What a lovely tiny hand, he sang. How pretty, how lovely, how fine. And then he sang of her fingers, her toes, her arms and her legs, her mouth, her ears, her nose, her eyes.
By the time he was finished, he was crying.
Juliet was still staring at the fish tank, but her head had stilled and she’d stopped grunting. Her breathing had relaxed into a regular rhythm. Santiago stood up, smoothed her hair, and then kissed her on the forehead.
He stopped in the hallway to look out the window. He could see Oscar walking the perimeter. His son was moving slowly, attentive, careful. He checked his watch and decided he could steal a quick shower.
First, though, he stopped in front of Mrs. Fine’s bedroom.
She’d been their neighbor for long enough that Oscar called her abuela. When Santiago had first suggested his plan to survive the spiders—a plan that involved knocking down the house she’d lived in for nearly sixty years—she didn’t hesitate. He knew that there were plenty of people in Oxford who were at the university who wouldn’t have welcomed a blue-collar family like the Garcias as neighbors, but Mrs. Fine, and Mr. Fine when he’d still been alive, had treated them like family. Which, Santiago, realized, was the truth. Mrs. Fine was family. His own mother died when he was still a teenager, and his wife’s parents had never taken to him. Twenty years after the wedding, and they still acted like he’d somehow tricked Elizabeth into marrying him and then bullied her across the border.
He knocked once and then, after a few seconds, again. When there was no answer, he slowly opened the door, thinking he would just check to make sure all was well. Her bedroom was a hastily converted home office, and he expected to see her sitting at the desk, playing cards on the computer, but the room was empty.
Her bed was neatly made, and a note, written in longhand on a piece of computer paper, rested daintily on the pillow. Her writing was immaculate, in the looping style of a woman who’d learned to write in cursive when that was still a valued skill.
Santiago,
I used to wonder why God didn’t see fit to allow me to have children, but, well, as they say, God works in mysterious ways. I’ve been lucky to have two great loves in my life: my husband, of course, is the first, but the second has been your family. I’ve seen the way that you and Elizabeth work so hard and sacrifice so much to take care of Juliet without in any way doing any less for Oscar. Having a sick child can bring out the best or the worst in people, and for you and Elizabeth, it’s brought out the best. It’s been a wonderful privilege to be part of that. You’ve always been so sweet and thankful whenever I’ve babysat or cooked or when you started celebrating Christmas at my house, but the truth is that you’ve given me far more than I could ever give you.
And so.
It’s time.
You’ve done an amazing job preparing so quickly, but at best, you have six months of food. There are no good choices here. While I do not eat much, I do eat, and we do not know when—or if—things will return to normal. In the meantime, every day that I am here is a day’s worth of food. The sooner I am gone, the better. Without me, you will be able to stretch perhaps an extra month, and that may make all the difference in the world.
It has been years since I have been in a classroom teaching anthropology, but I’d be doing a disservice if I didn’t point out that the idea of the Inuit sending their elderly off on ice floes to die was a bit overblown. Did it happen? Yes. Was it common? No. Certainly not in the last hundred years or so. But I’m still an academic at heart, so it’s hard not to love a beautiful idea. If you look at it one way, it can seem heartless: sending an old woman off to die alone? But looked at another way, it’s a generous act of love: that old woman choosing to go off to die alone because she knows that resources are scarce. What could be a more glorious final action than to release the people you love from the burden of taking care of you?
The last thing I want is to be a burden to you. I can’t stand the idea that I might be taking food out of the mouths of your family.
I hope you see it the way I do, Santiago.
I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to say good-bye in person, but I knew you and Elizabeth would try to talk me out of it. It is enough that you have to keep Juliet safe without having to worry about an old lady.
I’ve had a good life, Santiago. No regrets.
My love to all of you,
Abuela Diana
He sat on the edge of her bed and reread the letter. When he looked up, he realized his wife was standing in the doorway.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“No? No what?”
“No,” he said. He stood up and handed her the letter and then walked downstairs.
“Wait, Santiago!” He heard his wife following him, and he waited for her out on the porch. He looked down at his hands again, tapping his fingers together, testing to see if they had somehow become less sore in the last half hour. He kicked the heel of one work boot against the other, shifting back and forth impatiently. Across the yard, Oscar flicked his wrist in a wave. Santiago nodded back.
Elizabeth stepped out on the porch, one hand holding the letter and the other covering her mouth in horror. She was trying not to cry. She was unsuccessful.
“What . . .” She stopped and caught her breath, tamping down her tears. “What are you going to do?”
Santiago cupped the back of his wife’s neck. “The only thing I can,” he said. He kissed her gently and then tipped his head forward so their foreheads were touching. “I’m going to go rescue that damned old fool.”
When there wasn’t just static, there’d been sketchy reports on the radio that spiders didn’t seem to recognize you as prey if you were wearing a hazmat suit. While Santiago didn’t have a proper hazmat suit, he had a full-face respirator, and that—combined with a rubber rain suit, a little duct tape, and a lot of faith—seemed like it might do the trick.
Oscar wanted to come along, but Santiago stared his son in the eyes and told him the truth, which was that if he didn’t come home, it was going to be up to Oscar and Elizabeth to keep Juliet safe.
He scanned the yard until he figured out how Mrs. Fine had crossed the moat. There was an extension ladder on the asphalt next to an old truck on the other side of the moat; it looked like she must have rested the ladder on the hood of the truck and then either walked or crawled across. Like walking the plank, Santiago thought. The heat would have been uncomfortable, and it couldn’t have been easy. Not for an old lady like Mrs. Fine. But old ladies were always tougher than they looked. Unfortunately, she’d pulled the ladder across after her. It was a smart move, because it stopped the spiders from using it, but it meant there was no easy way for Santiago to get across. The only option was to jump.
He took a few minutes to psych himself up, and then, finally, with a deep breath, he took a running start and leapt across the moat.
He landed heavily, stumbling and then falling to his hands and knees. His hands stung, but thankfully he hadn’t torn the rubber pants or the dishwashing gloves. He double-checked that the duct tape still held around his wrists and ankles, gave one last wave to his son and wife, and then turned toward town.
All he had to do now was find Mrs. Fine’s ice floe.
Chincoteague Island, Virginia
Gordo took another bite of his frozen yogurt. Somewhere between Bethesda and Chincoteague Island, four Marines had disappeared. After their little shopping trip to Radio Shack—okay, a smash and grab, which had included about twenty of those Motorola Talkabout radios, since there weren’t enough military radios for every vehicle, as well as all the bits and bobs that Gordo and Shotgun needed—they’d hit the road again. Traffic was still brutal, but, four hours in, the road cleared enough for them to drive at something approximating a reasonable speed. However, when they finally came to a stop on Chincoteague Island, in front of a small strip mall with a gourmet grocery store, a wine store, a bakery, and a frozen-yogurt store, they were down one vehicle.
>
Lance Corporal Bock had tried raising the missing Marines, but after a few minutes Staff Sergeant Rodriguez stopped her.
“Don’t bother, Bock,” Rodriguez said.
Kim held up the little yellow radio. “Sir, they weren’t equipped with a JTRS. They only had one of these suckers, and Family Radio Service has a limited range. They may just be out of range.”
Even as she was saying it, Gordo could see that she didn’t believe it. She knew as well as Rodriguez did—as all of them did—that the SUV hadn’t just gone missing. The four Marines in the vehicle were AWOL.
There was a moment of glum silence, and then Rodriguez did something that Gordo thought was brilliant: he took all of them to the frozen-yogurt store.
Amazingly, Yogurt Wonderland was open for business. The boy working behind the counter, a teenager with a pierced ear and shoulder-length hair that had been dyed cherry red, didn’t seem particularly surprised to see most of a platoon of Marines plus the three civilians—Gordo, Shotgun, and Teddie—come inside.
“Listen, kid,” Rodriguez said. “You total all this up and then send a bill to the Marines, care of the US government.”
The boy blew a small bubble and then shook his head. “Don’t think so. Cash or credit.”
Gordo had to admire the boy’s cojones. With Gordo and Shotgun and Teddie and all of the Marines inside Yogurt Wonderland, the store was crowded, and every Marine was packing. Although Gordo wasn’t sure why they were even bothering when it was clear that guns weren’t the most effective weapons against spiders.
Rodriguez tensed, but before he could respond, Shotgun stepped forward.
“I’ve got this,” he said, and he slapped down a credit card. It hit the counter with a solid thunk.
The kid rolled his eyes and pointed to the sticker next to the cash register. “No AmEx.”
Shotgun pursed his lips, pinched them in, and then spat out a word. “Fine.” He pulled his wallet back out, slid the metal card away, and then dug out a flimsier plastic credit card. “I’m assuming Visa is acceptable?”
The boy shrugged his assent.
Shotgun told the Marines to go nuts, and boy, did they listen. They filled their tubs with yogurt and then added toppings until the M&M’s and sprinkles and Butterfinger bits rained onto the counter; they drizzled caramel syrup and scooped Oreo pieces and chocolate-covered waffle-cone bits with the enthusiasm of the young. It was all Gordo could do not to laugh. And then he caught Teddie’s eye and did laugh.
“What?” she said, hefting her own overflowing container. “So I like frozen yogurt.”
Which seemed fair enough. Gordo’s own frozen yogurt tasted like sweet relief. His choice was simple—plain tart with a healthy dose of fresh strawberry slices and chocolate chips—but there was something soothing about sitting out in the parking lot and spooning it into his mouth.
After they finished eating, Rodriguez told them they were staying put, so the Marines sorted gear and tended to personal hygiene. While that happened, and Teddie went from Marine to Marine asking questions on camera, Gordo and Shotgun pulled out the ST11.
He and Shotgun had been able to do a lot of the work in the truck on the way from Bethesda. It hadn’t been ideal, but aside from a brief adventure with a lost screw, they had managed to be productive. Still, they’d left the soldering until now, not wanting to risk an errant pothole ruining the whole endeavor. They set up on the asphalt of the parking lot and ran the soldering iron off an inverter they’d scrounged from Radio Shack and plugged into the truck that Kim had been driving. Shotgun double-checked his notes and then gave Gordo the go-ahead.
He cradled the wand gingerly. Both he and Shotgun were snobs about tools, and the soldering iron in stock at the Radio Shack wouldn’t have been Gordo’s first choice. But his hand was steady, and after a few minutes they were done. While Gordo put the cover back in place and secured the Torx screws, Shotgun unplugged the soldering iron from the inverter, plugged the ST11’s cord in place, and then ran a cable from the ST11 to a laptop.
They had to spend a few more minutes debugging, but then the screen lit up.
“Holy crap,” Shotgun said.
“It works?” Gordo asked, and then he repeated himself, but as a statement: “It works.” The asphalt wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit, but in that moment he didn’t care.
He felt Kim’s presence before she said anything, and when he looked up at her he knew he had an idiot’s grin on his face.
“Told you it was worth stopping at Radio Shack.”
She didn’t look as impressed as he had expected.
“That’s it? That’s the whole thing?”
“Well,” Shotgun said defensively, “it’s not like we’ve spent any real time on the end-user interface. I mean, you’re used to slickly made apps with great graphics and all sorts of things that are fundamentally useless but are designed to create perceived value. Sure, it doesn’t look like much, but it works.”
“You ready for me to get Rodriguez?”
Shotgun hesitated, perhaps thinking of the underwhelming performance of the first iteration of the ST11—the way the spiders had simply gotten lethargic instead of keeling over dead as intended—but after Gordo gave him a reassuring nod, he told Kim to go ahead.
Rodriguez hadn’t asked for an explanation when they’d stopped at the Radio Shack, so now they gave him the nickel version: essentially, Gordo said, the ST11 was designed to use extremely low-frequency sound waves that were tightly funneled at their target. In theory it should have been lethal. In practice, not so much. But they realized there was something about the ST11 that altered the behavior of the spiders, and, working backward, they figured that maybe the spiders were using similar frequencies as the ST11 to communicate.
“Or, well, maybe not communicate,” Gordo said. “There’s a lot we don’t understand, but think of the ST11 like a jammer—you know, messing up the radio. And then we—well, mostly Shotgun—thought if we’re jamming something, that particular something has to be coming from somewhere, and instead of jamming the signal, we could track it.”
“So,” Rodriguez said, “like radar?”
The greater point, Gordo said, was that it worked like they’d hoped, and as soon as they turned on the ST11, it was clear that there was a specific something, or multiple somethings, communicating with the spiders.
“What?” Rodriguez said, raising one eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Like radio broadcasts?”
“Not exactly but, yeah, close enough. And the thing is, with this,” he said, patting the ST11 fondly, “we can figure out where the broadcasts are coming from.”
“The command center?”
Shotgun got up. He put a hand on one hip and then stretched a bit. “Honestly? I don’t know. But for the first time I think we have a way to figure out where those things are before they pop out and start eating people.”
Rodriguez scratched his jaw and then stared at the row of shops. The teenage boy came out of the yogurt place, locked the door, and then walked away. Rodriguez sighed. “Holy crap. Okay. That’s good. You sure?”
Both Shotgun and Gordo were sure.
Rodriguez pulled the yellow Motorola radio from where it was clipped to his waistband. “We’re going to need something with better range than this, though I’m not sure who the heck I’m supposed to tell.”
“Yo! Yo!”
Gordo looked across the parking lot. The Marine they called Honky Joe was waving and yelling at them. A number of Marines huddled around him. As he, Shotgun, Kim, and Rodriguez walked toward Honky Joe, Gordo could see that the Marines were all staring at the radio in his hand: one of the military ones, not the bright yellow kind they’d gotten from Radio Shack. It had been silent the whole trip, but now it was broadcasting.
When Gordo got closer, he recognized the voice coming through the speaker. “Is that the—”
“It’s on a loop,” Honky Joe said.
He was surprised at how good the sound quality was. Ev
en if they hadn’t been in the midst of a complete collapse of, well, everything—even if he hadn’t known that Denver, Minneapolis, Chicago, Milwaukee, Houston, and so many more cities had been vaporized—he would have been impressed with the sound quality. President Pilgrim sounded like she was right there next to them.
“—scientists are working on a way to fight back. I am your president, and I am with you. Please rebroadcast this message.”
There was a slight delay, and then it started again:
“Attention: This is President Stephanie Pilgrim. A few moments ago, a small faction of men and women in the armed forces attempted to forcibly overthrow the United States government. Their aim was to seize control of our nuclear arsenal and destroy most of the continental United States. Any and all members of the military who assist these cowards who are attempting to subvert the democratically elected government, know that you are traitors to your country and will be treated as such. This is a time of great crisis, and we must work together, not tear ourselves apart. We must fight our common enemy. To that end, I have established a new, temporary seat of government in New York City. If you are hearing this, this is a direct order from the president of the United States of America: you are not authorized to use nuclear weapons of any kind. I repeat, you are not authorized to use nuclear weapons. Earlier, I authorized tactical nuclear strikes on approximately thirty targets that were overrun with spiders, with the intention of containing the threat against us. I believed this was a necessary action, but enough is enough. We will not turn our country into a wasteland. For now, I beseech you, stay the course. As I speak, our top scientists are working on a way to fight back. I am your president, and I am with you. Please rebroadcast this message.” And again the slight pause before the message looped. “Attention: This is—”
And then it suddenly cut off, leaving only dead air. After a few seconds a new voice came on the air.
“This is General Ben Broussard, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I have assumed command of all branches of the United States military. We will respond to the threat against our country with each and every weapon available to us. To all members of the armed services: Stand by for further orders.”
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