fiction by maria e. kowal
The Year of Swarms
It was the last heat wave of the summer, in the moments between raging thunderstorms, where the air was thick with moisture and, yet, the concrete streets of Chicago were bone dry. It wouldn't last.
It was the year of the swarms, they had said.
And so hundreds and thousands of plump cicadas shook the trees with great vibration. Click and hiss and sizzle: a nightly chorus that had only grown stronger through the warmest months, an abrasive violation to the tranquility of a modest evening.
Each night, they coated the sidewalk downtown. Like clockwork, the moon would rise, and out they came from cracks in the earth, emerging from whatever hell had birthed them. The swarms became impossible to avoid, to the point where traffic lights were obscured by their twitching bodies and every pedestrian crunched down on no less than three cicadas with each step. Many would talk of how they spent the better part of that summer plucking cicada wings out from between the crevices and flaps in their shoes, scraping their putrid guts from rubber soles with a blunt butter knife: a crude jam.
One distinct woman recalled a cicada had gone and lodged itself between the plating of her SUV and died there. Now, every time she starts her car, the vibrating engine causes the cicada's corpse to sing.
But as summer grew late, the cicadas grew smarter.
It had been said by some that the cicadas had organized, and were growing in number, but hardly anyone of sound mind could believe that. It was natural, was it not? The crying of cicadas in the pit of summer. But no one could recall a time such as this, where the sky had gone dark with wet-black abdomens, an oil slick in the sky.
Slowly, a number of the unlucky began to disappear. On more than one occasion, the cloud of cicadas had grown so thick that a body or two simply evaporated into thin air: gone all at once. When asked, witnesses insisted it was a trick of the eye and never returned to the city. The bodies never surfaced.
As summer grew later, more and more cicadas came out to cry.
Emma was sitting on a bench under a tree in Lakeview, across from El Pueblo Cantina. The restaurant, Emma had thought, must have popped up overnight and sat in a rundown corner plot that seemed much better suited as a neighborhood dive bar. But there it stood, not a vision or a daydream. El Pueblo Cantina: patio seating extending far out into the public sidewalk to compensate for their lack of floor space and accommodate entitled Lakeview customers.
She picked at the skin of her knuckles and tapped at the screen of her smart-watch as she observed waiters rush in and out of the tiny restaurant with fists full of watered-down margaritas. The drinks cost a pretty penny no doubt and, yet, of course, they came flooding out and into the mouths of a Jennifer and a Tim and a Tanya and a David, who had nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon but blow their fat wallets on the false promise of inebriation. But, of course, Emma did not have anything better to do than watch. She giggled to herself, imagining the enormous bills the patrons of El Pueblo Cantina would rack up attempting to get hammered on sloshy drinks, only to go home and pour another glass. They were the corporate types; the born-into-money types; the detached-from-reality types, and Emma had no empathy for them.
She had been closing The Paper Shop at four each day since tell of the swarms downtown.
The Paper Shop had a small customer base as it was. Stamps and card stock and ink were hardly considered essential to most; besides, Emma had begun to rather enjoy the bike ride home before sundown. It was mainly just a precaution, closing early—although, it had cut costs on the electric bill which was an unforeseen advantage. The local shops nearby had no intention of changing their hours at the peak of tourist season and, frankly, thought of Emma’s inclination to do so on account of a couple bugs was irrational and plain silly. Maybe it was a little silly, thought Emma. She hadn't been downtown in nearly a year on account of her dislike of crowds. The media’s account of recent events in the city were extremely varied. Some sources suggested that the greater Chicago area go into a secured lockdown until the weather chilled and the cicadas shriveled, others claimed the happenings had been heavily exaggerated and that a small group of outliers should not dictate the state of the city. Chicago is strong, they had said, It will pass. There was one universal message: stay off the street when the sun goes down, all 312 reporters seemed to agree on this.
There was no documented footage of the swarms, and this is what unsettled Emma most.
As she sat people watching, Emma reached over her shoulder and pulled a water bottle from the basket on her bike. The hot metal singed her skin as she stretched across the bench and, as she took a gulp of water, the bottle began to sweat, causing cool droplets to roll off and onto her lap. Screwing the cap on tight with a yank, Emma tossed the bottle back into her bike basket and was about to pull her bike onto the sidewalk when she looked out over the trees and became suddenly aware of a massive, black wave of clouds that had rolled in from the west. With no other warning, a heavy rain began to fall on Lakeview, and thus the patrons dining on the patio of El Pueblo Cantina erupted into a scurry for the front door. It was the kind of rain that came in waves; whipping and tearing against skin until it was raw and red. It was the kind of rain you might drown in.
Chairs were knocked over, plates were flipped, and the small hostess at the front door was smashed to the wall as the crowd crammed its way through the entrance. Emma’s hesitation had already left her soaked to the bone. She thought for a moment about hopping on her bike and riding out the storm, but a large bolt of lightning announced itself, stretching toward her across the sky, and a decision was made for her.
Leaving her bike behind the bench, Emma made a dash across the street, rain water soaking through her shoes and socks to where each step was a symphony of squish. A crack of thunder sounded as she came upon the threshold of El Pueblo Cantina, and the air around her shook with violent fervor. The sky, now black, was showering buckets down upon Emma, pasting her thin hair to her dimpled cheeks and forehead. Wiping the raindrops from her eyelashes, she inhaled sharply, and began to fight the hordes pushing their way into the tiny restaurant.
“Uh—excuse me,” she muttered, squeezing herself deeper into the grunting, musty crowd. Shouts of “that's my shoe!” and “watch it!” came as the large group pushed and heaved its way into the restaurant. Emma’s insides squirmed as their bodies collided with hers in a sloppy, sticky amalgamation of skin and panic and rainwater. For a moment she thought of going back for her bike, but once the crowd had morphed and wedged itself inside, she was locked somewhere at the center, and there was no squeezing out.
El Pueblo Cantina smelled faintly of french fry grease despite the mass of sweaty bodies stacked hecticly inside. A neat bar lined one wall with red metal stools and a set of gaudy, golden beer taps. Emma was not aware of much else as the crowd consumed her, blocking her view from nearly every angle. The muttering grew to a constant buzz as the hostess was finally able to slip inside and pull the door shut behind her.
Nearest Emma stood a tall man in a pressed navy polo, and a blonde woman with obnoxiously white teeth whose lip seemed to perpetually twitch. The twitchy woman swayed anxiously from side to side, still gripping tightly to a margarita. Polo Man firmly crossed his arms and quickly began tapping his foot in no particular rhythm.
“Everyone!” called the small hostess. She waved her arms high above her head. “Please be careful and watch your step. Our establishment is not intended for so many people. Although we are over capacity, we will allow you to wait out the worst of this storm, providing it slows down very soon. In the meantime, Donovan will be making his way around to collect payment for your bills. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The muttering died down slowly, a few patrons rolling their eyes as Donovan handed them their checks. Emma, now nervous the restaurant might kick her out into the rain once they found out she was no paying customer, began fidgeting with her fingers. She bunched up the bottom of her blouse and wrung out a splatter of excess water onto the floor.
“Watch it!” snapped Polo Man, taking a step away. He looked down at Emma, eyes full of disgust. “These are real suede, moron.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Emma, resisting the urge to chuckle. She was hardly surprised at the outburst—in fact, she had practically expected it.
“Hm,” Polo Man scoffed, turning his back toward her.
Whatever asshole, thought Emma.
A crash of thunder sounded.
Twitchy Woman’s bill was enormous of course, but she gave Donovan no trouble and paid in cash. She coyly asked him to top off her drink before he moved on to the next person. Donovan only raised the eyebrows of his vacant expression, and Emma couldn't help but let a smile slip.
The minutes drifted past and El Pueblo Cantina grew unbearably hot. Steam seemed to sizzle in the air around them, hanging off their bodies and growing thicker as each person shifted in place, uncomfortably rubbing elbows with those surrounding them. They were stacked like sardines, melting in the humidity.
Polo Man made a phone call and was growing louder by the second. “You act like I want to be in this trashy dive bar, Deborah! I'll get there when I get there! And I—why the fuck does it matter? You—I don’t give a rat’s ass if they can hear me! Would—would you just shut up for a minute!”
Emma was growing increasingly aware of an urge to pee. Damn that water bottle, she thought. The logistics of making her way to the bathroom were nearly enough to send her into a panic attack. It would just have to wait. Polo Man was shouting over the thunderstorm. Flecks of frothy spit sprayed down on Emma as she squeezed her thighs together.
“Hey, lady.” It was Twitchy Woman. Emma turned to face her and immediately felt a sticky hot breath on her skin. “Do you have to pee?” she breathed. “Cuz you look like you gotta pee. You’re doin’ the potty dance here. My kid does that same dance.” She smacked her gums and looked Emma up and down. Emma hadn't realized how obvious her fidgeting had become and immediately flushed.
“Mhmm—” Twitchy Lady nodded. “Hey, jackass” She whacked Polo Man on the shoulder, and he became filled with so much fury that he choked on his words. She turned back toward the crowd. “This lady needs to pee. If you don't let her through, she’s gonna pee all over your feet, suede or otherwise.” Audible groans came from the crowd. “So move it.”
Emma blushed fiercely, but a narrow path leading to the back of the restaurant rapidly formed. Polo Man remained planted.
“Thanks.” She nodded at Twitchy Lady.
“I’m next,” she said, tipping back the last of her melted margarita.
Emma's chest tightened as she squeezed past Polo Man and shifted through the tight crowd of bitter faces. Eventually she reached the bathroom door. The lock stuck, but she managed to get it latched and ,as she peeled her soaked pants down, Emma couldn't help but feel as though she was being observed. All those people know you’re peeing, she thought. Awesome. She reached out for the toilet paper roll, and another boom of thunder rattled the restaurant. Before she could catch her breath, the power cut, and Emma's world went black.
Startled screams came from the other side of the bathroom door while the storm still raged outside. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Emma scrambled to her feet and quickly yanked on her pants, still damp from the rain. Fuck fuck fuck. She frantically felt up the room, looking for the doorknob. She heard the panic break out in El Pueblo Cantina: yelling, rumbling, crying. “Where is the fucking doorknob?” she said out loud. And as if the handle had heard her plea, Emma’s hands found the knob, but—“Are you fucking kidding me?” She yanked and yanked and twisted, but the rusted old latch had stuck. Nope nope nope nope. Emma’s chest cinched and her breath hitched and when she didn't know what else to do, she threw her body at the door and it fell off the hinges. The door crashed to the floor of the restaurant with Emma on top of it. Fuck.
The first thing she noticed was a burning pain in her left knee, but the frenzy surrounding her numbed the feeling.
She looked to the windows only to see that the sky was as dark as inside El Pueblo Cantina. Emma tapped the screen of her smart watch, which now had a large crack down the center.
7:47 P.M.
There were people crouched under the bar, people hiding under tables, people making phone calls, people crying. Polo Man was yelling and the poor little hostess was attempting to prevent any and all property damages.
“Please!” she shouted over cries and cracks of thunder. “Let’s not lose our heads here! Everyone step away from the windows. Please!”
“We’re trapped!” someone cried.
“Oh, please,” said Polo Man. “It's only rain.”
“It is night. . . .” Emma spoke to no one in particular. The room turned toward her in silence.
“What then if the swarms come?”
“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Polo Man “I’m not staying here all night, and I’m surely not letting some over-exaggerated hoax get in my way.”
“No one is stopping you,” said Twitchy Lady, setting her margarita glass down on the bar with finality.
The room then looked to Polo Man who was now Sweaty Polo Man.
“Fuck this,” he said, and pushed past the people closest to the entrance.
“I really don’t think—”
“Open the fucking door,” he hissed at the hostess.
She fumbled with the keys, slippery in her sweaty palms and, as soon as the lock clicked, Polo Man threw the door open and the wind smacked it into the window, causing the glass to shatter into a million spiderweb cracks. Without missing a beat, Polo Man turned and headed down the street, already soaked through and not looking back.
It took four people to fight the wind and pull the door shut again, and another two to console the hostess who was now crying. The crowd shifted heavily toward the back of El Pueblo Cantina in an attempt to stay away from the cracked window. Emma found her way to Twitchy Lady. As abrasive as she was, she held some sort of familiarity and that comforted her.
“You okay?” said Twitchy Lady
“Yeah. . . I mean, actually, I think I fucked up my knee when I busted the bathroom door down.”
“Shit. Here, maybe you should sit down.”
“Thanks, but with all these people—it's probably best if I hold out. I can hardly catch my breath as it is.”
“I get’cha. Some crazy story it’ll be though, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Another crash of thunder sounded and the room jumped.
“Never get used to that.”
“Yeah,” said Emma, leaning against the bar to take some weight off her knee. “Anyway, thanks, you know, for earlier.”
“It’s nothing.” Twitchy Lady smiled, teeth so white it was unnatural.
There they hung in limbo for seconds that felt like hours: not sure what to do or what might come. And just when Emma thought that perhaps the night would carry an ounce of peace, a shrill scream came from out in the storm.
Polo Man, Emma thought.
A great gust of wind rolled in from the lake and the city silenced for one brief moment.
And that’s when they heard it.
A faint buzzing that almost wasn’t there.
A pitter-patter, like autumn leaves touching down in the park.
And then it stopped.
Emma became very aware of her breathing—louder and louder—echoing in her eardrums; raspy and quick and shallow. It did little to soothe her pounding chest.
“Did you hear—” whispered Twitchy Lady, but there were no words to end her sentence, for perched on the edge of her empty margarita glass sat a fat, glossy, glass-winged cicada. The sour scent of urine filled Emma’s nostrils and Twitchy Lady’s front soaked through.
The cicada methodically rubbed its wings together.
“Do-do you think it’s alone?” croaked a voice in El Pueblo Cantina.
Emma slowly stepped away from the bar.
“There’s never only one,” she said.
“Well, kill it! Someone smash it!” cried a voice.
But the room had frozen. No one moved. Sweat dripped from Emma’s nose, but she didn’t dare wipe it away. She would stay motionless like this, in El Pueblo Cantina, for the rest of her moments if it meant the cicada would vanish. There was a bright flash of lightning outside, and the little hostess let out a screech.
“The window!” she cried. “They're at the window!”
Every person in El Pueblo Cantina held their breath as the storm continued. With every flash, the hostess’ words were realized. A single-file line of green cicadas marched along the perimeter of the window. Flash. In an organized fashion, they stretched out over the cracked surface. Flash. More and more and more cicadas. Flash. Until the entire window was blacked out by convulsing cicada bodies and the lightning could no longer be seen.
Twitchy Lady was in hysterics, dripping in snot and fear. “What are they doing? What are they doing?” she choked.
“I-I don't know,” Emma whispered, eyes fixed on the window.
Then the cicadas began to sing.
Louder and louder, they buzzed and hissed and clicked, until the shrill cries of the patrons of El Pueblo Cantina were drowned out. Emma’s heart sank.
They're going to break the window, Emma said first to herself. “They’re going to break the window!” she then shrieked.
But no one could hear her. And where could they go?
When the glass shattered, it erupted into millions of tiny shards that shot out into the restaurant. The little hostess took the brunt of it: blades of glass embedded in nearly every inch of her skin. She was thrown to the ground and did not get back up. The swarm filled El Pueblo Cantina instantaneously. No screams could be heard over the singing of the cicadas.
The scene played out like the fuzzy static of black and white silent pictures. Cartoonish shrieks plastered to every face as cicadas filled their mouths.
Emma clawed at her skin as they crawled between her lips and ears, slicing little cuts across her body with their sharp wings. She collapsed to the floor and vomited, which seemed to deter them slightly, but only when Emma was able to break free of the main swarm could she see that Twitchy Lady was being consumed. Every inch of her body was covered in twitching cicadas. They enclosed her in a cloud and suffocated her screams with static. And just as Emma had a thought to throw a bar stool at the swarm, Twitchy Lady’s body lifted off the ground and disintegrated into thin air. Gone all at once.
Before she could think, Emma ran, and her knee burned hot with pain. She pushed past squirming bodies and flailing limbs and she made it all the way to the shattered window. She saw the little hostess: now a pincushion soaked in her own blood. The putrid smell caused her to vomit once more, before she fell out the window and landed in a ball on the street.
The swarm was larger than she had anticipated.
They came in a wave taller than any building in Lakeview and, for a moment Emma stood, entranced by the horrifically impressive scale of it all. Rain still showered down, and at the next bolt of lightning, Emma made a dash for her bike across the street. She screamed as her knee caught at the curb and hobbled quickly to the bench. The air buzzed around her, vibrating her bones and teeth in her skull. She yanked her bike out from under the tree, swatting at a number of cicadas that had begun to catch up. The hordes were upon Emma within seconds of riding down the street. These cicadas were wicked fast, perhaps using the momentum of the storm. The rain whipped her face as she rode, blurring her vision and slowing her down, and yet still she peddled harder with the massive swarm on her coat tails. Her knee stung with each spin of the wheels, and Emma began to waiver in and out of consciousness. There was no cohesive thought that came to her mind while the cicadas droned on. Her head pounded as she cried and peddled, cried and peddled. Emma gagged and gagged and gagged as the rain came down around her, but not even acid resided in her stomach. Her head began to swim, visions of Twitchy Lady and the hostess frozen in her mind. She gagged again.
One by one, the cicadas reached Emma's bike as she dissociated: first the seat, then the handle bars, until her and the bike were completely enveloped by the wave. There was no fighting the swarm.
Through blurry tears, Emma saw the world go black.
She felt her body lift off the ground. Her knee went numb with vibration.
And as if she had never existed, Emma’s body evaporated into thin air. Gone all at once.
Maria E. Kowal is a Chicago writer with a degree in fiction from Columbia College Chicago. When she is not writing, Maria enjoys reading, dancing, and spending time with her partner and many animals. Although Maria mainly writes in short form, her debut novel is currently in the works.