Arachnosaur

by Richard Jeffries

  Al-Abbasi, who wore the traditional Saudi dress of an ankle-length thobe shirt, a bisht cloak, and a kufiyyah skullcap with a igal cord circlet, noted that the Frenchman wore a Faconnable sports coat over a Lacoste shirt and Le Cog Sportif slacks, while the American wore a T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt and jeans had probably cost hundreds of dollars, but they were a T-shirt and jeans nonetheless. The attire seemed to suggest that they were going to a yacht club or barbeque rather than one of the most ominous, dangerous summit meetings Al-Abbasi could imagine.

  Although they were three of the world’s most wealthy, prominent, and, some might even say, infamous weapons dealers, the American and European seemingly didn’t know the reputation of Usa Awar the way the Saudi did. Or perhaps not. Whatever their seeming attitude, Toussaint and Hood still came all this way at this time of night because of a single summons.

  If Al-Abbasi were expecting Awar to announce his proud Arabic heritage immediately, he was disappointed. The Saudi was impressed that the man himself was waiting for them, not some flunky underling, but Awar, who stood alone awaiting them, was resplendent in a beautifully tailored, light blue William Westmancott suit, white shirt, and red tie. Al-Abbasi knew that only a few of these were made a year at a cost of seventy-five thousand American dollars.

  Awar stood in what looked like the Epcot version of a cave as well. Although the walls and floor were uneven and even sloped, they seemed made of clear polymer-coated rock and sand. They gleamed in soft white and yellow light coming from LED pods that were artfully placed on the walls and ceilings. There was no furniture in this antechamber.

  “Gentlemen.” Awar spoke first in English, then French, and then Arabic. “Shall we decide upon a language?”

  Al-Abbasi was not surprised when English was chosen. He knew that Hood would glower and pout otherwise.

  “Please, right this way, gentlemen,” Awar told them, motioning, then walking toward the next chamber. “Does anyone need further refreshment above what was in the limousine, or perhaps a rest stop?”

  No one took Awar up on his offer, so they simply continued deeper into the expertly engineered catacomb, which got smaller and lower-ceilinged with each chamber. There was no furniture that Al-Abbasi could see, only more cowled, silent, spotless guards with brand-new weapons. None of the visitors was going to show weakness by asking a question, so it was up to their host to take up the conversational slack.

  “So,” he finally said, stopping in what appeared to be the final chamber, since it seemed to have no egress. “Which of you gentlemen is going to represent me at this year’s Special Security and Defense Exhibition?”

  All three visitors stilled. The International SADE Conference took place whenever its Dubai masters decided it was time. And they had decided it was to be this year, in just a few weeks, in fact. Everyone in the chamber, probably even the guards as well, knew that, while SADE was famous for the sheer number of attendees, companies, exhibitions, delegates, and countries represented, the real action took place all around the Trade Centre Complex, action that included anything that even the notorious Usa Awar had to offer.

  The American spoke first. “Why am I here?”

  Awar smiled upon Hood. “You mean, what is in it for you?”

  “Isn’t that why we came here?” the American shot back.

  Awar’s smile hadn’t wavered. “Why, the same thing that is in it for any of you. Not only a percentage of possibly billions, but a portion of personal power that none of you have yet experienced.”

  The Westerners shared a doubtful look, but Al-Abbasi, who had heard the Arabian whispers, only stared blankly at Awar.

  “Waladhillik,” he said hollowly, “faman alssahih?”

  “English!” Hood ordered.

  “Yes,” Awar said directly to Al-Abbasi. “It is true. I have devised a method to weaponize the creature.”

  “M-madha,” Al-Abbasi stammered, then caught himself. “How?”

  Awar grinned. “I cannot stand here and explain it to you until morning,” he said mildly. “So why don’t I just show you?”

  Awar turned and signaled a guard, who touched a part of the wall. Before the men’s eyes, a large portion of the wall became transparent. All three men gaped at a darkly padded room with a futuristic, cutting-edge, elevated medical table in the center of it. On the table, which could obviously be manipulated to present itself in any direction, at any height, was a young female.

  Her nipples were covered by small adhesive squares and her loins covered with the thinnest of bikini bottoms. She was strapped at the wrists, waist, and ankles. But it was her head that drew the most attention. All the visitors had seen multitudes of near-naked women before. Her head was covered by a helmet that seemed to be designed by a team of both science fiction and horror movie directors.

  “Gentlemen,” Awar said, “may I introduce Private Terri Nichols, United States Marine Corps?” Awar drank in the trio’s surprised, amazed, and shocked reactions. “Or, as I like to call her, Idmonphoid Mary.”

  The American and Frenchman just kept staring, trying to process the meaning of Awar’s cryptic pronouncement, but the Saudi stepped back.

  Awar turned toward him and said, “But you know all that, don’t you, sadayqaa?”

  The Saudi’s mouth dropped open.

  Hood looked confused and annoyed. “My friend,” Toussaint translated for the American in a whisper.

  Awar took another step toward Al-Abbasi. “You know all that because it was you who wanted to capture and interrogate the professor, wasn’t it? It was you who wanted to circumvent me, yes?”

  “Power.” Al-Abbasi took another step back. “Too much power. You wanted it all, as always.”

  “And I deserve it all, as always,” Awar said. “You are too greedy, sadayqaa. Selling to both sides at the same time. Drug trafficking, flesh peddling. Your lust I can tolerate; your stupidity I cannot.”

  “Stupidity?” Al-Abbasi retorted in disbelief. “Is it stupidity to follow the marines, to let them lead me to the professor? I was this close, this close.” He held up his hand, showing his first finger and thumb as if he was holding a hair. “One more step and I would’ve had it all!”

  Awar stopped, looked at the floor, and shook his head wistfully. “Yes, sadayqaa. With you, it was always just one more step.” The man in the seventy-five-thousand-dollar suit took a last step toward the Saudi and simply pushed him into the arms of two guards who had silently come up behind them.

  As they dragged the struggling, screeching man out, Awar turned back to the American and Frenchman who were framing the still, quiet, evenly breathing young lady strapped to the table beyond. With another press of the wall, her image disappeared, replaced with another image that inspired even the jaded Westerners to step back.

  It was a nest, a hollow, seemingly sealed cavern chamber, covered in what looked like thick, soft, diaphanous cotton instead of carpets and hanging rugs. And within the three-story-high area were dozens of gigantic, ponderous spiders as big as coffee tables.

  “Holy shit.” Hood grunted, as Toussaint realized that the walls were equipped with digital screens rather than one way glass panels. These images could be coming from anywhere.

  “Gentlemen,” Awar interrupted. “May I present Idmonphoid Mary’s creators? Watch closely and see what the arachnosaur can do.”

  As Hood narrowed his eyes and Toussaint craned his neck forward, Saad Al-Abbasi appeared, dropping out of the gauze at the top of the chamber.

  He must have been put in a doubly sealed antechamber, Toussaint surmised, like a submarine pressure chamber. There was no way Awar would, or should, risk any of these creatures escaping.

  Al-Abbasi thudded to the ground, saved from broken bones by thick webbing that covered the floor. He caught his breath and gathered his wits just in time for a final, eardrum-slicing scream as five arachnosaurs scuttled, leaped, and
fell upon him from the front, back, sides, and above, their thirty legs piercing, slicing, punching, cutting, and chopping like spears, knives, scalpels, and machetes.

  As the Westerners watched, knowing full well that the nest, at least, had to be close by, Al-Abbasi’s face was opened like a cracked walnut, his thobe and flesh sliced open from his throat to his scrotum, his arms and fingers ripped open and pulled back like pulled pork, and his legs and feet filleted as if by a chandelier of dancing lasers. Each of his organs were popped like helium balloons and his brain unwrapped like removing a turban. Within seconds, all were ingested into the creatures’ quivering maws.

  The steaming smell of the eviscerated man sent the rest of the creatures into a feeding frenzy. Before their surging, heaving, undulating mass concealed him from sight, wet, unctuous, pulsating eggs erupted from the bulbous spiders’ spinnerets, filling Al-Abbasi’s torn-open carcass.

  Even Hood had to look away, but Toussaint kept watching in abject fascination.

  “But what of the American?” he said quietly to Awar, who had slowly moved beside him. “The one who has been tracking you from here to Thumrait and Muscat and back?”

  Awar looked at the Frenchmen with growing respect. Although Toussaint did not return his gaze, they both knew who would be representing the man at SADE.

  “He is of no concern,” Awar said with certainty. Then he joined Toussaint to watch the finale of the arachnosaur feasting. “Because of me,” he said, “he suffered a concussion the first time we met.”

  “But he survived the suicide bomber you sent,” Toussaint continued softly. “And the attack on Club Blue. And the attack on Davi’s hideout, whoever ordered it.”

  Awar shook his head. “You are well informed. We will collaborate quite nicely. But do you know what has happened now? Did you hear that this tenacious American suffered yet another concussion in the Professor’s company?”

  Toussaint finally turned to face Usa Awar, his expression clearly informing the terrorist that, no, he had not known that.

  “Yes,” Awar told Toussaint with complete certainty. “Corporal Josiah Key is now in a coma.”

  Chapter 17

  Second Lieutenant Barbara Strenkofski found Sergeant Morton Daniels at the Oman Medical College cafeteria.

  She had considered seeking him in the bars in the nearby hotels, but didn’t have to. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t be far from Corporal Key’s side. She also knew he was in a really bad way since he didn’t look up, even when she purposely placed her right thigh close to his head.

  Strenkofski stood patiently, looking down at his miserable, dejected face as he stared into a cup of Turkish coffee, seemingly trying to read the future. But she trusted in his inherent female flesh sensor, since perfume wouldn’t clue him. It wasn’t allowed here.

  Finally, he realized he wasn’t alone. He glanced over, then up, at her—immediately snapping to his feet with a salute. Apparently the only thing more powerful than his inner wolf was his military training.

  “At ease, Sergeant,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder while looking around to make sure no one would be distracted by their behavior. Thankfully, there was only one or two others at the nearby tables, and they seemed oblivious.

  She wore her shirt, tie, long skirt, and flat shoes beneath a lab coat with a white visitor tag clipped to the left lapel.

  “Please, sit,” she told him, joining him in the plastic seat alongside. She studied his worn face as he collected himself.

  “With the greatest respect, ma’am,” he said, leaning back in his chair and getting at least a little bit of his usual bravado. “What are you doing here? I told Captain Logan all I know.”

  She waved that away with three fingers and a nod. “Your report was a bit noisy and emotional, Sergeant.”

  “Well, for-freakin’-give me,” he muttered.

  She dismissed the apology too, the same way. “Shouting from a copter while rushing your friend to the hospital is not exactly conducive for comprehensive specifics. So the captain felt you might be more forthcoming to, and with, me here. So.” She snuggled her rear to the back of the chair, sat straight, crossed her ankles, folded her hands in her lap, and pinioned him with her baby blues. “What happened?”

  To his credit, Daniels tried to tell her. His eyes unfocused as the memories flooded back. His mouth opened as he looked away toward the night sky through the cafeteria windows, then his mouth closed. He opened his mouth again, checking to see if looking directly at Strenkofski would get the words flowing. It didn’t. Finally, he exhaled and lowered his head before making a decision.

  “Come here,” he said, standing and making a motion with his right hand as if cupping a floating dandelion leaf. “Follow me.”

  He took his coffee cup and led her out of the cafeteria into the college’s hallways. It was fairly late at night, so only a few teachers and students remained. Since the college was in academic partnership with West Virginia University, they were used to Americans in their midst, so no one gave the blue-eyed blonde and glum giant a second look.

  Daniels trudged up two flights of stairs and navigated the halls until they came to the clinic section of the college. Some young doctors and nurses by the entrance desk looked up. One seemed about to inquire into their presence, then he, too, recognized Daniels. They all gave him understanding looks. One even motioned with his head down the hall.

  Silently, Daniels brought Strenkofski toward the semiprivate rooms. She looked around, noting that the college clinic looked like many a hospital hallway—no worse, but certainly no better. Same tile floors, same drab walls, same seemingly secondhand medical equipment, and same worn, perforated ceiling tiles.

  “Why didn’t you bring him to the Muscat Private Hospital instead?” she asked. “It’s better equipped than the clinic here, and just a few miles away.”

  He looked at her, seemed about to speak again, but then held up his forefinger in the universal gesture of “wait a minute.” Then they stepped into a darkened room. In the moon and star light coming from the window beyond, Strenkofski saw Key lying in a standard hospital bed, his arm attached to an IV drip, and sensors on his forehead plugged into a biofeedback machine. It indicated that he was stable, but deeply in a world of his own.

  “Far more equipped, maybe,” Daniels finally said, “but they wouldn’t know Joe—I mean Corporal Key—there. Here, they knew, and liked, Professor Davi, and especially assistant professor Rahal. I was convinced they’d take far better care of them.”

  “Them?” Strenkofski echoed.

  Daniels absently motioned to the bed next to Key as he put the coffee cup on an end table and pulled out a chair. Strenkofski’s eyebrows raised when she saw the sleeping patient next to the corporal was Esherida Rahal.

  “She had to be sedated,” Daniels informed the second lieutenant as he sat on one of the chairs between their bedsides. “Deeply sedated. To her credit, she tended to Corporal Key until we were well on our way. When she finally fainted, it took us all by surprise, probably even her. If I hadn’t caught her, she probably would’ve fallen out of the chopper.”

  Strenkofski sidled into the chair facing Daniels, her eyes glistening with interest. “Must have been shock.”

  “Fits the bill,” Daniels agreed. “She was sweating, cold to the touch, her breathing was irregular, and her pupils were dilated.” He looked at the young woman. “I’ve seen enough soldiers in shock to know.” His attention returned to Strenkofski. “After all, she witnessed her mentor blowing his brains out, and survived enough shrapnel showers to perforate a herd of camels.”

  He looked out the window a second, remembering the sight of the camels the professor, Rahal, and Key had ridden into the desert as the Huey Venom copter he was riding came in for the kill on the refurbished Apache.

  “Yes,” Strenkofski nodded. “Understandable. Poor girl. But what about Corp
oral—” She thought better of strict military protocol in these circumstances. “What about Joe?”

  “I don’t know,” Daniels answered, looking at his friend. “No one’s sure. He must have hit his head, or something hit him while we weren’t looking.” He snorted in sour sardonicism. “Maybe even a piece of Davi’s skull hit him in the same spot as Lieutenant Colonel Goodman’s. All I know is that after he turned from the professor, he went facedown.”

  They stayed silent for a few seconds as Strenkofski looked from Daniels to Key. “Did the professor say anything to help us trace whatever killed Lieutenant Colonel Goodman? Did Joe?”

  Daniels sat up slightly, his brow furrowing. “Hold on. Let me think. The professor said something when he pulled out the Victory.” Daniels’s eyes pinballed around his sockets. “Where he got that revolver, I’ll never know. They were practically showered everywhere but the Middle East under the Lend-Lease Act. They were standard issue for Marine Corps aircrews for decades. Even my dad had one—”

  “Sergeant,” Strenkofski interrupted. “Did he or Joe say anything that could help us?”

  Daniels snapped his mouth shut, then clasped his hands, and put his elbows on his knees in a show of concentration. “Dammit, dammit,” he finally said. “I knew they said something, but what was it?” He stared at Strenkofski for a few seconds, then breathed deeply before slumping slightly and hooking a thumb back at the coffee cup. “This junk isn’t helping any. You wouldn’t happen to have any, you know, Jim, Jack, or Johnnie juice, would you?”