Salticidae

by Ryan C. Thomas

  “Shit,” she said. With a pivot, she aimed at another advancing spider, pulled the trigger. The machine gun barked to life, so loud Derek put his hands over his ears. The spider’s face ripped open to reveal a stuffing of mushy pulp beneath its eyes. It fell dead in mid run and slid to within a few feet of them.

  She looked at him. “Like that.” She swiveled and trained the reticule on more of the creatures.

  “Thanks, teach,” Derek said, finding his own gun. Jack had one now as well. They each racked the slide and braced the stocks against their shoulders like this woman was doing. Who was she, he wondered, that she was so sure of herself and trained in heavy weaponry? Someone had made her this way, that was for sure.

  “Up,” she said. “They’re coming from everywhere. Stand together and only fire single rounds. Conserve the ammo.”

  “Who are you, Rambo’s long lost sister?”

  “I travel with security a lot. You pick things up after a while.”

  All three stood up, backs touching, guns trained outward to attack from three hundred and sixty degrees.

  The sight of the advancing arachnids made Derek’s heart sink. There were just too many of them coming from all directions. “Jack, you got a plan?”

  “I’m thinking we go back in time. Turn down this job and become florists.”

  “You two are funny,” the woman said. She was not amused.

  “Didn’t get your name, miss.” Derek voice was almost lost in his heaving, fearful breaths.

  “What’s it matter?”

  “If I’m gonna die here with you I want to know who I’m dying with.”

  “My name’s Janet. And I’m telling you right now if it’s you or me…it’s you.”

  “I love a woman who knows what she wants. I’m Derek.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Jack whispered in his ear. “I think she likes you.”

  Derek ignored the comment, suddenly focused on Banga, who was at the back of the overturned truck, crouching and moving slowly toward a dead boy on the ground. The body was caved in, two large bleeding holes gouged into the chest. Like the other bodies that had been abandoned, a thick mucus covered the boy’s torso, some kind of combination of venom, anticoagulant, and liquidated guts.

  Banga rolled the boy’s head to the side and looked deep into the boy’s open, lifeless eyes. He’s looking for his son, Derek realized. Or maybe just clues to where his son might be.

  Which suddenly begged the question…where had the man in the beret gone?

  “Derek, shoot!” Jack opened fire on an advancing wave of spiders. Jumping some fifty feet at a time, they grew closer by the second. Derek fired every bullet in his clip, downed two of them, moving backwards as he shot. His back hit the side of the overturned truck. Janet and Jack on either side of him now.

  The gun clicked empty and he threw it at the closest attacker, causing it to jump backwards, giving Janet enough time to shoot its front two legs off. It hobbled in a circle, confused, and Jack shot it in the head.

  “I’m out.” Jack tossed his gun to the ground.

  Janet yanked her magazine out, counted the bullets she had left. “Four rounds left.”

  Something shook the truck behind them. Derek turned and looked up, saw the yellow and white striped arachnid sitting atop it, looking down at them. “Might want to use them now!”

  Janet spun and fired upward. The spider’s face exploded, the body sliding forward and falling off the truck just over them. It curled in and spasmed once, fell still, fangs clicking closed for the last time they ever would.

  “Now I’m out.” Janet leaned back against the truck and sighed.

  “Sirs?” It was Banga, no longer occupied with the dead bodies. He was holding a machete. “To stay here is to die. Beyond the river there is a trail the rangers use. It is the only way.”

  Derek looked over the dead spider in front of them. “No way we’re making that run.”

  The spiders were still coming, and they were increasing in numbers. Spread out sporadically were a few running Lost Boys trying in vain to shoot their attackers. The sounds of those gold-plated .45s was close, but the man in the beret was still out of sight.

  “Nice knowing you,” Jack said. “I’m sorry I decided to chase this story. It’s my fault.”

  Derek thought about that for a moment. “I agree. You dick.”

  “All this, these fucking spiders, would have been a life-changing story. Gotta give me that.”

  “I do. I don’t blame you. I figured we’d find some whacked out gunmen, maybe some poachers, but not giant bugs from hell.”

  “Spiders aren’t bugs.” Jack smiled good-naturedly, “Eight legs and all.”

  “Writers. Well we’re gonna feel more than eight legs on us in a few seconds unless anyone has a bazooka on them.”

  “Wait!” Janet opened the backpack Gellis had given her. “We have these.” She drew out two sticks of dynamite. “If we can get them all together somehow we can do some real damage.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “The dynamite attracted them before. The vibrations. We can detonate one somewhere close, wait for them to run to it and then… At least we’ll kill enough to maybe give us time to get to that trail your friend mentioned.”

  “He’s our guide.”

  “I’ll elevate him to friend at this point,” Jack said.

  Derek nodded. “Duly noted. Banga, you’re our friend now. That means you have to help us move a couch up stairs to a new apartment if we get out of this. It’s an American tradition. But back to the spiders…” he peered up over the dead spider corpse, then ducked back down. “They’re spread out pretty wide. You sure they’ll come for the blast?”

  “Do you have a better plan?”

  “Not really.”

  “Let’s run with it,” Jack suggested.

  From out of nowhere a massive black and red spider landed in the middle of them all, legs engulfing Banga, who swung wildly with his machete.

  “Banga!” Jack shouted.

  The guide’s face twisted in horror as he watched the fangs bearing down on him.

  They never sank into his flesh, because a machete came flipping end over end through the air and lodged in the spider’s mouth. It backed up, jerking wildly to free itself from the pain, and ran off out of sight.

  “Who threw that?” Derek reached Banga, helped the guide sit up. The man’s clothes were torn but he was otherwise okay.

  Jack pointed. “My guess is these guys over here.”

  Derek saw them now, standing beyond the front of the truck, just a few feet past Janet. Their primitive clothing and ceremonial jewelry were mixed in among a few tshirts obviously donated by American and British travelers. They all wielded machetes and other sharp tools such as small axes and even sharpened branches. Except the one in front, standing beside a small boy. The facial features of the man and boy were unmistakably similar. A father and son, Derek realized.

  The man walked toward them. His people followed.

  “I think we have more friends,” Derek mumbled.

  ***

  While his father did his best to communicate with the white men, Shumba kept his eyes on the spiders leaping from tree to tree to ground. They came over the river, they came from the bushes, they raced about on the open field of razor grass. Some left white trails of web behind them, others merely sprinted and jumped. All of them seemed to be heading for the truck and Jeep and the prey trying to hide there.

  They have better sight than we think, he knew. And they were undeterred by the landscape of dead brethren littering the ground around them.

  The men with the guns had fended off many of them, but to judge, many more dead humans lay nearby than spiders, their guns still smoking. Some of them were only as old as he was.

  The other men from the tribe formed a ring around the white men, helping to protect them. But there was a spider coming this way on the other side of the tru
ck. It wasn’t jumping, or running, but crouching low and shifting forward foot by foot. Stalking and biding its time. This spider was smart, and was going for a surprise attack. No one seemed to see it.

  Shumba hefted his machete, stepped back from the men, watched the spider, noting how its hairy legs were bent into its body to make it look smaller, to help it hide in the grass. He crouched, moved on his hands and knees, stretched out flat and slithered, then rolled over and lay still on his back.

  His heart pumped as he listened for the sound of moving grass. It whispered among the other noises: the men talking, gunshots and cries, the river splashing, the pinging of the Jeep’s hot engine. If he moved, the spider would see him, and in this position, he would be a goner.

  The tip of the demon’s legs appeared, bristled and striped in rings of orange, landed on the side of him. Another leg, segmented and thin, on the other side. The beasts’ hairy face came into view, just a couple of feet above his own. He stared up into its mouth, watched with bated breath as its fangs opened slowly to ready itself for the kill. Its palps flexed like small arms. Liquid ringed its mouth, blood from a recent meal.

  It moved over him slowly, the abdomen growing fatter and closer to the ground. The hairs on its underside brushed his face, made his cheeks itch, and he fought back a scream. It shifted forward again, the backend now at its thickest, resting on his head. The rancid stench of the beast was harsh enough to burn his eyes even while not breathing. He heard it attach a web to the ground above his head, anchoring itself for the jump.

  It squatted, the bristled abdomen crushing him into the ground, preparing to leap.

  He heard the blood rushing into the demon’s legs, felt the tension in its joints. Then there was the briefest clicking noise as the blood in those legs released and sent the demon vaulting skyward.

  Shumba thrust up with his machete just as the demon jumped, and he split its abdomen open down the middle as it took flight. He sat up, saw it splayed in the air, its underside gouged apart, saw it land on a fellow tribesman, heard the man scream and saw his father and the others rush to save the man. But the spider did not bite, just rolled off dead, its guts leaking out of the slice Shumba had made.

  His father turned and saw him in the grass.

  The spider’s blood ran down Shumba’s chest in hot, thick rivulets as he stood up and met his father’s eyes. There was no need to speak. His father said nothing, merely locked eyes with him. He knew that look, and he liked it. His father saw him as a warrior now, and that was that. Shumba returned to the truck and resumed his position.

  ***

  Banga translated as best he could for everyone. Jack made an attempt at universal sign language to convey the plan. “We take the dynamite and attract them with the blast. Then we need—and here’s the part I can’t believe I’m saying—we need to corral them somehow. The best way is to lure them with bait.”

  “And who’s the bait?” Janet applied the fuse to the end of the dynamite in her hand.

  “We are,” Jack replied. “I mean, they’re coming here anyway, all the gunfire is seeing to that. When that stick blows they’ll be zeroed in. But I don’t want to get ambushed by any once we head for the trail. So we run out there and make a shit ton of noise and jump around and let them know exactly where we are. When we get them close, we blow the rest.”

  “Problem.” Derek raised his hand. “We have how many sticks?”

  “Ten,” Janet said.

  “Okay, ten sticks. One or two for the first blast. Eight for the rest. How big an explosion is that going to make?”

  “Big enough,” she said, “if they’re together.”

  “Right. So the problem is…where the hell do we hide from it!”

  Jack nodded. “Good point. How far away do we need to be, Janet?”

  “If we plant them closer to the river, and we can get behind the truck here, we should be safe.”

  “So someone has to light eight or nine sticks and get back here before they all blow.”

  “It won’t be timed right then,” she said.

  We have to dole them out, Jack realized. Everyone is going to have to run with a stick of dynamite. God, this wasn’t going to be easy. “Okay, I have an idea,” he said. “Give a stick to each of us. We lure the spiders, run to the spot, each light one, and then run away.”

  “Won’t work,” Derek said. “We’ll be coming from different directions, and if someone gets cut off for a minute…”

  “If each stick doesn’t blow at once the blasts will be too small to affect anything.” Janet’s voice betrayed her exhaustion with the lack of solid planning.

  Jack saw the flaw in the scheme now as well. What they needed was to get the spiders chasing just one person, and that person needed a way to light all eight sticks at the right time. Or ten sticks. And have all the spiders land on the bundle of dynamite. Ah shit, he thought, someone is going to die here.

  He ran his hands through his hair, trying to work out how to explain this. But he could see in their eyes that they too knew the only real way to achieve the goal. Someone needed to be the messenger to the spiders. Someone needed to pull a kamakazi maneuver.

  “Jack?” Derek laid a hand on his shoulder. “Penny for your thought, dude. How are we going to do this without someone—”

  “It’s like this. Um, is there anyone here who has nothing to live for?”

  Everyone stared at him. Banga translated for the newcomers, who also remained silent. Janet rolled her eyes. “Very subtle way of putting it, Jack. Why don’t we just draw straws or flip a coin while we’re at it. If someone isn’t going to step up and offer their services then we’re shit out of luck. And no, I don’t plan on dying here today if I can help it.”

  “Shit. I thought so. I mean, I have no family. I’m not married and have no kids. Not even a dog.”

  “What’re you getting at, Jack?” Derek was slowly shaking his head. “I was raised American, and in America no man gets left behind. Right?”

  Jack pushed past him, peeked out from behind the dead spider’s carcass and gauged the situation. Spiders were still coming from the river’s edge, some from the opposite treeline. “Give me all the dynamite. Twist it together somehow so I can blow them all at once.”

  “As much as I appreciate the sentiment,” Janet said, “I think Derek here is right. We’ll have strength in numbers and, well, to put it bluntly if we give one person the dynamite and they bloody well botch it then we’re out of our only means of weaponry.”

  “Look, just help me flip the Jeep over and let’s hope it still runs. Tie the sticks together and give me a single fuse.”

  “No no no,” Derek said. “Don’t do it, honcho.”

  “I’m gonna drive that Jeep toward the river. With all the dynamite. I’m gonna light it and put my head back and stare at the sun, and when those things jump on the Jeep, which we know they’ll do, it’ll go kablooey and give you guys a chance to head to the trail and get the fuck outta Dodge.”

  “Why do you get to be the hero?”

  “Fine, then we’re switching. You do it.”

  “Ho there! I never said that. I just…” Derek looked at everyone around him. “Please someone say they have a better idea.”

  Janet started taking the dynamite out of her pack and tying it together. “There isn’t one. He’s right. Let’s hurry and get the Jeep flipped over.”

  ***

  It took every man to flip the Jeep over. Shumba pushed with all his might, his muscles flaring and his back protesting with deep, low aches. Beside him, his father’s gnarled teeth looked angry and primitive as he too put his all into getting the vehicle upright. Once it landed and bounced on its tires, the one called Jack got in the driver’s seat. “Um…key?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” This from the one called Derek.

  Shumba understood very little of what was being said, relying on the occasional translation from the guide named Banga. They needed to find the mechanism that started the
vehicle.

  “Spread out and look,” the driver, Jack, was saying.

  Shumba backed off the vehicle and scanned the ground. All he saw were streaks of blood, empty bullet casings, and dead bodies—both spiders and rebels.

  “Shumba, prepare yourself,” his father was saying, pointing toward the river with his machete.

  Shumba’s eyes left the ground and watched the spiders advancing in a line of jumping black bodies taking out the last Lost Boy. He raised his machete and awaited his father’s orders, strangely eager to fight the beasts after now feeling the thrill of the kill. The spider he’d sliced from underneath had had such a soft belly, it would not be hard to destroy them if he could stay out of the way of their legs and fangs. Of course, that was easier said than done.

  “They’re coming!” the woman screamed.

  Musa motioned his men to gather round, then spoke to them as their leader. “The white men here have a plan and we must make sure it happens. This is why we have come, and this is our time in the battle to shine. Keep the spiders away until this vehicle comes to life. You all saw how Shumba killed that demon just minutes ago. He has found where it is best to strike. Under the belly where it is softer. Aim for that spot and may we all live to laugh about this later. Let’s go!”

  The men took off running, leaving Shumba stunned. But in a heartbeat his new found warrior instinct took hold and he raced behind them, caught up to the line, and swung his machete high.

  The first spider came from his right. It was still wet from the river. The hairs on its bulbous body twinkled with droplets. It raced closer, legs pumping like a machine, running faster than a wild cat, tearing through the razor grass so fast it kicked up a wake of greenery.

  I must fight the fear to run, Shumba told himself. I must wait patiently, like I am foraging honey from the wasps’ nests. If I run, or make sudden movements, I am going to be a meal for this thing.

  The spider was twenty yards away, now ten, now five, now so close Shumba saw the forest reflected in it front four eyes, the other four eyes glistening like jewels atop its head.