Skitter

  And after he thought about that for a few seconds, he decided that running like hell truly was the right decision. So he ran.

  Desperation, California

  There was nothing like the president saying, essentially, every man for himself to inspire confidence in the military. Kim had seen at least a dozen fistfights between Marines since the president had enacted the Spanish Protocol. Not that Kim knew it was called the Spanish Protocol, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. To her mind, it was the “good flipping luck out there” protocol. Or the “you should have listened to your parents and gone to college and become a lawyer” protocol. She didn’t know how many Marines had been assigned to this part of the fence, but they’d been ordered to stay in position and keep screening refugees even after the fake-out that had seen thousands and thousands of them streaming out of the quarantine zone several miles to the south. And then, once the president decided that everybody was screwed and there wasn’t any point doing the screenings, they’d gotten all sorts of insane orders. One platoon had been sent west, right into the heart of Los Angeles, another had been sent—so Kim had heard—to Vancouver. The entirely wrong country, for fuck’s sake! And her platoon had even screwier orders. They’d already been ordered back to the first temporary internment camp, the one that had been overrun by spiders when Los Angeles fell, when their orders had been changed: Staff Sergeant Rodriguez told them they were expected to pick up a shotgun and get it to Washington, DC.

  Must be a hell of a shotgun, Kim thought. A shotgun wasn’t necessarily the weapon she’d choose in a fight against a whole screaming horde of spiders.

  They’d been debating it in the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle ever since they had gotten the revised orders. It was a rough and shitty trip from the quarantine zone to Desperation, California, and not one they could have made in a conventional vehicle. There were some stretches of highway where they could run true on for thirty or forty miles, but then there were other stretches where the asphalt was just an idea. Craters and smoke. Overpasses turned to rubble. More than once they’d come across cars that were overturned, tractor-trailers burning, civilians sitting in traffic jams like somebody was going to magically repair the road in front of them. But nothing could stop Marines, no sir. The convoy was a mix of ten Hummers and JLTVs, for a platoon total of thirty-two Marines in all, and they took roads when they could, and where the roads were destroyed, they bounced across fields and rocks, hard-packed dirt and sand. It would have been profoundly easier if the air force had started bombing the crap out of the highways after Kim’s platoon had made it to Desperation. Under normal circumstances it would have taken maybe four hours to get from where they’d been to Desperation, but with the federal highway system now resembling Kabul more than the America that Kim had grown up knowing, the trip had taken them close to sixteen hours. And that was with Staff Sergeant Rodriguez pushing the pace.

  For the last hour of the ride, they’d been arguing over what the best weapon would be when they had to fight the spiders.

  When, not if, Kim thought.

  “I still say a nuke is the way to go,” Duran said.

  “And I still say the point of this is to figure out what weapon is going to let you survive and thrive and be a Marine. What’s the point of a weapon that leaves you a piece of charred toast,” Elroy said. “We’re talking a personally usable weapon. No nukes.”

  “A shotgun still doesn’t make any sense,” Mitts said. “Sure, close quarters, urban combat against a conventional foe? Load it up with buckshot and it turns anybody in front of you into a window. It’s like aiming at a barn. Impossible to miss, but only if you’re shooting at a barn. By which I mean a person, not a couple zillion hungry spiders.”

  Kim tried to tune them out. The roads here in Desperation itself weren’t great, but they weren’t bombed out, either. Once they made it off the highway and onto the side roads, there didn’t seem to be any imminent risk of a fighter jet unloading on them. So far, the air force had seen fit to warn their platoon before making runs. A nicety they didn’t seem to be offering civilians. Since the roads in Desperation didn’t seem to go anywhere other than into and just past Desperation, and since Desperation, California, wasn’t anything but an old mining town stocked with hippies and survivalists, Kim guessed that the air force wasn’t going to bother. Operation bomb the crap out of everything and leave people to fend for themselves and screw you, Marines, good luck out there from all of us in Washington, DC, did not, at this time, seem to include the bombing of the dusty road that petered out just a few miles past Desperation, California. Though maybe it should, Kim thought. The town, if you wanted to call it a town, could do with a good bombing. They passed a rusty trailer and Kim saw a pretty young woman about her age wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans standing beside a dour-faced boyfriend. They passed a bar, and then another bar, and then another, before rolling past a gas station cum hardware store cum grocery store called Jimmer’s Dollar Spot.

  “Think we’ll get to stop there on the way back?” Elroy asked, pointing out the window as they passed another small building with a sign reading LUANNE’S PIZZA & BEER. The sign was peeling, but not too badly. A woman was out on the porch, arms crossed, watching them roll by.

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” Mitts said. “We only got assigned this mission because we were the closest squad in the area, but there’s some sort of rush job going on.” He mimicked Staff Sergeant Rodriguez’s barking voice: “High. Est. Pri. Or. I. Ty.”

  Elroy grunted. “This sucks. I could go for some pizza. And if it’s a rush job, why didn’t they just send birds?”

  Kim shot Elroy a grin. “You’re asking like everything the military does makes sense even in the best of times. Rodriguez says highest priority, but maybe it’s not highest priority for the pilots or whoever decides where the birds go. Or, maybe all the planes and helicopters are busy blowing crap up. Who knows? It’s not like things are exactly normal out there.”

  Elroy shook his head, looking as sad as if his dog died. “Cold beer. Did you see the sign? Pizza and beer.”

  It was another ten minutes of driving before the convoy pulled up in front of the house.

  Lance Corporal Kim Bock couldn’t help but think that it was weird as all get out to be parked in front of what looked like a house that came from the year 1922. It was a cute house, but weird location. Put it in a nice, developed suburb with wide streets and fully grown trees rather than plopped smack dab in the middle of the desert, and it was the sort of home Kim could have imagined herself living in someday, with a husband and kids, once she left the Marines and started what her parents liked to call her “real” life. Not that a “real” life seemed particularly likely right now, given the state of the world. All things considered, Kim thought the odds were high she’d spend the rest of her days living out some sort of Mad Max postapocalyptic fantasy. Or, you know, she’d get eaten by spiders.

  The Marines unloaded from their vehicles, stretching, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun, bullshitting, drinking water, a few people lighting cigarettes. Kim offered Sue a piece of gum. Staff Sergeant Rodriguez motioned for Kim and Sue to come over, so they did, M16s slung over their shoulders. They followed Rodriguez up the front porch steps of the blue house. Kim didn’t know enough about architecture to be able to say what kind of house it was, but it looked like it could belong in some kind of old-fashioned magazine. White shutters, mullioned windows, a door painted somewhere on the spectrum between pink and red. Planting boxes all across the porch with neatly tended yellow and blue blossoms. There was an irrigation system, thin black tubes snaking down the porch pillars and watering the flowers. The porch itself spread across the front of the house, deep enough for a swing, rocking chairs, a chaise lounge, cocktail tables. If she squinted just right, Kim could imagine a young family sitting out there, the father and mother sipping cocktails while little Dick and Jane sat on the floor of the porch, playing Snakes and Ladders. Staff Sergeant Rodriguez, ho
wever, seemed completely unaware of the absurdity of the situation. He wasn’t known for his sense of humor. He strode right to the door and hammered four hard, authoritative knocks.

  There was the loud, happy barking of a dog. She could see it jumping up and trying to look through the glass. A black lab? No. Chocolate. After five or ten barks, the dog disappeared down the hallway and then, a few seconds after that, Kim could see a man approaching.

  When the door opened, Kim wondered if she should squint just a little harder.

  “Mint julep?” the man offered. He was beautifully dressed. Even Kim could appreciate his sartorial style. Sockless feet in buckskin loafers, sand-colored linen pants that were somehow unwrinkled, a powder-blue shirt that seemed to float just above his body and fit him the way clothes, Kim suddenly understood, were supposed to fit.

  And he was holding a silver tray with a sweating pitcher and a half dozen glasses.

  “I’m Fred,” he said. “We’ve got plenty more inside. We mixed up a whole tub of it. The mint is fresh, too. I’ve got a lovely little hydroponic setup downstairs. There’s more than enough to go around, so don’t be shy. You boys”—he looked at Sue and Kim and winked—“got here sooner than we expected, but don’t worry, the canapés are almost ready.”

  A tall, thin man wearing a Chicago Cubs cap materialized behind Fred. His thick, dark hair had hints of gray, and he was wearing sneakers, khakis with cargo pockets, and a black T-shirt. Quite a contrast to Fred.

  “I see you’ve met my husband,” he said. “I’m Shotgun.”

  It took Kim a beat to understand. The shotgun wasn’t a thing. The shotgun was a person.

  Two more people popped into the hallway behind Fred and Shotgun. A man and a woman, both white, both in their early thirties. The man had his fingers hooked through the collar of the chocolate lab, and he stood next to the woman like they were a couple. The woman had a tray of her own, made of some sort of light-colored wood, maybe bamboo, though it was hard to tell from a distance, and covered in what looked like . . . yes. The canapés promised by Fred.

  “Olive tapenade on toast,” the woman said. She stepped forward, slipping past Shotgun and holding out the tray.

  Kim glanced at Rodriguez. He was normally stone faced, but he looked absolutely confused. She could see that his orders were at war with the basic social conventions of acting like a guest, but then he reached out, took a glass off Fred’s silver tray, and poured himself a mint julep. The ice leaped out of the pitcher, clinking into the glass in a muddle of mint and booze and sugar water. He hesitated and then handed the glass to Sue, who passed it on to Kim.

  She took a sip. Her parents were wine drinkers. She was more of a beer gal. She’d never had a mint julep before.

  Huh. Not bad. Strong, though.

  Staff Sergeant Rodriguez poured another for Sue and was pouring one for himself, so Kim went ahead and took a canapé from the woman’s tray.

  “How many of you are there?” the woman asked. “We’ve got some puff pastries in the oven, and Fred has made an absolutely incredible pulled pork for tacos later. I know it’s not technically May fifth, but it’s close enough for a Cinco de Mayo party. But we want to make sure we have enough for everybody. Shotgun said it would be a platoon, but neither he nor Gordo,” she nodded behind her at the other man, and Kim noticed a tasteful ring on her finger, “could tell me exactly what that meant. Evidently, according to Wikipedia, you Marines can be rather flexible in the way you account for your numbers.”

  “There are thirty-two of us, ma’am,” Rodriguez said. “But we have our own rations and—”

  “Nonsense,” Fred said. “The secret to the pulled pork is to give it a salt and sugar rub the night before. You have to give it a quick rinse before popping it in the oven so it’s not too salty, but then you roast it at a low temperature for hours and hours and hours. And then, this is the real trick: you finish it at a high heat for just a couple of minutes. We’ll have plenty. I made three shoulders, which doesn’t sound like much, but is actually quite a lot of pork, particularly when you pair it with tortillas and rice and salad and salsa. Oh. Fuck-a-nuts. Unless you have vegetarians. Do you have any vegetarians? I don’t really have a vegetarian option, though I could probably whip something up. It would be a shame, though. The pork is to die for. Oh, and there’s flan, too. I’m not a fan of flan myself, there’s just something about the texture, but I couldn’t think of another desert that would go with the Mexican theme.”

  Kim took another sip of her mint julep to hide her smile. Rodriguez was completely unsettled. He was a good guy and a good staff sergeant, about as likable in that role as any man could be. But she was sure that while his orders probably contained contingencies for civilian unrest or even what to do if they encountered a swarm of spiders, he did not have any guidance for what to do if they encountered a Cinco de Mayo party.

  “Uh, no vegetarians in the platoon, sir,” Rodriguez said. “But we are under orders to get you and your weapon to Washington, DC, immediately.”

  Shotgun stepped out onto the porch, joining his husband, Gordo, Amy, Kim, Sue, and Rodriguez. He looked around at the mix of Hummers and JLTVs. “Seems like a long drive.”

  “We won’t be driving, sir. We’re supposed to hold position and keep you secure until the birds arrive.”

  Fred held the tray in one hand and lifted the pitcher, offering it to Kim. She looked at her glass. It had somehow become empty without her noticing. She held it out for him to refill.

  “What, exactly, do you mean by birds?” Fred said.

  “Sorry, sir,” Rodriguez said. “Helicopters. From here to Las Vegas. Closest place we could land a plane with the capacity to fly you directly to Washington. I’m actually a little surprised we didn’t show up to find you’d already left. The Pentagon has put getting you to DC as an extremely high priority.”

  Fred raised an eyebrow. “If you fellows are in such a hurry, why didn’t you just fly here in the first place?”

  Kim felt Elroy slide up behind her and nudge her in the back, and she was gratified when Rodriguez’s answer was similar to hers.

  “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps they were all in use. The military does a lot of things extremely well, but not everything makes sense to the people who are on the ground. Just following orders,” Rodriguez said, “which were to drive here and make sure Mr. Shotgun gets on that helicopter.”

  Shotgun looked pained. “I’ve got my own plane. I could have just—”

  “No, sir. Civilian aircraft are being shot down on sight. The president’s shutdown of air traffic still stands. There have been quite a few civilians who have disregarded the restriction, and it’s ended poorly for them. I’m afraid that if you try to fly yourself you will almost certainly catch rocket.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t think they were actually enforcing the no-fly order with lethal force.”

  Kim took a sip of her mint julep. It was still yummy. “I don’t know what information you’ve been able to get,” she said. “But it’s pretty bad out there.”

  Shotgun took off his Cubs hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay,” he said. “Helicopter it is. How long does my husband have to get packed?”

  “Sir?”

  Shotgun put his hat back on. “Do you really think I’m just going to jaunt off to Washington and leave my husband behind? And Gordo has helped me with the weapon design, so he and his wife are coming too. All four of us. Plus the dog.”

  Rodriguez looked pained. “I’ll have to confirm that we can do that, sir.”

  “Just make it happen. Otherwise, you aren’t getting me on a helicopter and you aren’t getting the ST11.”

  “Sir?”

  Fred sighed and rolled his eyes. “The ST11. The weapon, silly pants.” He handed the tray of mint juleps to Shotgun. “Appetizer time is over. If that helicopter is showing up anytime soon, we need to start eating. Amy and I will finish making dinner for the troops, and then I’m going to go pack a bag.”

 
; He and Amy were gone in an instant, leaving Kim, Sue, Elroy, and Rodriguez standing there with Shotgun and the other man.

  “Your husband,” Kim said, somewhat cautiously, “is . . . something else.”

  Shotgun sighed, put the tray down on one of the side tables, and poured himself a mint julep. “He’s from San Francisco. He’s not particularly familiar with the idea of restraint. It’s part of his charm. But seriously,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “I hope we’ve got an hour or two before the helicopters show up, because his pulled-pork tacos really are extraordinary. I wouldn’t miss them for the world.”

  Soot Lake, Minnesota

  Leshaun was supposed to be on watch from midnight to six a.m., but Mike had woken up sometime close to four and gone out to spell him.

  The cottage wasn’t perfectly situated—he and Leshaun had taken an hour or so to check out the perimeter—but it could have been a lot worse. The woods behind the island were thick and twisted, with no roads for miles and miles. There was a reason why the only approach was by boat. Yes, there was a single, narrow path weaving through the trees and up to the cottage if you wanted to hike in, but if intruders took that path, it was going to be like fish in a barrel. Otherwise it had to be a water approach. An island would have been better, of course, particularly one with high ground. Anything where they could have had unrestricted views and advance warning of bad guys attempting to approach. And a full team of agents, with sniper rifles and night vision gear. That would all have been nice, but Mike figured, while he was wishing for that, he should have wished instead that there weren’t any spiders in the first place. Of course, it actually wasn’t spiders that he or Leshaun were worried about.

  Twice already boats had come buzzing in toward the dock, and twice Mike and Leshaun had drawn their weapons and held position. The driver of the first boat, a grizzled-looking old black dude with a short white beard, had nodded, waved, and put the boat into a wide turn before motoring on down Soot Lake. The other boat, containing three younger men, all tattooed and shirtless, had come in much closer. One of the men was holding a hunting rifle, and Mike and Leshaun had stood there, Glock 22s raised, as clear a “no trespassing” sign as you could ever hope to post. Still, the driver of the boat idled there, maybe twenty yards off the end of the dock, staring at them. At least the guy with the hunting rifle was smart enough to keep it cradled in his arms. Mike knew that the boat didn’t idle there for as long a time as it felt, but it was a stare down, no question. Which was the whole reason he and Leshaun were out there, guns drawn: the sort of men who were willing to have a stare down when you were holding weapons on them were the sort of men you generally didn’t want as cottage guests during a military emergency.