Chapter 2: The Lingering Sweetness

Chapter 2: The Lingering Sweetness

The hiss of the chemical fogger felt like the only clean sound in the world. Leo worked with a grim, methodical focus, coating every surface of the strange, sweet-smelling bedroom until the pulsating mound of eggs was nothing more than a dissolving, soupy mess. He tried not to breathe, tried not to think, but the image of Marc swallowing that glistening white sphere was burned onto the inside of his eyelids.

An hour later, they were back in the van, the job officially done. The chemical stench was sharp and familiar, a welcome mask for the memory of that sugary rot. Leo drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Alright, dude. Pay up," Marc said, breaking the silence. He was buzzing, a manic energy radiating off him in the cramped cab. "Five bucks. I faced the void. I ate the alien caviar. I am a champion."

Leo reached into his pocket without taking his eyes off the road, pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill and shoving it at his friend.

"See? No flesh-eating disease. No third eye," Marc crowed, snapping the bill triumphantly. "You gotta learn to live a little, man. It's just a job."

"That wasn't just a job, Marc," Leo said, his voice tight. "That guy… Vance… he was terrified. And that smell…"

He trailed off, because he could smell it again. Faintly, underneath the acrid scent of pesticide, was a whisper of baked sugar. He sniffed the air, then glanced at his own jumpsuit. Nothing. It was coming from Marc's side of the van.

"What smell?" Marc asked, preoccupied with smoothing out his winnings on the dashboard. "The cookie thing? It's better than that dead possum from last week."

"No, it's… it's on you, I think," Leo said, frowning.

Marc snorted, sniffing the torn sleeve of his jumpsuit. "Yeah, probably. We were bathing in that weird syrup. It'll wash out." He leaned back, putting his feet up on the dash again, perfectly at ease.

But Leo couldn’t relax. The client's frantic warning—don't eat the ants—played on a loop in his head. It wasn't the kind of thing you say as a joke. It was the kind of thing you say when you know something awful, something you can't properly explain.

They stopped at a grimy fast-food joint for their traditional post-job meal. As they sat in a cracked vinyl booth, the smell became undeniable. It wasn't just on Marc's clothes anymore. It clung to him like a cheap, sickly perfume. When he leaned forward to grab a napkin, the scent wafted across the table, thick and cloying. It was on his breath.

Leo felt a fresh wave of nausea. "Dude, for real. Are you feeling okay?"

Marc took a huge bite of his burger, chewing loudly. "Never better. Why? You want your five bucks back?"

"No, I…" Leo struggled for the right words, trying not to sound like a panicking idiot. "That thing you ate. It's not normal. Nothing about that apartment was normal."

"And our life is?" Marc shot back, gesturing around the greasy restaurant with his half-eaten burger. "We kill bugs for a living, Leo. We wade through filth every day. I ate one weird egg. It tasted good. End of story." He took a long gulp of his soda, draining half the oversized cup in one go. "Man, I am so thirsty today."

Leo watched him, a knot of dread tightening in his gut. Marc was acting like this was just another Tuesday, another stupid dare checked off the list. But there were subtle things, little cracks in his normal, carefree demeanor. He couldn't sit still, his leg bouncing under the table with twice its usual energy. He kept scratching his stomach through his jumpsuit, a quick, absentminded gesture he made every few minutes.

"You keep scratching," Leo pointed out.

Marc glanced down as if noticing his own hand for the first time. "I guess. Skin's probably just irritated from all the chemicals. Or maybe it's an itch for adventure." He winked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. His pupils seemed dilated, making the blue of his irises unnaturally bright.

The casual dismissal was worse than any argument. Marc was building a wall, refusing to acknowledge that he had crossed a line, that he had swallowed something unknown from a place that felt deeply wrong. To him, admitting fear was a greater sin than being reckless.

They finished their meal, the conversation stilted and thin. Leo couldn't shake the feeling that he was sitting across from a stranger. The familiar, annoying friend was still there, but he was wrapped in a strange new layer of buzzing energy and a sweet, unnatural scent.

Back at the depot, as they were cleaning out the van, Marc suddenly groaned and bent over, clutching his stomach.

"Whoa, you okay?" Leo rushed to his side.

"Yeah, fine," Marc grunted, straightening up slowly. His face was pale, and a fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. "Just… a cramp. That burger's sitting like a brick."

But it didn't look like a normal stomach ache. It looked sharp, sudden, and painful. The scratching started again, more frantic this time.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," Leo urged, his voice filled with an anxiety he could no longer hide. "We can go to the walk-in clinic right now."

Marc laughed, a strained, hollow sound. "And tell them what? 'Excuse me, doctor, I have a tummy ache because I ate a magic ant egg for five dollars'? They'd lock me up. I just need to go home and sleep it off."

He slammed the van doors shut, the sound echoing in the near-empty parking lot. "Look, it's Friday. I'm gonna go home, fire up the console, and forget this whole week ever happened. You should do the same."

He clapped a hand on Leo's shoulder. His palm felt hot, almost feverish, and the sugary smell was so strong it made Leo want to gag. It was the smell of yeast and honey, of something organic and alive, fermenting just beneath the skin.

"Marc, if you feel sick… just call me, okay?" Leo said, his last attempt to break through his friend's stubborn denial. "Seriously."

Marc just grinned, but the expression was tight, unsettling. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Mom. Don't spend that five bucks all in one place!"

He turned and walked away, not with his usual slouch, but with a strange, purposeful stride. He didn't look back.

Leo stood alone in the fading light, the chemical smell of the depot feeling safer and more normal than his own best friend. He could still feel the heat from Marc’s hand on his shoulder, and the phantom sweetness lingered in his nostrils. The weekend stretched out before him, a forty-eight-hour chasm of silence. A chilling certainty settled deep in his bones: this wasn't over. The real rot hadn't even begun.