A cockroach crawled across my computer screen.
‘Agrhh!’ I squealed and dropped the tablet.
‘Well, that’s what you get for not joining my little game.’ Boris folded his arms and jutted his lower lip; if you could call that mouldy piece of skin hanging from the bottom half of his mouth, a lip.
Boris held us hostage at his camp at Boggy Hole near Palm Valley.
‘Your app—your game—is hardly pleasure,’ Günter said.
‘It’s whatever takes your fancy—shooting, gambling, getting high—whatever,’ Boris said. ‘Just a bit of harmless fun. How can something that’s going on in your head hurt anyone?’
‘Yah, sure, except themselves, and they will not even realise it.’
‘Gunter, Gunter, Gunter. You don’t fool me. I know who you are and what you have been. Why, I should kill you on the spot for betraying me.’ Boris gestured for Günter to come closer. ‘But I am the Messiah and I am merciful. I’ll give you a second chance. Come back to me.’
‘I’ll grant you every desire—how about a Grey female for every day of the year—more if you want. You know, the locals here call them angels.’
Günter steadied his gaze on Boris. ‘I told you—no!’ A roach ambled across his face. He slapped it away.
My legs itched. Reaching down to scratch my itch, I touched something cold and wriggly.
I looked down.
The ground heaved and writhed with smelly bugs. More roaches streamed up my legs.
I stomped and slapped at the critters. ‘Whose idea was it to Trans-warp to Central Australia?’
‘Yours,’ Günter snapped.
‘I didn’t know Boris would be here.’
‘Always a possibility as it is his Trans-warp device.’ He then jumped up and down and swatted at the cockroaches.
We couldn’t escape the plague of bugs; Boris had trapped us each in a personal force-field tube confining us to a square-metre of space.
‘Ooh, dirty dancing!’ Boris rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m getting so excited!’
‘Get them off me! Us!’ I cried.
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Boris replied. ‘You see, you two are just not cooperating, you have to be dealt with—now, what’s the best way to eliminate you—slowly—and painfully?’ Boris cackled. ‘Ah, flies, how could I forget the flies?’
Our contention with bugs just became worse. Flies descended from out of nowhere and onto us. Eyes, nose, ears—no place was sacred for flies. Our moves fending off roaches now included swishing of our faces, the Aussie salute, as the flies mobbed us as if we were corpses.
I hit a cluster of insects having a conference on my cheek. ‘I did suggest the Convent, Günter.’
‘We tried that remember,’ Günter said. ‘Sheise! I ate a fly. It was too close for the Trans-warp. Sheise! One went up my nose.’
Boris laughed at us.
‘Would’ve been better to go to Boris-world,’ I said. Several flies swarmed into my mouth.
‘Suffer! This is what happens to traitors,’ Boris said. ‘If you followed me, like the Indig here have, you wouldn’t be suffering right now. You know they have gone ahead in leaps and bounds since I became their manager—they won Tidy Town of the year—they are prospering!’
‘Don’t think we didn’t notice the little Grey aliens as servants when we arrived,’ Günter said.
‘One of the perks—not to mention the two-story mansions, state of the art entertainment systems, and every pleasure…’ Boris leaned forward in his deck chair. ‘Did I tell you we’re planning a Casino? Did I?’
‘A Casino, how tacky.’ Günter turned to me and muttered, ‘Just wait till we tell the IGSF what Boris is up to.’
‘If we get out of here.’
‘Have a little faith.’ Strange coming from a man covered in cockroaches. Günter waved a swathe of flies from his face.
‘Not in Boris. He’s not the Messiah, he’s the Anti-Christ.’ I wiped my eyes clear of an orgy of insects.
‘I heard that comment and you will be punished,’ Boris said. ‘Inch ants, rise up from your nests, and attack them.’
The stinging began. Biting, excruciating pain. We jumped and hopped as if the red sand itself were hot coals.
‘Oh, this is just too much!’ Boris pulled out his mobile phone and aimed it at us. ‘For my disciples. They must see what happens to rebels.’
‘Told you, we should’ve walked to the Convent, now we’ll never get out of here.’ I was faint. But I willed my spirit not to give up. Boris must not win.
[to be continued…]
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018
Feature Photo: Glen of Palms © C.D. Trudinger 1981
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