Grey Goo

“Swarm alert!” Mike barked, over the squawking noises from his phone. “Is everything secure?”

“Crap!” Mary jumped to her feet. “It was my day!”

“I’ve turned on the zappers,” Vernon called. “You need some help?”

Vernon’s got ulterior motives, Mary thought, knowing exactly what Vernon’s motives were. But swarm alerts usually gave just enough time to gear up. The bugs would be everywhere by the time she started getting stuff inside. “Yeah,” she replied. “I tote, you swat.”

“Roger.” Vernon grabbed badminton rackets, as Mary sprayed them both in the mudroom.

It seemed like a good idea at the time: landfills and oceans were choking on plastic waste, and scientists found that certain moths were able to digest it. Let Nature, they thought, fix the problems humanity had created for it.

But, as humanity learned once again, you cannot do only one thing.

The moths, given a plentiful food supply, gobbled away. They mated, laid eggs, and the offspring picked up where the parents left off. Before long, the Pacific Garbage Patch shrank, shrank some more, and all but disappeared. Landfill operators began digging, exposing more plastic.

Mary and Vernon dashed into the evening. The leading edge of the swarm had already arrived, covering the plastic chairs and toys left outside. “Dammit!” Mary swore, stacking chairs. “I could’ve sworn I set an alarm to deal with this in the afternoon.”

“Didn’t you have that call at 3:30?” Vernon asked, swatting moths away with his rackets.

“Yeah, and I set the alarm for four.” As Mary lifted a chair, moths circled, smelling both food and repellant. “I was presenting, and I had my phone muted.”

It was spring of 2027 when the moths exhausted their easy food supplies. Some were already venturing out of their territories, hunting for more plastic. Those were the first to begin migrating, flitting from place to place. Soon, they were everywhere. Swarms would descend, devouring any plastic they could find. Vehicles, outdoor furniture, toys, tarps, yard signs, even campers—no plastic was safe.

The swarm was noticeably thickening. Vernon led the charge to the garage, windmilling badminton rackets clearing a brief path. Away from the door, the zapper was popping constantly. A shower of dead moths fluttered to the pavement, but more homed in, drawn to both the light and the plastic bait behind the zapper screen.

Vernon opened the door, then stepped aside, letting Mary rush in with the rescued chairs. She slammed the door behind her. Outside, the moths drifted away, the food out of sight and smell. Vernon took a needed breather, watching the zapper do its thing. A whiff of roasted moth drifted his way, making him grimace.

“Okay, I sprayed the chairs,” said Mary, stepping out with a bag. “A few dozen followed me in, but they won’t hurt anything before we hit the foggers.”

“I assume you sprayed the bag, too.”

“Yup. Let’s get the toys.”

Swarms could be tracked on weather radar, and local spotter networks sprang up to augment them. Cellular networks were the final piece, sending alerts to all phones in the path of an oncoming swarm.

Quick-buck artists began hawking everything from moth-proof coatings to whole-house electromagnetic shields. After some disgruntled sucker/customers tracked a few down and put them in the hospital, the scammers went looking for safer scams.

Chemical insecticides had been largely banned, but there were exceptions (and a black market when exceptions were not enough). Authorities, reasoning that the swarms would starve to death in a few years, often overlooked all but the most egregious violations.

“Okay, we’re done,” Mary called, exiting the mudroom. “We can start the foggers.”

“Foggers on,” said Mike. “I’ve got the house set to open the garage after the swarm moves on.”

Everyone gathered at the bay window to watch the swarm pass through. Clumps of moths on the ground told of wrappers and other debris not picked up. Mary let Vernon stand close to her; he had done well out there. Mike had a lot of good qualities, but he was a complete spazz with the rackets. He had clobbered both Mary and Vernon uncounted times during swarm alerts. Vernon had a sense of presence, knowing when to wade in and when to stand back. If he was trying to impress her, he succeeded in one way, anyway.

“Oh, man,” Mike groaned. “The yard’s all grey.”

“Moth guano,” said Vernon. “Grey goo. They must have found a buffet before they got to us.”

“We’ll help.” Mary nudged Vernon, who reluctantly grunted agreement. The one who did not go out in the swarm got cleanup duty the next morning. But this one looked worse than usual.

Outside, the zappers settled back to occasional pops as the swarm moved on. One mound of dead moths underneath nearly reached to the bottom of the zapper. But that was the easy part of the cleanup, compared to the grey goo. They would clean up, and things would be back to normal.

Until the next swarm.