The vine in Milton’s hand began to shiver. It began to wriggle.
Then it ripped itself out of his grasp and spun upward, like yarn being rolled into a ball. The vines on either side did the same, wrapping themselves up and up.
Milton leaped backward, let out a caw, and assumed his self-defense pose, but the vines took no notice. They kept spinning, five, ten, fifteen feet up into the air, until they stopped.
The vines hung there, quivering balls of green, waiting.
Milton stared up at them, hands still ready to ward off blows, mouth still agape in shock. Then he looked down below them.
And there it was.
On the ground, there was a small, muddy, green metal box. Milton hadn’t noticed it before because until the vines had rolled up, it had been completely hidden beneath them.
He glanced hesitantly up at the vine-balls once more before kneeling down to examine the box. There was no lock on it, only two simple latches. He started to flip one open.
It was then that the first mosquito landed on Milton’s nose.
The mosquito was the size of a hummingbird, and its big, bulgy red eyes were excessively creepy up close.
Milton screamed. He smacked his face so hard that the bug burst, its insides splattering across the lenses of his glasses. As he tried to wipe enough guts off so that he could see, he felt something land on his ankle.
Then something landed on his elbow.
Then his pinkie finger.
Then his other elbow.
The mosquitoes were attacking!
Milton grabbed the green box, jumped to his feet, and took off. As he ran, he could hear the buzzing of the mosquitoes zipping by his ears. It was very unnerving, so he started screaming again to drown out the sound.
When he reached Uncle Evan’s cottage, he threw himself through the front door. Uncle Evan must have heard him coming (not surprising given the volume and high pitch of Milton’s vocalizations), because he was waiting with the most heavy-duty, industrial-size flyswatter Milton had ever seen. As soon as Milton slammed the door shut, Uncle Evan started swatting. Smooshed mosquito carcasses fell left and right.
“All clear,” Uncle Evan said, after the last insect had exploded in a gory detonation of blood and guts and wings. Uncle Evan didn’t seem fazed by the carnage. He gestured to the driftwood table, where two bowls were waiting. “Come tell me about your day before our spaghetti and meatballs gets any colder.”