The cold winds blow and the snow falls across the small town of Velmont for what already feels like a thousand sunless days. Soon a frantic demon of sorts, paid for with tax-dollars, will be all that concerns Velmont’s citizens. Compared to this fresh hell, surviving the slow-motion blizzard will be a pleasurable torment. The perpetual dusk of snow and street lamps blends the days and nights, an omnipresent portent that merely hints at the horror
that awaits all visitors of the
A story Written by Alexander Phoenix Korbin, 2007 © all rights reserved
hen it all began it seemed like the perfect solution. The city had located a company that made mosquito spray with the same potency but half the cost and none of the risk. The reason was they made it from extracts of wormwood, lemon grass, the mosquito plant and others. It was all-natural and therefore supposed to be safe. Clarence’s argument against natural’ as a synonym for safe’ is that fact that cow-pies, poison ivy and meteors are also natural’.
So he wasn’t particularly sold on the idea.
It was a crazy summer, the heavy snow led way to flooded rivers and much standing water. The fields near my parent’s house were pocked with large pools and mini lakes that sometimes reached from one end to the other. The summer was hot, and wet.
Mosquitos rose up from the lawns with a vengeance once the sun began sliding down the sky. A hum would emanate from the grass as the insecta militia barked their orders and achieved formation. But as the air became thick with the swarm, it was every woman’ for herself, as it is solely the females who bite, a weapon they use in defense when they aren’t draining animals of blood for their nurseries. When they are feeding their young, they quietly take a bellyful of blood and speed away. They provide their young ones with something to eat, in order that they can grow up and eventually bite you themselves.
With the sun setting, the sparse branches on the dying tree in my yard, for a split moment, look as though they are full of leaves once more. But it is the vibrating bodies of a billion mosquitos starting out on their hunt, looking to draw blood, spread disease and annoy as many creatures as possible.
Earlier in the year there was a report of yet another mosquito carried illness, and the sales of DEET and other related products rocketed out of control. Netting treated with the repellant seemed to be the best way to keep the bloodsuckers at bay, and even the smallest hole in netting had to be mended immediately. It was as if they were able to communicate the information of an access hole to others before they were squashed. They were merciless and the townsfolk had to match their tenacity if they wished to avoid West Nile Disease’, Avian Bird Flu’ or the newest menace, Indonesian Crib Sickness’ or Indo-Flu’ as it was being called on the news. This latest disease is a strong one, and it has the unfortunate trait of attacking hardest the very young and the very old with unequalled vigor, reducing their immune system and leaving them prone to infections and diseases of every ilk.
With the introduction of the all-natural pesticide named Largon’ the mosquitos were driven away faster then the theory of evolution at a Kansas school board meeting. The town had been held hostage by the insect menace for three months and now the streets were filled with couples taking their kids for walks at sundown, people opening the windows in their houses and kids driving around once again with the roof down. The nights were pleasant and filled with the scent of huckleberries while business at the local bars and liquor store multiplied. This was good for the economy, especially down First Avenue where the booze was bought and sold. But, as with every action there was a reaction. The late nights of freely flowing booze led to many being arrested for disorderly conduct or intoxication in public. But Velmont is a small town and it was nothing that sheriff Reno Blackwater or his deputies couldn’t handle.
But lately there was a new tone that seemed to envelope the town like a mist. This year an almost palpable seething accompanied the bitter kiss of frost. The usually pleasant demeanor of the townsfolk was now more of an uncomfortable coexistence. Even Ida Flossum, the sweet little old lady at the pharmacy was affected. I’d never seen her offer anything but a smile to anyone, regardless of their popularity or perceived worth by many of the others in town. But the rumor was that she leapt across the counter and sank her fake nails into the face of Alma Cummings when she came in to pick up her prescription for birth-control pills. Alma didn’t press charges but she didn’t feel that Ida’s apology was believable. Shortly thereafter Ida was placed in a nursing home on the west of town, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
Later on that month there was an accident involving the football team. Seven members of the junior varsity football team died on the way back from scrimmaging when their van jumped a guardrail and landed upside down in the Mayfly River. The water was deep enough so that most everyone drowned. The one boy, who survived, was the cornerback, Pete Fischer. Harold Balsam found him while he was walking the edges of his property. This was miles downstream from the accident, and nearly three weeks later. The kid was hiding under the overhanging leaves and shrubs near the river. The accident had definitely had an effect on him, he didn’t seem to recognize anyone who came to see him, and he was still wearing his football pads and uniform. He seemed reluctant to take them off for anyone or any reason. Once he was sedated and placed under observation it was determined that he was suffering from PTSD, or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and kept in the hospital for a while. After a bit we all just sort of forgot about him, and as far as I know he’s never gotten out. He wasn’t violent though, and as the rest of the town dissolved into aggression, I wondered what it was that kept him from raging and lashing out. Surely he wasn’t in his right mind, and surely he was in the right place to take care of such concerns. Yet he seemed, despite his trauma, to have embraced some sort of bastardized version of peace.
It was Thanksgiving Day that the big incident happened. The other ones were strange, and in the case of the football players, quite tragic. But this was the one that got everyone’s attention; this was the one that got Velmont on the map when the feature ran in the news.
The parade started out as usual, only there weren’t as many smiling faces as in past years, the sullen look of some of the float drivers was taken to be a sign of concentration to some of the attendees, especially those from neighboring towns. But it was the absence of smiles on the faces of the float riders that seemed especially strange. The Princess Of The Prairie’ also-ran scowled freely at the first place winner of the prize, and before their float was half a block down the street they were literally at each other’s throats.
Elizabeth Hanson was at her place at the front of the flower-laden ride, and grinning smugly to something that was only know between her and the other runners up. With the ferocity of a bobcat, Linda Rusch attacked the princess and the two of them tumbled down the side of the transformed hay wagon and it the pavement. Not only did this impact not hurt the girls in any obvious way, it did nothing to quell the anger that was raging between them. At the surreal sight of the top two winners clawing and kicking at each other in frenzy, the other girls, Gabby Carmichael, Crystal Manning, and Shamayne Ness, had likewise thoughts and exploded into mortal combat.
At first the crowd seemed to lighten up at last, something different to amuse and distract them. A few men ran to pluck the girls off of the street and stop the float so they weren’t run over. The girls in back were suddenly the subjects of much cheering, for the most part from members of the boys JV football team of Eldrich. They had promised to help with the parade decorations since the tragedy that befell the Velmont team. But when they arrived they were shooed away, their services shunned. So they decided to hit the bottle of Wild Turkey that the twin-brother linebackers, Ronny and Donny Wymann had smuggled along. But as soon as the hoots and hollers went up over the fighting beauties, all hell broke loose.
Now the actions of the town were either quite out of the ordinary, or justified reactions to an extraordinary situation; a fact that has been of heated contention amongst the citizens. But in fact this is a moot point, seeing as it did happen and irreparable damage had already been done.
Some of the day’s events were pieced together from the folk involved in the original fracas and from those who were thrust into it after it had even achieved the status of ugly.