Aftershock & Others

by F. Paul Wilson

  And he had to admit, some of the fight had gone out of him as well.

  Why had the runner warned them? That baffled him. These guys were scum, running stolen or pilfered medical supplies out to the rich folks on their luxury hospital ships when there was barely enough to go around on shore. Yet the guy had queered his only chance of escape by sending up a warning flare.

  I don’t get it.

  But Henriques couldn’t let that stop him. He couldn’t turn his head and pretend he didn’t see, couldn’t allow himself to be bought off with a flare. He’d seen payoffs all his life—cops, judges, mayors, and plenty Conchs among them. But Pepe Henriques wasn’t joining that crowd.

  The rain was letting up, ceiling lifting, visibility improving. Good. Where were they? He spotted the lights on the three radio towers, which put them off Sugarloaf. So where was the runner heading? Bow Channel, maybe? That would put him into Cudjo Bay. Lots of folks lived on Cudjo Bay. And one of them just might be a runner.

  He retrieved his field glasses and kept them trained on the fleeing boat as it followed the channel. Didn’t have much choice. Neither of them did. Tide was out and even with the storm there wasn’t enough water to risk running outside the channel, even with the shallow draw of an impeller craft. As they got closer to civilization the channel would be better marked, electric lights and all…

  Electric lights.

  He snapped the glasses down but it was too late. Cramer was hauling ass past the red light marker, keeping it to starboard.

  “NO!” Henriques shouted and lunged for the wheel, but too late.

  The hull hit coral and ground to a halt, slamming the two of them against the console. The intakes sucked sand and debris, choked, and cut out.

  Silence, except for Cramer’s cursing.

  “God damn! God-damn-God-damn-God-damn-God damn! Where’s the fucking channel?”

  “You’re out of it,” Henriques said softly, wondering at how calm he felt.

  “I took the goddamn marker to starboard!”

  Henriques nodded in the darkness, hiding his chagrin. He shouldn’t have been so focused on the runner’s boat. Should have been taking in the whole scene. Cramer hadn’t grown up on these waters. Like every seaman, he knew the three R’s: RED-RIGHT-RETURN. Keep the red markers on your right when returning to port. But Cramer couldn’t know that this marker was supposed to be green. Only a Conch would know. Somebody had changed the lens. And Henriques knew who.

  He felt like an idiot but couldn’t help smiling in the dark. He’d been had but good. There’d be another time, but this round went to the runner.

  He reached for the Very pistol.

  “What the hell?”

  The flare took Terry by surprise. What was Henriques up to? The bastard had been chasing him full throttle since dodging that waterspout, and now he was sending up a flare. It wouldn’t throw enough light to make any difference in the chase, and if he needed help, he had a radio.

  Then Terry realized it had come from somewhere in the vicinity of the channel marker he’d tampered with. He pumped a fist into the air. Henriques was stuck and he was letting his prey know it. Why? Payback for Terry’s earlier flare? Maybe. That was all the break he’d ever get from Henriques, he guessed.

  He’d take it.

  Terry eased up on the throttle and sagged back in the chair. His knees felt a little weak. He was safe. But that had been close. Too damn close.

  He cruised toward Cudjo, wondering if this was a sign that he should find another line of work. With Henriques out there, and maybe a few more like him joining the hunt, only a matter of time before they identified him. Might even catch him on the way out with a hold full of contraband. Then it’d be the slammer…hard time in a fed lock-up. Quitting now would be the smart thing.

  Right. Someday, but not yet. A couple more runs, then he’d think about it some more.

  And maybe someday after he was out of this, he and Henriques would run into each other in a bar and Terry would buy that Conch a Red Stripe and they’d laugh about these chases.

  Terry thought about that a minute.

  Nah.

  That only happened in movies.

  He gunned his boat toward home.

  “ITSY BITSY SPIDER”

  In October Bob Weinberg and Jill Morgan approached me about collaborating with one of my children on a story for an anthology called Great Writers and Kids Write Spooky Stories. I loved the idea.

  My daughter Meggan was twenty-two at the time and already writing on her own. I’d been helping her with a poem that she wanted to adapt to a children’s book. Since the poem (“No Tarantulas, Please”) derived from Meg’s lifelong fear of spiders, we decided to center the tale around that. We discussed—but did not write down—an outline of the story and how it should progress. I came up with a situation that I thought would allow Meg to tap into her fears and infuse them into the story; Meg came up with the diabolical ending. She sat down and banged out the first half of the story in one day. I embellished that and carried it to its close. Then we tweaked and polished it until we both were happy with the final form.

  So here’s “Itsy Bitsy Spider” from a dad who thinks spiders are cool, and a daughter who forced herself to see Arachnophobia with me but kept her feet off the floor the whole time. It’s intended for a YA audience, but I think it’s pretty damn creepy no matter what your age.

  Itsy Bitsy Spider

  with MEGGAN C. WILSON

  The moon was high before Toby spotted the first one. A hairy hunter—the hunters only came out at night. He hadn’t seen this one before. Big, but not thick and bulky like a tarantula. Its sleek body was the size of a German shepherd; its eight long, powerful legs spread half a dozen feet on either side, carrying its head and abdomen low to the ground. Moonlight gleamed off its short, bristly fur as it darted across the backyard, seeming to flow rather than run. Hunting, hunting, always hungry, always hunting.

  A cool breeze began to blow through the two-inch opening of Toby’s screened window. He shivered and narrowed it to less than an inch, little more than a crack. It wasn’t the air making him shiver. It was the spider. You’d think that after a year of watching them every night, he’d be used to them. No way.

  God, he hated spiders. Had hated them for the entire ten years of his life. Even when they’d been tiny and he could squash them under foot, they made his skin crawl. Now, when they were big as dogs—when there were no dogs because the spiders had eaten them all, along with the cats and squirrels and woodchucks and just about anything else edible, including people—the sight of them made Toby almost physically ill with revulsion.

  And yet still he came to the window and watched. A habit…like tuning in a bad sitcom…it had become a part of his nightly routine.

  He hadn’t seen this one before. Usually the same spiders traveled the same routes every night at about the same time. This one could be lost or maybe it was moving in on the other spiders’ territory. It darted to the far side of the yard and stopped at the swing set, touching the dented slide with a foreleg. Then it turned and came toward the house, passing out of Toby’s line of sight. Quickly he reached out and pushed down on the window sash until it clicked shut. It couldn’t get in, he knew, but not being able to see it made him nervous.

  He clicked on his flashlight and flipped through his spider book until he found one that looked like the newcomer. He’d spotted all kinds of giant spiders in the last year—black widows, brown recluses, trap door spiders, jumping spiders, crab spiders. Here it was: Lycosidae—a wolf spider, the most ferocious of the hunting spiders.

  Toby glanced up and stifled a scream. There, not two feet away, hovering on the far side of the glass, was the wolf spider. Its hairy face stared at him with eight eyes that gleamed like black diamonds. Toby wanted to run shrieking from the room but couldn’t move—didn’t dare move. It probably didn’t see him, didn’t know he was there. The sound of the window closing must have drawn it over. Sudden motion might make it bang
against the glass, maybe break it, let it in. So Toby sat frozen and stared back at its cold black eyes, watched it score the glass with the claws of its poisonous falces. He had never been this close to one before. He could make out every repulsive feature; every fang, every eye, every hair was magnified in the moonlight.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the wolf spider moved off. Toby could breathe again. His heart was still pounding as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Good thing they don’t know glass is breakable, he thought, or we’d all be dead.

  They never tried to break through anything. They preferred to look for a passage—an open window, an open door—

  Door! Toby stiffened as a sudden chill swept over him. The back door to the garage—had he closed it all the way? He’d run some garbage out to the ditch in the back this afternoon, then had rushed back in—he was terrified of being outside. But had he pulled the door all the way closed? It stuck sometimes and didn’t latch. A spider might lean against it and push it open. It still couldn’t get into the house, but the first person to open the door from the laundry room into the garage…

  He shuddered. That’s what had happened to the Hansens down the street. A spider had got in, wrapped them all up in a web, then laid a huge egg mass. The baby spiders hatched and went to work. When they finally found the remains of the Hansens, they looked like mummies and their corpses weighed only a few pounds each…every drop of juice had been sucked out of them.

  The garage door…maybe he’d better check again.

  Don’t be silly, he told himself. Of course I latched it. I’ve been doing the same thing for almost a year now.

  Toby left the window and brushed his teeth. He tiptoed past his mother’s bedroom and paused. He heard her steady slow breathing and knew she was fast asleep. She was an early riser…didn’t have much to stay up late for. Toby knew she missed Dad, even more than he did. Dad had volunteered for a spider kill team—“doing my civic duty,” he’d said—and never came back from one of the search-and-destroy missions. That had been seven months ago. No one in that kill team had ever been found.

  Feeling very alone in the world, Toby padded down the hall to his own room where even thoughts of monster spiders couldn’t keep him from sleep. He had a fleeting thought of the garage door—yes, he was sure he’d latched it—and then his head hit the pillow and instantly he was asleep.

  Toby opened his eyes. Morning. Sunlight poured through the windows. A year or so ago it would be a day to go out and play. Or go to school. He never thought he’d miss school, but he did. Mostly he missed other kids. The spiders had made him a prisoner of his house, even in the daytime.

  He dressed and went downstairs. He found his mother sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of instant coffee. She looked up when she saw him come in.

  “Morning, Tobe,” she said and reached out and ruffled his hair.

  Mom looked old and tired, even though she was only thirty-two. She was wearing her robe. She wore it a lot. Some days she never got out of it. What for? She wasn’t going out, no one was coming to visit, and she’d given up on Dad coming home.

  “Hey, Mom. You should have seen it last night—the spiders, I mean. One crawled right up to the window. It was real scary; like it was looking right at me.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes. “It came up to the window? That worries me. Maybe you shouldn’t sit by that window. It might be dangerous.”

  “C’mon Mom. I keep the window shut. It’s not like I have anything else to do. Besides, it can’t break through the glass, right?”

  “Probably not. But just play it safe, and move away if one looks like it’s coming near you, okay? I don’t know how you can stand to even look at those things.” She grimaced and shivered.

  Toby shrugged and poured himself some cereal. They were running low on powdered milk, so he ate it dry. Dad had stocked the whole basement with canned and freeze-dried food before he left, but those wouldn’t last forever.

  When he finished he turned on the TV, hoping there’d be some news about a breakthrough against the spiders. The cable had gone out three months ago; news shows and I Love Lucy reruns were about the only things running on the one channel they could pull in with the antenna.

  At least they still had electricity. The telephone worked when it felt like it, but luckily their power lines were underground. People whose power came in on utility poles weren’t so fortunate. The spiders strung their webs from them and eventually shorted them all out.

  No good news on the tube, just a rehash about the coming of the spiders. Toby had heard it all before but he listened again.

  The spiders…no one knew where they came from, or how they got so big. Toby had first heard of them on the evening news about a year and a half ago. Reports from the Midwest, the farmlands, of cattle being killed and mutilated and eaten. Then whole families disappearing, their isolated houses found empty of life and full of silky webs. Wasn’t long before the first giant spiders were spotted. Just horrid curiosities at first, science-fictiony beasties. Local governments made efforts to capture and control them, and hunting parties went out with shotguns and high-powered rifles to “bag a big one.” But these weren’t harmless deer or squirrels or pheasant. These things could fight back. Lots of mighty hunters never returned. Toby wondered if the spiders kept hunters’ heads in their webs as trophies.

  The army and the National Guard got involved and for a while it looked like they were winning, but the spiders were multiplying too fast. They laid a couple thousand eggs at once; each hatchling was the size of a gerbil, hungry as hell, and growing all the time. Soon they were everywhere—over-running the towns, infesting the cities. And now they ruled the night. The hunting spiders were so fast and so deadly, no one left home after dark anymore.

  But people could still get around during the day—as long as they stayed away from the webs. The webbers were fat and shiny and slower; they stretched their silky nets across streets and alleys, between trees and bushes—and waited. They could be controlled…sort of. Spider kill teams could fry them with flamethrowers and destroy their webs, but it was a losing battle: Next day there’d be a new web and a new fat, shiny spider waiting to pounce.

  And sometimes the spiders got the kill teams…like Dad’s.

  Toby didn’t like to think about what probably happened to Dad, so he tuned the TV to its only useful purpose: PlayStation. NHL Hockey and Metal Gear Solid 7 were his favorites. They helped keep him from thinking too much. He didn’t mind spending the whole day with them.

  Not that he ever got to do that. Mom eventually stepped in and made him read or do something “more productive” with his time. Toby couldn’t think of anything more productive than figuring out all of the MGS 7’s secrets, or practicing breaking the glass on NHL Hockey, but Mom just didn’t get it.

  But today he knew he’d get in some serious MGS. Mom was doing laundry and she’d just keep making trips up and down to the basement and wouldn’t notice how long he had been playing.

  As he was readying to pounce on an enemy guard he heard a cry and a loud crashing sound. He dropped the controller and ran into the kitchen. The basement door was open. He looked down and saw his mother crumpled at the bottom of the steps.

  “Mom!” he cried, running down the steps. “Mom, what happened? Are you okay?”

  She nodded weakly and attempted to sit up, but groaned with agony and clutched at her thigh.

  “My leg! Oh, God, it’s my leg.”

  Toby helped her back down. She looked up at him. Her eyes were glazed with pain.

  “I tripped on the loose board in that step.” She pointed to the spot. “I think my leg is broken. See if you can help me get up.”

  Toby fought back tears. “Don’t move, Mom.”

  He ran upstairs and dialed Dr. Murphy, their family doctor, but the phone was out again. He pulled pillows and comforters from the linen closet and surrounded her with them, making her as comfortable as possible.

  “I
’m going to get help,” he said, ready for her reaction.

  “Absolutely not. The spiders will get you. I lost your father. I don’t want to lose you too. You’re not going anywhere, and I mean it.” But her voice was weak. She looked like she was going into shock.

  Toby knew he had to act fast. He kissed her cheek.

  “I’m going for Doc Murphy. I’ll be right back.”

  Before his mother could protest, he was on his way up the steps, heading for the garage. The Murphy house was only a few blocks away. He could bike there in five minutes. If Dr. Murphy wasn’t in, Mrs. Murphy would know how to help him.

  He could do it. It was still light out. All he had to do was steer clear of any webs and he’d be all right. The webbers didn’t chase their prey. The really dangerous spiders, the hunters, only came out at night.

  As his hand touched the handle of the door into the garage, he hesitated. The back door…he had closed it yesterday…hadn’t he? Yes. Yes, he was sure. Almost positive.

  Toby pressed his ear against the wood and flipped the switch that turned on the overhead lights in the garage, hoping to startle anything lying in wait on the other side. He listened for eight long legs rustling about…but heard nothing…quiet in there.

  Still, he was afraid to open the door.

  Then he heard his mother’s moan from the basement and knew he was wasting time. Had to move. Now or never.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and yanked the door open, ready to slam it closed again in an instant. Nothing. All quiet. Empty. Just the tools on the wall, the wheelbarrow in the corner, his bike by the back door, and the Jeep. No place for a spider to hide…except under the Jeep. Toby had a terrible feeling about the shadows under the Jeep…something could be there…

  Quickly he dropped to one knee and looked under it—nothing. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.