A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  Toby sobbed with relief. God, that had been close! He glanced back from the street and saw the trapdoor spider backing into its home, pulling the lid down over itself, moving fast, almost as if it was afraid. Toby started to yell at it but the words clogged in his throat. A brown shape was moving across his front lawn, big and fast.

  Toby heard himself cry, “No!” The wolf spider from last night! It wasn’t supposed to be out in the day. It was a night hunter. The only thing that could bring it out in the day was . . .

  Hunger.

  He saw it jump on the lid to the trapdoor spider’s lair and try to force its way in, but the cover was down to stay. Then it turned toward Toby and started after him.

  Toby yelped with terror and drove his feet against the pedals. He was already pedaling for all he was worth down the middle of the empty street, but fear added new strength to his legs. The bike leaped ahead.

  But not far enough ahead. A glance back showed the wolf spider gaining, its eight legs a blur of speed as they carried it closer. It poisonous falces were extended, reaching hungrily for him.

  Toby groaned with fear. He put his head down and forced every ounce of strength into his pumping legs. When he chanced another quick look over his shoulder, the wolf spider was farther behind.

  “Yes!” he whispered, for he had breath enough only for a whisper.

  And then he noticed that the wolf spider had slowed to a stop.

  I beat him!

  But when he faced front again he saw why the wolf had stopped—a huge funnel web spanned the street just ahead of him. Toby cried out and hit the brakes, turned the wheel, swerved, slid, but it was too late. He slammed into the silky net and was engulfed in the sticky strands.

  Terror engulfed him as well. He panicked, feeling as if he was going to cry or throw up, or both. But he managed to get a grip, get back in control. He could get out of this. It was just a spider web. All he had to do was break free of these threads. But the silky strands were thick as twine, and sticky as Krazy Glue. He couldn’t break them, couldn’t pull them off his skin, and the more he struggled, the more entangled he became.

  He quickly exhausted himself and hung there limp and sweaty, sobbing for breath. He had to get free! What about Mom? Who’d help her? Worry for her spurred him to more frantic squirming that only made the silk further tighten its hold. He began shouting for help. Someone had to hear him and help him out of this web.

  And then a shadow fell over him. He looked up. Something was coming but it wasn’t help. The owner of the web was gliding down from the dark end of the funnel high up in the tree, and oh, God, she was big. And shiny black. Her abdomen was huge, almost too big for her eight long spindly legs to carry. Her eyes, blacker spots set in the black of her head, were fixed on him. She leapt the last six feet and grasped him with her forelegs.

  Toby screamed and shut his eyes, waiting for the poisonous falces to pierce him.

  Please let it be quick!

  But instead of pain he felt his body being lifted and turned, and turned again, and again. He was getting dizzy. He opened his eyes and saw that the spider was rolling him over and over with her spindly legs, like a lumberjack on a log, all the while spinning yards and yards of web from the tip of her abdomen, wrapping his body in a cocoon, but leaving his head free. He struggled against the bonds but it was useless—he might as well have been wrapped in steel.

  And then she was dragging him upward, higher into the web, into the funnel. He passed the shriveled-up corpses of squirrels and birds, and even another spider much like herself, but smaller. Her mate? Near the top of the funnel she spun more web and attached him to the wall, then moved off, leaving him hanging like a side of beef.

  What was she doing? Wasn’t she going to kill him? Or was she saving him for later? His mind raced. Yes. Save me for later. As long as he was alive there was hope. Her web was across a street . . . good chance a kill team would come along and clear it . . . kill her, free him. Yes. He still had a chance . . .

  Movement to his right caught his eye. About a foot away, something else was hanging from the web wall, also wrapped in a thick coat of silk. Smaller than Toby—maybe the size of a full grocery bag. Whatever was inside was struggling to get out. Probably some poor dog or raccoon that got caught earlier.

  “Don’t worry, fella,” Toby said. “When the kill team gets me out, I’ll see you get free too.”

  The struggle within the smaller cocoon became more frantic.

  It must have heard my voice, he thought.

  And then Toby saw a little break appear in the surface of the cocoon. Whatever was inside was chewing through! How was that possible? This stuff was tough as—

  And then Toby saw what was breaking through.

  A spider. A fist-sized miniature of the one that had hung him here emerged. And then another, and another, until the little cocoon was engulfed in a squirming mass of baby spiders.

  Toby gagged. That wasn’t a cocoon. That was an egg mass. And they were hatching. He screamed, and that was the wrong thing because they immediately began swarming toward him, hundreds of them, thousands, flowing across the web wall, crawling up his body, burrowing into his cocoon, racing toward his face.

  Toby screamed as he had never screamed in his life—

  And woke up.

  He blinked. He was paralyzed with fear, but as his eyes adjusted to the dawn light seeping through the window, he recognized his bedroom and began to relax.

  A dream . . . but what a dream! The worst nightmare of his life! He was weak with relief. He wanted to cry, he wanted to—

  “Toby!” His mother’s voice—she sounded scared. “Toby, are you all right?”

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “Thank God! I’ve been calling you for so long! A spider got into the house! I opened the door to the garage and it was there!”

  The back door! Oh, no! I didn’t latch it!

  “It jumped on me and I fainted. But it didn’t kill me. It wrapped me up in web and then it left. Come get me free!”

  Toby went to leap out of bed but couldn’t move. He looked down and saw that he wasn’t under his blanket—he and his bed were webbed with a thick layer of sticky silk. He struggled but after a few seconds he knew that he was trapped.

  “Hurry up, Toby!” his mother cried. “There’s something else in here with me all wrapped up in web. And it’s moving. I’m scared, Toby. Please get me out!”

  Panicked, Toby scanned the room. He found the egg mass attached to his bedpost, a few inches from his head, wriggling, squirming with internal life, a many-legged horde of internal life.

  We’re going to end up like the Hansens!

  “Oh, Mom!” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  And then the first wolf spider hatchling broke free of the egg mass and dropped onto his pillow.

  Toby screamed as he had never screamed in his life.

  But this time he wasn’t dreaming.

  DCRAOFVPIIPEDEL

  (“the answer”)

  As promised, the first installment of Dennis Nickleby’s Three Months to Financial Independence arrives exactly two weeks after I called the toll-free number provided by his infomercial. I toss out the accompanying catalogs and “Occupant” bulk mail, then tear at the edges of the cardboard mailer.

  This is it. My new start. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and starting today my life will be very different. I’ll be organized, I’ll have specific goals and a plan to achieve them—I’ll have an agenda.

  Never had an agenda before. And as long as this agenda doesn’t involve a job, that’s cool. Never been a nine-to-fiver. Tend to ad-lib as I go along. Prefer to think of myself as an investor. Now I’ll be an investor with an agenda. And Dennis Nickleby’s tapes are going to guide me.

  Maybe they can help me with my personal life too. I’m sort of between girlfriends now. Seem to have trouble keeping them. Denice was the last. She walked out two weeks ago. Called me a couch potato—said I w
as a fat slob who doesn’t do anything but read and watch TV.

  Not fair. And not true. All right, so I am a little overweight, but not as overweight as I look. Lots of guys in their mid-thirties weigh more than I do. It’s just that at five-eight it shows more. At least I still have all my hair. And I’m not ugly or anything.

  As for spending a lot of time on the couch—guilty. But I’m doing research. My folks left me some money and I’m always looking for a better place to put it to work. I’ve got a decent net worth, live in a nice high-rise in North Jersey where I can see the Manhattan skyline. I make a good income from my investments without ever leaving the house. But that doesn’t mean I’m not working at it.

  Good as things are, I know I can do better. And the Nickleby course is going to take me to that next level. I can feel it. And I’m more than ready.

  My hands shake as I pull the glossy vinyl video box from the wrapper. Grinning back at me is a young, darkly handsome man with piercing blue eyes and dazzling teeth. Dennis Nickleby. Thirty years old and already a multi-millionaire. Everything this guy touches turns to gold. But does he want to hoard his investing secrets? No way. He’s willing to share them with the little guy—guys like me with limited capital and unlimited dreams. What a mensch.

  Hey, I’m no sucker. I’ve seen Tony Robbins and those become-a-real-estate-millionaire-with-no-money-down infomercials. I’m home a lot so I see lots of infomercials. Trust me, they roll off me like water off a duck. But Dennis Nickleby . . . he’s different. He looked out from that TV screen and I knew he was talking to me. To me. I knew what he was offering would change my life. The price was stiff—five hundred bucks—but well worth it if he delivered a mere tenth of what he was offering. Certainly a better investment than some of those do-nothing stocks in my account.

  I whipped out my credit card, grabbed the phone, punched in his 800 number, and placed my order.

  And now it’s here. I lift the lid of the box and—

  “Shit!”

  There’s supposed to be a videotape inside—lesson one. What do I find? An audiocassette. And it’s not even a new one. It’s some beat-up piece of junk.

  I’m fuming. I’m so pissed I’m ready to dump this piece of garbage on the floor and grind it into the carpet. But I do not do this. I take three deep breaths, calm myself, then march to the phone. Very gently I punch in Mr. Nickleby’s 800 number—it’s on the back of the tape box—and get some perky little babe on the phone. I start yelling about consumer fraud, about calling the attorney general, about speaking to Dennis Nickleby himself. She asks why I’m so upset and I’m hardly into my explanation when she lets loose this high-pitched squeal.

  “You’re the one! Ooh, goody! We’ve been hoping you’d call!”

  “Hoping?”

  “Yes! Mr. Nickleby was here himself. He was so upset. He learned that some- how the wrong kind of tape got into one of his Three Months to Financial Independence boxes. He instructed us that should we hear from anyone who got an audio cassette instead of a video cassette, we should tell them not to worry. A brand new video cassette of Three Months to Financial Independence would be hand delivered to them immediately! Now, what do you think of that?”

  “I . . . I . . .” I’m flabbergasted. This man is on top of everything. Truly he knows how to run a business. “I think that’s incredible.”

  “Just give us your name and address and we’ll get that replacement to you immediately!”

  “It’s Michael Moulton.” I give her the address.

  “Ooh! Hackensack. That’s not far from here!”

  “Just over the GW Bridge.”

  “Well, then! You should have your replacement very soon!”

  “Good.”

  Her terminal perkiness is beginning to get to me. I’m hurrying to hang up when she says, “Oh, and one more thing. Mr. Nickleby said to tell you not to do anything with the audiocassette. Just close it up in the box it came in and wait for the replacement tape. The messenger will take it in exchange for the videotape.”

  “Fine. Good—”

  “Remember that now—close the audiotape in the holder and wait. Okay?”

  “Right. Cool. Good-bye.”

  I hang up thinking, Whatever she’s taking, I want some.

  Being a good boy, I snap the video box cover closed and am about to place it on the end table by the door when curiosity tickles me and I start to wonder what’s on this tape. Is it maybe from Dennis Nickleby’s private collection? A bootleg jazz or rock tape? Or better yet, some dictation that might give away one or two investment secrets not on the videotape?

  I know right then there’s no way I’m not going to listen to this tape, so why delay? I pop it into my cassette deck and hit PLAY.

  Nothing. I crank up the volume—some static, some hiss, and nothing else. I fast forward and still nothing. I’m about to hit STOP when I hear some high-pitched gibberish. I rewind a little and replay at regular speed.

  Finally this voice comes on. Even with the volume way up I can barely hear it. I press my ear to the speaker. Whoever it is . . . whispering.

  “The only word you need to know: COPPE.”

  And that’s it. I fast forward all the way to the end and nothing. I go back and listen to that one sentence again. “The only word you need to know: COPPE.”

  Got to be a garble. Somebody erased the tape and the heads missed a spot.

  Oh, well.

  Disappointed, I rewind it, pop it out, and close it up in the video box.

  So here I am, not an hour later, fixing a sandwich and watching the stock quotes on CNBC when there’s a knock on my apartment door. I check through the peephole and almost choke.

  Dennis Nickleby himself!

  I fumble the door open and he steps inside.

  “Mr. Nickleby!”

  “Do you have it?”

  He’s sweating and puffing like he sprinted the ten flights to my floor instead of taking the elevator. His eyes are darting everywhere so fast they seem to be moving in opposite directions—like a chameleon’s. Finally they come to rest on the end table.

  “There! That’s it!”

  He lunges for the video box, pops it open, snatches the cassette from inside.

  “You didn’t listen to it, did you?”

  Something in his eyes and voice tell me to play this one close to the vest. But I don’t want to lie to Dennis Nickleby.

  “Should I have? I will if you want me to.”

  “No-no,” he says quickly. “That won’t be necessary.” He hands me an identical video box. “Here’s the replacement. Terribly sorry for the mix-up.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Some mix-up. How’d that ever happen?”

  “Someone playing games.” His eyes go subzero for an instant. “But no harm done.”

  “You want to sit down? I was just making lunch—”

  “Thank you, no. I’d love to but my schedule won’t permit it. Maybe some other time.” He extends his hand. “Once again, sorry for the inconvenience. Enjoy the tape.”

  And then he’s out the door and gone. I stand there staring at the spot where he stood. Dennis Nickleby himself came by to replace the tape. Personally. Wow. And then it occurs to me: Check the new box.

  I pop it open. Yes sir. There’s the Three Months to Financial Independence videotape. At last.

  But what’s the story with that audio cassette? He seemed awful anxious to get it back. And what for? It was totally blank except for that one sentence—The only word you need to know: COPPE. What’s that all about?

  I’d like to look it up in the dictionary, but who knows how to spell something so weird sounding. And besides, I don’t have a dictionary. Maybe I’ll try later at the local library—once I find out where the local library is. Right now I’ve got to transfer some money to my checking account so I can pay my Visa bill when the five-hundred-buck charge to Nickleby, Inc., shows up on this month’s statement.

  I call Gary, my discount broker, to sell some stock. I’ve been in
Castle Petrol for a while and it’s doing squat. Now’s as good a time as any to get out. I tell Gary to dump all 200 shares. Then it occurs to me that Gary’s a pretty smart guy. Even finished college.

  “Hey, Gary. You ever hear of COPPE?”

  “Can’t say as I have. But if it exists, I can find it for you. You interested?”

  “Yeah. I’m very interested.”

  “You got it.”

  Yeah, well, I don’t get it. All right, maybe I do get it, but it’s not what I’m expecting, and not till two days later.

  Meantime I stay busy with Dennis Nickleby’s videotape. Got to say, it’s kind of disappointing. Nothing I haven’t heard elsewhere. Strange . . . after seeing his infomercial, I was sure this was going to be just the thing for me.

  Then I open an envelope from the brokerage. Inside I find the expected sell confirm for the two hundred shares of Castle Petrol at 10.25, but with it is a buy confirm for two thousand shares of something called Thai Cord, Inc.

  What the hell is Thai Cord? Gary took the money from Castle Petrol and put it in a stock I’ve never heard of! I’m baffled. He’s never done anything like that. Must be a mistake. I call him.

  “Hey, dude,” he says as soon as he comes on the line. “Who’s your source?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Thai Cord. It’s up to five this morning. Boy, you timed that one perfectly.”

  “Five?” I swallow. I was ready to take his head off, now I learn I’ve made eight thousand in two days. “Gary . . . why did you put me into Thai Cord?”

  “Why? Because you asked me to. You said you were very interested in it. I’d never heard of it, but I looked it up and bought it for you.” He sounds genuinely puzzled. “Wasn’t that why you called the other day? To sell Castle and buy Thai? Hey, whatever, man—you made a killing.”

  “I know I made a killing, Gary, and no one’s gladder than me, but—”

  “You want to stay with it?”

  “I just want to get something straight: Yesterday I asked you if you’d ever heard of COPPE.”

  “No way, pal. I know ParkerGen. NASDAQ—good high-tech, speculative stock. You said Thai Cord.”