Free Ectopia by Martin Goodman

round and much of its top has collapsed into a hole. White icing is running down the sides and onto the plate. Seventeen tiny candles are stuck in round the edge.
    The others are in place. Dad on the left, Paul on the right, and Mom facing the kitchen door. She’s lowered herself to a cushion, her legs stuck out in front.
    Karen and me wait inside till the candles are lit, then Mom calls. This is our big entrance. We’re the birthday twins.
    Mom claps in delight when we come through the door. Her spongy hands don’t make much sound. She’s wearing her favorite drapes, white cotton splashed with orange poppies, her toenails a matching shade. Karen must have painted em. Mom’s worked hard. The scraps on the table are a feast. Her family’s all around her on a special day. For Mom, this is as good as life gets. Her eyeliner streaks tears of joy.
    It’s a toss-up between heartbreaking and pitiful.
    - Happy Birthday To You! Mom sings.
    The others open their mouths but no sound comes out. Mom carries on to the end. She’s heavy but her voice is light. She’s never minded singing on her own. It must be a wonder that a bit of her, that voice of hers, can still float so easily.
    We kneel down. I blow out the left side of the candles, Karen the right. Some sugar icing blows off the cake and onto the blue plastic. That’s OK. There’s more left. The icing’s as thick as my thumb.
    A knife waits on the edge of the cake plate.
    - Cut and make a wish, Mom says – Don’t tell us. Keep it secret so it’ll come true.
    Karen and me share a grip on the knife. It slips through the icing then I press down hard to cut through the cake to the plate.
    - Make this my last birthday picnic ever, I wish.
    We leave the knife in the cake. No-one wants to eat a slice. We each pick up a sandwich to keep our mouths busy.
    - Look! Paul says.
    Bread and tomato skin foam out of his mouth but no-one complains. We look to where he’s pointing. We don’t look in the sky much as a rule. The sky is a smudge of blue and grey burnt by the sun that starts at dawn and ends at dusk with only insects to fly across it. It’s not much to look at.
    This is different.
    - A whirlwind? Dad says.
    It has that shape, a long cone with twists, but the point of it is dark and high above the earth like a copter. The darkness of the tip fades through grey and brown as its tail broadens.
    - It’s electric? Dad says – An electric storm?
    He says that coz the thing hums, more low than high. It’s not a clean note, more like lots of sounds glued together.
    Paul glugs.
    He likes to have the answer to things. He’s beaten us to it again. The explanation of the whirlwind in the sky is coming out of his mouth. The mouth’s still full and open. Pulped bread and tomato lies in a mound on his tongue, and it’s moving. The white and the red of the food show through a shifting wash of black.
    His mouth is filled with flies.
    Outriders.
    We’ve seen em onscreen. Outriders come first, landing on anything with life in it. Then the screen goes dark. The swarm arrives. It encrusts the camera lens on landing, and everything else.
    I look down.
    The birthday cake isn’t white any more. It’s black. Flies have even filled the hole, mounting each other to give the cake an even top.
    The hum is loud now. I look up. The sky is gone. The cone is passing overhead, its tail dropping like exhaust.
    - Inside! Dad yells.
    He’s long legged. In three strides he’s at the back door. It swings open and slams closed. His face peers out through the glass, waving at us to hurry, then fades to nothing as more of the swarm drops in.
    Paul is choking. He grabs hold of my leg, crawling toward the house, and passes out of sight in the insect fog. I hear him knock. The door opens, then slams closed again.
    Karen’s not running. She’s kneeling in front of Mom.
    I open my mouth to shout at em both, get em