Stella 17: It Started Simple

By Antony W Shaw

It started simple. Abel McCreet had developed a 'Superhive' of one million bees. Jenna Mason was set to prove its food industry changing potential.
But a powerful local businessman had other ideas.
A Jurassic Park style novella that will keep you guessing to the last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244033583

Book preview

Stella 17: It Started Simple

Stella 17

Prologue

He didn’t know it would be his last cigarette. He stepped from the warehouse door into the hot morning air and squinted at the sunlight. Barely 6:30 a.m.; and the heat pushed down on him. He strolled to the rainwater barrel and lit up, dragged in a lungful of smoke and gazed into the water. Though his hair was long and black—tied in a bun in line with safety rules— the reflection reminded him he had aged early: smoking, no doubt.

A tickle at the back of his neck. He reached round. Something crawled across his hand: a fly? He waved it away and took another drag. A cluster of bees hovered near. He blew smoke their way.

A bee burrowed into the bun. He pulled hair free of the bun, whipped it. Six legs tickled an eyebrow. Slap! Cigarette sparks hit his eye. He threw the cigarette down and pressed the smarting eye with a sleeve. A stab in the chest and the shirt flew overhead. He swung it round propeller-like, slapped his chest.

He slowed. Listened. Silence. Gone?

He plunged the shirt into the cool water then held it to the smarting eye. Water dripped, cooling the chest sting. Leaning into the barrel, he splashed water on his face: then turned and squinted at the warehouse door a few meters away. Get inside—find first aid.

He pulled a stinger from the soft flesh at the back of his head at base of the skull. It lay flat on his fingertip. Despite poor vision, he guessed it was about five millimeters long. Much of the insect’s abdomen was still attached to the weapon. It pumped rhythmically—a tiny heart delivered venom from a sack down a stinger.

He flicked it away.

A distant hum: he turned, held hand to brow. A grey nebula moved across the sky; a glance to the warehouse door. A thousand darts hit him. The swarm targeted eyes, mouth, ears and nostrils. A shimmering coat of aggression lolled aimlessly like a child’s spinning top, collided with the barrel, clambered in. Bees shot up. Many were trapped on the water’s surface; spinning in small circles.

The water calmed.

The swarm hovered.

Purple fingers grabbed the barrel’s rim. A placenta-like head broke the water’s surface. It spewed a slunk of bees that hit wet concrete in a slimy splat of blood and bile. The head looked skyward, as in prayer—then sank.

The swarm circled.

The water calmed.

1

The Land Rover bounced along the dirt-track, kicked up dust in its wake. Lush, green farmland rolled passed on either side. The early morning sky was deep blue and cloudless.

Jenna Mason took a hand from the steering wheel, turned the volume knob on the radio and instructed her two passengers, Abel McCreet and Tommy Watts, to, ‘Shush, a minute—’

‘...Now let’s hear from the coolest man on the radio, Bob Neal, with the weather—’

‘Thanks for that introduction Nick. Not sure how cool I am but one thing that isn’t cool is the weather. By midday most of the country will be enjoying— if that’s the word— a whopping thirty-two degrees. Some areas may see temperatures as high as thirty-three, possibly even thirty-four degrees— a new record for May and topping yesterday’s maximum of thirty-two, recorded in the south east. Many areas will see thundery downpours by the afternoon — they will be heavy in places. They’ll provide little comfort however, as today’s humidity is a sticky ninety-eight percent!’

‘Thanks Bob. Now let’s go over to Charlotte—’

‘What’s the temperature now?’ Abel asked, turning the radio’s volume down.

Jenna glanced at the external thermometer’s display unit on the dash. ‘It’s twenty-five degrees out there.’

‘Christ, and it’s not even eight o’clock!’ Abel said. ‘The hives will be ovens today. My girls will be irritated.’

‘They’ll be fine,’ Jenna said. ‘Their temperature control will kick in.’

‘Anything above forty-five degrees could kill them,’ Abel said.

‘This country has never hit forty-five degrees, Abel. High thirties, maybe?’

‘Yes, but the hives—they could hit dangerous temperatures today. And then there’s the humidity. My girls get feisty if it’s above ninety percent.’

‘So do I,’ Jenna said, glancing Abel a smile. ‘Can you look in the notebook; see which tunnel we’re setting up first?’

Abel rotated, reached over to the back seat and gave Tommy a nudge.

Tommy started, opened his eyes. ‘What’s up?’ he said, removing headphones.

‘Pass me my bag, Tommy, would you? It’s by your feet.’

Tommy reached down and grabbed a green, hessian shoulder-bag, passed it over the seat.

‘Thanks.’ Abel faced forward and placed the bag on his lap. He rummaged inside and pulled out a notebook, thumbed the pages. ‘Here we are... our first stop is... Stella 8.’

‘Which tunnel is next to your super-hive?’ Jenna said.

Abel flipped a page, ‘Em... Stella 17.’

‘We’ll start with that one,’ Jenna said.

‘Why that one?’

‘Because it’s close to the super-hive. We’ll work there first while it’s still relatively cool. If the bees get irritated by the heat later, I’d rather be well away from them.’

‘Good thinking.’

‘You call this cool?’ Tommy said. ‘Never mind the bees, what about us? Sure, it’s fine in here with the air-con running, but how are we gonna keep cool in them there tunnels? They’re gonna get seriously hot.’

‘We can take heat-breaks,’ Abel suggested, flicking through the notebook. ‘If the heat gets too much, we can sit in the Land Rover for a while with the engine running and the air-con on. We also have a fifty litre keg of water in the back — plenty enough to keep us all nicely hydrated.’

The Land Rover approached an incline. Jenna shifted down a gear. Raised in the local farming community, she had spent most of her childhood out of doors in the local woods and farmland. She could drive a tractor at age twelve— took instruction from the local farmer. She would think nothing of returning home late — entering the house carrying an injured bird or mammal, or an insect in need of care. Jars of tadpoles, sticklebacks and moths filled the spaces between books on the shelves in her room.

They approached the orchard. Its five metre wide gates stood open between eight metre high, flat-topped, hedgerows. Above the gates: Smallbrook Farm Orchard. It Reminded Jenna of a maze open to the next unwitting soul that wished to get lost.

Frank Fowler was sat in his van; he’d waited twenty minutes reading the Sunday morning paper with the engine running to power the air-con. Behind the van a thick cloud of exhaust fumes hung low in the air. He saw the Land Rover and flung the newspaper onto the passenger seat.

Jenna pulled up close, leant out of the window, ‘Sorry we’re late, Mr Fowler.’

‘You’re here now,’ he replied, stepping out of the van and getting straight down to business. ‘I’ll be back at five to check over the place for the night. I expect you kids will be gone by then. The orchard is normally locked up on Sundays, so there’ll just be you kids in today.’

He handed Jenna an electronic key, saying, ‘This is a spare remote for the gates. I’ll lock you in when I leave. If you kids are finished before I get back, close the gates behind you when you leave. Just use the remote. Drop it off in the post-box on the gatehouse wall, over there.’ Frank nodded in the direction of the gatehouse.

‘No problem,’ Jenna said, glancing over to the gatehouse.

‘Here is my number in case of any problems.’

‘There won’t be, I’m sure,’ Jenna said, taking a post-it note.

‘In y’go now. I’ll close the gates.’

From inside the van Frank watched the Land Rover disappear into the orchard. He stuck an arm out of the window, pointed the spare remote, pressed a button then pulled away.

The gates closed slowly and locked with a secure click. A sign on one of the gates read:

EXTREME CAUTION

−LOCAL BEE ATTACK−