VI

USP Coleman I was located deep in the woods outside of Coleman, Florida. It was a maximum security prison for severe male offenders with a long list of famous current and former inmates. Its illustrious seventy-plus-year history was near unblemished, a real jewel in the corrections facility crown of the United States judicial services. Corrections Officer Todd Furley cared nothing about that. He hated USP Coleman I and couldn't wait for a transfer to another location. It was a hell hole located in the middle of an even bigger hell hole and filled with the nastiest array of humanity that could ever be combined under one roof.

Furley's rounds brought him by convicted terrorists, rapists, fraudsters, and a cornucopia of murderers. One had flung his fresh feces at Todd on more than one occasion, laughing maniacally as the warm dung splashed upon his freshly pressed uniform. Todd bashed his fingers with a nightstick the first time it happened. From then on, he had an antagonistic relationship with both the inmates and his superiors. He was quick with the nightstick but quicker with the tongue. Any insult hurled his way could lead an inmate to a week or more of solitary, purgatory for the socially starved inmates of USP Coleman I. 

That evening, Furley was in the guard tower. He was seated with his legs propped up on the arm of the empty swivel chair next to him, watching a YouTube video purporting another conspiracy that sounded quite reasonable to him. Furley was a longtime believer in both QAnon and the deep state. He had voted for Donald Trump in both 2016 and 2020 and contributed hundreds of dollars to the Stop The Steal campaign. He would have stormed the capital with the rest of the patriots on January 6th, but he was unable to get the time off from work. At least, that's what he told his friends and co-workers.

"That shit is gonna rot your brain, man," said Clay Brunel, a fellow corrections officer and the only other guard on duty in the tower that evening.

Clay was a rare liberal-minded thinker in the Coleman area. His parents had been hippies from Nashville and raised him to be an open-minded free thinker. They had moved to the Green Swamp to escape from society, or so they said. Clay always believed it was so they could grow their copious marijuana plants in peace in the comfy camouflage of the swamp. Despite their laidb-ack nature, Clay grew up aggressive, high-strung, and prone to fighting. It was only after several tours of duty in Iraq that he was able to enjoy the slower pace as a corrections officer at USP Coleman I.

"Don't be a libtard, Clay. Open your eyes to the shit that's happening right in front of you!" Todd replied, removing his feet from the other chair and showing the cell phone to Clay. "This shit is real."

"Keep your conspiracies to yourself," Clay said, pushing the cell phone away, afraid of what wild shit his co-worker could be watching.

"Typical," Todd replied. "Keep your head up your ass and see how much good it'll do, yah."

"Why don't you do your job?"

"Do what? I'm off in twenty-two minutes. Things are quiet. I cleaned the damn bathroom. What more do you want from me?"

"Maybe, at least, pretend to be working in case the old man shows up unannounced."

Todd looked up to Clay, then turned off the video and put his cell phone back into his pocket. He turned back to the control panel and looked down at the gauges.

"You right," he said in a mock accent. "You right."

Clay huffed but did not engage further. Instead, he removed himself to the bathroom for a few moments of peace. When he clicked on the light, he is greeted with the same dirty bathroom he'd pissed in previously, the same bathroom that he had implored Todd Furley to clean as it was his turn to perform the task. Clay groaned as he shuffled to the same stall that he always used, positioned himself comfortably, and stared at the back of the door while relieving himself thoroughly. After five minutes of peaceful relief, Clay washed his hands and exited the bathroom.

"I thought you told me you cleaned the..,"

Clay stopped when he saw Todd's face. He was white as a sheet, standing frozen above the control panel. Clay was looking at his anguished expression with surprise.

"What?" Clay inquired. "What is it?"

Todd did not reply. Instead, he pointed his finger toward the large slanted window that looked down upon the facility and the woods beyond. Clay turned and saw what looked like a wave of black spilling out of the woods and onto the outer walls.

"What the fuck is th..," Clay began to say.

"Shh!" Todd cut him off. "Listen!"

They listened intently to the chirping that was now ringing throughout the complex. It grew louder as the wave crossed over the outer walls and spilled into the inner yards of the penitentiary. Todd, who had previously been stoic, almost frozen, suddenly bursts into a series of jumps and screams.

"I fucking knew it! I fucking knew it! I knew they had been working on some weirdo shit, but I never woulda guessed it was giant bugs, but goddammit, it makes so much sense. It's a genetically engineered army. Alex Jones was right! Goddamn, they really fucking did it! They really fucking did it. Holy shit!"

"Who did it?" Clay asked, his voice wracked with fear.

"The deep state! They've been planning their counter-attack for January 6th for years now, and here it is! Genetically engineered bugs. It's genius.., the bastards."

"Giant bugs?" Clay asked, leaning into the glass window to get a better look at the army of creatures pouring into the complex. There must have been tens of thousands of them.

"Looks like crickets, of all things," Todd replied, his unconcealed manic joy still pouring from him.

"Why crickets?" Clay asked, not knowing why he asked it.

"Why not?" Todd replied.