The Hive Situation: A Memoir

Part Three: The Casualties of War

   It was time for my final preparation. With the window fully jammed open, they had free reign to come straight in, and that was my point. I boogied fast to the bed, music blaring in my ears, to open the bag. I removed a large disposable Bic style lighter, and two jumbo-sized aerosol cans of Lysol. It was time to get this party started.

First checking the room to ensure no enemies were able to buzz me from behind, I approached the window at a cautiously slow pace. My posture, my attitude, my resolve, and now my weapons of choice were finally ready. Their invasion of my mother's house was the declaration of a certain war, and this was my deadly genocidal response. I kept the squashing book close, on the sill itself, to block the inside crack, so they could only fly at me from outside, at least at this early juncture. Stepping close to the open window I fired the first salvo at my yellow enemies. I flicked the lighter in front of a short burst of Lysol, and a burst of yellow flame over two feet long violently consumed an unlucky group of bees. Wings singed and clipped, they dropped straight down to the first-story roof overhang directly below my window, still twitching, but dying and not a threat. Their time had surely come by my hands.

I stepped back a step and watched a small group fly straight at the window to attack me. They knew as a hive mind that war was declared, and joined the clash against me. I hit them with a quick burst from my makeshift flamethrower, and they joined their dying brothers below, with death throes of their very own. Over my music, which had become a bit mellower, or at least quieter, I could hear a buzzing now from inside the wall. Word had carried along, and every bee soldier was now riled up to eagerly join the battle. Thankfully my placed book blocked the inside crack to make entry impossible for them, except outside the window. So they started emerging in force from the outside wall, they were adapting, as was I.

Suddenly feeling a sharp immediate pain in my upper left ankle, I felt the very first casualty of my side. One tiny bee soldier had somehow eluded me to get in and found my exposed area just about my sneaker. I suspect insects have certain instincts about these vulnerable matters, and they somehow successfully sting using said instincts. I shook my foot hard, and the bee flew, hit the wall, and fell to the floor; Not dead, but not flying away either.

I looked up just in time for the next group buzzing towards me, like tiny angry helicopters, and I force-fed them a long burst of flame as my friendly greeting. They fell immediately. Looking down, I saw the crippled bee pitifully inching in my direction. One good stomp of my sneaker, and he crawled no more.

Sending a long flame through the window for good measure, I took stock of the situation. I was covered in thick clothes and sweat, with a throbbing pain from the one sting, with no idea how far yet this might go. I saw the space was clear enough to stick my vulnerable young head out the open window. The roof below the window was a landscape of insect bodies laying on gray roof shingles. All with singed-away wings, and most dead, the remaining ones were either crawling or twitching sluggishly, and all would join their dead comrades soon.

I decided it was time to finish this up. Leaving the room, I grabbed a large glass, filled it with tap water, and headed back to the bedroom. The water was a precaution, so hopefully this part wouldn't get out of control. Three bees were flying around just inside the window, seeking a target from what I could see. The water glass was placed on the bedside table, and I grabbed my weapons, the lighter, and a can of Lysol. Three quick bursts later, the three bees were immobilized on the wooden floor, helpless and squirming. I heartlessly continued the fight.

They were now exiting the wall outside in full buzzing force, and leaning out the window, I caught them all in a flaming stream of lysol. Corpses fell everywhere across the shingles below me. Satisfied for now, it was time for the final piece of my genocidal plan. I stepped over and grabbed the water glass, setting it within arm's reach of the window, right on the floor. I could still hear some buzzing through the wall, but far less than when the war started.

Time for the final blow. Looking out the window carefully, I could see a few more bees streaming out the crack outside, and they immediately dropped, drowning in flame. I sprayed some Lysol into the crack without the flame, covering the paint of the crack. Then finally, I hit it with a flame burst. The paint started melting. I gave it another burst, then threw the water on it, and used my glove to smear the paint like a coating of silly putty, til the crack was covered over with paint. I had no doubt most of the bees in the wall were dead after this.

Finally, I removed the book covering the inner crack, and repeated my actions, dousing, flaming, and water, to cover the inner window sill crack, so no more bees could trespass.

I stuck my head out the open window, and not a single bee was in sight., and I closed the window. Turning my music off, I again went to the wall, putting my ear to it. I heard not a single buzz or rustle. So either the remaining bees had given up and left, or died in that flame burst in the wall. So either way, I was the victor in this unique war. Sadly, no spoils were to be had. Leaving the bee corpses on the floor for either my mother or her slow husband to take care of, I returned to my attic to change clothes and put my equipment away.

Finally, dressed back in my comfy house clothes, I headed back down to the third floor to relay the news of victory. My mother was again sitting on the couch, attention to her TV, while Pat kept mumbling to herself. I stood in the doorway, and exactly at the moment, her husband John came in the door, home from work, Frankenstein boots shaking the house as he entered.

"The bees are gone, I took care of them," I said, loudly enough for all to hear.

"Well, it's ABOUT damn TIME!" My mother said, eyes still unwavering from her daily shows.

John spoke up this time: "About time what?" No one responded but me. "Eh, Never mind" I shrugged, turning to go back to my attic, where things make sense. A dismissive hand wave was given to the whole miserable lot of them as I turned my back to leave. I had better things to do with my time than deal with their ignorance. I had just won a War after all. Such was life in our eccentric and unlikely household.

                                                                                      The End