The Last Death Worm of the Apocalypse (Kelly Driscoll Book 3)

by Nina Post

  No, the priority in his life was to impregnate a female spider before other male spiders could get to her first.

  This was not what he or any other male spider would call a facile task.

  “Alvin, it’s not your lead,” Karl, the camel spider, said.

  The assassin spider kept to himself. His job demanded it. Most of what he did required camouflaging himself in a room while hanging upside down, waiting, often for hours.

  He didn’t have his own web. He stayed on the road, but this lifestyle was not conducive to finding an available, mature female, and he had a code. His code required the female to be receptive and mature. Some males he knew targeted sexually immature female spiders so they could be first in line after her final molt, but he disapproved of that kind of behavior.

  “But, Karl,” the Jackal said, “Dusty played on it—she accepted the lead!”

  The assassin spider kept an eye on his quarry. He wanted to wait for him to spin a web, which he hadn’t done yet. It was maddening. When was the bridge game going to be over? But he was being paid for his time, so he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “That can’t be right,” Karl said. “It was your turn to lead!”

  A moment later, the assassin spider’s body lit up with sensors. The one and only (single and sexually mature!) female spider in Amenity Tower came walking into the club room with a book, her silk dragline thread trailing behind her as a safety precaution.

  She spun a pheromone-coated hammock near the big window that looked out onto the patio and settled into it with her book. The coating, the assassin spider knew, was merely the kind of coating she spun. He knew it didn’t necessarily indicate that her intention was to mate. In this particular case, she wanted a hammock by the sun (though not directly in it).

  But if the camel spider hadn’t sensed the dragline yet, he would definitely notice the hammock, and so the assassin spider would have to destroy the hammock to break the signal that would attract other males.

  “Are you aware that this game has rules?!” Karl sat back and looked askance at the Jackal. “Don’t you want to do things the right way?”

  Under his breath, the Jackal added, “Maybe you should stick to pinochle.”

  The assassin spider had noticed the female spider right away, of course. He had seen her before, in the automat, but even if he hadn’t seen her, the sensors on his long legs (that boasted a modified tarsi) would have sensed her.

  He was, in fact, more aware of draglines than other spiders, in a chemosensory way. Even from his hiding place up in the corner by the ceiling, he noticed the pheromone she had secreted on the dragline.

  “OK, OK,” Dusty said. “Let’s go on. It’s my fault; I played a card on the trick. So what! It’s just a game.”

  He’d asked around about her, too. She had moved in the previous week and she worked for Pothole City as a parking liaison to the film office, which apparently meant that she helped trucks park to avoid tickets. According to the front desk staff—he had overheard someone named Clementine—she was terrible at her job because she had the trucks park right in front of Amenity Tower, even if they weren’t filming there.

  It was a fraught, complicated situation, especially when combined with his work. If the camel spider sensed her, the assassin spider would have to fight him and reveal his presence. It wasn’t ideal. He didn’t like confrontations; he wanted to do his job and move on to the next one.

  But the camel spider remained in the room. The assassin spider decided that now would be a good time to complete the job, because his quarry was in a web, and he could nullify his competitor for potential fertilization at the same time.

  Finally, what felt like many hours later, the bridge game ended and the camel spider went into one of the other enclosed rooms within the club room.

  The assassin spider quietly crawled down the wall, glanced over at the bridge players, and hurried to the small conference room, where the camel spider had pushed the table to the wall and erected a room-size web.

  He stealthily climbed onto a corner of the web and gently plucked the silk, mimicking weakened prey stuck in the web. The camel spider, taking the bait, crawled down the web.

  The assassin spider smoothly tapped the camel spider with his antenna as he carefully modified his position. For all the time he spent still and waiting, he could move fast when he needed to.

  He grabbed the camel spider and stabbed him with his long chelicerae.

  “Help! Help! Fire! Fire!”

  But the bridge game had turned into a dance party as bridge games are wont to do. The Isley Brothers’ “It’s Your Thing” blasted from a boom box, and the players didn’t hear the cries of help emanating from the other side of the wall.

  The assassin spider’s fangs went to pierce the camel spider’s exoskeleton and inject venom into the camel spider, but his quarry, who obviously worked out with weights, fought back, wrestling the assassin spider’s delicate but wiry form onto the web.

  The assassin spider had never not completed a job, and this would not be the first time. All he had to do was inject the venom, but the camel spider seized his long neck and squeezed.

  The assassin spider choked and knew this was his last chance. He used his long chelicerae to his advantage, moving it vertically and horizontally to impale the camel spider. As his jaws held the camel spider, his fangs sank into the exoskeleton, and he finally injected his venom.

  The camel spider thrashed and fought even more furiously, but couldn’t detach from the assassin spider’s fangs, hooked intractably in the exoskeleton.

  One chelicera lowered at an angle and his other chelicera held the camel spider away from his body as his quarry punched and kicked wildly. The assassin spider waited patiently, something he was exceptionally good at. Unless there was a female spider nearby.

  Several minutes passed. The camel spider’s efforts diminished until he moved only in spasmodic jerks.

  Once the proteolytic enzymes had broken down the organs enough, the assassin spider fed.

  His competitor nullified and his araneophagic diet satiated, the assassin spider was free to court the female.

  He approached the hammock. She was reading Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. The assassin spider fell a little more for her. He signaled to indicate that he was also a spider and not opposed to copulation, but in response, she shook her web hammock and continued reading, indicating that she was not receptive. If he pressed her on the matter, there was a risk she would kill him. Even though he was a contract killer by profession, he was still smaller than her and more delicate in form.

  He would make one more try. He summoned his courage and approached her hammock. “Are you enjoying the book?”

  She gave him a wary, half-lidded look. “Yes. I got it from the library here.”

  “What do you like about it?” he asked, still risking his life.

  “The characters. Dickens limns his characters with such extraordinary detail and empathy. They really come alive and live on in your memory.”

  He almost walked away, because not only could she easily end his life right there, but she was also way too smart for him.

  But then…

  “I like your accent,” she said.

  His heart leaped. “Really?”

  “Is it… Australian?”

  “Yes. South Australia, specifically.”

  “Well, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I’m here for work.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  As ecstatic as he was to be in an actual conversation with her, he hesitated. He wasn’t used to talking about himself. “Uh, consulting. International tax consulting.” God, she was pretty. Pretty and smart and—

  Her eyes brightened. “Really? Can I ask you a question? I hear we can rent our condo units on MoltAway. If I make money from that, do I have to pay taxes on it?”

  “That probably depends on how much net rental income you make in a year. If it’s over six hundr
ed dollars, the MoltAway people will send you a 1099, and you’ll obviously have to report that as income.”

  “Wow, you really know your stuff.”

  “I run a consulting business to help Australian companies set up a presence in the U.S.” That was actually true, but he enjoyed being a contract killer more. Being able to answer her question, especially as nervous as he felt, was like suddenly being able to speak Italian. “Does that help?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  In a fit of sudden, inexplicable bravery, and possibly great stupidity, he said, “Would you like to go get a coffee with me?”

  A high-wire act, dealing with female spiders.

  But she said yes. A date and a job completed.

  Kelly was in her office coordinating a visit by the Zombie Eradication Unit of Greater Pothole City when the Jackal strode in, tossing his hair. He’d gotten some of his mojo back. Maybe she could borrow some because hers was gone.

  She finished up the call.

  Right behind him was Elysia, who had some difficulty getting through the door. Kelly was expecting both of them because as the head of the community committee, Elysia had updates about the Christmas party.

  “Elysia wants to show you the list of food she’s ordered for the Christmas party,” the Jackal said.

  Elysia made a slight vibrating movement. Kelly had no idea what that meant—that she was pleased? Annoyed?

  “Within budget, I might add.”

  Elysia twisted.

  “And in a short period of time.”

  The Jackal gave Kelly the list. Some of the items on the list weren’t anything she’d call food, but that was normal. It was an enormous amount of food—well, food and… things she didn’t consider food.

  “OK, this is budgeted,” she said. “I’ll go ahead and place the orders with the vendors. Thanks, Elysia. Nice work with this. It’s going to be a great holiday party.”

  Elysia gurgled and spurted, and made a humming sound. Her usual jade-green color lightened, and she glided out of the office. Charlotte came into the office, sidestepping Elysia.

  On his way out, the Jackal gave Charlotte a look like she had made a horrible, laughable mistake when dressing herself that morning.

  “What was that?” Charlotte asked.

  Kelly gathered her keys and walkie. “An update on the holiday party.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Trash chute issue.” Kelly knew that Charlotte wouldn’t even bother following up with something like that. “One of those meaningless things that a bad building manager does.” Under her breath and already in the hallway, she added, “One with no skills, no talent, no Balbiness.”

  On the way to the elevator, she went into Roger’s studio to be alone in silence for a minute. She flipped through his foam board backdrops, stacked against the wall. She took a seat at the small desk where he used to interview special guests like Pothole City officials, minor celebrities, and the occasional wild card.

  She opened the drawer and rifled through the supplies: label maker, Post-Its, Pilot G5s, miscellaneous toys. She took out a tiny fire truck and ran the wheels backward on the desk and let it go. It shot off the end, and she leaned over to pick it up, but the lights were off and it was hard to detect on the dark carpet.

  Something caught her eye while she felt around on the floor. She looked up a little, while patting her hand around. Only her arm would fit.

  She spotted a flash of color on the underside of the desk and pulled at it. Whatever she found was taped there, so she found the end of the tape and peeled back, and put the object on the desk. Three pocket-sized journals. She sat up, head spinning from being upside down, and opened the cover. Inside both, she saw the inscription: If found, please return to Roger Balbi, with a phone number she wasn’t familiar with. One had earlier dates, so she looked at the earlier one.

  What she read astonished her.

  That’s How a Pro Does It

  t was Roger’s journal. She opened the first one with barely restrained glee.

  I’ve been in this new job as Amenity Tower building manager for only a month, and I don’t know if I can do this. I go home at night and cry, on and off for hours, because everyone here is mean and the residents are even worse. But I can’t leave this one—I have $92,000 in student loans. Yesterday I got a scathing letter from my mother lecturing me on my financial situation, so I went out after work and got blackout drunk. Who knows what happened after that.

  Kelly stopped reading and looked up. Roger got blackout drunk? Roger was broke? Roger didn’t know if he could do his job? Roger had that much in student loan debt? (Probably not a concern of his now.) She read an entry a few days ahead.

  Everyone hates me. They don’t even make eye contact with me, only bark orders or demands. I don’t even feel like a person anymore. I’ve failed at everything. My education has obviously been a complete waste of time and money, and my parents probably wish they never had children. I can’t blame them.

  “Wow.”

  And a few days ahead of that:

  My other job—at that rat-infested apartment building with the laundry room that looked like a serial killer’s lair—was nothing like this. At Amenity Tower, everyone constantly fights, the pettiest arguments you can imagine, and I’m supposed to somehow fix it. Sometimes I close my door so I can cry at my desk, my face in a towel. It’s the only thing that helps.

  The board members would probably set themselves on fire to make a point about the smallest, stupidest thing. The staff is surly, unreliable, and shockingly lazy. They’re constantly taking PTO and vacation and seem single-mindedly preoccupied with attempting to get as much time off as possible. I’m afraid the building engineers will kill me in the elevator.

  And the residents are worse than the most undisciplined children. They’re also unable to read the most obvious, simple signs, or they are willfully ignoring them because they consider themselves an exception. The narcissism, the arrogance, the childishness! This is the worst job in the world, and I am the worst at doing it. Better to be a snowplow driver in the winter and a park tender in the summer, so I don’t have to interact with anyone.

  Stunned, and more than slightly pleased, she took the journals back to her office and put them in her bag.

  “You’ve got a big problem here, Ms. Driscoll.”

  Kelly talked to a guy from the Zombie Eradication Unit of Greater Pothole City in a quiet corner of the lobby.

  “How bad is it?” She kept her voice low.

  “On a scale of one to ten? Nine and three-quarters.”

  With a silent curse, she said, “How did it start?” The only thing to do with a crappy situation was to keep moving. Do any action, if only one small thing, to move forward. So they had a zombie infestation. That wasn’t good. But to wring their hands about it would be a waste of time.

  “It’s a fungus species,” he said.

  “Like athlete’s foot?”

  “Uhhh… maybe? The issue is that there’s more than one fungus species.”

  Sometimes she loved the job, and sometimes she hated the job.

  “But we think it must have started with this resident of yours, the ant.”

  “We have a number of ant and ant-like residents.”

  “Unit eight-oh-one.”

  “Oh.” She was familiar with the ant. He rode a bike, had some kind of feud with Raum and the rest of the Board, and one time she’d fined him for leaving a glass bottle by the hot tub.

  “Now, this zombie infection is spreading in a number of different ways. One of the species you got here is using what we in the business call infection pegs.”

  She made a face.

  “These pegs jut out from the zombified body and infect any ant who comes close. There are different kinds of pegs, or stalks. In the final stage, the fungus peg growing out of the victim’s head is different depending on the species of fungus.”

  She pictured the residents with fungal pegs growing out of their heads a
nd shuddered. Fungal pegs? That was another level. She pictured residents around the pool, in the library, walking around, all with fungal pegs jutting out of their heads.

  “You got your single stalk, called Ophiocordyceps camponoti-rufipedis,” which rolled off his tongue in a flat Midwestern accent as though he said it multiple times a day, “and you’ve got your forked stalk, called Ophiocordyceps camponoti-balzani. It takes over the brain and kills its victim when it moves to a location more advantageous for spreading the spores, like the colony. Ophiocordyceps is a hell of an effective zombie master.”

  Kelly thought about how this could go. All of the residents would turn into zombies and the reserve would be at zero, and anything the building had to spend money on would be a special assessment. And declaring a special assessment would unleash monsters all over the city. Residents had to be placated with amenities and not charged special assessments or they would leave in disgust and it was goodbye, Pothole City.

  Maybe Charlotte was right. Maybe she was a bad building manager. But most managers of condo towers didn’t have to constantly be wary of board members finding a way to unbind themselves from the building while wreaking wide-scale destruction and opening their world to monsters from other dimensions at the same time. Most managers of condo towers weren’t also in charge of angels with single purposes, who kept the world running as long as they had a steady supply of Cluck Snack products. Hell, most condo managers didn’t have their father operating a flavors lab in the storage room.

  “You mentioned that it’s spreading in more than one way?”

  “That’s right. Another way it’s also spreading is with what we in the industry call explosive spores.”

  “Explosive spores?” She let out a long breath. “That does not sound good.”

  “It gets worse,” he said. “This is a species that grow the spores on an infected victim. When other ants come close, the spores shoot out,” he thrust out his hands in front of him to mimic this, “and turn anyone in proximate distance into a zombie.”