James Turnbow

Their suit helmets did little to dampen their screams.

Meanwhile, the driver who'd been pulled out of the Humvee fell to his knees and straightened enough for me to see through his visor.

The flesh of his face bubbled and twitched as hundreds of insects marched around under his skin.

His mouth opened to scream, disgorged a soup of blood heavy with ants.

The guard who'd pulled the driver out made his retreat, but the ants were already inside his suit, tearing into his legs.

Thinking once again of Wade, I started toward the man, but Philo jerked me back.

He was right to do so.

I didn't know what I could do for the guy.

Philo cried, pointing a gloved finger toward the enclosure.

A river of ants poured down the dirt track 70 yards away, angling toward us.

We'd retreated inside the security building, which immediately felt like little more than a fancy tomb.

The frightened eyes of a dozen other staff members met us from behind their faceplates as they huddled together behind a desk.

They had been watching the events outside on a computer screen via a security camera.

The first one to speak, even before we had the metal door shut behind us, was a woman named Fontana.

We know these creatures better than they know themselves.

I scoffed.

Right, which is why we've never seen them attack anything that wasn't posing a direct threat to their colony.

We've never even seen one of them trying to venture outside the enclosure.

Now they're on a warpath?

I'd say we don't know jack squat about them.