Bee | A flash fiction story
67 of đź’Ż
“Guard the buggy,” Jax had told Maya, as if they weren’t the only living creatures for miles. The horizon line danced in the heat of the desert like a snake charmed by the sweet melody of some magical flute, blurring the limits between land and sky.
A thin line of sweat ran down the side of her forehead as she watched him bring the water, her back against the side of the buggy, her arms crossed, gun in hand. She could be carrying one of the two massive containers he had tied to the ends of a bough and strapped over his shoulder, but it was clear: he didn’t trust her.
“Beware of the bees,” he had said. Why the tone? Why the joke? It didn’t even make sense. Bees in the desert? Jax was an ancient language and Maya was getting tired of being unable to read him.
He put the water on the back without making eye contact with her.
“Jax,” she said, “I’m gonna need you to trust me if you want us to survive together.”
“You didn’t guard the buggy.” He nodded at the front of the car. A dark wasp-like animal the size of a house cat was resting on the windshield, calmly studying it.
Maya pointed the gun without thinking and pulled the trigger. The thing exploded, splattering the buggy with its insides.
“Shouldn’t’ve done that. It’ll attract the hive,” Jax said, grabbing one of the water containers. “Help me clean.”
Reading Jax was hard. Surviving the wilds of Anchora was harder.
