Eight

by WW Mortensen

  Before long, she heard the others clambering in behind her. She shuffled forward, making room. Soon the entire group was inside, the four men joining her in a bizarre conga-line.

  No turning back, she thought.

  Don’t get distracted. Just keep moving.

  But even that wasn’t easy. Her lungs laboured, as though the air had turned to syrup. The humidity pawed at her face like an invisible hand. Rebecca pulled forward. Already, her arms hurt.

  The first stab of claustrophobia came only minutes later. At first, it wasn’t overt, more a vague, smothery feeling. Then, slowly, everything closed in around her, the burrow shrinking before her eyes. She blinked, steadied her breathing.

  Deal with it.

  She kept moving.

  But it got worse, and with it came something else, something that tingled her spine and nearly made her cry out in fear.

  It was only an image, coming for her in her mind’s eye, but it was terrifyingly real. Fangs bared, forelegs raised, it scurried up the tunnel towards her, not once, but several times, playing in her head like film running in an endless loop.

  Gotta get a grip…

  Despite the heat, Rebecca shivered, and wriggled deeper into the burrow.

  57

  Light struggled through the dark—faint, but he sensed its reddish hue through his eyelids and felt its warmth on his skin.

  Gradually, his eyes opened, but only to slits. They were heavy and sore, and the thin ray of sunlight that had fallen directly on his face and roused him was painfully bright. Beyond it, he could feel a heavy blanket of darkness.

  Avoiding the light, squinting through the gloom, he turned his head. It hurt to do so, and he shut his eyes again as a wave of nausea washed over him. When the feeling had passed, he opened his eyes once more, but this time he kept his head still, waiting for his vision to adjust. While it did, other senses kicked in like systems in a computer booting up, and his nostrils flared. The air, dank and stale, was laced with a smell that was difficult to place: thick, heavy, animal-like. It was hard to breathe.

  He was sitting. His legs were spread wide, and his arms were raised above his head. He couldn’t budge any of them and figured they were bound somehow, though he couldn’t crane his neck to see what by. A tingling sensation thrummed through his body, as though the blood flow to his extremities had been blocked and they’d fallen asleep. He tried to stand but couldn’t move.

  His eyes adjusted. Was he in a room of some kind? There were shapes around him, but they were formless, unidentifiable.

  What is this place? What am I doing here?

  He felt as though he’d woken from a deep sleep. Maybe a coma. Maybe he’d been out for days.

  He shifted his gaze. Motes of dust swirled through the beam of light, which he followed to the dusty, stone floor. Framed by the light was an object—a backpack—and scattered along the ground, disgorged in a trail, were its innards: flares, a radio, something unrecognisable.

  He willed his hand towards them and felt some movement in his bindings, but the effort drained him, and he slumped forward.

  He decided to summon the strength for another attempt, and as he did—out of nowhere and for no apparent reason—an image formed hazily in his mind’s eye: a woman’s face, a beautiful, dark-haired woman with green eyes. She was smiling at him, but then suddenly her eyes grew wide—

  A shuffling sound nearby, something brushing lightly against the stone. It was near, and large. Too large, he knew, for a scurrying rat.

  He peered into the murk, and when the sound came again, the darkness itself shifted before him, a black shadow moving in his direction, and now he could make it out.

  It was no rat.

  The creature was monstrous, more than a yard across, closer to two, and it crept towards him purposefully, hypnotically almost, its legs rising and falling in perfect synchronicity. He tried to cry out, scream, but couldn’t—his mouth was dry and parched—and as he searched the area desperately, he saw something else, too. Just off to the right of the advancing spider, stuck up against the wall, off the ground, floating in a sea of silk. He hadn’t seen it earlier, before his eyes had adjusted.

  A jaguar.

  Frozen in time, it was curled into a ball—claws bared, jaws wide open in what might have been a soundless roar of defiance… or an agonised cry of fear.

  They had killed a jaguar…

  As he watched, horrified, a spider the size of a man’s fist crawled unhurried out of the animal’s open mouth, as though deliberately mocking the once-proud beast. Slowly, it moved back over the cat’s face…

  …to join the rest of the writhing mass of spiders—baby spiders each the size of a saucer—crawling over its body.

  The jaguar was covered in a mass of feeding, baby spiders.

  Again, he struggled, realising his fate. He too was caught in a web, bound and restrained like the jaguar.

  The huge spider was by now almost upon him, just a few yards away. She rotated on the spot so that her abdomen faced him. He knew it was a she, because over the rear of her body crawled dozens of spiderlings.

  Her babies.

  She wasn’t the threat—they were.

  Just like those consuming the jaguar they were by normal standards large, each the size of a regular tarantula, with abdomens resembling—and at least as big as—a kiwi fruit.

  And there were so many. They scrambled over each other, such an incredible mass of them it looked as though they were erupting from somewhere within the female, pouring and spewing across the floor as though she was giving birth to an endless wave.

  They came at him.

  Panicking, trying desperately to escape, he pulled his right arm free of the web. Yet with no strength to keep it vertical, it fell straight to the floor, hard.

  He felt something beneath his fingertips.

  …the spiderlings came, skittered across the floor towards him like an unrolling black carpet…

  He moved his fingers. His hand had hit down on an object resting on the ground. Subconsciously, he realised there was something he had to do with it. Eyes focused on the advancing spiders, barely registering his own actions, he worked quickly. His stiffened fingers fumbled, but at last he managed to lift the switch. Hand shaking, he slid it right, pushing forward the breaking tab.

  A beeping sound came to his ears, indicating the device was now operational.

  He’d turned it on.

  For whatever reason, he knew that was what he had to do, was what he was meant to do, and he’d done it. He’d initiated the device.

  With that, he slumped forward, his energy at last depleted, and closed his eyes.

  The spiderlings came at him like a horrible black wave.

  58

  Sanchez couldn’t see a thing. It wasn’t that his eyes, still burning from the volley of stinging hairs, had betrayed him. It was simply because the cave running off the pit was utterly devoid of light. The meagre amount that had filtered through the pit-cover had dissipated long ago, and now, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

  This was madness.

  He had no idea how long he’d persisted, stumbling along blindly with Owen over his shoulder, but he had to turn back. Earlier, with no other recourse left him, the plan to venture in here had seemed viable. His only other option had been to climb the pit wall, somehow getting Owen up with him and then evading the frenzied Yuguruppu whom he could still hear celebrating above. With an injured shoulder he’d thought it impossible, but what choice did he have now? To continue was pointless. And suicidal.

  He considered again the lighter in his pocket. It was almost empty. He’d intended on saving what little there was but moving blindly meant he’d eventually blunder into a web, or another of the jumpers would leap through the blackness to attack. Either event would be deadly; he didn’t possess the energy to escape or resist.

  As unrealistic as it sounded, he had to return to the pit and climb out.

  He was turning around when
his dragging feet hit something on the ground, and Sanchez stumbled and fell to the cave floor. Owen crashed down with him, moaning with the impact.

  “Sorry, amigo,” Sanchez said, untangling. He grimaced and put a hand to his injured left shoulder as a bolt of fiery pain seared through it.

  He did his best to ignore it. What had he tripped over?

  He reached into the darkness, groping the object at his feet. It felt like…

  Sanchez scrambled for the lighter, deciding that now he could spare a small amount of fuel…

  The tiny flame leapt to life, and Sanchez saw immediately the object that had caused him to stumble.

  A knapsack.

  What the hell? He lifted it, strands of silk that had affixed it to the cave floor coming away like pizza-cheese. It was black, compact, and made of good-quality nylon. And it was heavy.

  Baffled, Sanchez reached for the opening, unzipped the pack, and upended it. A flood of objects fell through the light onto the ground: a bloated, yellowed notepad, pencil in the spine; a pair of reading glasses in a hard case; a small steel can with no label, coated in rust; a beige-coloured cloth cap, heavily sweat-stained, with a flap of material at the back to protect the wearer’s neck from the sun.

  Sanchez frowned.

  There were a few other items, most of them blackened and unidentifiable and covered in mould, perhaps foodstuffs of some kind, their damaged packaging having exposed the contents to the air. He rummaged through them, ensuring there was nothing he’d missed.

  There was still weight in the pack, something else inside it.

  Sanchez felt around, found a zippered pouch at the front, and undid it. He reached in and pulled out the item, holding it close to the light.

  A shiny, metallic canister.

  He shook it, and liquid sloshed about. It was a hip flask, silver-plated judging by the tarnished exterior. He noticed an inscription engraved on the front and wiped away the dust to read it.

  I. R.

  A LITTLE SOMETHING SURE TO HOLD YOUR SINGLE MALT AS DEARLY AS YOU!

  CONGRATULATIONS AND BEST WISHES ON YOUR NEW POSTING

  FROM ALL THE FACULTY AND STAFF

  DEPARTMENT OF SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY

  UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE

  IT WON’T BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU!

  Unbelievable!

  Sanchez recognised the initials. The flask—and knapsack—was the property of Irving Rosenlund, Owen’s former colleague at FUNAI. This was incredible! It was one of Rosenlund’s field diaries that had mysteriously come into Owen’s possession, along with the old hand-marked military map he and Ed had followed to S1. But Rosenlund had mysteriously disappeared and was presumed dead.

  It was now obvious what had transpired. Rosenlund had been sacrificed—just like he and Owen had been. Maybe he’d offended the Yuguruppu and they’d reacted violently, catching him by surprise. It would explain why he still had his knapsack with him.

  Sanchez felt a pang of empathy but didn’t linger. He refilled the pack and slung it, and then unscrewed the cap of the flask. He took a whiff. Scotch Whiskey? He swigged, grimacing, and offered some to Owen, but was careful to preserve a small amount. From the knapsack, he retrieved the cap and tore off the flap of material, binding it firmly around the spear. He doused it with the whiskey.

  Perfect!

  Sanchez took the lighter and touched the flame to the alcohol-soaked rag. It took hold with a whump, sending out a sphere of light much larger than that afforded by the lighter.

  He wished immediately it hadn’t.

  Sanchez hadn’t thought he’d see much of anything—certainly hadn’t been prepared for the sight that did come to him, and any celebratory thoughts he may have had were cut dramatically short.

  He spun with the torch, a sliver of ice coursing down his spine, the hairs on his neck prickling instantly.

  Surrounding him on all sides—staring back at him with their cold, dark eyes—were dozens of jumpers.

  • • •

  They leered at the edge of the light, a horde of arachnid faces. Gazing, watching.

  Row upon row, some no more than a few feet away, above him, beside him, behind him, clinging to the web lining the ceiling, and both walls of the cave.

  They were everywhere.

  Sanchez waited for death, hoped it would come quickly.

  But the spiders didn’t move. They simply stared.

  What were they waiting for?

  Then, he realised.

  You’re kidding me…

  They weren’t alive.

  Dead? All of them?

  No. Not dead. Something else.

  Slowly, Sanchez raised the torch.

  Exoskeletons. Not spiders, but the old, rigid skins of spiders.

  He released a breath. These were the casings routinely shed by youngsters or adolescents as they grew larger. He moved eye to eye with the closest specimen, amazed at how intact it was, how well it had maintained its shape and form. In every way, it was an exact duplicate of its former possessor.

  He cast the torch about.

  The skins weren’t placed in a pattern. They looked random, discarded. Maybe the creatures came here to shed in safety.

  As his heartbeat returned to normal, he looked closer at his surroundings. He saw other things, objects on the ground in scattered piles, and in the web, too. Most he couldn’t identify, but some, he realised, were bones. Animal bones, hundreds of them.

  The cavern was a dumping ground. The spiders discarded their waste here. He was encouraged. If he was right, the cavern should be a long way from the heart of the nest.

  Even so, the old skins hadn’t yet decomposed. They were fresh. Obviously, the arachnids came here regularly.

  Sanchez scanned the gloom. Now that he had light, he didn’t need to return to the pit and could stick with his original plan. On the far side of the cavern, at the edge of the light, he discerned the faint outline of an exit opening into more blackness.

  Heaving Owen, he made for it, passing through the gallery of faces staring back at him with their blank, lifeless eyes.

  59

  It was little wonder it had taken Ed so long to emerge from the burrow—it seemed endless. Rebecca saw by the luminous hands of her watch that it was near on one o’clock. Ed had emerged after forty minutes. Rebecca’s group had been at it for just over fifty, and still, there was no end in sight.

  We must be close.

  Thankfully, much of the journey had been downhill. In fact, the angle of the descent had been surprisingly acute. No doubt, they had been moving with the contour of the bowl, working their way down the steep depression and beneath the web. Only recently had the burrow levelled out again. She was sure they were now somewhere beneath the pyramid.

  Behind her, the sound of the others inching along echoed in her ears, reverberating in the burrow’s narrow confines. She hoped it wasn’t enough to cause an investigation. The vision of the sentry still haunted her, and the thought of the real thing…

  She checked her watch again. It wouldn’t be long.

  60

  Jessy lay staring at the tent’s ceiling, Priscilla curled up in a ball and sleeping soundly beside her.

  She couldn’t quiet her mind, couldn’t stop thinking about all that had happened. Mainly, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ed and what had happened to him. God, why? Not knowing if she should start grieving, or perhaps dare hope for his return, was more than she could bear. She missed him desperately, felt painfully alone.

  This can’t be real…

  About half an hour ago, it had fallen unusually quiet outside, but suddenly, voices drifted to her from the cave’s entrance. Someone was speaking with the two guards out front, but she couldn’t make out the words. Footsteps followed—two pairs retreating into the distance. After a moment of silence, a rustling sound disturbed the air not two feet away, on the other side of the tent flap.

  Jessy sat upright.

  Oh no…

  Despite the heat, she’d
pulled the zip down tight, but now it crawled slowly, inexorably, upwards.

  “Who’s there?” She tried to sound calm. Surreptitiously, she reached her hand around to slip it under the duffel bag she’d been using as a pillow.

  De Sousa stuck his head inside the tent. “Just checking, moca, I did not mean to alarm you.” He grinned at her. “So, how are you? Anything I can do?”

  Beneath the duffel bag, Jessy’s fingers slipped around the scissors from the First-Aid kit that Rebecca had earlier sneaked into her tent. “No, thank you.” Her throat was dry.

  With only his head inside the tent, De Sousa looked her up and down, appraising her. “I disagree, moca. I am sure there is something I can do.” His grin widened, and he made to enter.

  Jessy was about to pull the scissors when a voice cut loud and clear through the afternoon heat. De Sousa paused, turned to it. He seemed annoyed. For the moment, Jessy’s hand remained hidden.

  The voice came again, in Portuguese. Closer now. Just outside the tent.

  The muscles around De Sousa’s jaw tightened. “I’ll be back, moca. Don’t go anywhere.”

  He contemplated her again, laughed, and then backed from the tent and disappeared.

  Jessy didn’t move. Her heart raced at a million miles an hour. Not far from the tent, De Sousa and another of the men—Cartana, perhaps—spoke in rapid fire Portuguese. She didn’t think the guards had returned.

  She waited, listening, not moving a muscle until she heard the pair retreat, still in conversation. She then lunged for the zip and pulled it down hard.

  Her hands shook, and her eyes stung with tears. Shit! She had to get out of here. Now. She looked about. Could she move with one leg in a splint? She had to. She’d take her chances in the jungle.

  She made for the door… but was too late.

  The guards returned, talking and laughing, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke wafting into the tent.