#zombiebugs

A True Story—Just Last Night

After a five-mile run, yoga stretches, domestic duties and entirely too much caffeine, I finally settled down about 1am to fold a small bit of laundry.

The sound started shortly after I sat down to finish folding the last few items in the laundry basket. I recognized the sound and even enjoyed it while out on the street. But last night I walked to the window, thinking that the recent torrential downpour had brought out a new crop of wee beasties that were better left out of doors. Window closed, I went back to folding. Again, there it was, even louder. Which made no sense since I had just locked the noise out. Not one to usually be fearful of creepy crawlies, I checked the window security again.  Then, there it was again. An unbeilvably, ridiculously, very bad sound, not from the area of the window but from the area around my bed. Then another and another and another. A cross between a garden variety cricket and a scientifically-modified rattlesnake’s rattle—from hell!

The beast had breached my personal space and had decided on a demented, one-sided game of Marco Polo without the courtesy of a pool. It continued its auditory torment every five minutes and seemingly coming from various point in the room. Each time it chirped and shook it rattle, I bolted for the door. Not wanting to wake anyone, I soldered on as quietly as possible. By 3am the creature quieted and I thought it had found the door to hell and returned from whence it had come. I turned to put the clean laundry in its place and I returned to find the black beast had taken up residence on my bed. Was the beast actually an incubus in disguise? I figured it was time for weaponry. The hell spawn was at least two inches long and had antenna that protruded two inches above its head. It was war. The broom and I chased it across my bed then across the floor. It and I matched jumping skills. Each time it jumped I jumped in retreat. Finally, the beast made a tactical error—its last jump was at the bedroom door where I took a final shot. The beast was not mortally wounded but hobbled. It retreated under the hall closet door. I can only hope it licked its wounds and realized that reentry to my personal space was not an option.

Same night: Round Two

I finally put head to pillow about 4am. My heart rate, in all likelihood still elevated and let’s not forget still full of caffeine. I had just started to drop off when I thought I felt something lightly land on my exposed left leg. I ignored it. Trying to win the battled against the caffeine. A few minutes later a light touch on my right foot. The memory of my recently hard-won battle with the cricketsnake hurled me off the bed onto the floor ready for round two—all the while thinking, “this motherfucker!”

I shook my freshly-washed sheet like I was expecting to have thousand dollar bills fall out. The vigorous shaking yielded nothing except a breeze that fluttered dream catcher feathers. Perhaps it had been a figment of my imagination, maybe I had, in fact, drifted off. I searched each corner of the bed like a millennial who can’t find their phone upon waking. I turned over pillows and found nothing. Maybe I should check the closet to see if the vanquished beast had turned into a zombie cricketsnake. I decided to be OK. I turned the light out. Not ten minutes later, my foot was assaulted once again. Another hurried reach for the lamp.

There it was! Another beast had found it way to me. Was I emitting some unconscious low-freqency message that my space was a safe haven for creepie crawlies, just passing through on their way upstate to a fine patch of end-of-summer dirt?

Like I said before, I’m not usually squeamish or frightened by things found in nature. But I only want nature in my space when I have extended an invitation. 4am, hopped up on caffeine and having just done battle with a by-then zombie cricketsnake, I was in no mood to entertain guest.

I wacked it!

The pretty green grasshopper did not deserve what it got nor survive the assault with the pearly silver right-footed Chuck Taylors.

Again, nature was taking liberties. I’m ashamed to admit that I dispatched the grasshopper with quickness. It fell mortally wounded on the edge of the battlefield. I promptly dropped a heavy 3-ring binder on top of the combatant—if I was right about the zomie cricketsnake apocalypse, it wouldn’t be long before the green beast turned.  

If there had been an encounter under a tree or on some grassy patch, I would have admired its beauty, probably even tried to catch it. But the previous three hours had left me battle weary and this has been one hella year.  Given what 2020 has served up, don’t be surprised to read this headline. “Local Woman Discovers Zombie Cricketsnakes”