James Turnbow

Since I wasn't on the open security channel, I couldn't hear it in my earpiece, but they were shouting plenty loud enough.

The Humvee came to a skidding halt.

The three security officers worked their devices, but instead of flames, fountains of milky white liquid came out, expanding quickly to foam.

Within moments, they had the entire Humvee covered.

The foam was a specific kind of pesticide used by the Foundation that was harmless to humans.

I stood outside the security station door and watched.

The three foam-spraying guards stopped and waited as the foam turned back to liquid, sloughing off the vehicle, tiny bubbles sizzling and popping.

It seemed to be working.

One of the guards moved forward, yanked open the driver's door, and pulled the man out.

I was relieved to see the driver wore a hazmat suit as well.

But something was wrong.

The man stumbled, his head down, preventing me from seeing his face.

The other two foam-wielding guards stepped toward the vehicle and then started dancing.

That's what it looked like at first anyway.

They shimmied away from the liquifying foam soaking into the dirt, kicking their feet.

It didn't work, I said, more to myself than Philo.

The foam's movement had obscured the fact that the ants were still alive.

Their powerful mandibles made quick work of the tough hazmat suits, and soon of the skin underneath.

The two dancers sprayed their own legs, but it didn't work.

They soon fell to the ground, writhing.