Chapter 7: Love, Marc

Chapter 7: Love, Marc

The humming of the hive was a lullaby. The air, thick with the intoxicating scent of caramelized sugar, was a warm blanket. Leo’s world had collapsed into a single, overwhelming desire that resonated from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. Hunger. It was an ancient, howling beast that had devoured fear, grief, and reason, leaving only the need to consume.

His hand drifted forward, steady now, a servant to his starving body. The glistening, pearlescent egg pulsed gently in the nest of Marc’s hollowed-out chest. It was beautiful. It promised everything: energy, satisfaction, an end to the gnawing emptiness. A voice, a chorus of a million tiny whispers that sounded disturbingly like Marc’s final, distorted chant, echoed in his mind. Join us. Taste us. Become us. We are one. We are whole.

His fingertips were a breath away from the egg’s slick, warm surface. He could almost feel the delicate membrane give way, the burst of concentrated sweetness flooding his mouth. It would be a sacrament. A final communion with what was left of his friend. He leaned closer, his mouth watering, his lips parting in anticipation.

It was then that a flicker of movement on the wall to his right broke the hypnotic spell.

It wasn't the usual chaotic, undulating tide of insects. This was different. It was ordered. A section of the living, shimmering wallpaper was shifting with unnatural purpose, the white bodies of the ants arranging themselves against the grimy beige paint like iron filings answering a magnet.

Leo’s head turned slowly, a monumental effort against the pull of the hive. He squinted, the fog of hunger and sensory overload making it difficult to focus. The movement resolved into shapes. The shapes became letters.

He read the first word, then the second, his oxygen-starved brain struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. An entire legion of ants had frozen in place, their bodies forming a stark, living message.

DON'T EAT THE ANTS

The words hit him like a physical blow, a bucket of ice water to the face. It was Elias Vance’s frantic warning, resurrected from the beginning of this nightmare, spelled out by the very creatures he had warned them about. The hypnotic humming in his head stuttered, the sweet illusion cracking.

And then he saw the two words underneath. A signature.

LOVE, MARC

The spell shattered.

A guttural sob ripped from Leo’s throat, a sound of such profound grief and horror that it felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside. It was Marc. Not the monster, not the hive, but Marc. Some tiny, indomitable spark of his friend, the one who had cried out for help in that first voicemail, had survived the transformation long enough to seize control of the colony, his own personal hell, for one final, desperate act of friendship. He had written his own epitaph on his tomb wall, using the bodies of his own destroyers as the ink.

The intoxicating aroma of baked sugar instantly turned vile, the scent of a charnel house trying to hide its rot. The gentle humming of the hive became a threatening, alien buzz. The glistening mound of eggs was no longer a feast but a violation, a pulsating cancer in the ruins of his best friend.

Leo scrambled backward, his limbs flailing. He tripped over his own feet and crashed to the floor, landing hard on his side. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but the pain was a welcome, grounding sensation. His hand, the one that had been reaching for the egg, flew to his mouth as he gagged.

And he tasted it.

He hadn't eaten the egg, but the air was so saturated with the hive’s essence that it had coated his tongue. It was a faint, cloying sweetness, like licking a dusty spoonful of honey. Mixed with it was a gritty, mineral tang—the taste of the crushed ants that still smeared the soles of his shoes, an aerosolized mist of their very being. The taste was an invasion, a tiny, violating particle of the hive that was now inside him.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized him. He rolled over, crab-walking backward through the living carpet of insects, the popping of their bodies a sickening soundtrack to his frantic retreat. He could feel them crawling over his hands, his legs, their tiny feet a thousand needles of revulsion against his skin.

He lunged through the bedroom doorway, scrambled through the living room, and clawed at the apartment door, his fingers slipping on the knob. He threw the door open and stumbled into the hallway, slamming it shut behind him. He didn't stop. He half-ran, half-fell down the three flights of stairs, bursting out of the building’s main entrance and into the clean, unforgiving light of the Sunday afternoon.

He collapsed onto the cracked pavement of the parking lot, gasping for air that didn’t taste of sugar and death. He retched, but only bile came up. He lay there, shaking, the image of the ant-scrawled message burned onto the inside of his eyelids. Love, Marc. A final, heartbreaking act of defiance from a man already consumed. Marc had saved him. Marc had died, had been unmade, and his last thought had been to save the friend who had run away and left him to his fate.

The guilt was a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs. But beneath it was the cold, sharp edge of terror. He had been tempted. He had almost done it. And he had the taste of them in his mouth.

With a trembling hand, he pulled out his phone. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks from when he’d dropped it that morning, a lifetime ago. His fingers were clumsy, but his purpose was absolute. He had to report this. He couldn't let it stay hidden in that apartment, gestating, growing. He had to burn it all to the ground.

He dialed 9-1-1.

The voice of the dispatcher was calm, professional, and sounded like it belonged to another universe. "911, what is your emergency?"

Leo’s own voice was a stranger’s, a raw, broken croak. "My friend… apartment 3G, 1450 North Ash Street. He’s dead."

"Okay sir, stay on the line. What is your name? What happened?"

"Leo. Leo Martinez." He swallowed, the sweet residue still coating his tongue. How could he explain a living hive, a queen in a corpse, a final message written in insects? He couldn't. They'd lock him away. "There was… an accident. A chemical spill. Something… something got out of control. Just… send the police. Send the fire department. Send a hazmat team. Tell them not to breathe the air. Tell them—"

He stopped, the distant, unmistakable wail of sirens already beginning to cut through the afternoon quiet. They were coming. He had done it. He had set the wheels in motion.

He ended the call, his hand dropping to his side. The sirens grew louder, a promise of order and authority. But as he stood there, alone in the parking lot, shaking and contaminated, he knew he hadn't found safety. He had just painted a target on his back. He was the sole witness to an impossible horror. He was the man who had been inside the nest and walked out alive. And the hive, with its burgeoning queen and its terrifying, collective intelligence, now knew exactly who he was.