BITES

“Here worm, here wormy worm,” my son Peter coaxed the glow worm from its crevice in the cave. After only 10 minutes in the cave, his jeans were already caked in mud and his hands were an unidentifiable greenish brown color. His iPad and books lay abandoned in their moisture proof bag.

“The mud will wash out,” I told myself. Even if it didn’t, a pair of jeans was a small price to pay for our safety today. 

I opened my phone and searched for “mosquito release.”  I found an article updated a few hours earlier, but it merely detailed the releases over the past thirty years.  I didn’t take time to read it. Since I only knew that the release would happen sometime between 8 AM and 8 PM, I needed my phone battery to last if I wanted any contact with the outside world over the next twelve hours.

My arms itched at the memory of mosquito bites as a child. It had been so long, but I still remembered the demanding red welts that formed on my arms after even a few minutes outdoors in the summertime. I always had the most bites no matter how many people joined me outdoors.

“Look how many worms I caught,” Peter said. I looked. He had a whole army of worms gated in by rocks he had gathered, their blue lights giving off a glow that competed with my camping light. Peter nudged a worm off a rock and back into the fold. 

“That’s a lot of worms,” I said. “What are you going to do with them?”

“I’m going fishing,” he said and pointed to the small stagnant pond about three feet away. I hadn’t noticed before, but some creatures were swimming in the pond. 

“And then I will bring the extras home and Robby and I can use them to fish in our pond. I bet we’ll catch some really big fish with this blue glow,” Peter said.

“Maybe,” I said. “The worms might not want to leave their cave. It’s pretty bright for them outside.”

“Umm, maybe,” Peter said and herded some more worms back into their rock cage.

I studied Peter. At nine years old, this was the first North American release where he would be eligible for selection. I remembered the pictures of the selectees over the past few years, their bodies a mass of swollen redness. The idea of myself covered in the welts made me want to hide away for days, but the idea of Peter’s small body covered in the welts was even worse.

Peter detached a piece of grass from his shoe and grabbed a broken stalagmite. He stuck his fingers into the worm cage and all the worms squeezed toward the edges. He scooted his fingers over and grabbed a worm that had run out of space to press further toward its brethren. The worm wiggled furiously.

I checked my phone again. No updates appeared on today’s release, but a story hailing the advantages of keeping the mosquito colony on the moon had been added. I did appreciate that it had been 30 years since I last received a mosquito bite, and I knew that someone needed to bring a yearly load of mosquitoes back to earth to pollinate certain plants. How bad was one day of fear to avoid six years of mosquito bites? A person was selected each year, but when the mosquito was released in Africa, or Europe, or Asia, or South America, or Australia, I really didn’t worry too much.

Peter struggled to contain the worm, but after several tries, the worm was secured onto the stalagmite with the piece of grass. 

“It’s like a sparkler,” Peter said and waved the worm around. The worm’s glow reflected in the semi-transparency of the stalagmite. The worm seemed to give up its struggling as it was whooshed through the air.

I thought about six years ago. Peter had been three years old and ineligible for selection. In thirty years, the youngest guardian ever bitten by the selection mosquito had been eight years old and a rule was set declaring eight years old to be the minimum age. Younger children were less likely to be bitten anyway. I had locked myself in my house all day as a precaution, but North America is home to millions of people and the chance of the selection mosquito biting me seemed low. This year, however, was different. My sister, who works with BITES, or Biting Insect Transport Enhancement and Selection, warned me a week ago that her facility, located somewhere near our town of Hackleburg, AL, would be the facility to release the mosquito this year. I had checked every crevice in my house and vowed to lock Peter and myself in for the day, but yesterday, a baseball had flown straight through my living room window. The window was boarded up, but I had found large numbers of bugs in my house in the middle of the night. Taking no chances, Peter and I took our trip to the cave for the day. 

I heard what sounded like voices in the cave. Who else would be here? I thought only my family came to this spot. I must be imagining the voices in my nervousness. By now, Peter was gliding the worm over the pond and watching the fish follow its light. He stuck the worm into the water.

The voices in the cave sounded like they were getting closer. I listened. No, they had stopped now. I heard a buzzing sound. What creature in a cave buzzed? I felt something alight on my arm. I smacked at it, but it was a too late, a red welt was already starting to form. A tiny GPS device fell to the ground.

“I got a bite,” Peter said and held up his stalagmite fishing pole. One of the cave fish hung off of it.

“That was fast,” I heard an adult male voice say. A group of four people emerged from a passage way in the cave. Though it was hard to tell in all the protective gear, one of them fit the size and walking pattern of my sister. My phone buzzed. 

“Congratulations,” one of the individuals in protective gear said. “You have been selected to travel in the rocket to the moon to bring our yearly load of mosquitoes to earth. You will give your own flesh as their sustenance for the three-day journey to the earth. Once the mosquitoes reach the earth, the higher gravity will cause the mosquitoes to become sterile and uninterested in sustenance while they do their pollination duties.”

Outside the cave, I saw the sign.  “BITES” it said, and an arrow pointed into the cave. Within minutes, reporters filled the area.