Bug
By: @Kuno
Word Count: 1493
Chosen theme(s): Irony
Chosen format: Short Story
The city sleeps like the kings of the savannah, a lion amongst its suburban cubs. In the morning it will wake, the roar of traffic and people and music once more dominating the space about it, but for now its denizens are cradled in its quiet hum. Only the street lights remain on, fractals of such piercing through the blinds of my bedroom window. The clock by my bed reads close to three as I dress hurriedly in the dark.
I was already awake when they called me. When one spends as many a night amongst the stars of Earth and sky as I do, you grow accustomed to rising where others fall, the black of night as familiar as Soweto's people. Most of the calls are from the agency; CID believes in full autonomy of their investigators at all hours, and I, being at the forefront of our current war, am most readily available in the witching hours.
It is precisely three am when I park in front of the Embassy Hotel in the central part of the city. A tired-eyed concierge watches me through the glass, a dutiful smile crossing his dark features. Even as I return it, a part of me wonders if his friendliness is less due to his own manners and more in part to the car I drive. An even smaller part of me searches his eyes instinctively, looking for something untoward.
Moments later, a man emerges from the hotel lobby.
"I hope you're not hungry," I say in lieu of greeting. "This might take awhile."
"Not at all," comes his breathy reply. He is a girthy man for a European; the seat belt latches, pulling taut over his generous middle. He grins at me and extends a hand. "It's good that we formally meet. Franklin Haas."
I shake his hand firmly. "Constable Nkosi."
When the agency had first told me that a reporter was coming all the way from Germany to write a piece on our efforts to cull the coming incursion, I will admit I was staunchly against it. The crisis itself was a delicate subject, and to draw attention to it so gaudily put South Africa once more in a negative sphere of focus. But against all protests, they insisted on it. Our president wanted to show the world that we were moving past the sins of our past, and in so doing were eradicating every trace of every blight that had once corrupted our society. The invaders, they claimed, were no different; outnumbered, I had no choice to comply. I tried not to let my displeasure with the decision show then, and I try not to now, not with Mr. Haas in the car. Reporters, after all, watch and note everything.
Something tells me that he had been up all night in anticipation of my call. Like all journalists, there is an eagerness, a burning hunger in his eyes as he pulls out pen and paper for notation. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him scribble something down at the top. The day's date:
24/9/1998.
"I hope I may have some time to ask a few questions before we get there."
"Of course."
"If I may–" My brow twitches at the politeness, and even more at the shuffle of papers. "So this…'invasion' here in Johannesburg–"
"Mostly Soweto," I correct.
"Soweto, yes. Apologies. There have been many names floating around for the creatures plaguing this city, such as skin-walkers,
kishi or, eh,
popobawa. How would you characterize them? In your own words."
"Bugs. That's all they are." The words come out harsher than intended, and I frown. "Fancy names only sensationalize them more. They are just bugs, and we are working to purge them."
I heard the other names before. Back when they had first emerged amongst the black populace in the 80s, little notice had been given them. But the dissolution of apartheid and Mandela's ascent to power meant that the curses plaguing Africans would no longer be ignored, and that meant putting the incursion sharply into focus.
We talk more as I drive towards the southwestern edge of Johannesburg. I show him the CID headquarters where interviews are conducted, the most popular sightings for the skin-walkers, and a few other areas of interest. Predictably enough, Haas cottons on to the monsters themselves and continues to press, push, and prod for more specific information. Finally, I relent.
"Bugs are monsters amongst us. Tall, gaunt, insect-like beasts that take the shape of humans and try to live in our midst by stealing human skins, robbing others of their lives for their own convenience. Call them what you want; they'll soon be gone. The government is making sure of that."
"Yes, yes, I heard the president was allocating funds specifically towards that endeavor…"
The engine revs violently as I speed up to blow through a light turning red. Haas continues his quick notations, undeterred.
"How?" He suddenly asks.
"How what?"
"How do they– I'm sorry, you, the agency, determine who is a bug and who isn't? Are there signs or patterns or looks–"
I swerve to avoid a stray dog, perhaps harder than necessary, and Haas cuts off to brace himself against his seat. It is then that, involuntarily, a small gasp escapes him as he suddenly notices his surroundings. I glance at him, my smile small and sad.
Between the ravages of apartheid and the new blight upon them, Soweto is a fledgling flower struggling to grow out of a small crack in pavement. To go from the sprawling mansions of Johannesburg to the crumbling rows of pillboxes so sharply is a slap to one's senses. Unable to help himself, Haas stares out the window, drinking it all in. I watch him in silence.
"We rely on tips," I finally answer, and he turns to me, blinking. "For the bugs. The locals know now to report neighbors and friends should they begin to act strangely or keep odd hours mostly confined to the night. That's when the bugs are most active…they can't control it. Blinking, too, is unnatural to them. They must
force it. And the most important one: sugar water."
"Sugar water?"
"Ne. Sugar water. Half each content. Bugs cannot go long without so, nor can they resist it. I have some here–" I pat a thick plastic jug between us soundly, its sweet scent wafting through "–for them. Just like real insects."
"And what do you do? Once you find them and determine they're a bug?" The dutiful scribe has returned to his post, the march of ink continuing across his canvass. "Or should I say, what do the locals do?"
"Don't you know?"
He begins to say something, but I shush him, pointing ahead of us. We have come to a slow stop; we are deep into Soweto now, on the very outskirts where tiny homes resemble hovels and the wild encroaches on civilization in leaps and bounds of tall grass and bush. Far into the distance, a light beckons from beyond the homes; flames, licking against a massive wood piling, reaching up towards the sky. Tiny blobs of color dotted the area around the bonfire. There is a crowd gathered there.
Mr. Haas stares. "What are they doing?"
"You asked what people do with the
popobawa they find."
There is a beat of silence before the confusion on his face dissolves into horror. I pretend not to see it, even as my own stomach twists into discomfort.
"I do my part, Mr. Haas. And they do theirs," I continue quietly, starting up the car once more. "It's a matter of survival. And fear. Combine the two, and people will take things into their own hands. Violently, if necessary."
It is nearly dawn when I return him to the hotel. Mr. Haas is appropriately somber in the wake of seeing the burning bodies, his earlier enthusiasm having tapered some. Still, it does not dissuade him from asking more questions.
I, on the other hand, have reached my limit of being interviewed.
"Tomorrow then," He insists. His hand is sweaty around my own as he shakes it. "Perhaps I can sit in on an interview."
"Maybe so. I'll talk to my boss for you."
I watch him enter the lobby before I pull off. I don't drive for long; there is a burning, itching worry in my mind, one I have when talking with anyone for too long, and it is not long before I pull over to the shoulder of an empty road. Hurriedly, I pull the rearview mirror towards me. I lean in close, staring deep into my eyes, hoping not to find–
No.
I pat my eyes once, my blood running cold at finding them dry and red.
It had been too dark for Haas to notice. I had forgotten to blink.
