James Turnbow

Same with the foam.

I was starting to see a pattern.

We had covered our hazmat suits in a layer of grease from the nearby garage, where mechanics worked on the vehicles we used around the site.

The stuff caused any ants that reached us to get stuck, but we tried to stay away from them as best we could.

Enough of them could overwhelm us and eliminate the grease's efficacy.

We have to do something else, Philo shouted, his own sprayer running low.

Command's talking about bombing the whole place.

I need to tell them we're close to finding a way to stop them.

He had a direct line to his boss and had been talking to him, trying to convince the man not to do what Foundation Brass always did when they got nervous.

Bomb anything in sight, and then bomb it again.

I have one more option, I said.

That thing Wade was working on.

I thought you said it wouldn't work fast enough.

Normally it wouldn't, but I have an idea to make it work faster.

I think they've developed an immunity to anything we've tried on them, some sort of hive mind immune system.

But what I'm thinking about, if I can make it work, they won't have time to develop an immunity.

I held my breath, hoping Philo would overlook the fact that I hadn't answered his question.

He grumbled.

His pesticide sprayer sputtered, running out of fluid.

Fine, just hurry.