Chapter 6: Extermination

Chapter 6: Extermination

The world narrowed to the ten feet of fetid, shadow-choked space between Jack and the Brood-Father. Stephanie’s agonized screams, the frantic chittering of the smaller roaches, and the impossibly cheerful beat of the 60s song from downstairs all blended into a single, chaotic roar in his ears. There was no time for a plan, only action.

He lunged forward, aiming not for the monster but for the space beside it, trying to draw its attention from Stephanie. “Hey!” he bellowed, his voice raw. “Over here, you overgrown son of a bitch!”

The creature’s multi-faceted eyes, black and devoid of any emotion save a predatory hunger, swiveled to fix on him. It let out another high-pitched hiss, a sound like steam escaping a corroded pipe, and took a step in his direction, abandoning its former host.

This was his chance. Jack thumbed the actuator on the matte black canister, his uncle's "retirement gift." A thick, hissing jet of white foam erupted from the nozzle, splattering across the monster's broad, armored back. The chemical wasn't a fine mist like his usual pesticide; it was a caustic, clinging agent designed for things that didn't die easily. It smoked and sizzled on contact, the acrid stench of ozone and burnt sulfur momentarily overpowering the room's nauseating rot.

Any normal creature, even the most resilient pest, would have been writhing in agony. The Brood-Father merely flinched. It let out a shriek of what sounded more like profound annoyance than pain, shaking its massive body like a wet dog. The foam dripped from its oily carapace, leaving behind only faint, steaming scorch marks on the ancient chitin. It had barely felt it.

Alistair’s words slammed into him with the force of a physical blow: You can’t poison it.

The monster lowered its head and charged.

It was impossibly fast. Not the lumbering crawl of an insect, but the explosive lunge of a hunting cat. Jack barely had time to brace himself, bringing the heavy steel crowbar around in a desperate, horizontal arc. The two-foot length of solid metal connected with the side of the creature's head with a sickening thud.

The impact was like hitting a concrete wall. The shock shuddered up Jack’s arms, rattling his teeth, but the monster barely broke its stride. It was knocked sideways, its segmented legs scrabbling for purchase on the stained carpet, but it didn't go down. It simply shook its head once, its antennae twitching violently, and fixed its soulless eyes on him again. The crowbar had done little more than get its full attention.

Behind the creature, Stephanie had collapsed into a heap, her screams weakening into choked, pathetic sobs as the swarm continued its relentless assault. “Get out of here, Stephanie!” Jack yelled, backing away towards the doorway. “Run!”

But she didn't seem to hear him. She was lost, a drowning woman pulled under by a tide of her own making.

He had no time to help her. The Brood-Father let out another shriek, a sound that vibrated in Jack’s bones, and then it did something that shattered every known law of biology.

A sickening cracking sound echoed through the room as the upper plates of its thorax split open. With a wet, tearing sound, two pairs of huge, membranous wings unfurled from its back. They weren't the simple, functional wings of a common roach; they were intricate, veined things, like the wings of a bat crossed with a dragonfly, their surfaces glistening with the same oily, iridescent sheen as its body. They looked like stained-glass windows from a cathedral of nightmares.

The air grew heavy as the wings began to beat, not with a high-pitched buzz, but with a deep, wet, thrumming sound, like helicopter blades chopping through mud. Dust and filth were whipped into a blinding vortex. The creature lifted off the ground, its colossal weight defying gravity, hovering a foot above the floor for a terrifying, impossible second.

Then it launched itself at him.

It crossed the room in a heartbeat, a meter-long, armor-plated missile of teeth and hate. Jack had only enough time to throw an arm up in a futile gesture of defense before it slammed into him. The impact was brutal, like being tackled by a charging boar. He was thrown backward, his head cracking hard against the doorframe. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and the world tilted sideways as he crashed to the floor of the hallway.

He landed on his back, the air driven from his lungs in a painful gasp. The Brood-Father was on top of him, its immense weight pinning him to the ground, its six powerful, bristling legs digging into his chest and shoulders. The stench was overwhelming, a suffocating cloud of rot and alien musk that made his eyes water and his stomach churn.

He could feel the writhing of the white mites on its shell, a thousand tiny movements against his cheek. Its head lowered, bringing its face inches from his own. He stared into its cluster of black, unfeeling eyes and saw nothing but a void, an ancient, instinctual hunger.

Then its mandibles opened. It was a complex, horrific arrangement of serrated, chitinous blades, clicking and snapping as they prepared to shear through flesh and bone. A thick, brownish saliva, the same viscous fluid that stained the bedsheets, dripped onto his cheek. It sizzled.

Panic, primal and absolute, seized him. He struggled, pushing against the crushing weight, but it was like trying to bench-press a motorcycle. The crowbar was gone, knocked from his hand when he fell. All he had left was the black canister, still clutched in a white-knuckled death grip in his right hand.

The monster's jaws snapped shut, inches from his throat, a terrifying dress rehearsal for the final act. It opened them again for the kill.

In that last, desperate second, Jack’s mind cleared. He wasn't a warrior. He was an exterminator. And an exterminator knows one thing: every creature has a weak point. You don't attack the shell; you attack the system.

With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, he stopped pushing up and instead twisted his body, using the monster's own weight against it. He brought his right hand up, not to spray its impenetrable hide, but aiming for the one soft, vulnerable place he could see.

He shoved the nozzle of the canister straight into the creature’s gaping, drooling maw.

The monster’s chittering hiss turned into a choked gurgle of surprise. Before it could react, Jack squeezed the actuator with all his remaining strength, emptying the entire contents of the canister directly down its throat.

The effect was instantaneous and apocalyptic. The Brood-Father shrieked, a sound so high and piercing it felt like needles in his ears. It began to convulse violently on top of him, its powerful legs spasming, its razor-sharp claws tearing through his uniform and into the flesh beneath. Jack screamed, a cry of agony mingling with the creature's death throes.

The chemical foam, designed to destroy from the outside in, was now working from the inside out. He could feel a terrifying pressure building within the creature’s body, a deep, rumbling vibration against his own chest. Its iridescent carapace began to glow with a faint, sickly internal light as the chemicals reacted with its alien biology.

With one last, titanic spasm, its body arched backward. A geyser of foul, pressurized ichor erupted from its mouth and the seams of its armor, spraying the ceiling and walls with a steaming, corrosive filth. Then, with a final, wet sigh, it collapsed.

The crushing weight on Jack’s chest became dead weight. The chittering stopped. The thrumming of its wings ceased. The only sound in the hallway was his own ragged, painful breathing and the faint, mocking sound of the 60s love song, still playing on, its cheerful melody a testament to the madness that had just unfolded. The needle finally hit the end of the record, and with a soft thump-thump-thump, merciful silence fell over the house.