Maggie's arm. I ignored Maggie's shocked protest and reached over with the other
hand and clamped onto the shell of that thing with the tongs, dug in hard and
pulled.
It came off fast, but the amount of resistance against my arm muscles made my
stomach twist in sick sympathy. The noise Chanci made sounded more like a
screaming baby than a dog and Maggie screamed right along with her. It wasn't
until I pulled my fist out of the dog's mouth and stood up with that thing on
the end of those tongs that I realized I'd hollered too.
Chanci scrunched herself into a corner and pawed at her nose, with Maggie
crouched beside her trying to talk soothingly. I saw spots of blood dripping
down the tongs and half-fell into the bathroom, intending to flush that thing
right down the toilet. As I reached for the lid my right hand bumped against the
sink and the tongs opened a fraction too much.
The roach fell to the floor and made for the bathtub.
"Mother fucker!" I bellowed. My work boot came down with a hundred and eighty
pounds of crazed construction worker in it and I danced on that little son of a
bitch for a full ten seconds. Then I slumped against the sink and tried to catch
my breath; the tongs had gone sailing into that unfriendly area under the tub.
Maggie was still talking softly to Chanci; I don't even think she heard me swear
over the dog's whines. She might play the stern master but the charade didn't
fool me; that dog's grizzled face and big brown eyes made her melt inside.
I rinsed my face and hands at the sink to get the sweat and dog smell off, then
dried myself, grabbed a hunk of toilet paper and squatted down. It was an ugly
thing, even bigger than I remembered, with sharp mandibles sticking out from
each side of its head -- maybe it wasn't a cockroach at all, but some kind of
beetle. No wonder the bug spray hadn't worked; this sucker looked tough. I
leaned closer and almost gagged. There was some kind of translucent egg sac
tucked under its rear end; tiny black things pulsed inside.
Gross, I thought. Let the sewers handle it. I knew I'd have to do it quick or
I'd lose my nerve; the thought of those babies twitching around with only a few
layers of paper between them and my fingers made my balls shrink up. But I
couldn't leave it on the floor and go after the dustpan -- if Maggie saw that
egg sac she'd go nuts.
I reached for it.
It ran.
Towards me.
Memories rocketed through my mind: a hand full of fire; Chanci squirming on the
floor in agony; the grainy feel of tearing dog flesh as the tongs did their
work.
"Aaarrghh!" My legs went out from under me and my rump hit the floor hard, boots
kicking furiously. The left one, thank God, connected and knocked it back a foot
or so; the beetle-thing darted under the bathtub.
"What're you doing in there?"
The sounds from the hall had changed. Chanci's protests had softened to
whimpers; I heard Maggie's slippers make small slapping sounds and clambered to
my feet and hit the toilet handle before she came around the door. "Did you kill
it?"
"Yeah," I said, trying to squelch the shakes that were working through my hands.
"I flushed it down the toilet."
"That's good," she said almost cheerfully as she turned away. "I hope we don't
