WebWorld (4.6)

I don’t like to admit how long it took for me to gather up my wits – although in my defence I had a headache like nothing I’d ever had before, like my whole heartbeat was bashing itself against the inside of my skull, brain-matter breaking like waves against bone. Or it felt something like that. It shuddered all the way through my body, and I couldn’t think past it, and I couldn’t make it stop.

I like to admit even less how long it took me to think about Tristan and Greg.

After lying, panting, staring for what could have been minutes or hours, I accepted the fact that I was in deep shit, and the only way out was to start shovelling. It sent light waves through my head having to roll back over, and a second wave that dizzied me when I shoved myself up onto my hands and knees. But I’d felt a tyre, which suggested a car, which suggested my car; and when my vision cleared, I could see it in front of me, all wrapped up in webbing. I crawled probably less than a metre – it felt longer, way harder – and tried the closest door. It was the back-seat passenger side, but it opened, albeit it with a sticky resistance. I clambered in. There were fine threads stretched all over the space, and they seemed to cling to me as I brushed them aside and made my way into the driver’s seat. The windscreen was covered, it looked iced-over, and I doubted the window wipers would help much.

First things first. I stuck the key into the ignition, and I think I did something that was a little bit like praying. I turned the key.

Come on, please, please…

The engine turned over and stalled.

“No, you little shit!”

I tried again. The same.

Again. Then again.

The engine tried for me, it gasped and clutched at life, but those gum threads would have woven themselves deep inside, they strangled it, and had their sights on me.

“I don’t think so, you assholes. Not today.” It might sound laughable from hindsight, but the self-pep-talk was keeping me going. There was this other me, the hysterical one that just wanted to curl up into a little ball and weep: he was just beneath the surface, and if I gave him an inch, he was going to overwhelm me.

This was the point at which I first gave any real consideration to Tristan and Greg. My first, uncontrolled, thought was to hope that they weren’t dead. But surely, they must be. No. Hush. I’m not dead. Why should they be? And finding them was a focus, a purpose. I could do that. I could think about that instead of thinking about dying in this awful catacomb.

I thought about Zara as well. Waiting for me. Thank God, she at least hadn’t come. I checked my pocket for seed packets. They were there. And I stuffed what little food I could into my remaining pockets and into my clothes. It wasn’t much, but if I couldn’t get the car out, maybe I could bring at least something home with me.

And I figured: they can’t be far. I was close to them when this went down. They must be nearby. I failed at kicking the driver door open, and settled for crawling out the way I’d come in. The webbing was low and oppressive, but with some feeling around I could discern that it made a kind of bioluminescent tunnel. I had to crouch and think for a while: which way had their car been facing compared to mine, and how far away had it been? When I thought I had the memory settled in my head, I had a direction, and I started moving.

I realised, as I crawled, that I could hear things. There were rustling, scraping sounds that came from various directions. There was one up above me. And as I stilled and held my breath, I could see a lump like a bubble flow through the gum-weave above my head. As if the gum were a throat that had swallowed something large, a python swallowing an egg. The movement wasn’t loud, a very soft scrape as it flowed overtop of me. I didn’t want to know what that had been.

Concentrate.

I thought of orange juice. Concentrate. And I wanted to laugh. I wanted to start singing, but I couldn’t think of a song. Hysterical-man was looming up inside my head, feeling for cracks, dead-set on sliding through and taking over.

Not yet, buddy. We still got work to do.

The tunnel branched. I picked a direction.

It took me to where the gum bulged into the ugly shape of an engulfed car. It looked like an overgrown foetus pressed against the flesh of its mother’s womb, the skin stretched almost to breaking point trying to hold it in. Good news though. Right? And I could hear something moving from the other side of it. Tristan? Greg? Alive?

I crawled up close.

“Can you hear me?”

Movement. No words.

“It’s me. It’s Nate. Can you hear me?”

Nothing. I felt around the vehicle. There must be a way through. I felt for the knife. Still had it. But I didn’t know how hard this stuff was going to resist. Beneath the front of the car there was a narrow opening, it was less than half a metre, dark beyond it. I could wriggle my way through lying flat on my back or belly. Just. But yes. “Don’t move,” I called. One or both might be hurt. I lay down on my back and took clumps of gum in my hands above me. It stung, it tingled, I thought it was about to stab needles into my hands that would trap me. But I hauled myself beneath the opening, into the dark, and pulling my way through, back into the light again.

I rolled over. There was the body of a car, Tristan’s; and the whiteness of the gum. There was sound and movement from within the car.

Someone made it. I wasn’t alone. That was the thinking, that was the relief that flooded my head. Whatever else happened, I wasn’t going to have to die in here alone. I gripped the door with both hands and pulled.

It tumbled out on top of me. And I only had seconds to realise that this was one of the spiders. It’s not-really-face was right up against mine, tiny, slitty eyes; a narrow mouth that still promised teeth. And this was big, it was heavy, it had me pinned, it had my arms trapped against my side. More or less helpless. I think I tried to scream. I think that’s the ugly, gurgling sound that came out of my mouth. The creature wasted no time, it covered my mouth in its own before I could frantically turn my head away. I felt its teeth clamp down just over my lips, and it vomited something into me that burned like acid. I knew I was dead. I was in the throes of panic and disgust, I was writhing, twitching, trembling; but there was another part of me that sat calmly over the scene and knew I was dead. I would acid-burn from the inside out, I wasn’t sure how long it would take, but I would die, and this was over, and there was nothing to be fought or railed against or argued with.

God, it was simple. I was consumed by pain, and at the same time floating beyond that pain. I was fluttering in the nothingness, I was a soul untethering itself from a wrecked, failing body. I was a soul growing wings.

But a knife-edged jolt forced me back into that body. Something sharp sliced across my chest, and I watched the lower part of the spider’s body fall away from me, and felt the upper half being ripped off my face. I saw Tristan looming over me, trusty machete bloodied-up. He was staring right into my eyes. “Hey, Nate. Nate. Look at me.”

I felt sorry for him. He’d gone to all that trouble for nothing.

“Nate. For fuck sake, say something.”

My voice was tiny, faltering, weak: “I’m sorry, dude. I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure it’s already killed me.” Tristan’s face swam in front of my eyes, and collapsed into hot, unfriendly darkness.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work