Mosquito Musician

So last Thursday night I downloaded the Twitter app and resolved to increase my usage of the popular social media outlet. I noticed one of the new tweets came from Felicia Day, that adorably cute geek goddess from The Guild, and it espoused her involvement with Geek and Sundry, which is basically a collection of nerd-culture vloggers talking about nerd-culture things.

Of the recognizable featured vloggers, I was drawn to Nika Harper, known for her League of Legends videos. Her first entry was about short story challenges, topics of discussion suggested and completed by participating viewers. One of the suggestions was "mosquito musicians" and that got the gears cranking.

I wanted to shirk the expected answers of tiny winged drummers and guitarists and a skin-piercing needle nose waving above a microphone as a mohawked mosquito sang some buzz-rock song. I borrowed a bit from Prey (by Crichton) and Akira, so I went from one cookie-cutter story to an amalgamation of two others, but hey, it was an interesting exercise and my blog's first work of pure fiction.

Enjoy, as disturbing as it may be!

***

Mosquito Musician

A short story exercise

The vibrant hum in the air changed pitch as Pietr lifted one palm up a few inches higher. Before me the air was a shifting sandstorm of mosquitoes  all the bugs from eyesight concentrated above and ahead of us in a dense sphere two meters in diameter. Individual mosquitoes swarmed amongst themselves in acrobatic display of systemic chaos, but at many times large numbers would drop unexpectedly, wings no longer flapping, for brief beats, and the accompanying note change from this buzzing orchestra never failed to make the hair on my arms raise in goose bumps.

Just how Pietr commanded his bloodsucking legion was beyond my attempts to theorize. The closest I could consider is some sort of telekinetic comic book power over the local air currents, corralling the tiny terrors in buffered winds, confining them to our immediate line of sight. Or maybe he exhibits some sort of control over the tiny minds and wings of these unwilling musicians. He was from some snow-bound hell in northern Russia, where children of the 70s grew up bending spoons and staring at goats.

The chorus reached a crescendo, and it became recognizable as some work of Bach – who can remember all those names and movements and keys – and Pietr conducted with his arms raised high, the swarm accommodating his wishes all at once with a loud increase of buzzing, until he dropped his arms suddenly, only catching them near the bottom of their fall. The swarm all dropped in sudden silence a few inches, then exploded into action for the large ending. The well-defined sphere dissolved immediately as 100 square yards’ worth of mosquitoes dispersed to and started swarming above us as normal mosquitoes do. They showed no sign of distress or discomfort  from their ideal, except that they all seemed to want to land on us at once to feed, but Pietr immediately slouched down to near collapse, breathing heavy and wiping sweat that beaded his wide brow from the exertion. However he does it, it takes a lot out of him.

The few of us watching all erupted into praise-filled exclamation. “That was incredible!” “How’d you do that?” “I don’t believe my eyes!” Two of the six of us social outcasts had already started playing back the recording they took on their cell phones, though the darkening eve doesn't allow the tiny camera lens to capture clearly the astounding feat and the future YouTube comments would call hoax and shenanigans.

Pietr dismissed himself in his heavy Russian accent, and though the crowd encircled him like a chattering peace-strike, we all stepped aside before he even lifted his eyes or his feet or even indicated a direction. I felt the slightest urge in my left foot to step back, and before I recognized that the command didn’t come from my polite manners, I was opening a space for Pietr to walk through.

Pietr sat where he normally sat in 7^th period Social Sciences class, way in the back corner, surrounded by the sleepers, the chewers with their soda can spittoons hidden from sight, and the other malcontents who desired no attention from the instructor. Pietr shrank into himself, sitting hunched over and arms folded within him, willing himself to be as small and unobtrusive as possible. At 5 foot 2 inches and barely 100 pounds, it would work, if his immediate neighbors gave him a moment’s respite from their constant teasing and bullying.

This particular day Joey Nichols produced an empty .75 vodka bottle and mimicked his father’s alcoholism, all while donning the worst attempt at a Russian accent since Chekov and egging his friends to laugh on. Pietr shrank further within himself and silently endured the unbidden punishment for the minute it took for Mr. Connors to take notice and storm to his rescue.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” he yelled. “What is that?!” Swiping the bottle, a disgusted look crossed Connors’ face. “Oh Christ, this is White Eagle! IT’S NOT EVEN RUSSIAN, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! You’d think your deadbeat father would have taught you better than that!”

Connors was a young guy who cared to not let a decade of political correctness cover up his frat boy vernacular. It was effective; rarely did he have to intervene twice in a class period, and usually only once a week was all it took to silence his rowdiest of students.

I saw Pietr look up meekly at Mr. Connors in appreciate, but as soon as our teacher turned back to the front of the classroom, Pietr’s demeanor turn evil and his eyes fell on the back of Joey Nichols’ head. Almost as if he felt it, Joey turned around with a silent sneer and met the Russian’s gaze. He mouthed “After school” and stereotypically ran his thumb across his throat. I could only roll my eyes at the cliché.

After school naturally meant after football practice, and it was near 6:00 when I saw Joey Nichols and his posse of wanna-be thugs march past my house. I was in the front yard greasing the chain on my bicycle when they stopped at the fence gate and shouted at me.

“Do you know where that little bitch Pietr is hiding?! We never got a chance to give him his welcome to America!!” Maxwell Patrelli stood to the left, and Chris Johnson, standing at Joey’s right shoulder, pounded his fist in the most intimidating way that his goofy gorilla body could muster, his face strained red and squinted in an anger that threatened nothing but the massive pimples on his nose. Puberty can be so harsh sometimes, but never was there a more deserving asshole for a hemorrhoid.

“I don’t know where he is, you imbeciles! Why don’t you take your little play date inside – oh, wait, I bet you don’t want to be home when Daddy gets drunk!” My words stirred the hornet nest, and these buffoons nearly vaulted over the fence to get at me, but I knew the safety of my father was behind me. He exited the garage, grease-covered wrench in hand, polishing the stainless steel. He coolly leaned against the garage door frame, a veritable Casey Jones, 6 foot 4, amongst a small clan of Foot Soldiers. The site of him halted the marauders’ advance and they stepped off the fence back to the sidewalk. My dad said nothing, just watched them sneer at us and grumble as they started along the street and around the corner, out of sight.

“You know, even though those kids are worth nothing right now, it’s not all their fault, and alcoholism is no laughing matter.” my father lectured me. “Did you see the small cut on that Joey kid’s right cheek? The result of a back-hand slap from a drunken dad. I know, we've all seen the bruises on his mother, too, but they’ll both deny it if anybody asks. It’s best to take pity on kids like these. Protect yourself, for sure, and if it comes down to them starting a fight, you finish it. But before then, show some mercy and compassion. K, kid?”

I nod understandably.

“Now they are looking for that Russian kid, right?” Nod. “Do you know where he is?” Nod. Dad hefts the wrench up between us. “Do you know how to use this tool to put that tire back on your bike?” Nod. “Do you know how to use it to end a fight?” Smile. Nod. “Dinner will be in an hour. Clean up when you get home.”

Pietr was right where I expected him, and mounted on my bike, I found him before Nichols and Johnson did. He was sitting on the ripped and unsafe trampoline his host family had in the back yard, but he didn’t jump. He just huddled there. There was no alley behind his house; the yard ran to the edge of a swamp. It was getting darker earlier these fall days, and already I was swatting bugs out of my face when I biked past the house and towards Pietr.

Pietr looked up with dull, sad eyes. He recognized a friend and answered “Da” when I asked if I could join him. As I climbed onto the treacherous trampoline, he noticed the wrench sticking out of the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, and inquired about it.

“Dissuasion technique” I answered and the intent did not elude him, though his limited grasp of the English language means the word did. He only nodded in return, and then both our attentions were drawn to the street.

“There’s that little suka!” Joey Nichols yelled, proud to show off his ability to Google Russian curses. “Oh, and he’s with that nerd Emmerson! Let’s get them, boys! Daddy isn’t here to save you now!”

I start to get up from my seated position on the trampoline but a hand reached out and held me back. The gang of third-line football rejects started running their fat bulk at us through the yard, between the houses. I glance back at Pietr, imploring why he wouldn’t want my help or the help of a couple of pounds of stainless steel, but I saw the answer in his eyes. The diminutive Russian boy glared ahead at his assailants, and his eyes turned a deep, dark crimson.

My jaw dropped open and my hand released the wrench I was holding when I felt the springy tension of the trampoline lessen, as if one of the two bodies previously sitting on it was lifted.

Pietr, still cross-legged, floated above the trampoline and hovered forwards.

Head down, black-blood eyes piercing forward, Pietr unfolded his legs as they crossed over the boundary of the trampoline and set his feet on the ground. The sparse blades of grass trembled as small balls of dirt rolled away from Pietr. The very air around him surged with energy.

The advancing army of future drop-outs stopped dead in their tracks. It took a moment before their brains processed what they saw, and then their feeble brains handled it the only way they could. Silently, without a look or a word, all four boys’ minds erased what they saw as inconceivable, and in synchronous movement they all started forward to press their attack.

Pietr stood between them and me, almost glowing in the darkening even, hair and shirt rustling in a breeze on an otherwise still night. He raised his arms to the advancing horde and immediately a thrumming seized the air and overtook us from behind. Above my head I saw a shadowy mass flow like a ribbon through the air and with a downward thrust of Pietr’s hands, descend upon the four would-be attackers. A thick fog of mosquitoes enveloped the four boys, covering them from head to toe, blotting them out of sight until they were four humanoid splotches of black against a dusky backdrop. Immediately the screams rose from all four boys to join the cacophony of horrible buzzing. This was no symphony. This was a slaughter.

The boys scratched and clawed at their faces, their eyes, choked on bugs that poured into their open mouths and down their throats and into and out of their nostrils. What skin that briefly appeared visible among the black cloud was spotted and bleeding. Gasping breaths turned ever more ragged and desperate.

“Pietr, that’s enough!” I shouted. I clambered off the trampoline and stood yelling at this, this… things’ back. “You’re killing them! That’s enough!” He turned his head on me and silently held my gaze: mine imploring and pitiful, his sinister and dreadful. He turned back to his torturous composition and raised his arms. The four shrouded figures began to rise, and the mosquitoes' buzz reached a crescendo. Arms and legs dangled lifelessly from the masses, inches above the ground, the victims giving signs of life more infrequently now. Pietr wasn't going to stop. Pietr was going to kill them.

I wrapped my hand around the wrench and held it high. I was behind Pieter, slightly, feeling the crackling energy emitting from his form, and he didn't see me swing. I connected with skull just behind his temple and above his ears. He and the boys toppled to the ground like string-cut marionettes.

Immediately, the bulk of the swarm lifted off the boys’ bodies, nearly all of them bloated with blood. What was left under that blanket of death was a grotesque sight. No square millimeter of exposed skin was unmarred. Eyes puffed and throats coughed in futility for air, only to expel more mosquitoes into the atmosphere. Chris Johnson didn't breathe at all.

I could only stand and stare, mouth agape, as the multitude of deadly insect assassins flew back into the swamps behind me. I have no grasp of time passing, just standing there, breathing heavily in shock and exertion, with Pietr crumpled at my feet and the four bullies clinging to what was left of their life just 6 feet away from me.

It only occurred to me that it was nearly pitch black outside when the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles pulled up. How the ambulances omnisciently knew to appear, I don’t know, but suddenly I’m enveloped by a blanket and rushed to the street out front.

Pietr never appeared in school again. The house with the swampy back yard and the rusted, ripped trampoline was vacated before sun’s light. Chris Johnson had died, but the only thing the news reported was a tragic bee allergy. None of the other boys returned to class until after Christmas, and none of them spoke a single word about their departed comrade, or the missing Russian boy. None of them made so much as eye contact with me, and never a word was spoken about the mosquito musician or his vampire symphony again.