Photo by Octavian Dan on Unsplash
I sharpen my blade nervously. The old locker room at St. Christopher’s High still reeks of stale, unwashed uniforms and teen B.O., though it hasn’t been used for that purpose in years. It reminds me of my own school, the one I would have been graduating from in the spring if things had stayed normal. The sound of carnage carries in from the stadium when someone opens the door.
My heart stops and I freeze.
But they’re not scampering, just two feet walking quickly and with purpose, so I keep my head down and focus on sharpening my blade.
“They’ve pulled in some of the biggest and ugliest I’ve ever seen,” Opal says, practically squealing in anticipation.
Maybe I’d be squealing too, if I weren’t up next.
I sharpen faster. Opal stands on the bench next to me so she can peer through the high, rectangular window and see out onto the field.
“Did you spot any of the recruiters?” I ask, setting aside my four-foot sword and pulling out my two twelve inch daggers. They’re still covered in goo from practice, but I clean them off as best I can with an old t-shirt repurposed as a rag. Every muscle in my body is already aching. Can I really do this?
“Hard not to spot ‘em, they’re the only suits in the stadium,” Opal says, eyes still fixed on the fight above. Though she can’t see much from there, she can hear it. We both can. The sound of pulverized bone. The wail of pain. The triumphant hiss.
“Well, less competition for you I guess,” Opal’s voice is hollow as she sits on the bench next to me. No one likes to see a fighter go down, especially not when they’re next. There are so few of us left who are willing to fight. I stand and start pacing. Still sharpening. Warming up my muscles. Hoping for a better fate.
When the roaches were first spotted, they were thought to have mutated somewhere. An isolated event. Something we could get control of. They started out the size of possums but the bigger they got, the harder they got to kill.
The cities at the lowest elevation levels were hit hardest. The whole state of Louisiana had to be evacuated within the first month, myself included. The roaches liked staying low, so we learned to go high.
Even after my three years here, Colorado doesn’t feel like home to me. Maybe because I never had a proper home here, just slept in one of the emergency shelters set up in a vacant office building like so many other people who were left penniless. We were forced to abandon everything just to get away from these damn pests.
And I, for one, am pretty pissed about it.
Pest Control was and continues to be the only group doing anything about it. This elite, roach-fighting squad recruited only the best at the start. They wanted warriors, they wanted heroes.
I wasn’t either of those things. Just a waitress, then an administrative assistant, then a woman on the run. They felt like my only options at the time.
When the warriors and heroes started to die off in droves while trying to take back Miami, Wilmington, Baton Rouge—someone called in the recruiters.
Sharp suited, slick, and silver-tongued, these fifty people went from town to town, hoping to find anyone willing and able to fight. More heroes went, more heroes died. But, even if you died, you still got paid. Ten grand for each month in service. With so many jobs gone and the economy plummeting, there were more penniless refugees by the minute and fewer options for earning a buck.
Scrounge and scrape and try to piece together some kind of life before the mega roaches find their way here too, that’s option one. Option two felt impossible at first, but the longer I’ve stayed the more inevitable it’s become: fight like hell, hopefully live long enough to leave someone else a chance at a better life, take a few of the giant bug bastards down with me.
“Suit up, they’ll be ready for us any second,” Opal said, snapping me back into focus. She’s my someone else. A companion, of sorts, though we never talk much. Just eat near each other. Sleep near each other. Two people who lost everyone who ever cared about them, existing near each other.
I slip on my combat boots, Kevlar reinforced jumpsuit, and gas mask. I stick a dagger in the lining of my left boot, one in my right pocket, and grab the sword. It glints in the light, beaming, though duller than it ever was when I was growing up.
My dad collected swords. It was his most bizarre hobby, but probably his favorite too. He had a whole room of them. If I stayed and listened, he’d drone on and on about the masterful engineering that goes into each katana versus the heft and brute force of a broad sword. I wasn’t allowed to touch them, but he’d occasionally take one down and hold it so I could look, but not touch. He’d tilt it back and forth, whispering to me about the magic of the light dancing across the blade.
I think he’d be happy that I kept as many as I could carry when I was evacuated. Though I’ve bartered most of them away for food, I’ve hung onto his favorite.
The hilt is wrapped in black leather that’s only faded slightly from the sun. He kept it in the darkest corner of the room but he did take it down frequently to hold it, to feel the weight of it in his hand. As I hold it now, walking down the elongated concrete hall that leads to the stadium where I might meet my fate, I can almost feel the indent of his palm against mine.
Opal holds my other hand. Squeezes it.
“You can’t bring that in, you know,” a lone recruiter in a dark grey suit with a fluffy, unkempt moustache catches me off guard. He’s standing in the shadow of the door he’s holding open, gas mask in hand. The acrid scent of bug guts wafts in. They clear the field between rounds but the sun is almost setting and there have been a lot of battles before mine.
“Where is that in the rule book? Shouldn’t Pest Control use any tools at their disposal?” Opal is indignant for me. I’m glad. Panic has set in, leaving me a jittery, wordless mess.
“It’s a violation of protocol. You could use it in the field, on the front lines, but not here. Not for the test.” The recruiter isn’t budging. If my blade were sheathed, he’d probably grab the sword right out of my hand. Dad’s sword.
“You get six bug bombs and two weapons of choice, not to exceed—“
“You want one of her daggers? Take that instead! This is such crap. Don’t you want people out there who can protect us? Didn’t you bring her here to see what she can actually do? That’s her tool!”
“Safety. Hazard.” He spits it out at us with no further explanation before handing over my belt with six bug bombs locked and loaded. He puts his mask on, then walks out onto the field to find his place in the stands.
He better not get to watch me die, I think, before dropping my sword.
“Take care of it for me, okay?” Opal is misty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry, but I’ve only known her for a year or so.
Still, she’s been someone to know. Someone alive. It’s the least I can do now to win her a buck or two.
Any fighter left alive after their round in the roach arena gets to join Pest Control. But there’s also prize money at the end of the day. $1000 here and $1000 there, the recruiters don’t care much.
They’re the only ones who have found a way to make a living in our new roach infested homeland, so they’ll throw Opal some spare change if I die out there, too.
They also sit front row and, though their faces are covered by the masks, I think they love every second of the brutal pageantry they’ve created.
“Now entering: Willow Cate.” It’s not my real name, but it’s the only one I’ve used since evacuating. And, if I die here, it’ll be the one marking my grave.
Assuming there’s enough left of me to bury. Assuming Opal wants to spend the pittance I might earn fighting on a tombstone for her not very old pal.
Forward.
I move out onto the field and take in what should be fresh air. It’s as putrid out here as it was inside. I see them in each end zone. Big ones. Roaches the size of Smartcars. Their rust-colored shells sheath them in a thicker skin than I’m used to seeing. Have they come this far this fast?
“And those are the small ones,” the announcer says, sending the packed stadium into a fit of uncomfortable laughter.
I don’t blame them, the onlookers. The only affordable amusement left in town, any town, are these bi-annual Pest Control recruiting sessions. Anyone who attends gets a gas mask with the low price of admission. And, with bug bombs becoming more frequent, you basically need one to survive.
I use my hand as a shield from the onslaught of light from the setting sun, making my way to the middle of the field. I spot the recruiters in the front, faces obscured by masks, sitting still as statues. They see this all the time.
Bewildered fighter. Looks fragile from near starvation. Gets taken down by roaches.
If I want this to work, I need this to be about the bugs and me. Nothing else.
When the buzzer sounds, the cages swing open, and each roach skitters as it charges towards me.
I toss a bug bomb left, then I toss a bug bomb right. They erupt in a fluorescent orange mist but it only slows down the one to my left. The one to my right charges on.
I pull out a dagger. It feels pitiful in my hand compared to my father’s sword, but I know what to do with it.
The roach is getting closer. The 20-yard line. The 30-yard line. BOOM.
I throw my dagger like a dart and it hits the thing between the eyes. I throw another bug bomb and charge towards it. I’ve knocked it off its legs. It’s shimmying on its belly, hissing fiercely. I climb on its back and sink my other dagger into its shell, dragging it from top to bottom. This splits it open and gives me access to its vulnerable core. I stab. I twist. I fall.
The roach from the left found its way to me after all, and it’s knocked me off its now dead compatriot. Without either dagger, without either sword, my only option is the bug bombs.
One. two. three. four. I toss them all in quick succession, abandoning my daggers in the corpse of the first massive roach and racing towards the end zone on the left.
It’s hard to see through the thick orange vapor, but I think I’ve caught the recruiter’s attention now.
The remaining roach is stunned, not dead. I have maybe a minute, hopefully two before it comes to and charges me again. With no weapons left, I have no other options.
I sprint back towards the roaches and the orange fog.
Even through my filtration mask, the air is thin and slick with poison. When I reach the carcass of the first roach, all I see is orange. I feel around blindly, hoping to find just one of my daggers.
But, just as I grasp the handle of the dagger in its face, the once dead roach starts to stir. The other one’s on the move again too. I run as fast as I can into the end zone and slam the door of the bug cage shut with myself inside.
This maneuver is strictly against the rules, but I’d rather break a few rules and kill a few bugs than die here and now.
Once they get to me, they can’t actually get to me through the thick steel bars.
They stand on either side, jostling the cage back and forth. I wobble violently. I stab at them wildly through the thin slits, but nothing sticks. After a few moments, they leave me alone and turn their attention to the crowd.
There are some Pest Control enforcers in the stadium to keep onlookers safe, but the bugs have never bothered with the crowd before. They prefer the easy prey. The one on the field.
But I’m not easy enough for them in here.
They charge at the stands. Panic ensues. Everyone is out of their seat and running up the stairs towards the exits. I slowly open the cage door as the massive roaches narrow in on the section closest to them, the Recruiters.
“Do something! Do something!” They shout at flabbergasted Pest Control guards who are pelting the damn things with every bug bomb they have. It only slows these two down, they keep moving forward.
I see the outline of an onlooker out of the corner of my eye who’s made their way onto the field. I rush towards them as quietly as I can. When I get closer, I recognize her. Opal. She has my sword.
I grab it from her and hug her.
“Give them hell,” she whispers.
I spin around. The roaches have noticed us and they’re crawling rapidly towards us.
I lift the sword high and chop in two smooth, swift motions.
Their heads sever from their bodies with a satisfying crunch that echoes through the stadium.
Opal and I are covered in bug goo. The crowd goes wild.
“DISQUALIFIED? HOW on EARTH?” Opal’s been shouting and speeding the whole ride back to the shelter.
“PEST CONTROL SHOULD BE SO LUCKY! Honestly! You were the only one who knew what to do. Willow Cate. Just you!”
The Recruiters sent me packing before I could even get clean.
No money. A little glory, though it was short lived. And an invitation to try again at the Fall invitational.
I clean Dad’s sword in silence.
I’m still penniless, but I’m filled with purpose. I’ve taken down my first. And my second. There are two fewer mega roaches in the world. Tomorrow I can take down two more. Then two more. Then two more after that.
“Just so you know, my name is actually Jane.”
Opal smiles and slows down. For now, I’ve got my sword, my friend, and another day ahead of me. That’s all I really need. I wipe off the last bits of bug goo and see the dying light dance across the blade. Magic.
Chelsea Babin is a native Texan turned determined defector with a B.A. in English from Texas State University. She tweets poems every day, she writes at day jobs, and she aspires to be a writer in many different forms and formats.