As the green fire surrounded Mark and began compressing once more, he growled in a savage tone that few had heard and lived to speak of. “Bastard,” he said. “I’ll get you for this.” Simon only laughed louder, despite the pain that surely threatened to break him. The Flames collapsed inwards, taking Mark’s physical form with it until it reached a singularity.
For a short while, Simon was unable to do anything other than cackle. Even in a panic, he’d read Mark correctly. If the man was willing to be taken in place of the girl, then he wouldn’t so easily see her to the grave. Simon reminded himself to be proud of his genius later. When his laughter threatened to split his fractured ribs, he seized the hissing receiver and depressed the transmit toggle. “Cancel that order! Do not harm Arachne! Kill the Warren! Shoot him on sight and don’t stop shooting until there’s nothing left of him!” The radio only hissed its persistent static, and he continued his maniacal laughter. Part of him hoped that they didn’t receive the message and the girl got riddled with bullets anyway. His sanity lapsing, he began to scream into the air. “You think you’re so clever, Warren? You know nothing! The Fifth Project means nothing to me! You think I care if we kill her? We have Nexara! We have the Eleventh Project! You can change nothing!”
When the door to the containment room opened inwards and one of the yellow-coated men entered, Simon wasted no time. In a numb blur, he drew his holstered pistol with his unbroken hand and fired three shots into the young man’s chest. The bullets sent a red mist into the air as they lanced through his torso. The man toppled with a look of complete shock plastered over his face. Simon’s left hand tingled with released satisfaction. It wasn’t Mark, but killing someone would help to vent the rage that seethed behind that insane grin. Let this then be an example to the rank-and-file; mistakes will not be tolerated.
After fighting to his feet, Simon stumbled over the three dead Marauders in the doorway and re-holstered his weapon as he stepped into the corridor. It was the purple man; the purple man had made him believe the Warren boy could be trusted. But it was all a lie, a setup. At that moment he made a decision: he would find and kill the bastard who’d deceived him about the Warren. The purple man had to die.
All around Spinneretta, the compound came alive with distress—with panic. Behind her, she could hear someone screaming into a radio, announcing her arrival. Asking for some superior’s guidance, she thought with an uncharacteristic satisfaction. Her legs unfurled in all directions, tasting the air. She began to move once more, letting her blood-sensing legs lead the way. He was here, within one of the many faceless buildings. It was now only a matter of slashing her way through whatever opposition she faced until she found him.
As if on cue, the veil of darkness around her was torn apart by a blinding illumination from atop one of the guard towers along the perimeter of the complex. Her arm flew to block the spotlight from reaching her dilated eyes. Another pillar of light then joined the first, turning the asphalt under her feet into the surface of the sun.
There came a sound from behind that searing spotlight. She’d seen enough television to know the sound of a firearm being cocked. Her heart skipped a beat. A profound dread sent tingling fingers dancing up her spine and down her plated legs. That sound was not a singleton; the metallic echo came from several other locations scattered around her. It was in that moment that two thoughts occurred to her. The first was that the people in charge of this compound were serious about whatever they were protecting here. The second, which came from the rational part of her Instinct-driven mind, was that she was utterly outmatched.
The first gunshot rang out, sharp and metallic. Spinneretta was already moving. The rest of the weapons surrounding her, at least a dozen strong, opened fire. Her legs threw her forward with all the speed she could summon. Those bullets met the asphalt near her, and she could taste the tar being turned to powder, dirtying the air.
Her mind reeled, her invincible confidence shaken. Her legs took her forward, toward an alley between two monolithic structures. Shelter. The reports of the riflemen continued, each shot veering further than the last as she put the trailing spotlights further behind. In a matter of moments, she found herself between the shells of the two towering bunker-like structures whose walls were made of pleated metal. She halted, casting her burned eyes back in the direction she’d come from. The spotlights cast a deep shadow over her as they tried to shine into the alley. She was safe from their exposing beams for now.
Spinneretta’s lungs burned, each breath an unsatisfying and hollow act. The racing heartbeat in her ears pounded louder than the gunshots. Holy shit, what am I doing? This is the most insane thing I’ve ever done.
But before she could get a hold of herself, she heard the sound of footsteps. She turned to find a trio of yellow-coated soldiers emerging from the doorless frame of the bunker to her left. Shouts flew from slacked jaws. Three rifles rose. Death grinned down the sights at her. But what fear Spinneretta felt vanished. A rising tide of blistering heat swelled within her. Fight or flight. The Instinct took control once more.
She leapt to the side just as the first gunshot came. The ringing began deep in her ears, but there was no time to care. The ground lurched up and tried to kiss her. Her spider legs met the asphalt and hurled her low and fast beneath the sights of the unfired guns. The other shots followed, but they were barely audible through the screen of noise the first had left. She was a predator, a machine designed by blasphemous evolution to hunt and to kill; it was pure arrogance to think she would be undone by such mundane weaponry. And arrogance required punishment.
Two of Spinneretta’s legs left the ground. Plating met fabric. Tearing cloth, ripping skin, and then the crunching of cartilage shivered through her. The scream came next, and in a whirl of chitin and spraying blood she sprang from the ground and sent the yellow-coat crashing backward, his destroyed knees painted red. The rifle, now harmless detritus, clanged against the blacktop. The scent of blood nearly overwhelmed Spinneretta as she found her feet again. The thrill rose and twirled, snaking through her heart and legs. It filled her sinuses, her spiracles. It pushed her perception and reflexes far beyond the threshold of humanity.
Before the second man had even readjusted his aim, she was upon him. A single flourish of her appendages, brandished like a reaper’s scythe, flowed from a dance of violent impetus. All four legs found his face. Like a bullet through butter, she split skin and muscle apart. And again came the scent, brighter and prouder than before. As the man shouted and shrieked in terror and pain, it was hard to resist the urge to fall upon him and continue, to rip and tear until the ground was a canvas for her feast. Her arms tensed, and her fingers wound tighter to suppress a euphoric shiver. One more step closer, and then her knuckles slammed across the man’s lacerated face. Her momentum carried her forward over his toppled form. It wasn’t necessary to punch him, but God was it satisfying, like popping bubble wrap.
Her gaze shot over her shoulder to the final man, whose face was contorted in awestruck horror of the scene. His gun had dipped to the side, its barrel now in a position more likely to execute a comrade out of mercy. Spinneretta could have left him there, used his shock to put distance between them. But the rush of battle was too much. She needed more, and so she clenched her legs and pounced at him. She lashed out with her legs and tore the weapon from his hands. The third man recoiled with a scream, and snatched a gleaming knife from his belt. At least he had more spirit than the others. He lunged at her in a desperate panic, thrusting the knife toward her midsection. She pivoted to the side, and the metal flashed near the skin of her naked arm.
The Instinct guided her movements. Two of her legs clamped down on the man’s wrist with a snap, springing his grip and sending the knife to the ground. She tightened her legs’ hold on his wrist, and then threw one of her remaining appendages against his elbow. Primal strength surged through her limb, and the impact shattered his joint. The feeling held that same satisfaction, like cracking her legs or
tearing apart packing peanuts. A bloodcurdling howl escaped the man’s mouth as his fingers coiled and shook in pain. His screams nearly pushed back the ringing from the gunshots. The auditory sensation enthralled her.
Spinneretta gritted her teeth, and her unconscious grin widened. Releasing her grip on his arm, she raised two anterior legs above his teetering form. She swiped downwards, gouging two deep slashes into the flesh of his upper arms and painting the asphalt with another smattering of blood. The man fell to his knees in a pathetic lurch, and Spinneretta tried to flick off the blood that clung to the tips of her legs.
The blood assailed her. The scent had permeated her spiracles, setting her overdriven nervous system on edge. Her legs twitched with euphoria as she regarded the fallen trio, her heart pumping some dopamine-like reward through her body. The Instinct chastised her for teasing it. The temptation was intrusive; she had better things to do than flirt with the blood, a fact she remembered when a bullet ricocheted from the corrugated metal of the building behind her. A glance over her shoulder revealed a group of at least six more men drawing near, and there had to be more on the way. She bit her lip and cursed under her breath. Finding Mark was the most important thing, but to do that she had to keep herself alive. Her legs sprang into action, and she flew through the open door of the larger of the two structures, down an industrial hallway of the same pleated metal.
Hope I’m not backing myself into a corner, she thought, willing her legs to carry her faster. As she did, her half-deaf ears caught a muffled static sound coming from behind her, followed by a voice. It was a broadcast coming through on a short-wave radio carried by the men she had felled.
Its words sent a chill through her, which then churned into a hellish rage.
“Cancel that order! Do not harm Arachne! Kill the Warren! Shoot him on sight and don’t stop shooting until there’s nothing left of him!”
In the living room, Arthr stared at the woman named Annika. Despite her strange attire, her timing had been godlike.
“What’s the matter?” the woman said. “Cat got your tongue? I think a little thank you is in order, wouldn’t you say?” She flicked open the chamber of her revolver and dumped the spent shell casings onto the glass-covered carpet. She began reloading the exhausted rounds with fresh ammunition she seemed to pull out of nowhere.
“Th-thank you,” Arthr said, embarrassed at his lack of manners. “Really, thanks a lot.”
She smiled. “Oh, no need to thank me.” With an exaggerated flick of her wrist, she snapped the cylinder of her revolver closed and dropped it into a concealed holster at her side. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Y-your job?”
“Preventing things like this from happening,” Annika said, gesturing toward where Kara lay on the carpet. “But I made the mistake of expecting your sister to show up like instructed, and you almost paid the price for it.”
Arthr heard the words but was unable to understand them. “What the hell’s going on? Who were they? What did they want?”
She gestured at Kara again. “They wanted Nexara, the Next Arachne. And that’s about all I know. I’m a little in the dark about this whole ugly situation myself. Either way, we need to get out of here. NIDUS’ll probably be back if we don’t move now. They may be incompetent gunmen, but even a blind man can hit the broad side of a barn twice a day.”
“NIDUS?” And what the hell kind of idiom is that?
Before Arthr could ask any of the other questions the exposition had implanted, Annika walked over to Kara’s hunched form and knelt beside her. She placed her hand on the side of the girl’s head, rocking it gently back and forth. “Hey, you in there? Can you hear me, Nexara?”
“Her name’s Kara, actually,” Arthr said.
“Really? That’s an odd name.” She gingerly continued attempting to wake the unconscious girl.
“Is she alright?”
“Well, she’s breathing, so unless you spider-folk can breathe after death I’d say she’s probably fine.” She gave Kara another light shake and then stood up and turned back to Arthr. “Think you can carry her?”
“Y-yeah, where to?”
Annika didn’t respond, and her eyes took on a cold aspect. Did he say something wrong? Was he not supposed to ask questions? Her left hand began moving toward her holster. Her eyes were hard, and held a morbid intensity as they gazed into him—no, they were gazing past him. A nervous twitch of Arthr’s eyes alerted him to the fact that they were no longer alone.
Annika drew. In a practiced step, she pivoted on her heel and aimed into the shadows of the hall behind her, where she had seen something reflected in the remaining glass of the shattered window. Arthr had no time to examine the new arrival before the flash of Annika’s revolver blinded him. Her gun hammered out three shots before giving pause. Those shots echoed against Arthr’s eardrums, and the deep silence that followed was tainted with a painful ringing. As his eyes attempted to readjust, he looked past the patches of ghostlight on his retinas and into the kitchen. Something was moving. Something tall and lanky. Something yellow.
“Anansi, grab Nexara and run!”
The panic in Annika’s voice told him there was no more time for questions. He launched forward, aiming for Kara’s slumped form. As he was about to scoop her into his arms, his head met something rock-solid. Pain threatening to split his skull and neck, Arthr tumbled backward to the ground.
As he recovered from his fall, he finally saw the thing that had emerged from the darkness of the kitchen. It was a tall man, who appeared to be in his late sixties. His body was unnaturally thin, almost malnourished. A tumorous rash ran across the right side of his face, leaving a series of shiny, brown-red scales. Six half-formed eyeballs, little more than milky orbs of flesh, grew asymmetrically across and below his forehead. Arthr’s blood ran cold when his eyes fell upon the man’s outstretched right hand. Instead of fingers, that hand had five long, articulated chitin limbs that together made up a nightmarish claw. The figure was shrouded in a bright yellow cloak. Three black holes sat in a narrow spread near the center of the garment—bullet holes from Annika’s shots, which had not even given the creature pause.
The robed thing surged forward. Arthr flinched, but the creature was not concerned with him. Annika fired another ineffectual shot from her revolver. The impact staggered the creature, but it was upon her before she could line up another. The thing swept its terrible hand, bashing her forearm and sending another round wild. The thing’s claw opened and seized her about the chest with its extremities. It lifted her into the air by her trunk and hurled her across the room with just as little effort. Her body twisted in the air and landed hard on the solid oak table that stood near the edge of the room. An involuntary scream escaped her lips as her spine smashed against the rounded lip of the table, and then her momentum threw her onto the glass-covered floor.
Another shameful, selfish paralysis came over Arthr. From his position on the ground, he could only gaze up as the yellow figure turned to face Kara. It began to move, slow, mist-like.
Arthr ground his teeth. Stand up, he thought. Stand up you fucking coward! A burst of adrenaline and he was on his feet again. Before his mind could talk him out of it, he was flying toward the cloaked figure. “I don’t know what you are,” he said, “but if you think I’m letting you—”
A swing of the old man’s arm silenced his taunt. The feeling of running headfirst into a brick wall returned, and he crashed to the floor again. His head was spinning, and the warm, wet feeling coming from his forehead told him he was now a bit worse for wear.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” the thing laughed in a haunting voice. With a careful motion, the thing scooped Kara into its human arm. And with that same methodical slowness, it turned once more and lumbered to the door.
Arthr, dancing on the edge of consciousness, was helpless to do anything other than watch. He caught a glimpse of Kara, whose head was hanging just over the crook of the man-thing’s arm.
At some point she must’ve regained consciousness, for her eyes were open. They regarded Arthr with a look of pity and something else he was unable to attach any meaning to. Those eyes, and their implication, burned themselves into his mind just before the endless darkness of unconsciousness swept over him.
Spinneretta ran through the metal corridor of the bunker-like structure. The building seemed to be made up of a single winding corridor lined with thick pipes and metal boxes running along the walls. There was a discouraging lack of doors or crossing halls that might make for an escape path. If the men in yellow coats were determined to find her, it wouldn’t be hard. Without any other recourse, and wisely doubting her ability to take a fight with so many men at once, she pressed on.
After a short while, the hallway opened into a spacious warehouse-like chamber. Straight ahead was a small set of metal steps leading to an elevated platform where a pair of yellow-coats waited. Set into the wall behind them stood a door that seemed to be the only way forward. That grisly lust resurfaced. She could handle two coats without breaking stride.
“Stop right there!” one of the men called out. The thunder of his rifle followed his voice.
Spinneretta felt the air split as the bullet struck just in front of her left foot. Her conviction faltered, and she found herself stopping despite the incredible speed that drove her forward. The floor lurched beneath her. As she regained her footing, she took in the smell of the gatekeepers. The scent of sweat, of wild, uncontrolled heartbeats. With how scared they were, it was a wonder the warning shot hadn’t hit her. Or maybe they just missed.
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 42