by WW Mortensen
The water rose higher. It crawled up past his ankles, up his shins.
The night was so dark.
Sanchez hadn’t reappeared.
Something’s happened to him. What do I do now?
At the top of the rock face, Sanchez’s head appeared in silhouette, beyond the ledge. “Ready, amigo? Let’s go!”
The words instantly dispelled Owen’s growing hysteria and he snapped back with a jolt. He needed no further urging.
After the packs and equipment had been raised, Owen headed up. Anxious to escape the ravine, he commenced eagerly, and the next half hour was a blur. He was barely cognisant of the ascent.
The next thing he knew, a pair of small but strong hands clutched at him from above, hauling him over the ledge.
• • •
Owen fell flat on his back.
Exhausted, he stole a moment to catch his breath, the rain falling around him. Below, the water had reached the wall, beginning its own creeping journey up the rock face.
Now they were permanently cut off from their companions—by foot at least. The helicopter was their only hope.
“That,” Sanchez said, “is something I would not attempt again.”
Owen sat up, panting, unable to read his companion’s expression in the darkness. But despite it, for some reason, he broke into a laugh, and Sanchez returned it. “It was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?” Owen chuckled.
They continued laughing for some moments, before Sanchez stood, patting Owen on the back. “Are you ready, amigo, to tackle the next stage?”
Owen nodded and got to his feet. His boots made a squishing sound. His socks were saturated.
“Here,” Sanchez said, retrieving a dry pair from his pack.
Owen thanked him and slipped them on.
They headed back onto the trail that led to S1, Owen tracking once more the glowing blue chemlight. He was dead-tired, but Sanchez’s selfless gesture in giving him his spare pair of dry socks, coupled with the laugh they had shared, boosted his morale. Suddenly, he felt more at ease with his often-humourless companion.
Owen shifted his pack up his shoulders and forced his leaden legs forward. His body ached to its core, and he desperately craved sleep. But he refused to complain. He wouldn’t let anyone down, not now. And anyway, the sooner they got to S1, the sooner he could rest—even if only for a short time.
And for now, that was all he could think about.
27
Rebecca had been sleeping deeply when the nightmare jarred her awake. She sat up, her heart pounding like a hammer in her chest. She wiped at her forehead, ran a hand through her sweat-soaked hair.
Already, the horrible vision was withdrawing like a rat absconding into shadow. She could have let it go, but instead, she grabbed it by the tail and dragged it back into her mind’s eye.
I need to know.
Now, she replayed the dream clearly, and was gripped once more with dread.
Just like the first time, it came from above, over the top of the motion sensors; slowly, almost mechanically, on a single thread of silk flowing smoothly from its abdomen. Its legs, splayed wide in a starburst, were deathly still as it slid noiselessly to the ground, its forward pair of appendages reaching for it. At their tips were retractable claws like those of a cat—climbing claws—and they flexed and sheathed. Velvet-like hairs, dark and bristling, ran the length of the jointed limbs. As the creature lowered itself, Rebecca knew that its eight glassy, black orbs, glinting in the meagre moonlight, saw all.
Saw her.
Halfway now between the canopy and the ground, the creature’s silhouette, on the other side of the tent’s flimsy nylon ceiling, was unmistakable. It remained so still it was as though someone lowered on a fishing line a giant Halloween toy, though Rebecca knew it was anything but.
She knew, and yet she couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Every one of them had turned to stone, rooting her to the spot. She tried to sit up but had no feeling in her limbs. Desperately, she tried to work the muscles around her jaw and call out to Ed and Jessy, tried to scream, yet her mouth wouldn’t work. Then suddenly there were legs reaching for the tent, reaching for her, and inevitably the dark shape was no longer the frightening yet inert, toy-like apparition but a horrible blur of motion as it ripped wildly, madly at the nylon, claws out, tearing it to shreds…
Rebecca almost screamed for real.
She shut the dream from her mind, took a moment to chase it away and clear her head. She glanced up. Of course, the tent’s nylon ceiling was still intact. No threat lurked beyond it. In fact, several feet above, a tarpaulin had been strung across a section of the cave’s hollow core to protect the interior from the elements. Impossible to see through.
“Shit.”
Rebecca tried to compose herself.
She wasn’t perturbed by the dream. It was more than that. Earlier today, when the huge spider had pounced for her, she’d suspected that something had been amiss but in the heat of the moment, she’d dismissed it.
It wasn’t easy to do that now.
Surely not…
There was an obvious explanation, of course; the only thing that made sense. While desperate to refuse it, there seemed no denying it.
“Shit,” she said again, but this time the word was born of an increasing, inescapable dread. “This can’t be happening.”
28
When Rebecca drew herself from the tent a few minutes later, Ed was lounging by the fire, the Weatherby against his leg. He seemed surprised to see her.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, straightening. It was just after midnight, and they had agreed she should rest until three.
“Not a wink.” It was the second time tonight she’d lied, but a discussion about her dream wasn’t an option. She took a seat beside him. “I guess I should have taken first watch, seeing as I was up and all.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t be able to sleep either.”
Trying to divert her thoughts, Rebecca sipped from her canteen. “I wonder how the boys are faring?”
Ed checked his watch. “By now, they’ll be long past the ravine. With luck, they should be coming up to S1.”
Rebecca bit her lip, fixed her sweat-dampened hair into a messy ponytail. “Speaking of which, I’m bothered by something.”
“What? About S1?”
“Yeah, something that came up in our conversation with Jess before dinner. She reminded me of what I said to Owen this afternoon, about why the spider that chased him and her just seemed to give up and disappear. Jess suggested it might’ve been to summon reinforcements; I’d thought it’d simply pursued us to the limit of its territory and abandoned the chase. But neither explanation considers one vital fact.”
“What’s that?”
“The original attack on Sanchez and yourself at S1. Why was that jumper so far from the nest?”
“Scouting for food?”
“Maybe. But S1 is more than half a day’s hike from here—too far to haul back captured prey. And in any case, the specimen was an adolescent. It wouldn’t have the strength.”
“I agree. It doesn’t make sense.”
“We can presume there’s no relationship between these creatures and the people who built Intihuasi. There’s no indication of spider worship, no statues in their honour. So, what’s the connection? Why the concentration here? And why the attack at S1?”
“I’ve wondered about that,” Ed said. “You’d assume they wouldn’t range from here, to the exact spot where the moai stands, so far away. Not even by chance. There’s gotta be an explanation.”
“There’s only one that makes sense,” Rebecca said, fixing him with a grim stare. “Something we missed at S1. Something we didn’t notice.”
Ed leaned forward.
“Somewhere near Site 1,” Rebecca said at length, “there must be a second nest.”
29
The eyes were the first thing Sanchez noticed, peering through the gloom as though a giant had roused from its slumber. As he dr
ew nearer, the night-vision goggles discarded and the beam of his flashlight cutting through the night, the rest of the pale stone face emerged ghostlike from the dark.
The moai.
“Thank the stars,” Owen said with a sigh, flopping at the base of the statue as though his legs had turned to jelly.
Sanchez was equally grateful to have arrived at S1 but said nothing. He activated the X40 and turned his attention to building a fire.
“I’ll look after the tent,” Owen said, “just gimme a moment.”
Sanchez knew how to build a fire in the wet. Soon, he had growing flames. “I know it is late, but I’m hungry. Want something to eat?” He searched his pack for food, then realised Owen hadn’t replied.
He spun. Owen was asleep, mouth ajar, snoring softly. He hadn’t removed his pack and lay on top of it like a turtle on its back. Noting he was wrapped tightly in his poncho and protected from the rain, Sanchez let him doze.
Heating his ration, he looked about. The statue loomed over him, as dark and brooding as the night before and no less spectacular. He wondered about its secrets.
The rain didn’t relent. Sanchez figured he’d have to get up shortly and erect the tent, but for the moment he sat quietly.
Despite the downpour, the buzz of insects echoed loudly on all sides. It was a good sign. Everything seemed normal, as it should be.
He wondered, briefly, if it would stay that way.
Sanchez forked a mouthful of chicken and hunkered against the rain.
• • •
When he heard the noise an hour or so later, it sounded distant, otherworldly, and he realised he’d been dangerously close to sleep. Sanchez sat bolt upright, his gaze boring through the murk. He’d been trained to manage sleep-deprivation and berated himself for the transgression.
Even so, few people could have detected the sound: a sharp crack, like a twig snapping.
Sanchez listened. Over the drum of rain, he discerned the hum of the X40, the chirping of insects, and the rhythm of Owen’s snoring. Other than that, he heard nothing.
Regardless, his finger crept to the trigger of the Weatherby. He recalled the night he’d been attacked here, and then the strange barking sound last night. He raised the rifle and lowered the NVGs over his eyes. As though slipping beneath the surface of a pool, he entered a world marked by contrasting shades of green.
For minutes, he waited like that, unmoving, save for his head which he craned slowly about, scanning. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Just the trees.
The noise didn’t come again. There was every chance he’d misheard: he was fatigued, had managed only a couple of hours sleep over two days. Maybe his weary mind was playing tricks. Maybe this was his body’s way of waking him up.
Maybe.
There was no point waking Owen. He couldn’t risk any sudden movements, and he was too alert for sleep now, anyway.
Rifle in hand, Sanchez kept the goggles trained on the jungle, curled against the rain, knowing that as tired as he was, he’d have to see out the night awake.
30
Rebecca was loading supplies into her knapsack when Ed stirred and woke.
It was just after dawn, and still raining. Ed had fallen asleep two hours ago, out by the fire, which had burned low. Though it had been her watch—and still was—he’d offered to stay up with her. When he’d drifted off, she’d let him doze undisturbed.
Now, he sat up in his chair. “What are you doing?”
Rebecca finished stuffing her equipment and zipped shut her pack. “Waiting for you to get up,” she said, slipping the straps over her shoulders. “I’m heading down to the north-western vantage point to observe the nest. I want to make sure the three of us aren’t sitting ducks. Jessy’s still asleep.”
Ed stood, shaking his head. “I can’t allow that, it’s too dangerous. We shouldn’t separate.”
Rebecca ignored him. She’d come to her decision not long after the dream last night. She had to do this, and by herself. Hell, for herself. She needed to know.
She grabbed her machete off the table. “It’s not up for discussion, Ed.” With her spare hand she gave Priscilla a quick pat. The monkey, still asleep, curled up tighter. Rebecca looked back up at Ed. “I won’t be long. Stay here and keep watch.”
And with that, she left.
• • •
She was surprised it took him an hour to come for her.
She heard footsteps, and then behind her the bushes trembled and burst open. Ed pushed through.
Rebecca was sitting on the ground, binoculars in hand, exactly where she’d told him she’d be: the north-western vantage point, the place where yesterday they’d halted to check out the plane. It had the best view of the city and the web. “You left Jess by herself?” Rebecca asked.
Ed seemed short of breath, must have double-timed it down here. “When she woke up and I told her you’d taken off, she insisted I come and bring you back—she wouldn’t hear of you being out here by yourself. She has the Weatherby, but I can’t leave her on her own for long.”
Rebecca suddenly felt awkward. “Yes, of course, I understand. Listen, Ed, I’m sorry I ambushed you before, but I had my reasons.” She thought about yesterday’s attack and the dream last night, and before she knew it words were tumbling from her mouth. “I never told you what led me down this path, did I?”
“The path from camp?”
“No,” Rebecca said, and almost smiled. “My career path.”
The expression of worry that had marked Ed’s face melted into a look of piqued interest. Wary of time, he ducked beneath the rudimentary ‘blind’ she’d created using the leftover camouflage netting and sat beside her. “Led you to it? No, you never did.”
Rebecca cleared her throat. “One day when I was about five or six years old, my father piled myself and my two older brothers into the car and headed to my grandma’s place. About a month earlier, granddad had passed following a long battle with emphysema, and for some time prior, grandma’s health had been deteriorating, too. Granddad’s death seemed to exacerbate it, and the family decided she should she go to a home, get the care she needed. It was sad for everyone. The house would be put on the market. It was in an older, inner-city suburb back home in Brisbane, full of little timber homes and frangipani trees in every second garden. I guess it was spring, because the aroma of those flowers was thick in the air.”
Rebecca went on. “Anyway, Dad was cleaning out the garage. My brothers were outside tearing around like madmen, so I joined Dad and started sticking my nose into everything. The garage was big and full of junk, dusty old furniture, cardboard boxes, all that kind of stuff. Sitting on top of a bag full of clothes was an old hat of Grandma’s; I think it was a pillbox. Anyway, it was all covered in dust, but pink and intricate and beautiful, and I put it on. There was an old pedestal mirror in the corner—it was grimy and when I spread my hand across it the dirt and dust just smeared more—but I could see my reflection well enough and standing there looking at myself in Grandma’s hat with my long, charcoal locks of hair right down to my waist, I thought I was the prettiest girl in the world. Then my father called out, wanting me to go back outside or something, and I hurriedly removed the hat. That’s when I noticed the huge spider. And I mean huge.”
Rebecca paused reflectively. “Holconia immanis. A Huntsman. Anyway, it was sitting right on top of my head—had been in the hat. I froze, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, and instead of scurrying off quickly like it should have, the thing crawled slowly through my hair, down the side of my face. It was tangled in my hair, and by then my brothers were at the door pointing and laughing. That’s all they did—they laughed. And I still couldn’t move. It was horrible.”
“That’s terrible, just awful. You poor thing.”
“As of that day I was terrified of spiders. Not just scared of them; I developed a disorder. By the time I hit my teens it was crippling.”
“You’re kidding!”
<
br /> “At its height, the fear was so great I couldn’t go to bed at night if my parents hadn’t checked the room first. Eventually they took me to a specialist, a psychologist. Slowly, I was taught to face my fear. The spider was gradually demystified. I was exposed to it, became familiar with it. With time, the phobia disappeared. In fact, an opposing effect took hold. Miraculously, not only was my fear of spiders cured, it was replaced by a fascination that ultimately evolved, I guess, into an obsession. And so here I am today, doing the job I do.”
“Bec… I don’t know what to say. That’s one hell of a story.”
“There’s an interesting footnote, too,” Rebecca said. “While the fear of spiders is gone, to this day, I still get ice-cold shivers at the faintest whiff of frangipani. Funny how stuff like that stays with you. And you know, after the experience in the garage I got mum to cut off all my hair. I hated long hair for as long as I could remember and never grew it back, not even in high school.” Pausing, she lifted her ponytail. “This is the longest it’s been since that very day.”
“Hell,” Ed said. “I wish I hadn’t teased you about growing it.”
“You weren’t to know.”
“I don’t understand why you never shared this before.”
Rebecca shifted restlessly. She looked down to the web and then back again. “You know, I’ve seen some activity in the city. I’ve worked out a few things.”
Ed frowned at the change of subject but went with it. “And?”
“Firstly, it’s definitely an active colony. And I think Jessy was right with her ‘division of labour’ theory. You need to look hard, and be patient, but I’ve seen several individuals this morning, attending to the web—removing debris, repairing sections damaged by the rain. By all appearances, they’re ‘workers’, confined to duties within the web.”
“They don’t leave it?”
“I don’t think so. While I imagine they’d attend to prey caught in the silk, the jumpers—or the hunters, or whatever you want to call them—likely do all the work outside the web, ranging out from the nest.”
