SERUM KILLER By Robin Weaver

SERUM KILLER

By Robin Weaver

 

It was a single bite from one tiny ant, but I began to change in ways I never imagined.  Horrible ways.

I’d been pruning roses when the little bugger bit me on the wrist, near my pulse.  If he’d gnawed any place else, I might have remained unscarred, but fate didn’t favor me.  My arm swelled and I soon resembled Popeye—at least one arm did.  Pain racked my body and I begged Harold for something, for anything.  He grunted and grabbed his coat.

My body was convulsing when my spouse returned.  I snatched the bottle from his hand and swallowed the clear liquid, without looking at the label.  The pain subsided and I slept.

          For three days, I hovered in the realms of sleep, waking only for broth and more serum.  In my few blinks of consciousness, I saw my husband watching me.  Harold seemed concerned, but not about me.  I asked for a doctor—he told me he was a doctor.  How could I have forgotten that?  I wanted to tell him to go away, but I craved the medicine.

On the fourth day, it was over.  The pain disappeared. I felt alive, anxious to embrace the day.  I was me again.  Except for the strange red welts.

Welts?  Something nagged at my brain.  I’d only been bitten once.  Why were there so many welts?

“Anaphylaxis,” my spouse said, although I hadn’t voiced my question.  “An allergic reaction.”

He treated me like an idiot.  I wanted to scream at him, I know what anaphylaxis is!
I didn’t.  Instead, I asked, “The medicine worked?  I’m better, right?”

He shrugged.

          I didn’t let his attitude affect my exuberance.  I wasn’t just better—I was T-friggin’-rrific.  I wanted to bask in the sunshine.  I wanted to build a house.

Build a house?  I pushed my weird thoughts aside and went in search of sweets. 

          Pancakes sounded perfect.  I mixed the batter from scratch and grilled the cakes to perfection.  I cut them into perfect little squares and raised the bottle of syrup.  Instead of dispersing the delicious concoction over the griddled dough, I positioned the plastic container above my mouth, squeezing the brown goop into my throat. I gurgled and squeezed until the bottle was empty. 

With my sugar gluttony sated, I fell into the watchful gaze of my spouse.  He smirked.  I hung my head.

What was wrong with me?  I didn’t even like syrup.

My shame was short lived.  Enthusiasm consumed me, making it impossible to contain the energy pulsating inside.  I washed, I ironed, and I cleaned.  In pursuit of perfection, my feet scurried and my fingers labored until everything sparkled.

My husband came home for lunch and brought his assistant.  I never liked that woman, but being the ideal hostess, I served her lunch.

“Aren’t you the busy bee,” she sniggered.

“Don’t you mean ant, Helen?”  My husband cackled.  “My little wife’s a worker ant.”

          The two of them giggled like teenagers.  They annoyed me.

My mind was still foggy.  I couldn’t remember why my husband had a teaching assistant.

I forced my brain into concentration.  “Oh, yes,” I murmured.  “Harold isn’t a medical doctor, he’s a psychiatrist.”

Something seemed wrong, but I couldn’t think about it.  Too much to do and I needed sugar—I had an insatiable craving.  I slipped into the pantry to grab a bag of sugar.  I ate the white granules straight from the container.

Two days later, the assistant returned.  She and Harold thought I was upstairs, but I hid in the pantry, listening.

Harold whispered, “I’d say the experiment is a success.  There is no trace of the serum in her blood work.  The diagnosis will be an acute reaction to insect bites.  One that affected her brain.”

          “That woman is certifiable,” the assistant purred.  “Darling, you’ll finally be rid of her, once and for all.  Too bad you won’t be able to publish your findings. You’d be famous.”

Even though I had a sucrose fixation, Helen’s sugary voice made me sick.

“Yes, we’re lucky she didn’t go into pulmonary edema when I gave her the serum.  Because of the pre-nup, I would have lost everything if she’d died.  When we commit her, I will still control her assets.”

She was talking again.  “How much longer, Hal?  I’m tired of waiting.”

          My husband’s evil cackle haunted the air.  “Patience, love.  My colleagues will observe her tomorrow.  I suspect we can have her institutionalized the next day.”

          Teenybopper snickering permeated the air, angering me more than their evil words.  I couldn’t let them commit me.

          My still-fuzzy brain latched onto a solution. I would call my new friends.  They would know what to do.

Flinging open the pantry door, I surprised my spouse and his assistant.  Two whacks with a frying pan ended that inane giggling.

A bigger problem loomed large.  Mercy.  What would I do to cover my tracks?

Concentration was vital and I was out of fructose.  I opened every canister in my kitchen but couldn’t pinpoint one granule of sugar.  I scampered to the store in search of sweets and a solution.

          When I returned, my little friends waited, having resolved my little problem.  I stared at my spouse and his girlfriend, their unconscious bodies covered with thousands of ants.  Soon, there would be no bodies.

          I laughed, the sound strange and foreign.  Harold and Helen didn’t get it.  I’m not a worker ant.  I may be human, but the serum altered me and I now command.

          I rule the hive. As queen.

Today's Knight

By Robin Weaver


Please don’t let him see me.

After a full day of mommy duty, Annie Addison couldn’t conjure up enough energy to deal with Lance Walker. She ducked behind her open trunk, praying for a bit of luck. The appearance of a size twelve Nike indicated good fortune would not be forthcoming.

Busted, she lifted her head, whacking her noggin on the raised trunk. “Yeow. Quit stalking me.”

She massaged the top of her head, only slightly mollified when he began to sputter. “I…I’m not stalking you. Just wanted to make sure you got into the building safely.”

“Oh, pleeaaase.” Her southern twang emerged with her temper. “It’s a secure parking lot with a guard less than fifty feet away.”

The parking lot light revealed the pinkish glow creeping over Lance’s face, making Annie regret her verbal attack. The man annoyed her simply by breathing, but he wasn’t that bad. Not if one liked the intelligent, hunky sort.

Delete that thought. Lance purchased his clothes at Nerds ‘R’ Us and refused to open the blinds because the mean ole sun created a glare on his computer screen.

She focused on the negatives, doggedly ignoring his body, ripped from regular workouts, and refused to envision the way his gray-green eyes twinkled when he smiled. If she didn’t concentrate on his pesky nature, she might have to admit he was better than not bad.

No way. Her life precluded having time, or use, for a man, even one that seemed nice. Her efforts centered around two jobs, a degree yet to be earned, and a three-year-old angel who reminded Annie each day that men couldn’t be trusted.

Maybe she should just tell him about Natalie. Even a pursuer as ardent as Lance would run if he discovered her maternal secret.

After grabbing her tote, she scurried toward the building, hoping to escape both Lance and her thoughts. At the gate, she set down her bundle to swipe her badge. A hand grabbed her canvas bag before it touched the ground. “Let me carry that.”

She smirked when Lance stumbled at the unexpected weight. “If you had half a brain, Walker, you’d stay away from me.”

“Brains are overrated.”

So was the cute grin he flashed.

“Let’s grab a coffee during break.”

Annie made a production of her sigh. “Giving you credit for half a brain was fifty percent over-inflated. The answer is no.”

She passed through the revolving bars, leaving Lance to manage her oversized tote. His long legs enabled him to catch her at the elevator, even lugging her bag and his backpack. “Is it my breath?”

“Yeah. That’s it.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing when he ran his tongue over his teeth.

She jerked her bag from his hand. “It isn’t your breath, it’s the body odor.”

He sniffed at his armpits. “Body odor?”

“I’m kidding, Walker.” His downcast face caused her tone to soften. “I can't afford fancy coffee.” The company paid well for her voice-overs, but between tuition, daycare and rent, she still needed to waitress to cover expenses.

“Come on. My treat.”

“I’m not going out with you. Period, the end.”

He raced for the door, grabbing it just in time to smack her shin.

“Ouch!” She pierced him with a nasty look. “You don’t take rejection well, do you?”

“Sorry.”

She ignored the concern etched on his features. Red welt or not, his eyes stared at her calf and partially exposed thigh. She jerked her skirt down. “Don’t.”

Lance blinked. “Annie, I wasn’t…ah, forget it.” He lifted his head, staring at the ceiling, but continued to hold the door open.

She hadn’t been so “anti-men” during her first month at Interactive Action, but as Romeo wannabes grew bolder and pick-up lines grew more ridiculous, she’d wrapped herself in protective iciness. Bob from the accounting department would use the accident as an excuse to stroke her knee and Lance’s buddy, Arnie, would look up her skirt. To be fair, Lance wasn’t like those bozos.

Of course he is. After he got her in the sack, she’d become a statistic. She’d learned that lesson the hard way. Courtesy of Natalie’s dad.

“I’m perfectly capable of opening my own doors.”

His eyes met hers. “Duh. Trying to be chivalrous here. And you couldn’t open anything carrying that bag. I’m surprised you can even walk. What’s in here anyway?”

Her hands clutched the bag protectively. In her haste, she’d grabbed the wrong tote. No way would she tell him the bag held her daughter’s things: roller skates, clothes, and dumbbells, because Natalie wanted to lift weights like mommy.

To distract his attention, she snapped, “Chivalrous? This is your idea of chivalry?” She pointed at her shin, the bump already making the transition from red to blue. “In the Middle Ages, men opened doors for women because the doors were heavy. Chivalry wasn’t just a grand gesture, it had a purpose.”

“Really? Then chivalry is dead because there’s nothing I can do for you that you can’t do for yourself.” A boyish smile erased the dejection on his face. “Except, maybe, buy you a fancy coffee?”

She wanted to kick his shin with her uninjured limb. Men thought spending a little cash solved everything. “Surely your genius brain can come up with something more original than holding a door open, especially if you must break my leg in the process.”

“I could say ‘thank you’ when you let me buy you a fancy coffee.”

“Nice try, but that’s just courtesy.”

“Ah ha! You said courtesy.” He grinned a Cheshire Cat grin. “The dictionary defines chivalry as ‘bravery, courtesy, honor, and gallantry toward women.’”

Her eyes widened. “OMG! You looked the word up? You need to get a life. You're becoming a terminal nerd.”

The pun hadn’t been intentional but they both laughed. The propeller-head probably memorized the definition of chivalry for the game he worked on, Gwain’s Ghost. Not to impress her.

“Courtesy is important, Walker, but chivalry is a combination of all the things in your definition.”

“Tell you what, I’ll come up with an example of modern chivalry if I can explain my idea over dinner. On Tuesday.”

She narrowed her eyes. Tuesday would be her first day off in weeks. And Valentine’s Day. “Why would I do that?”