Eight

by WW Mortensen

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be in touch soon. Out.”

  As Rebecca watched, Ed picked his way across the plaza, through the barrier web. The large central staircase lay not more than forty feet from where he had emerged from the tunnel, rising to the pyramid’s truncated peak. Every few steps, Ed would pause to disentangle a clinging thread of silk, but none appeared to be hampering him seriously. He reached the staircase and began his ascent. Rebecca noted he was much smaller in comparison to his surroundings than she’d expected, ant-like against the towering backdrop of the huge pyramid. The great stone staircase also seemed to rise at a steeper angle than she’d initially conceived. Seeing Ed there put everything into perspective.

  The staircase must have been in good condition, not overly worn by time or the elements or greatly hindered by silk or vegetation, because Ed climbed the northern face surely. Occasionally he would pause to use his machete, but otherwise his ascent was fluid.

  There remained no sign of any workers attending to or guarding the web. They were there somewhere. Rebecca kept an eye out for movement, ready to warn Ed. She gripped the binoculars fiercely.

  Ed was halfway up when, for the first time, Rebecca dared to believe their plan might work. At this rate, Ed would be at the plane in a matter of minutes. She wondered what he was feeling right now. With all that had happened, she’d overlooked the momentous nature of the occasion: Ed was inside Intihuasi, climbing its centrepiece, up close and personal with the object of his—and his grandfather’s—lifelong search. He must have been bursting with excitement. Rebecca wished she could have seen his face.

  Two-thirds of the way to the top of the pyramid, Ed drew level with the plane, which was hanging nose-down, tail-up in the old capture-sheet. He climbed several more steps before turning away from the pyramid to face it. He removed the grappling hook from his thigh.

  Oliveira leaned forward with his binoculars. “This is it,” he murmured breathlessly.

  Without fanfare, Ed aimed and fired the hook. It shot across the narrow chasm separating the plane and the pyramid, soaring towards the aircraft with the nylon rope spooling in loops behind it. The shot hit home. Ed secured his end into a crack in the stone steps with a rock-climbing anchor.

  His voice came over the radio. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” In the distance, he turned and waved. “See you soon.”

  52

  Ed faced the pyramid. He stood a few steps below the rope and reached up to grasp it. Already, he’d discarded the cumbersome flamethrower. Heaving up his legs, he hooked his ankles over the tightly drawn line. To make for an easier crossing, he’d fired down to the plane. He’d worry about the more difficult return trip later.

  Hand over hand Ed pulled himself backwards, down to the plane.

  The plane’s left wing had been sheared almost clear by the crash and dangled earthward by a thread, but the hook had looped over the plane’s right wing, which was bent around the front of the aircraft like an arm held protectively against the sun’s glare. When Ed reached it, he was level with the aircraft’s nose, the lowest point of the plane proper. Hence, and about forty feet of aircraft rose straight up above him. He noted it was a single-engine De Havilland. Through the swathing-silk that tightly bound the fuselage, he saw red stripes running laterally from head to tail on an otherwise plain white exterior. In places, he saw splashes of rust.

  Ed swung himself around, stretched up and grasped the wing’s edge. The metal had been warmed by the sun but was cool enough to touch. Once he was sure of his grip, he let go of the rope with his feet.

  The aircraft dipped, adjusting to his weight. Metal groaned and creaked above him.

  “Hold. Please,” he murmured, not daring to move, waiting with his elbows hooked over the top of the wing for the swaying to subside. In moments all was still again.

  Ed considered his next move. He had to act quickly. His perch was precarious: he couldn’t find purchase with his boots on the wing’s sheer surface, so his arms bore the brunt of his weight. Initially, he’d planned to climb over the wing and in through the windshield, but now he saw there wasn’t enough room to squeeze between the wing and the nose. He’d have to climb several feet higher and enter through the door. He was in luck: it already looked to be open, though he’d have to cut through a layer of swathing-silk.

  Ed heaved himself up and threw his right leg over the wing.

  Again, the plane dipped. This time, the drop was more dramatic, the aircraft twisting clockwise.

  “Shit!” Ed’s heart thumped as metal groaned once more in protest. Make this quick, he told himself.

  He reached for the windshield’s riveted edge, holding on with the tips of his fingers and pushing on the wing with his right leg. He lifted his left leg and stood, both feet on the edge of the wing, his chest pressed flat against the roof of the plane. He paused to catch his breath. At no stage did he look down. He was sweating profusely, adrenaline surging through his veins.

  Almost there.

  He unsheathed his machete and shimmied left. Arriving at the roof’s edge, he reached beneath the fold of the wing to slice at the silk wrapping the plane’s exterior. The old fibres came away effortlessly, exposing the open doorway beneath, only partially obscured by the aileron. Sheathing the machete, Ed climbed over the twisted wing and in the one fluid movement swung feet-first through the open hole.

  He was inside the plane.

  • • •

  Oliveira had told him to look for a small compartment at the rear of the plane, behind the seats.

  Crouching, Ed moved beyond the threshold, forward of the front seats and into the cockpit proper. He perched on the aircraft’s instrument panel.

  “My God,” he whispered, glancing about. “What the hell happened here?”

  Everything was covered in silk: the seats, the cockpit instruments, the floor, the ceiling. The entire cabin.

  Beneath him—he was careful to avoid it—the windshield had shivered into a maze of silver cracks. The passenger-side window was shattered. All around, faint smears of dried blood covered the seats and controls and walls like splatters of rust, grisly evidence of a horror Ed cared not to think about. There was no trace, however, of the pilot’s remains, or those of his passengers, if he’d been carrying any.

  They’d been removed.

  The hairs rose on the nape of his neck and Ed turned, shutting the door behind him. For the moment ignoring Oliveira’s instructions, he looked down to the instrument panel beneath his feet. He tried the radio, but of course it was dead. He looked for the plane’s inbuilt EPIRB. He couldn’t find it, but given the instruments beneath his feet were clearly useless—smashed, rusted, without power—what good would it have been anyway?

  He clambered over the seats and headed up to the rear of the plane. Again, the aircraft swayed, and around him the metal moaned and complained. He paused in the cramped confines, waiting for the aircraft to settle before continuing his climb. He wondered how much strength remained in the old capture-sheet, and how long he had before the wreck was purged and sent plummeting.

  The rear of the plane lay ten or twelve feet aft of the cockpit. Ed grabbed at the walls, pulling himself up. As he ascended, strands of old silk clung to him as though he was being wrapped in a sheet of dirty, rotted lace. He ignored it. Above him, at the very rear and jutting from the wall, was a mounting bracket, together with what looked to be a fixed antenna of some sort. He seized the bracket for support and heaved himself higher, noting this was the brace to which the ELT—Emergency Locator Transmitter—would normally be attached. No ELT had been fitted.

  With his spare hand, Ed stretched up for the handle to the storage compartment and turned it. The door swung outwards.

  The package was there.

  It was just as Oliveira had said it would be: tucked behind one of several small, netted pouches used for securing cargo. Still hanging by one arm, Ed reached for it with the hand that had opened the compartment. The cloth bag was palm
-sized and squarish, bound like a Christmas present with a black leather cord. Curious as to its contents, he squeezed it, and it yielded. Fearing it was breakable, he didn’t test it further—the first squeeze had felt like he’d been grinding something together, maybe several things. He considered opening the bag for a look but couldn’t untie the knot with one hand.

  Instead, he secured the bag in a webbing pouch at his waist and reached up for the radio at his neck. “Bec, Oliveira. I’ve got the package.”

  Static. No response.

  He tried again but the result was the same. He’d give it another go on the outside.

  Moving swiftly but carefully, Ed climbed back to the door. Despite his caution, the plane rocked more with every step, and he worried his luck was draining with the passing seconds.

  Back at the door, he noticed something he’d missed upon entry. The object was jammed up in front of the seats where the pilot’s pedals met the floor. He grabbed it and stashed it into his pack before turning back to the door. Opening it a crack, he peered out. No spiders. He pushed it all the way open and stepped onto the door’s narrow metal edge.

  As he reached again for the radio, he realised what he’d achieved. He had the package. All he had to do was shimmy back to the pyramid, descend the steps, and get back into the tunnel. “Mission accomplished. I’ve got the package, and I’m—”

  “ED! FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! GET BACK… THE PLANE! GET OUT OF THERE NOW! GO!”

  What…?

  A soft, padded thud echoed from somewhere up above, and the plane lurched beneath Ed’s feet. He thrust out a hand, clutching the edge of the door to maintain his balance.

  With dread, he turned and looked up to the tail of the plane.

  The creature sitting there was huge—maybe four feet across its jointed, spindly legs. Along the length of its body ran pale grey stripes of different shades, blending it with the surrounding silk. The second creature, he noticed, was just as big, but positioned in the web itself, higher than the first and off to Ed’s right as he faced the tail.

  He sensed the third behind him, on the other side of the gap separating the plane and the pyramid, crouched on the stone steps he’d earlier ascended.

  Ed drew a sharp breath. The barking sound, low, threatening, reverberated around him. He closed his eyes.

  The megarachnids came at him swiftly, from three different directions at once.

  53

  NO!!!

  Rebecca fell to her knees, both the radio and binoculars slipping from her grasp. “Ed!” she cried. Sobbing, she dropped her head into her hands, barely aware of the sudden blur of motion that was Oliveira as he quickly exited the blind. She heard him bark orders and mobilise his men, but hardly noticed as they swung into action around her.

  Why hadn’t Ed responded? She’d been screaming into the radio for an eternity, trying to warn him. She and Oliveira had plainly seen the three spiders making their way through the web, converging on the plane. Having to watch Ed exit, unknowingly stalked, and then unable to do anything about it, was devastating.

  What had gone wrong?

  Her mind whirled. Obviously, the spiders had seen him, perhaps detected movement and had left their retreats to investigate. They’d responded as a group, swiftly positioning themselves for a deadly ambush.

  If only Ed had heard her and gone back inside, he might have stood a chance.

  In the end, the speed of the attack had been frightening.

  Rather than jump—the workers seemed capable of small hops only—they had skittered through the barrier web, bridging the distance to the plane in seconds. As such—and perhaps mercifully—it was over quickly. Ed didn’t seem to resist, but then, all Rebecca could see was a blur, a darkened mass as the spiders set upon him. She may have turned away. The next thing she knew, they were bundling his limp, motionless form—cocooned in swathing-silk—through the barrier web and down to the base of the pyramid.

  Then they’d disappeared.

  Rebecca lurched forward and vomited where she knelt.

  “Por favor, senhorita, on your feet.” It was Luis.

  Rebecca shrugged his proffered hand. “Don’t touch me!” Hot tears streamed down her face.

  “I have orders to return you to camp. You must come with me.”

  “What? That’s what Senhor Oliveira wants? This is his fault! He can go and get fucked for all I care. In fact, why don’t you go tell him that!”

  Oliveira must have been close. He appeared suddenly, dismissing Luis and turning on her. “You are coming back to camp now,” he hissed. “I will not ask again.”

  “Or what? What will you do? This is your fault! It’s your fault those things got him, your fault he was in there in the first place! If it wasn’t for you, he’d be okay. It’d all be okay, you asshole!” Rebecca leapt to her feet and sprang forward, swiping at him with her fist.

  Oliveira caught her wrist mid-swing. “You really believe that, senhorita? I did not think you that dull.” He released her, and Rebecca winced, clutching at her arm. She looked at him, confused.

  Oliveira exhaled tersely. “I could hardly have stopped him,” he said. “He came to me with the plan, insisting he enter the city and try for the plane. I knew it was folly but agreed; I needed to gauge their reaction. I was surprised he got as far as he did.”

  Rebecca straightened, eyes narrowing. It was Ed’s idea? “So, you used him as bait? You knew this would happen?”

  “I knew less than you, senhorita,” Oliveira said knowingly. “Despite your conviction, your friend was not coerced into anything. It would have been foolish to squander his enthusiasm.”

  Rebecca slumped, almost falling to the ground again. Oliveira was telling the truth. It wasn’t a stretch to accept that Ed had exaggerated the terms of his meeting with the leader; she’d already harboured doubts about his story. And plane or no plane, he’d always intended to enter the city. She could never have stopped him, even with Jessy’s assistance. This was always how it would end.

  “So, what will you do with us now?” Rebecca asked. “Ed said he had the package. Now it’s lost for good. It’s over.”

  Oliveira smirked. “Senhorita, I do not know what you take me for. Your friend’s capture was a scenario I had anticipated. All is not lost.” He leaned out of the blind and called to the only one of his men yet to return to camp, a lightly built soldier standing guard by the trapdoor.

  “Asensi!”

  The man named Asensi, who had been staring into a small handheld device that looked like a cell phone, nodded and rattled off something in Portuguese.

  Oliveira turned back to Rebecca. “I had a tracking device inserted into the webbing vest worn by your friend, in the event this should come to pass. I knew it was the last item he would likely misplace in there. If, like he claims, he has the package, then wherever he goes, it goes too. And we will follow.”

  “You’re going in after him?”

  “Him, the package—yes, but this time we will do it right, senhorita. You are coming with us.”

  Rebecca hesitated, hoping she’d misheard. “Sorry? What makes you think I’d be of use… in there?”

  Oliveira shook his head. “Once again, you believe me a fool. You must, or you wouldn’t persist with the charade. I know who you are, what your profession is. Do you believe that I mistook him for the expert? As I said, I let him in, so I could learn more about what I was up against. From the beginning, I saw in his eyes what he wanted. And I saw it in yours, too.”

  Rebecca was unsure how to respond.

  “We are wasting time,” Oliveira said. “I require your expertise. I know that part of you is curious—and even more of you hopeful—so enough talk. If those creatures are nocturnal, like you say, then the light is precious.” He looked at her humourlessly, his tone impatient. “Now, as I said, we are returning to camp, and we are going now. We leave for the nest in thirty minutes.”

  54

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?” Jessy said. It seemed less a
question than a statement of resignation.

  For a moment, Rebecca couldn’t look the younger woman in the eye. “I’m sorry,” she said at last.

  Jessy shook her head angrily. “It was always going to turn out this way. I said so. Didn’t I tell you both? He’s a bastard for putting us through this.”

  “We could never have stopped him. You know that.”

  Jessy snorted. “That doesn’t change anything, does it?” Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hands shook. Rebecca could tell she was devastated, but the wall she’d put up earlier—the defence she’d erected against this very outcome—held firm.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Rebecca said, “but there’s still a chance.”

  “What?”

  “Oliveira is taking a group of men inside. He wants me to go with them as a guide. There’s a transponder fixed to Ed’s vest, and Oliveira intends to follow the signal. He might still be alive.”

  “Alive? How?”

  “They took him inside the nest—paralysed, likely unconscious, but alive, I’m sure of it. I suspect the venom of the workers, or the web spiders, is less potent than that of the jumpers, because they use the web to tire and subdue their prey. Being so large they’re also very strong, so they don’t require a powerful toxin. When Priscilla was bitten, she showed no ill-effect, and generally primates are similarly affected. It gives us hope, however small.”

  “You said the bite on Priscilla might have been ‘dry’, because of how quickly it happened—that she probably didn’t get envenomed. We can’t hope for the same.”

  Rebecca drew a sharp breath. “It’s our only hope.”

  There was a long pause. Eventually, Jessy said, “So how do you feel about going in?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You don’t want to, do you?”

  “I have to. I’ve got no choice.”

  “I can tell something’s wrong.”

  As recently as a few hours ago, Rebecca would have shrugged off the comment and told Jessy everything was fine. Now, a part of her no longer wished to maintain the deception—not after everything that had happened. She opened her mouth, but hesitated. We don’t have time for this.