He rolled until he hit a chain-link fence and there, above the barbed-wire top, was the looming fire tower, and Chuck blocked out his own pain long enough to push himself onto his feet, reaching for the rope to pull the pontoon in before the dragonflies attacked Stu and Duncan—

  —and realizing the rope had fallen off.

  Chuck turned to face the water, and saw the yellow length of nylon rope floating just two meters away. On the boat, his friends each wielded fishing poles, swinging lures at dive-bombing dragonflies. He watched as one of them swooped down on Stu and attacked his neck, prompting an animal-like squeal.

  Gotta save them.

  I gotta save them.

  His legs didn’t want to move, but Chuck forced them to, stumbling and splashing back into the water, more nymphs attacking him, the pain worse than being scorched with a hundred blowtorches all over all at once, and Chuck stretched for the rope, stretched for the rope, stretched for the rope—

  —and then sank face first in the muck and couldn’t free himself.

  LEO

  SAME TIME…

  So perhaps destiny is real.

  In some weird, coincidental, practically unbelievable twist of fate, the Tug wanted Leo to go to the same house Katie drove to.

  Leo didn’t know where he learned the term superdeterminism, which referenced the quantum mechanical principles of measurement. In short, it postulated that everything that happens has already happened and cannot be altered, so free will doesn’t exist. The concept wasn’t popular.

  But it was related to the currently en vogue idea of Invisible String Theory—metaphysics not physics—which basically said everything is connected and what happens is meant to be.

  Leo also didn’t know where he learned that tidbit, but if fate was a real thing he really seemed fated to go on this journey and meet Katie.

  He also knew that fate wasn’t finished with him yet.

  “We’re here.”

  After taking a side road, and an even smaller side road through the deep woods, Katie stopped at a nondescript house on the south shore of Big Lake Niboowin, on a property enveloped by white spruce, red maple, green ash, and paper birch. She parked on the driveway and Leo followed her out of the vehicle, backpack on his shoulder, moving slow and careful to test the strength of his joints.

  Katie hurried into the house, banging on the front door.

  I don’t know how formidable a person Katie is, but everything she told me about her stalker points to Lyon being unhinged. You should typically approach unhinged people cautiously, and possibly armed.

  When no one answered, Katie checked the knob and discovered it unlocked. Leo followed her inside, feeling curious and also feeling protective.

  Prior to all the current craziness, there had been past craziness, and Leo had worked as a bodyguard-slash-boytoy for an unhinged woman. Protecting her had become second nature, and he recognized the feelings when they returned.

  It’s been a long time since I cared about anything. Including myself.

  Whatever is goading me internally may know I needed to do this.

  But is this my destiny? To protect a young girl from another young girl?

  Is this what the Tug called me to?

  The house was well-maintained and clean, upper middle-class furnishings, and uncluttered to a degree that Leo sensed was functional over stylistic. The front door, though unlocked, was steel, the lock formidable. Leo checked the nearest window and found security bars and reinforced glass. While Katie hurried down the hall, Leo followed a hunch and checked the top of the refrigerator, his fingers brushing a handgun.

  The occupants here have placed a priority on security and personal safety. There are likely many hidden weapons, and cameras, on the property.

  Leo borrowed the gun, a Colt Detective Special loaded with six rounds of .38 cartridges, and stuck it in his trench coat pocket.

  “What in the actual fuck?”

  Leo followed Katie’s voice to a bedroom. She stood next to a bed, which had been soaked with blood, and by the odor, urine.

  Blood is still red. Recent. It turns brown, then black, as it dries.

  “Your boyfriend needs to buy a new bed.”

  “Why would she do this? It’s insane.”

  It didn’t seem insane to Leo. “She’s staking her claim.”

  Leo wasn’t sure how to explain that he knew what a territorial mark smelled like, or how he even knew what one was.

  I just know. The same way I know the Tug wanted me to come to this lake.

  The same way I know that something big is going to happen.

  The same way I know that when this is all over, I’ll finally find peace.

  Katie hurried out of the bedroom, and Leo listened to her footfalls as she searched the house, eventually exiting through a sliding patio door.

  Leo didn’t feel the need to go after her. Instead he felt drawn to the back door, through the yard, to the pier. He stared out over the lake, a huge flat mirror that reflected the hazy sky and oppressive sun.

  At first glance, no boats.

  Strange. I would have expected water skiers, fishermen, people out for pleasure cruises.

  He squinted and his vision focused a little, and he was able to see a bit further.

  A canoe. On the opposite shore. Abandoned in the reeds.

  Further to the west, near a steel fire tower, a pontoon.

  That’s where I need to be.

  That’s where the Tug is leading me.

  “Lyon’s car is parked in the woods.” Katie had run up behind him. “Both the boats are gone, the pontoon and the canoe. I bet that crazy bitch took the canoe.”

  “They’re on the other side of the lake.”

  Katie stood next to Leo and shielded her eyes with her hand. “How can you see that far?”

  “We need a boat,” Leo said.

  “The neighbors, Sun and Andy, they have a boat. Maybe they can help.”

  Leo cocked his head. “Sun and Andy Dennison-Jones?”

  “Do you know them?” Katie asked.

  “No.”

  “How did you know their names?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t think that’s weird?”

  “I once shit out my own intestines and then ate them out of a public toilet with a fork. My definition of weird is probably different than yours.”

  “First, yuck. Second, yuck and yuck. Let’s go to their house. Don’t mention grinding down your limbs, or eating your organs. Or anything. In fact, don’t talk. Don’t talk, and don’t do anything. Just try to be a decent person. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Katie’s face scrunched up. “I’ve hung out with them a few times. They’re good people. They like Duncan and his parents. They’ll lend us their boat. They have to.”

  That really didn’t matter to Leo.

  If they have a boat, I’m taking it. Whether they approve or not…

  STU

  A MOMENT EARLIER…

  Anisoptera.

  Nature’s perfect predator.

  Stu stared, in awe, as over a dozen gigantic dragonflies approached the pontoon while Chuck thrashed and screamed in the water between the boat and the shore.

  Three hundred million years ago, the ancestor of dragonflies, griffinflies, could grow up to a pound in weight, with a wingspan over two feet. These Meganeuropsis permiana were able to get so large because there had been more oxygen in the prehistoric atmosphere. Either more O2 allowed them to better utilize oxygen, or a competing hypothesis postulated that they grew larger to avoid oxygen poisoning. Either way, the insects were enormous. This superpredator, hunting in packs, could have killed and devoured dinosaurs.

  Stu knew they’d have no problem devouring him. Especially in his weakened condition, likely due to some disease or parasite the leeches had bestowed upon him.

  At least it will be a spectacular death.

  He turned to Duncan and saw his friend drop the hook he was using to fish larva out of his open wounds, then threw open his tackle box, digging through it. He quickly unsnapped his leader and replaced the bait on his fishing rig with one three times the size; an eight-inch Believer lure with three massive treble hooks.

  He’s going to use it like a mace to defend himself.

  Pretty good idea.

  Stu rummaged through Duncan’s open lure box and found a large lure for his own pole, attaching it to the end of his line. He then looked to Duncan to mimic his stance, and a dragonfly divebombed and latched its labium—a claw pincer the length and shape of a staple remover—onto Stu’s neck.

  The pain was instant and the fear was all-encompassing.

  Stu screamed, releasing the rod and slapping at the creature with both hands, ultimately gripping its long, segmented abdomen and trying to tear it away.

  The skin on Stu’s neck stretched, then tore, and Stu tossed the insect aside and probed his wound to determine the damage.

  A gash, but no veins or arteries, and not deep enough to open up a hole in my throat.

  He turned to Duncan again, to see if he’d been similarly attacked. But instead of facing the oncoming swarm, Duncan was facing Chuck, who’d made it to shore, bleeding like his skin had leaks, and then for unknown reasons jumped back into the water, where he flailed, cried out, and sank.

  Stu batted away another attacking dragonfly and watched, aghast, as Duncan cast out his big lure directly at Chuck.

  The bait sailed beyond him, almost reaching the shoreline. Duncan began a quick retrieve, the lure diving under the water. Then Duncan’s pole bent, and Duncan pulled back hard—

  —setting the hook on Chuck.

  Duncan grunted, continuing to reel in, and Chuck popped back to the surface, coughing and gasping and clutching Duncan’s lure, lodged deep in his shoulder.

  Stu reached for his dropped pole, then wielded it as a weapon, whipping it at dragonflies, catching one on the barbs with a wet crunch followed by a screeching buzz. The hooked bug pulled, and Stu’s muscle memory reflexively triggered and he tried reeling in, accidentally hitting the cast bar, releasing the line which whirred out as the insect flew off with the lure.

  As Stu fought to reel in the dragonfly darting over the boat in a quick figure eight, another darted in and landed on his face, grasping his cheeks with six barb-covered legs, its mouth parts clamping onto the bridge of Stu’s nose.

  Stu furiously shook his head, trying to dislodge it without dropping his fishing pole, tripping and almost falling over the anchor Duncan had cut off the nylon rope, and the insect curled up and poked its long, black abdomen at Stu’s lips, trying to force his mouth open.

  Ovipositor. It wants to lay eggs down my throat.

  I’ve had enough.

  I’ve had enough of this.

  In a moment of crazed clarity Stu screamed, feeling the rough tail force itself inside, past his teeth, poking his quivering tongue, and Stu immediately bit down, the sound similar to stuffing your face with corn chips, the dragonfly electrified with a frenzy of pain and anger, its wings beating and slapping Stu’s face in an effort to get away.

  Who’s eating who, motherfucker?

  The abdomen leaked gooey hemolymph—Anisoptera’s greenish blood—and Stu spat it out, releasing the insect, which flew off as he finished reeling in the one flying around the boat, slamming it down on the floor of the pontoon, stomping on its giant bulbous head with its huge black eyes, crushing it like eggs, and turning to see Duncan at the stern, pulling hard to help a wheezing, sputtering Chuck get out of the water and back on board. Chuck’s wrist was hooked to his opposite shoulder with Duncan’s lure, impossible to know how deeply because there was blood everywhere from all the nymph bites.

  Stu faced the swarm again, raging at them, swinging his fishing pole, and they kept their distance but continued to zip around the boat.

  Feeling his energy drain away, Stu stared out at the shore, so close but so very far, wondering how it could even be possible that there hadn’t been even a faint breeze for hours.

  It’s like we’re anchored here.

  Anchored…

  The anchor!

  “Duncan! Take my pole!”

  He looks as bloody as Chuck and as weak as me.

  But we can do this.

  Duncan seemed confused but took the rod and reel that was shoved into his hands, and Stu went to the stern and reached for the nylon rope tied to the float cleat, pulling it in from the lake where Chuck had dragged it. After grabbing the end he crawled to the anchor, the lovely, perfect, rusty old anchor, and quickly tied in on using a fisherman’s knot.

  As Duncan continued to swat at the horde, Stu picked up the anchor line and began to swing it by his side, like a pendulum, aiming for the shoreline. When he got the motion waist-high, he released the rope and threw the anchor into the lake.

  It sailed about five meters, then quickly sank.

  Stu got on his knees and began to pull at the weight, slowly.

  Anchors were really tough to get off of mucky bottoms. On a lake without waves, Stu succeeded in pulling the boat toward the anchor, and therefore toward the shore.

  “That’s genius, Stu!” Duncan yelled. “Keep going!”

  So far, so good.

  Suction is keeping it rooted in place.

  It’ll be a PITA to lift, but maybe we’ll make it after all.

  “Nice work, Bug Lord,” Chuck told him, still lying down but giving him a weak thumbs-up with his free hand.

  When he finished tugging the pontoon to the anchor’s location, Stu bent at the knees, wrapped the wet line around his elbows, and tried to deadlift the weight off the spongy bottom.

  He strained, and the suction slowly broke. He brought the anchor up, hand over hand. As expected, mud, dead leaves, and weeds clung to the rusty metal. A few nymphs had also taken a ride, springing themselves off and flipping around like landed fish.

  Stu wiped the anchor clean, stood up, and again began to swing it.

  A few meters to go. Maybe I can reach land on this try.

  For some reason, instinct maybe, he quickly glanced at Duncan, who managed to be keeping the dragonflies at bay with his fishing pole.

  Then he checked the water, behind Duncan, and saw—

  A raft.

  A reddish, blackish, amorphous raft shaped like an irregular puddle.

  Moving across the water without any wind or waves.

  “Ants!” Stu yelled. “It’s an ant raft! Two meters away from the boat!”

  Two meters, and moving closer.

  Those little bastards aren’t just floating. They’re swimming.

  Stu continued to swing the anchor, shoulders aching, lungs burning, vision swirling, knees wobbling, but resolve hard as steel.

  “Throw the damn thing, Stu!” Duncan ordered.

  “I’m adding momentum so the oscillation reaches its apex amplitude!”

  Chuck yelled, “Fuck the science and just throw the fucker!”

  Stu threw the fucker—

  —which arced through the air on a perfect trajectory and landed only a meter short of the shoreline.

  He knelt down and once again began to pull.

  “Ants are gaining,” Chuck told him. “How the hell can ants swim, Stu?”

  Stu grunted. “I don’t know, Chuck.” His breath was labored, and the poor air quality didn’t make it any easier.

  Something landed on Stu’s back, and he held the line and tried to swat it off with his other hand. When he couldn’t reach, and the biting began, he called for Chuck.

  Chuck yelped, but didn’t come to his rescue.

  Stu scooted over, pressing his back into one of the pontoon benches, hearing the crackly CRUNCH! of a crushed dragonfly, and then turned to berate Chuck—

  —and stared, appalled, that Chuck was hooked to the green pontoon carpeting and straining to free himself.

  Chuck met his eyes, frantic.

  Stu glanced back at the ants.

  They’re so close.

  Stu went back to pulling on the anchor, slowly, inexorably, dragging the big pontoon to the shore.

  “If they get on board,” Chuck said, “I want you to kill me.”

  Stu didn’t reply, but he noticed Duncan kneeling next to Chuck.

  “Guys, promise me—”

  “Shup up!” Stu screeched. “No one is killing anyone!”

  “I don’t want to die like that. I don’t—”

  “No one is dying!”

  Hands slick with water and lake slime and blood and sweat, Stu once again wrapped the rope around his butt and walked it backward, and then he went hand over hand back to the stern to do it again when his ankles became wrapped in hot electric bolts.

  The fire ants had come aboard.

  Stu didn’t think it through, he just acted on instinct, jumping into the lake, the shore just two meters away, the stinging of the ants replaced by a full-on assault by dragonfly nymphs, and Stu’s feet sunk into the muck but he was absolutely crazed with a burst evolutionary fight-or-flight energy and he pulled and pulled and pulled and he got to shore and dragged the pontoon in behind him and it was almost there almost there almost there and then Duncan cried, “I’m so sorry, Chuck!” and Stu watched as he raised his Swiss Army knife over his head, the blade pointed down.

  JAKE

  BUT NOT FOR LONG…

  The woman in the canoe somehow survived.

  Lyon’s flesh rippled with life, flies and wasps and grubs poking their heads out of the thousands of tiny holes honeycombing every inch of her body.

  Her epidermis is their new home. Like thousands of small, biting pets who have just moved in.

  They await her command.

  Each pore in Lyon’s skin had been stretched and torn to accommodate one of His creatures. She appeared to be wearing red, shimmering armor.