A Moment's Mistake

This city belongs to the HIVE
—Graffiti on Seacouver International Bridge

No jacket.

Antonio's shoes slapped the pavement, and he huddled against the cold breeze. The jacket was back in the apartment. So was his phone. He kept his head down, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. Watching every cop that he passed, while trying not to look like he was watching them. Yet none of them seemed to see him.

As the adrenaline drained out of him, leaving Antonio shaky and nauseous, he stopped at a coffee shop. Used the last of his cash to buy a tall espresso and a cruller, ate with slow, deliberate bites, and sipped slowly. Mindful eating. By the time he was done and used the bathroom, the shaking had stopped. He left the shop calmer and more collected. Turned his steps toward the bus station.

When he had first moved into the apartment with Soong, Antonio had stopped sleeping on his stomach or side. Afraid that one night she would sneak in and put a slug on his neck. Make him one of them. As time went on, and Antonio had gone unassimilated, he'd grown bolder and more confident in his interactions. She was cute, after all. Right there, living in the same apartment with him. Didn't resist when walked in on her in the shower. He still remembered when he'd stood there, staring at her naked body, his flimsy excuse dying unsaid. Spicy Slug never tried to cover herself.

So he had looked. Whenever he wanted. Whenever she was getting undressed. Then it had stopped being just looking.

People passed on the streets. Crowded sidewalks, lots of traffic. Antonio, wired and alert, caught the odd way people were touching hands around him. It was occasional, but it happened enough that he noticed. Two women would walk toward each other and touch the palms of their hands together. Their faces carefully blank. It wasn't a handshake; there was no motion, no squeeze. Just the clasp. Then they would part, move in different directions.

Three times in as many minutes. Different people. Old and young, different races, most dressed in basic, forgettable clothes. Work uniforms, generic athleisure wear, nothing flashy or interesting enough to remember. Yet it kept happening. Antonio frowned. Paranoia? The hairs on the back of Antonio's neck rose in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

The first time Antonio had touched Spicy, she had frozen. Didn't make a sound. Didn't flinch or pull away. She'd just stepped out of the shower, and he'd grabbed the towel just as she reached for it. The slim Asian woman had stood there as he toweled her off. Through the cheap white cloth, he had felt those small breasts, those slender arms and legs. Stared into her eyes as his hand slipped between her thighs. The only part of her he didn't touch was the brain slug itself, which had gone very still and dark.

Ten blocks from the bus station, two of them did it right in front of him. This time, Antonio saw the heads of the brain slugs on their necks; the little black heads popped up above the collars. Their little sensory stalks or whatever they were called, were erect, just as Soong's had been. Instinct made Antonio turn at the next street corner. So he didn't see the two shift and walk, hand-in-hand, following.

With every touch, he'd gotten bolder. Fingers. Tongue. Sometimes, Antonio would just hug Spicy tight and rub up against her, his erection against her butt. How easy it would have been to just push those panties aside and fuck that tight little twat, that virgin ass. He could tell she wanted it, the little slug slut so wet when he fingered her . . . but when he held her from behind, he could see that slug on her neck. The way it moved. Through the semi-translucent membrane, he could see the bones of her neck. Just like a pork neck at a butcher shop.

Antonio walked toward his goal. Aware now of more couples holding hands. More brain slugs. How many of the damn things were there? He heard footsteps behind him. In perfect lock-step. Not getting closer. Not getting further away. Keeping distance, matching his pace. Yet he caught sight of them in the reflection of store windows. A pair of women holding hands, faces placid as they followed behind. The small dark forms on the back of their necks.

He turned. Twisted. Ducked into stores and out through side doors. The realization sank into his brain about what was happening as he tried to keep in mind the map of the city. His goal: the bus station. Yet every time he turned in that direction, he found a pair of women, holding hands, walking towards him. Every time he wanted to turn around, to double back, he saw those same women behind him.

Spicy wouldn't kiss him back. His tongue always met teeth when he tried to push it into her mouth. He was sure that if he got her wet enough, she'd put out. He could feel his fingers in that hot little slit, how slick she was inside. Didn't even make a sound when he'd put two fingers inside, or three. Antonio could see her body respond, even if her face remained placid. The blush across her cheeks, the way her little pink nipples got hard. She enjoyed it. Wanted more of it. That's what Antonio had told himself. Told himself she'd learn to be a perfect little slut, unable to live without his cock.

Yet he swore the brain slug was watching him. Could feel its attention. Every time. Now he felt it again, not in the apartment. Out in the open air, amplified a thousand times. The sense that something was watching him.

Cold sweat ran down Antonio's skin, soaking his shirt. Without his jacket, it felt freezing. He ran now—pushed through the crowd, through restaurants. Waiters backed away from the wide-eyed man with the chef's whites who walked into a kitchen as if he owned it, and right out the back door. Crossed an alley and right into another kitchen, moved through it, and came out the front door.

There were four of them, holding hands, blocking the entire sidewalk to his left. All of their slugs stared at them, sensory stalks fully extended.

Antonio turned right. At a run.

It was the brain slug he couldn't get over. That weird, translucent slug that would shift and pulse on her neck. It was watching him. Always watching him. It's what kept her from responding. That flinched when he gripped her arm too tightly. If it wasn't for that slug, she'd be fucking perfect—she'd be so grateful that she'd do anything for him—and even if she wasn't right in the head after, that was fine too, wasn't it? Nothing like a retarded little fuck doll to wet his dick. No back talk, no small talk, no mindless chatter or expensive dates. Pretty much his perfect relationship.

His heart hammered. Mind raced. The cornered rat is the most dangerous, and as his fists pumped, he thought about the fight coming. He'd rip the fucking slugs off their necks and crush them under his boot. They might have numbers, but he—

—he had wondered, really wondered, what they tasted like. Big, juicy slug like that. A little butter, a little garlic—Spicy had always twisted away from his kisses after he ate garlic. The cockteasing little cunt. After he cut it off, she'd welcome his kisses. Hell, he'd rub garlic on his cock and fuck her face until she couldn't live without the taste of it. The thought had burned in him, his dick so hard he was afraid he would cream his pants when he had reached for the knife. He was a chef. He knew how to cut. If that stupid fuck Mel hadn't—

Antonio was halfway across the intersection when the woman in front of him opened up her long coat. She was voluptuous; massive breasts, broad hips, thick thighs. A walking wet dream, wearing nothing beneath that coat but her skin. Her eyes met his, and in his shock, Antonio faltered in his dead run. The eyes seemed to glow from within, and the face was placid. The brain slug looked out from behind her neck.

Shock. Indecision. A moment's mistake.

The truck hit Antonio while he was standing in the middle of the street. He was still in the crosswalk, though the light had turned red. The traffic cameras caught his attempt to beat the light, caught his moment of hesitation, the grill of the moving van that hit him at speed. They didn't see the woman close her coat on the sidewalk.

Horns honked. Someone made a call. Sirens blared. On the ground, unable to feel his legs, vision tunneling, Antonio felt pain, helplessness. The ambulance that arrived was a brief, **** hope as life ebbed from him. He tried to babble thanks as the EMTs lifted him onto a white plastic sled with holes for handles.

Until he saw the placid faces. The little black heads above the collars. As the doors closed, the alarm suddenly ceased. The lights in the back of the ambulance died, and all he could see was the glow in the whites of their eyes.

Now, the old fear came back to him. His neck tensed, aware that any moment they could turn him over, and he'd feel the burn at the back of his neck as they put a slug on him. Those little tentacles fucking his brain. This was going to be their ****, wasn't it? They were going to turn him, they were going to—

Antonio screamed. His broken body thrashed, a dying ape's last gasp for survival, or maybe just a clean ****. The brain slug hosts held him down. No smiles of triumph. No anger. It was the same expression they'd have bagging garbage or flipping hamburger patties, mowing lawns, or doing data entry. The glowing eyes of something bigger, older, and vastly alien to Antonio's experience looked at him as he squirmed like a frog pinned down for dissection.