Skitter

by Ezekiel Boone

  The monotony, the tiredness, all that explained why they marched right up to the front door without bothering to look around.

  They should have done a recon. Taken a walk around the home, clearing the area. If they had, maybe they’d have noticed the wisps of cobwebs drifting out of the bushes. The black dots skittering over the shed and across the fence posts. Maybe they would have looked through a window and seen the way this house was not gently glutted with egg sacs.

  But the routine had gotten to them.

  Quincy opened the front door and stepped inside.

  At first, he thought he’d been shot.

  That was the only thing he could think of. For a moment, he thought this house was another false alarm, and some homeowner had been holed up inside, trying to ride things out the way that people had refused to evacuate from New Orleans when the floods came. He was sure he’d been shot by a homeowner sitting there on his couch, a .45 in his hands, just waiting for some punk to come and try to loot his house. Because that’s what it had to have been, a .45. Quincy had never been shot before, but he was sure a 9 mm bullet wouldn’t feel like that. There was no way a simple 9 mm was going to hurt that much. Right in the meat of his arm. And then, oh god, the burning, on the side of his neck. And his cheek. He reached with his free hand to feel for the bullet wounds.

  He tried to reach with his free hand.

  His arm wouldn’t move.

  And there hadn’t been the sound of a gunshot. He would have heard it. From that close, it would have sounded like a cannon.

  His arm and his neck and his cheek, oh, please, stop the pain. And why wouldn’t his arm move?

  It all happened quickly. One or two seconds. By the time he was starting to think that maybe he hadn’t been shot, he realized that not only could he not move his arm, but he couldn’t move his legs either. He teetered, and then he felt himself falling, like a tree cut down in the forest.

  He landed on his side and couldn’t move at all. He couldn’t even close his eyes. He was paralyzed. He had to watch. Janet Bibsby had fallen next to him, on her side, facing him, and her eyes were frozen open as well. He could see how scared she looked, could see the spiders crawling up and over her.

  These weren’t the same spiders. The briefing and pictures had emphasized the size and color, and he supposed these were probably close enough to the same size. In the scheme of things, what was the difference between a lemon and a grapefruit? But these had a vivid red stripe. And they weren’t eating them to the bone, because he’d seen videos of that. Seen a woman overwhelmed and then disappearing under a carpet of spiders, reduced to nothing in thirty seconds.

  Whatever it was that made it so they couldn’t move didn’t do anything to reduce the pain of the bites. They were burning, stinging, and they hurt so much that Quincy thought that if he could move it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have just curled up into a ball and cried like a baby. He could see the swelling, weeping wounds on Janet’s neck and face and on the bare skin of her hand, and he knew that hers felt the same way: like somebody was pouring battery acid inside a hole in your flesh made with a rusty knife.

  She was staring at him, like she was pleading with him to do something.

  There was nothing he could do.

  He saw tears dripping out of her eyes.

  There were ten, twenty, fifty spiders moving over her now. She started to look cloudy to him, and for a few seconds he thought there was dust in his eye, but then it was obvious. The spiders were covering her in silk.

  He couldn’t even close his eyelids. Nothing. He had to just stare at her, to watch. And he could have sworn there was something else in the room, just out of the corner of his eye, something glowing and pulsing. There was a steady brightening and then dimming. But whatever it was, he couldn’t get it into focus. All he could see clearly—or maybe this was imagined, if Janet truly could not move a muscle in the same way he could not move a muscle—was the panic, the fear on Janet’s face, as she slowly disappeared underneath layers and layers of silk.

  Oxford, Mississippi

  Even before the government had started bombing highways, Santiago Garcia knew they were stuck at home. His wife had wanted them to get in the van and try to drive south, through Louisiana and Texas, across the border, and to her brother’s place in Tanques, on the west coast of Mexico. Even if he’d thought they’d be safer in Mexico, they couldn’t do it. There was no way they could make the trip with their daughter, Juliet. There was a reason they didn’t take vacations, he said.

  But that didn’t mean he was complacent. They owned a combination gas station and convenience store a half mile south of the university, and he immediately closed them down. His wife and their son, Oscar, took turns sitting out front with his shotgun and waving off potential customers. Their house, a tan, single-story three bedroom with clapboard vinyl siding, sat on the lot directly behind the convenience store, so he felt comfortable leaving them and running around Oxford, checking items off his list. First, he persuaded their doctor to write him prescriptions for six months of Juliet’s medicines. He had to go to three different pharmacies to get everything filled, and he almost maxed out one of the three credit cards they never touched and said they were keeping strictly for emergencies. But this, he thought, was an emergency. The second thing he did was rent a backhoe, parking it in front of the gas station and instructing his son and wife to make sure it was also protected. They already owned a generator, to keep the fridge humming and Juliet’s medications cold, so he started taking trip after trip in his pickup to the hardware store and the grocery stores.

  Their house, and the convenience store and gas station combo, were back to back on corner lots, with a vacant lot next to the store, and Mrs. Fine’s house next to their house. Once he had all his supplies Santiago went and talked to his neighbor. Mrs. Fine was a widow, nearly eighty, and she and her late husband had bought their tiny two-bedroom house almost sixty years ago. But the Garcias had been her neighbors for fifteen—moving in just after her husband passed—and she trusted Santiago. She was scared, and at first she said no, but then she decided Santiago was right. She packed a suitcase, directed Oscar to carry a bin full of pictures and a few other personal items over, and moved into the Garcias’ house.

  He was surprised at how quickly he was able to take her house down with the backhoe. Still took almost all day and into the night, and it wasn’t until the following morning that he was able to start digging.

  A university student passed by on his bike and then stopped. He was one of those white boys who liked to dress like they were from a different era, and he watched Santiago work for five or ten minutes before finally calling over.

  “Got to ask, man,” the kid yelled, “what are you digging?”

  Santiago was making slow and steady progress, and he was pleased with himself, so he stopped for a minute, turned in his seat, and smiled. “A moat,” he yelled back. “I’m digging a moat.”

  The college student gave him a thumbs-up, nodded, and then biked away.

  Soot Lake, Minnesota

  The three tattooed men from the other day came back for a look. They were still shirtless, and they still looked like trouble to Mike. They kept their boat far enough offshore that Mike didn’t even bother putting his finger on the trigger of the rifle, and Leshaun didn’t move from where he sat in the chair on Dawson’s dock, but it bothered Mike to see them again. It was hard to believe they were making an innocent pass.

  He was inside the cottage, lying on the bed with the window open, watching them through the scope. Leshaun was a better shot, but with the scope, either of them could bag a headshot from three hundred yards or less. They hadn’t seen any tactical advantage in advertising that they had the rifle, though, so they’d decided to split time: one of them outside with a handgun, one of them on call as sniper if backup was needed. Between him and Leshaun, he wanted to hope it wouldn’t matter, but just in case, he’d given Fanny the Glock 27 and made her fire off a few shots e
arlier in the day, to make sure she could still hit the broadside of a barn. Dawson seemed about as comfortable with the Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun as he was going to get. If it truly got to the point where Fanny and Dawson needed to fire their weapons, things would be pretty bad. Still, better safe than sorry.

  On this, their second visit, the three young men in the boat stayed a hundred yards or so from the dock for an uncomfortable length of time. Mike wasn’t sure if it was the same guy holding the rifle, but through the scope, he could see that the other two had handguns. They finally took off, heading farther down the lake.

  Maybe two hours later Mike thought he heard the soft echo of gunshots, but the sounds were so faint he wasn’t sure if he had just imagined them.

  He went outside to talk with Leshaun. They both agreed: if there had been gunshots, and if they came from those three young men, he and Leshaun had to assume that they’d be back, probably at night.

  “That’s how I’d do it,” Leshaun said. “They’ve come by twice, and they’ve seen that we’re armed and not interested in company. You know, maybe we made a mistake there, that first time? If we’d waved and been a little friendly, maybe they would have boated away never to return, but by flashing our guns and running them off, we were signaling to them we had something worth protecting.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Leshaun laughed. “No. They look like the kind of trash that has been waiting their whole lives for a moment like this, waiting for the opportunity to give into their base impulses. Being friendly would have been a mistake. They would have taken any sign of kindness for weakness. But it was a nice idea, if you believe in the basic goodness of human nature.”

  Neither of them believed in the basic goodness of human nature. They’d both been agents too long.

  After Mike ate lunch, he went back out to the dock to trade off with Leshaun. His partner had been sitting out in the full sun, but Mike pulled the chair into the shade of the boathouse. He’d been there for long enough to be bored by the book he’d brought down when he heard Annie’s footsteps.

  “Want to swim with me?”

  “Not really, but I will.” He stripped off his T-shirt so that he was just wearing his shorts, all clothing that he’d borrowed from Dawson. Leshaun was similarly dressed in borrowed clothes, though they were tight on his partner. He unclipped his holster and put it on top of the shirt. “Just don’t splash my pistol,” he teased, and she actually laughed.

  The water was freezing. In deference to his daughter and the financial penalties she imposed on him for swearing, he barely managed to swallow fu— before catching himself and saying the word freezing. But he thought the curse word plenty. On the dock, it was still hot, remarkably and unseasonably warm, but it didn’t matter how warm it was outside. Two hours north of Minneapolis in early May meant that the water was ball-shrinking cold. He was actually worried he might have a heart attack, and he was thrilled when, after a few minutes, Annie wanted to get out.

  Fanny called down from the cottage and asked if they wanted a snack, but they both waved her off and lay out on the dock.

  Mike had to admit it was sort of nice. He kept glancing across the lake and listening for the mosquito sound of an approaching motor, but he was also just hanging out with his kid.

  “It kills me, it does, that you’re turning into such a big kid, but it’s also wonderful. You’re growing like crazy. How about, when all this settles down, we get you a new bike? Your old bike’s a little small for you.”

  “Rich said he’d get me a new bike when the baby’s born,” she said brightly.

  For a beat, Mike thought maybe he’d feel some sort of pain at how easily Annie said it, how pleased she seemed. But it didn’t hurt at all. He supposed he truly was happy for his ex-wife. And, god, he thought, remembering how exhausting a newborn was, he was absolutely not envious of the idea of having a baby.

  “You excited about it? Having a brother or a sister?”

  “I guess,” she said. “Dad. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you and Mommy still love each other? Because you’ve been super nice to each other the last couple of days. I know that you guys are all worried about the spiders and those men in the boat, but you and Mom haven’t fought once.”

  He sat up and looked at her. She was lying flat on her back on the wooden dock, with her arms and legs spread out. She had her eyes closed, but she didn’t look upset. He reached out and squeezed her hand and she squeezed back.

  “I’ll always love your mom, honey, and Mom will always love me, but we’re not in love, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re not in love like a mommy and daddy. Mommy’s in love with Rich, and I’m happy for her. He’s a great guy, and he makes your mom happy. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s okay. I used to want you and Mommy to be together again, but now I don’t. I like Rich. And I don’t remember what it was like anymore, you know? When you and Mommy were married. You talk about it sometimes, but I don’t remember it. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  “But I am sorry,” she said. “Not because I want you and Mommy to get married again, but because I’d like to be able to remember what it was like when you were married. It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

  “Wow,” he said. “That’s kind of a big-kid question. No. No, it wasn’t all bad. Your mom and I got married because we fell in love, and parts of our marriage were wonderful, but we weren’t a very good fit. I think if you asked your mom, she’d say the same thing. But I can tell you that even though we couldn’t make it work, we had you, and you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Okay,” she said. She opened her eyes. “I’m going to go get a lemonade.”

  “Okay? That’s it? I say you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and you say you’re going to go get a lemonade?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Would you like a lemonade?” She giggled. He reached out to try to poke her in the side, but she scampered up and then skipped away, blowing him a kiss. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “You too, honey,” he said. He watched her walk up to the cottage and shook his head. Where had that kid come from?

  His shorts were still damp, but he pulled the T-shirt on anyway and held the holster in his lap. Out of habit, he pulled the Glock out, checked the clip, and confirmed there was one in the chamber.

  He’d heard people say they weren’t sure if they could shoot somebody, but he didn’t understand that. How could you be unsure? How could you pause for even a second? If those three guys came back Mike wouldn’t hesitate. He would put them down where they stood.

  Damn right there was something worth protecting in that cottage.

  Nazca, Peru

  Pierre Schmidt kept waiting to be eaten alive. He’d come to Peru as part of a team that had been given permission to work on the Nazca site. It was an incredibly small team, just Dr. Nicholas Botsford and five graduate students: Pierre, Cynthia Downs, JD Killens, Natalie Wiff, and Beatrice Anton. They’d been there working for six months when he’d found the egg sac. Dr. Botsford had agreed to let him send it to Julie Yoo, and when they’d gone to Lima on one of their rare trips away from the field, he’d FedExed it to Washington, DC, using the account number Julie provided.

  And then all hell had broken loose.

  First China had dropped a nuke on itself, which had, of course, seemed unconnected, and then there’d been the crazy news out of India. Man-eating spiders! Why would Pierre have thought it had any connection to the egg sac? How could it? And then, well, in the midst of everything else, an e-mail from Julie Yoo:

  Pierre: It’s probably too late, but if it isn’t, the egg sac you sent me hatched. We think the spiders it produced must be the same ones that are in India and the other places. Not sure how it’s connected, but it must be. And if there are more of those where you are, they will be hatching. Get out of there. Love, Julie.

&nb
sp; The “Love, Julie” had been nice. In fact, the “Love, Julie” had been the whole reason he’d made the argument to Dr. Botsford that they should send Julie the egg sac. He had a thing going with Beatrice, but honestly, that was pure convenience. Dr. Botsford was having an affair with Natalie, which was pretty gross given the age difference, but whatever, and Cynthia and JD were engaged, so he and Bea had fallen together out of lack of other options more than any sort of real interest. Honestly, they didn’t really even like each other, but their base camp was isolated and at night, once Dr. Botsford and Natalie had gone off to have creepy old professor–young student sex in their tent, and once Cynthia and JD had gone off to have slightly less creepy engaged people sex in their tent, Pierre and Bea were left alone to hang out. At some point a month or two in, they’d started sleeping together more out of boredom and the sense of feeling left out than out of any real attraction. So there was a big part of him that was looking forward to the dig being over—their permit expired in August—and having the chance to start his postgraduate fellowship at—ta-da!—American University, where, conveniently, Julie Yoo, the greatest crush of all the crushes he’d ever had, was finishing her PhD.

  He probably wouldn’t have recognized the thing in the decayed wooden box as an egg sac if he weren’t totally in love with Julie. They’d hooked up in April of their senior year at Cornell. It was just the perfect amount of time for him to want to kill himself for waiting so long to go for it, but not long enough for him to have any real shot at continuing the relationship long distance when they went off to their respective graduate programs. Over the past five years, they’d seen each other here and there, between boyfriends and girlfriends, and every time, Pierre found himself more wrecked afterward. He’d seen her, in fact, the weekend before he headed off to Peru, and he’d thought about e-mailing Dr. Botsford to say he wasn’t going, and just staying to be with Julie. But he hadn’t. The chance to work on the Nazca site was the sort of opportunity that would make his entire career. No matter how much of the credit Dr. Botsford was going to grab for himself, there’d be enough spillover from analyzing anything they found that it meant Pierre would be able to dance out of his postgraduate fellowship with good academic job offers. So, instead of staying in Washington for Julie, he’d ended up living in a tent and sleeping with Bea because neither of them had anything better to do at night.