James Turnbow

I dropped the sprayer and sprinted toward the lab, which the ants had left untouched, probably because no one was inside.

As I got to the door, I turned around to see Philo spraying the last bits of his pesticide at the ants as he ran toward the small trailer where we took our breaks.

The river of insects, now 10 feet wide at points, had forked.

One tong was heading toward me, the other headed toward Philo.

Across the way, the security building was three quarters covered in ants.

I had no doubt they could get through the cinder block walls given enough time.

I turned and rushed inside, determined to kill them all before they could end any more lives.

My first stop was to turn on a TV.

I pulled up a camera feed that provided a wide shot of the buildings, so I could see how much time I had.

Paralytic fear cemented me in place at what I saw.

The lab was already almost covered in ants, same with the trailer Philo was in.

The security building, underneath the writhing black-red mass, looked like it had been doused with acid.

The ants were eating through the cinder blocks faster than I anticipated.

Terror jumbled my thoughts.

What had been a clear plan earlier was now a chaotic maelstrom of fleeting notions dissipating as I reached for them.

Vague but disturbing images of death battered me, my coworkers in the security building getting torn apart by the ants, Philo screaming in pain, and then my own death as the ants ripped through my skin.

I thought about my parents, my sister, my girlfriend, about never seeing them again.

It all seemed inevitable, like I had already failed, like I was in the middle of failing, but I could do nothing about it.

I wasn't just failing those of us still alive, but also Wade, failing to exact revenge on his killers.

That brought clarity.