Volume 5: Instar

Issue 7: Crossroads

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

A series of high-pitched barks sounded from the other side of the front door. Camilo knocked again. The ornate, iron door-knocker made three solid thuds. He took a step back, and we waited outside Amber’s apartment.

It was the weekend—a couple of days after our meeting at Aesop’s. In the meantime, my bees had made a few discoveries about the people on Amber’s list. Hence, why she had invited us over to discuss it. I could hear faint voices coming from inside the peach-painted townhouse, mixed in with the barking.

When the door opened, I had expected to see Amber. After all, she was the one who had invited us over.

Instead, some guy stood on the other side. He was tall with piercing blue eyes, pale white skin, and styled hair colored a dull brown. He looked to be a couple years older than us, but not any older than a college student. I figured that maybe he could be Amber’s brother, although there wasn’t much resemblance between the two.

Camilo and I exchanged a glance, uncertain as to what to say.

“Babe, I think your friends are here,” the guy called over his shoulder.

Babe? Did he just say that? I saw Camilo’s expression turn from uncertainty to alarm, mirroring my own expression.

Amber showed up next to the guy, cradling a small dog in her arms. “Skippy, shush,” she said. The dog—barely bigger than a chihuahua—had pointy ears, big puppy eyes, and a short, tan coat. Ignoring her request, it wrestled free of her grip. The dog proceeded to run up to Camilo and I, where it halted and continued its relentless barking.

“Come on, guys. Don’t mind Skippy,” she said, gesturing for us to come inside. “Oh, and say hi to my boyfriend,” she added. “This is Ranger.”

My eyes narrowed slightly. Although not uncommon, I always thought it was unfortunate when parents named their kids after superheroes. How was anyone supposed to live up to that? Regardless, it wasn’t a name I recognized from Chapel High… Nor a face I could place. Who was this guy?

“Hi guys,” this stranger, Ranger, said nonchalantly.

“Hi,” Camilo replied in a flat tone. We both stared at him.

Ranger turned to Amber again, craning his neck slightly as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “Well, see you later, then?” he said.

“See you later,” she replied. He walked out past Camilo and I, then continued down the street. Hesitantly, the two of us walked in. Once Ranger disappeared, the dog’s barking dissipated to a low growl.

“Who… Who was that?” Camilo asked, closing the door behind us.

“I told you. My boyfriend,” Amber said simply.

“But… He doesn’t go to Chapel, does he?” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “No, he goes to Berkeley.” The way she said it rubbed me the wrong way—as if that was a point of pride, instead of something wrong.

“You’re dating a college student?” Camilo said, his mouth falling open.

“Come on, he’s just a freshman.” She picked up Skippy again. With a soothing shhh, the dog’s growling faded. She looked between us. Once she seemed to realize that her statement hadn’t had the reassuring effect she thought it would, she continued with a more defensive tone, “What, you think I should date some immature Albatross brat instead? No way.”

“That’s not what…” Camilo began, before he was interrupted.

“I’m going to be Prom Queen this year. No way Stacey’s taking it from me.” She flashed her pearly, white teeth in a calculated smile. “And Ranger looks good. Straight As, scholarships, handsome. He has it all.”

“Still…” I began, unsure what to make of these prom politics. “You don’t think, that’s a bit… I don’t know, creepy?”

“Oh, Flory-worry,” she brushed me off. “Don’t forget who I am. I’m Spindle. I can handle myself.”

“Flory-worry?” Camilo echoed, and I realized he hadn’t had the misfortune of hearing the nickname yet. “That’s not even a proper rhyme.”

“It’s a slant rhyme, if you guys could get that through your thick skulls. Ever read a poem? Emily Dickinson? Mary Oliver? Roses are fucking red?”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” Camilo said.

Amber rolled her eyes. Then, still cradling Skippy, she turned away and headed into the living room.

Camilo raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged, and we followed her in. This thing with Ranger still seemed off to me, but I wasn’t really sure what I could do about that right now. I resolved to bring it up with Camilo later. When I looked at him, his eyebrows furrowed in thought—as if the same concern crossed his mind.

The inside of the townhouse appeared just as elegant as the outside. The hallway opened into a bright living room, with a subtle but modern look. The walls were mostly empty, with the exception of a built-in bookcase and a big wall-mounted TV. In the center of the room, there was a cylindrical tank filled with moon jellyfish. They drifted lazily in the water, bathed in a light purple glow.

“This is… nice.” Camilo cleared his throat. “Umh, where are your parents?”

“At work,” Amber replied.

“What do they do?”

“Dad programs for Google, and Mom is a secretary at Soria Moria Co.”

“Huh…” Camilo leaned over to look closer at one of the jellyfish. He voiced the question which had crossed my mind, too, “But… You go to public school?”

Amber paused. For a moment, I thought I detected a flash of worry cross her face. But the moment was short-lived. When she spoke, it was with her usual snark, “Yeah, my parents thought it was important that I got to be around normal kids, so I could learn modesty before I rise to the throne of the family dynasty.”

“Ex… Excuse me?” Camilo said, giving me a look that said she can’t be serious.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Camilo. It’s a joke. Where’s your sense of humor?”

Before we had a chance to respond, she started up the stairs. She led us to the loft—her bedroom, I realized. Although the ceiling was lower, sloping down to the edges, the room itself was spacious. It wasn’t overly decorated, but the decorations that were there were tasteful. A few pictures hung on the wall: prints of black-and-white photographs portraying old-timey cars—like from The Great Gatsby or something. A red guitar sat in the corner, while vibrant vines hung from pots above the window sill. The glow of fairy lights softened the dark brown, wooden walls. Skippy jumped onto the large canopy bed, sliding in between the laced curtains hanging from the frame. The room wouldn’t have been out of place in a magazine—it was spotless.

“This is… umh, nice,” I said, not really sure what the appropriate reaction would be. Maybe Camilo and I sounded like a broken record, but the house really was nice. That is, in a sort of clinical sense of the word, where you felt like you couldn’t relax or do anything because you were scared of ruining something.

“Is that what I think it is?” Camilo nodded to a cork board which hung over her desk.

“Depends on what you think.” Amber grinned.

I looked at the cork board, realizing that it was actually composed of multiple cork boards placed next to each other. In spite of the extra space, the boards were almost filled up. Photographs were pinned across them, labeled with names and various notes. Some photos looked like they could be someone’s selfies, taken off Instagram or Facebook. Others looked like they had been captured at a distance, unbeknownst to the subject as they walked across the schoolyard or down the hallway. Some of them I recognized: Jay, Helen, Ryan, the students on Amber’s list, a few others I had seen around Chapel… But, more notably, strings of yarn connected some of the portraits. The threads came in different colors, as if denoting some type of meaning. It looked like something out of a detective noir film. Or maybe the mad ravings of some conspiracy nut.

“So, this… This is what you see?” Camilo said, walking closer to the board.

I inspected it with him. The pattern of the strings reminded me of an ecosystem’s food web; the way Amber had organized the pictures had a kind of cascading effect, like trophic levels. At the bottom, I recognized Jay, Lucy, and Helen. Others had been labeled as well: Kenny, Rob, Mario, Rose, David, Isaiah, a couple more… No one I knew personally, but people I had seen around in the hallways or in classes. Amber had marked the corner of some of the portraits—including Jay and a few more–with little symbols I didn’t understand. For others, she had noted “at risk” or the dates of certain parties, followed by the name of who hosted it.

“Each string shows a relationship,” Amber confirmed.

The people in Jay’s group were largely disconnected, but the yarn did connect them all back to Ryan. Like Amber had described before, his connections spread out to another group—rather, what looked to be the top of the food chain. I recognized Ray, Mona, and Kai. While the other portraits included notes on club activities or social media handles, the information on this last group was sparser. As if they didn’t really exist outside of their class schedules.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“How did you even do all of this?” I said, a bit taken aback. “How long did this take?”

“Not as long as it has been taking you to find anything,” she retorted. Camilo and I stepped aside as she drew the office chair out from under her desk. She sat down and opened one of the drawers. Her sharp nails brushed over a row of file folders, until she settled on one. She took it out. “So, what do you have for us?”

“Wait, is that a… a… I don’t even know, what is this?” Camilo stuttered.

“It’s my archive.” Glancing down at the file, she continued, “Well, Florian?”

“Uhm, so…” I hadn’t exactly come with a prepared report—nothing like her setup, and certainly not a completed conspiracy board. Regardless, the bees hadn’t returned entirely empty-handed, either. “So, my scouts shadowed the names on your list for the last couple of days. And they noted a couple of things.”

“Well, come on and spill the bees,” Camilo said. Amber and I stared blankly at him. “Get it, ‘cause you’re…? You know what, never mind.” He looked down.

“Anyway,” I paused, “firstly, it seems that around six of them meet up every night. Who the others are, I don’t know. But bees are sensitive to smells, and it sounds like they’ve identified the same people both nights—more or less. They’re also dressed similarly… with some type of headgear.”

“What headgear?” Amber said while jotting something down into her file.

“I’m not sure. The bees said that their heads would turn shiny and bald, like a darkened moon…” I sighed, knowing the description wasn’t exactly helpful, but it was my best interpretation of what they had relayed to me. “One lights up, with some kind of glowing pulse. I’m not sure what it is exactly. Some type of helmet or mask maybe?”

“Interesting.” She paused, as if reflecting on the possibilities. “What else?”

“These guys drive around, pretty late into the night. It doesn’t seem like they have any strict routes they take, but they’ve been meeting up in the same location every evening.”

Amber looked up from her notes. “Where?”

“I think it’s close to the Muir Woods,” I said. It had been somewhat of a coincidence that I was able to put two and two together when the bees informed me that they met near the redwoods. There were only so many redwoods north of the Golden Gate Bridge, and my parents had taken me hiking there more than a few times when I was younger.

“That’s like… way north, isn’t it? What would they be doing so far out of town?” Camilo said.

I shrugged. “Maybe drug transportations, or something like that… Whatever it is, it’s outside the scope of the bee’s comprehension.”

“Anything else?” Amber asked.

“Unless you want to know about the best flower beds in town, not really.”

She noted something in her file, before tapping her pencil against the paper—as if in thought.

“Alright,” Camilo spoke up. “Let’s get going, then.”

“Go where?” I said.

“To those woods,” he said, as if it was already obvious what we should do. “You guys have your costumes ready, right?”

Amber looked up from her notes, eyeing Camilo while he surveyed the dozen or so portraits which covered her cork boards.

“I’m not so sure we should just barge into this,” I muttered. An uneasy buzz ran through my chest. “I mean, what do we have to go on? Really?”

“You know where they are, right?” Camilo turned toward me now.

“Well, sure, but I don’t know who they are or what they’re capable of. Or even if they’re doing anything wrong at all…”

“Seems like that would have a simple solution,” Camilo said. “We can go find out.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I sighed. My eyes flickered to Amber, who watched our exchange intently. I continued, “But how would we even get there? And, if this really is what we think it is, some kind of organized crime…” I shrunk back under their stares. The way they both looked at me, I started to wonder if my reservations really were crazy. With the monster, with Max—the urgency of those situations had driven me into action… But all of this seemed different, somehow. “Look, I want to help, but I’m not sure this is the way to go on about it. Maybe we could tip the police or something?”

Seemingly oblivious to my worry, Amber grinned. “I can get us there, piece of cake,” she said.

Camilo continued, “Then I say we go. Sure, we could tell the cops, but how long would that take? We only know their recent whereabouts, right? That could change overnight, if it hasn’t already. I say we check it out, at the very least.”

“Never thought I would see the day I agreed with a theater kid, but yes. We should go,” Amber said. “If things go south, we can use Florian’s bees and Camilo’s illusions for cover and get out.”

I sighed. “Okay.” Maybe I was overthinking it, but even so, a restlessness was beginning to grow within the swarm… Either way, I was outnumbered. “Fine.”

Amber closed her file. “It’s settled then,” she smiled.

Camilo went to the bathroom to put on his costume. All I had to do was step into my beekeeper’s suit, which I still carried with me in my backpack. Meanwhile, Amber disappeared into a walk-in closet.

While I waited for them to finish, I reached my hand out to the little dog curled up on the bed. I scratched him behind his ear. He seemed to have warmed up a bit to me now that I hadn’t proven myself to actually be a threat. “Assume the worst first and ask questions later, is that it?” I mumbled. The dog stared blankly at me in response, wagging his rat-like tail as I continued to scratch him.

Camilo returned first, in Stagehand’s white theater mask alongside a simple black shirt and skinny jeans. “How’s the rat doing?” he said, nodding to the dog.

“Okay, I think.” Unless you counted bees, I’d never really had any pets. But he seemed to be more accepting of our presence compared to before, at least.

While we waited, I glanced over to Stagehand, and saw him scrolling his Instagram feed. “So, how are…”

Before I could finish, Amber—or Spindle—returned. Her costume had undergone a couple of changes since I last saw it. She was now capeless—considering that she had sacrificed the cape during Max’s attack. In addition, she carried a metal baseball bat. I realized that it must be the one she had picked up from the sports field—except, she had painted it a bright pink.

“Follow me,” she ordered.

The three of us headed down the stairs, which took us underground into a garage. Spindle strutted over to a parked car. The car itself was a striking red, and—judging by the way it reflected the overhead fluorescent lights—had been washed recently. It looked to be older; I guessed from the 60s or 70s. It had sharper contours, in a way that most modern cars lacked. Its headlights were slightly elevated above the hood, further contributing to the distinctive look. Upon closer inspection, I recognized the Pontiac logo. I didn’t know much about cars, but even I knew that this was a far cry from my parents’ old pickup.

Spindle hit the car keys, then took her place in the driver’s seat.

“Uh, are you sure your parents would be okay with us taking this?” Stagehand said. “What if… something happens?”

I didn’t want to think too deeply about what he imagined could happen that would go as far as affecting the car.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Spindle laughed. “It’s mine.” She leaned over to the glove compartment, and—to my surprise—took out actual gloves. They had open knuckles, and the palms were colored red while the backs were white. She took off the rhinestone-covered gloves of her costume, and replaced them with the new pair. Then she wrapped her hands around the wheel in a grip that was firm, but somehow deliberate—tender, perhaps. “Get in, losers,” she smirked.

Stagehand and I looked at each other in silence for a moment. “I call shotgun,” he said.

Maybe this was a fool’s errand, I thought—but at least we would show up in style. I seated myself in the back. My sensitive nose picked up a faint trace of weed—the smell was older, but unmistakable. Did Amber…?

“One thing before we go.” Spindle interrupted my thoughts, turning to Stagehand. “You need to change her appearance. That way, we’ll be a little harder to track.”

“I can change the color and license plate…” As he said it, I realized that her meant the car. “But my illusions won’t hide them from cameras, if you’re concerned with that,” Stagehand finished.

“Right.” She drummed her fingers against the wheel. “But bees are camera-proof.” Her green stare caught me in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, I got it,” I muttered. I summoned a small swarm. They hummed softly as they left through my mouth. As I ordered them to cover the license plate—similarly to how I had covered the school’s security cameras in the past—they disappeared out the window. After giving them a moment to position themselves, I told her that we were in the clear. Meanwhile, Stagehand turned the car into a deep purple.

The Pontiac started with a loud, but clean, growl. The vehicle came to life with a shiver, and we rolled out of the garage.

We didn’t speak much on the way, aside from Spindle occasionally asking me which areas the transfer students had been frequenting, and—once we crossed the bridge—which direction they would be in. She fed the cassette slot a mixtape, which played an eclectic range of songs on the way there—ranging from pop, rock, to synth instrumentals. The top of the Golden Gate Bridge disappeared in the evening fog as we left the city behind.

With the window slitted open, I inhaled the chilly air. At my request, the bees buzzed and hummed in response to the outside smells. Even in passing, my scouts recognized the smells outside as we neared the meetup location. And, as I had suspected, their directions guided us closer to the Muir Woods. By the time we got there, the sun had slunk below the horizon, leaving the horizon a purple hue.

“Turn left onto the highway,” I told Spindle. “We should be getting close now.”

The highway firmly separated the coast and wilderness in the west from the smaller towns and construction in the east. Then, as we reached the meetup location, we didn’t have to second guess ourselves. At the crossroads, there was a sliver of the highway which normally functioned as a bus stop. But, now, a group of motorbikes and cars occupied it. They amounted to five vehicles total, but with two cars in the group it was hard to say exactly how many people were there.

But, before I could do a headcount, my attention was drawn in by one of the bikes in particular. It was crimson red, with a hood that extended almost horizontally from the front wheel to the handlebars. It looked distinctly hightech, in a way ordinary bikes didn’t. Like superhero gear… or villain gear. Where a normal bike would have shown wires, pipes, or metal, this one was covered in smooth panels. The driver wore a matching red race suit. The black helmet also lit up with neon-red circuit lights. The light pulsated, like glowing veins, just like my scouts had described… The rest of the bikers wore similar outfits, but nothing as noticeable or prominent as the rider on the red bike.

Spindle slowed to a halt, about twenty feet away from them. The biker in red faced us. The rest of them followed suit, turning toward us.

“Is that…” Spindle breathed, “Is that the Yakuza?”

“What?” I said, dumbfounded.

“That looks like… What’s his face…” She tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Like, the guy with the bike, you know?”

“Bōsō,” Stagehand said. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Uh, he’s getting closer.” I felt the swarm churn through my insides. The bike advanced quietly toward us. “What do we do?”

“Let’s have a chat,” Spindle said, a smug smile appearing under the fringes of her mask.

“I mean, we could just keep going. Pretend to be passing through,” I said. “Are we sure we’re ready to confront… the literal Yakuza?”

“Look, this is the real world. We can’t just keep running around in our pajamas like the Ghostbusters. If we’re ever gonna go pro, these are the sort of situations we have to deal with. Let’s talk to them.”

The bike stopped a couple of feet away from the Pontiac, dead ahead of us.

I looked to Stagehand for support, but he had already unbuckled his belt and opened the door. Behind his mask, I couldn’t make out his expression—yet, there was something resolute about the way he moved. A certain determination in his steps. “Now or never.” His voice was so low, I couldn’t really tell if he spoke to me or himself.

Spindle followed suit. I got up as well, trailing uncertainly behind my teammates.

Resting her baseball bat on her shoulder, Spindle strode confidently up to the bikers. The rest of the Yakuza were just behind the main guy, Bōsō, facing us off. No one said a word. Stagehand and I positioned ourselves next to Spindle. For what felt like minutes, it seemed that the forest itself held its breath.

Bōsō was the first to break the silence, his voice distorted by what I imagined to be a voice changer built into his helmet. Its neon lights pulsated to the rhythm of his words.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”