05 Jun Crickets

Part I

Jacob Ellery moved with the quiet efficiency of habit, his worn sneakers whispering across the linoleum floor as he made his final rounds through the aisles of Ellery’s Pet Supplies. The air smelled faintly of wood shavings, dry kibble, and reptile substrate, a scent he had long since ceased to notice. With practiced ease, he checked the timers on the heat lamps, filled the last water bowls, and scribbled a note for himself about ordering more feeder mice.

The store was quiet, save for the occasional rustle from one of the enclosures. Most of the animals were settling into their nocturnal rhythms. His leopard geckos were already huddled under their hides, and the corn snakes lay coiled beneath their heat mats, their eyes dull in the dim glow of the enclosure lights. He paused by the skink’s terrarium, watching the little creature nose around its freshly misted tank. He tapped the glass gently, then clicked off the overheads row by row, until the place stood cloaked in soft twilight.

It was past closing, nearly ten-thirty, and Jacob had been looking forward to a cold drink and some leftover stir-fry. He was halfway to locking the front door when a low rumble interrupted him—a delivery truck turning into the alley beside the building. That struck him as odd. Deliveries came in the morning, always between nine and eleven, and always by the same friendly, talkative guy named Paul. Jacob stepped outside, squinting into the wash of headlights.

The truck that backed into the narrow lot bore no markings, no company logo, and no familiar humming from the refrigerated compartments. The driver’s cab windows were tinted too dark to see inside. It rolled to a halt and idled for a moment before the back doors swung open with a soft clunk.

Jacob waited, unsettled by the silence. When the driver appeared, he wasn’t Paul. He was taller, thinner, and wore a generic brown jacket that didn’t match any shipping company Jacob recognized. The man didn’t say a word. He simply wheeled a dolly forward with a single, medium-sized wooden crate strapped to its base.

Jacob took a step closer. “This isn’t my usual delivery time,” he said. “What company are you with?”

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled a tablet from under his arm, extended it with one hand, and pointed to the screen with the other. His finger tapped the signature line.

Jacob hesitated. The crate bore a printed label that read: Live Feed – Crickets. Handle with Care. The shipping address matched the store, and the supplier was the same exotic insect farm in Arizona he’d used for years. Still, something about the man’s silence and the way he stared without blinking made Jacob’s skin itch.

“Late run, huh?” he muttered, reaching for the stylus. He signed quickly and handed the tablet back.

The driver gave a single nod, wheeled the crate inside the threshold, and left without another glance. The truck pulled away without reversing beeps or farewell, its taillights vanishing into the night.

Jacob stood by the crate for a moment, listening to the truck rumble away into the distance. He bent down, testing the weight. It was heavier than a standard cricket shipment, which usually came in lightweight plastic containers and wriggled with noise the moment they were disturbed. This crate was quiet and tightly sealed, and its wood felt warm beneath his palms.

He wrestled it inside and set it down near the reptile feeding prep area. The packaging was clean, but something caught his eye—a set of puncture holes near one corner of the lid, just above a small plastic viewing window. He leaned in, peering through the scratched Plexiglas, but could make out little in the gloom. There was no movement, only a vague sense of mass. He thought he heard a faint scrape, like claws or legs brushing against plastic, but it stopped before he could be sure.

He glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven, far too late to start sorting feeders now. He made a mental note to open it first thing in the morning, perhaps record a few clips for the shop’s social media—”Unboxing Day” usually got a few likes from the local herpetology crowd. He taped a quick label on the side for himself and shut off the rest of the lights.

Outside, the street was empty. There was no sign of the driver or the truck, and the stillness of the block settled heavily over the storefront. He locked up, pausing to double-check the back entrance and the interior security system, then left the crate in the dark, tucked between the lizard chow bins and the dusty freezer full of frozen rodents.

The bell over the door gave a soft, final chime as he stepped out into the cold.

Part II

The first rays of morning sun hadn’t yet cleared the rooftops when Jacob returned to the store, a thermal mug of coffee in one hand and his keys jangling in the other. The air was brisk, a thin sheen of frost on the sidewalk catching the light from the still-glowing streetlamps. He paused at the door, glancing briefly through the glass.

Everything inside looked undisturbed.

He unlocked the door, stepped in, and was greeted by the familiar warmth and scent of animal bedding. The low hum of heaters and filtration systems filled the silence, punctuated by the rustle of movement in a few enclosures as his animals stirred with him.

Jacob flipped the switch near the register, and the main lights came on with a soft click, flooding the aisles with artificial day. He moved through his routine with practiced speed—checking temperatures, refreshing water dishes, and noting which feeders were running low. It was only when he reached the back storage corner that he remembered the late delivery.

The crate sat exactly where he had left it, tucked beside the freezer chest. A thin ring of condensation had gathered around its base from the morning chill, and the puncture holes along the top edge were now clearly visible in the light. He frowned, then knelt beside it and began cutting the plastic wrap and staples with a box cutter.

The wooden lid came off with a creak of protestation. Inside, there were three sealed plastic tubs—darker and deeper than the usual cricket containers, with tinted lids that obscured the contents. One had the corner vents punctured outward, as though something had pushed through from inside. A soft, rhythmic clicking could be heard when he lifted it.

Cautiously, Jacob peeled back the lid. Inside, the insects were already awake.

They weren’t crickets, not by any standard he recognized.

At first glance, they seemed close—roughly the same size, about two inches long, with long hind legs and segmented antennae—but their bodies were glossy and sharply ridged, with hard carapaces that shimmered faintly in the light. Their eyes were bulbous and faceted, but darker than those of a cricket, almost black, and strangely expressive.

There were perhaps seven or eight of them clustered along the base of the tub. As the lid came off, every one of them turned simultaneously to face him, not in a random, twitchy scatter, but with perfect alignment, as if a signal had passed between them.

Jacob blinked and leaned closer, studying them through the fogged plastic. They didn’t move. They watched.

He’d dealt with enough feeders over the years to know how they behaved—restless, easily startled. These didn’t skitter. They adjusted their stance when he leaned in, three of them raising their front limbs slightly. Another rotated in place and seemed to click a few short bursts toward the others. The rest shifted accordingly.

Jacob swallowed hard, realizing what it looked like: Communication.

He reached for his tweezers, the long, curved kind he used for handling feeder insects, and slowly eased one of the creatures toward the top of the container. It resisted, digging in with a set of tiny claws. He tried again, applying a little more pressure, and the thing twisted around and locked its forelimbs around the metal tip, holding fast.

“Jesus,” Jacob muttered.

He tilted the tweezers, trying to break its grip. With effort, he managed to pry it loose and drop it into a small specimen cup. It clicked violently against the sides for a moment, then stilled. The others in the tub shifted slightly again, fanning their antennae and aligning along the wall closest to the now-missing member.

Jacob brought the specimen cup to the front room, still unsettled. The skink, resting in its enclosure near the window, was fully awake now and nosing at the front glass in anticipation of breakfast.

“Well,” he murmured, “let’s see what you make of this.”

He opened the enclosure, placed the cup inside, and tipped it gently. The insect spilled out, landed upright, and froze. The skink, tongue flicking, approached with casual interest.

What followed lasted less than three seconds.

The insect launched itself forward, unhinged its jaws, and latched onto the skink’s neck. A set of secondary mandibles emerged from within its jaw structure—thin, pale, and bladed—and sliced into the reptile with surgical precision. The skink thrashed once, violently, and then went limp. The insect began consuming it.

Jacob staggered back a step.

The insect’s thorax expanded and contracted as it fed, its slick limbs braced against the body of the skink. A viscous fluid began to seep from the torn hide. The creature wasn’t tearing chunks—it was absorbing. He saw muscle tissue dissolve as the insect burrowed deeper with its needle-like appendages.

Horrified, Jacob reached for the tank lid and dropped it down, sealing the thing inside. The insect reacted instantly, racing up the side and slamming into the glass with enough force to make it crack. Over and over again, it struck the tank, until hairline fractures began to form.

Jacob backed away, feeling the instinct to put distance between himself and whatever he had just let loose. He turned, heading back toward the storage crate, suddenly desperate to inspect the rest.

The other containers were empty.

He froze. The tubs sat neatly where he’d left them, but their lids had been pushed slightly ajar. There was no movement inside, and no trace of the insects, just faint residue at the bottom of each. And in one of them, he spotted a single fragment of what looked like shredded plastic.

He scanned the floor. There were no trails, fluttering antennae, or shadows slipping behind the shelving units. The room was utterly silent.

Jacob turned toward the ceiling vents, then toward the small gap beneath the storage room door. Somewhere behind the walls, he thought he heard a faint scraping sound, rhythmic and brief, barely audible above the hum of the store’s HVAC system.

Then, everything went quiet again.

Part III

Jacob kept his eyes on the crate as he reached for the shop phone. He pressed the number for the supplier’s help line—the same one he’d used for years, usually to check backorders or delay a delivery. A few rings in, the line clicked and shifted to an automated voice.

“Thank you for calling Sandridge Exotics. Our normal business hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday. For emergency concerns, please press four.”

He did.

Another pause, followed by a different voice—an older recording. “You have reached the emergency dispatch for Sandridge Exotics. Please leave a message, and a representative will return your call as soon as possible.”

There was no tone, just silence.

Jacob pressed the number again. This time, the line rang once, and then dropped entirely. A short burst of static blared through the speaker before the call disconnected.

He frowned, hung up, and pulled out his phone to look up the company’s site directly. The page loaded—same logo, same lizard mascot—but the phone number listed didn’t match the one on the box label or his receipt. He tried the new one and was promptly sent to voicemail again. There was no option for immediate assistance.

He set the receiver down and turned toward the back room, where the tub lids now sat at odd angles, one resting on its side. A small trail of dust led to the baseboards behind the reptile supply shelf, but when he crouched to inspect it, the line simply stopped, as if the insect had vanished.

His thoughts turned toward pest control. He had the number of a guy, Manny, who serviced a few nearby shops. But how would he even explain it?

“Hey, Manny, you ever deal with a box of misidentified feeder crickets that coordinated a breakout, murdered a lizard, and then disappeared into the air ducts?”

He stepped away from the crate and walked toward the main counter, intending to pull up the shop’s security system. As he passed the supply shelf, he caught a flicker of movement in the periphery of his vision—too quick and low to register clearly. He spun toward it, but there was nothing there but the mop sink and the closed janitor’s closet.

He reached the computer and pulled up the footage from the night before. The timestamp showed 10:52 p.m.—just after the delivery. He fast-forwarded to midnight, then again to 3:12 a.m., when the overhead night-vision system had picked up motion in the storage room.

He froze the frame. Onscreen, the tubs were no longer still. They rocked in place, their lids trembling as something moved beneath. The lid of the tub nearest the camera slid sideways, and one of the creatures climbed out. It was followed by another, and another. They gathered on the edge of the crate, their antennae waving in short bursts. Then they turned in unison and dropped to the floor, disappearing off-camera.

Jacob clicked to a different angle, one covering the front aisle. Four of them passed into view near the dog toy section, moving with uncanny precision. They paused beneath the register and then, one by one, climbed the leg of a nearby display stand. At the top, one creature perched near the store’s central air vent, turned its head sharply, and began clawing at the aluminum mesh. Another joined it.

He skipped ahead. By 4:05 a.m., the vent was gone, the mesh torn away. The insects had vanished.

A sudden crash shattered the stillness, and Jacob bolted upright. It had come from the front room.

He ran down the aisle and rounded the corner just as the tank exploded in a scatter of safety glass and flying gravel. The skink’s enclosure had been destroyed from the inside. A dense web of cracks radiated from the lower corner, and the insect was nowhere to be seen.

He approached carefully, avoiding the broken glass. A smear of organic residue trailed off the edge of the cabinet, sticky and gray-green. He followed it to the floor, where it stopped cold, with no clear direction, footprints, or further trail.

Jacob moved quickly, ducking behind the counter and pulling on his thickest handling gloves from beneath the register. He retrieved the canister of aerosol mite spray used for reptile enclosures. It wasn’t designed to kill anything large, but it might buy him a moment if he got close enough.

When he returned to the back room, the tubs were completely still, and the inside walls were dry. Even the faint traces of webbing or claw residue had vanished. He examined the crate again, finding no sign of a breach, and yet all the containers were empty.

He moved methodically through the shop, checking beneath racks and shelves, scanning the corners of the ceiling and the undersides of the furniture, and detected no motion or sound. Finally, at a loss, he stood still in the center of the reptile section, listening.

Everything was still. The vents were silent. The walls creaked once, softly, and then quieted. The shop, for the moment, at least, was peaceful.

Jacob glanced back at the shattered tank, then at the sealed storage tubs. He tried to recall how many of the insects had originally been in the container. Was it seven? Eight? Maybe more? He couldn’t recall. They’d moved quickly and silently, and the camera footage had only captured a few frames before they disappeared.

A tight knot of unease formed at the base of his throat as he realized they must still be in the store, somewhere, watching.

Part IV

Jacob didn’t go home that night.

He told himself he was just staying late to monitor things—to protect the remaining animals, maybe install a few extra cameras—but beneath the excuses was something colder and far less rational. He didn’t trust the store anymore. Not the walls, not the shadows between the racks, and certainly not the silence.

He sat in the manager’s chair behind the register, sipping flat soda from a paper cup, watching the surveillance feed on his laptop. Every motion sensor in the store was active, and he’d left every aisle light on, flooding the building with a clinical, buzzing glow. But the insects hadn’t shown themselves since morning. Not to the naked eye, at least.

The only signs of their presence came through the cameras.

At 11:17 p.m., the feed from Camera 3—focused on the far side of the reptile aisle—showed a single insect creeping along the shelving unit that held the UV bulbs and heat mats. It paused at the second shelf, then slowly began dragging a length of packaging wire from behind a filter box. It turned, rotated the wire once, and laid it across the top edge of the shelf.

Seconds later, another appeared in frame. This one was larger and moved differently—its posture more upright, the front limbs held in a way that reminded Jacob, absurdly, of a mantis examining prey. It climbed to meet the first and worked beside it, adjusting the angle of the wire.

They were building something… or preparing.

Jacob stared at the screen, unwilling to blink.

By 11:20, the two insects had repositioned the wire around the base of the overhead light fixture. The bulb flickered once, dimmed, and then returned to normal. Both creatures turned in tandem and disappeared down the backside of the shelf.

Jacob pushed away from the desk and stood, his hand resting on the edge of the counter for balance. The soda sat forgotten beside the register. He crossed to the aisle and walked its length, eyes scanning every shelf and fixture. Nothing stirred. No shadows shifted. No glass tanks rattled. The packaging wire was no longer visible.

He looked up to where the light fixture above the UV bulbs buzzed faintly, flickering at the edges of his peripheral vision. He backed away, and as he did, a soft noise followed, barely audible—a metallic scrape, thin and dry, coming from somewhere near the back stockroom. He turned toward it, moving slowly, and held his breath. The sound continued in short bursts, like claws or tools gently prying at something resistant.

He paused at the stockroom door. The noise, he realized, was definitely coming from inside the wall.

The corner vent, about four feet from the floor, looked untouched—but he could hear movement behind it, not animalistic, but frighteningly measured and purposeful.

He stepped back into the main room, returned to the laptop, and pulled up Camera 6—the interior storage view. What he saw made his stomach twist.

Two insects had emerged from the rear supply shelves. One was perched on the handle of a rolling cart, the other clung to the underside of the central prep table. They moved with eerie silence, each taking turns repositioning the small objects left on the floor—bottle caps, feeding tongs, bits of packaging tape.

They were arranging them into patterns of lines, arcs, and grids. It resembled the beginning of a map, or perhaps a diagram. He couldn’t tell if they were trying to communicate or coordinate, but he was certain they weren’t random.

He pulled the laptop closer, switching feeds. Camera 4—near the front entrance—came to life. Another insect had climbed onto the countertop display beside the impulse-buy snacks and leashes. It leaned against the small metal sign that read “Locally Owned Since 1997” and slowly tilted it forward, positioning it so that it faced the store entrance. It stayed there for a full minute, unmoving, before crawling out of frame.

The lights above the register dimmed briefly, and Jacob jerked his head up. The fluorescents buzzed louder, and then stabilized.

They’re testing the power grid, he thought. They’re familiarizing themselves with it.

A surge of adrenaline pushed him back into motion. He gathered the laptop, a flashlight, and a small toolkit, then retreated into the supply room and shut the door behind him. The lock wasn’t built for real security—just a standard bolt—but he reinforced it with a short metal shelf and a rolling chair, jamming both beneath the handle.

The air was stale and considerably warmer in the room. It smelled faintly of pet food, cardboard, and oil from the mop bucket in the corner. Jacob sat cross-legged behind the shelving and reopened the security feed, scanning each angle.

The insects had returned to the camera view. Three of them now stood at the threshold of the back hallway. One held its body pressed to the seam of the wall, its mandibles twitching. Another slowly approached the door, tapping at the metal frame in quick, rhythmic bursts. The third remained farther back, watching. Standing guard.

Then one began to climb. It scaled the corner of the frame and curled its body along the doorjamb, antennae probing the screw heads in the upper hinge.

Jacob could see them begin to turn.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

He adjusted the camera angle—closer now. The screws were moving. The metal twisted in small jerks, clockwise, then counter-clockwise, as if tiny hands were working in coordination.

The insects were removing the door.

Then, without warning, one of them turned. It moved to the opposite wall and reared up, extending both front limbs toward the camera. Its eyes locked onto the lens. For the first time, Jacob felt unmistakably seen.

The insect reached forward, touched the camera housing, and tilted its head. Then it clicked something beneath the lens, and the feed went black. Only the soft scraping beyond the door remained.

Dear God, he thought, they understood the purpose of the security cameras.

Part V

Jacob gripped his phone with both hands, fingers trembling against the screen as he scrolled to the pest control contact list he kept stored in the shop’s emergency folder. He dialed Manny’s number first. The call rang three times before a groggy voice picked up.

“Yeah?” Manny sounded like he’d been asleep.

“Manny, it’s Jacob. Ellery’s Pet Supplies.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” Jacob said. He tried to steady his voice. “I need you to come out here. Now. I’ve got an infestation that’s not… not normal.”

There was a beat of silence on the line. “What kind of infestation?”

Jacob didn’t know how to answer without sounding unhinged. “Insects. Big. Coordinated. One killed a skink and cracked the tank. They’re inside the walls now. In the vents.”

Manny sighed. “Look, man, I can come by, but it’s gonna be a few. I gotta throw on pants and grab my kit. This ain’t exactly emergency services.”

Jacob closed his eyes. “Please hurry.”

He ended the call and immediately dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My name is Jacob Ellery. I own a pet store on East Bramble and Oak. Something got delivered to me, not what I ordered—something alive—and it’s loose in my building. I don’t know what it is, but it attacked one of my animals. Now it’s trying to get through the supply room door. I called pest control, but by the time they get here, it might be too late.”

“Sir, are you in immediate danger?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m in danger! That’s what I’ve been telling you! You’ve got to believe me! They’re trying to unscrew the hinges!”

“‘They’?”

“Insects! Big ones. Not like anything I’ve seen. At least half a dozen. They’re intelligent and organized. They’re removing hardware from the door. Please, you’ve got to help me!”

Another pause.

“Are you under the influence of any substances, Mr. Ellery?”

Jacob let out a short, bitter laugh. “I’m not high, and I’m not crazy. Just send someone! Please!”

“Alright. We’re dispatching a unit now.”

He remained crouched in the supply room, every muscle tense, eyes locked on the monitor of his laptop. The remaining interior camera showed the hallway outside. Nothing moved. The insects had retreated from the door after disabling the other feed, but he knew they hadn’t left. He could feel them, listening and waiting.

Fifteen minutes passed before, finally, there was movement on the street.

The exterior camera caught it first: Manny’s faded blue van pulling into the alley lot. A moment later, the brighter headlights of a patrol car rolled up behind him. Jacob switched to the front camera feed as the pest control tech stepped out, dressed in a zip-up hoodie and jeans, a silver case under one arm. Officer Dana Castillo exited her cruiser with more caution, scanning the storefront as she adjusted her radio.

Jacob activated the store’s speaker intercom and pressed the button.

“Manny. Officer. I’m in the back. Don’t come inside alone.”

Both figures looked up, startled.

“Jacob?” Manny called.

“Yes. Listen carefully. The insects are inside. They’re not normal. If you open the door, go slowly. Move together. Keep the lights on.”

The officer tilted her head, hand hovering near her holster. “Sir, I need to confirm your safety. Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay, for now. I’m in the back supply room. They tried to breach it earlier. They’re hiding now.”

Manny turned toward the door and swiped his card on the access pad. The lock clicked. Together, he and Castillo pushed into the entryway.

The camera inside the front room followed them as they entered.

Jacob watched on the feed as they moved cautiously through the lobby, the officer sweeping her flashlight across the aisles. Manny stayed close behind, holding a spray canister of industrial pest repellent in one hand, the metal case dangling from his shoulder strap.

“Nothing yet,” the officer muttered. “Place looks clean.”

Manny reached for the wall switch and flicked it upward. Fluorescents buzzed to life overhead.

At first, the brightness seemed to settle the room. Then a faint clatter came from the ceiling. Jacob leaned closer to the screen.

The vent grating above the reptile aisle popped loose.

Something spilled down—a flash of segmented limbs and glossy black carapace—and landed directly on Castillo’s shoulder. She shouted, swatting at it, but a second creature dropped from the opposite side and latched onto her leg.

Manny tried to intervene, swinging his case, but another insect darted up his back and hooked its forelimbs around his neck. The feed went chaotic—blurred motion, falling displays, a burst of static as the camera jolted from impact.

Jacob saw Officer Castillo go down, her flashlight tumbling across the floor.

More of them swarmed into frame, emerging from vents, from behind shelving, even from within the false bottom of the freezer unit. They came fast, dozens of spindly legs clicking against tile. One reared up and spat something at Manny’s face—clear, fast-moving—and he collapsed seconds later, convulsing.

Castillo reached for her sidearm. She fired once, but her hand was dragged down before she could take a second shot. The bullet hit a fluorescent tube, showering glass across the room. The feed flickered, briefly stabilized, and then showed her being pulled out of frame.

Jacob stared at the monitor. The screen showed only the front room again. It was quiet and dim, with no bodies in sight, only a blood trail and the faint outline of claw marks near the wall where the freezer used to stand.

Then the feed froze.

Jacob closed the laptop and leaned against the shelving unit, chest tight, arms limp at his sides.

He was alone again, and no one else was coming.

Part VI

The first bolt popped from the top hinge with a dry, metallic ping. Jacob pressed his shoulder against the supply room door, bracing for the final breach. The chair beneath the handle groaned as pressure mounted from the other side. A second bolt twisted loose, dropping to the concrete floor.

He waited, but nothing followed. A moment later, the sound ceased, and the pressure on the door relaxed. Still, he remained frozen in place, sweat beading along his brow, unsure whether it was a feint. Seconds passed in silence, and then minutes.

Jacob slid the chair aside slowly and knelt to peer through the narrow gap between the door and the frame. The hallway was empty.

He took a deep breath and unlocked the latch. The door creaked open an inch at a time. Every nerve in his body flinched as he expected to see one of them waiting, curled against the frame, ready to strike—but no movement greeted him. The hallway remained still, dust hanging in the air.

He stepped out carefully, keeping low, his ears tuned to any noise. The lights above flickered faintly, casting unreliable illumination across the floor. The security camera at the far end was dark—its lens smashed.

The reptile aisle looked as though a hurricane had passed through it. Shelving units had been overturned, heat lamps lay shattered on the tile, and a trail of greenish liquid streaked across the floor where one of the insects had dragged a body out of view. The freezer door stood wide open. There was no sign of Manny or Officer Castillo.

Jacob scanned the wreckage but saw no bodies, only torn equipment, splintered plastic, and deep, jagged scratches along the walls where the insects had climbed and clung.

A sick realization gripped him: they had taken the victims with them.

He moved slowly toward the front counter, avoiding the largest piles of debris, his eyes flicking toward every shadow and vent cover. The bell above the door hung twisted, barely attached.

Beyond the glass storefront, the street lay bathed in the dim orange glow of the alley’s overhead lamp. For a brief moment, Jacob thought perhaps they had gone—retreated back into whatever hole they had emerged from.

Then he saw them.

Six of the creatures crawled along the edge of the sidewalk, their movements unnervingly fluid. Two of them flanked the entrance to the neighboring building—a squat brick structure housing Pepe’s Tacos & More, a twenty-four-hour restaurant popular with the graveyard shift crowd and drunk college students.

Jacob pressed closer to the glass.

The insects were gathering beneath the patio awning, slipping under the metal railings and disappearing into the decorative hedges that lined the perimeter. One of them crawled up the side of the outdoor signpost, its limbs spread wide to keep balance, and perched beside the neon logo. Its antennae flicked forward.

Jacob looked past it, through the wide windows of the restaurant.

Inside, a handful of customers sat hunched over paper baskets of tacos and burritos. A man in a beanie scrolled on his phone. Two women shared nachos at the corner booth. A cook behind the counter leaned against the wall, wiping his hands on his apron as he glanced toward the fryer.

None of them knew.

Before Jacob had time to consider his next move, the creatures were already in motion. He watched one slink through the base of the building’s ventilation shaft, followed by a second and a third. Another crawled under the lip of the patio floor. They moved methodically, in silence and without frenzy, as though fully aware that their prey was oblivious.

Jacob’s hand trembled as he touched the glass. He wanted to shout at them to run for their lives, to run across the lot and pound on the windows. But what would that do, besides alert the insects to his location? His mind was spinning with the image of Castillo’s final moments. If those things could dismantle a trained officer, he wondered, how long would it take to tear him apart?

Inside the restaurant, the man in the beanie stood and stretched.

Behind him, just out of sight, a shadow moved behind the counter.

Jacob watched helplessly as one of the creatures launched itself onto the cook’s back. The man stumbled, screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the sudden shatter of glass. The creature had flung him forward, through a rack of trays.

Another burst came from beneath the customer booth. The two women stood in shock for a second too long, and were pulled violently beneath the table.

Screams erupted. Customers rushed toward the exit, but two of the creatures were already waiting by the door, limbs outstretched. One man kicked wildly, then vanished behind the counter, dragged by his ankle.

A chair crashed through one of the windows. A woman in an apron leapt through the opening, screaming into the night as blood streaked across her arms. She made it six steps before something clamped onto her leg and brought her down just beyond the curb.

Jacob stepped back from the glass, bile rising in his throat.

Chaos spilled from the restaurant into the parking lot. A man bolted toward a parked car, fumbled with his keys, then dropped to the asphalt as one of the creatures leapt from above and pinned him to the hood. Another person tried to flee across the alley but was intercepted at the edge of the dumpster enclosure.

Jacob looked toward the edge of the block. There were no sirens or lights. No help was coming, at least not yet. And even if they did, he wondered if it would make any difference.

All he could see was the quiet sprawl of the town, sleeping quietly, wholly unaware that something awful was happening, and that it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Part VII

Minutes later, red and blue lights bloomed against the storefront glass.

Jacob pressed his back to the interior wall of the shop, out of sight but close enough to monitor the chaos unfolding outside. The faint hum of sirens grew louder as a caravan of emergency vehicles swept into the parking lot—two cruisers, a fire engine, and an ambulance, all flanked by a tactical response van that rumbled to a stop behind Pepe’s.

Officers in Kevlar moved quickly, shouting orders and waving civilians away. One of them guided the bloodied woman—still shaking, barefoot and dazed—toward the paramedics. Another crouched beside the man on the hood of his car, checking for vitals.

Jacob watched from his phone’s camera feed as the officers spread out across the restaurant’s perimeter, weapons drawn. Flashlights swept across broken windows and scattered debris. One officer tapped at his chest mic and called something into dispatch.

The footage offered a momentary illusion of order—of professionals stepping into the breach, ready to restore control. But Jacob had seen what these things could do, and he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

The first sign came from the alley. A shape moved low against the curb, flicking forward with unnerving speed. A second followed, then a third. Their glossy exoskeletons caught only slivers of light as they darted beneath cars and coiled near wheel wells. None of the officers saw them at first, not until a young responder reached to open the back of the tactical van.

An insect launched itself from beneath the vehicle and clamped onto his forearm, jaws sliding open with a wet click. He screamed, but not for long. The creature burrowed beneath the armor plates, vanishing into the gaps of his gear.

Two others sprang onto the hood, forcing the windshield inward with their combined strength.

Another officer raised a shotgun and fired. The blast knocked one of the insects sideways, cracking its carapace—but it didn’t die. It shrieked, spun upright, and rushed the shooter. Its limbs moved like razors. Jacob watched the feed in mute horror as the remaining creatures emerged from all sides. They came from the gutters, the dumpsters, even the storm drain near the sidewalk. It was as though the earth itself had opened to deliver them.

The responders tried to form a perimeter, firing in coordinated bursts, but the insects adapted. They darted from blind angles, leapt over shields, and broke out of formation. One officer attempted to pull a creature off his partner, only to have his wrist snapped by a pair of vice-like mandibles.

Flashes lit the lot—muzzle bursts, warning strobes, a flare from a canister of pepper foam. None of it slowed them. One by one, the responders fell. Some were dragged under vehicles, while others simply vanished from the frame.

Jacob closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the tactical van’s windshield had collapsed inward. Smoke rose from a punctured tire. The woman who had escaped the restaurant lay slumped beside a paramedic unit, unmoving.

Then, as suddenly as the violence had begun, new headlights swept across the scene. Five unmarked vans pulled in from the far end of the block. They didn’t arrive with sirens or flash warning lights. They came quietly and efficiently, their engines smooth and electric. The first van halted near the smashed cruiser, and its doors opened.

Men in black gear stepped out. Their uniforms bore no insignia, and their masks had no visors. Each carried a compact, unfamiliar device that resembled a cross between a leaf blower and a weaponized fogger. They moved without hesitation, with silent determination.

The lead agent raised his device and activated it. A plume of dense, shimmering gas burst forward, halting one of the insects mid-lunge. It froze instantly, its legs twitching. Its forward momentum faltered. It staggered sideways, clicking violently, and then collapsed. Another agent advanced, spraying a tight arc across the patio where two insects had climbed the brick siding. They dropped one after the other, writhing briefly before falling still.

The creatures didn’t cry out or flee, but simply stopped. Jacob watched as the agents worked in synchronized lines, sweeping the area with calm precision. Each time a creature dropped, a second agent moved in behind the gas trail, carrying a silver containment tube the size of a duffel bag. The bodies—still twitching—were lifted in with padded instruments and sealed away.

In less than five minutes, the lot was quiet again.

Six insects were recovered. Two others, immobilized but not dead, were placed in military-grade restraints and carried to a reinforced transport unit. One, larger than the others, required a full-body clamp and a sealed exosuit chamber to be lifted safely.

Jacob remained behind the glass, unmoving.

No one approached the pet store. No one called for survivors. The agents didn’t look around or search the surrounding shops. Their task was narrow and surgical. It was not merely containment, but retrieval.

One of the agents moved toward the ambulance. He spoke to the sole surviving paramedic in a tone Jacob couldn’t hear. Whatever was said, it required no discussion. The paramedic nodded, climbed into the vehicle, and drove away without using his lights, looking as if he’d seen a ghost.

Soon, the vans reversed out of the lot and disappeared into the night.

The ruined taco shop remained dark, its neon sign flickering behind the cracked window.

Jacob stood alone in the hollow stillness, bathed in the faint blue haze of his phone screen. The front of his store looked like a war zone. Blood stained the pavement just outside. A severed antennae lay beside the threshold.

And no one had even asked if he needed help.

Part VIII

The lights in the storefront had stayed off since that night.

Jacob sat in the back office with the blinds drawn, the scent of bleach still clinging faintly to the walls. He hadn’t reopened. No customers had knocked. No news vans had come. The world beyond the pet store carried on without so much as a whisper of what had happened. Jacob had no idea how he was going to pay to repair all the damage caused.

He had checked every station, feed, and paper, but couldn’t find a single mention of the incident. The police department’s public log listed a false alarm at the taco shop and a closed medical call at the same address. There was no mention of fatalities or of any sort of follow-up, let alone missing persons reported. Every person who had succumbed to the insects had their death swept away, their disappearances left unexplained, with the families of the deceased left to deal with the consequences, without the courtesy of an explanation.

Jacob stopped trying to report it after the third time he was transferred to a disconnected line.

He slept in the back of the store now, curled beneath a fleece blanket on an unused shelving pad, surrounded by sealed vents.  He

A week later, he discovered another package waiting on the step. There was no knock, and he never caught a glimpse of the delivery driver or the vehicle that carried him, and yet there it was.

He found it just after dawn, a plain brown box with a printed label bearing the familiar green-and-white cricket farm logo. As before, the address matched the shop’s. The sender’s name was close—Sanridge Exotix LLC—but something in the font was subtly wrong, too crisp and uniform, like a facsimile printed from memory.

There was no signature or tracking slip.

He brought the box inside and set it on the front counter. The place still smelled of melted plastic and scorched wire.

On top of the package lay a white envelope. It had no stamp or postmark, just his name in block letters. Inside was a check, made out to Jacob Ellery, in the amount of $14,200.00, drawn from a bank he’d never heard of. The name of the issuing account had been left blank. Below the check, on a single typed sheet of paper, was a short message:

Mr. Ellery —

We regret the recent mishap regarding your shipment. A temporary routing malfunction caused certain experimental biological material to be misdirected.
The matter has since been resolved. Your account has been credited, and your original order has been fulfilled.
This will not happen again.
Thank you for your discretion.

There was no signature, contact information, or return address.

Jacob stared at the note for a long time, then folded it and placed it back into the envelope. He turned to the box and examined the tape along the top.

The weight was right for a cricket order—lighter than the earlier late-night shipment. There was a faint shifting sound when he tilted it, the dry scrape of tiny limbs against cardboard. He knew the sound. He’d heard it a thousand times before. But now, it made the hairs on his neck rise.

He brought the box closer to his ear. From within, there was movement—a single, measured shift, as though something inside had turned its attention toward him.

Jacob set the box down and slowly backed away, never taking his eyes off it.

The box shook violently, just once, but that was all he needed to see.

Jacob turned and ran, and never looked back.

He had no idea what was in the box this time, but he knew one thing for sure.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t crickets.

Whatever was in the box, he wasn’t sticking around to find out.