Salticidae (22 page)

All that was returned to the Ranger post was Deo’s head.

Today, Atamato was investigating reports that the hippo herds had been poached and run off. He was merely going to photograph the scene and look for clues as to which rebel group might have entered the area. If the hippos were still there, he’d photograph them and then leave them be. If he saw something else, well then, he was also likely going to leave. He took his work seriously, but he had no plans of engaging in a fight with anyone. He prayed whoever it was had already left.

He pushed his way through the purple leaves of billowy
fern and scanned the river’s edge. Here the waterway constricted, thinning the muddy, turgid water into a snaking ribbon about ten feet across. IF a hippo were on the other side it could swim across and be on him in mere seconds. If it were on this side of the water, his chances of surviving were slim. Thankfully, they usually retreated to the water when they heard the Jeep’s engines.

None of this mattered, he saw, since there were no hippos to be found. He edged closer to the water and scanned it in both directions.
Far off to his right he saw the plummeting waterfall of the mountain the Kavu tribes called Old Man. Something caught his eye.

He squinted,
removed his sunglasses and tried to assess what he’d just seen through his sunglasses. Did something just fall out of the lower half of the mountain? Something large and black and kicking with what appeared to be…well… too many legs for a typical quadruped?

OF course not. The water plays tricks with the mind. He watched it again to be sure but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I am just tired, he thought. And this, at so early in the day, was not a good thing. He would have to catch a nap when he got back to the village to file his report, which, as usual, wouldn’t be read by anyone of importance for some time.

Taking the camera’s lens off, he started capturing images of the river. A dragonfly landed on the camera for a moment, come to investigate its own mystery. Atamato shooed it away and resumed his photography. He checked a couple of the pictures to make sure the balance was correct, and then put the lens cap back on. All was still and silent with the scene around him, which could be both good and bad. This was a popular section of the river for the hippos. They should be lounging in the shallows just a tenth of a kilometer away. Or, it was conceivable they’d moved on. Such was often the case if a bull decided to steal away the harem from the current ruler.

“Where have you go
ne to, Big Death? Tell me the Mari Mari did not end you. I would like to think you ended them instead.” Atamato hoped the land might answer, but as usual it did not. The jungle here was mightier than any man, and could not be bothered to provide answers to one so insignificant.

But then, as if an afterthought, it did.

Something fell out of a tree a few hundred yards away, splashing down into the river. Atamato quickly readied his camera again and zoomed in. As he focused, a large gray mass rose up from the water and bobbed gently like a giant cork. It slowly rolled over and revealed the sunken head of a hippo, the eyes caved into the skull, the mouth shriveled and stained with blood. As if it had been crushed.

No
, not crushed, he realized, but rather compressed, as if something had sucked its innards out.

He focused up to the tree now, saw what looked like sheets of white flapping below the branches. He swung to other trees and saw similar white material, and in one of the trees, what looked to be another hippo.

Back to the water. The tree. The water. Finally taking a photo of the floating hippo corpse. Zooming in for another photo. Stepping absentmindedly into the water up to his ankle to get a better shot around the river’s bend. Now something in the lens’ periphery, black and blurry, running, filling the lens now, sprinting along the river bank under the trees, approaching as fast as a speeding car, eight legs whirling, and now leaping, flying, over the water, right at Atamato, so big in the camera’s lens, turning the entire view into hairy blackness.

The spider hit him with such force it cut a groove in the jungle floor as it pushed him all the way back toward the jeep.

He did not even have time to think of his children before its legs bear-hugged him and those dripping mandibles drove into his eye sockets, seeping hot poison into his brain.

***

The spiders crashed through the jungle behind Banga, Derek and Jack, vibrating the ground as they ran. The three men swerved in and out of the trees, hooking their legs around trunks to swing them in various directions.

Derek looked over his shoulder, saw Jack and Banga leaping ov
er a felled log and just ducking the sweeping leg of a spider as it leapt into the tree above them, shooting a strand of silk behind it. “This way! Hurry!”

Jack and Banga cut right, caught up with Derek
and all three weaved through an obstacle course of dangling vines, lania and thorns.

Behind them, two of the giant spiders ran into each other trying to avoid the vines. The smaller one ran over the larger one as if they had planned the stunt.

Derek ignored the fire in his legs and focused all energy on staying upright as they hauled ass down the steep mountain. If any of them tripped they would fall head over ass down the mountain and probably split their heads open on a tree trunk.

Now, more spiders came crashing out of the jungle trees to their sides, drifting down through the fronds like graceful eagles, landing on either side of them. Strands of white trailed behind them and snared small flying insects in the stickiness.

“Jack, they’re going to outrun us!”

“No shit. Quick, through there!”

Derek followed Jack into a dense copse of tree trunks, slammed his shoulder on one of them as he squeezed through, turned and saw Banga get into the space just as one of the spiders leapt and smashed into the trunks. It thrust a foreleg in and got a hold of Banga’s shirt with a hooked barb on the end of its foot.

“Sirs!” Banga grabbed the hairy leg and tried to pry it loose.

“Jack, help me get Banga!” Derek grabbed the hairy leg, wincing as the hundreds of sharp hairs stuck into his palms. It was like shaking hands with a cactus. Jack appeared next to him with a branch and jammed it toward the spider’s eyes.

It backed away from the at
tack but in doing so yanked Banga back through the tree trunks.

“Fuck!” Jack yelled.

On the ground outside the cage of trees, Banga reached his other hand up for help. Derek grabbed it and pulled for all he was worth. Jack beat the leg gripping Banga with the stick.

Two more of the spiders came crashing out of nowhere, rearing up on their hind legs and
gunning for Banga.

“Get your shirt off.” Derek was trying to rip the guide
’s t-shirt off but it was pulled so tight on the man he couldn’t get a grip on it.

“Look out,” Jack yelled, and stabbed at Banga with the branch. The sharp end cut
into the shirt, and tore a deep gouge in Banga’s shoulder. But Derek saw the sense of it and grabbed the tear, yanking it wider.

Banga understood as well and ripped at the torn shirt.
He finally fell forward, free again, and all three men raced back into the tightness of the trees as the three spiders circled, looking for a large enough entry. The creatures would no doubt manage to get through, but the density of the trees was enough of a momentary barrier for the men to gain some distance.

Derek checked their surroundings for some kind of geographic familiarity. Nothing. Just trees and fronds and flowers and clouds of insects.

“The waterfall is this way,” Banga said, pushing through the barriers.

“Why the waterfall?”

“The water may confuse them, or keep them off of us.”

“You sure?”

“No, sir.”

Jack piped up: “You got a better idea? Let’s just go before those things get through.”

Yeah, thought Derek, what other plan did they have? It was as sound as any thinking right now. “Okay, lead the way, my man.”

They followed the guide once more, Derek finally taking a moment to think about the severity of this whole situation
, thinking about his ex-wife and his failure at all things concerning love. Why am I even thinking about her, he wondered. Why is it her that comes to mind? Because who else do you have, numbnuts. No one. And she’s a good woman, and it was largely you who fucked that whole thing up so maybe if you get out of this, you give her a call and really ask her how her day was for once.

Sure, if I survive.

He checked back several times but did not see the spiders lumbering on their heels. Not that they couldn’t merely jump over the damn trees to get to them. But the foliage was so thick here it was easy to lose sight of the man right next to you.

Finally Banga stopped, held them back as he edged around a slanted tree and surveyed the scene.
The jungle floor here wasn’t so much of a decline as an almost sheer drop down a mossy cliff. Derek heard the waterfall not far off, looked through the trees and saw the mist rising from it. Whether or not Banga’s theory was correct, that the spiders would hesitate at the water, he didn’t know and didn’t care. For some reason he yearned to leap down into the water below and hide from everything he’d ever hated in life.

“Ok, sirs,” Banga said, “we must go down here. But
it is very steep. Hold the trees and swing. Go from tree to tree. Vines are very strong too. When low enough…jump. The water is deep, but the hippos and crocodiles will eat you if you stay in long.”

“Crocodiles?” Jack whispered.

Derek shook his head. “Is there anything in this damn place that won’t eat us?”

“Follow me. Like this.” Banga grabbed an overhangin
g branch and lowered himself down the steep grade of the mountain.

Jack went next, grunting as he lowered himself down.
The writer looked up once and smiled. “Mushrooms. What a fucking joke.”

With a silent prayer, Derek
followed.

***

In a Jeep winding through dirt paths only trained men could discern, the Skeleton Man and his army racked the slides on their guns and spit hot phlegm into the morning haze. He rode shotgun in the lead Jeep, the passing trees reflecting as a blur in his aviator sunglasses, betraying no insight into what he was thinking about. Next to him, his driver chewed on a cigarette like he was being paid to do it. Behind the Jeep, a rusted, bullet hole-ridden pickup truck carried a cadre of preteen boys who were amping themselves up for the coming bloodshed by taking potshots at birds and the occasional monkey. They laughed regardless of whether or not their shots connected with anything.

The Skeleton man rubbed the bones hanging around his neck and envisioned the cleansing he would soon deliver on his enemies. He envisioned tearing their bones from their bodies and carving them into ornamental kniv
es and belt buckles. He smiled at the idea of drinking down their coppery blood, letting it cascade down his chin and paint his chest in tacky victory.

He still had no notion
just which band of dogs was responsible for the death of his aide. It had been eating at him since they’d left the camp, but he relished the coming festivities as he sought out their identity from the local tribes, park rangers, and native traders. Should any man not reveal the information he sought, he would cut their lips off and eat them.

Behind him, the sounds of
pubescent laughter and poorly-oiled Kalashnikovs clapped and chortled like a thunderstorm raining sprites, and he saw a macaw pitch from a tree out in front and explode into a cloud of green feathers and red entrails. Such a wondrous sight, one that would be so much better when the bird was the head of his undiscovered enemy.

Not far off to his right, across where the river wound through the t
hick razor grass, he spotted a Jeep belonging to the Park Service. The Rangers were out here too, he thought. Tales of rebel activity, poaching reports, maybe even illegal mining or logging? Whatever the reason, it was strange; they rarely came out this early in the morning, and almost never strayed far from their vehicles. The gutless wimps were too afraid of him and his men.

“Sir.” The driver pointed out the Jeep as well. “I do not see anyone
around it.”

“No. Me either.” The hot morning air threatened to whip the Skeleton Man’s beret off, but he ignored this. “Stop the vehicle. I want to look.”

The two vehicles slowed to a stop under the shade of rubber and plantain trees. Towering ferns and palms rose around these, creating a hovel from which to spy across the river in seclusion. The Skeleton Man snatched a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and inspected the ranger’s Jeep. It was empty, yet covered in something thin and white. A sheet, perhaps, or a tarp. Why would the rangers be putting sheets on their vehicles?

With a hand on his pistol, he stepped from the Jeep and moved to the edge of the river. His men fell silent and waited, guns cocked,
listening for their master’s orders.

Through the binoculars he watched something large and black run through the bushes beyond the Jeep. Whatever it was
it moved fast. It was lost to the vegetation in the blink of an eye. A panther or a gorilla? No, the gorillas do not come down here, nor would they approach a Jeep. They’re far too cautious and territorial. And the same went for panthers. Though mighty hunters, they were circumspect around humans. Then what could it have been?