by WW Mortensen
De Sousa’s grin dissolved, and he raised a fist, wide-eyed in fury. Ed leapt in front of him.
“Enough!” Oliveira commanded.
“Disgusting,” one of the other men said, seemingly oblivious to the confrontation. He was studying the carcass of the spider, clearly stunned by the size of it even though half its dorsal area had been blown away. “I hope that’s the only one down there.”
It took another command from Oliveira, this time in Portuguese, for De Sousa to yield. Eyeballing Ed, the big man chuckled and lowered his fist. Before backing away, he blew Rebecca a kiss, licking at the blood running from a gouge in his cheek opened by one of her nails. Rebecca turned away, repulsed.
Ed turned away, too, and went back to the burrow. He held back the lid of the trapdoor and shone his flashlight down the hole. It was silk-lined and incredibly dark. For a few feet, the burrow descended vertically, bending upwards after that to perhaps run parallel with the forest floor. It led off in the direction of the pyramid and seemed wide enough to squeeze through.
Luis crouched and touched a finger lightly to the silk. “Not sticky,” he observed.
“It’s just for waterproofing,” Ed told him.
Rebecca finished bandaging Priscilla’s wound. The poor thing had calmed, perhaps in shock. Rebecca stood, clutching her to her chest as she would a frightened child. As she did, she glanced at the carcass on the ground a few feet away. One of the men poked it with a stick. Even at this distance, Rebecca could see it was different to the original specimen Ed had discovered: the body shape, eye pattern and legs were inconsistent with those of a jumping spider.
Oliveira searched the surrounding trees. “No others? Why is it different this time?”
Ed was wary. “I don’t know. Perhaps we killed the sentry before it had time to alert them.”
Rebecca, too, was starting to feel uneasy. Ed’s point was valid, but there was every chance the spiders communicated via pheromones, signalling each other by scent. If so…
Oliveira read her thoughts. “Perhaps we killed it in time,” he said, “or perhaps they are yet to come.” He ushered Ed to the hole with his now-drawn pistol. “Hurry. Get going before they do.”
48
The ceremony continued without pause through the night, relenting at dawn when the shaman, bathed in sweat, raised his arms and called it to a halt. Exhausted, Owen had long-since fallen to his knees, drifting in and out of sleep at the foot of the fire as the Yuguruppu danced tirelessly around them. He didn’t think Sanchez had slept but couldn’t be sure. At one stage, Owen had told him his theory as to who these people were. Otherwise, they’d hardly talked.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, they were dragged to the edge of the clearing. The shaman, still wearing his headdress, led them into the jungle depths with the entire tribe forming a long column through the trees behind.
They’re going to kill us now, Owen thought grimly.
Everything had become a blur. Owen’s sleep-deprived mind was foggy. He was hungry and thirsty, and his arms ached from being tied for hours at his side. His mud-caked legs—bloodied by the foliage—could hardly perform the job asked of them.
He wondered why Ed hadn’t encountered this tribe earlier. Why now? Base Camp had been set up for weeks with no sign of trouble. Perhaps Ed’s arrival hadn’t initially been noticed, or maybe the Yuguruppu had been biding their time. Perhaps after the team had left for S1, members of the tribe had ambushed Elson and Martins, had tried to capture them as they had he and Sanchez, but it went wrong—maybe the two of them had fought back—and they were killed, Martins’ body washed away by the floodwaters.
They entered a small clearing. The shaman took stance at its centre and Owen and Sanchez were brought before him. As Owen shuffled into position, he glanced down.
Close to where they stood was a large hole in the earth, maybe twenty feet in diameter. He hadn’t noticed it at first, mainly because it was covered by a massive flap of leaves and twigs that had been woven together and placed there to disguise it. Rising from the pit to emerge from beneath the cover were long, silvery tendrils that snaked across the forest floor like great tree roots.
Spider silk.
Owen’s breath caught in his throat. He was looking at the entrance to a nest.
• • •
With Sanchez beside him, Owen stared at the covered pit. He thought of recent events at S1: the attack by the juvenile spider, and the mysterious barking sound. When they had been captured by the Yuguruppu the previous evening, they had exited Base Camp in the direction Owen and Sanchez had just come from, heading back in the direction of S1. Was S1 near this nest? Had they returned that far?
His thoughts dissolved as the crowd behind them parted. He turned as two men approached, carrying between them a domed object about four feet in width and wrapped in broad green leaves held firmly in place by a thin vine strung around the outside. The men placed the object at the shaman’s feet and leapt away.
“What is that?” Sanchez whispered.
The shaman whooped, and to the crowd’s encouragement, danced in circles around the object, stooping occasionally to slap it with his hands. Finally, he produced a stone knife and with a single stroke cut away the vine. The leaves fell, revealing a cage-like basket. Owen took an involuntary step backwards.
Inside the basket, bathed in morning sunlight, was a very large and angry jumper.
• • •
The creature was the size of a large dog. It raised its forelegs menacingly, the classic threat-pose of an agitated, aggressive spider. Venom glistened at the tips of its three-inch fangs, hanging in swinging threads.
The crowd hooted with excitement, but the cries were tempered now with awe. Respect.
“This isn’t good,” Owen said. A wave of nausea washed over him.
Out of the crowd came another man who passed the shaman a long stick with a bowl-like attachment at one end. The old man raised the staff to more whooping, then used it to prod the spider through the bars of the basket. The spider jumped and kicked angrily at the pole, causing the basket to rock from side to side.
“He’s provoking it,” Sanchez said. “I thought they revered these things?”
With lightning speed, the spider seized the shaft and with a swift, downward strike sank its ample fangs deep into the bowl.
Owen’s stomach churned. “He’s milking it.”
Two more tribesmen moved in with sticks of their own, flanking the basket and poking the jumper to draw it away from the bowl. The spider released its hold and spun to face them, rattling its cage. Blood-red stripes running the length of the creature's dorsal surface seemed to reflect its rage.
The shaman withdrew the bowl, and to the delight of the crowd raised it to the air. As he did, Owen felt the sharp jab of a spear tip in the side. Two Yuguruppu forced him towards the old man.
Owen resisted. “Robert…” he said, turning to Sanchez. He dug his heels in but was pushed forward.
Please, no…
Owen’s bottom lip quivered. The hot drum of panic hit his chest, and suddenly the air felt thicker, harder to pull into his lungs.
He was about to die… and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
• • •
Sanchez sprang forward, rushing the shaman, but the blow came fast and hard.
Thunder reverberated through his skull, and Sanchez saw stars. The world tilted crazily, and then something cold and wet pressed against his cheek. He realised he’d crashed facedown into the mud. Blinking hard, he fought to stay conscious, only dimly aware he’d been struck but lucid enough to know that if he blacked out, he was dead.
He bit down on his tongue. Hard.
It had the desired effect. Instantly, his mouth flooded with the coppery taste of blood, pain searing through him like a bolt and forcing him back to his senses. His vision cleared. He got to his knees, expecting a second strike.
No additional blow came, and he stood unsteadily, at which point hands gra
sped him and held him firm. Warmth trickled down his neck and across his shoulders. Through the dizziness he saw the bowl already lifted to Owen’s lips. Owen struggled, but his arms were still bound, and the men who held him in place jerked his head back by the hair. Pinching his nose shut, they forced him to drink. Sanchez could do nothing but watch helplessly.
Owen fell into the hands of his captors and another series of cheers and whoops swelled from the crowd.
Sanchez hadn’t noticed that in the meantime, the pit cover had been removed. It only came to his attention when the two men holding Owen dragged him to the gaping hole.
Stepping up to the rim, they tipped him forward. Owen teetered, and then to the frenzied hoots of the crowd fell soundlessly into the void.
Below, a dull thump echoed.
Sanchez’s eyes fell shut. He was certain that Owen had been dead before he’d even hit the ground.
• • •
It was his turn next. Sanchez’s mind raced.
More hands clutched his shoulders, pushing him forward. The tribe pressed into a tight circle around him. The chanting that had begun when Owen had been thrown into the pit swelled as the crowd’s anticipation grew.
The shaman moved towards him, bowl in hand. If he was forced to drink from it, he was as good as dead. Spiders used venom to kill, or to stop their victims struggling while they fed. If not fatal, the toxin would at best paralyse him—and by then it would be too late.
He looked left and right, felt the grip of his guards.
He had no choice.
Sanchez moved fast, throwing his weight hard against the Yuguruppun to his left, the one standing nearest the pit.
Together, the two of them tumbled sideways into its gaping maw.
49
Standing by the trapdoor, Rebecca watched as Ed tested the night-vision goggles. They were a snug fit. He was ready to go.
While Oliveira had for obvious reasons refused Ed a gun, he’d consented to the Brazilian-designed FH-9 flamethrower now strapped to Ed’s back. While not a large unit—gun-like in appearance, it was sleek and compact with a short, barrel-like nozzle—the three underslung, fuel-storing cylinder tanks were bulky and awkward. It’d be tight, but Rebecca was confident he could squeeze it into the tunnel.
Ed had also been equipped with a very modern-looking grappling hook. Black and tubular and attached to fifty-feet of high-tensile nylon rope, the gas-propelled hook bore collapsible blades that opened upon firing. He’d strapped that device to his outer right thigh. To his left, he’d belted a machete in a long black sheath.
Webbing pouches in a harness around Ed’s chest and waist stored the remainder of his equipment. Despite their apparent ineffectiveness the night before, Rebecca had urged him to take an X40. They’d worked at S1 the night they’d heard the barking sound. He carried one in a chest-pouch but would trigger it only if threatened—any unnecessary vibrations would alert them to his presence, and the intent was to elude attention.
Ed tested his comm radio, in a pouch up near his neck. It worked. He turned to Rebecca. “See you shortly.”
“Just be careful, okay? Promise me that.”
Ed nodded.
“Remember, move lightly and take it slowly,” Rebecca whispered. “When you get into the barrier web, make sure you avoid the signal-threads. And if anything goes wrong…”
“It won’t.” Ed moved to the burrow and hesitated. Turning back to her, he opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He wore the same expression she’d seen yesterday when they were together in the blind, as well as three nights ago down by the river. On those occasions she’d dismissed it as no more than the knowing gaze of a past lover. Of course, it was more than that, and she wondered how strong and deep it ran, how genuine it was. She sensed Ed intended to kiss her and decided she wouldn’t stop him.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Ed said.
“Ed…”
Instead of moving closer, he smiled faintly. “Look after Jess, will you? Keep an eye out.”
Rebecca nodded. “Of course.”
She was aware he’d said his goodbyes to Jessy this morning, before they’d come down here to search for the trapdoor. He’d been in there a while. Watching him now, all suited up and ready to go—her own confused feelings swirling inside her—she wondered how Jessy had handled it. She was suddenly beset by a deep sadness. But for whom—Jessy, Ed, or herself— she couldn’t be certain.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Ed said. “All of this will be over soon.”
Rebecca managed a smile. “Get going, will you?”
They helped Ed into the hole, headfirst, two of the men holding his feet, two more the trapdoor while Ed wriggled in on his stomach. He seemed to fit okay. Rebecca watched as they lowered him. His feet disappeared beneath the rim. Then all four men moved back, and the flap of earth sprang shut.
Just like that, Ed was gone.
THE
NEST
50
Darkness swallowed Sanchez as he fell into the pit.
He and his guard landed in a heavy tangle of limbs, the young tribesman yelping in pain. The floor of the pit was hard, and Sanchez, too, grunted as the wind was driven from his lungs.
The impact caused the two men to untangle, and they bounced and rolled away from each other. In the confusion, Sanchez lost sight of his startled minder, the younger man disappearing into deep gloom. The Yuguruppu, it seemed, had immediately replaced the cover, snuffing out the light. Sanchez wondered why the tribe had so hastily sacrificed one of their own…
He refocused, looking urgently about. It was impossible to tell how far they’d fallen—it was too dark. Mind racing, Sanchez got to his feet. His plan hadn’t extended beyond leaping into the hole. Hurriedly, he worked on the cords binding his torso. He’d been subtly slackening them ever since he and Owen had been led from the hut. He’d made reasonable progress. Now, he could feel them loosening further. Nearly there.
As he laboured, his eyes adjusted to his surroundings. Faint chutes of light filtered through imperfections in the cover above, offering limited visibility.
Sprawled face down a few feet from where he stood was Owen.
Before Sanchez could move to him, the attack came. The young tribesman sprang from the darkness, slipping the shaft of his spear up and over Sanchez’s head, down to his throat so that it was horizontal to the ground. Sanchez was yet to free his arms and couldn’t block the move. The young tribesman pulled backwards, choking him with the spear, and Sanchez felt his windpipe collapsing.
He flung his head back savagely.
He connected with the Yuguruppun’s nose, shattering it, and they fell backwards together, the young man taking Sanchez’s full weight upon him. The wind exploded from his adversary, but still the tribesman maintained the choke-hold as he lay sprawled beneath him. Sanchez struggled for breath. At the edge of his vision, stars appeared, followed by a spreading pool of darkness, and he was about to pass into that darkness when out of it appeared a form. It stood fleetingly above them, and then there was a dull thud and a release and oxygen whooshed into Sanchez’s lungs. He rolled away, spluttering, gasping.
Owen!
Still gasping, Sanchez struggled to all fours. The slap of two bodies connecting and wrestling gave way to a muffled thump and a cry of pain.
He had to get to his feet. Turning his head, still trying to draw breath, he saw Owen out of the corner of his eye. Again, his companion was sprawled on the ground, although this time he was on his back and clutching his abdomen. Beside him lay the discarded spear. The young Yuguruppun was gone.
Sanchez leapt to his feet. The cords binding his body had almost come free, having barely withstood the previous assault. With a final burst of strength, he broke them apart, shaking them to the ground and spinning to face the attack he suspected was coming. He’d barely brought himself around before the young man hit him full-charge in a tackle around the waist. Only the unyielding wall of the pit brought them to
a halt. With a loud crack the two of them bounced off it, crashing once more to the ground. Dazed, Sanchez was the quicker to his feet, but only just. The young man was drawing himself upright when Sanchez lunged, looping his right arm around his opponent’s neck. In the process, his right knee slammed into the man’s face. Reaching his left arm over the top of the tribesman, Sanchez grasped him by the thin cord around his waist and drove him backwards, picking up speed with every step. Just shy of the wall he released the headlock.
The Yuguruppun slammed into the wall at full speed.
Sanchez had expected a devastating impact. It never came. Instead, his opponent fell soundlessly into the rock, as though it had relented to absorb his momentum.
Blood gushed from the young man’s shattered nose. He was out cold. He was also stuck up against the wall, fully supported in an upright position.
Sanchez realised he hadn’t thrown his opponent into a wall at all. The Yuguruppun had become ensnared in a web stretching from the floor of the pit to the point where it met the cover above. Three of the surrounding walls were solid rock, covered in non-sticky silk. But behind the fourth, was nothing.
Nothing but a huge, dark hole.
You’re kidding me.
The pit wasn’t man-made. It seemed to be the entrance to an underground cave system, and the curtain of sticky silk forming the fourth wall was some sort of door, probably placed there to keep intruders out.
Sanchez spun from the bloodied Yuguruppun. He had to work fast.
He knelt over Owen, who moaned softly, and saw why his companion had been clutching his abdomen. The tip of the tribesman’s spear had sliced through the cords binding his torso and had entered Owen’s body to the right of the navel. It looked bad. Owen’s right arm had come free of his bindings, and he’d been stemming the blood with his hand. Sanchez wrested away the last of the vines and placed his own hand on the wound. With his free hand, he tore a strip from his shirt to use as a bandage. Maintaining pressure, he tied the dressing firmly. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold.