Smoke the Hive

Dust settled in thick moats on the river, running sluggish like honey. In a month, rain would stop diluting it and it would become the type of mud you could never pull your feet out of without losing a boot. Gwen and Fran rode a four-wheeler over a creaking wooden bridge, electric engine humming with effort. They were coming from the sun-stricken forest into the scrubland hauling dead wood back for tomorrow's smoke. Dirt kicked up behind the vehicle as they sped across the arid landscape. Over mounds of dry grass the only patches of green that remained were cactus. Occasionally, when the wind picked up, a tumbleweed caught them from the side.

As they drew closer to home, their hives jutted up from the ground. Five-stories high, and covered in bronze mirrors, they were fiery in the morning light. Dogs howled and whined running from the back of the house as they pulled in through the gate. Fran hopped off the back, to pet the panting pack. The oldest dog, Blue, had a fat lip, making him look like the now extinct walrus. Gwen knelt down and held his head in her hands inspecting his lips. "Beezus, you were out there this morning, and you ain't smoked the hive?"

“I did it, I swear!” Fran held out her hands, fingers spread wide allaying the accusation.

“Then we oughta make sure that cooler’s working,” she said, climbing back onto the four-wheeler, patting the seat for Fran.

Fran sighed.

Gwen pulled out slowly, the rising sun bouncing off the dust obscured her vision.

They pulled up to the first hive, where even from the outside the buzzing was relentless. She checked the stats, the temperature in the hive was a cool 85°F.

“What do you think’s wrong?” Fran asked. 

Gwen shrugged.

***

Gwen and Fran were biologists once, it seemed like on another planet. Side-by-side they studied the social hierarchy of honeybees in an air conditioned lab with an apiary and windows looking out over the purple mountain range. Insulated, controlled, academic.

But rapid deterioration of the atmosphere made their mission clear, and for the last decade they were stationed as keepers of the hives--enormous greenhouses in the great wasteland that became of the New Mexican desert--sustaining food production for the people still alive in the outer realms. 

They used the energy of the sun to keep the hives cool, and everything they owned was reflective to keep the harsh rays of the sun from blistering their bare skin. They lived together as friends, and even picked the holes where they would want to be buried if they were to die. Exposed, arduous, and practical.

***

Each hive was connected to the outside world by an outlet tube emerging into the sick air that could be closed when the temperature got too hot, and smoked when they needed to plant or pick something new. There were also the flyways--as Fran called them--connecting to the other hives because the bees liked to travel between, pollinating and fraternizing.  

The hectic song made Gwen nervous. Sweat dripped down her back, the morning sun was already getting too hot to bear, even in the thermal reflector suits. She checked the temperature on her display--120°F. 

Fran pinned in the code to open the airlock, and the noise amplified. The beekeepers removed their mirrored helmets and donned their mesh hats. Inside was a great mass of frenetic energy that Gwen felt prickling her skin. Cool air filled the antechamber, drying her sweat. Holding her breath, she braced herself as the second airlock slid open.

In the middle of the artificial hive was a honeycomb structure, where the bees kept the Queen, raised the workers and the drones, and collected nectar to make honey. Normally surrounded by a stream of activity to and fro from the honeycomb throughout the hive there was nothing except the hexagonal prism slick with honey. 

Bees are superorganisms, dancing and working in perfect step with the needs of the colony, and now they converged at the top of the dome in a pulsating mass.

Gwen knew immediately that the Queen was dead. She walked to the comb, and peered down at the swollen royal bee, laying still.

The swarm descended upon her. It surrounded her small body and she tried not to panic. The bees began to bury themselves underneath the mesh hood. Her heart thudded in her chest. When she cried out for Fran, bees climbed into her mouth and down her throat. They covered her eyes, ears, and nose. The door whooshed open behind her. Fuzzy legs crawled into the gap between the neck of the suit. Stumbling toward the door she reached a wall, pounding to be let out. The movement only aggravated the bees, and in their final act of defiance they began to sting Gwen until her world went dark.

***

When Gwen opened her eyes, her body was slumped against the side wall covered in angry welts. Her mouth was powdery and floral, like pollen. Quiet replaced the sound of incessant buzzing. A wash of dead bees surrounded her.

Terrified of being swarmed she stood and shook more dead bees from her hat. She pinned in the door code, and fell into the antechamber. She removed her veil, and a great rush of emotion gripped her stomach. Shaking with tears, she wasn't ready to face Fran. 

She wiped her tears when she had finished crying, fixing her helmet back over her head. The shock made her feel ill but also the extent of the stings she received. 

The door to the outside world opened, heat battered her standing before an open furnace. The mud guard on the four-wheeler had melted onto the tires and mounted in the driver's seat was Fran, unmoving.

Gwen checked her log, tears evaporating before they reached the apples of her cheek.

A solar flare scorched the landscape while she was unconscious in the hive. The intense heat from the ground radiated into the soles of her boots. The bees inadvertently saved her from sure destruction. It felt a religious experience.

Prying Fran's fingers from the handles, she carried her back to the house they used to share. Her body was lighter than it should be, dehydrated by the heat. She dropped the body off on the porch. Tomorrow she would bury it when she had more strength.

The dogs were safe inside the house, and she thanked the bees. Stripping off her suit, her neck and face were covered in stings. Rooting around in the cabinet, she found a can of chaw, and let it melt on her tongue. The tobacco salve soothed and drew out the stings, letting her tweeze out the barbs.

When she finally laid down in bed with the dogs warm by her side, her last thought was that tomorrow morning she would still have to wake up to smoke the hive.