Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27012445-20180822012506

The invasion began in 1985, or so we were told. The headlines immediately caught our attention, "Killer Bees Found on Southern Border!" These were the type of things that sparked the imagination of every child. It filled our heads with images of terrifying attacks and narrow, heroic escapes from swarms of deadly bees. It was right out of a scene typically seen in every eighty's action movie.

But like everything else, the killer bees didn't live up to all of the hype. They weren't some mutant insect, birthed from man's reckless lack of respect for nature and now must face the lethal and sometimes fatal consequences of said actions. No, that was not the case. The killer bees were nothing more than a byproduct of a dull experiment to create a crossbred species of bee capable of producing more significant quantities of honey. Instead what they got was a very pissed off little bug. A bug with an attitude.

For what it's worth, the name was still pretty cool, and no one could deny they weren't a badass little bumble bee. The news sensationalized their rapid progress from the southern border just enough border to hold our interest. Now, some of the reporting was concerning at times, but in reality, nowhere near the countdown to doomsday as they implied. No, they weren't going plunge the world into some futuristic post-apocalyptic world where you made your way through the wasteland, spraying fire from a flamethrower to fend off swarms of ravenous insects. Although nothing like that would ever come to pass, it was those type of scenarios most likely re-enacted in countless backyards, in the imagination of numerous children.

Until then, the local news kept our interest high in the real world. Aside from the cool name, the aggressiveness of these bugs impressed us, especially when we learned of their ability to repeatedly sting you over and over again. Everyone knows that an ordinary bee can only sting you once. When a honey bee stings a person, its barbed stinger is pulled out of its body, disemboweling and killing the bee in the process.

At first, there were the rumors. Everyone was talking about it. To this day, I don't know if it really happened, but word spread fast about the dead puppy they found underneath one of the new school portable buildings. They said it had been stung to death. I do remember seeing a little stray beagle-mix hanging around the neighborhood. I saw him not too long ago. He was a cute little puppy.

It wasn't long before stories started floating around of attacks on people. There was the boy who unknowingly wandered too close to their territory while mowing the lawn. Or the immigrant worker who disturbed a hive with his tractor. We paid little attention to them and saw them only as stories one would tell over a campfire or on a sleepover.

It was a Saturday afternoon. The weather was overcast with intermittent drizzling on a slightly chilly and dreary day. I was hanging out with my cousin for the day, who was pretty much my best friend at that time. His folks worked on Saturdays, leaving us to lounge around the house alone. I wouldn't quite say that this like any other weekend; it wasn't. It was the most boring weekend to have ever existed! There was nothing on TV, no movies to rent, no one around to take us anywhere even though it didn't really matter. We didn't have any money to blow. So, there was only one thing to do for broke kids. We could go into the "Creek!"

Behind my cousin's house was a wooded area of large trees and thick brush separated by a narrow but deep and rocky creek. Back then, the bed of the creek was full of life with fish and crawdads, frogs, and turtles. Today, its more of a sewer line than anything else, but back then it was clean and bright. It separated my cousin's backyard from this amazing little boy's fantasy land.

In those days, the creek served many purposes. For the older kids, it was an ideal spot to light up and get high. To the younger kids, it was a playground of endless wonderment only limited by our imagination. However, it had its dark secrets. It had a past filled with things best forgotten.

Nevertheless, whether the stories were real or not, we all knew there were parts of the creek where you could be taken by those you were not supposed to take candy from. But we didn't concern ourselves with matters such as that. Today, the relief of this oppressive boredom took priority.

We took a random path in the brush. It was deathly still, and the shadows were much deeper that cloudy day. The only sound was the dripping of water droplets falling off the canopy of leaves. In spite of dim light under the cover of leaves and branches, the color of nature, the green of the trees and bushes were vibrant. We followed the winding trail for a while until we found it. The path ended in a small clearing, and we were standing before a tall dead tree. Instantly, the bees flying in and out of the tree's hollow caught our attention. Me and my cousin looked at each other, and a dimmed lightbulb went off in our heads simultaneously. It was obvious we were thinking the same thing, "Let's get us some honey!"

Now, we weren't the brightest of kids. In our heads, we thought, "If we could get to it, we could pull out thick, dripping, golden honey; just like Whinney the Poo did in every cartoon. Quickly, we started looking for something to stick into the hollow of the dead tree. We didn't have to look for very long before we came across a long tree branch laying on the forest's floor. We lifted the tree branch over our heads and roughly shoved it into the hole. We pulled it out, hoping we would see that beautiful honey dripping from off the branches tip, just like the type of honey you could buy in the grocery store. We only had time to do this a couple more times before it happened.

Does anyone remember that old comedy show? The one where they had this bit where someone was doing something stupid, and at the end, the scene would freeze and the voice of Morgan Freeman would say, "And this was the moment when they realized they had fucked up." Need I say more?

Now, it's funny how memory works. You sometimes don't remember things the same way it happened so long ago. Your mind can change or add things, or even cut portions out. It can embellish the memory making it much more dramatic than what really happened. That's what I like to tell myself. The swarm burst out of the tree like a puff of black smoke. It moved like it was one single creature, in the shape of an arm with long fingers. My cousin, who was standing in front of me took the brunt of the first wave. I immediately felt hot stings on my forehead, two on my hand, one on my neck, and four on my legs.

It is a well-known fact that when a bee's hive is disturbed or threatened, it releases a pheromone into the air which triggers the hive's protectors into a frenzy. What is not well-known (at least not to two ten-year-old kids) is the area from the pheromone of killer bees can reach a radius of up to one and a half miles. It is also a little-known fact that in a killer bee hive, the number of warrior bees is triple the number of a typical honey bee hive.

We tore out of the clearing as fast as we could. We crashed through the brush, not even bothering with the trail. Branches and thorns tore at our exposed skin while the bees pelted us with stings on our backs. The swarm was relentless in their pursuit and vicious in their bites. Still, we continued to push through the thicket. Nothing could stop their stingers from stabbing into our skin, not even clothes. I kept hearing my cousin scream and wail out in pain not far behind me. Not looking back, I yelled for him to keep running. Don't stop! Don't look back! Keep Running!

Each time the sharp bee stingers would penetrate my skin, it would inject a tiny amount of venom into my bloodstream. Now, one or two stings is nothing to be concerned about, unless you were allergic. At this time, I was at about one hundred stings and counting. It was starting to get hard to breathe. I couldn't catch my breath, not like when sprinting or running. No, it was different. My airways and passages were starting to close off from the swelling. I was gulping for air. Soon I would no longer be able to breathe. I felt like I was dying. I wanted nothing more than to lay down and close my eyes. The sobbing and screams of agony from my cousin grew distant and faint.

Before I realized it, the ground below me disappeared. I was airborne for a moment, flying through the air. I hit the sloped ground hard and tumble for what seemed like forever. It took a moment for me to realize what happened. I had reached the forest's edge. I had reached the creek and went over the side. It was a portion of the little stream dry and free from water. I was bloodied and dazed from the fall and the world was spinning and unfocused. I continued to wheeze and gasp for air. I got to my feet, and my body felt so heavy and hot, yet I was trembling from uncontrollable chills. I looked up at the opposite edge of the creek. It was about a 10 feet climb and angled at a steep inclination.

I fell to my knees.

There was no need to run.

In the condition I was in, there was no way I could climb up the edge of the creek while being stabbed nonstop by poisonous little needles. I was trapped. I waited for the hot pricks of pain to begin again.

They never did.

At the time, I didn't have an explanation for why they didn't get me down there. Later, I was told once that when a swarm is chasing you, the angry little bugs can only perceive their target in one directional plane. When I suddenly dropped below the ground level, they continued to fly in the same direction after I had fallen into a lower plane. They flew right over me and didn't even realize it.

I looked up at the edge of the creek. Any minute now, my cousin would crash through the treeline's edge and fly into the sky from the sudden appearance of the creek. I waited, and I waited.

I think there is still a part of me that is still waiting.

There will always be a part of me that waits.

I will never stop waiting.

I have never stopped waiting. 