Creepy Crawly Chaos

by George Ivanoff

  As you black out, you imagine them laying their eggs inside you.

  You draw your spray wand and tiptoe forward. When you’re close enough, you press the trigger and bug spray is pumped from your backpack in a mist of noxious fumes.

  The cloud of poison hits the spider right in the face and you jump back to watch the effect.

  The spider trembles in its web. It convulses. It shudders. And then …

  ‘ACHOOOO!’

  It sneezes!

  A glob of spider snot whizzes past, splattering the web wall behind you.

  Well, that didn’t work.

  Now what?

  To use the swatter, go here.

  Or maybe you should try the double whammy – swatter and spray at the

  same time. Go here.

  You can’t walk by and let this kind of bullying take place. You decide to take a stand.

  You make eye contact with the bully, cross your arms and step between him and the smaller kid. He immediately responds by shoving you and snatching the spider toy from your hand as you sprawl to the ground.

  ‘You’re gonna be sorry, wimp!’ he growls, shaking the toy at you.

  You notice that the plush spider’s fluffy abdomen is bulging and twitching.

  ‘I think your toy’s busted,’ he says with a smirk, grabbing a leg in each hand and yanking.

  The fabric tears and the toy splits apart. Instead of stuffing, it’s filled with a mass of sticky webbing – a spider’s nest. Dozens of baby spiders explode from inside, landing all over the bully.

  The boy shrieks with fear as the little spiders scuttle over him, their spinnerets leaving silky threads of webbing. Desperately trying to brush away the creatures, he runs off screaming hysterically.

  ‘Thanks!’ says the boy you just saved, extending a hand.

  You shake it. You’ve just saved him from the bully, but in doing so you’ve been saved from the spider-filled toy. You have a momentary vision of it bursting in your bedroom at night.

  You get on the bus with a grin.

  You crawl into the guinea-pig run. It’s really tight and uncomfortable, but you manage to just squeeze in. You wonder why the run is large enough to fit you. Could there be bigger guinea pigs down here somewhere? You shudder and push the thought from your mind, making your way along the run, following it through the wall.

  You look back to see that the rodents have moved. They are now gathered at the entrance to the run. You quickly move on into complete darkness.

  Suddenly you enter a larger passageway that you’re able to crawl along without too much difficulty. It inclines, so you’re hopeful this will be a way out.

  In the distance you hear squeaking and snuffling. Are the guinea pigs on your tail? You quicken your pace.

  You come to a fork and go left. More diverging passageways follow. It’s as if you’re in some sort of rodent maze.

  And always behind you is the distant sound of scrabbling claws and squeaking voices.

  When you finally see a chink of light up ahead, you rush towards it. There’s a soft glow seeping through a thin crack. You put your fingers to it and feel around. There’s a square indentation. It’s a panel. A way out!

  You try to shift it, but it won’t budge. You place your shoulder against it and heave. It moves a little.

  The snuffling is getting closer.

  You shove harder.

  The panel pops out.

  And you fall through the opening …

  Into an enclosure full of ants. Your class group is staring in at you through the display window.

  You brush off the ants and jump to your feet, the squeaking getting closer. Should you try to reattach the panel to stop the guinea pigs or bang on the window to be let out?

  To reattach the panel, go here.

  To bang on the window, go here.

  You throw yourself against the window, banging your fists on the glass, yelling for your classmates to let you out.

  But they’re laughing. Some of them are pointing at you, others are pulling faces. They think this is all a great joke!

  You look back over your shoulder in fear at the approaching guinea pigs when a sudden pain shoots up your leg. You look down. The red ants are crawling on you. Red ants! Oh no – fire ants! They’re the sort of ants that sting as well as bite, aren’t they?

  You feel another stab of pain. And another. And another. The fire ants are attacking.

  You scream!

  One of your classmates finally sees the seriousness of the situation and runs off to find the guide.

  With a vicious hiss, a group of guinea pigs comes pouncing through the open panel in the wall. You feel certain that, between the ants and the rodents, you’re done for.

  But the guinea pigs attack the fire ants. You’ve never seen anything like it. They’re leaping and twirling, spinning and somersaulting, stomping on ants, left, right and centre, chomping down mouthfuls of them straight from the ant mounds. Several guinea pigs swipe at your legs with their paws, carefully striking on an angle so that their claws don’t hurt you. They’re brushing off the ants!

  You jump to your feet and back away to a corner. The ants are now scurrying back into their nests, fleeing from the amazing guinea pigs.

  You hear the sound of a key being turned in a lock. The door next to the window is opening! You rush to it just as you see the tour guide appear.

  She helps you out of the room. As you look back, there is not a rodent in sight. Even the panel in the wall has been replaced. How did the guinea pigs manage to do that?

  You are taken to the first-aid office, where your bites and stings are tended to.

  Despite your school friends having witnessed what happened, no one believes your story about the guinea pigs in the basement.

  Terror overtakes you and you run out of the research lab. You make your way through the corridors to the main reception desk.

  The young guy behind the desk is chatting away into his headset and holds up a hand to stop you from talking. He has a bored expression on his face and is twisting a strand of his red hair around an index finger.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, ‘but this is a research centre for insects and arachnids. That means we have spiders here.’ He pauses and shakes his head. ‘I don’t care if you’re afraid of spiders … You’re the window cleaner, we have a contract with you and we need our windows cleaned!’

  You try to interrupt, but the guy glares at you.

  ‘No,’ he continues, ‘you can’t bring bug spray with you. No, no swatters, either. And you certainly can’t bring hand grenades. No, I’m not joking. And I expect you to be here on time. Goodbye!’

  Then he turns to you with a wide smile. ‘Now, what do you want? Lost your little school group?’

  You quickly explain to him what has happened.

  ‘A giant mantis bit off a scientist’s head?’

  It’s obvious he doesn’t believe you. But it’s also obvious he doesn’t want to deal with this problem. So he phones for a security guard.

  Ten minutes later a chubby guy with a walkie-talkie attached to his belt arrives. He’s got a jumbo soft drink in one hand and a burger in the other.

  ‘What’s the emergency?’ he asks through a mouthful of food.

  You explain all over again. When you’ve finished, he frowns at the guy behind the desk. ‘You interrupted my mid-morning snack for this?’

  ‘Well, someone has to check it out,’ says the guy, ‘and I’m not supposed to leave the desk.’

  The security guard sighs and nods his head. ‘The name’s Bob,’ he says as he moves off towards the lab.

  You follow. He waddles along slowly, chomping on his burger and slurping on his drink.

  There are strange noises coming from inside the lab when you arrive.

  ‘Okay,’ says Bob with mock-seriousness, ‘you better get out of the way in case the giant mantis attacks.’

  You stand back.

  Bob opens the door. His jaw drops, burger bit
s dribbling out. He backs away, dropping his drink, then turns and waddles off as rapidly as his pudgy legs will carry him.

  Inside, the giant mantis is encased in a green light. It’s growing.

  Its head slams into the ceiling and the room begins to collapse as the mantis continues to grow. Its arms knock through the walls. You step back as debris rains down around you.

  Then the ceiling splinters apart and a support beam falls. You think you’re a goner, but a claw shoots out and catches the beam. As the building collapses, the mantis picks you up and shelters you. You close your eyes in fear.

  When you open them again, you are high up in the air, perched on the mantis’s shoulder. The creature is now towering over the collapsed Research Centre.

  ‘You saved me,’ it screeches. ‘I will spare you. But all other humans must die!’

  It brushes aside the remains of the building and lumbers towards the city. You cling to its shoulder, hanging on for dear life.

  It’s not long before it reaches an army blockade. There are soldiers with guns and bazookas, jeeps with machine guns and even a couple of tanks. All the weapons are turned on the mantis.

  A general with medals and ribbons on his shirt is standing on the bonnet of a jeep, a megaphone in his hand. ‘Put down the kid and raise your claws in surrender,’ he bellows.

  SQUISH!

  The mantis steps on him.

  ‘He was beginning to bug me,’ the mantis says with a chuckle.

  The soldiers open fire. But the mantis seems immune to the attack and swipes away at them and their weaponry. The massive creature continues on towards the city.

  Jet fighters are the next obstacle, but the mantis knocks them out of the sky.

  ‘Just like swatting flies,’ it crows.

  You beg the mantis to stop, but it’s not listening.

  As it reaches the city, about to step on the first building while crowds of people run away in panic, it freezes. With a choking gasp, the mantis keels over.

  ‘Drat,’ it says, with its dying breath. ‘I forgot … mantises only live for four to six months. And it’s been about that long since I was turned into one.’

  You’re still sitting on its shoulder when more military personnel arrive. Everyone assumes that you somehow killed it. Reporters and news crews swarm in, wanting to interview you.

  To tell them the truth, go here.

  To make up a story about how you killed the mantis and saved the city, go here.

  You scoop up the panel and slam it back into the space in the wall. It clicks into place. You feel safe now that the guinea pigs can’t get to you.

  You walk across to the display window and knock on the glass, motioning to your friends to get you out. But they’re laughing. Some of them are pointing at you, others are pulling faces. They think this is all a great joke!

  You look back over your shoulder at the sound of claws scratching behind the wall, when a sudden pain shoots up your leg. You look down.

  The red ants are crawling on you. Red ants! Oh no – fire ants! They’re the sort of ants that sting as well as bite, aren’t they?

  You feel another stab of pain. And another. And another. The fire ants are attacking.

  You scream!

  One of your classmates finally sees the seriousness of the situation and runs off to find the guide.

  Meanwhile, the little critters are all over you. More and more of them come pouring out of the ant nest mounds. Your skin feels like it’s ablaze from the stings. Your legs give way and you collapse to the ground. The ants are biting your face. You can’t take any more pain.

  You black out.

  You regain consciousness some time later. You are in a hospital bed. Every inch of you is bandaged. You are swollen and sore and VERY itchy.

  You are told that you received over a hundred stings, and that each sting is now an oozing pustule. But you’re not allowed to scratch them for fear of infection.

  You’re in for a rather uncomfortable recovery.

  Perhaps you would have been better off facing the guinea pigs.

  Thinking fast, you tell the reporters that the mantis had a weak spot on the back of its neck … and that you repeatedly hit it there until it collapsed and died.

  You’re on the news broadcasts of every television channel and radio station in the world. Your picture is in all the newspapers and magazines. You become a hero and your mantis-killing story is a worldwide phenomenon. You write a bestselling book and make millions of dollars in a matter of months. Hollywood makes it into a movie and you get even more money.

  You think that you’re going to live happily ever after …

  But one night, tucked up in bed, you are woken by a tickling across your face.

  Your eyes snap open to see a praying mantis sitting on your nose, staring down at you.

  ‘That mantis you killed,’ it rasps, ‘wasn’t the only one that Barnbug created. And I’ve been gathering an army to seek revenge on you for killing my sister.’

  You sit up and try to swat the mantis. But it hangs on, screaming, ‘Come, my insectoid comrades. Let us have our revenge!’

  Your eyes goggle in disbelief as thousands upon thousands of praying mantises pour through the window and door of your bedroom. They fill the space, scuttling all over you, nipping you with their mandibles, snipping at you with their pincers. You can’t see as they pile over your eyes. You can’t breathe as they crawl into your mouth and nose.

  Death by insect!

  You tell the truth, explaining how the mantis died because it came to the end of its life span.

  But you are hailed as a hero anyway, the newspapers and television shows commending your bravery. Everyone wants to know about your experience. You write a bestselling book and make millions of dollars in a matter of months. Hollywood makes your story into a movie and you get even more money.

  You live happily ever after …

  But you scream involuntarily every time you see a bug.

  You decide that your best chance against the giant mutant spider is to hit it with everything you’ve got at the same time.

  You hold out the spray wand in front of you with your left hand.

  You hold the electrified swatter above your head with your right hand.

  You stare into the eyes of the creature (all eight of them) and … charge!

  The spider opens its cavernous jaws, ready to chomp.

  You press the trigger on your spray wand, sending a cloud of poison into its open mouth. As the giant spider coughs and splutters, you whack it over the head with the swatter, electricity charging through its body.

  You alternate puffs of bug spray with slaps of the swatter.

  Spray! Swat!

  Spray! Swat!

  Spray! Swat!

  Even after the spider has curled itself into a ball you continue.

  Spray! Swat!

  Spray! Swat!

  Spray! Swat!

  The mutant creature begins to shrivel. Spray! Swat!

  Spray! Swat!

  Spray! Swat!

  You continue your assault until your backpack is empty and your swatter has run out of power.

  You are dripping with sweat and your knees are weak. But you have succeeded. The creature is dead, its body hanging from its own web.

  You’re about to go back and free the captured people when you remember the iPod in your pocket. Do you think you’ve got time to take a photo to commemorate the occasion?

  To take a selfie with the dead spider, go here.

  But maybe it would be better to just go and free the people. Go here.

  What harm could a quick selfie do?

  You unzip your hazmat suit, pull down the hood and fish your iPod out of your pocket. You stand at the foot of the web, the spider carcass above you, and line up the pic.

  But wait! It would be a better photo if you could pose with your foot on the body. You climb onto the lattice web-work, up next to the spider and position yourself. Perfect!

  Y
ou snap the photo.

  Startled by your own flash, you lose your footing and fall. Hitting the web makes the whole lattice shake, loosening the spider … which topples from where it’s lying.

  Your finger is still on the iPod button, pic after pic being snapped as the massive body lands on top of you.

  SQUISH!

  You’re dead!

  And the photos on your iPod will document the story of your stupidity.

  Spider selfies can wait. You really need to free those people.

  You head back down the web tunnel, meeting Brundle along the way. She has managed to switch off the Metebelis Generator and spray the other mutant creatures.

  She has also brought a pair of scissors, which you use to free the captives wrapped in web cocoons as future spider-snacks.

  By the time you step outside, television news crews have arrived and everybody wants to interview you and Brundle.

  Somehow, despite the fact that the whole disaster was actually your fault, the media treat you as a hero and the saviour of humankind.

  Well … you’re not about to argue with them.

  So, sit back, relax and enjoy your new celebrity status!

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