Attack of the Heffalump Bees, Part 3 of 6

This is Part 3 of 6. If you have not done so yet, please read the first parts of this story (see my blog) before proceeding. This story is a work of fiction. If you like bad B movies, this is the next best thing. I'll return with my customary non-fiction blog posts as soon as this beast has been slain.

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The pianist from Nicaragua opened a small door on the opposite side of the room. At first, I thought it led back toward the church, but now I saw that it was set underneath the church’s pipe organ. There were three levels of keyboards, a long bench, some pedals near the floor, and not much more space than a broom closet.

The thumping had stopped, but there was a sound of hardware outside. The Heffabees had a set of keys! As the knob turned, we jumped into the organ room and closed the small door. Sure enough, the creatures filled the room where we had just been. I sat on the bench next to Miss Nicaragua in complete silence, looking out through the slats at the base of the organ.

We saw a disgusting sight: at least a dozen of the elephant bees had burst into the spot where we had sat just a few seconds before. They searched the small clergy office, their trunks bloody from the damage they had done already in the church. Our backs were pressed into the row of pedals under the organ keyboards, but we did not dare to breathe.

Soon, they left the clergy room, apparently concluding that no one was inside. They had not discovered our secret hiding place under the church organ.

Once they had left us, we felt comfortable speaking in low voices, though the clergy room’s main door to the church was still open. The church itself was a hive of activity. It seemed to have become a base of operations for these Heffabees.

“How long will the Heffabees continue in this form?” I wondered aloud. “These are people who have been bitten and turned into bees, right? The New Moon lasts only one day.”

“Five nights,” answered the pianist next to me, whose name was Christela. “They use long definition of New Moon. The abeja form lasts for three nights and then they become human again.”

“Is there any way to stop them?” I asked. “In every bad monster movie, the monster always has some weakness.”

Christela was nodding with a smile. I was glad she understood my meaning. “Light,” she answered. “They do not like the light from the moon. Or perhaps the sun also.”

I briefly wondered how she knew so much about them, but I didn’t think to ask.

Would the Heffabees continue haunting the church or would they leave before dawn? My mind weighed the prospect of spending the next five days and nights in this small space. Yes, there was a gorgeous woman next to me who apparently shared my burning interest in classical music. But at such times, one thinks first of basic needs: Food, water, somewhere to sleep, and the restroom just beyond this small door.

To survive, we also would need to elude and outlast these Heffalump bees until they turned back into human form. Until then, there was no getting out through this church. And the clergy suite we were in had no other means of egress (exit).

Christela and I spoke in soft voices for the next couple of hours. She was curious why I had come to the concert. Evidently pleased with what I said, she wanted to learn more about me. We talked about families, interests in classical music, our cats’ names, everything. It was a strange date: get stuck with someone in a small, hot and sweaty room beneath a church organ. In the space of a few hours, you’ll learn a lot more about the other person.

We had common ground, but my instrument was the French horn, while her classical world revolved more around piano composers like Liszt and Debussy. We knew a few of the same people, as it turned out. I learned more about her background as a dual citizen whose family had emigrated from Nicaragua to Los Angeles. Christela still had family and spent time in both countries, though she was studying here now in the university.

She told me that the first time she had seen an elephant was at the circus. It picked up a peanut with the tip of its trunk. That seemed to be a pinnacle of dexterity for a creature so large. And now, we were beset by these flying elephant vampires with stingers that resembled giant bees or mosquitoes. My stomach was growling in hunger and I wished we had something to eat, but thirst would soon be a more urgent need.

As we talked, it became increasingly hot and stuffy in our small hiding spot beneath the pipe organ. We could still hear the Heffabees outside in the church. With apologies to Christela, I decided to take off my long-sleeved shirt, which was suffocating me in this heat. Shedding my top provided some small relief and I actually needed her to help me take it off in this small, cramped space.

I felt sorry for Christela, because she seemed to be wearing only one layer of clothing, though her dress looked lighter than what I had worn to the concert. While I was sweating, she didn’t appear to be affected as much by the temperature. But I did notice her cheeks were becoming slightly flushed. That may have been from the heat.

“You can take off the jeans, too,” she smiled. “You will be too hot. And I don’t mind.”

I resolved to keep them on for now. But I wasn't built for humidity. My body's Scandinavian air conditioners (a.k.a. sweat glands) were noticeably filling the air with my scent.

“If only we had some cold drinks,” I joked, “we could play a striptease drinking game.” It was supposed to be a joke, but since she didn’t laugh, I felt guilty for having said it. Did they have silly, risque drinking games in Nicaragua?

“I grew up in Managua,” she told me, “so I know the heat and humidity. But if we are in here much longer, even I will be affected.”

Christela started to doze off and I realized how late it must be. I was tired also. But I worried that if she leaned over in sleep, she might hit the church organ’s keyboard. That would make a huge sound in the church and give away our position. Even though I was shirtless and bare-chested by now, I suggested to her that she should lean on my shoulder, a proposition with which she agreed.

Soon, she was leaning into me, fast asleep, as I held her with my right arm. It felt like the most natural position. Her soft breathing reminded me of my cat purring at home. I hoped my roommate would feed the feline. How long would it take for my roommate to wonder where I was, never having returned from the concert? Probably a couple of days. I wondered if the police would investigate this church after so many concertgoers had gone missing (and most turned into Heffabees).

I finally drifted off to sleep also, holding Christela, and dreaming of milk cartons with our pictures on them. Has anyone seen these missing persons? My dreams were mixed with milk and honey, peanut butter and honey, honey and bees, bees and elephants. I dreamed that I was Winnie the Pooh, trying to put my paw in a beehive to scoop out some honey. Suddenly, the sound of buzzing became intense. Christela elbowed my side and quickly put her hand over my mouth to keep me from making any sound.

Inches away, a Heffabee was in the office, buzzing right outside the little door of our hiding place. I was sweating in this hot little room and there must be pheromones everywhere. Could these bees smell us in here? These were really humans who had shapeshifted into a new form, much like werewolves or vampires, but they must have gained new senses with that transformation.

The bee stopped and almost reached through one of the slats in our door. It knew we were in here. Christela and I were silent and barely dared to breathe. I ran through the options in my mind. The best idea was to crack open this door slightly so that the Heffabee would reach in. Then I would slam the door on its stinger-trunk, disabling the beast.

But then it would alert its comrades and we’d still be goners. Bad plan.

Just then, we heard a rapping outside. “Open up,” commanded an authoritative voice. “This is the police.”

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This was Part 3 of 6. Please tune in again soon for another riveting installment.

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The rights to this work are held by the author, who created the montage image with public domain and/or properly licensed stock images. The Heffalump bee image was adapted from an old Winnie the Pooh video, the rights to which are held by Disney. If you're not familiar with the Dark and Stormy Night branch of fine literature (let me spread that sarcasm a little thicker), please consult this page: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It_was_a_dark_and_stormy_night . This is, of course, my own take on it and not strictly Purple Prose.