The Sting Of Gossip

                                                 

By:  Kenda

 

 

     With grateful appreciation to one of my readers, Nell, who suggested I write a story where Chet's penchant for eavesdropping and gossip leads to trouble for Johnny.  Thank you, Nell!

 

     Africanized Honey Bees, or Killer Bees as they are often referred to, were first found in Southern California in 1994.  For story purposes I have fictionalized that event as occurring between late 1979 and early 1980.  As well, this story follows the time-line established in my story No Easy Choice, in which Johnny and Roy are still working as paramedics out of Station 51 in the early 1980s, as opposed to either of them being station captains.  If you haven't read No Easy Choice and would like to, you'll find it in the fan fiction section of Tigger's E! Site, or in the Emergency Library of Kenda’s Fan Fiction Library.

 

     As is true of every story I write, The Sting Of Gossip is dedicated to my readers.  You’re the best group of fans any writer could hope to have.  Thank you so much for your continuous support, feedback, and friendship.

 

 

Chapter 1

    

     Chris DeSoto hurried down the hall to his locker.  The thirteen-year-old wove a crooked path in and out of his fellow students.  He responded with a, "Hi, Jim," to a boy who had called hello to him, while ignoring the giggles from a group of girls behind him.  As well, Chris pretended he didn't hear one of the girls say to the rest, "That's Chris DeSoto.  He's my lab partner this semester.  He's really cute, huh?"

 

     Chris rush down the corridor just short of breaking into a run.  If you were caught running in the hallways you could be issued a detention slip. Of course, a lot of that depended on who was on hall duty that day.  If it was old Mrs. Banner, the English teacher, then an after-school detention was a given.  If it was Mr. Rubach, the cool new history teacher, then the most you'd get was a verbal warning, along with a wink, that let you know Mr. Rubach didn't think running in a hall was anything to punish a kid over. Mr. Rubach reminded Chris a lot John Gage when it came to his sense of fun.

 

     Chris circumvented a group of boys gathered around the locker next to his.  The boys were huddled facing one another with their backs to their fellow students.  The huddle didn't break apart when Chris started spinning the dial on his cobalt blue locker.  Chris knew most of the boys by sight, but they weren't kids he hung out with.  First of all, his mother would never allow him to hang out with this rough crowd.  And second of all, Chris had no desire to hang out with them.  The number of boys in this pack varied from eight to twelve, the faces occasionally changing, though not often.  They had a reputation for causing trouble in their classes, and for spending more time in detention than any other kids in the school.  Their homework was rarely done and they liked to bully anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.  Other than that, Chris didn't know much about them because he was in honors classes, while these boys struggled to get by in the easiest classes. Classes that weren't much more than a repeat of sixth grade material at best.

 

     Because of those reasons, Chris was surprised when a familiar face popped out of the circle.  The boy with the pug nose, pale walnut hair, and a smattering of freckles across his nose said, "Hey, Chris."

 

     Before Chris could respond, the biggest of the boys, a kid by the name of Matt Moran, sneered at him.  "Get what you need and get outta here, blondie."

 

     "Leave him alone, Matt.  He's cool."

 

     Matt eyed Chris a moment, then shrugged at Chris's friend, Todd Fletcher. 

 

     "Okay.  If you say so."

 

     "I do."

 

     Chris watched the boys return to their huddle in front of Todd's locker, this time drawing it even tighter.  They whispered and laughed, and one of the boys, whose name Chris didn't know, appeared to be acting as a lookout because every few seconds he'd stand on his tip toes and extend his bushy redhead like a periscope.  The redheaded boy would look left, then right, then left again, before focusing on his friends once more.  Chris pretended to be oblivious to what was going on as he put his books away.  He slammed the locker door, spun the dial, then looked at the group.

 

     "You comin,' Todd?"

 

     Todd's hazel eyes briefly met Chris's blue ones.  Like many boys of thirteen, neither Chris nor Todd had gone through a large growth spurt yet so were still short and thin.  They were almost the exact height - Chris standing an even five feet, and Todd an inch shorter.  Chris barely tipped the scale at one hundred pounds, while Todd came in at ninety-six.  Chris hated his short, slim build now that some of the other boys, and most especially the girls, were beginning to grow at rapid rates.  But Chris's father kept assuring him that his time would come.

 

     "I was a sophomore before I really started to grow, Chris," his dad had told him.  "I started the year at five feet two inches, and ended it at five-ten.  Just ask your mother."

 

     "Yes, your father was a shrimp," Chris's mom had agreed that night a couple of months ago when the young teen was bemoaning his lack of height.

 

     "What about Uncle Johnny, Dad?  Do you think he was shrimpy, too, when he was my age?"

 

     "I don't know.  You'll have to ask him."

 

     The next time John Gage was at the DeSoto house for dinner Chris did just that.  Though Chris was well aware they weren't genetically linked, he still felt better upon discovering Uncle Johnny hadn't gone through his growth spurt until high school either.  And rested even easier upon discovering Uncle Johnny didn't reach his full height of six foot one until he was twenty.

 

     "Really?"  Chris had asked with anticipation.  "A guy can keep growing after he's eighteen?"

 

     "You bet," Uncle Johnny replied.  "Most young men don't completely quit growing until they're between twenty-one and twenty-two years old.  At least not as far as bone development goes."

 

     "So I could get really tall, huh?"

 

     Johnny had laughed then.  "Well, let's put it this way.  Chances are you'll be as tall as your dad if nothing else."

 

     "I guess that would be okay 'cause you and Dad are about the same height, and that's always seemed pretty tall.  You just look taller than Dad because you're so skinny."

 

     "Hey, I'm not skinny."  Uncle Johnny had flexed his arms in an exaggerated way then, making Chris, and his sister Jennifer, laugh.  "This is all muscle, my boy."

 

     "Yeah right, Uncle Johnny.  You're skinny."

 

     "Not as skinny as I used to be."

 

     "No," Chris's dad had said from the other end of the kitchen table.  “Not since we became partners and you've managed to mooch a meal off my wife at least one night a week."

 

     What had been said after that Chris couldn't recall.  He knew his father and Uncle Johnny traded teasing barbs for a couple minutes, and then baby John started fussing in his high chair.  Chris's mother took the eleven-month-old out, wiped his sticky hands and face, then gave the baby to Johnny when the little boy smiled a toothless grin and reached for the man he was named after.

 

     Now Chris's lack of height, and Todd's as well, made them lost in the group of boys who, for the most part, were taller and huskier.  Matt was six feet tall, but then he'd flunked a couple times, so Chris knew he was closer to sixteen than he was to thirteen.  Chris repeated his question to Todd.

 

     "Are you comin'?  You know Coach doesn't like it if we're late.  We'll have to run laps."

 

     "I'll be right there.  You go on ahead."

 

     Though Chris and Todd always went to basketball practice together, today Chris headed for the gym alone.  As he walked, Chris wondered what Todd was up to, and why he'd be hanging around with Matt Moran's gang.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

     The same afternoon Chris was puzzling over Todd's odd behavior, Hank Stanley asked his men to gather in the dayroom for a meeting.  The captain preferred to hold staff meetings immediately following roll call whenever possible.  That tended to insure Chet didn't nod off in the middle of what Hank had to say.  Not that Hank could blame the man.  Being forced to sit through a meeting after lunch often made even the most attentive person drowsy.  But today it couldn't be helped.  The station had been toned-out before roll call was finished, and then they'd no more than arrived back two hours later when the squad was toned-out.  An hour after that, while en-route to Station 51 from Rampart, John and Roy were toned-out yet again.  Thus the reason the morning meeting Hank had on his agenda didn't start until after his paramedics had had a chance to eat a late lunch.

 

     Before Chet's butt could hit the leather sofa, Hank pointed to a straight back kitchen chair.

 

     "Park it over there, Kelly.  You sit on that couch and in two minutes you'll be snoring."

 

     "But, Cap--"

 

     "Move it, Chet.  Take a chair."

 

     "Aw, geez, Cap, why are you always picking on me?"

 

     "Maybe because you always give me reason to."

 

     It didn't surprise Hank to hear Johnny laugh at Chet's latest woes, nor did it surprise him to see John take Chet's spot on the couch.  Hank could have also predicted that Roy would sit next to his partner.  Marco sat in the upholstered armchair with Henry in his lap, and Mike turned a wooden chair around from the table, placing it next to Chet's.

 

     "I'll keep him awake, Cap."

 

     "You do that for me, Mike.  Smack him upside the head if he starts to nod off on me."

 

     "If I had known you were gonna give someone permission to smack Chet around, I'd have sat next to him."

 

     "Very funny, Gage."

 

     Hank held up his hand.  "Boys, boys.  That's enough."

 

     The men laughed at their captain, and laughed at the way he constantly had to police Chet and Johnny, as though they were the two wayward sons Hank never had.  The captain wouldn't admit it out loud, but Johnny and Chet's bickering rarely got under his skin anymore.  It hadn't for years now, which just went to show what an excellent crew Hank knew was under his command. 

 

They'd been together for eight years.  Hank was well aware their time as shift-mates was coming to an end.  It wouldn't be long before Roy and Mike would decide to take the captain's exam, and Chet would want another shot at the engineer's exam.  Hank wasn't certain what direction Marco would go in, but the man was certainly capable of doing anything he set his mind on.  As far as Hank himself went, he had his eye on battalion chief.  And Johnny . . .well, what Johnny's future held Hank wasn't sure.  For some reason he couldn't explain, Hank had a feeling Johnny would go farther than any of them.  But at the present time, Hank suspected Johnny would try for captain if Roy chose to do so, or maybe take that position of chief paramedic instructor Doctor Brackett was in the early stages of creating.  The increasingly busy physician needed the burden of paramedic training lifted from his shoulders, and it was no secret he had John Gage pegged as the man to take the training over from him.

 

     Whatever directions life took them; Hank was going to be sad to see the day come when one of these men in front of him made the first move to break up their team.  He had a feeling when one went, the rest would soon follow.

 

     For now though, all thoughts of the future left Hank's mind as Chet firmly brought him back to the present. 

 

     "Hey, did you guys hear about Bill Keefer over at 65's?"

 

     "No," Johnny said.  "What about him?"

 

     "He got some girl pregnant. A young girl.  Like nineteen years old."

 

     "No," Marco stated with wide-eyed disbelief.

 

     "Yeah.  I swear on a stack of Bibles.  I overheard Chuck Mandelson from 128's talking to Tom Bennett from 16's when we were at that factory fire last week.  He's been going to lamay classes with her."

 

     "Lamaze," Johnny corrected.  "And Keefer's married, isn't he?"

 

     "You bet.  Married with four kids.  And he's Roy's age."

 

     "What's that supposed to mean?"  The thirty-six year-old Roy asked.

 

     "It means that he's too old to be messing around with a teenage girl."  Chet grinned.  "Man, I bet Bill's wife is gonna skin him alive when she finds out."

 

     Hank crossed his arms over his chest.  "Chet, what have I told you before about eavesdropping, and then gossiping about what you claim to have heard?"

 

     "Cap, I wasn't eavesdropping."

 

      "For a man who wasn't eavesdropping you sure overheard a lot, Kelly."

 

     "I was standing right next to 'em, Cap!  How could I not overhear it?  I mean, it wasn't like they were whispering or anything."

 

     Hank shook his head.  "Chet, you're like an old woman with too much time on your hands, always nosing around trying to get the details on things that are none of your business in the first place."

 

     "I'm not like an old woman!"

 

     "Aw, Chet, you are, too," Johnny chided.  "Cap's right.  You're always listening in on everyone else's conversations.  Remember the time you were eavesdropping on me when I was telling Roy about my screwed up credit card bill?  Or the time you were hiding behind the locker room door when I was telling Roy I'd found the ranch I wanted to buy?  Or the time you were listening in when Marco and Mike were talking about Marco's secret chili recipe, and then you blabbed it at the next firemen's picnic?"

 

     "Well, if it was such a secret Marco shouldn't have been telling Mike what he puts in his chili before he told me, his best friend."

 

     "I didn't tell you, my best friend, for a reason," Marco said.  "Because you can't keep your big mouth shut."

 

     "That's right," Johnny agreed, as all the men remembered how Marco had lost the annual Firemen's Chili Cook-Off for the first time in five years, because so many entrants had shown up with chili made from his recipe that by the time the judges reached Marco's pot they'd grown weary of the taste.  "Marco was screwed outta first place because you spread his recipe around.  Then there was the time you overheard Cap talking to his wife and told us you were sure they on the brink of divorce because--"

 

     "Okay, okay," Chet rushed to silence Johnny while risking a glance at Hank.  The man's stern gaze caused Chet to say, "You're right, Cap.  I'm sorry.  I gossip too much.  It won't happen again."

 

     "Kelly, I'd like to believe that this time."

 

     "You can, Cap.  Honest you can."

 

     "That's good."  Hank arched an eyebrow at the man.  "Oh, and, Chet?"

 

     "Yes, sir?"

 

     "For your information Bill Keefer did not get some girl pregnant.  The young lady in question is his sister.  She's not nineteen, she's twenty-three, and her husband died of bone cancer two months ago.  She's a twenty-three year old widow, Chet, and she's about to give birth to her first child.  It's my understanding that Bill, at his sister's request, will be in the delivery room with her when the baby is born.  That's why he's been attending Lamaze classes."

 

     Chet's eyes dropped to the floor.  "Oh.  Oh. . .I

didn't. . .I didn't know."

 

     "No, Chet, you didn't.  Which means you shouldn't believe everything you overhear, and most importantly, you shouldn't repeat it.  People can get hurt that way, you know.  Hurt pretty badly as a matter of fact."

 

     "Yes, sir.  I realize that now."

 

     "Good.  Then stay out of other people's business from this point forward, and if you do happen to overhear something that's none of your concern, keep your mouth shut."

 

     "Yes, Cap."

 

     Hank allowed the uncomfortable silence in the room to linger a minute.  He saw Johnny and Roy exchange glances that said, "Chet will never learn," while Mike wore the same expression on his face, while Marco just looked angry now that he'd been reminded of how Chet spread his chili recipe throughout the entire department in the span of fifteen short minutes one day.

 

     Once Hank felt Chet had been properly chastised, he moved on.

 

     "Okay, men.  There are two things we need to cover that the department, and the doctors at Rampart, want us to be aware of.  John and Roy already heard this at their paramedic meeting last week so, fellas, bear with me here."

 

     The paramedics nodded.

 

     Hank glanced at the yellow legal pad he’d laid on top of the television.  He scanned his notes, then looked out at his men.

 

     “Many area junior high schools are experiencing increased drug usage among their students.”

 

     “Did you say junior high schools?”  Chet asked.

 

     “I did.”

 

     “But those kids are what. . .twelve and thirteen years old?”

 

     “Between twelve and fourteen generally.”

 

     “Twelve year olds doing drugs?” Chet questioned with disbelief.  “You gotta be kidding me.”

 

     “He’s not kidding you,” Roy said.  “When school resumed after Christmas break, we received a letter from the principal that was addressed to all parents.  It dealt with just this issue – drug usage in the junior highs, and what signs we’re to watch for that might indicate our kids are experimenting.”

 

     “What did Chris say about it?”  Mike asked. In addition to a six-year-old son and a ten-year-old daughter, Mike had a son the same age as Chris, and a son a year younger, meaning the two oldest boys were in junior high school.  “Is there a drug problem in his school?”

 

     “Chris says there isn’t.  Or at least not that he’s aware of.”

 

     “Bet hearing that was a big relief for you and Joanne,” Chet said.

 

     “It sure was.  The beginning of this school year wasn’t easy for Chris.  We’re just happy that he fell in with the right crowd, and then got involved with the activities he participated in at his old school.”

 

Roy’s co-workers nodded their understanding. School overcrowding had caused a new junior high to be erected in Carson.  The building had been completed over summer vacation, and the first pupils to use it arrived at the end of August.  Much to Chris’s upset, he’d been amongst those new pupils.  His two closest friends, as well as most of the kids he’d gone to school with since kindergarten, had remained at Chris’s old school, Carson Junior High.  But the DeSotos lived right on the edge of a neighborhood the new school encompassed, so district boundaries forced Chris to make a change whether he wanted to or not.  He’d be reunited with his old friends next year since Carson Junior High, and the new Garden Grove Junior High, would both feed into John F. Kennedy High School. That comforting thought didn’t keep Chris from entering Garden Grove with a heavy heart and a nervous stomach. But he’d done as his parents advised him to and immediately gotten involved in the school band and with the sports teams.  Both were activities that had been important to him at Carson Junior High. 

 

“His grades have been excellent all year long,” Roy went on to say, “and his best friend is a boy named Todd Fletcher. A nice kid from a nice family. Joanne and I were as nervous as Chris when all this came about, but fortunately, everything has gone well.  We’re really proud of Chris and how he’s handled all the changes.”

 

“I’m sure you are,” Hank said, as he thought of his daughters.

 

 The two Stanley girls were grown now and on their own.  The captain was thankful his years of hands-on parenting were over.  When Barbara and Gwen had been in junior high school, Hank’s biggest concern was making sure their skirts weren’t too short.  The last problem he and his wife had to worry about when the girls were Chris DeSoto’s age was drug usage.  But times had changed. In light of that, Hank continued with his agenda.

 

“In regards to this drug problem amongst junior high school students, the department wants us to keep in mind exactly what Chet mentioned; that these kids are young.  I hope we’re never called to a scene where a large group of kids is gathered, such as at a party.  But, if we are, we need to be cautious as to how much force we use to restrain them. Obviously, John and Roy know how to handle the medical aspects of a kid on a bad trip.  As for the rest of us, headquarters asks us to use caution and our common sense.  These won’t be eighteen-year-olds we’re dealing with, but maybe kids as young as eleven or twelve.  The last thing the department wants is a lawsuit because we turned a hose on a bunch of kids.”

 

“But what if those kids are high and come at us with baseball bats or knives?” Chet asked.  “Are we allowed to defend ourselves then?”

 

“I hope we never run into that situation, pal, but if we do, we need to remain calm and use our common sense.  If force is necessary, you wait for me to give the order to employ it.”

 

In all his years at Station 51 Chet recalled being toned-out to only one scene that escalated to a riot situation as a result of drug and alcohol use, and that was at a college campus.  Everything from beer bottles to chairs had been thrown, and if they hadn’t been allowed to use the fire hoses to keep the crowd at bay, Chet knew some of the responding firefighters and paramedics would have been injured.  He couldn’t imagine the same scene of violence and chaos being instigated by twelve-year-old kids, whose biggest concern should be how to sneak a peek at Playboy, rather than how to find a way to get high.

 

The captain’s voice broke into Chet’s thoughts.

 

“Any further questions on this subject, men?”  Hank glanced around the room.  When no one spoke, and he saw a few heads give negative shakes, he referred to his notes again.  “All right.  Moving along here.  Next subject; Africanized Honey Bees.”

 

“What kinda honey bees?”  Chet asked.

 

“Africanized. You may have heard them referred to as Killer Bees.”

 

“Killer Bees?  You mean like the kind that’ll sting a guy to death?”

 

“You’re being a bit over-dramatic, Kelly, but yes, Africanized Honey Bees are known for their aggressive nature.” 

 

“Aggressive nature? Oh man, Cap, those Killer Bee movies are almost as scary as Terror In The Library.  I’ve seen every one of ‘em at least a dozen times.”  Chet counted off on his fingers.  “Let’s see, there’s To Bee Or Not To Bee A Killer Bee. Beeware Of What’s In The Hive.  The Flight Of The Killer Bumble Bees. Bee Careful Where You Stick Your—“

 

“Okay, Chet, that’s enough.  We get the idea.” 

 

“I’m tellin’ you, Cap, those Killer Bees are bad news all the way around.”

 

“And that’s just why we’re having this discussion.”  Hank’s eyes scanned his notes one last time before he looked up.  “The Department Of Agriculture has recently reported the first sightings of Africanized Honey Bees here in Southern California. These bees are the more temperamental cousin to the insects we’re used to seeing, the European Honey Bee.  It’s a myth that these bees will simply swoop out of the sky and start to attack.”

 

“Not according to the movies. In Bees From Above those little suckers were like Kamikaze pilots, dive bombin’ everyone in sight.”

 

“Maybe not according to your movies, Chet, but according to the Department Of Agriculture whom, by the way, I have far more faith in than I have faith in what’s depicted on some late night horror flick.” 

 

“Just tryin’ to be helpful, Cap.”

 

Thanks, pal.  From now on I’ll let you know when I need your help.”  Hank bowed his head a moment to hide his smile.  When he looked out at his men again he said, “What separates these bees from their European relatives is the way they aggressively defend their hive, often stinging their victims hundreds, or even thousands, of times.  Starting tomorrow, the Ag department will begin a media blitz to inform citizens how they can protect themselves from Africanized Bees, which in turn means Headquarters is hopeful we’ll get very few calls to assist people who have been stung by the bees.”

 

“Exactly how can a person protect himself, Cap?”

 

“Glad you asked that, Marco, because that’s just where I was headed next.  First of all, by checking your property on a regular basis for the start of a hive. These bees will nest almost anywhere, from trees, to shrubbery, to burrows in the ground.  It’s important to clear away any potential home that might look attractive to them.  That means cleaning up junk such as discarded flowerpots, car tires, swing sets, or other children’s toys that are no longer in use, and filling in cracks in foundations, walls, and on porches.

 

“Next tip.  Before disturbing any vegetation or overgrowth, be alert.  A lot of bees going to, and coming from, a single spot might indicate a hive is present.

 

“And number three.  Be cautious when hiking through long grass, or working in a garden that’s been neglected for several months or longer.”

 

The men absorbed the information being given. Other than Chet, who lived in an apartment, they all owned homes.  Marco resided with his mother in what had been the family home. He mowed the lawn on a weekly basis, and Mrs. Lopez tended to a vast flower and vegetable garden. The last thing Marco wanted was his mother encountering a nest of the aggressive bees.

 

Mike and Roy wanted their properties to remain free of beehives because of their children.  John DeSoto was just learning to walk.  Like the man he was named for, the curious toddler knew little fear. Roy could picture his youngest son sticking his hand in a beehive without giving any thought to the insects buzzing around it. 

 

Johnny’s concern was for the animals on his ranch, and for the Desoto children as well, who often visited.  And though Hank had no children at home, he and his wife spent a lot of time enjoying their well-kept yard. He had no more desire to accidentally stumble across an Africanized bee colony than anyone else did.   

 

“Cap, are people being told to call the fire department if they find one of these hives?”  Chet asked.  “ ‘Cause if they are, I wanna make it known right now I didn’t sign on as a bee keeper.”

 

“Then you’re in luck, Kelly, because the news reports will be telling people to notify the Department of Agriculture if they see a hive, or have concerns that Africanized Bees are taking up residence near their homes.  An expert on bee removal will be sent out, along with representatives from the Ag department.  But,” Hank held up an index finger,  “we will be called to any scene that requires us to assist a person being stung, or that requires us to assist a person who has been stung.”

 

“And just how do we assist?”

 

“First of all, any call like this we’re summoned to will require full turn-out gear including air masks and gloves. It will be very important that your clothing is tucked in as much as possible, and that all exposed skin is covered.”

 

“And then what?”

 

“Water generally won’t kill the bees, but it will likely get them off the victim long enough for the person to be taken to safety.  Foam will kill the bees, so foam trucks will be dispatched when necessary.”

 

Hank looked at his paramedics. “John. Roy.  Is there anything the two of you would like to add?”

 

Johnny cocked his head toward Roy, indicating to his partner to relay what they’d learned at their paramedic meeting the previous week.

 

“The best thing a person can do if he or she is swarmed by the bees is to run away as quickly as possible,” Roy said.  “This is why they are such a danger to the elderly, and to young children.  Also, the danger increases to someone of any age who can’t get away from them.  Say a construction worker on a scaffold, for example. 

 

“You don’t want to flail your arms or hands.  This will only further annoy them.  They’re also drawn to our breath, believe it or not, so it’s important to keep your face covered if at all possible during an attack.  Multiple stings in the mouth and throat could cause serious airway restriction in a matter of minutes, or even less time than that.

 

“Seeking shelter in a car or building is the best thing you can do.  A few bees will likely come in with you, but that’s the least of your worries over all.”

 

“Tell that to my wife,” Mike said.

 

The men chuckled while Roy acknowledged, “No kidding.  Joanne and Jennifer would be screaming loud enough to scare any bees right back outside if just one got in our house. But, the bees hate to be confined, so this is why they won’t generally follow a person into a shelter in a mass swarm.       

 

“The real danger of these bees, and what makes them so different from any bee or wasp we’re used to, is their aggressive nature.  European Honey Bees might fly the length of half a football field while chasing someone who has disturbed their hive, while the African bees will chase you the length of two football fields.  If you jump in water, they’ll be waiting for you when you surface.”

 

“Smart little buggers,” Chet commented.

 

“Apparently so,” Roy agreed.  “While the European Honey Bees will deploy around one hundred bees to defend their hive, the Africanized Bees can deploy as many as ten to twenty-five thousand.”

 

“Holy cow!  Can you imagine getting stung by that many bees?”

 

“No, Chet, I can’t.  I doubt anyone can.”

 

“Can a person live through being stung by that many bees?”

 

“It’s highly doubtful. But remember, people who are in the most danger are generally those who are allergic to bee stings.  That means just one sting from any type of bee or wasp causes an anaphylactic reaction.  A person who isn’t allergic to bee stings can still suffer an anaphylactic reaction if enough venom enters his or her system.  This would, however, take hundreds of stings, more than likely.  But even a few stings, say fifty or sixty, can make the healthiest, non-allergic person very ill.  At this point we’ve been instructed by Doctor Brackett to bring to Rampart anyone who we suspect has been stung by an Africanized Bee.”

 

“I wouldn’t even wanna be stung once, let alone fifty or sixty times.”

 

“I’ll agree with you there, Chet,” Johnny said.

 

Captain Stanley took over the meeting again. 

 

“If people pay attention to the information the Department Of Agriculture releases, then the likelihood that we’ll be summoned to a scene involving these bees is slim.  But, as most of you know, we’ve been warned for a number of years that they were headed for the Southwestern portion of the United States, and now they’re here. While I’m sure neither the Ag department nor the fire department wants to scare anyone, we’re better off to be prepared to deal with the bees, than the other way around. My understanding is that encountering them on well-kept residential properties, in well-kept neighborhoods, parks, and around well-maintained schools, is unlikely.”

 

“Good,” Chet said, “ ‘cause I don’t wanna encounter them anywhere. I’ve already seen all the movies so I know how bad those Killer Bees are.”

 

Hank folded his arms across his chest.  “So, Kelly, I guess based on that you consider yourself Station 51’s resident expert on Killer Bees, huh?”

 

Never one to deny himself a place in the spotlight, Chet readily agreed. 

 

“Sure, Cap. Like I said, I’ve seen all the movies about Killer Bees at least a dozen times.  I know a lot about them.  Probably even more than Johnny and Roy know.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good?”

 

“You bet.  I think, given the circumstances, it’s important that every station have a bee expert.  I’ll let Chief Marcuson know Chester B. Kelly is ours.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, you.  Anything wrong with that?”

 

“Well. . .uh. . .you see, Cap, it’s like this.  I might not know quite as much about those bees as I thought I did.  I’m pretty sure I fell asleep during Beeware Of What’s In The Hive, and Flight Of The Killer Bumble Bees was just plain boring, so I think I ended up doing the dishes while it was on.  And as far as Bee Careful Where You Stick Your—“

 

Before Chet could finish, the klaxons sounded.  His station mates were laughing as they ran for the apparatus bay.  For once Chet didn’t care that he’d somehow become the butt of their joke.  He was just happy they were toned out for a traffic accident, rather than for bee removal.

 

As Chet climbed onto the engine Johnny pointed a finger at him from the passenger side of the squad.

 

“Hey, Chet!  Be careful where you stick your—“

 

“Oh, shut up, Gage.”

 

Before the bickering between Hank Stanley’s two ‘boys’ could escalate, the squad pulled out of the station with the engine right behind it. 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

     A week passed since Chris first noticed Matt Moran and his friends hanging around Todd.  Or maybe it was the reverse of that situation, and it was Todd who was hanging around with Matt.  The trouble was, Chris still couldn’t figure out what suddenly drew Todd to this group of boys.

 

     Like he did every afternoon he had basketball practice, Chris hurried to stow his schoolbooks in his locker.  He ignored the group gathered around Todd’s locker, but he couldn’t ignore the unnatural odor wafting from their clothes, or the way they were giggling and whispering.  Goofy-like, as far as Chris was concerned.  Like some exaggerated silliness you’d see on a Saturday morning cartoon.  Like they found something uproariously funny that was invisible to the rest of the student body.

 

Chris shut his locker door and risked looking at the group that increasingly made him uncomfortable.

 

“You comin,’ Todd?”

 

“Yeah, Todd, you comin’?”  Matt mocked.  “Don’t want Coach Donald Duck mad at ya’ and waggin’ his nigger tail feathers.”

 

Chris looked around, but there were no teachers within earshot.  Even the lenient Mr. Rubach would have issued Matt a detention for speaking that way about the boys’ gym teacher and basketball coach, Burnell Donaldson.

 

“Todd, come on,” Chris urged, doing his best to ignore the intimidating Matt.  “Coach said you’d have to sit out this Friday’s game if you were late again.”

 

“DeSoto, do you gotta work hard at bein’ such a goodie-two- shoes-fairy, or does it just come naturally?”

 

Chris’s face burned red as the other boys laughed.  All but Todd, that is.  He seemed to sense what Chris was feeling and alleviated the situation.

 

“Chris is right.  I gotta go.  See you guys later.”

 

“Later like at my house?”  Matt asked.  “Remember, my folks ain’t gonna be around tonight until after nine.”

 

“Yeah,” Todd promised.  “I’ll stop by after practice.”

 

Chris wondered when Todd had starting paying visits to Matt’s home, but didn’t ask as they headed toward the gym. Chris had to slow his pace three times in order to allow Todd to catch up.  The boy didn’t appear to have the same sense of urgency Chris possessed, and he staggered a bit as he walked.

 

“Todd, you okay?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Come on, then.  We gotta hurry!”

 

“Chris, you worry too much about stuff that really doesn’t matter at all, you know that?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Getting straight A’s.   Stayin’ on the teachers’ good side. Makin’ it to practice on time.  Stuff like that.”

 

Chris couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Until recently he thought all those things were important to Todd as well. Despite wanting to get to basketball practice on time, Chris stopped in the middle of the desolate hall.  

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Wrong with me?”  Todd laughed.  “Nothing’s wrong with me.  At least not yet.  Maybe twenty years from now you should ask me that same question and I’ll have a different answer.  But for today – well, for today, Chris old buddy, I feel fine.  Just fine.”

 

“Todd—“