Picking Up Ants
by Vincent Edward Richards

The night air was cold and the glow of the half moon cast shadows across the graveyard. Frederick kept looking over his shoulder, convinced that the plastic bag caught in the yew tree was a voyeur, trying to find out what he was doing.

But nobody came and, at one in the morning, traffic was rare. Frederick liked it like that.

He dug the shovel into the ground, hardened after the surprising lack of rain recently and it finally relented with a sound that was almost like parchment ripping. He dug harder, tossing the dirt behind him, wanting the thing into the ground quickly. Finally, with sweat pouring from his brow, he'd dug a hole a foot deep. He rested the shovel against a gravestone whose marking couldn't be read and picked up the Tesco bag from behind him.

This experiment should have worked and he couldn't understand why it hadn't. He'd followed exactly the same procedure as the one he'd used with Neb but, somewhere along the line, a rogue gene had gotten into the mix.

The creature, almost beautiful in its deformity, was heavy and lopsided; blind, mute and deaf. Most of its internals organs were exposed, decaying before the thing was properly a day old. He'd cried over it, willing his tears to make a difference, but it was no use - the thing had died, its breath rasping, its withered limbs flapping wildly.

It had been a disaster and Frederick was despairing of finding a way to create another creature to live alongside his only success, his only friend - a little creature he called Neb. A nonsense name, certainly, but one he liked.

He didn't have a God complex - after all, he was dead. God had been his dog in childhood. His coat was shiny and healthy, his tongue red and wet, his legs strong. His father had seen to it that God died, not feeding him, beating him, reducing him to a shivering wreck of a hound, laughing at Frederick's tears. That had driven Frederick on. He wanted to stand up for himself, to be the creator of a life that he could shape into whatever he wanted. With his father as an example, who wanted to be human? There was nothing there, great or good. Mr White had taught him that too and proved it, on several occasions.

He laid the Tesco bag in the ground and murmured what he remembered of the Lords prayer. A car drove around the roundabout and lit the graveyard like a lightening flash, startling him.

The sound startled him more and this time, it wasn't the bag in the yew tree.

He spun around and someone shone a torch in his face, blinding him and making his eyes sing with pain. He quickly turned, trying to hide the hole.

"Don't be so stupid," said the person, a woman, "I can see it."



Veronica Trevithick was the vicar's daughter, a quiet soul who shared her father's drive to see the best in all men. A tall, pale girl, her twenty-one years belied a mature outlook and a sureness of all that was good and all that was evil. She truly believed that wrongdoers could be redeemed and felt it her mission in life to prove that and bring them to the ways and the house of the Lord.

She was fragile, willowy even and in a more innocent time, might have remained a spinster. But times weren't so innocent and she knew, deep down, that one day she would have a man to share her life. Maybe a man whose soul she'd saved.

Perhaps, she thought, it might be Frederick.

He offered possibilities as she watched him around the village, often carrying a carrier bag with strange shaped items within it. She would often sit by the window in the vicarage, overlooking the churchyard, waiting for a sight of him. They'd only spoken very infrequently and he appeared, to her, to be as shy as she was, though there was something about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She'd sat all afternoon, the sun moving westward across the sky at an alarming rate, shading the sky a somber light grey from its once lush blue, with a feeling that she'd see him today. Her heart seemed to pound beneath her pert breast, every nerve in her body tingling. She sat in the evening glow and it illuminated her presence, her whole being, showing off her womanhood. She liked this new, foreign feeling but couldn't quite understand it.

It had been very late when Frederick entered the churchyard, the rusty gate hinge singing and waking her from a light slumber. The sky was black, the street lights the difference between the good outside of the walls and the macabre events that were to take place within them, very soon.

Once again, it appeared that he was disposing of a mutant creation. She'd seen him do it before and had investigated, finding the twisted bodies buried deep, though not in a consecrated grave. Picking up her torch, she left the vicarage.



"Leave me alone," protested Frederick, "I'm not doing anything wrong."

"Yes you are. I've been watching you and I know where all of your little treasures are buried."

Fear prickled at the base of his skull. He'd always tried to be very careful - if someone saw him, they would report him and that would mean prison and more men like Mr. White.

"What do you want?" he asked. After all, what could he do now? He didn't want anyone knowing what he was doing, he'd spent too many purposeful - but ultimately - wasted hours trying to create a life, to start a new species. But at this moment, this split second that passed after he spoke, he just wanted to kill this interloper.

The person shone the torch up into their own face and he gazed at the vicar's daughter. He'd seen her around town and found her very beautiful, the one vision that made him happy to be human. His feelings of hatred and homicide were muted, as he felt something stir in his groin.

"I want to save you, Frederick."

The stirring got more intense and images flashed through his mind, most of them obscene.



Veronica waited for him to speak, suddenly feeling stupid and vulnerable. Did she really want contact with him, to find out what he did to those sorry creatures he'd buried? She could end up down that hole and the thought made her pulse race.

"Save me? From what?"

"It may have escaped your attention, but this is a churchyard - my father's churchyard. I live here, so there's nothing unusual about me being in his place. But you, you shouldn't be here, especially not doing what you are doing."

He coughed, looked down at his feet. "I'm a scientist, with a particular interest in the genetic make-up of live animals and humans. I work at the Deadwood."

"Animal Research Centre", she finished for him. "You live in a flat in a big Victorian house and, judging by these inhumane creatures, you experiment at home. Right?"

He nodded, looking guilty.

"Now tell me why you're here, what it is that you're doing." She had him cornered, she could see the look in his eyes.

"I do conduct experiments, you're right. I try to understand the gene make-up and whether, with a little tinkering and questioning of how things work, I could create something new."

Her heart sank - this was blasphemy. The grotesque consequences of his words were almost too much to bear - this man was trying to bypass evolution and start his own species, with no thought as to how it would fit into the overall scheme of nature. Surprisingly, however, his words also vibrated through her body, making her face flush. He needed saving and she could do it.


Frederick had never felt himself so open to another human beings gaze and probing - not even Mr. White. But he could tell she was excited, could see the flush on her face, her rapid breathing, the quick rise and fall of her breasts.

He stepped away from the hole, hoping to minimize her attention to it. As he approached, she shied away but this new angle allowed the street lamp to light up her face. Their eyes met and he saw in them pity, hate and - could it be? - love. He felt degraded and yet fulfilled, misunderstood yet understood. She knew what he was and what he did and yet she did not reject him.

Warmth flooded his chest and pushed through his veins.

He was not rejected!

"I can explain, honestly, but not here, this isn't the right place. Would you listen somewhere else, perhaps over a coffee or."

"Yes," she said quickly and blushed again. "Where shall we go? My father is away." She stopped, as if aware of how vulnerable she'd revealed herself to be. She put a hand to her mouth, turned and ran.

Frederick watched her go, his mind replaying her lack of rejection, that she'd accepted his offer for another meeting. And maybe more, the chance to be with her, to hold her warmth against him, to explore her body and its workings.

Would she accept his work? It felt, to him, as if she would. Maybe he could show her, allow her to read his notes and journal. Perhaps, then, she would show him the way humans should be, the way that'd he always wanted to feel.


He delivered the book an hour later and Veronica, awoken from sleep, heard it thump against the mat.

Slowly, cautiously, she made her way downstairs. Light from the street streamed through the half-light over the door, the red and green playing on the hall table, over the crucifix. She saw the large red book and her fear began to ebb away.

He'd been here, she had made a connection and wasn't in danger. He wanted and needed her help. She thought about Job and the trials he was put through - was she being tested?

Her gaze fell onto the red cover of the book, it's rough titled script: "The Developing NEB".

Her sleep-befuddled brain took in the words. What was NEB? A draught through the keyhole made her shudder, so she went into the kitchen and automatically put the kettle on, tea bags, milk and sugar.

She sat at the large table and contemplated the wood grain. Only after the first sip of tea did she read the first line.

'Here is the record of Neb, his development and notes on his understanding of his world.'

So Neb was a person. But what kind? Her mind, honed to perfection by the Bella crossword, ran through options of the name - New English Bible, Ben Backwards, Never Eat Beans, New English Breed. It could be anything.

She got lost in her reading and her cup of tea went through metamorphosis - hot to warm, luke-warm to cold. Then it hit that state where a delicate skin forms and even the cat refuses to drink it.

Veronica read and the book devoured her, her brain understanding the words on an unconscious level. A highly crafted piece of academic writing, her heart read between the lines to see that it was a sculpture of emotion, pulling on every heartstring till they snapped. She was in LOVE with a book and knew that anyone who could put their soul into words such as these could only be doing good. As fast as her brain rejected the ideas, her heart and soul accepted the ideals and philosophy.


Frederick liked two things in life - animals and eating. His recipe collection was extensive and he attended to it like everything else, until it became an obsession. When he was out and about, he found it very difficult to pass a cookery shop without buying a recipe.

His love of animals had made life good for Neb. He'd been birthed, fed, had plenty to drink and was even allowed a drop of cider at Christmas. The only thing missing was a relationship - he never saw his own kind. Frederick was his maker and best friend and often said that they would bump into a mate for Neb one day, though Neb didn't hold out much hope.

They lived in Welfard, in a small and discreet flat on the top floor of a converted Victorian mansion. It was quiet, cold and occupied by people who kept themselves to themselves.

Welfard suited Frederick - it was small and nobody really knew him. That was his way and, as his teachers had always said, life is a funny thing.

Of course, his teachers were stupid. They'd attempted to teach him biology but why something so obvious had to be taught, he didn't know. Biology was his favourite lesson, where he was able to meet new friends and cut them up.

Most lessons were boring - they always asked silly questions. He knew bodies worked like that, it was obvious. Frederick sat and day dreamed, answering enough to be left alone. He didn't enjoy harming things but felt it was his duty, for the sake of science, to learn all about them. But he did like to watch squidgy bits oozing out of the skin when he made a small incision and pressed hard around it.

Amanda Jenkins wasn't so amused. She was fifteen, beautiful and blonde, whilst Frederick was fourteen, greasy haired and spotty. And desperate to impress her. Like every other girl, Amanda loved animals and it therefore followed in his mind that as most of the animal was hidden by skin, she would like them (and him) more if he showed her inside them.

Somehow, he managed to get her into his prepared classroom. The school had fifteen mice, two gerbils and four rabbits (two of the rabbits were later to be found pregnant and the more pragmatic of teachers said that Frederick had done them a favour). His display of love was impressive - spread flat, the animals covered three quarters of the desks in the room. He'd been a bit messy and Amanda had nightmares every night, for years afterwards. He never understood her reaction and the reaction of the teachers was equally indecipherable to him. Some threw up, whilst others laughed. That was strange - the animals might look better like this, but they weren't funny. He was used to the laughter though - every time he tried to impress people, that was the reaction.

The fallout was dealt with quickly and with as little publicity as possible. Amanda was treated by Dr Simon Allen, the most senior psychiatrist in the county, who helped stop her screaming fits outside of the butchers. He cured her, but the toll on her life (what little sleep she got was filled with dark and violent dreams of rabbits and gerbils, slick with blood and mucus, trying to escape the hands and cutting equipment of Frederick) was too much. She was under the supervision of the county for the best part of five years until, declared sane through her own cleverly thought out regime of lies and deceit, she threw herself from the Grand Dodsford bridge early one May morning. In a strange irony, the first car on the scene - which consequently smeared her half a mile up the road - was Dr Allen who had patted himself hard on the back at his wonderful, amazing success.

Only one teacher had defended Frederick and that was Mr. White. He had argued, in front of the board of governors, the head teacher, arrayed heads of medicine from the hospital, the parents of the traumatized girl and the father of the alleged psychopath, that he felt Frederick was perfectly normal. Yes, he had traumatized Amanda Jenkins but the animals had been properly anaesthetized and pegged out anatomically and he'd even used the correct Latin terms. At that, there had been much muttering and grumbling, but White had kept on until finally, more through the onslaught of fact and figure than use of reason, he had succeeded.

Frederick was placed in the top stream for sciences and earned a place at Cambridge University, reading Biology to degree level.

Frederick's father gladly handed guardianship to Mr. White and Frederick, who hated his father, succumbed easily to the methods of the only man in the world that he looked up to.

Mr. White, unhappy at being alone, enjoyed showing Frederick his vicious fantasies and ideals.


Frederick sat in his living room, the curtains drawn. A lava lamp threw blue, twisting shadows across the wall and Neb was hiding in the darkness.

"Come here boy, come to Daddy."

Frederick liked his time with Neb. He wanted to try out the things that Mr. White had taught him all those years ago in school when the rest of the kids and most of the staff had gone home and the classroom was filled with the burnt orange light of twilight.

From behind the ornate fireplace, Neb whimpered quietly. Frederick knew he was often cruel, but that was a fact of life and one that he had to pass on to his creation.

"Neb. I'll not tell you again." He'd picked that up from Mr. White, from those heady summer days as he hovered on the cusp of being fifteen, of starting out into the wider world that he - only now as a thirty year old - could really appreciate.

Neb moved away from the fireplace and Frederick watched, with pride, as he walked towards him, the blue light reflecting off the viscera of his musculature. Neb had a peculiar, oily smell but, in time, Frederick had found it to be pleasant, almost homely.

"Have you been a good boy?" asked Frederick and Neb made another mewling sound, the sound of someone who knows they are innocent but will be found guilty.

"Oh dear," said Frederick, "well that isn't too good, is it?"

Neb looked up, pleading in his huge eyes, tears at the ready to roll down his raw cheeks.

Frederick picked him up and smiled. "It's okay, Neb, it really is."


Later, Neb was hiding under the sink. He knew that something was wrong. He hadn't been cut, as usual and warily he watched the Frederick stare out of the window, at the raindrops. Neb liked the raindrops, wonderful creations that shone and sparkled, moving smoothly, holding upside down worlds in them. He'd tried to slither like a raindrop once, but all he did was mess up the carpet.

Neb watched as the Frederick wrapped up the red book, the book with his name. The Frederick had told him many times that it was his - his story, his book. So why was he wrapping it up? Had Neb offended him somehow? He clung to the Frederick's leg, squealing, until he got squashed against the wall. He watched the Frederick go away and come back, empty handed. He waited for pain, expecting it, but it never came.

Dejected he crawled into his box by the meter cupboard and huddled in the corner, confused.


Frederick dreamed. Veronica, dressed in a white coat and protective goggles, holding a Neb. Not his Neb, but a baby, his baby. God, the dog, looked on, licking the mucus from the newborn.

He awoke in a cold sweat. His analytical brain wasn't allowed such fantasies. Relationships - ha! They came hard to Frederick, he'd found that girls always accused him of mentally undressing them. They were, of course, partly correct but he didn't stop at their clothes - he considered internal organs and blood flow before moving on to bone structure and disease.


Morning dawned, a light mist cutting out the glare of the sun and making it a pale, white disk. Frederick got out of bed and ran his hands through his sleep-matted hair. Today was Saturday, a day of rest for the poor sheep who lived their lives with no dreams, no ambitions. To him, Saturday was free of work, allowing him time to experiment. To create the way forward - if he really knew what that was. Why had he given away his book? Everything was in there, his thoughts, fears, feelings and experiment details. But was his life really represented by two pieces of fake leather, sheets of paper with punched holes, held together by steel rings? No, but it still told somebody what he thought and felt, how his mind worked and he hated being vulnerable - Mr. White had seen to that. Now, with Veronica having possession of the book, he was more vulnerable than he'd ever been.

It was only six thirty. He listened for other sounds in the flat but there were none, Neb was thankfully still asleep. He had no intention of telling Neb that his book was gone, which didn't change the fact that his ridiculous, un-thinking action was going to have repercussions. Frederick had tried to keep Neb away from the callous, prying eyes of a world that didn't want to understand. With Neb known, there would be questions, probes, interrogations on TV with brightly lit and over made-up people. He went to the bathroom, groaning softly under his breath.


Veronica finished Frederick's book. Still dressed, she had stayed awake the whole night reading. She'd intended to put the book down and finish it in the morning but hadn't been able to. She wasn't a big reader - apart from the scriptures - and didn't have much to compare the book with but the passion had carried her through. She had found herself caressing the cover, stroking the pages and fingering individual words where he'd pressed too hard into the paper. At one point, she'd found her breathing started to race and saw that her nails had left marks in the cover.

How could she feel like this when all her life she'd been guided by the good and great, accepting it with the ease of one who doesn't want to rock the boat? Was it the book or Frederick that have her impure thoughts, made her pulse race and her forehead break out into sweat?

She knew that she would keep any date, to tell him how his book had made her feel. But what could she say? She'd never been with a man, didn't know how these things went.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face but it didn't make her feel any better. She got back into bed, pulled the duvet up and slept.


Neb sat by the window, looking out into the world. He so wanted to be out there, to move among the Frederick things as if he belonged, to get into the Frederick carriers and be whisked away to other places that might contain Nebs such as himself.

The Frederick came into the lounge. "I have to go to work today Neb, so be good won't you?" He smiled, patted Neb on the head and went into the bedroom making that strange noise with his lips. Neb didn't understand at all.


The telephone rang at the vicarage at twelve thirty.

"Hello, is that Veronica?"

"It is."

"This is Frederick, you remember, from the other night? How are you?"

"Worried and not a little disturbed. Yourself?"

"I'm fine. I was wondering, did you still want to go out?" There, he'd said it and it was easier than he thought it'd be. He'd been working up to the moment, dissecting a rat and applying balm to it, worried that she wouldn't talk to him. But she did - and he liked that he'd disturbed her.

"Where?" Veronica was torn between what she knew was right - telling him no - and what she wanted to be right. She kept thinking of how the book had made her feel and the sensations it had caused in her body.

"The cinema? Perhaps a drink or a meal."

"The cinema would be nice. I'll be at your house at seven."

"Then it's agreed," said Frederick and hung up, before she could say anything else. In separate towns, they sat and stared at the telephone, unable to believe the message the apparatus had just conveyed.

"I have a date," said Frederick, delighted. In his exuberance, he moved too quickly with the scalpel and made the rat a paraplegic.

"I have a date," said Veronica and went upstairs for another nap, dreaming of herself in a strange kitchen, dirtier than her own and darker. She was searching, but didn't know what for. Something, a cat maybe, was mewling behind her, waiting to be fed. She ignored it and began to open the cupboards at head height. Things fell out of them, smelling of the graveyard, light reflecting off their slick and slimy skin, sounds coming from their throats like she'd never heard before. The smell was bad, overpowering and she felt herself retch.

She awoke with a sour taste in her mouth and went for a shower.


Frederick stood at the gate to the Deadwood Animal Research Centre, thinking about how beautiful Veronica was. He pondered on the fact that, even in his dreams, he hadn't dissected her and was sure that a part of him - suppressed by the coldness of science - was still beating. She was his, he could see that, her heart belonged to him (though, given his record, he probably shouldn't say that to her) and that thrilled him. The feeling was odd and, as much as he knew himself capable of theorizing, he thought Mr. White had soured him. But no, he felt like he was in love.

He wanted to be at the side of Veronica - damn science - and set off, walking purposefully with a sense of righteousness that all was correct in his world. Realization dawned - he'd tampered with nature in a way that was intolerable, caused untold suffering to his creatures (and to Neb) but the only person to whom he could confess and ask for forgiveness was Veronica.

She would understand him, though he knew Neb wouldn't. He would now have a mate, but Neb would still be alone. Neb deserved a mate, but maybe the reason Frederick couldn't create one was because Neb wasn't the product of an experiment, but the result of fate. It suddenly seemed obvious that he was the instrument by which Frederick had learned to feel and Veronica was the direction in which those feelings flowed. He thought of her breasts and wondered how comforting it would be to rest his head there.

It scared him slightly that his thoughts should now be procreation rather than dissection!


Veronica reached Frederick's front door and looked around thoughtfully, at the busy road and the new, gaudy, fast food restaurant. This landscape wasn't natural, yet she and the populace thought it to be, a shared impression that the countryside had grown in that manner. It was a thought she suddenly wanted to distance herself from. Nothing on earth was natural, it was all man-made or man-altered in some way. Materials were extracted from nature and not given back.

Her beliefs were suddenly under attack, all that she held dear was not as it seemed. If everything was a product of man and his way, then how could she look down on Frederick and his newly created being? Perhaps he didn't need saving after all; perhaps she did? Maybe his ways were not as grotesque as she had once feared. He was a man with the love of nature, he wanted to add to it. She still felt it was wrong to tamper with the creation of species, but there had once been a time when the thought of cars travelling faster than three miles an hour was wrong. Perhaps time would prove one of their ways the better. In any event, she could see the love that Frederick was capable of and she wanted to share it.


Neb, alone in the flat, was annoyed. He hadn't known this feeling before and didn't like it. The Frederick was ignoring him, excited about the female Frederick coming up the path. He ran over to the window, pushed it open and looked down.

He noticed the Yucca plant, the one with all the lovely ants, on the windowsill. It was a large Yucca in a very large pot that overlapped even the old wide windowsills. With effort, Neb edged the pot to the windows edge and pushed like he'd never pushed before. Too late, he saw the Frederick step out. The pot and plant, helped by gravity, plummeted.

Oblivious, the couple embraced.

Neb looked down. His book dropped to the floor as the large Yucca and its pot landed in a mess of brains and the remains of two very happy people.

Neb smiled, he hadn't known he could do this. The Frederick was dead, which was a shame, and now there was a large gap in Nebs life. It was up to him to go out and find himself a mate.

Neb slithered out through the spilled earth, picking up ants with his fingers as he went. The two Fredericks had been so happy and would now be that way forever. Neb dragged HIS book away from the village, unseen by all. He had discovered long ago that so long as he didn't make it obvious that he was there, people tended to ignore him.

As if he was some mangy stray dog.

© 2002 Vincent Edward Richards

Vincent Edward Richards is the pseudoynm of three writers, living in Northamptonshire, England. This is their first horror story.