by Dan Padavona
Steer the boat. Of course!
Ben looked behind him. A long paddle was attached to the interior side, so obvious that he was surprised that the oar hadn’t detached itself from the hull and smacked him on the ass. He bent his head back and laughed. Even if he couldn’t get the boat to start, he had an oar. Seeing what his father had centered his eyes on, Matt snatched the oar from the side of the boat.
“This will work, right?”
“Hell yes. It won’t be easy paddling through ocean waves, but we’ll make do.”
Ben studied the variegated spaghetti strands of colored wires, his right arm still burning from within as though he had been injected with jet fuel. At least his head was beginning to clear. As he fumbled with the wires, Matt was staring longingly at the oar and giving it a few practice strokes through the shallows. Multi-colored fish darted away from the oar, swimming away from shore as though fired from a slingshot. While his father continued to sift through the wires, Matt spotted a red, plastic cup floating in the back corner of the boat. The top of one side of the cup had broken off, leaving behind a jagged bottom jaw of a Halloween pumpkin’s grimace. The rest of the plastic was intact, so he busied himself bailing small amounts of water over the side of the boat.
As the sun accelerated toward the horizon, tall shadows began to creep across the shore. The shadows moved on the periphery of Matt’s vision, and he might not have given them attention had his mind not alerted him that something was out of place. With the sun coming in from the west, the only shadows on the truncated beach should have been their own. His head lifted, and he gasped. Black spiders, hairless with orange and red markings that burned in the dying light, crept out of the jungle. Some were the size of tarantulas; others were colossal—the size of the largest bird eater spiders he had seen behind glass at the zoo. And within the mass of black were two unthinkable, spindly nightmares the lengths of house cats, creeping toward the boat like generals leading the march.
“Dad—”
Ben heard the fear in his son’s voice at the same time that a hiss arose from the jungle’s edge. He raised his head from the wires to see the horror spreading across the sand in a sea of crimson and black. There were dozens upon dozens, perhaps hundreds. His eyes moved across the advancing army, spotting eight-legged monstrosities whose fangs were visible from halfway across the beach.
“They can’t reach us. They can’t swim,” Ben said, his words sounding more like a desperate hope than a statement of fact.
“Start the engine!”
“I can’t yet…I don’t know which—”
The words froze in Ben’s mouth at the sight of a spider the length of a sewer rat rearing up on its hind legs and jumping several feet across the water. It thudded against the side of the boat as though someone had fired a softball at the hull. Ben immediately grasped the rope knotted to the bow. He fumbled with the knot, seeing out of the corner of his eye the sand being overrun by throngs of spiders. Something heavier struck the hull.
Holding the oar like a weapon, Matt bent over the boat to witness a tangle of black legs rippling the water as a huge form was dragged under by the tide.
They were coming from everywhere now: descending out of palms, scurrying beneath ferns, darting out of the black jungle like soldiers breaking out of their camouflage. Still struggling to undo the taut knot, Ben stared in half-terror, half-amazement as dozens of spiders turned on each other, tearing one another apart as if to stake claim on the human targets in the boat. The beach was alive with the baleful hissing of the massing spiders.
From the outer hull came a vile scratching, like fingers clawing against the inside of a crypt. When Matt turned toward the sound, he saw two long, black, alien legs rising above the edge. Then the two legs were extended over the hull, gripping the interior. Fangs, dripping with a milky substance, appeared over the edge. The spider, at least a foot in length, was about to drop into the boat when Matt swung the oar. The impact felt solid, as though the oar had struck a large animal. The spider was strong, too. Not falling over the side, the spider slid several inches across the top of the hull and turned toward Matt, ready to spring. The oar struck again. The blow swept the spider off the ledge and into the salty Atlantic, where its legs thrashed and its body spasmed as the tide pulled it out to sea.
Two more thuds slammed against the side of the boat. The hissing had grown louder, as though live wires were writhing along the sand, spurting sparks into the failing daylight.
Ben had worked the knot loose enough to slip a finger into its center. He was pulling the knot free when a grapefruit-sized spider with fiery orange striations leaped upward and latched itself to his left arm. Fangs pierced skin, and Ben felt the pain of a hundred wasps stinging as one. As he tried to push it off with his right hand, he saw to his horror that it was reared back, preparing to launch itself at his face. In a moment frozen in time, he saw his own witch mask reflected in its eight eyes.
Matt was by Ben’s side immediately, swatting the spider off his father’s arm with the oar. Ben yanked the end of the rope through the knot, freeing the boat. As the rope was falling away, Ben noticed an elongated abomination—almost squid-like—had been climbing across the rope, its legs wrapped around the synthetic fibers. The thing hit the wet sand with a splatter, and it scurried angrily to its belly, preparing to leap at the boat.
Scratching sounds came from both sides of the boat’s exterior like a family of rats rustling through hollow walls. There were long, black legs—dozens upon dozens—appearing over the sides. Matt cocked back the oar just as the squid-like spider launched itself over the water’s edge onto the boy’s back. Fangs buried themselves into Matt’s shoulders—the thing biting, and biting, and biting again—rapidly turning his skin into something that looked like hamburger meat. Ben snatched the oar out of his son’s hands, having to forcibly pry the spider off his son’s shoulders. The sight of bits of his son’s flesh in the spider’s fangs caused Matt to gag.
As though sensing triumph, the black army swarmed over the sides of the boat. The hissing that arose from the beach almost sounded desperate, as though the gathering throng feared there would be nothing left of the man and boy when the remaining spiders reached the boat.
For every spider Ben swatted with the oar, there were several more spilling into the boat. His arms shaking and his body trembling from the venom racing through his blood, Ben was barely able to stay on his feet. Driven by survival instinct, he swung the oar at anything that moved. The boat interior was filled with the sickening crunch of the oar against their bodies, like crab shells cracking. The force of the blows sent spiders rocketing against the fiberglass sides, some breaking open on impact, guts and milkweed-like secretions oozing out of their skin. Others landed on the backs, legs flailing madly as they suffered their death throes.
But there were so many of them.
Dizzy and nauseous from the spider’s attack, Matt stumbled weaponless across the boat as more spiders sprung toward him. One landed on his left arm, and before he could knock it off, a monstrous, ink-black spider attached itself to his right arm, digging fangs which felt like switchblades into his flesh. The abomination had wrapped its legs around the center of his arm, bear hugging him so that Matt could not bend his elbow. Now the spider was skittering itself upward, not releasing its python grip, inching toward Matt’s neck.
Ben felt the boat shake as something crashed to the floor. He half-expected to see a spider the size of a wolf, but what he saw when he turned was even more terrifying. Matt was face down on the floor, gurgling in the shallow water, as a mass of spiders swarmed over his body. The boy’s legs were twitching, spasming. He thought he heard his son whispering for him.
Head spinning, Ben somehow maintained balance as he swung the oar against the spiders crawling across Matt’s body. The spiders scattered across the boat with each swipe, only to turn and immediately resume the attack. Ben thought to lay himself atop Matt as a human shield; but he knew that if he did so, they woul
d both be overwhelmed. Ben saw a nightmare image of Matt and him cocooned on the boat floor, eyes lifeless, as spindly legs skittered across their bodies, fangs drawing blood until their bodies were dessicated, skeletal shells.
Ben’s arms seemed to swing the oar on their own. For a moment, he felt disembodied, as though he were watching the desperate battle from afar. The bottom of the boat was covered with broken spider bodies, abdomens split open, pouring forth pus.
He was vaguely aware that the boat had drifted a few feet off shore, advancing and retreating to and fro with the tide. He thought—or rather, he prayed—that the boat was too far offshore for the swarm of spiders on the beach to reach them. He hadn’t heard them hitting the sides of the boat or skittering along the outer hull in the last minute. If he saw more of their legs appearing over the sides, he might go mad.
When a spider darted out of the stern toward his son’s neck, Ben belted the hissing monster with the oar. It ripped through the air, clipping the edge of the outer wall as it flew into the Atlantic.
He felt eyes on his back, as though the cold breath of the undead had touched his skin. A loud hiss spun Ben around so that he was staring at the mammoth spider that had attacked Matt. Its front legs raised into the air, and Ben saw it lean back, ready to spring. Another spider came at Ben from the side, and he swatted it away, never taking his eyes off the black Goliath in front of him. Then he raised the oar, daring the beast to come for him.
The spider leaped at him, its weight rocking the boat. In a moment of frozen time, he saw its razor fangs, dripping with venom, his pallid reflection mirrored as eight distinct ghosts in the spider’s eyes, its front legs hooked over, ready to latch itself onto him. He swung the oar in blind desperation. He made solid contact, but it felt as though the oar had struck a tree trunk. Fear screamed through his body, as he heard the oar snap.
The boat, the ocean, and then the sky wheeled past his eyes in a dizzying view from an amusement park ride. As he was driven backward, his head struck the side of the boat. The spider scrambled atop him, smothering his chest and neck in a swarm of legs. He saw his reflection in the eyes again—the reflection of a dead man. The spider lunged at his neck. He bucked upward, and the fangs missed their mark but tore through the underside of his chin like dual knives plunging into a soft underbelly.
He heard himself scream as the spider reared back. He could feel the venom burning under his skin, spreading into his face and down his neck as if his flesh was afire. His arms spasming, he thought in frigid terror that the venom was paralyzing him. No longer able to fight back, he knew he was going to die.
As though in slow motion, he saw the beast’s front legs raise into the air, spider eyes centering on his. Blood—his blood—dripped off the spider’s fangs like the crimson maw of a ravenous vampire.
The spider sprung at his face—a black, alien nightmare. He closed his eyes.
It crashed down on his upper chest, well short of its intended target. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, he was vaguely aware of the spider twitching, grotesquely spasming atop him. His eyes shut, he saw the world awash in reds and pinks through closed eyelids. The spider seemed to be pressing down on his chest with greater force, though strangely the infernal hissing had ceased, and the razor fangs were not tearing the flesh off of his bones. I must already be dead, he thought.
His eyes squinted open, and just before he drifted into unconsciousness, he saw the glint of the descending sun in the spider’s lifeless eyes, the broken shaft of the oar impaled in its abdomen, Matt standing over the spider, insanity in the boy’s eyes…
***
He awoke to a patchwork quilt of a million stars.
The keening of the ocean breeze rippled the water’s surface, which sparkled like a mirror image of the midnight sky. He tried to lift his head, but it felt as though it was weighted down by sandbags.
“Dad?”
Ben turned his head toward the voice. Matt knelt beside him.
“Where are we?”
“Heading northeast according to the compass.” Matt held the broken oar, pointing at the paddle end. “It still works.”
“You did good, son. Real good.”
The broken oar.
Ben twitched and brushed his hands down his body at invisible attackers.
“Spiders!”
“No,” Matt said, placing his hands on his father’s chest to keep him still. “They’re dead. They’re all dead. Rest a little longer. We’ll find our way home tomorrow.”
Home.
Ben lay his head back against the wet floor of the boat. The craft rocked to a soothing ocean lullaby. The moon, three-quarters full, bathed the endless sea in azure tones from horizon to horizon. He closed his eyes.
***
Ben didn’t recall awakening to the thin strip of predawn gray light that bubbled out of the eastern waters. Matt, knees pulled up to his chest and head resting against the hull, saw his father rise zombie-like, shuffling, stumbling, and careening off the sides of the boat until he reached the colored spaghetti wires. The venom no longer seemed to be advancing, and though Ben’s head felt as though it were being dragged behind the boat through suffocating waves, he had sufficient strength to drag himself to the wheel.
Matt watched with wonder as his father, eyes closed as though he were sleepwalking, played his hands through the myriad strands of wire like a blind, idiot savant. Matt leaned his head back against the boat and closed his eyes. He was not the least bit surprised by the sound of the motor roaring to life. He laughed, thinking at that moment that his father was the same superhero he had considered him to be as a child, capable of anything. When Matt’s eyes squinted open, he saw his father—eyes still shut yet drifting between the wheel, the compass, and the water as though he were receiving signals from radio waves—queerly navigating the boat to the northeast.
Matt let the broken oar fall out of his hands. He knew he would not be needing it anymore. As reassuring comfort spread through him like the radiant heat of a wood stove in winter, he drifted into sleep.
***
When Ben awakened to distant shouting, the sun was at its midmorning position over the ocean, the warm, orange coloration already giving way to a fiery white. He glanced over at Matt, the boy’s head resting on his shoulders. The waves were louder and hollow sounding, as if his ear was pressed to a seashell. The shouting grew closer, louder. Ben wasn’t sure what the voices were yelling, but he was pretty sure they were speaking Spanish.
He had just enough strength to cock his head over the side of the boat.
Land. Beautiful land.
A motorboat full of three dark-skinned men raced toward them, their boat bouncing over waves like a wheelie-popping motorcycle. He drifted unconscious momentarily and then was reawakened by a sun parched face breathing over him.
“Where are we?” Ben asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Que?”
“St. Croix,” said an unseen man who apparently understood English.
“My wife. St. Kitts,” Ben muttered.
“No problem. We get you home. First to shore and hospital.”
The English speaking man climbed into the boat and stayed with Ben and Matt while the other motorboat dragged their craft to shore. Ben could hear him talking to Matt about something—baseball, he thought, and if the Yankees were going to make the playoffs—but it was all mired in the fog of semi-sleep. He could feel sea spray on his face and their boat riding continuously up and over waves, like the never ending humps of a wooden roller coaster track.
Then he was being helped to his feet, off the boat and onto a beach, the sunlight like a nuclear blast against his sensitive eyes.
There was a siren wailing in the distance—a little different sounding than the ambulances back home, Ben thought. He could hear concerned murmurs as people massed around them, many of the voices from fellow vacationing Americans.
Ben glanced back at the motorboat one last time as his feet sank into wet sand. Stumbling forw
ard onto hard shells, he shivered. He could see the web glistening beneath the wheel, extending along the bow. It sparkled in the strengthening sun, rippling with the sea breeze like a bed sheet hung to dry by clothespins. He thought he could see something darker hanging back behind the web, hunkered down like a lion on the Savannah, biding its time. Ben pointed toward the web as his legs buckled beneath him. Then he was clutched by another set of arms and whisked toward the ambulance at the edge of the beach.
***
Ben and Matt received intravenous fluids throughout the afternoon at a tiny hospital where no one but a few doctors spoke English.
Relieved, Marie arrived shortly after supper, firing admonitions that if they were ever to take a boat into unfamiliar waters again, they would have to answer to her. The doctor overseeing Ben and Matt— a grandfatherly man who spoke Spanish, Creole, and English—gave the clearance for them to be released with Marie that evening.
The doctor listened to their stories of the attacking spiders, examining the myriad puncture wounds covering their bodies. Perhaps the two Americans had stumbled into a den of tarantulas. Certainly their memories were exaggerated by the stress of being lost at sea and weathering the tropical heat without adequate protection. A nurse—a native islander who spoke no English—rubbed a salve over their punctured flesh, her eyes barely containing her building terror as she subconsciously estimated what size of spider could have produced the abnormally large wound spacings.
At 8:30 pm, as the mystical blue of twilight dripped like a soothing balm over the islands, the disabled motorboat—tied to a pier near the edge of the tourist beach—bobbed and danced to the tempo of the black and silver sea. Two young brothers played in the sand, the slightly older boy laying a bucket face down on the edge of a crude sandcastle kingdom. Removing the bucket, he smiled contentedly at the wet, molded turret which completed the masterpiece.