The Zombie Mosquitoes of Kashihara!

I wish I knew where they were coming from. They should all me dead now. It’s cold out, almost cold enough for me to break out the heater again (if it is still working after the minor explosion) and this weather should be killing off those little buggers one by one. Having spent a summer chasing them around the apartment turning them into insect pancakes against my walls was enough. I thought I’d got all of them but a week ago small bumps starting appearing on my hands again. They itched, boy did they itched. This could only mean one thing. They’re baaaacckkkkkk! But how could this be, I thought. I’d killed them and the frigid atmosphere in my home should not be able to sustain mosquito life. I knew these things were powerful. Some survived at least three whacks with my travel guide and kept on flying. These things, I thought to myself sometime in August, had to be genetically enhanced mosquitoes. Pumped with more steroids then a WWE locker room, they were able to endure what your regular mosquito will not. They also had larger brains then your average bloodsucker. These things were smart enough to wait until the night when their victim slept and there, in the darkness, they would attack the unconscious man without worry of being squished. But as powerful and brilliant as these misquotes were surely they couldn’t return from the dead. Right?

And then, last week, they came back, the Zombie Mosquitoes of Kashihara! They were the undead, returning now unfazed by the cold with a lust for blood, MY blood, zombie squeeters buzzing around no longer waiting for my to enter the land of slumber. They swooped and dived and bit in the light without worry or fear of death. How could I combat such undead blood slurping bugs now. If I “killed” them would they not just return again? Damned if I wasn’t going to try after the first bumps started to show on my hands and face. I waited in the dark, the light of the laptop there as bait attracting the bugs to me and when they fell for my trap I switched on the lights, hefty travel guide in hand, and stuck at them with such force that I may have placed some dents in the wall. The bugs spattered in a splash of blood, my blood, the bastards. I killed two the first night. I was sure that was all of them. The next night another fly by the laptop. But was this a different insect? Maybe it was the same one from yesterday, the blood still staining the wall, again risen from the dead! I jumped again and once again smacked this thing to a bloody mess against the wall. The next night the mosquitoes would return, a duo. I was still itching the bites on my hands from the night before. Okay, you bastards have messed with the wrong person. I went to kitchen, grabbed the bug spray and let them blast and even when they were dead and no longer moving I sprayed on. Rise up from that! And, bloody hell, they did. Either these are zombie mosquitoes or I have some kind of nest in my place that is churning out the bugs in separate waves of attack nightly. They are ever present, always at least one floating about. As I write this I look above me and there on top of my closet door one of them sits looking down on me, reporting back to the masses back at base camp. A book as made short work of him. I know now, though, that there will be more. Is an all out full force assault inevitable? Where are they all coming from? Where is this nest? I’ve searched the apartment but have found nothing. All I can do now is keep up the fight on my end, hunkered down behind my bedsheet barrack, and hope that the colder weather murders my assailants before they do me in. Until then I’ll continue to battle the mosquitoes of the living dead!