The Flies of Winter

For the past few months, Gene Key 11 has been with me in a powerful way (It's in my IQ with a Line 1). A few vivid images came rushing into my mind, and I felt compelled to write a short story that captured the very intense experiences I've had with this Key.

I packed fast. The penthouse was dark, darker than usual. Something was wrong. The noise hammered at my skull—like machine guns on sheet metal. A sick, metallic rattle.

I turned to the windows.

The flies.

Thousands of them, slamming against the glass, their tiny bodies snapping like twigs. Black shutters of living filth. The pine trees outside were gone, swallowed by the swarm.

I stuffed my last pair of socks into the suitcase. Zipped it shut. Time to go.

Out in the street, the flies rained down in thick, wet clumps. The cars, the traffic lights—swollen, distorted. I pushed through, my breath short, the air thick with rot. Something crunched under my boot. Their bodies stuck to my skin, crawled into my collar.

I made it to the car. My fingers slipped on the handle. The door gave way, and I fell inside.

I caught my breath. Slammed the door shut. Sped off into the black sludge.

For sixty miles, the windshield was pounded by flies. Black hail. The car climbed higher. Snow began to glimmer on the edges of the road. Minute by minute, the swarm thinned, then disappeared. I stopped. Looked out at the Cedars, draped in white.

No more flies.

I made it to the cabin. A fresh chill hit me when I opened the door. A storm was coming.

In the kitchen, I grabbed the whiskey. Just a third left. Threw on a wool sweater. Turned on the fireplace. Sank into the couch. My body felt drained, and before I knew it, I was out.

I woke up sweating. It was still dark. My body burned under the blankets, soaked in sweat. My breath felt heavy.

I sat up. No idea what time it was. I reached for my watch but saw nothing. My hand wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Had the storm been yesterday? Last month? Had it ever happened? The more I tried to remember, the less sure I was.

I took a deep breath, tried to retrace my steps. How had I gotten into the car? A strange certainty crept in—I hadn’t seen a soul in years. Not a human, not a dog, not a bird, not an ant. Just me, sitting alone on the crest of a snow-covered mountain.

Then I heard it.

A faint whizzing in the air.

Something small circled me, then landed on my hand. Tiny legs moved along my skin. A fly.

I exhaled.

Me and the fly. Together. Alone.

I closed my eyes. Let it sit there. Its warmth, its tiny weight. A strange peace settled over me.

Maybe, I thought, this was enough.