The March Featured Story is by Lisa Cromwell

Please feel free to email Lisa at: lisacromwell61@comcast.net

LOVE BUGS
By Lisa Cromwell

They came down from the sky like black rain. I had to turn the windshield wipers on just to see.

It was crazy. Sure, it was spring and it was the middle of the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge, but we hadn’t come here to look at bugs, scrub jays and ospreys. We set our sights on a bigger bird—the Endeavour.

Clint and I wanted to get a peek at the big white shuttle before it was sent up in the second to last space shuttle launch ever. My college friend Dan Everheart, who was an engineer at the John F. Kennedy Space Center, promised me a tour of the place every time we talked on the phone or got together at Bugsy’s Place for a beer every two or three years when he was visiting family where Clint and I lived in Monmouth, Oregon.

Now we were slogging through a sea of mashed-up bugs on the road. It wasn’t pretty and it certainly wasn’t what I expected of the refuge, next to Titusville, Florida. There were so many bugs flying through the air, spreading their gossamer black wings in courtship dances and hooking their back ends up to mate in mid-air, that we had to bat them out of the way when we got out of the car at the center.

Clint, tall and athletic, started jogging from the car to the center ticket booth, but I walked, realizing I’d just get hit harder by the bugs if I ran. They didn’t seem to care what was in their way; they just flew around having bug sex like nothing else mattered.

“Quinn, come on,” Clint yelled from the booth, pushing black bugs out of his light blond hair. “I want to get into the center, away from these darn bugs.”

“Coming, Clint,” I hollered back, shielding my face from the onslaught of bugs with my arm. It was hard to walk through the sky sea of vibrating wings and black legs, but I made it to the booth. Being outside, it was no shelter from the bugs. Despite having to slap them away, we bought our tickets and went inside.

We went on the bus tour of the space center first. Clint seemed to enjoy climbing the gantry and looking at the engine on the top floor, but the bugs were really bothering me. I noticed as I climbed the gantry stairs that most had red dots on their black heads, but every so often, there was one with a white head.

I saw one with a silver head. It settled on my arm and bit me. Irritated, I smacked it.

I caught up with him on the top floor. “Clint, are these things supposed to bite?”

“Nah, they’re harmless,” he answered. “Why, do you think one bit you?”

“I know it did,” I replied. Clint just shook his head, as if I had imagined it. I loved him, but sometimes he acted like I was a drama queen. “. . . emphasis on the queen …” he always said.

I usually came up with a witty retort like: “I’m not the one who’s pretty in pink,” since he loved wearing pink shirts. He had always been more open with his sexuality than I had.

True to form, he made me forget about the insect bite. Grabbing two of the mating bugs, he pulled them apart and cupped them in one hand. He snatched a single bug out of the air and stuck another one on its hind end.

“Hey, look, I started the love bug gay revolution,” he joked.

“Aren’t you worried about them biting you?” I asked.

Quoting his straight-as-a-ruler father, he quipped, “The bug that bites me dies.”

That seemed to be true. I couldn’t recall Clint ever getting a mosquito or tick bite. He seemed the winner in every kind of genetic lottery. By comparison, I’m short, plump, and dark-haired and always the one slathering on the repellent, but coming away from a slog through the Everglades with at least four skeeter bites and one tick bite.

“Oh, look at the time,” he said, pulling his cell phone from a pants pocket. “Let’s get back on the bus so we can meet Dan at the center for our personal tour.”

Slapping away love bugs the whole way, we went down the stairs and caught the next bus back to the center. I was tired of trying to see buildings through a constant rain of the insects, anyway.
Tall, blond and muscular, Dan was waiting at the center for us. Spotting Clint first, he gave him a big bear hug, and then enfolded me in the same rough embrace. He held out two “V.I.P. Space Center Visitor” badges.

“Great to see you, Quinn, Clint,” Dan said, slapping us both on the back. Handing us the white passes in clear plastic attached to black lanyards, he directed, “Put these on—security is really tight in the shuttle hangar,” he said.

“Come with me…your chariot awaits,” he added, leading us to a side door in the main picture gallery. He unlocked a white SUV emblazoned with the NASA symbol on the side, and we all climbed in. Dan drove us to the security checkpoint outside the shuttle hangar and the guard checked our badges, and then waved us through.

 “Wow, Dan, it’s amazing,” I said as we walked into the hangar and I saw the gigantic white and black shuttle.

We were led to a large, wide ladder and said, “Climb up, and put your hand on the tiles. We’re replacing those right now before we put her into the museum, because some came off during the last mission.”

Clint, smiling broadly, climbed the ladder and put his hand on the tiles, then stroked them as he would a dog.

“Ow!” he said. “Something just bit me!”

“Come down and I’ll take a look,” Dan said.

Brow wrinkled, creating white lines in his tanned face, Clint climbed down the ladder and put his hand out. There was a bright red welt with a white center on the inside of his thumb.

Dan ordered, “Stay here. I’ll get a first aid kit,” and walked over to a work table nearby. Just looking at Clint’s bite made mine itch. I scratched my left forearm and looked at my bite. It looked just like Clint’s—bright red, with a white center.

“I thought the bugs didn’t bite you,” I smiled, remembering how Clint had bragged before.
Suddenly alarm bells sounded, making Clint and I jump. “All hangar personnel to Quarantine Station 1,” a male voice on the loudspeaker commanded.

“That means me,” Dan said as he came back. “Here’s the ointment for your bites, but you’d better take the SUV keys too, Quinn. Do you think you can find the center?”

“Sure, Dan,” I said.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later. I’ll text you when I get off work and we can grab a beer somewhere.”

“Dan, what’s going on?” I asked, seeing men and women in jumpsuits and a few in suits running out the hangar door.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “It’s probably just another drill. They run them all the time to keep us on our toes. You should get going. Go through that side door, not the front door. You shouldn’t be here right now.”

We went out the side door, unlocked the SUV and drove to the hangar gate, where the guard waved us through. I could still hear the alarm bells from the hangar. Boy, my arm sure itched. I glanced at the passenger seat. Clint was scratching his thumb.

My head started to hurt after I parked the SUV and left the keys with the girl at the information desk. Clint had wanted to go to the “Meet the Astronaut” and “Star Trek Experience” events, but I didn’t feel well enough. I figured he wasn’t feeling much better, because he leaned against the desk, holding his head in his hands.

“My head is killing me and I hurt all over,” he said as I gave him a gentle hug.

“Let’s get a drink at the snack bar,” I suggested, and put my arm around his waist. We walked outside. This time, the love bugs parted for us, creating a clear path to the snack vendor. Weird—they weren’t doing that for anyone else. I looked around and saw people swatting the insects left and right.

The lemonade was refreshing but didn’t help. “Want to get out of here?” I asked Clint.

“Yeah,” he said. I noticed that even though it was a relatively cool 72 degrees, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. I felt perspiration drip down my neck.

On the drive back through the wildlife refuge, I didn’t see one love bug. Not one. Gone was the rain of insects. I was grateful for it, as my vision was getting blurry. I barely made it to Cocoa Beach before I started to shake all over.

“I think we’d better find a doctor,” I said.

“Wait—pull in there first. I think the salt water might fix this,” Clint said, pointing a shaking finger at a weathered, off-white “Public Beach” sign. We paid our five bucks and pulled into the parking lot. I had never liked swimming, hated water, in fact, but I had a sudden urge to wade in the surf.

I heard the passenger door open and saw Clint staggering out of the SUV. He ran for the water. I followed him, breathing heavily. We struggled through the beige sand and collapsed at the edge of the blue-green water. I ripped my shoes and socks off and tore my pink shirt off too, dropping it on the sand. I walked into the water, feeling tiny bits of shell cut my feet. It didn’t matter. The cool water relieved the pain I felt in my arms, hands, feet, legs and chest.

I looked over and saw Clint wading deeper into the salt water. He stopped when he was waist deep. I stood next to him, enjoying the cool waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

I was starting to think that Clint was right, that the salt water would soothe away the problem when suddenly, my whole body itched. I started to scratch, first my head and neck, then my chest, arms and legs, through my sodden jeans. It felt like there were a million flies biting me.

I looked down at my arms and bare chest. There were bright red welts with white centers all over me. As I watched in horror, black love bugs with silver heads emerged from the welts. They flew off toward the beach.

I staggered out of the water, welts burning like fire and oozing clear fluid. I heard screams. The bugs were biting everyone on the beach.

“Quinn! My God!” Clint screamed as he too left the water. We watched in shock as the people on the beach ran from the bugs, screaming.

“We need to get to an emergency room!” I screamed back at Clint.

Before we could move, we heard the air raid sirens go on in Cocoa Beach and heard a thumping noise behind us. Turning around, we saw at least ten black military helicopters flying toward us from the water.

They stopped right above us, hovering and buzzing like giant mosquitoes. “Stay where you are,” the command blared from a loudspeaker on the chopper. “This area is under quarantine.”

My heart raced as I felt, more than heard, the metal blades of the flying machines chop the balmy sea air. Yet under the panic, a new feeling rose within me, changing my perceptions.

As I stood in the soft, yellow sand with the ocean at my back and the setting sun in my eyes, I felt, physically and mentally, better than ever before. Strength surged through my arms and legs. I looked down at my bare chest. My skin was closing over the open wounds where the dark red welts had been.

“What’s happening to me?” Clint yelled, staring down at his tanned chest, now unmarked. Our eyes met, and, with the surety of having greeted half a decade of sunrises together, I knew our thoughts were one. He put his well-muscled left hand in my pale, soft right hand and we ran for the dunes, kicking up sand and bits of shell with our bare feet.

Together we heard the scream of sirens from police cars on the highway on the other side of the parking lot, but the pulse of my heartbeat, the quick breaths through my open mouth and Clint’s, and the thud of our feet on the sand overwhelmed the susurrations of the sheriff’s vehicles. The wail of patrol boats bounced over the waves toward the beach.

The sounds faded to mosquito whines as a surge of euphoria swept through me, and adrenaline pumped through my bloodstream. We defied the orders to stay. I hadn’t run like this in years, and neither had Clint. I barely noticed the long stems of the tan sea oats whipping the damp legs of my blue jeans as I ran past.

Unconcerned by the scores of flashing red and blue lights of white patrol cars fighting their way to the lot through rush-hour traffic on the freeway, Clint paused and threw his head back and howled in triumph as we reached the summit of the dunes. I roared at the wind and the choppers and the police cars. I felt seventeen again, and from the telepathy from Clint, I knew he shared the feeling.

We joined hands again and dashed down the dune and to our silver Toyota Rav 4. With unaccustomed fluidity, Clint in one motion pulled the car keys out of my pocket and slid them into the door lock. I opened the passenger door and with grace I thought I’d lost when I hit thirty, swung myself into the seat. Clint had already started the car, and before I finished clicking the seat belt, yanked the gear shift into four-wheel-drive and steered the vehicle toward the parking lot curb and a sandy one-lane road on the other side of it.

“Yeeehaaaa!” I screamed as we bounced over the curb and into the sandy lane.

“Wooohooo!” Clint yelled as he slammed the gear shift into “2” for driving on sand.

He rammed it into normal gear as our front tires met the highway. Because the patrol cars had blocked the parking lot entrance behind us and stopped the flow of traffic on the highway, we had both lanes to ourselves. Tears rolled down my face and I was whooping and laughing and making animal noises. I couldn’t stop pumping my fists in the air and yelling, “Woot, woot, woot!”

Clint’s face was a study in joy as we sped down the highway. His face was wet, too, and laughter mixed with the screams, grunts and cheers coming from his throat. It felt like we were kids again, yelling and whooping as we rode our bikes to the Circle K after catching minnows in the creek.

“We did it, Clint, we escaped!” I yelled, and laughed again.

He laughed too, but then stopped smiling. “Wait a minute,” he said. “We’re going the wrong way—back toward the Space Center.”

“I don’t think we want to be there,” I said, getting serious. I could feel my heartbeat had finally slowed from its frantic pace. “Let’s go back to Orlando,” I added, pointing at a sign up ahead for the turnpike.

As we sped along the highway to join the other drivers, I leaned back into the seat, allowing my muscles to relax. We rode for a while in companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts.

I grabbed the dashboard as Clint suddenly swerved the car over to the shoulder. Horns of cars behind us blared, and I saw a couple of drivers flip us the bird.

“What the hell are you doing?” I cried.

He put the emergency flashers on and set the brake, and then unclicked his seatbelt. Clint turned to me and grasped my shoulders. Staring hard at me, he told me, “Quinn; you know we can’t say anything.”

I nodded, and replied, “I know. It’s just that, with everything that happened, and I feel so different now, and you seem so different, how can I not talk about it, at least with you?”

Clint took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. I noticed his warm breath smelled good, like allspice. I had always liked his scent. He tipped my chin up with his finger. “Promise me, Quinn, that you won’t tell anyone. If the military is involved, then this is serious. The military would take us to who knows where. That means we can’t see a doctor.”

My throat was so tight that all I could do was nod. He started the car again and drove back into a highway lane. I had a lump in my throat and found it hard to swallow, let alone talk, so we just rode in silence until we got to the hotel.

“I’ll drop you off and get some takeout food,” Clint told me as he let me out of the car. I watched him drive away, wondering if he would ever come back. I tried to probe his mind, but the connection was no longer there.

My back started itching as I walked into the hotel lobby. On the way up to the room, I wanted to use the edges of the elevator mirrors to scratch, but the itch was right under my shoulder blades, where I couldn’t get to it.

I ripped my shirt off as soon as I got into the room, and snapped the light on over the sink. Using the makeup mirror, I inspected my back for the cause of the itch. “I thought it was over,” I muttered to myself.

Looking at my back in the mirror, my breath caught in disbelief. Unfolding from my skin, under my shoulder blades, I saw two shiny, beautiful black gossamer wings.

Lisa Cromwell lives in Portland, Oregon, with her daughter, Katie, cats Harley and Josie, and Galaxy, a bearded dragon. Galaxy was the muse and inspiration for Good Rep, a collection of seventeen myths, stories and legends of lizard heroes. Good Rep and Ten Titillating Tales, a collection of horror short stories, were among three books she wrote in 2012.

The same year, she celebrated her fifth year as an adjunct writing professor at Portland Community College and served as communications director for the Northwest Independent Writers Association. A national award-winning journalist for years, Lisa has a master’s education degree and is also a high school Language Arts teacher. Her 70,000-word sci-fi novel, Feed—The Elura Chronicles, the first in a trilogy, is being reviewed by publishers and producers. She is working on Rise, the second book in the Feed series.