Gasping For Air 2 (Last Chance Romance Series) by Abigail Keam
Authors: Abigail Keam
Tags: Fiction
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Freshly mowed grass manicured the ground around the hives. Their water tank, full of hyacinths and duckweed, stood unmolested.
The intruder did not stir. Grasping a fallen branch from the ground along with my belching hive smoker thrust before me, I moved closer. “Mister.” I cried, “MISTER!” I assumed it was a he . . . a heavy-set man with pale skin wearing tan corduroy pants and laced-up boots. I called again. Still, he did not budge.
My initial shock overcome, I realized he didn’t seem to be breathing. Not a good sign . The bees covered him, pulling and biting at his neck, stinging his scalp and his back, furiously trying to evict him from their home. I inched closer. He looked stiff. I poked him with my branch. He didn’t shift. I jabbed him again with the tree branch. Nothing.
Leaning over the body, I carefully swatted away the bees. “Girls, girls, don’t sting him. It’s over. Don’t waste yourselves,” I whispered. Still the bees stung him and, by doing so, condemned themselves to death too. The man’s neck swelled against his checkered shirt. I took off my glove to feel for a pulse, but the bees swamped my hand, stinging furiously. I pulled away quickly. “Merde!” I exclaimed. I cradled my badly stung hand.
I walked away from the hives, yanking off my beekeeper’s hat and veil. I fumbled in my suit for my cell phone. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911. “Police? You better come. I have a dead man in my beehive. Yes, that is correct.
He is lying face down in a beehive.” I gave the police my name and address, clicked the phone shut and sat on the meadow grass waiting for the wail of the police siren. It seemed like a long time before they came.
The intruder did not stir. Grasping a fallen branch from the ground along with my belching hive smoker thrust before me, I moved closer. “Mister.” I cried, “MISTER!” I assumed it was a he . . . a heavy-set man with pale skin wearing tan corduroy pants and laced-up boots. I called again. Still, he did not budge.
My initial shock overcome, I realized he didn’t seem to be breathing. Not a good sign . The bees covered him, pulling and biting at his neck, stinging his scalp and his back, furiously trying to evict him from their home. I inched closer. He looked stiff. I poked him with my branch. He didn’t shift. I jabbed him again with the tree branch. Nothing.
Leaning over the body, I carefully swatted away the bees. “Girls, girls, don’t sting him. It’s over. Don’t waste yourselves,” I whispered. Still the bees stung him and, by doing so, condemned themselves to death too. The man’s neck swelled against his checkered shirt. I took off my glove to feel for a pulse, but the bees swamped my hand, stinging furiously. I pulled away quickly. “Merde!” I exclaimed. I cradled my badly stung hand.
I walked away from the hives, yanking off my beekeeper’s hat and veil. I fumbled in my suit for my cell phone. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911. “Police? You better come. I have a dead man in my beehive. Yes, that is correct.
He is lying face down in a beehive.” I gave the police my name and address, clicked the phone shut and sat on the meadow grass waiting for the wail of the police siren. It seemed like a long time before they came.
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