Like Chickenpox (Short Story)

The small swellings on Celia’s forearm itched. Which is what first drew her attention. Five pale lumps about a centimeter long, showing a regular pattern, the soft capsules looked likely to hold a fluid, being gathered as they were around the blue line of a raised blood vessel. Most probably bites of some kind, she thought. It would explain the close grouping and persistent irritation.
        She showed George, who examined them under a powerful magnifying glass. ‘Odd,’ was his first comment, then ‘we’d better keep an eye on them.’ He cleaned them with a cotton wool swab and applied antiseptic cream containing a local anaesthetic to combat the itching. It didn’t help much, and it was hard for her to curb the strong urge to scratch at them.
        Twenty four hours later, their size had doubled. She felt more than a little alarmed. George kept calm. ‘There’s someone I know works in the department for rare and exotic diseases. He might be able to help.’ He took a number of photographs of her arm, attaching them to an urgent email. The reply was very quick — they were sending someone over.
        The woman who arrived — a Professor Miller — was unconventional in both manner and appearance. A black flowing dress, skull earrings, Doc Martins on her feet, she had very short peroxided hair that stuck out in all directions. She looked at the swellings and asked ‘Been abroad recently? — Africa, or close to it?’
        ‘Yes’ they answered in unison. George continued ‘we were on a field trip with a party of geologists and paleontologists — Sahara region. Only arrived back four days ago.’
        ‘Uh-huh. Well, it seems you’ve picked up a bug. I don’t mean a virus, I’m referring to a type of parasite. They more usually choose small mammals as hosts, rarely humans. The natives call them Tezeeki Mantula, which means flesh-burrowers. She pressed one of the swellings experimentally. ‘These are individual egg chambers. The grubs hatch, feed from the host,pupate, and then emerge as adults to start the cycle again.’ She said all this with a cool scientific detachment, not offering any solution to Celia’s plight.
        ‘Fascinating,’ George remarked. ‘How long does it take?’
        ‘Not more than fourteen days. It’s a very primitive sort of insect. A leftover from another age.’
        ‘So how do we get rid of them?’ Celia broke in. ‘Can you cut them out?’
        ‘I wouldn’t advise it.’ Professor Miller looked thoughtful. ‘From what I’ve read, if they feel threatened, they’ll simply burrow deeper. Left alone, once they’ve completed their change to the adult state, they’ll break through the membrane and emerge without further trauma. You’ll be left with a few light scars, but nothing worse than that.’
        Celia looked at George, who was simply nodding, as though considering this option as a perfectly reasonable one. She could tell he was rather taken with Professor Miller.
        ‘So I’m just an incubator for these ghastly little monsters?’
        ‘Best let Nature have her way, sometimes.’ The professor got up, preparing to leave. ‘Like chickenpox, it’ll soon be over.’ George saw her out.
        Celia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. George brought her a cup of tea. She let it grow cold. In the end, she flew at him, full of rage and disgust and fear. He took the insults she hurled, barely flinching. She demanded a brandy, a large one, and eventually fell asleep, her infected arm free of the covers. He got his magnifying glass and bent down to take a close look. Within each of the five lumps, he could see a dark spot. He took more photographs, and made some notes. He had agreed in whispers as she left, that he would monitor developments and keep professor Miller informed.
        The days passed and Celia became more and more withdrawn. She hardly spoke, wouldn’t look at him, refusing to eat most of what he cooked for her, thinking to starve the creatures of any nourishment. George consulted with Professor Miller who suggested nothing of any real help, but thanked George for the data he was sending. It was a most interesting case. Maybe they should have dinner sometime.
        The lumps became more transparent, so it was possible to see more of each occupant as it developed. A fat little grub with a disproportionate head, surrounded by fluid. It squirmed when lightly pressed. In desperation, Celia wound a crepe bandage around her arm so she couldn’t see them. There was something smug about their dumb invasion, as if they knew, despite her greater size and assumed superior intelligence, she could do nothing to displace them without adding to her distress and possible making her situation a good deal worse. She lay awake, fretting herself into a frenzy of despair, while George slept a few feet away on a campbed, his notebook slid to the floor.
        She sat up slowly, her arm was throbbing, she could feel the enemy on the move. Well, she’d show them. She’d fucking show them! George didn’t stir as she crept past him to the bathroom. She took a fresh razor blade from the pack. Discarding the bandage, she chose the first target. The skin was taut, pregnant and suggesting it was near full term. She hardly felt the sting as the blade drew its thin line. A watery fluid ran out, pink with blood. Then she saw the critter. God, you’re ugly, she almost laughed, easing it out with the edge of the blade. It struggled, legs sluggish and awkward. It plopped into the sink, scrabbled to right itself, and fell back again, weak and defenceless, a tad premature.
        She attacked the second, with similar results, then two more. The last one, however, put up a bit of a fight. It tried to evade her attempts to prise it from its warm comfortable cocoon, her persistence riled it to aggression. It gnawed into her, trying to dig deeper and maintain its position, just as Professor Miller warned it might do if provoked. Celia slashed at it, at her own flesh, opening the wound so that she could get a good hold with her fingers. She squeezed and tugged at it, ignoring the agony of the operation, the blood pooling on the bathroom floor, her anger surmounting all other sensations. At last, almost hysterical with victory, she flung it in the sink with the others. They lay in there — a revolting pile of twitching legs, heaving and roiling in a puddle of goo. With a slight shock, she realized they were mating. She looked at her ruined forearm, the five gashes continuing to stream blood. She mopped at them with a towel.
        She was idly watching the insects in their busy coupling when George came in. He scooped them out of the sink and into a bucket, clanging the lid down on them. A gift for professor Miller, no doubt. Celia smiled at the thought. So much more original than a box of Milk Tray.
        ‘Where’s the fifth one?’ he wanted to know, ‘there’s only four here.’
        Celia indicated the half-open vent. ‘They can fly’ she said simply. She watched as he cleaned, packed and bandaged the holes in her flesh, for they gaped slightly, like burst pods. At least they didn’t itch any more.
        The fifth one hadn’t flown out through the vent. It had hidden itself amongst the jars and the bottles on the shelf, biding its time. She’d seen it, but said nothing.
        She was dozing when it came into the bedroom. A flight as silent as a moth’s. George was absorbed in making his notes. He scribbled quickly, brow furrowed. It landed very softly on the rather ridiculous retro quiff he still insisted on styling into his rapidly thinning hair. Oblivious, he continued writing. The shiny wing cases caught the light. It rested there, as though pondering its next move. Celia held her breath. Minutes passed.
        Then, like a guided missile, it took off again and landed on his neck, before disapppearing under the collar of his pyjamas. ‘What the ...?’ George yelped, jumping up and tearing at his buttons. The Tezeeki Mantula was busy propagating its species. Half-naked, George located the insect, knocked it to the floor and stamped on it, his eyes wide, his breath ragged with panic. He examined his body where the thing had pierced him. He found three small red spots on his shoulder, two more on his chest. ‘Oh dear God, oh God no!’ he muttered, looking across at Celia like a child seeking its mother’s comfort.
        She yawned and stretched. ‘Do stay calm, George. Best take your Professor Miller’s advice — let Nature take its course. Bit like chickenpox, eh?’