Pathosis (A Dark Evolution Book 1)

by Jason LaVelle

  Idiots, he thought. Spiders don’t hurt people. Even the most infamous spider in the world, the great and feared Black Widow, couldn’t inflict life threatening injuries on an adult. The Brown Recluse, arguably the most dangerous spider in America, still did not inflict a deadly bite. A simple knowledge of venom, how it works and proper treatment for post-bite infections, could make even the most heavy envenomation practically harmless. Most major complications from spider bites came from infections after the fact.

  No spider could kill a reasonably healthy adult, and a bite, even from an oddball spider like this one, wouldn’t drive a man into a murderous rage. Marc obviously had a psychotic breakdown or something.

  He shook his head. He was going to have spider calls coming out his ears now. Even as he thought about the irrationalness of arachnophobia, he remembered his own fear when he had encountered the gangly, orange and black arachnid in the belly of the ship. He had been terrified, and for no good reason. Silly is what it was, he thought. Of course, he felt like a fool now. But it was so aggressive. Jack felt a shiver run up his spine as he thought about being stared down by the small predator. Then it had actually tried to attack him! Freak thing. It wouldn’t do for the Spider Man to be having scares like that.

  Jack roused himself from his chair. “Gotta make hey while the sun shines and all.” He cracked his back and looked at his watch. It read 5:30 a.m. Too early, in his opinion, but he was anticipating a busy day. Jack left home for the office to load up on supplies.

  Perhaps it was because she had always been a little clairvoyant, or perhaps it was just luck. Whatever the reason, Kala Wolfgang’s eyes fluttered open at 6:04 a.m. She did not move right away, instead letting her eyes adjust to the dim morning light in her room. She knew this was far too early to wake up and she was about to close her eyes again when the spot of orange caught her attention.

  What the …?

  There was something shiny and orange on top of Abigail, who was sleeping next to her. Wait, no, orange and black. Then it moved, and Kala saw the shiny black legs and hairy body of the small predator. Its many eyes were locked on her sleeping friend. The spider appeared to be creeping straight for her face.

  Abigail hates spiders!

  With a stealth that even a ninja-arachnid would envy, Kala slipped one naked arm out from underneath the comforter and swung it swiftly toward Abbie. The spider suddenly froze, but Kala’s attack could not be countered now. She chuckled as she deftly grabbed the large spider in a rough hold between its abdomen and cephalothorax.

  “You picked the wrong house, buddy,” she whispered to the panicking critter.

  The spider’s abdomen was plump and bristly; the hair felt like that of a fuzzy caterpillar, only it did not break off in her hands. As soon as she picked up the spider, it started flailing its legs madly, and then swung its head and mouthpiece toward her. Its chelicerae dropped their fangs, which flashed out in a menacing warning as it tried to attack her hand. Unfortunately for the spider, arachnids do not have a neck that can articulate, like a turtle, and since Kala had its body, there was no way it could turn and pierce her with those poison-tipped vampire fangs. The spider had neither the leverage nor the strength to escape.

  Kala scooted out of the bed, all the while holding the wriggling spider at arm’s length.

  “You are a very unusual creature,” she said to the struggling beast. It was easily as large as one of her outstretched hands.

  “Your colors are amazing.” She turned the spider this way and that in the dim room, examining him in the morning light. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like you.”

  With one hand, Kala turned on her table lamp. Abbie groaned behind her but Kala ignored her. She would have been screaming if she had seen what Kala pulled off her. Kala pried the lid off a Country Crock butter container (the one Lukie had used for the transport and delivery of their frog patient the evening before). She placed her spider hand in the container and prepared to drop the angry thing, but reconsidered. With her other hand, she took the lid to the container and scraped it down over the spider hand as she released it, forcing the arachnid away from her exposed flesh. She wasn’t afraid of this new beasty, just didn’t feel like getting a bite.

  She heard the spider hit the bottom of the container with a little thump. Then, moving her face in very close, she cracked the lid open just a touch so that she could peer in. The spider was ready, and lunged at the small opening with fangs fully extended. Kala quickly snapped the lid down on it. Jeez, that was fast! If the spider could vocalize, she thought, it would be hissing like a fractious cat right now.

  “Well, you are a feisty one,” she chided, and brushed a hair away from her face, which was beautiful even without makeup. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to save you for Dad. Maybe he knows what you are.”

  “In the meantime, though, I can’t risk you getting away. Not with a nasty attitude like yours,” she said as she slid a small plastic squeeze bottle off a stack of containers at the back of the table. The bottle contained a chemical mixture called ethyl acetate.

  Ethyl acetate is an extremely effective killing agent. It knocked out and terminated arthropods quickly, with little pain (she told herself) so they didn’t thrash around too much, damaging their bodies. This was important if the specimen was to be studied or entered into a collection.

  With a needle-nosed clamp, Kala placed several drops from the bottle onto a cotton ball. That was usually plenty. Considering the size and relative ferocity of her client, Kala opted for a more liberal use of the lethal agent. She upended the squeeze bottle and completely saturated the cotton ball. Now it was dripping on the table.

  “Because you’re so feisty,” she said to the butter container. Then, with practiced hands, Kala made a tiny slit in the lid, into which she immediately shoved the wet cotton ball and let it drop inside.

  Only a moment went by before the spider began thrashing and thumping around in the container, hitting the inside so hard the butter tub was actually sliding across the table on which it sat.

  “What are you doing over there?” a groggy voice asked from over on her bed.

  The thumping in the butter tub quickly grew fainter. Kala chucked. “You really don’t want to know, honey.”

  Chapter 9

  Henry Smite, the 32 year old reporter, originally from Tucson, Arizona, whipped off his jacket and tie. He stretched the collar of his button-up away from his red neck. The humidity today was oppressive, and this house, filled with the stench of death, gave him the creeps.

  “Shit, Jones, this is bullshit!” He wiped a hand over his forehead, pulling with it an ounce of sweat. “It’s too damn hot to be out here.”

  The cameraman, whose name was actually Jonah, if the arrogant little jerk would bother to pay attention, shook his head at the fair-haired reporter. “I thought you came from Arizona.”

  “I did,” Henry shot back.

  “Isn’t it like a hundred and twenty degrees there in the summer?”

  Henry gave him a dark look. “It’s a dry heat,” he grumbled back. “Plus,” he continued, “we didn’t have all these bugs in Arizona!”

  The cameraman laughed as Henry swatted at several mosquitos who were attempting to feed on his now-exposed arms. “Crap-ass Florida!”

  “You know what, Henry? You’re a jackass.” With that, Jonah turned and walked back to his van.

  Henry followed behind him, scratching at the fresh red bumps on his arms. Henry had a perpetual chip on his shoulder. He had graduated from Arizona State University with a baccalaureate in both communications and journalism, then the gravy job that he had been promised was yanked out from under him. Drowning in debt, Henry applied for jobs across the country, and found a home with Fox News in Miami. He didn’t like Florida, but he had no choice in the matter. With bills to pay, he would have to continue to p
ut up with the sticky climate here until a better opportunity presented itself.

  For Henry, that would never happen. He would die right here in Miami, along with so many others.

  Emily tried to get up for work, she really did. She was a successful, responsible young female lieutenant in the U.S. Coast Guard. She was tough as hell, and took no shit from anyone. However, on this morning, she was completely incapacitated by a vicious migraine headache. It was a bad day to call in and she knew it. The murder mystery ship was a potential crisis. The FBI would be coming in today to investigate, and they would expect her, as the officer on scene when the boat came in, to give a full report.

  They’ll just have to read my notes, she thought. Sans the Captain’s journal, of course. She had stayed up until the very early hours of the morning reading the journal. It was an infectious read, a bonafide adventure. When she had at last fallen asleep, the migraine slowly crept over her. As soon as she woke and sat up in bed, her head spun with pain. Emily was dizzy and nauseated and her eyes would not focus. In one graceless move, she leaned over the side of her bed and threw up on her bedroom floor.

  “Ugh, gross.”

  She tried forcing herself into her blues, and even made it out of the bedroom before falling to her knees in the hallway. It just wasn’t going to happen. She would have to spend the day alone, in the dark. Emily stumbled back into her room, and groped her way through the medicine cabinet until she located her migraine pills. She popped two of the Fioricets, then a Vicodin for good measure. After washing the puke out of her mouth with a little Scope and water, and cleaning up the floor, Emily flopped back onto her bed. The yellow captain’s notebook was set on the nightstand beside her.

  As Emily was falling asleep, a shiny black and orange spider was waking up. It had camped out for the night inside Emily’s black shoulder bag that she had carried home with her from the base. The bag was leaning against the wall of her apartment, near the front door. Long legs, each with a footpad made of up microscopic feeling and sensing hairs, each with its own tiny barb, crept out of the bag. It felt along the new environment. It could sense a heartbeat nearby, could smell the scent of a warm-blooded creature.

  The microscopic barbs at the end of the hairs on the spider’s feet grasped with each step, clinging to the drywall of Emily’s apartment. This was a strange environment. It had a smell of the inorganic. The spider was used to the smell of dirt, volcanic ash, and salt life. It honed in on the vibrations of the warm heartbeat it felt. It was time for a blood meal, time to gather her strength for egg laying. The spider was getting closer now to the beating heart. This vibration felt familiar, the beat of sleeping prey. It didn’t always need to kill its prey, especially larger prey, just incapacitate it so that it could drink the iron-rich blood that sustained the arachnid.

  The spider skimmed along the off-white walls. It was fast and fleet of foot, even for its large size. The hairs covering its abdomen gave it more girth but added almost no weight to the arthropod. After some careful searching, the spider found what it was looking for, and its six eyes focused in on the sleeping prey. It wasn’t as large as the spider thought it would be. This victim would have to die. Still silent, silent as a windless night, the orange and black mass flew through the air. As it descended, the spider extended its legs outward, and at the same time, dropped its fangs out of its quivering chelicerae. The spider’s landing was choreographed by millions of years of evolution.

  The mouse huddled behind the refrigerator never had a chance. The giant orange and black predator landed on the mouse’s back. Its legs gripped tight around the sides of the rodent and it sank both needle sharp fangs into the back of the mouse’s neck. The mouse woke only to shriek in pain. It shuddered once before falling into a sleep from which it would never wake. The spider did not move from its arachnid submission hold. Instead it inserted the fanged mouthparts deep into the rodent, and began to digest its flesh. At the same time the mouse’s body was being dissolved by the venom, the spider slurped the rodent goo into its gullet.

  It was a good meal, and would sustain her for another day while she prepared to lay eggs. Now that she was free from the ship, she could reproduce. This world seemed to hold plenty of food for her offspring, much better than the jagged rocks and dusty crags of the island where her species originated. That was a dying landscape, and even though all spiders operated on sense and instinct alone, those senses could tell that their world was ending. The cause, they did not know, but this was her chance to propagate the species.

  She fed for an hour, until the mouse was nearly desiccated, then went to look for a safe place to rest. In the baseboard behind the refrigerator was a small hole the mouse had been using for travel inside the walls, and she now took this passage, following its depths as they made several 90-degree turns. After a few minutes, she came to another small hole. This one led to a cavernous closet full of shoes and musky-smelling clothing. The area looked undisturbed, and she noticed other small spider webs around the closet, probably preying on flying insects and ants.

  The orange and black female crawled deep into a pair of large, strangely-colored boots. There she would rest as her meal settled within her. After, she would venture out and look for a place to mate.

  Emily’s neighbor, in whose apartment the spider now lay resting, was working. As a performer, she often worked odd shifts throughout the day. The woman had no idea that her apartment had just become home to something else, something very dangerous.

  Emily sat bolt upright in bed. What was that? Then it came again, a loud rapping at her door, followed by a deep voice yelling something she could not make out. What the hell? Police? Why would they be here? She wondered this as she jumped out of bed, thankful that her migraine had subsided with the help of a morning nap and a handful of pharmaceuticals. Emily slipped a pair of sweats over her naked legs, then a matching U.S. Coast Guard sweatshirt. She didn’t bother with underwear or socks, for the banging continued on her door. The voice boomed again, and this time she could make out the words.

  “Lieutenant Brisbane, come to the door immediately. You must comply now or we will execute a forced entry.”

  Forced entry? Oh shit!

  “Wait, wait! I’m coming, don’t break my door!” The lieutenant rushed through her living room and to the door. A quick glance through the peephole showed her two armed, uniformed officers. “I’m opening the door now,” she called out.

  She twisted the handle and pulled the door toward her to reveal not two but four armed officers. Two were crouched down, their hands on their side arms. One stood with his hand on his pistol, the other, and closest to her, held a straight-arm out to her chest and with his other hand held a large mag-light pointed into her face. This was a simple non-lethal tactic of neutralizing personnel if you thought they might be dangerous. But why would they think I am dangerous?

  “Lieutenant Brisbane, do you know what day it is?”

  The lieutenant straightened her back. “It is Tuesday. I am Lieutenant Emily Brisbane, United States Coast Guard. What is the meaning of this, officer?”

  The officer tilted his light away from her face and Emily was once again thankful her migraine had subsided; the bright light would have nearly killed her.

  “How are you feeling, lieutenant?”

  “I’m feeling fine now, officer. I called in sick due to a migraine, but that has passed. Are you here to check up on me? It would have been easier just to send a medic over.”

  The man lowered his flashlight and dropped it into a loop on his utility belt. He nodded to the officer next to him and the trio relaxed their hands away from their side-arms. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. Guns and trigger-happy second year officers were a dangerous combination.

  “Lieutenant, you need to come with us immediately. No questions, follow these men now.”

  Emily was about to demand an explanation
but something in the steel of the man’s eyes told her he was here on high authority, and that he had been prepared for this mission to turn deadly if necessary. So instead, she nodded, and slipped her feet into a pair of cork-colored Birkenstock sandals she kept by the door. She followed the three men out and the fourth, who had held the flashlight, brought up the rear. She was ushered out, probably to her neighbor’s confusion, into a dark green hummer.

  “Where are we-”

  “No questions, Lieutenant Brisbane. Sorry, orders.”

  Emily said nothing but nodded. It only took a few minutes for her to be able to see where they were going. After three turns, she knew they were heading to the Coast Guard base. They pulled in quickly and parked haphazardly in two spots. Emily noticed a fleet of large, black SUVs with government plates, thirteen of them, all parked outside the building that housed her office.

  Further across the parking lot, there was a large biohazard tent set up, and she could see personnel traveling back and forth between the tent and the Darwin, which was still docked. Emily couldn’t help but be amazed. On board the ship’s deck, she saw dozens of biohazard suits milling about. Wow, it looks like this all just got a lot more serious.

  Emily was ushered up the stairs brusquely; they were nearly shoving her along. All the while she was worried about what was about to happen to her, frustrated and pissed-off that she had been dragged out of her house in sweats. As she was marched up flights of stairs, she cursed herself for not putting on a camisole instead of just a sweatshirt. When they reached the third floor, she was walked into the break room, which was about half the size of a school gymnasium.