by WW Mortensen
Kneeling beside her, Rebecca retrieved aspirin from the First-Aid kit. She wished they had stronger painkillers.
Jessy washed down the tablets with a gulp of water. “To tell you the truth,” she said, her expression turning sad, “I can’t stop thinking about poor Enrique. What happened… it was awful. I hope it was… quick.”
“It was,” Rebecca lied. She knew there was every chance it wasn’t, and her falsehood now was as much for herself as anyone.
Ed pressed in and sat down in the tent’s cramped confines. He took Jessy’s hand and stroked it.
Jessy smiled at him. “What about Priscilla?” she asked Rebecca.
“Shaken, but she’ll be okay. She’s sleeping out on the table.”
Jessy seemed happy to hear it, but it wasn’t long before her smile dissolved. She turned to Ed, concern etched in her face. “I heard Robert speaking to you earlier. About the campsite. Among other things, he said it was ‘defensible’. That was his exact word. Tell me, Ed, and be honest. The last time you were here, did you have any… problems? Are you expecting those things to come after us?”
Ed lowered his gaze. “Jess, we thought the site was deserted. Hell… as horrible as it was, the incident back there was isolated. Prior to our arrival this afternoon we’d spent several days here without seeing anything, without any problem at all. Trust me. Those things don’t know we’re here.”
Rebecca watched Ed before turning calmly to Jessy. “I’m sure Robert was just being cautious. He’s ex-military. He likes to be prepared.”
Jessy didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve been thinking. You know, when it happened, they appeared together, as a pack. Those ‘jumpers’, they attacked you guys as a team. The third chased Owen and I, and we either lost it, or it gave up for some reason, simply chased us from its territory.” She clasped her hands together, her expression intense. “But given how smart you say they are, and that they have exceptional vision, I don’t believe we lost it. So why, then, did it turn back? We know they co-ordinate their attacks, so I think it turned back to regroup. I think it was alerting others to come search for us.”
Ed reached again for Jessy’s hand, and when he spoke, it was in the soft manner of a parent whose child complained of nightmares. “Try not to worry yourself, Jess. If they had regrouped, wouldn’t they have found us by now? If there are more of them out there, I’m sure they’ve already forgotten about us.”
Jessy sighed. “But that’s my point! How can you be sure? If we’re talking about an active nest, we’re not safe here at all! Think about it. The one that got Enrique… that wasn’t a jumping spider. It was a trapdoor spider. I’m thinking these things are more like ants, and they’ve all got a different job within the colony. And, maybe like ants, they warn each other when under attack, or when there’s large prey that needs to be subdued. Ants do everything in numbers—that’s their strength. When that thing in the ground attacked Enrique, the ‘jumpers’ were instantly alerted, maybe to assist or to protect the colony from attack. Just like ants. And, like ants, sooner or later, whether they remember us or not, they’ll send out scouts to find food. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Jessy’s words hung in silence.
Eventually, Rebecca spoke. “If they do inhabit that web—which now seems a safe bet—then yes, it’ll be an organised community. Social spiders do exist. But I’m not sure about the comparison with an ant colony and a division of labour. Social spiders don’t have a caste system like ants or bees. What you’re describing is unheard of.”
“What, like their size, you mean?” Jessy remarked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I guess we can’t be sure of anything,” Rebecca conceded, biting her lip.
Jessy pressed. “The one in the ground was different to the others. Heavier of body. It wasn’t a jumper.”
Rebecca nodded. “Then we’ve only got two possibilities.”
“And they are?”
“The first is that you’re right, and this is a single, eusocial species, with a caste system and a division of labour. Caste polymorphism would account for variations in body shape and size.”
“And the second possibility?”
“The second is that there are two different species living and working together in symbiosis. The spiderlings that fell on Owen were most likely ‘squatters’—a separate, regular-sized species living in the host web unnoticed. Perhaps the ‘jumpers’ live side by side with the ‘trapdoors’, tolerant of each other.”
Jessy screwed up her face, scoffing at the notion of two or more different and gigantic-sized species living interdependently.
Rebecca was inclined to agree with her. “Whatever scenario, I guess it doesn’t change our situation any. What does, however, is the point you made a moment ago, about scouts searching for food. Most social spiders live in the tropics because their food source—insects, namely—is in plentiful supply most of the year. Given their size, these guys would need a lot to sustain them, certainly more than just insects. I’m guessing birds and monkeys and larger animals would be on the menu; virtually anything that might blunder into the web.”
“Or anything they could hunt.”
Rebecca nodded. “By travelling farther afield than the web’s confines, they’d avail themselves of larger and more varied prey.” Rebecca turned to Ed. “Whether they remember us or not is beside the point. Jessy could be right. In order to gather the enormous amount of food required, maybe they do send out scouts, converging when something’s been located. Maybe they will, by chance, come searching, and in numbers.”
Jessy seemed relieved to be taken seriously.
Ed, however, drew a sharp breath. “Look, all this speculation… it isn’t doing us any good. We’ve got the motion sensors and the X40s. The chopper will be here tomorrow. Jess, you need to rest.”
Rebecca nodded, figuring it was better not to burden Jess further. “Why don’t I fix us something to eat?” She moved outside to the sound of heavy rain. She didn’t go far, venturing no farther than the cave’s entrance and the tarpaulin set up with the LED lights.
Priscilla was curled up asleep on the table, her tiny chest rising and falling. The poor thing had only been able to find rest in the full glare of the lights. Rebecca tried not to disturb her, though she did briefly stroke the little monkey’s head. With her other hand she waved at a cloud of mosquitoes; unfortunately, the lights had attracted swarms of insects. Not daring to turn them off, she reached into her pocket for the repellent.
Ed emerged from Jessy’s tent some time later.
“Good timing,” Rebecca said. “This is ready to go.” She’d heated MREs. As Ed came to lend a hand, she paused to look up at him. “It’s why you asked me here, isn’t it?”
“Sorry?”
“Why you got me to come down here. To help you get in there. Into the pyramid.”
Ed glanced over his shoulder and spoke low. “I thought we’d discussed this already. I never asked you to come, I just sent you the material.”
“You wanted my opinion.”
“Of course! You’re the expert.”
“An expert, who could help you get inside.”
Ed shook his head and sighed. “You don’t get it, do you? Fate, in the unlikeliest of coincidences, had delivered me an opportunity. Yeah, I wanted you to see this place—because I owed you.”
“Owed me?”
Again, Ed glanced over his shoulder before leading her several more steps from the cave’s entrance. He took her gently by the arms, just above the elbows. “Bec, you kept me going. You encouraged me, urged me on, gave me the strength and support to keep at it when I was ready to give up. I wanted to show you what came of your sacrifices. I wanted you to feel justified, and that it wasn’t all just a waste of time.”
Rebecca exhaled softly, dismissively. “A waste of time? You’re being melodramatic, and I don’t deserve this kind of credit.”
“Yes, you do.” He pulled her closer, his eyes welling with gratit
ude, and suddenly, something more. “You’re more responsible for me finding this place—realising my dream—than you can ever imagine.”
She fell into his gaze, and he leaned into her. For a moment she hesitated there, her body close against his. Then she lowered her eyes and eased away. “I don’t know if I can bear that responsibility,” she said. “I don’t know if I can handle knowing I’d given you the strength to keep looking, to find this place… and then didn’t stop you from going in there. Because if you do, Ed, you won’t make it out alive.”
She raised her eyes. He said nothing in reply and looked away. For an eternity, they stood unspeaking.
“Had you planned for me to accompany you?” Rebecca said eventually.
Ed looked back, his expression changing as though a switch had been flicked. “I never intended that,” he said, shaking his head. “And especially not now. If I’d known the nest was active, I would never have brought you here.”
For some time, Rebecca remained silent, unsure of what to say. At last she said quietly, “Have you any thoughts about how it can be done?”
“Yes.”
That was the end of it. After delivering Jessy’s meal, they talked some more, out by the fire, but Rebecca chose not to pursue the subject. She didn’t need to. What she needed was time to think. Eventually she stood, her mind tired and heavy, and announced she’d try and rest. As she headed for her tent, she nervously scanned the trees.
If the three of them survived the night, she’d make damn sure that tomorrow, Ed got on the chopper with them.
26
Rain teemed down.
Even above the downpour—and before they had reached the edge of the darkened ravine—Sanchez said to Owen, “Hear that?”
Running water—a lot of it, and loud. Shocked, Owen stepped up to the ledge. Murky water rushed through the gorge below. Not a torrent, but more voluminous than the ankle-deep stream they’d crossed around noon that same day.
“I am not surprised,” Sanchez said. “A dry wadi can become a river overnight. Flash flooding is common out here.” As he spoke, he shrugged his pack, removing the harness and two coils of nylon climbing rope.
“Is that wise?” Owen questioned above the rain. “I mean, crossing it now, in the dark? The water’s rising. It’s too dangerous.”
Sanchez didn’t look up. “We have no choice, amigo. We must get across, and the sooner the better. Come daylight, it will be impassable.”
Owen drew a calming breath. Sanchez was right. If they left it too long, they’d miss their window.
Securing the rope, Sanchez backed to the ledge and dropped over it.
Owen called after him. “Just for the record, I still think this is crazy!” He walked to the ledge and peered over, but the shadows had already swallowed his companion.
The process was the same as earlier in the day. Owen retrieved the harness and helmet with a second rope, raising the items before lowering the backpacks and remaining gear to the bottom.
While Sanchez held the first rope—still anchored to the top—Owen descended. The NVGs weren’t suited for such a close-range task, so he worked without them, the beam of his headlamp illuminating the wet rock in front of him.
With Sanchez’s direction, he was soon at the bottom.
• • •
The first thing he noticed as his feet touched the ground was the lack of standing room at the base of the ravine wall. Barely two feet separated the wall and the water’s edge—already, water lapped at his toes—and with every moment the thin patch of mud and rock grew steadily narrower. Owen was amazed the stream had risen so quickly, but he didn’t stand gawking for long. They were committed now, and the clock was ticking.
Sanchez anchored a rope for the crossing. While he worked, Owen glanced restlessly about. Rain slashed through the beam of his headlamp. On all sides, fern fronds rose to their waists.
“I want to apologise,” Owen said above the downpour.
“For what?”
“For my behaviour this afternoon. I was short with the others, and particularly you. I didn’t handle things very well. I’m sorry.”
Sanchez continued to work but looked up briefly. “Not at all,” he said, and resumed his task. Owen guessed that was the end of it. He was glad.
Sanchez wedged a camming device into the rock wall, fed a rope through it, and then fixed one end of the rope to the harness. He glanced at Owen. “Remove your socks, keep them dry. Put your boots on without them for the walk across. We’ll towel our feet on the other side.”
Owen did as he was told and removed his footwear. “What about caiman?” he asked, scanning the rushing black water.
Sanchez didn’t answer. Owen baulked, wondering in what way he should take his companion’s silence, but was unable to question him further. Already, Sanchez had waded into the dark stream. Assaulted by rain, he pushed against the flow of water, the rope trailing from his harness, back through the camming device. The other end of the rope spooled from Sanchez’s hands, so that it ran in a loop behind him, taut above the surface.
Slowly and cautiously, Sanchez pushed through, and soon enough, he was across. At no time did the water rise higher than a few inches above his waist.
My turn, Owen thought.
Clambering up the opposite bank, Sanchez fixed both ends of the rope to a tree, the loop running two feet above the stream’s roiling black surface. Using the second rope, Owen retrieved the harness and helmet, which Sanchez had attached to the first rope with a carabiner so that he could pull them above the water. Once their equipment had been ferried over, Owen slipped into the safety gear.
Okay, don’t think about caiman. He hooked the carabiner to the chest-high guide-rope and plunged his foot beneath the stream’s obsidian surface. Just get across.
He felt his way along. As he pushed forward, black water sped by, pulling at his waist, rain drumming loudly on the hood of his poncho. Above it, he could hear Sanchez calling out words of encouragement. Before long, he had reached the stream’s midpoint.
This isn’t so bad, he thought, and stumbled.
Owen’s feet sped out from under him and he hit the water hard. Falling beneath the surface, the churning torrent roaring in his ears, he realised he hadn’t drawn a breath and panicked, but then suddenly he was topside again, feeling the harsh pull of the rope. Stationary now, he lay parallel to the streambed, water crashing past him on either side.
The safety rope had saved him! Thank Christ.
The speed with which he’d been upended was astonishing, as though the flow had been awaiting his lapse in concentration. If not for the rope and harness, he would have been swept to his death.
He coughed water. He had to get to his feet. The stream thundered past his ears, yet still he could hear Sanchez calling to him. With effort, he found the bed underfoot and forced himself up. Straightening, he steadied himself on the rope and swivelled, regaining his bearings. Somehow, his glasses were still in place. Through droplets of water he sighted the waving figure of Sanchez and headed for it.
There were no more stumbles, and soon, still spluttering water, he was across.
“Are you okay, amigo?” Sanchez said.
“Yeah, thanks.” Owen coughed, feeling more embarrassed than anything.
“I was hoping it wasn’t a caiman,” Sanchez remarked, helping him from the harness. Owen looked at him, unsure if he was joking. Sanchez gave nothing away.
They dried their feet, pressed up against the ravine wall. After towelling their boots, they slipped back into their dry socks before beginning the third, final, and most difficult phase of the ravine crossing.
The ascent.
• • •
Sanchez retrieved the ropes, drawing them through the anchor.
Owen had been dreading the ascent. Difficult enough in broad daylight, it’d be even more dangerous in the dark, pounded by rain.
Still, they had to keep moving. The stream continued to swell.
Sanchez fitte
d his headlamp and began.
He moved carefully, paying the slippery rock face due respect. In the faint light of the full moon that seeped from behind the blanketing clouds, the wet rock glistened, rising into the night like a sparkling wall of silver. Gripping the trailing safety rope from below, Owen watched Sanchez wedge camming devices into the wall and fasten the rope with carabiners.
As his companion drew fluidly away, his black silhouette dark against the rock, Owen was overcome by a creeping dread. He looked about himself but saw no reason for alarm. Cursing his jumpiness, he released one hand from the rope to wipe the rain from his glasses. It was difficult to see through their splotched lenses. Behind him, the water continued to rise, lapping now at his heels. He swivelled, looking to the side, back over his shoulder again. In these parts, you should never stand close to the water’s edge. He recalled what Sanchez had said about caiman and pressed as close as he could to the wall. Soon, the water would be as high as his ankles…
He heard a splash and just behind him, on the surface of the stream, a long, dark shape cruised by…
…just a log…
He shook his head, cursing again, and ran his gaze up the rock face. Sanchez was three-quarters up and almost gone from sight. Owen’s uneasiness grew, and he felt a mild stab of fear. He realised he was being irrational, but suddenly wanted to be free of the ravine, and quickly. Again, he glanced up at Sanchez, but this time in desperation.
If anything happens to Robert, I’m in big trouble.
The rain pelted down.
Get me out of here…
Above him, Sanchez reached the top and heaved himself over the ledge. Owen watched him disappear.
And felt the hairs prickle on the nape of his neck.
He spun about, looked around, twisted back the other way.
Nothing.
He knew he was acting foolishly, but at that moment, standing there gripping the rope at the bottom of the ravine with the suffocating blackness clamping down, worming in through his pores, Owen felt more alone, more isolated, than ever in his life, as though he was the only person left on the planet. He might well have been.
