began to run.
He ran looking back over his shoulder, arms stretched
out in front of him, legs pumping as fast as he could
manage. He resembled a cartoon character.
“Bring him over this way, Tweed,” Warwick called out.
“Steer him over toward me.”
Murphy zigged first one way, then the other. The
creature behind him mimicked his movements, gaining
ground. “This way, Tweed,” Warwick called. “Bring him
this way.” Warwick waved the wand in the air. “All
you got to do is bring him to me.”
The words finally seemed to register. Murphy shifted
direction once again, feinted to his left, and headed
straight toward Warwick. The ground behind him heaved
and bucked. Warwick readied himself. Murphy went
sprinting past, face flushed, and vaulted the fence like
a track star, never breaking stride. He raced across the
carpet of grass into his own house.
Warwick slammed the wand into the tunnel, began
squeezing out poison, giving it everything he had. The
earth split apart with a roar, dirt geysering up into
the air. An enormous length of pale, segmented flesh
breached the surface, bristling with hundreds of tiny
legs. The creature thrashed from side to side, tormented
by the poison, then turned and dove downwards again,
burrowing under Murphy’s yard and, finally, his house.
The house began to buckle and collapse. The roof
disappeared, then the upper story and lastly the ground
floor The wooden struts jutted out of the rubble like
splinters of bone. The earth heaved one final time, an
agonized, desperate lurch upwards, then lay still.
Warwick walked over to the pile of rubble. He peered
beneath the shattered drywall. “Tweed? You in there?”
There was a hissing noise of anger and protest. A sheet
of drywall shifted, slid backwards and a thin,
dust-coated figure crawled forth on hands and knees.
“You ... It ... My...” Murphy spluttered, inarticulate
with rage. His eyes were immense dark circles in his
face, which looked as though it had been dipped in
flour. “I ...You ...”
“I think I got him, Tweed,” Warwick proclaimed with
satisfaction. “He didn’t go down without a fight, but
that last dose appears to have done him in. That was
perfect the way you decoyed him over here. I never would
have thought of that.” Murphy made a high-pitched
gurgling sound in his throat.
“The only trouble,” Warwick cast a worried look back
over his shoulder, “is that I’m certain there are a
couple more left. Once they get in your lawn, it’s hell
to pay to get rid of them. But there’s no point in
leaving the job half done. I just got to make up another
batch of poison, and then we’ll have another go at them.
You up for that?” Murphy shuffled forward, his hands
pawing at the air as though he could hardly wait to
begin.
“Next time, maybe, I’ll get some shoulder-fired missiles
from my friend. Imagine that, Tweed! Isn’t any law on
the books says that lawn care can’t be fun, is there?”
End
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